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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: 2008-10-13 09:44 am (UTC)Taras scowled.
"It's not simple. If it were simple, I would understand it. If it were simple, it would make sense."
He stared at Liadov for long moments, gaze brutal.
"If I'm that wrong, then tell me, comrade. Explain it to me."
Liadov's wrist was in no way fragile under his fingers, solid, but also refined. It reminded him of Lasha. Taras thought Liadov's hands were slightly larger than Ilarion's, though they both were about the same height.
He frowned.
It meant nothing.
"I'm not saying Lasha didn't fuck up. He did. But you say one thing, and you're doing another, and that's what I don't understand."