THEY LANDED on time, and a limousine with a uniformed GRU driver at the wheel was waiting. The streets were dark, frostbound, a city of ghosts, snow drifting down-angel’s wings, his mother used to call them when he was little-and he sat there, thinking of what awaited him as they passed the great entrance of the Kremlin and moved through narrow streets to the rear, paused in a paved yard. Steps up to an entrance, a blue light over it. The door swung open and a young lieutenant in GRU uniform admitted him.

“Please to follow me, Colonel.”

Luzhkov had never been to Putin’s suite in his entire career, and he followed in a kind of awe, one gloomy corridor after another, the decorations finally becoming more ornate, oil paintings in gold frames on walls. Everything was subdued, no sign of people, not even an echoing voice. And then they turned left and discovered two individuals in good suits seated in high chairs on either side of a large gilded door. Each of them had a machine pistol on a small table by his right hand. They showed not the slightest emotion as the lieutenant opened the door and ushered Luzhkov through.

The room was a delight: paneled walls painted in seventeenth-century style, heavily gilded furniture of the correct period, portraits of what were probably obscure tsars confronting each other across the room, a large ornate desk in the center.

“It’s very beautiful,” Luzhkov said. “Astonishing.”

“This was General Volkov’s private office,” the lieutenant informed him. The use of the past tense confirmed Luzhkov’s misgivings. “The Prime Minister will be with you directly. Help yourself to a drink.”

He withdrew, and Luzhkov, in a slight daze, moved to the sideboard bearing a collection of bottles and vodka in an ice bucket. He opened the bottle, filled a glass, and drank it.

“It’s going to be all right,” he murmured. “Just hang on to that thought.” He turned, glass in hand, as a secret door in the wall behind the desk opened and Vladimir Putin entered. “Comrade Prime Minister,” Luzhkov stammered.