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[parabellum-p08.livejournal.com]

With a weary, exhausted sigh, Johann Krauss set his pen down for the millionth time that morning. It was difficult to concentrate with the cognac swimming through his veins and the thoughts swimming through his head. Every footnote, every box ticked and every line requesting his signature reminded him of Stefan, in some way.

He consciously allowed his attention to drift to the life size gilded statue by the window, delivered just three days ago. Tut-ankh-amun, the boy-king, immortalized forever in yellow gold and lapis, poised with a spear and ready to strike at the Persian cat, sleeping at its feet in the sunbeam that spilled across the carpet.

The ancient statue obtained through questionable means did bring some hint of comfort to the Major: gone, but never forgotten.

“Motte,” he called, chuckling to the unconscious feline dozing in the sun, “you’re getting fat.” His pet was as good of distraction as any, and certainly better than the vase of white lilies on the corner of his desk.

It wasn’t an insult or a threat, as he first speculated, but a offering sympathy and compassion, brought down from the Krasnogorje mountainside every morning before the dew had evaporated and left near his door. He could only wonder who left them, the cosmonaut or one of his men, but Krauss was thankful for the anonymity of his admirer. It made the gift easier to accept, and he would not ask.

The knock at the door roused him from his thoughts, and startled him so badly he nearly spilled his glass of cognac in his lap.

“Wer ist da? Come on in, it’s unlocked.”

Comments

[nikanor-liadov.livejournal.com]

"Good morning, Major Krauss," said Liadov, smoothly, closing the door behind him with a soft click. "I apologize for the unannounced disruption, but I had wait for an opportune moment to engage you."

He drew off his black leather gloves as he spoke, pairing them absently in his hand.

Meanwhile raised an eyebrow.

"I would have brought it up yesterday, at the inception of our visit, but we were never able to speak in confidence. This is a matter that demands discretion."

Reaching inside his lapel, Nika met the German's unseasonably bleary gaze.

"I have something for you, from the executor of Captain Molokov's will."

He pulled out a thickly stuffed manila envelope with reinforced corners and a classifed stamp emblazoned across the front.

"I was forced to search it for content, due to the investigation, for which I apologize."

Liadov made no move to hand over the envelope just yet, however, hesitating.

"I also have an item in my pocket, which Captain Molokov has left to you. An item which, I daresay, is worth a small fortune, but because of its volatile history and the nature of its original acquisition could not be stipulated to nor included in Mikhail's estate...do you understand?"

The German's mind seemed to be working behind his pallid eyes.

"Since the item itself is somewhat verboten, what you are officially inheriting is some personal effects and momentos intended for you, contained in this envelope- including a tender handwritten missive from Captain Molokov, and some private papers, which consist of an explanation and a notarized accounting of the history of that item- essentially, ironclad proof of the veracity of something that does not in actuality exist."

Liadov gave an obscure smile and patted his pocket lightly.

"Except that it does, comrade. However, only you and I know of its existence."

He paused, looking toward the window briefly, to diffuse the emotion of the statement.

"...Before, it was known only to Captain Molokov."

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“There is no need for apologies.” He offered simply, transfixed by the young man’s gloves. Yes gloves, those were trifling things that he had never quite conquered since losing the greater portion of two fingers. “Any news is good news today.”

The cat made a small noise, disturbed from her perpetual nap by the unannounced guest. She stretched, rolled over, and slinked across the carpet to inspect the visitor. Finding Liadov to her liking, she rubbed up against a booted leg, tail coiling around purring, demanding that he notice her.

“You have my full attention now.” Krauss offered, getting up from his chair with some effort. “You should sit. Have a drink.” He went to the liquor cabinet and pulled open the doors, only to find it was nearly barren, and every bottle that remained inside was empty. “Right. Or not.”

Dismissing it with a gesture, he dropped back into his chair. “And what of these things, then? I do appreciate that you took the time from your busy schedule to do this for Stefan, if this was his last request…”

He didn’t want to think about the irrevocability of last requests, or what significance the gesture carried. Mikhail left these things to him, and he had his reasons… not to his widow, not to General Olavyenko. It made the sting of learning of that liaison hurt a bit less, but it still bothered, no matter how Johann tried to convince himself it was only to be expected that an attractive young man would have numerous lovers.

