Выбрать главу

We embraced. “He didn’t tell me to stay away.”

“Not in so many words, I’m sure. But I’ll bet he didn’t encourage you to come all the way over here to see him in his agony.”

“His agony?”

“His helplessness.” He gestured awkwardly with his left arm. “He can’t even dress himself with any ease. Fortunately, he won’t be tempted to drive, either.”

With a nod of his head at his two companions, and me, he headed outside. I chose to follow, and was glad I had when he said, “Let me drive you to your bureau.”

Uncle Vladimir’s car was a black Zil, newer than bureau Zils I had driven during my time as Filin’s errand boy, and much better maintained, its engine running smoothly, which was a relief. In my experience, at least one motor trip in five from Moscow to Kaliningrad would involve a breakdown of some kind.

I settled in the back as the two goons got in the front. No sooner had we pulled onto Korolenko Street headed for Preobrazhensky than Uncle Vladimir said, “Korolev was murdered.”

I said nothing. “We not only reviewed all the medical data with specialists from different organizations—” here he smiled “—but questioned everybody who was in contact with Korolev that day.

“He had come through his surgery in surprisingly good shape, for a man of his age and health. He was most probably smothered.”

All I could do was nod. Until that time, my own probings and speculations had felt like a more grown-up version of hide-and-seek, dress-up, or pretend. If Korolev had been murdered, then one of those who saw him that afternoon was a killer.

“We will be watching Chelomei, Artemov, and the others very carefully,” Uncle Vladimir said. “But I am depending on you for information on Filin.”

“I understand.”

We drove in silence for a while, turning off crowded Preobrazhensky onto the Ring Road, heading north and west back toward Kaliningrad. At one rutted, potholed stretch we almost collided with a truck. As our car swerved to safety, the driver, speaking for the first time, said, with satisfaction, “I got that son of a bitch’s number.”

“Relax,” Uncle Vladimir said. “This road is like a minefield.”

It was true. In spite of the luxurious accommodations, I was getting motion-sick from the sudden swerves and bumps — I, survivor of the vomit-inducing flight in the Tu-104!

“Nikolai has started drinking,” Uncle Vladimir said, a statement of fact that did not invite contradiction.

“I think so.”

“He only has a year left on active duty.” That could have explained his depression: My father’s entire life was the Air Force, and he faced a mandatory transfer to the “reserve” at age fifty-five, a forced retirement that, for him, would be a living death. Theoretically, his three-star rank could have kept him employed for five years longer, but, thanks to his freely offered opinions, he had been passed over for all the jobs that would have made that possible. “Even if the high command wanted to keep him on, they won’t now.” After the accident, he meant.

“Can’t he join one of the aircraft bureaus?” Many retired Air Force generals took jobs at aircraft-design bureaus such as Tupolev or MiG.

“The aircraft business is dying,” Uncle Vladimir said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “Our State resources are going toward building the missile shield, and landing men on the Moon. Now, if your father had moved to the Rocket Force…”

We both knew how silly that idea was; my father despised the Rocket Force, whose leadership had come from artillery: “Those who crawl will never fly,” he was fond of saying.

“None of this matters until he regains his health, I suppose.”

It was all I could offer, but Uncle Vladimir seized my hand as if I had just won a Lenin prize. “That’s what we want.”

In order not to arouse suspicion, he dropped me where the Yaroslavl Highway crosses the Ring Road, within walking distance of the bureau’s main gate. The precaution was unnecessary: When I entered through the main gate, I saw half a dozen black Zils lined up, making their entrance. Some meeting of bigshots on one of the bureau’s many projects, I assumed.

Uncle Vladimir’s reluctance to be seen close to the gate did make me wonder, briefly, about the Korolev bureau’s own First Department, the State Security representatives attached to every significant Soviet enterprise. I could not then have identified the head of the First Department — he would not have been secret, but the bureau had thirty thousand employees at that time, with dozens of “deputy directors” such as Artemov and Filin — but assumed he had approved my hiring. Had my papers come to him with the endorsement of State Security? Or just a clean bill of health?

Did anyone else in the bureau know that I served two masters?

Back in Department 90, I had barely resumed work when Triyanov loomed over my desk. “Back early? Good. How was your father?” I muttered something noncommittal. “Good. We have emergency visitors who want to talk about Voskhod. Come along.”

Triyanov marched six of us to the main building, where we joined a presentation to the State Commission for Manned Spaceflight. The chair was none other than Georgy Tyulin, the Hammer’s deputy.

Actually, it was about half the actual commission, normally about two dozen representatives from the ministry, the bureau, the Central Space Office, and others. Since the agenda of the meeting was the upcoming launch of two dogs aboard a Voskhod — by my thinking, half a spaceflight — the number of commissioners seemed about right.

There was a group of military officers present, sitting together down near the front. I recognized Gagarin and Saditsky, and thought again of Korolev’s murder: Had these two seen him during their visit to his hospital? More suspects!

The subjects of these meetings were predictable: status of communications, tracking- and flight-control systems, booster, recovery forces, and so on. The plan was to fire two dogs into space aboard Spacecraft Number 5 in two weeks’ time, around February 23. The poor animals were originally supposed to stay aloft for thirty days, but before the gang from Department 90 even found chairs, we could hear the commissioners deciding to cut that to twenty. For one thing, there was apparently some pressure to get the manned Voskhod launched and in orbit before the big Party Congress on March 29. Even assuming that everything went well with the dog flight, they would be landing around March 22, and there would be no time to analyze the data and make changes before a manned launch that same week.

It was also apparent that the life-support systems would not keep the pups alive for a month. At this point in the proceedings, Tyulin looked up from his spectacles and asked, “Wasn’t there a critical report on crew systems from Department 90?”

As one, my half-dozen colleagues and Triyanov turned to me. I blushed, waiting with horror to be told to stand up and give an accounting of myself. Fortunately, Artemov himself took the microphone and said, “There are a number of open issues on life support and all departments are looking at them carefully. They do not affect the launch of Number 5, however.”

The commission moved on to the next point. I couldn’t help glancing over at the cosmonauts, where I caught Saditsky smiling at me. He gave me a formal salute, whether applauding my criticisms or mocking me, I couldn’t tell. It was strange to think that he was just a few weeks away from rocketing into space history.

I wanted to speak with Saditsky, but as the meeting ended, the cosmonaut contingent left with Tyulin and several other uniformed types. I returned to the kindergarten with Triyanov and the others, only to be met by my roommate Lev Tselauri, furiously arguing with the guard to Building 11.