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Page 208
units of Black Beret troops materialized in front of them. Within moments the dissidents were stopped, roughly subdued, and forced to lie face down on the ice-covered stones of Red Square.
Milstein grasped Yulin roughly by the shoulder. "What have you done, Vanya?" he cried in despair. Cherny stood watching as if in a trance, unwilling or unable to stop the carnage.
Ivan Yulin shook off Milstein's hand. "I had to be prepared," he said firmly. "They were trying to assassinate our President."
Milstein stared at Yulin in disbelief. Planned, he thought, this was all planned. He turned toward the two bodies, sprawled in the melted slush, unmoving. Their surviving fellows were being lifted one by one into black militia vans to be taken away. Are those children alive or dead, David Milstein wondered. He turned to protest to Cherny, but he was jostled aside by a protective convoy of Kremlin guardsmen, come to rush the President to safety through the Spassky Gate.
"This is insanity, Yulin," Milstein shouted wildly. "They had every right to protest."
"But not to threaten the head of state. It is time the hooligans are put in their place," the aged police chief said coldly, self-righteously. "The President must be protected."
Milstein looked about helplessly. Only now had someone from the police come to tend to the fallen demonstrators. They were hauled away like sacks, dumped into a militia van, not an ambulance, and taken from the square, sirens braying.
Suddenly Piotr Kondratiev materialized at the head of the funeral column. "Now, hear me," he commanded. "Let us forget this disgraceful affair and get on with the task of burying our comrade." He thrust his arm into the air, fist clenched. The bandmaster sprang to attention and waved his baton. The band began to play again. The cortege moved across the square at the mournful cadence, finally coming to

 
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