To help ease the tension, Korchnoi, the roly-poly minister of agriculture, who concealed a ruthless nature under the jovial exterior of a Russian Santa Claus, was telling the latest joke. Two apparachiki meet on the street and the first apparachik asks the second if he’s heard about the shop in Kalinin Prospekt that just got in a fabulous shipment of shoes. “Everyone is lining up,” he says. The second apparachik replies that he’s going to Minsk to buy shoes.

“But there are no shoes in Minsk,” the first apparachik objects.

“I know,” replies the second apparachik. “But that’s where the line from the Kalinin Prospekt ends.”

The ministers were still chuckling over the joke when Fyedorenko burst in and stalked over to his chair, Svetlov close at his heels. As he took his seat, Fyedorenko made an offhand apology about being late and gazed intently at the other members. Despite his famous poker-faced impassivity, they noted with astonishment that Fyedorenko was obviously keyed up. For a moment he studied them, impatiently drumming his fingers on the glossy table.

In fact, only once before had Fyedorenko been so nervous before a Politburo meeting. That was the time shortly after he had earned his place on the Politburo by betraying Gugalov, ostensibly because of his alleged black-market activities with a ring of fartsovshchiki who ran prostitutes out of Komsomol Square, but in reality because Gugalov opposed the old man’s China policy.

He had first become alerted to a new development when the old man had hinted that he was going to do some weeding out at the next Politburo meeting and then left him dangling. It was essential that he learn who it was: Petrovsky or Ivanenko, because whoever wound up on the Penal Chair would leave the Kremlin on a one-way trip to the Black Wall in Lubyanka prison, along with anyone who supported him. It would have been so easy for the old man to let him know which way to jump, but he hadn’t and, walking into the meeting, Fyedorenko still didn’t know whom to denounce.