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By Root 718 0

stretch as far as the Chinese Wall. The spires above the gates looked like churches that had been captured, roped, dragged from Europe and erected as trophies to a czar, topped now by ruby stars. Shimmering in upturned lights, the Kremlin was midway between reality and dream, an immense, oppressive vision. From the gate at Spassky Tower a black sedan issued like a bat and flitted across the stones. Far off, at the head of the square, a four-story banner for Pepsi covered the façade of the Army Museum. To his right the classical stone face of GUM, the world’s largest and emptiest department store, shrank into the dark. From the roof of GUM and from the Kremlin wall, cameras constantly monitored the square, but no floodlights were bright enough to penetrate the valley of shadow in its center, where he stood. No individual here would be more than a blip on a gray screen. The sheer size of scale and awesome vacuum of the square didn’t so much uplift the soul as both hide it and suggest how inconsequential it was.

Except for one soul. When Lenin lay dying, he begged for no memorials. The mausoleum Stalin built for him was a vengeful pile of crypts, a squat ziggurat of red and black under the battlements of the Kremlin wall. Empty tiers of white marble flanked it, the area where dignitaries would sit for the May Day parade. Lenin’s name was inscribed in red letters above the door of the tomb. At the door, two honor guards, boy sergeants with white gloves and faces as pale as waxworks, swayed with fatigue.

Ordinary traffic was barred from the square, but as Arkady turned away from the tomb a black Zil rolled out of Cherny Street and, racing at official speed, crossed in front of GUM toward the river and sank into the dark around St. Basil’s. Tires squealed, a sharp sound of protest that reverberated the length of the square.

The Zil came back. Because the car’s headlights were dark, it was too late when Arkady realized it was coming straight at him. When he started to run for the museum, the Zil followed, its bumper almost on his heels. He darted left toward the tomb and the big car roared by and cut in front. He dodged the rear bumper and headed for Cherny Street. The Zil tipped, settled and lumbered toward him in a wider circle, the car’s centrifugal force accelerating.

When his escape intersected the path of the car, Arkady dove. He rose and started dizzily back toward St. Basil’s but slipped on the stones. Headlights rose up. He fell to one knee and raised his arm across his eyes.

The Zil stopped directly in front of him. Four uniforms emerged from the halos exploding in his eyes. Dark dress-green general’s uniforms with brass stars, fringed shoulder boards and mosaics of medals behind ropes of golden braid. But as his vision returned, Arkady saw that the men inside the uniforms were strangely shrunken, holding each other up. As the driver got out he almost fell. He wore a civilian sweater and jacket, topped by a sergeant major’s cap. He was drunk and his eyes were leaking tears that rolled from his eyes to his jowls.

“Belov?” Arkady asked as he stood.

“Arkasha.” Belov’s voice was as deep and hollow as a barrel. “We were at your address and you were not at home. We went to your office and you weren’t there. We were just driving around when we saw you, and then you ran.”

Arkady dimly recognized the generals, though they were gray and stunted versions of the tall, impressive officers who used to trail behind his father. Here were the staunch heroes of the Siege of Moscow, the tank commanders of the Bessarabian offensive, the vanguard of the push to Berlin, each of the four properly wearing an Order of Lenin awarded for “a decisive action that significantly altered the course of the war.” Except that Shuksin, who had always slapped his boots with a crop, was now so shriveled and bent that he was hardly much higher than the top of those boots, and Ivanov, who had always claimed the privilege of carrying his father’s field case of plans, was as stooped as an ape. Kuznetsov had turned as round as a child, whereas Gul was