“This is unexpected.” He blurted, blinking back stray tears. “You must understand, I cared a great deal for Stefan. He once invited me to spend a holiday with him and his family, since I have no one of my own… but I didn’t think… that he genuinely cared about me. An ex-fascist. Traitor. Spy. Defector, and worst of all, a German.”

Krauss laughed in spite of himself. “On with it then. What do you have for me, comrade?”

[nikanor-liadov.livejournal.com]

Liadov nodded perfunctorily.

He set the envelope down lightly on Krauss' desk, and reached into the deep grey pocket of his greatcoat, withdrawing a small ivory ring box, which he opened and held out to the German.

"This," he said, raising an eyebrow, "is a Ural mountain Alexandrite, if you've never seen one, comrade."

He let Krauss take in the gem in situ, before taking the ring out of the box and holding it out carefully.

It was a man's ring, heavy and pleasant to hold. The setting was elaborate and gold, but obviously created around the stone, which was very large- almost two carats. Unheard of in modern alexandrite.

It had a deep reddish purple color, uniform, with natural occlusions visible.

"The stone is called Alexandrite because it was discovered on the Tsar's birthday, Major Krauss," Liadov informed him. "There was only one mine, in Tayakova, now closed. There are some inferior varieties in Brazil, but nothing is as valuable as a natural Russian stone, like this one."

The cat twined around his boots, making an almost lascivious sound in her throat.

Nika smiled, but continued to speak.

"The only other two carat Alexandrites in the world are in museums. A rare few are in private collections. So already, this ring is invaluable."

Nika nodded as the German examined the piece, his eyes unreadable. After a moment he pulled a jeweler's loupe out of his desk drawer and fumbled it closed.

"The occlusions you see are desirable in Alexandrite, Major. They signify the natural minerals that were present in the strata of the stone, and testify to its organic nature- that is how you know it isn't a lab-created stone."

Liadov paused, smiling slightly.

"So Alexandrite is rare, and priceless- but it also has an interesting property that makes it unique among all other gems."

He lifted his chin toward the window, through the slats of which poured shafts of midafternoon sunlight like weightless honey.

"Hold it under the window, comrade, and you'll see something wonderful. Alexandrite is a color change gem. Burgundy in artificial light, and deep green in daylight."

Liadov watched the man, reaching absently down to pick up the cat.

She would shed her silvery white hairs all over his immaculate greatcoat.

Byla ne byla.

Of course, he hadn't told Krauss the truly amazing part about the ring yet. He would, but he felt a sense of rightful ceremony in prolonging the surprise. It was Mikhail's gift, after all, and it was what Mikhail would have done. He'd had a contagious laugh, the smile of a barely suppressed secret on his lips at all times.

Molokov deserved that much, since he had not gotten to present the gift himself.

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“This belonged to Stefan…” The realization washed over him like a cold ocean wave as he pulled the ring from the box, turning it over and over in his hands. It was not a coherent recognition, but more a gasp of awe that he could once again hold something that was the property of his murdered lover.

Something exceptionally beautiful, that had been kept near and dear.

Krauss noticed immediately how remarkably heavy the ring was, the weight almost startled him, as though he had been expecting something less.

“I’ve never seen anything like it…” He murmured, still incredulous. Johann had seen his fair share of beautiful baubles and priceless trinkets, but never anything like the ring Liadov had presented him with. He fumbled in his desk drawer before he found was he was searching for, and carefully scrutinized the violet stone under the magnifier.

“Wunderschoene dinge…” Krauss gasped, transfixed by the image of the ring, but still searching for his reading glasses in the breast pocket of his tunic. Wonderful things. It was more or less what Howard Carter said when he saw the treasure that lay undisturbed in an ancient tomb -- the statue near the window. Wonderful, beautiful things.

The Major listened contently as Liadov explained the origins and the history. Even if it was not Stefan’s, he would have absorbed the story -- little nuances of Russian culture that he had not learned of, even in his twenty or so years since defecting. Groznyj Grad, even with its strange and wondrous denizens, could only offer a limited spectrum of experiences and knowledge. It was unfortunate that he was mostly limited to inheriting military knowledge.

“He knew I had a weakness for rare and beautiful things.”

When Krauss realized what he had said, the double meaning that could be taken, he blushed, despite the relative innocence of the statement. But there was no taking it back, and Liadov knew the nature of the relationship. “And beautiful things are a rarity here. We have our share of things that glitter, but a decided lack of genuine gold.”

