“This report’s going to be in his hands by tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “Something tells me you’ll have your answer soon enough. I suggest that you have a response formulated and ready to go before the good senator takes the stage.”

They met near midnight, in the square outside Saint Basil’s Cathedral. Just the two of them, as arranged, although each arrived with an assignment of bodyguards, who hung a short and inconspicuous distance back in the shadows. Whatever trust there was between them was bought and maintained with power.

“Arkady,” Starinov said with a nod of greeting.

His hands in the pockets of his trench coat, Pedachenko gave him an agreeable, artificial smile.

“I’m glad you agreed to meet tonight, Vladimir,” he said.

Starinov said nothing in response. It was bitterly cold and he was bundled in a heavy wool coat, scarf, and fur hat. Pedachenko, however, stood with his thick hair whipping in the wind, and the top buttons of his coat open, as if in brash challenge to the elements.

The man was steeped in his own arrogance, Starinov thought.

Pedachenko turned, craning back his head to look up at the unlikely group of turban domes above them. The floodlights that illuminated the cathedral for tourists were switched off at this hour; in the darkness, its fanciful architecture took on the strange, alien nature of a half-forgotten myth.

“I’ve been thinking a little about St. Basil tonight,” he said. “The Holy Fool who shunned all creature comforts, walking naked in the snow, eating and drinking only what he needed to survive. Yet known for always speaking the truth. For being the living conscience of the Russian people. A man so good and pious that even Ivan the Terrible tolerated his barbs.”

Starinov looked at him.

“I hope,” he said, “you aren’t going to profess to that sort of self-denial.”

Pedachenko chuckled.

“Nor anything like St. Basil’s virtue,” he said, turning back toward Starinov. “We are politicians, Vladimir. That in itself damns us, don’t you think?”

Starinov shrugged and looked directly into the other man’s pale blue eyes. He wanted to get down to business.

“If we are to discuss matters of state, as I assume is the case, then shouldn’t Korsikov be with us?”

“He is the reason we’ve come here rather than to a pleasant old government chamber. One where we could clink snifters of brandy and stare meditatively at crackling logs as we speak,” Pedachenko said. His smile, though unmoving, had somehow become derisive. “If you will pardon the term, Korsikov is the weak sister in our troika, Vladimir. And he is also a prying one. There’s no point in having him meddle. We will make our decisions tonight, and he will go along with them.”

Starinov kept looking at him.

“Whatever your opinion of Korsikov, he is still in place within the Kremlin.”

“But perhaps not for much longer,” Pedachenko said.