groznyj_grad | The messenger, cont.

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The messenger, cont.

"Another without marks," Rakitin murmured. "I'll bet you anything there's enough sedative in his blood to bring down a timberwolf."

He drew back to the active center of the room like a reluctant iron filing to an inconsistent magnet. Whatever it was that Liadov and Irinarhov needed to discuss, it looked like it would wait.

Ever since the other night...both other nights...Rakitin had done his best to keep out of the way. Nika hadn't talked much to him since, any more than necessary, and he'd followed the cue and backed off.

In fact, it was the young Black Ops man, Aryol, who had approached him, with an open smile and disarming gregariousness.

At the first second Polya had frozen, the alarm of reflex in his head blaring, Nika told him. He told him, and they laughed. But logic had manned the override. He knew perfectly well that that was ridiculous, and all the reasons.

"Either our killer is well trusted, or he's got a skill for sleight of hand."

Nothing they didn't know already, but it helped to follow the old tracks, to look for the divergences that stood out.

Such as....

"This is the first time it's directly involved Major Ocelot and Major Raikov," he hazarded. "Does that mean something?"

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Nika frowned.

"Major Raikov, that would make sense. Major Ocelot-"

Liadov toyed with a pipette and shrugged vacantly.

"I don't really see how his tangential involvement is significant."

At that point the door burst open, and with it a chill from the less balmy hall outside.

Ocelot closed it behind him with equal vigor, and Liadov raised a mollified brow.

"But when you name the wolf, he comes running."

He glanced obliquely at the sniper and the pathologist.

"Perhaps I'm mistaken."

Ocelot's eyes were narrow, but his body mechanics were tautly controlled.

His eyes searched rapidly, and fell on the table where the jumble of accesselotteries lay benignly.

"What is this?" he demanded, without preamble, pointing to them.

"They belong to the victim," Rakitin said, point blank, defaulting to professionalism and the bare facts of the case.

At the moment, Ocelot looked less like a wolf than a housecat with his tail caught in a rocking chair.

"The body had been stripped. Ritualized. Captain Irinarhov is the one who found it."

Rakitin glanced over his shoulder at Liadov and Irinarhov. There hadn't been time to tell him much.

"We don't know where the rest is."

Ocelot felt a mask of normalcy descending over his face.

"So you have a body. He's one of mine, then."

He clenched his jaw.

"Let me guess. It's the bastard who's been AWOL in the woods for a week. Borishnakov."

He glanced at Irinarhov, pulling out his gun reflexively, but then thinking better of it, and shoving it back in the holster.

"Well, was it?"

"I think so, Major."

Kassian glanced at the items he and Liadov had recovered from the tank yard. His gaze lingered on the scarf.

"From the way the body was positioned, I couldn't get a good look at the face, but I'm almost certain it was him."

He paused, and looked back to meet Ocelot's sharp gaze.

"These parts of the uniform we found separately in the tank yard. Hanging off the tanks, just like the initiation night. Except we didn't find the jodhpurs and jacket. Major Liadov requested clearance to search for the rest of the uniform in Borishnakov's barracks and footlocker."

"No," corrected Liadov, raising a finger. "I want clearance to search Major Raikov's barracks and locker. Borishnakov's as well- but I don't need clearance for that," he added, pointedly, for Ocelot's benefit. "My authorization comes from Moscow. I have probable cause."

Technically his blanket authorization allowed him to go through the Major's possessions as well, but Nika wasn't stupid enough to take liberties like that with Volgin's pet officer, despite Olavyenko's backing.

A general in Moscow was little help when your cock and balls were being electrocuted by the enormous judgmental fist of affronted love.

He saw Ocelot scowl.

"What the hell does Ivan have to do with this? If you think-"

"I don't," said Nika, swiftly. "Except that if the pattern holds true, and this killer put Borishnakov through a reverse initiation before killing him, then it would stand to reason those garments would be returned to him. Symbolically."

"It wouldn't make sense," muttered Ocelot. "Because they came from me. He just handed them out."

Liadov paused, brow lofting.

"Are you giving us permission to search your barracks and locker?"

Ocelot's grimace coved even deeper.

"Do what you want. I expect you'll find what you're looking for."

Kassian frowned.

"Major?" he asked, quietly.

He didn't know if Ocelot was accusing Liadov of being willing to plant evidence, or if he was only being ironic. A look inside Ocelot's barracks would reveal multiple pairs of black jodhpurs and jackets, the same as any Ocelot had.

