Irinarhov was noncommittal as usual when it came to asserting any manner of concrete opinion.

Ilarion smirked, eyeing the sniper with a split-second of thinly veiled contempt.

In the next instant he was yawning, willfully dismissing the whole conversation from his mind, as if it had never happened.

"Yes, yes. Of course I was utterly thrilled. I love having a dead man on my hands."

He rolled his eyes.

"And a traumatized brother in my bed."