I wasn’t even sure that the positions pushed by Gagarin or Kamanin — or my father, for that matter — were the right ones. But at that moment I wanted to see them win. Perhaps I was just more supportive of people I knew as opposed to those I didn’t. Or more sympathetic to the feelings of those who flew the aircraft and spacecraft than of those who bought and sold them, the ministers, the bureau chiefs, the State Commissioners, and especially the State Security apparatus, which fed on all of us.
“We’ll fight to get control of our fate,” Shiborin said, laboring over the words. “And because we are pilots and not politicians, we’ll lose.” He smiled. “It will be a great tragedy.”
Then he left, walking slowly down the hall.
I spent Friday, April 12, the day before my birthday, working with the subcommission. During the morning hours we worked the crash site, turning up more and more fragments; then, when it began to rain, we returned to Chkalov, where I became a recording secretary for a general meeting of the commission chiefs, learning, for example, that UTI MiG-15 Number 612739 had actually been built in Czechoslovakia in 1956, with a design lifetime of 2,100 flying hours. That on the day of the crash, it had logged 1,113 of those hours, only slightly more than halfway through its operational life. That its jet engine, RD-45-FA Number 84445a, had been manufactured at State Aviation Factory 478 in December 1954, with a design life of one hundred flying hours before maintenance. On March 27, 1968, it had been sixty-seven hours since its last major overhaul. It, too, was well within its useful service life.
Further, that the accident rate for the MiG-15 was the lowest in the entire Soviet Air Force, with one accident every 18,440 hours flown. (The Su-11, apparently a death trap of an aircraft, suffered a major accident every 2,100 flying hours!)
It was all facts and figures, the substance of what was, I was sure, going to be thirty thick volumes of data. Yet no one had so far discovered a good reason why two healthy, talented pilots simply dived out of the sky and into the forest.
Katya had made plans to celebrate my birthday on Saturday, and I managed to get out of Star Town early that morning, before any other innovative duty could find me. When we spoke by telephone on Friday, the morning after my emboldening encounter with the drunk Shiborin, I had asked Katya if Uncle Vladimir would be present. “I was only planning a lunch for the two of us,” she said, sounding mystified.
“Just get a message to him that I have information for him. Maybe he can meet us after lunch.”
“I’ll do my best,” she said, mystification turning to irritation. I had felt bad about that, but only briefly. I had enjoyed my time with Katya, but clearly it was coming to an end.
Besides, if I actually managed to carry out the plans taking shape in my head, she would be better off rid of me.
I reached the base of Ostankino Tower before Katya did, and had the pleasure of seeing her strolling toward me from the metro station. For a moment — or several moments — I was about to abort my new mission, to surrender to whatever Katya, Uncle Vladimir, my father, and the heads of Military Unit 26266 planned for me.
It was even worse when we kissed, and she gave me my present, a novel in English called Marooned by an American journalist named Caidin, whose earlier works I had read and admired. “One of our people at the embassy in New York bought several copies for the institute.”
I thanked her, and then we went up the tower to lunch. The service staff did not bow and scrape as they had when Uncle Vladimir and I first dined there, but Katya’s connections through the Space Research Institute hadn’t hurt.
Almost at the stroke of one P.M., as we were having some pastry for dessert, the elevator door opened, ejecting the bulk of Vladimir Nefedov.
He waved off the waiter who flew toward him like a bird of prey, and came directly to our table. He seemed relaxed, even amused, as he kissed Katya and me. “I’ve been wondering when you would chose to reveal this illicit friendship,” he said, lowering himself to a chair that had magically appeared for him.
Katya closed her eyes and glanced out the window. This was awkward for her. “Is it illicit?” I asked.
“Of course not,” Uncle Vladimir said, expansively. “Though you acted as though it was.”
Katya rose. “Excuse me,” she said, and patting Uncle Vladimir on the shoulder, as if to reassure him that she was not upset at his presence, went off to, I assume, the ladies’ room.
Uncle Vladimir watched her go with what could only have been appreciation. Then he turned to me. “I was actually a bit upset when I first learned that you two were seeing each other.”
“Because you and Katya had a relationship?”
This was unusually blunt for me to say to him, perhaps for anyone. I think it shocked him. “A relationship,” he said, as if he had never used the word before. “Katya and I have… many relationships.”
“Yes. That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.” I had his full attention by now. “How long have you had me under surveillance?”
“Me personally, or State Security as an institution?”
“Either one.”
He looked down at his chubby hands, anxious, I think, for something to put in them. A pencil, perhaps. “You’ve been under some kind of surveillance all your life, Yuri.”
“Because my father was on the staff?”
“Because your mother, my sister, worked for State Security.” Before I could question this, he continued: “She was not really an active agent past the time you were born — but she reported from time to time on the personal activities of your father and his fellow pilots, and their wives and children. Surely this can’t be a surprise to you.” He actually laughed. “Our whole society would cease to function without such reports. Look at the work you’ve been doing for me!”
“That’s my next question,” I said, still stunned by the revelation about my mother. “I don’t want to be your spy anymore.”
“It’s difficult work. May I ask why not?”
“Because I believe you killed Korolev. Possibly Gagarin, too.”
Katya chose that moment to reappear. A gesture from Uncle Vladimir, one so subtle I’m not sure I saw it, froze her… made her stumble… turned her around and sent her back the way she had come!
Uncle Vladimir spoke calmly. “The price we pay for doing surveillance is that we forget who to trust. Enemies are everywhere. No one is what he seems.” He looked directly into my eyes. “I did not kill either Korolev or Gagarin.”
At that moment I believed him; he had not touched Korolev. “But you know who did.”
Now he sighed and showed frustration. “How can I take you into my confidence, Yuri, when you no longer work for me?”
Laboriously, he rose from the chair. He picked up Katya’s half-empty glass of wine. “Did you have some cake?” He touched his glass to mine, but did not drink. “Happy birthday.”
Then he walked away.
40
The Weather Balloon
The rest of that birthday was even less successful than the lunch. Katya returned, was furious with me, said not a word as we rode down the elevator. As she walked, she kept a proper distance from me, too, like some Victorian maiden out with a questionable suitor.