Starinov was quiet for several seconds. His breath puffed from his nose in little jets of vapor.

“Hours after Yeltsin died, the three of us formed our interim government, and mutually decided that it would last until there is an election,” he said. “I will not engage in conspiratorial back-stabbing—”

Pedachenko held up his hand.

“Please, Vladimir, you misunderstand me,” he said. “What I am about to propose is strictly aboveboard. There will be no garrotes in the night, either literally or figuratively. ”

Starinov regarded Pedachenko appraisingly.

“Let’s hear it, then,” he said. “I want to get home before dawn.”

Pedachenko nodded.

“What seemed a good idea when Yeltsin sank into a tub of vodka has obviously proven unworkable,” he said. “Have you noticed the GUM department store across this very plaza?”

A mordant smile touched Starinov’s lips. “I’ve not had much time for shopping lately.”

“Ah, but even from your high perch, it must be clear that the lines at the shops and food stands have vanished. Merchandise gathers dust on the shelves. The hollow prosperity your deceased president once trumpeted has crashed down into a black hole.” Pedachenko spread his hands. “Our nation is in deepening turmoil, Vladimir. The international food relief effort has stalled, crime barons rape the people at every turn, a moral degeneration has—”

“My God, Pedachenko, look around you! There are no television cameras here. So, please, save the sanctimony for your viewers. I’ve already asked you once to get to the point.”

Pedachenko’s face showed its rigid, superficial smile again. Starinov felt as if he were looking at a cardboard mask.

“The country needs one leader to guide it, not three,” Pedachenko said. “The troika’s fractured vision has made our people stagger in descending circles.” He gazed at Starinov with unblinking eyes. “I’ve come to propose that you step down. Cede power to me for the good of our motherland.”

Starinov looked at him.

“I wish I could say you’ve surprised me, Arkady,” he said. “But this is just the sort of thing I expected.”

“And?”

“And what alternative do you offer? This third Great Patriotic War I’ve been hearing about?” Starinov laughed. “It is nothing but an admittedly stirring diversion. Icons and fanfare and ethnic superiority holding it together. I can’t help but be reminded of the rallies at Nuremburg.”

Pedachenko’s smile drew in at the edges until it was gone. “You should choose your words more carefully,” he said.

Starinov gave him a look of mock surprise. “Ah, you take umbrage. I’m reminded of Milosevic in the Balkans.”

“Whom you embraced.”

“Out of political necessity, as I do in your case,” Starinov said. “How sensitive men like you become when we evoke comparisons with the Nazis. Why is that, Pedachenko? Do you fear the demon in the mirror?”