Cooperatives no bigger than shacks had set up business behind the station. He got in line at one that sold Gauloises, razor blades, Pepsi and canned pineapples, and bought himself a bottle of carbonated mineral water and a tall lavender aerosol can of “Romantic” deodorant. He went on to a secondhand store that sold watches without hands and forks without tines and bought two collections of odd keys on wire loops. He tossed the keys and kept the wires, which he added with the water and deodorant to the canvas bag.

Back in his car, Arkady returned to the avenue and cruised until he picked up the motorcycle again outside Dynamo Stadium. Traffic was becoming more difficult. When the Sadoyava Ring was blocked by a procession of armored personnel carriers, he made a left and followed them until he could slip through at Fadayeva. First he smelled, then saw, the black exhaust of tanks idling in Manege Square along the west wall of the Kremlin. Crossing Tverskaya, he had a glimpse of Red Square, its brow of cobblestones blocked by lines of Internal troops spaced like hedgerows.

Shoppers emerged from Children’s World bearing stuffed animals. On the sidewalk women held up pantyhose and used shoes for sale. A coup? It might be happening in Burma, darkest Africa, the moon. The majority of people were too exhausted. If there was shooting in the streets, they would still stand in line. They were sleepwalkers, and at this sunset Moscow was the center of sleep.

Across the square from the toy shop, the Lubyanka looked equally somnolent. However, in the back of the building, a line of vans rolled out of the truck bay.

Arkady drove into his courtyard, squeezed the Zhiguli between the vodka cases around the church and opened the gate to the wood-cart alley that ended on a bluff overlooking the canal. Carrying Rita’s bag, he entered the back door of an apartment house and climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, where he had a view of the courtyard and the blue motorcycle lurking behind a delivery truck a block away.

Arkady sympathized with Minin. On any other day, he would have cars and radio communications. What did he remember about his assistant? Impatience, a tendency to rush ahead. Minin got off the motorcycle, his face folded with doubt. He was followed by the driver, who pulled off his helmet to release long black hair. It was Kim, looking for Arkady now.

He went out the back door and across an overgrown lot that dwindled down to a dirt path threading between the back walls of workshops and brought him to the street on the far side of the motorcycle. Looking toward his house, he saw Minin push the buttons of the code box.