The British did not even ban Communism. Thirty-six Communist candidates had stood for Parliament. None had been elected.

A week ago, Dimka would have balanced these thoughts against the overwhelming superiority of the Communist system, especially as it would be when reformed. But now the hope of reform had withered, and the Soviet Union had been preserved with all its flaws for the foreseeable future. He knew what his sister would say: barriers to change were an integral part of the system, just another of its faults. But he could not bring himself to accept that.

The following day Pravda condemned subjectivism and drift, harebrained scheming, bragging and bluster, and several other sins of Khrushchev’s. All that was crap, in Dimka’s opinion. What was happening was a lurch backward. The Soviet elite were rejecting progress and opting for what they knew best: rigid control of the economy, repression of dissenting voices, avoidance of experiment. It would make them feel comfortable—and keep the Soviet Union trailing behind the West in wealth, power, and global influence.

Dimka was given minor tasks to perform for Brezhnev. Within a few days he was sharing his small office with one of Brezhnev’s aides. It was only a matter of time before he was ousted. However, Khrushchev was still in the Lenin Hills residence, so Dimka began to feel that his boss and he might live.

After a week Dimka was reassigned.

Vera Pletner brought him his orders in a sealed envelope, but she looked so sad that Dimka knew the envelope contained bad news before he opened it. He read it immediately. The letter congratulated him on being appointed assistant secretary of the Kharkov Communist Party.

“Kharkov,” he said. “Fuck it.”

His association with the disgraced leader had clearly outweighed the influence of his distinguished family. This was a serious demotion. There would be a salary increase, but money was not worth much in the Soviet Union. He would be assigned an apartment and a car, but he would be in Ukraine, a long way from the center of power and privilege.

Worst of all, he would be living four hundred fifty miles from Natalya.

Sitting at his desk, he sank into a depression. Khrushchev was finished, Dimka’s career had gone backward, the Soviet Union was heading downhill, his marriage to Nina was a train wreck, and he was to be sent away from Natalya, the bright spot in his life. Where had he gone wrong?

There was not much drinking in the Riverside Bar these days, but that evening he met Natalya there for the first time since coming back from Pitsunda. Her boss, Andrei Gromyko, was unaffected by the coup, and remained foreign minister, so she had kept her job.

“Khrushchev gave me a parting gift,” Dimka said to her.

“What?”

“He told me Nina is having an affair with Marshal Pushnoy.”

“Do you believe it?”

“I presume the KGB told Khrushchev.”

“Still, it might be a mistake.”

Dimka shook his head. “She admitted it. That wonderful dacha we got is right next door to Pushnoy’s place.”