“I knew there had to be a reason we were here.”
“We have to meet someplace other than the office; why not somewhere pleasant… and historically relevant?”
We tossed back our second shots of vodka and salmon. My hands betrayed my nervousness… I spilled some of the vodka as I refilled Uncle Vladimir’s glass.
I apologized, but all he did was shrug, and dip a piece of the salmon into the puddle on the table. For all his sophistication, he was a true Russian: He wouldn’t even let a milliliter of vodka go to waste. “How are you and your girl getting along?”
Marina was off in Kaluga baby-sitting a group of European tourists, and I had not seen her in several days. “Fine.”
“Marriage plans?”
Marriage to Marina was an idea I had only fantasized about. I had never actually proposed it to her. “Not so far.”
“A wife can be an impediment at your age. Besides,” and here he managed a painful smile, “why buy the cow when the milk is free?” He laughed, too, a frightening sound.
There was an interruption as cabbage soup arrived. Only when the waitress had withdrawn did Uncle Vladimir turn to business. “What do you think of the bureau?”
Grateful for the change in subject, I quickly laid out my impressions of the open tension between Filin and Artemov, and threw in some of Triyanov’s comments as well. The time I had spent chained to a desk in Department 90 had convinced me that while Korolev had been widely loved, he had also been feared.
As I made my report, Uncle Vladimir consumed everything on his plate, wiping up whatever was left with a piece of bread. When I was finished, he nodded, rested his left elbow on the table and pointed directly at my nose. (I don’t think I realized until that moment that Uncle Vladimir was left-handed.) “By the power of the Party and the Central Committee, I am appointing you deputy prosecutor. Who do you charge with Korolev’s death?”
“Aside from the doctors and officials of the hospital?”
“Should the death turn out to be something more than plain negligence, yes.”
“My first choice would have been Artemov…” I paused dramatically. It is embarrassing to think of how smug I felt that day. “… But now I would place Filin at the top of the list.”
“Your own boss.”
“He was present in the hospital the day Korolev died.”
“So was Artemov.”
“Yes. But not in Korolev’s room.”
“As far as you know.”
“As far as I know.” I plunged ahead. “But Filin was under great stress for some mysterious reason—”
“Like someone from a Pushkin story, perhaps?”
Now I was starting to hear my own words as I spoke them — a sure sign that I was floundering. All I could do was finish weakly. “He tried to cancel some of Korolev’s projects the moment the man was dead.”
Uncle Vladimir smiled with real warmth. He was enjoying himself. “All right, let’s examine the case of brother Filin, then. He and Korolev first worked together twenty years ago, in Germany. They were on our team that rummaged through the rubble in search of Nazi secrets. Of course, in those days Filin was the chief and Korolev was the deputy.”
“So there’s even more cause for resentment.”
“Oh, yes. I agree completely that Filin would be a good candidate.” He settled back. “Now look at brother Artemov. On the surface, the perfect deputy to Korolev. In private, however, they disagreed about everything up to and including the time of day. Artemov was either at Korolev’s throat or at his feet.
“Better yet, their association went back thirty years, to GIRD.” I had heard something of GIRD, the Society for Rocket Research — starry-eyed students who managed to convince General Tukachevsky to give them a pittance to fund a few early rocket flights, until Tukachevsky was arrested and shot in Stalin’s big purge. The same fate befell the heads of the GIRD; some of the junior members, such as Korolev, were merely arrested and shipped off to the Gulag. “The letter denouncing Korolev was written by Artemov to save his own ass.”
That was a stunning revelation to me. “Then how could Korolev stand to have Artemov around?”
“People will say or write anything once they find themselves in the basement.” He meant, of course, the basement of the Lubiyanka Prison. “Korolev himself had to denounce some of his colleagues. And, perhaps he felt guilty that he had stolen Artemov’s wife.”
It was clear that I was completely out of my depth. “It’s a good thing I’m not a state prosecutor.”
Uncle Vladimir acknowledged the joke, then said something that I remembered years later: “You would be surprised how little attention was paid to evidence in those days.” He went on. “But you see the complications, Yuri. These people… they fight, they argue, they plot, but still they have this special bond. They want to go to the Moon. Yes, they will build armaments for our country — but the armaments they like best are the ones that fulfill their dreams, not the needs of the Soviet people. Their arguments are about the best way to accomplish this. Like rabbis arguing about God.”
It was clear he was disgusted with the whole bunch. From my brief encounters with Uncle Vladimir in a family setting, I knew he disdained believers in God, especially Jewish believers in God. “There is even another party, another potential killer. Korolev’s true rival, Chelomei.”
“I don’t know that name.”
“He is even more secret than Korolev was, because all his work so far has been for the military. I want you to be alert for any information about him, too.”
I misunderstood. “But I just started working at Korolev’s bureau!” I said, protesting as strongly as I dared. People didn’t change jobs in those days the way they do now, believe me. I expected to work at the bureau long after my spying for Uncle Vladimir was finished.
Uncle Vladimir was already huffing with effort as he hauled himself out of the chair. “You will stay right where you are, Yuri. I want you to exploit your existing connection to Chelomei.”
“Who?”
“Your roommate.” Another piece of the puzzle. Lev Tselauri had mentioned his mysterious boss, and the “rivalry” with the late Korolev. So his secret “post-office” bureau was headed by this Chelomei! “Of course, all of this may add up to nothing. Remember that you do not carry the whole weight of the investigation on your young shoulders. Others are also working.”
I stood then, too, and when Uncle Vladimir reached over and snatched a piece of cold veal off my plate, I realized I had been so busy showing off I had not eaten more than a few bites of my first restaurant meal. “You have a natural talent for this work,” he said. “As time goes by, I see a growing need for young people with technical and mathematical skills inside State Security. This could be a great opportunity for you.”
“Thank you.”
“I wish your father would.” For a brief moment Vladimir Nefedov changed from a mysterious figure from the dark world of State Security back to a fat uncle chewing my food. “When do you see him next?”
“Tomorrow.”
Uncle Vladimir gave me no message; he only nodded. “We will leave separately. I go first.” And thus I was back again in the world of State Prosecutors, the basement of Lubiyanka, the knock on the door. I had to be very careful. I was furious with myself for even entertaining that brief fantasy about becoming a cosmonaut.
I had gone to lunch in hopes I might be reaching the end of my association with State Security. When I left, it was clear I had barely begun.
7
The Embankment
Sunday dawned clear and cold. At noon I was supposed to take the metro over to the Frunze Embankment, to my father’s flat, so I could have slept late. But my lunch with Uncle Vladimir haunted my dreams, and I awoke early, just as the sun rose in the southeast, shining through the shadowy buildings onto the frozen Yauza River.