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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.”

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[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.

(http://photobucket.com)

[parabellum-p08.livejournal.com]

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."

[parabellum-p08.livejournal.com]

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.

[nikanor-liadov.livejournal.com]

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.”