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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: 2008-10-11 08:39 pm (UTC)He paused to let that penetrate, then his eyes slowly cased the Captain's body.
"And if you took your uniform off, I'd know even more," he said, bringing his eyes back up to Oleksei's. "It's not hard to know a man who wants to be known."
Oleksei's face was close, and his anger was palpable; bizarre, for any hired gun to make a matter so personal.
"One can know a man by his deeds, not his words. You're telling me you're different. You insist that you're special. That you're not some average prison Ivan."
Liadov's lip hitched slightly.
"You can say anything you like, but I'm looking at a pictographic glossary that speaks louder. You broke in here, just like any other zek. You're marked like any other zek, with the same old tattoos, for the same old crimes."
Nika snorted.
"Show me something better, Oleksei, and I might change my mind. For the moment, your word is nothing worth."
But Oleksei's last words were surreal, and Liadov found himself shaking his head.
"Fucking with Lasha. I don't even know what you're talking about. I'm the one who left Leningrad because I couldn't make myself stay away from him any other way."
Liadov's eyes averted.
"Ilarion was my closest friend in the world. I lay beside him in the cradle. I would lay beside him in the grave."
His eyes narrowed and he looked up, tossing back his sleep-tousled hair.
"If you know everything, then what more can I tell you?"