He tried the magnificent piece on the ring finger of his right hand, and found it to be far too loose. It did, however, fit just right on the remaining stump of his middle finger, the impressively large purple stone overlapping the end of the missing digit, just beyond where the first knuckle should have been.

Under any normal circumstances, he would have told the story of how he lost the first to fingers -- torture at the hands of his former Nazi comrades when they discovered him, a spy among the ranks. But the distant memory of narrowly escaping with his life was the farthest thing from his mind, as he gazed at the light reflected from the Alexandrite.

“Some would say a jewel like this should be kept in a museum… under a glass, on a velvet pillow. I think it should be enjoyed, and loved. Life is to short to forsake indulgence, pleasure, happiness...”

It was still unclear whether or not he was talking about the ring itself, or its previous owner, but it didn’t matter, in the end.

The cat only purred, leaning affectionately into Liadov’s stroking.

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Nika frowned, worrying the Persian's ears with his fingers. He was rewarded with a cross-eyed look and a small, strangled noise of adoration from her tiny, stiff cat jaw.

"From what I saw, Mikhail shared your sentiments," he said, obscurely.

Strictly speaking, the state did not tolerate such liasons, but of course it did. Especially now that the gulag work camps had been disbanded. Since they had been, in 1960, his job had become easier and so had his sleep. He pursued actual criminals, and only criminals- although sometimes what was considered criminal still gave him disquieted moments. He did his best to quell them, knowing how much worse it had been- how innocent men had been framed and hauled off to the mines...

Liadov pushed aside those thoughts, excised them with practiced and surgical technique.

He watched as Krauss opened the package with trembling fingers, as the contents spilled over the desk blotter.

Several smaller envelopes, two with notarized seals- one addressed in a man's strong, elaborate script.

A simple dedication: Für mein Hans. A hand unused to non-cyrillic script, Nika noted. An effort had been made.

Nika frowned and lowered his nose into the cat's ruff absently, feeling her long, luxuriant fur against his face.

Five photos had fallen onto the desktop, three face down. Krauss stared down at them, unmoving, lips parted slightly, either in emotion or uncertainty.

The two that lay faceup were of Mikhail, as Nika had known him, unsmiling in photos, always, but irrepressible in life. One was a press photo of the Captain calling for a halt and seizure of contraband, the other, a photo ostensibly taken at a gymnasium by someone's new color film camera. It showed him at a more relaxed moment.

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The other three photos had epigraphs written on the backs, and these he had written in Russian. An enviable script, Captain Molokov had, thought Liadov, detaching himself from seeing again what he had seen when he perused the contents of the envelope.

One said "Do you remember taking this?"

The other said "The apple did not roll far."

The third said: "Beautiful things must be cherished."

Liadov wondered if Krauss would turn over the visible photos to read their accompanying epigraphs, or whether he would flip the ones that lay obscured.

An interesting personality test. He knew men who would have watched keenly for that tell, but he was not yet as inhuman as that.

"I should tell you about the ring, comrade," he said, and Krauss nodded absently.

Nika shrugged and looked down at the cat, who was purring, a loud, choppy sound like the rotors of a Kamov.

In good time.

He waited with infinite patience for Krauss to pick up the first photograph.

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Krauss found himself smiling, despite the ever-present sadness that had settled in his heart and lingered. Stefan had picked up a few words and phrases of the German’s native language, whispered between the sheets and fallen like feathers upon downy pillows with silk covers. ‘Für mein Hans’ was charming beyond all words, unsure in an unfamiliar alphabet.

That was distinctly and absolutely Molokov: intelligent and charming.

The photos that lay face up on his desk resonated with his memories of the officer; always a hint of a smile, good natured, and a living image of the Russian ideal -- broad shouldered, blonde hair, square jaw. Handsome in the most traditional sense of the word. Reminiscent of the propaganda posters that littered Berlin early in the war -- warning the Volk to be weary of ‘Ivan‘. The same broad shoulders, square jaw… something was different though. The kind smile and beautiful eyes.

For the first time, it occurred to Johann that perhaps Stefan was so smitten with him for similar reasons -- the blonde haired, blue eyed Teutonic enemy that his father’s generation had chased from his country with bitter hatred, conquered finally with kisses and flowers by candlelight.

Krauss sighed, and realized he was overanalyzing everything. Stefan had no sinister motives, he simply had an eye for things that were unique and an honest curiosity.

