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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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2007-04-01 04:39 am (UTC)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.