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taras_olekseiThe handwriting was familiar.
That was the thing that seemed the strangest to him, the detail that felt out of place.
Taras knew it from numerous old case files he'd gone through back in Leningrad, neat, organized notes, all written in an elegant hand.
Liadov's writing was distinct, artfully slanted. Not quite regular, but easy enough to read.
It was out of context here, in the darkened office, as he looked through Liadov's notes by penlight. Papers with Liadov's writing belonged in the records room back in the MVD building in Leningrad, testaments to a bygone era.
Except they really did belong here, he supposed, in Liadov's makeshift field office, in the Soviet army base they all now called their temporary home.
The office had not been hard to find, nor to break into.
Taras left the desk and its contents untouched, preferring to study things like the arrangement of objects, how Liadov kept things organized. What the man had brought with him in terms of personal items. How he had decorated, if at all.
He didn't know what compelled him to find out more about Liadov. Maybe because he didn't understand the story Ilarion had told him. Maybe because he didn't understand Liadov at all.
Taras swept the penlight over the desk again, then caught a slight noise from the office door.
He froze.
The sound of a key in the lock.
That was the thing that seemed the strangest to him, the detail that felt out of place.
Taras knew it from numerous old case files he'd gone through back in Leningrad, neat, organized notes, all written in an elegant hand.
Liadov's writing was distinct, artfully slanted. Not quite regular, but easy enough to read.
It was out of context here, in the darkened office, as he looked through Liadov's notes by penlight. Papers with Liadov's writing belonged in the records room back in the MVD building in Leningrad, testaments to a bygone era.
Except they really did belong here, he supposed, in Liadov's makeshift field office, in the Soviet army base they all now called their temporary home.
The office had not been hard to find, nor to break into.
Taras left the desk and its contents untouched, preferring to study things like the arrangement of objects, how Liadov kept things organized. What the man had brought with him in terms of personal items. How he had decorated, if at all.
He didn't know what compelled him to find out more about Liadov. Maybe because he didn't understand the story Ilarion had told him. Maybe because he didn't understand Liadov at all.
Taras swept the penlight over the desk again, then caught a slight noise from the office door.
He froze.
The sound of a key in the lock.
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Date: 2008-10-10 05:29 pm (UTC)Taras straightened to his full height. He turned off the penlight with a casual twist, and stuck it in the pocket of his uniform jacket.
"What does it look like?"
He'd had only seconds to react, and not enough time to hide, not that the small office had many suitable places. The only thing he'd really been able to do to prepare himself was to squeeze his eyes shut so the light hadn't immediately blinded him.
It had been a reasonable gamble. Someone who used a key usually had a legitimate reason for their presence, unlike his low-lit covert skulking, and would probably turn on the light.
He'd been right.
Taras hadn't expected it to be Liadov himself, but the discovery had sent a charge of adrenaline through him. He could feel his own quickened pulse.
He studied Liadov through narrowed eyes.
Liadov looked hastily dressed, as if he'd been roused from his bed. Taras wondered if he'd bugged his own office, and had been alerted to the break-in.
"What are you doing here? Do you always come to your office in the middle of the night?"
His lip curled.
"Just so I know for the future."