His eyes trailed over the ring, as Liadov mentioned it. “Yes, indeed. The ring. Of course…” he mumbled, though he was genuinely more fascinated with the photos than the priceless bauble.

The Major turned over the other photographs, lining them all into neat little rows. The beautiful wife, now an unfortunate widow at such a young age. Natashenka Molokova, smiling and seeming so much happier than during the conversations he’d had with her over the phone.

And the son; that broke his heart more than he thought it should have.

“I assume…” He spoke after a long silence, “General Olavyenko has made arrangements for the widow and the orphaned son… if he was so close to Stefan as some have told me.”

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Nika paused, awkwardly.

He set the cat down gently on the Persian rug. She emitted a short merp! of surprise as she was set on the ground, like a squeaky toy.

Liadov took a seat in the chair across from Krauss, crossing his boot over his knee.

"Well," he said, quietly. "You see...Stefan...did not want Olavyenko...anywhere near his son and wife. It doesn't say it explicitly in his will, but..." he nodded at the unopened letter that Krauss had unconsciously pushed to the far edge of the desk. "In there, it does. He had no love for Roman Olavyenko. His arrangement with the man was purely for the ease of blat, I always surmised, and his own words prove me right."

Carte blanche to corruption, to the General adoringly looking the other way when goods went missing in transit, or raids went unreported. Molokov had been a pirate, as well as an attache. Liadov had no derision for him in that- it was the Soviet way- 'if everything belongs to the State, then everything belongs to me". If one was saavy enough to pull it off, then more power to him.

"It was a unilateral affection, between them. Stefan was kind and charming and...accommodating. But Olavyenko was obsessed."

Nika ran a hand through his hair, letting it feather slowly back down in a shower of sand-gold, a glow in the periphery of his vision.

"At one point, he told me, Roman had offered to have his wife deported to the Gulag as a traitor to the Stadja...and the boy sent to an orphanage."

He paused.

"Stefan flatly refused, of course. And the General made a joke of it. But I think he knew...that none of Olavyenko's loyalty to him extended to his family."

Liadov snorted softly.

"...a stretch to call it love, then, isn't it?"

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The only thing he could manage was a small sound of acknowledgement, that he understood, but was at a loss for what to say. “Ach.”

Krauss closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, taking it all in. A jilted, jealous lover was a dangerous loose cannon. “Your tone suggests I should fear for my life, then. If Olavyenko knew of my liaison with Stefan…though I doubt he did…but if so…” He was not prepared to finish the thought. “Supposing this is not the work of some deranged sadist. Supposing it was an order of assassination, cleverly disguised to look like a gruesome murder? Then what…”

He took a sudden interest in his cat, lapping indulgently at her ruffled fur. A gift from Stefan; the offspring of Natashenka’s house pet, and the most beautiful of the litter. Subtle hints that the woman dropped suggested she knew him, or at least knew of him.

“I am limited in what I can do from here.” He said finally. “It seems as though the woman and child are in worse danger than I am. I’ll pull some strings, everyone owes me favors.” Krauss smiled, fondly, as though he were proud of the fact. “I can always use another secretary… I’m sure some accommodation could be made for the child, even though Groznyj is not exactly the place… it would be much better than the alternative, don’t you agree?” The tone of his voice suggested that ‘secretary’ was simply a lie for relocating the widow and her son to someplace safer than the outside world, though it was wrought with much different varieties of danger than Olavyenko’s threats.

“It seems that a trip to Moscow is in order…”

[nikanor-liadov.livejournal.com]

Liadov nodded.

"It would seem best," he said, quietly. "For the child."

He did not need to add that Olavyenko would likely find a way to have her removed, and take the child into fostering somewhere. Like a collectible, a vestige of his private property, as he had imagined Molokov to be.

Nika empathized with Krauss' duty in the matter. He knew all about debts of honor. His own beautiful wife had been price of a steep reparation to his own.

"And secretaries are always good to have, I think."

Nika paused.

"In the wake of the murder, I was the one who Mikhail had named to execute the will. He chose me, I suppose, knowing my position in the Internal Service. Knowing I was unable to claim moral superiority when it came to...matters of record, and things best left off of it."

Krauss was watching him, and he was vaguely aware of the color of the man's eyes. Utter blue, not the arctic ice, sable grey or sea spray green that Russians possessed.

