In the middle of the road, the main body of the Tsarina is blazing madly, the rear of it twisted and torn into some horrible kind of sculpture. Flames are leaping merrily from inside the driver’s compartment. The screams have stopped, and I know that’s a blessing. The front part of the car, the portion ahead of the passenger seat, is lying a couple of meters from the rest of the wreckage—not on fire, by some strange chance—smashed free when the impact of the missile split the Tsarina in two right at the front axle.