The essential individual pieces were always marked for laundry purposes, however. A close inspection would distinguish Borishnakov's gear, even from that of someone who happened to wear the same size.

Unless Ocelot knew something he didn't.

Kassian looked between Ocelot and Liadov, and felt strangely conflicted.

"It's all right, Captain," Ocelot said, shifting his slatted gaze from Liadov to Irinarhov.

He set his mouth curtly.

"Borishnakov's uniform is in my room. It was brought to me last night, by a soldier following orders."

Ocelot scowled.

"Junior Lieutenant Borishnakov was a miscalculation. He was being demoted from the Squad for repeated insubordination and Behavior Unbecoming of a Russian Officer- which is utterly unbecoming to an Ocelot."

Ippolit looked from one Ocelot to the other. They weren't reacting quite as he would have expected to hearing that one of their squad had been brutally murdered.

Not that Irinarhov would probably have given much reaction if you stabbed him. Still.

It ws as if something horrible happening to this Borishnakov was expected.

"And that would be, exactly...?" Rakitin asked.

Ocelot glared.

"What, do you MVD pricks want an itemized list? To begin with, he shirked duty repeatedly. He made the rest of the squad haul off and look for him when he went AWOL, and then he went AWOL again. He's unreliable, soft and substandard. He should never have been brought into our ranks in the first place."

Adam whirled on Rakitin.

"So my men took care of it. He was stripped of his uniform and insignia, and forced to undergo his initiation in reverse. That's essentially all that was supposed to happen."

Ippolit's brows leaned together to confer.

"Hold on. The stripping wasn't the murderer's doing?"

The young Major's anger was somehow a steadying force, like the tick of a clock at the center of the universe.

"When did the de-initiation happen? What happened afterward? How far was it supposed to go?"

Rakitin shook his head.

"Maybe you had better start at the beginning."

"I wasn't there," snapped Ocelot. "But no one was under any orders to injure Borishnakov. Shame him, yes. Punish him through the denouncement of brotherhood, yes."

Ocelot reached for his gun and paused with his hand gripping the stock tightly, but didn't deholster the weapon.

"Kolyin swears Borishnakov was alive and whining when they were all finished. Every Ocelot down to a man knows what's expected in these cases. They go like clockwork, no mishaps."

Icy, sadistic clockwork, but nonetheless.

"I gave the signal. I cleared them to discipline him according to tradition. But I had no part of the actual event. I was not the CO."

He supposed the demotion made sense, if he thought about it. Performance issues, going AWOL. And Borishnakov had never truly fit in. Always eating by himself, not socializing, endearing himself to no one. Isaev had never really forgiven Borishnakov for running away the first time, and Kassian supposed others felt the same way.

For a moment, Kassian wondered if he was just as much of a misfit as Borishnakov, but he didn't think so. Even not counting Isaev, Kassian thought he got along with the others well enough.

But then again, he hadn't heard about this, either. If every Ocelot down to a man was supposed to know what was expected, he'd been left out.

Kassian frowned.

"Who was?" he asked, quietly.

Ocelot hesitated for one moment, but then turned his head and looked squarely at the sniper.

"Lieutenant Andrei Alexandrovich Isaev," he said, without discernable inflection, and a clipped tone.

Then he took his gaze away.

"He organized the squad and took care of matters. Kolyin told me that Borishnakov was shit-faced and pathetic by the end of the ordeal, and that Isaev took responsibility for stowing him somewhere to sleep it off."

"Then he's who we need to talk to," Rakitin said immediately.

He remembered the Lieutenant. An easygoing manner, gregarious without frivolity, but with something about him that was somehow deeply unsettling.

Also, with a very close relationship with Captain Irinarhov.

"Look," Polya said, abandoned to candor, "We're not interested in assigning judgement for whatever it is your unit does. I don't care if you sing folk songs and circle jerk. We need to know what happened. That's all."

Kassian gave a short nod, and looked away.

His jaw went taut, but he said nothing, stone-silent, his expression carved from granite, a frown etching his brow.

Kassian's eyes flicked back and forth rapidly.

It all made sense, he supposed.

Isaev. Kassian being left out of the loop. Even the tower. Who else would have known about it, could have hauled Borishnakov up there?

The events fell into place.

Right up until the point when Borishnakov had died.

After a few moments, he looked up, and glanced at Liadov, but let his gaze skip away before they made eye contact.

He wasn't about to tell a MENT how to do his job.

