There weren’t many ways to reach the White House because the bridge over the river was barricaded at both ends. Arkady spotted Max among people arriving from Kalinin Prospect. From a distance he didn’t look much the worse. He nestled one hand in his jacket pocket but moved with an assurance that parted the crowd.

At a corner of the White House a tank that had come to its defense was festooned with flowers. The soldiers on board were boys with the hollowed eyes of determination and fear. The turrets swung toward Kalinin Prospect, where Arkady heard the drumming of automatic fire.

Students played guitars and sang the kind of sappy songs about birches and snow that usually drove Arkady insane. Around another fire, rockers took sustenance from a tape of heavy metal. Ancient veterans linked their arms and puffed up the ribbons on their chests. A battalion of street cleaners, women in black coats and scarves, stood like a row of witnesses.

Arkady maneuvered to keep Max in sight since he seemed to know better which way to go. He skirted a barricade being assembled from construction timbers, mattresses, iron fences and benches. Its builders were men with attaché cases and women with shopping bags who had come directly from offices or bakeries to the battle line. A girl in a raincoat scaled the makeshift palisade to tie a Russian tricolor to the highest plank. Polina looked down from her vantage point without seeing Arkady in the crowd below. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair free, as if she were riding the crest of a wave. Her friend from the airport climbed after her, more carefully, as the sound of weapons fire resumed.

Max moved toward the White House steps. As Arkady tried to catch up, he saw there was a defense plan of sorts. Within the barricades, women had established themselves as an outer ring that soldiers would have to break through first. Then came shock troops of unarmed citizens, a mass that water cannon or armor would have to dislodge. Behind them, younger and stronger men were organized in divisions of about a hundred. At the bottom of the White House steps Afghan vets stood in groups of ten. Above them was an inner cordon of men wearing dark ski masks over their faces and shouldering weapons. At the top of the steps strobe lights popped around microphone booms and still and video cameras.

“You?” A heavyset militiaman grabbed Arkady’s arm.

“I’m sorry.” Arkady didn’t recognize him.

“You almost ran me over last week. You caught me taking money.”

“Yes.” Arkady remembered; it had been after the funeral.

“See, I’m not just someone who stands in the street and takes bribes.”

“No, you’re not. Who’s in the ski masks?”