“A mix—private guards, volunteers.” The officer’s concern, however, was Arkady. He gave his full name, insisted that Arkady repeat it and shook his hand. “You never know another man until a night like tonight. This is the drunkest I’ve ever been and I haven’t touched a drop.”

Everywhere was a common look of astonishment, as if they had all ventured individually to drop their lifelong masks and show their faces. Middle-aged teachers, muscular truck drivers, wretched apparatchiks and feckless students wandered with expressions of recognition. As in I know you. And among all these Russians, not a bottle. Not a one.

Afghan vets with red bandannas around their arms patrolled the perimeter. Many still had their fatigues and desert caps, some held radios, others carried sacks of Molotov cocktails. Everyone had said how they had gone to Afghanistan, become dope addicts and lost the war. These were the ones who had lost their friends in the dust of Khost and Kandahar, fought on the long retreat on the Salang Highway, and avoided the anonymous ride home in zinc-lined coffins. They seemed very competent tonight.

Max’s hair and one ear looked singed and he had changed jackets, but he seemed remarkably untouched after having had one arm on fire at the collective. He stopped by worshipers huddled around a priest who was blessing crucifixes at the base of the White House steps, then turned and saw Arkady.

A bullhorn announced, “As attack is imminent, we are observing a blackout. Extinguish all lights. Those with gas masks, prepare to put them on. Those without should tie wet cloths over their noses and mouths.”

Candles disappeared. In the sudden dark there was a stir of thousands of people slipping on goggles and tying scarves and handkerchiefs over their faces. Undeterred, the priest pronounced blessings through a gas mask. Max had slipped away.

The bullhorn appealed, “Please, reporters, do not use your flashes!” But someone stepped out of the White House door and the response at the top of the steps was an explosion of strobes and spotlights. Arkady saw Irina among the reporters and Max climbing toward her.

The embankment was blacked out, but the scene at its center was an illuminated theatrical production. The steps spilled over with lights and journalists trading shouts in Italian, English, Japanese and German. There were no official press passes for a coup, but reporters were professionals used to mayhem and Russians were accustomed to disorder.

Max was stopped halfway up by two men in ski masks. Half an eyebrow was gone and his neck had a raw sheen, yet he seemed unruffled and in control. Cameramen rushed up and down the steps on either side. He enlisted the guards in conversation, employing a confidence that commanded any situation, an ability to flow around any obstacle.