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he immediately responded.
    Maybe he wouldn’t need so much sleep as all that, he thought, a soft groan escaping from his lips as Raya began to bite the tender skin on the insides of his thighs.
    Red Square
    At 8:00 A.M. the line in front of Lenin’s Mausoleum was already long even though visitors were not allowed inside until 10:00. Chernov, wearing a worn overcoat, black fur hat and shabby boots, stood near the end of the line, his hands stuffed deeply in his pockets. The morning was bitterly cold, made worse by a sharp wind blowing from the Moscow River. Most of the people in line were old women, but there were a few foreign tourists and several men not ashamed to show remorse for the father of Russian socialism. Rain or snow it was a rare day that there wasn’t a line in front of the mausoleum. It was the most anonymous spot in Red Square.
    Two police cars, their blue lights flashing, came around the corner past the History Museum at a high rate of speed. They were immediately followed by four Zil limousines, and two final police cars.
    Chernov waited for them to pass then slow down as they turned toward the Spassky gate. The first two police cars entered the Kremlin, and he pressed the button on the tiny transmitter in his pocket.
    The third limousine erupted in a huge geyser of flame and debris. A second later the sound of the blast hammered off the Kremlin walls and boomed across Red Square.
    Everybody in line instinctively fell back, raising their arms to shield themselves from falling debris. Even before the first siren began to sound, everyone scattered as fast as their legs could carry them.
    Chernov allowed himself to be swept away, until he ducked around the corner on October 25th Street where he entered the metro station. He did not look back. He didn’t have to, because he knew for certain that if Boris Yeltsin had been in that limousine, he was now dead.

FOUR
    The Russian White House, Moscow
    R ussian Prime Minister Yuri Kabatov entered the Crisis Management Center deep beneath the White House. The chamber and its communications center had been hacked out of the bedrock shortly after the Kremlin Coup in which Gorbachev had been ousted, but nobody this afternoon felt comforted knowing sixty meters of granite separated them from the real world above because all the security in Russia hadn’t been able to save the life of Boris Yeltsin.
    â€œI don’t think there can be any doubt who was behind this latest act of violence or why,” Kabatov said, taking his seat at the head of the long conference table. He was satisfied to see that nobody disagreed with him.
    In addition to his own staff those around the table who had responded to his summons included Moscow Mayor Vadim Cheremukhin and St. Petersburg Mayor Dmitri Didyatev, both democratic reform moderates like
himself. The meeting had been delayed so that both men, whom Kabatov considered crucial to Russia’s future, could be notified and make their way into the city; Cheremukhin from his dacha on the Istra River, and Didyatev from St. Petersburg.
    Farther down the table were Militia Director General Mazayev and FSK Director General Yuryn. Yuryn sat erect, his thick hands folded in front of him on the table, a scowl on his gross features.
    Some of Yeltsin’s shaken staff had also arrived, among them the President’s Chief of Staff Zhigalin, and his Chief Military Liaison Colonel Lykov.
    Seventeen men in all, most of them moderates, had gathered to make what, Kabatov felt, would be the most important decision that had been made since the breakup of the Soviet Union.
    â€œWithout proof, Mr. Prime Minister, there’s very little we can do if we are to continue as you wish under rule of law,” General Mazayev said thickly. He had dark circles under his red eyes. He looked like he’d just sobered up.
    â€œWe’re not going to have to worry about proof because the bastard won’t deny it,” Kabatov shot