"When I came to their townhome, she- Natasha- collapsed in my arms. Stricken, inconsolably so. I wanted her to lie down, but she was adamant, clutching my sleeve in her slight hand like one of our Shepherd dogs in a manhunt. She said 'you must understand, Inspector. You must let me go, Nika. You must listen-' and so I shushed her, I said that I did, that I would, that there was no hurry- and she calmed a little, then she said that Stefan had told her once that if anything happened to him, she was to open his small safe and give me, and only me, the box inside."

The cat knocked over several of Krauss' desk accessories on her high-tailed stroll. They went down in succession, like dominoes. An inkwell was narrowly rescued by Liadov's hand. He set it smoothly upright once more with a wry twist of his lips.

He leaned back, resting his elbow on the chair arm, rubbing his fingertips together absently.

"Misha had left me something in his will, you see. A letter. Sealed and marked with a confidence stamp. It thanked me for my friendship. Eloquently."

Liadov frowned, briefly pained, then attempted a smile.

"Misha was never one to leave you wondering how he felt. Gregarious."

Another pause, as the grandfather clock ticked behind them, and the small mountain songbirds that Krauss fed daily to provide amusement for the cat congregated outside the window in a chittering flock of tiny jerking heads and bright birdy eyes.

Chickadees, thought Nika. Ubiquitous things.

"The letter instructed me to go to his home, that in his lockbox was an ivory box, and further, told me what should be done with the contents of the box. Apparently he had told Natasha as well- she looked at me with her mascara staining her face like she'd been working in the mines- and said 'this must go to Johann Krauss, in Tselinoyarsk. The German man who has been such a good friend to my husband. He spoke of him always. Always so fondly.' She trailed off after that, Major, and sank onto the divan to cry. I could not console her, though I tried. Finally I took my leave, with Misha's private wish in my pocket."

He sighed.

"I knew that I would be going to Groznyj Grad. Mikhail must have known it too." He gazed off into a horizon framed with chickadees, and shrugged. "Or perhaps I assign to much to coincidence."

It was true that one of Mikhail's provisions had been that in the event of foul play, Liadov be the operativnik assigned- but it was another thing to think that Molokov might have known he was flirting with death in Tselinoyarsk.

Nothing was said about the last picture, a shot of Molokov in what looked like an officers' country dacha, a hunting lodge. He was shirtless, and probably bottomless as well. He had a passionate, infernal look in his deep-set eyes. Krauss had taken that picture, the note implied, and Nika felt fairly sure he could discern under what circumstances.

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Krauss never looked away as he placed a hand over the last photograph, and purposefully slid it away, tucked securely into the breast pocket of his tunic. There was no need to be tactful; Liadov already knew everything, more than Johann cared to think about. His own ego required a certain amount of secrecy; he was diplomatic to a fault.

No need to air dirty laundry for all to see -- frilled lacy panties notwithstanding.

“I could be there by the morning…” He offered, more for his own benefit than for Liadov’s. “If Volgin authorizes it, and I see no reason why he would not…” The German moved quickly, and barely saved the pitcher of white lilies from the cat’s path of destructive apathy.

“I do appreciate what you have done for me, comrade Nikanor. If there is anything I can do for you… to help with your investigation, to make your stay here a bit more comfortable… just say the word.”

He reached out and stroked the Persian, whom arched under his touch. “I suspected, for some time now, that the perpetrator of this ghastly, horrible deed was a soldier with the unit who destroyed my greenhouse in spite. I do use the term soldier very loosely, in this situation. Cold-blooded murderer is a better term, or psychopath. You may remember a serial killer from Moscow who preyed upon young women, left their dismembered corpses in conspicuous places…” Krauss smiled fondly at Motte, purring and rubbing against him. “And I find it ironic that you were the one who sent him up North, and I was the one who authorized his release under the guise of scientific experimentation.”

He allowed himself to laugh, though it was more a chuckle of dark sarcasm than anything. “The more you speak, the more I suspect that Olavyenko is involved, somehow. Not this lunatic flame soldier. Groznyj Grad is full of criminals and rejects sadists and psychopaths… there is no better place in Mother Russia for a jealous lover to stage an assassination and make it look like a grizzly murder.”

Johann sat back in his chair, snuggling down deep into the cushy leather, and sighed. “Because honestly, the more you speak of the General, the less I like him.” Coercion and threats were one thing when he was the one using them, but the idea of someone abusing power over his lover in such a way made him bristle. “Maybe it’s jealousy. Hell, I don’t know.”

