From White Pawn on Red Square...
Move along, chelovek,” the senior guard whispered in my ear. But gently, perhaps mistaking my faraway expression for adoration of the Communist Christ.
After rounding the coffin, we inched down some steps, up some more and out the back door leading to the path along the Kremlin Wall, lined with spruce trees. There, the queue scattered though guards still marshaled us and urged us forward. Several people loitered to peer over the iron railing at the graves of Stalin and other revolutionary figures buried beside the crenellated wall.
My mind was still back there, in the crypt. Wondering exactly what that was lying under the glass cage. Had she been here, Larissa might have enlightened me. Or maybe she finished up having to guess. And she was the one who thought up the whole crazy scheme.
But I’m away ahead of myself. I suppose I should really begin by telling you about Larissa and myself from the time we met.
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