"Call off your intellectual lab monkey bedmate, Liadov, before I put a bullet in his mansatchel," snarled Ocelot, drawing his gun.

Liadov's face was priceless, but his voice was modulated and firm.

"He's right, Major. We'll need to interview the Lieutenant, and find out Borishnakov's state when he left. For all we know he could have died of exposure or alcohol toxicity or heart failure or hypothermia."

Nika's eyes dropped briefly.

"No marks," he muttered, almost to himself.

The skin at the back of Kassian's neck prickled.

He looked at Rakitin.

"You'll...be able to tell how he died."

It was not a question, but his gaze bored into the pathologist as if demanding an answer.

Ippolit cocked his head, puzzled. He'd meant to put to rest the likely fear that the less-than-kosher pratices of the unit would bring them under fire. Apparently it hadn't come out entirely reassuring.

The look on Liadov's face was interesting, but nothing, Polya thought with wry regret, he hadn't seen before.

It was what he said that was of importance.

No marks.

It had been stirring in Polya's head as well, unwelcome and difficult to ignore as a slug on the doorstep.

"That's right," he said to Irinarhov, quiet confidence in both senses of the word.

There was no such thing as an effect without a cause.

"If someone killed him, I'll see how."

He left the possibility unspoken.

A lack of evidence could be evidence in itself.

Ocelot looked at the three of them, uncomprehending at first.

"What are you angling at?" he demanded, then the implications of the words dawned on him.

"No," he said, emphatically, at once, eyes widening to punctuate the words. "No chance in hell. My men aren't fucking American cowboys. They don't use their weapons without a direct order- Isaev included."

"That's right," Kassian said, immediately.

His voice sounded somehow distant, disconnected from himself.

He lifted his chin, and straightened his stance. His hand went to the strap of his rifle, reflexively adjusting it.

"Everyone knows that, Major."

Kassian turned his gaze to Liadov then, and this time, met his eyes.

Involuntarily, Ippolit's eyes flicked to the Ocelot major's weapon, still unholstered.

"Not even if they were provoked? Angry?"

Rakitin shook his head, as though trying to dislodge a weight.

"In any case, anything right now is conjecture. There are plenty of ways to kill a man that leave nothing on the skin and a clear internal trail. Not so many that don't. I doubt any killer is going to do us the favor of being that stupid."

Liadov paused, collected himself carefully.

A studious cooling, a chilling effect on emotional dread and impulse.

Imperceptible, because it was instinct by now.

Isaev very well could have done it. Nika knew that well enough. He was physically capable of snuffing out a life like a candle, and a drunk sub-par officer wouldn't have posed much of a challenge.

Ilarion might not have ever killed a man for kicks, but he certainly never hesitated in taking capital action on one at the slightest provocation.

Nika had no illusions about how the older Isaev would react to his younger brother being fingered for homicide. And what he would do.

Rakitin would figure out what the substance or cause was, if it was knowable. Nika had full confidence in that.

And if it was something less than ideal- if the finger of blame truly pointed at Andrei- then Nika would have no choice.

He would have to deal with it like a MENT.

He would have to begin a whitewash.

Liadov met Irinarhov's eyes.

"I've never seen an Isaev charged for a crime yet," he said. "That isn't a trend that's likely to change."

He paused.

"We've got to get that body back here, so Polya here can examine it."

Nika paused meaningfully.

"We won't question Lieutenant Isaev for at least 24 hours. We need to begin the autopsy as soon as possible, and I want to present."

That gave the Ocelots time to question and prime him. No surprises.

I just gave you a headstart.

Liadov's eyes spoke in lieu of his lips, eloquently veiled. He hoped Irinarhov was better at reading between the lines than he was at recognizing satire.

He turned to Ocelot, waving a calculatedly dismissive hand.

"Your explanation of the hazing is sufficient at this point. Until evidence suggests otherwise, we'll treat the killing as separate from the authorized off-duty disciplinary action. We can get details as the investigation progresses."

Kassian nodded, deliberate and solemn, though he let a mote of gratitude lighten his gaze.

He dropped his eyes away.

Twenty four hours. It was more than enough.

Kassian knew that Liadov was thinking the same thing he was.

...Here's proof that this tape is for our ears only, Captain.

Liadov's words had been soft, but his eyes were hard as he had leaned across the interview table toward Kassian.

...If I found that Andrei had done this, I would bury it so fast your head would spin.

