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The handwriting was familiar.

That was the thing that seemed the strangest to him, the detail that felt out of place.

Taras knew it from numerous old case files heapos;d gone through back in Leningrad, neat, organized notes, all written in an elegant hand.

Liadovapos;s writing was distinct, artfully slanted. Not quite regular, but easy enough to read.

It was out of context here, in the darkened office, as he looked through Liadovapos;s notes by penlight. Papers with Liadovapos;s writing belonged in the records room back in the MVD building in Leningrad, testaments to a bygone era.

Except they really did belong here, he supposed, in Liadovapos;s makeshift field office, in the Soviet army base all they all now called their temporary home.

The office had not been hard to find, nor to break into.

Taras left the desk and its contents untouched, preferring to study things like the arrangement of objects, how Liadov kept things organized. What the man had brought with him in terms of personal items. How he had decorated, if at all.

He didnapos;t know what compelled him to find out more about Liadov. Maybe because he didnapos;t understand the story Ilarion had told him. Maybe because he didnapos;t understand Liadov at all.

Taras swept the penlight over the desk again, then caught a slight noise from the office door.

He froze.

The sound of a key in the lock.
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