Krauss got up out of his chair, much to the cat’s vocal complaint, and began skimming through a nearby file cabinet. “But I do know one thing…” He nodded when he found what he was looking for. “You may not remember a certain Dmitry Grigoriev, but I know for a fact he remembers you.” He pulled another file from the drawer, and tossed them on the desk. “And so does Iosef Obruchnikov, your Moscow painter.”

Johann smirked, despite the seriousness of the situation. “I’ll give you a friendly word of advice because the rumors of revenge have already reached me. Unless you want to end up like our beloved Molokov… I suggest you grow eyes in the back of your head.”

[nikanor-liadov.livejournal.com]

"Yes," he said, slowly. "Our Moscow Ripper."

One did not forget the man responsible for the poor, mangled corpses of so many shopgirls, who suffered so horribly and were left in lonely gutters like ripped up bread crusts.

"I do remember Grigoriev. A monster and a coward. A man who could only hurt little girls, alone in the world. And yet, let me guess. He feels wronged by the system. And by me, especially."

To many, Grigoriev might have been a prime suspect in any killing, but these particular murders did not fit his MO in Liadov's opinion.

That didn't mean he was thrilled to find him here.

"I objected when he was moved from Magadan," said Liadov, "in favor of transfer to a Psikhushka."

He paused, smiled humorlessly.

"Even though odds are he was punished much more severely there."

The Nut-house was a special kind of camp, and since the disbanding of the labor camps with de-Stalinization, it was common for political prisoners and criminals to be sent there, along with the insane. For the insane, it was merely an institution. For the others, it was psychological torture.

"So obviously, comrade, I am deeply chagrined to hear that he has been released and rewarded for his ugly deeds."

Liadov frowned, sitting back in his chair.

"And you did this."

He remained thoughtful for a moment.

"The painter," he said, shrugging, "I don't recall."

Krauss' warning was cryptic and almost gloating, to Nika's ears, but what could one expect from a former SS man?

"I appreciate the notice," he said. "But if I went into a swoon every time a man I'd convicted wanted me dead, I'd never get anything done. And believe me, I do plenty."

He set down the open ivory box on Krauss' desk with a light, decisive snick.

"Funny how it always seems to be the reprehensibly guilty ones who cry foul. A bunch of petulant weaklings. They never simply take their medicine as deserved by their transgression. And yet someone like Kassian Irinarhov is punished for technically being a moral citizen- and he takes it with Russian stoicism. Tell me why that is, Major."

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The German’s smirk quickly spread into uproarious laughter, morbidly inappropriate to the somber occasion. “Re--rewarded?” He gasped, barely holding back his giggles. “You have -- you really have no idea what sort of unit he’s been assigned to, do you?”

Seeing that Liadov was not amused, Krauss quickly regained his composure. “Your boy has been assigned to a flamethrower-wielding suicide squad. I wouldn’t call that a reward, by any stretch of the imagination…though he seems to have flourished.”

He shrugged a bit, dismissive. “So you see my friend, you should be swooning a bit this time. I would like to assume, so that I may sleep easier in the dark of night, that the men you send away aren’t typically trained in scorched-earth battle tactics and issued flamethrowers powerful enough to melt bullets in mid flight.”

There was something in the back of his mind that hoped Grigorev and Obruchnikov killed Liadov before the agent found the murderer. With the operative out of the way, Krauss would be free to deal with his lover’s killer in any way he saw fit, so long as no one ever found the remains.

Still, Nikanor Liadov was nice enough. It would almost be a shame to see him perish in such a terrible manner, even if it guaranteed he would never be identified even by dental records.

Krauss played with the edge of the file folders, pondering Liadov’s question. “A true lunatic never questions his lunacy. No, he believes his irrational actions and impulses are completely natural and right. It is largely a question or morality, as with Kassian Irinarhov.” He smiled slightly, glancing at the ivory box the operativnik sat upon the desk. “Ask Grigoriev, and he’ll tell you he was only cleaning the streets of human filth. That doesn’t account for the necrophilia though.”

The Major sat back and sighed. The cat had curled up on the corner of his desk, exhausted by all the excitement, and the envelopes left to him by Stefan lay unopened in a neat stack.