The words were like the cold comfort of a rifle barrel against his palm.

Kassian turned to Ocelot.

"Major. Permission to find Lieutenant Isaev and apprise him of the situation. I'm not on the bodyguard detail right now."

He'd actually had a rare morning free after practice, though as luck - or rather, Imanov's schedule - would have it, Isaev had patrol. Kassian had decided to spend his time fixing up his sniper tower to make it more conducive to long-term nesting.

Which was when he'd found Borishnakov.

Kassian checked his watch. Isaev should be getting back from patrol shortly, he thought.

That was new. Liadov had never gone out of his way to oversee the autopsies before.

"You don't have to stay," Rakitin told him in an undertone. "I'll give you a full report. I won't miss anything."

He couldn't be thrilled about this development, what with having had enough of a relation to Isaev to request that Polya conduct the interview on his own. However, he'd confessed that it had been a long time, and anyway it was the other brother he'd known better.

Very well, apparently.

Regardless, Nika wasn't the kind of man to let personal feelings get in the way of the investigation. He knew what he was doing.

Ocelot scowled reflexively.

"Permission granted," he hissed. "To do whatever you want, on your own time, Captain Irinarhov."

Liadov cringed at Irinarhov's blunt and artless declaration of intent to 'go apprise Isaev of the situation'.

Why had he even bothered to couch his reassuring words in double-speak and entendre, if the righteous sniper was going to translate his true meaning directly after the fact?

Nika was chagrined, briefly, at being caught out in front of Rakitin, and having it broadcast that he was letting protocol slide on Isaev's behalf.

Those were the kind of things you didn't draw attention to.

If he was wise, thought Liadov, at this point he would be forced to redact his goodwill, upon having it called to general attention that the Captain, by his own declaration, was going straight to the most obvious possible suspect and tip him off.

If he condoned that outright statement now, he blatantly agreed to abet the compromising of an investigation, which was a seriously blatnoy proposition.

Tacitly that had been Nika's intent all along, but corruption was only corruption when it was underhanded.

When it was public it was unethical hypocrisy.

Liadov sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

He couldn't look at Rakitin.

"The body," he said. "If you don't mind, I'd like to observe. There are some marks, animal spots painted on the skin in blood. I want to see what you come up with when you run the samples, Polya."

"Thank you, Major," Kassian said.

He felt unsettled. Unease curled around him like the coils of a snake, slowly constricting his chest. He tried to shrug it off, tried to avert his mind away from the implications of everything he'd just heard.

Kassian didn't think it was working.

Without even a nod, he left the lab, but paused as he stepped into the anteroom where Kolyin stood watch.

Kolyin looked at him. Cautiously, Kassian thought. Probably wondering what he knew, or what else had transpired. Kassian didn't hold it against him, that Kolyin hadn't said anything earlier when they'd brought in Borishnakov's uniform pieces. It hadn't exactly been the time and place.

He felt like he should say something, but he didn't know what to say. Kassian hesitated for a few moments, then said, "I'll be all right."

To his surprise, Kolyin visibly relaxed, and then nodded.

What were words, he thought, though right then, he would have liked someone to tell him it was going to be all right, too.

Kassian nodded back, and then slipped outside. The chill air was crisp and refreshing, but even so, he had the feeling that things would get worse before they would get better.

"Of course," Ippolit said, studying Nika's averted face carefully. "You're free to observe whenever you like."

That way, he would know immediately when the cause of death was discovered. Polya was certain it would be. A markless corpse was a distinctive calling card. If Isaev were a murderer, could he be that stupid?

Or that arrogant?

A charm that called people to him and ensured they would protect him...

No. That was ridiculous.

It was only natural that both, especially his own lover, would never think he could have really done it.

"Blood..." Rakitin mused. "Not the victim's?"

He winced.

"Let me guess. An ocelot's spots."

Liadov raised his eyes, nodding, slowly.

"Yes...that's it exactly. I'm impressed at your discernment."

He paused, fussing with the buckle on his generously cut grey coat sleeve, then letting it rest.

"Do you have a natural history book available? I'm sure there's one in the East Wing library, if not. I'm no zoologist, but that spot and stripe pattern is distinctive. Not a cheetah, not a leopard."

Nika pursed his lips, briefly.

"That it would be an ocelot...seems only reasonable."

If anything about this could be called reasonable. Liadov was beginning to feel like a Hallucinogenic Toreador in a surreal arena where the bull was a devil he knew.

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The messenger, cont.

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