“You have a lot of work to do… and it would seem as though I should start making arrangements for the widow Molokova, pity the poor soul, and her darling son.” It was a hint that the guest had overstayed his welcome, and a not-so-subtle one.

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Nika was almost amused at the pompous German's hubris. Like a character from a novel, this one. And utterly unaware of it.

Funny little stump-fingered man.

"Seeing as you only just told me of his presence here- no, of course I have no idea what manner of unit he's in."

And mercurial, too, Liadov noted, carefully. He had thought he could write off Krauss as a suspect from his initial impression of the man. He'd since been forced to reconsider. Someone able to turn on a ruble like that- from grateful and gracious to sinister and supercilious- was not anyone he would put above murdering an unfaithful lover. Although he doubted Krauss would have had the courage to do it himself. No, he'd have hired someone to do the dirty work, and cried when it was done.

As it was, he was hard-pressed to imagine kind, humorous Misha getting within five miles of this venomous posy- much less into his bed.

For a moment, Liadov wondered if Natasha wouldn't be better off taking her chances with Roman Olavyenko.

"You seem dissatisfied with my reaction. What would you have me say, comrade? That Grigoriev is the worst man the gulag has ever seen? That nothing and no one could ever eclipse his psychopathy, and that because someone has handed him a glorified blowtorch, he is evil incarnate and invincible?"

That was ultimate hubris.

Liadov had seen sadists who performed live surgery on children. A man who had locked a young girl in a cage in his barn, that dwarfed and distorted her body as she outgrew its confines. She'd never learned any language, and hissed and scratched whenever anyone came near her. He'd recommended her for the asylum, but he wondered privately if a bullet to the head wouldn't have been more humane.

His petty concerns with the vengeance of the guilty paled in comparison to the suffering masses.

Chest-thumping was something Nika found tiresome, especially by proxy. Krauss seemed anxious to insist that the Flame Patrol was an unchecked force, blazing a swath of destruction across Groznyj Grad as they saw fit, and that nothing anyone did could counteract that. But Volgin was no shrinking violet. How ludicrous would it be to assume that this cosmonaut and his wingnut brigade could simply trot around imposing their plans and will on every man in Groznyj Grad, while the mammoth and supercharged Colonel shrugged helplessly?

Nika was not impressed. Every sociopath was firmly convinced of his superiority. It didn't make them special. It just made them egotists without boundaries.

I should be more horrified by you, wouldn't you say, Major? Surely some of the things you got up to in the Schutzstaffel would make even Grigorev go pale with nausea.

Suddenly, all Krauss' beautiful things did little to hide the ugly underneath, and Liadov felt a repulsion unlike any he'd ever felt before.

He rose, setting his MVD cap on his head and giving a brusque nod.

"Major. Enjoy the remains of your day."

If anyone tried to interfere with his investigation, they would find themselves answering to several parties beyond himself.

[parabellum-p08.livejournal.com]

“I don’t want you to say anything. There is nothing to be said.” He frowned, looking up at Liadov. “You scowl as though you think I get some sadistic pleasure from telling you these things. It was only a friendly warning.”

Krauss would have never dreamed that such a gross misuse of power as destroying his greenhouse, his life’s work, and endangering the lives of countless soldiers would go unpunished. No, rewarded, with Volgin’s stoic indifference, and the hint somewhere behind his mangled smirk that Krauss somehow, on some level, deserved everything he got, from having his beloved greenhouse blown to bits, to being humiliated in front of the whole base, to being beaten into a stupor by that nasty little bitch with the rocket launcher.

Sure, maybe he’d done a few not-so-nice things to the flame patrol, and manipulated their commander to a certain extent, but it was all a part of his job, except for the part about turning the Fury against Major Ocelot for his own personal amusement. But that was nothing personal. And even if he had said things that were unbecoming of a gentleman to the woman flame soldier, they were all true, very very true, and the dumb cunt should have taken them as a compliment, in his humble opinion.

When it got right down to it, he thought they really had no valid reason to be upset with him.

The truth was obvious though, as obvious as the hint of a smirk pulling up the corners of his lips: it did give him a sadistic enjoyment telling Liadov in the bluntest of possible ways that there was a good chance he would become human barbecue in the near future.

For some reason, the more the MDV officer spoke about Stefan, the less Krauss liked him. It was jealousy, green and vile as a festering abscess.

The German gave Liadov a little wave as he reached the door. “Viel Glück.”