The windows had been shot out of the lead car, the one carrying Nikolayev and Beregovoy. They were crumpled in the back seat, their condition impossible to tell. Shot in the face, their driver lay with his head against the steering wheel.
That was as close as I got. Uniform or no, I was pushed back into the crowd by the growing number of guards who cleared a path for the other cars in the procession to escape.
I lost track of Saditsky and Shiborin as I was moved along with the crowd, down Znamenka Street. Once we were a block from the shooting site, we were able to disperse, and I circled south to where the Star Town bus was parked, on Lenivka.
There I found most of my fellow cosmonauts and their wives, some of them quite shaken by what they had seen and heard.
We waited for the better part of an hour until Saditsky and Artyukhin, another senior cosmonaut, returned. “Everyone is fine,” Artyukhin announced. “Nikolayev, Leonov, Tereshkova were completely unhurt. Beregovoy had some cuts from flying glass.”
“What about the driver?” I asked. He had clearly been hurt.
“The driver is dead.” Someone else asked who the assassin had been shooting at. “Brezhnev,” Saditsky said. “They think the gunman mistook Beregovoy for Brezhnev.” The two did resemble each other.
The bus started up and Saditsky sat down next to me. I could smell the vodka on his breath. “Too bad he missed,” he said, so quietly I almost didn’t hear him.
“Brezhnev, or Beregovoy?”
“Either one. They’re both bastards.”
52
Red Moon
The next afternoon I went to see Katya, our first visit since the day of my father’s burial. It was a workday, but given my long stay at Baikonur and my various personal crises, Colonel Belyayev was happy to let me leave Star Town early.
I was determined to be honest with Katya, to tell her about my resumed relationship with Marina (though I’d had no contact with her since the funeral, either!), to make as clean a break as possible. I didn’t expect it to be easy, or painless.
I had not alerted her to my arrival. For one thing, simply getting in touch with her at the Space Research Institute was a tedious, often fruitless process. For another, I hoped to deliver my message quickly, without giving her a chance to build up some tidal wave of emotion that might drown both of us.
I succeeded in exactly one of my goals: surprising Katya. “Well, since you’re here, come in,” she said. She immediately headed toward the kitchen. “I just got home. Have you eaten?”
“I had something on the train.”
She returned with a bottle and two glasses. “You will have a drink, though.”
That was one thing I was finding easier to accept. “Yes.”
We touched glasses and drank. Well, I did. She sipped and put hers down. “I need to make a phone call. Sit down.”
I did, and she went off to the other room for a moment, door closed.
Was she calling another man, perhaps? Had I disrupted Katya’s plans? I suspected so when she returned, a flush on her cheeks.
“Were you at Borovitsky?” she said.
“I saw most of it, yes.” I described the events, leaving out Saditsky’s comments, and my own thoughts.
“It’s a terrible thing. Shooting at Brezhnev won’t solve whatever problems this man had.” The would-be assassin turned out to be a young army officer with a history of grievances, or as they would now be called, mental problems. “It will only give State Security an excuse to crack down.”
“Since when have they ever needed an excuse?”
“Since they started paying attention to what the rest of the world thinks. They’ll still smash you in the face, but they want everyone to believe it was for your own good.”
This was unusual talk coming from Katya. “Are you afraid of something?”
She wouldn’t look at me. “No. No, it’s winter.” Here she smiled. “I’m a year older. My waist refuses to shrink no matter how much I starve myself, and the sleep lines have become permanent.”
I took her hands in mine, kissing them. “Katya, you’re beautiful.”
“If that were true, you wouldn’t be here to break up with me.”
She gave my hands a squeeze, then sat back, challenging me to deny it. “Why do you think that?”
“Because you’ve never gotten over your little dark-haired spy. Marina. No, let me finish.” I had started to protest. “You’ve been distant. You’ve been on trips for days and weeks and never sent a letter. I’ve become a convenience to you. And now you don’t need me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Which part?” She was challenging me now. Here came that emotional tidal wave.
“You were never a convenience.”
I think I surprised her, enough so that her manner became more gentle. “But you are here to tell me we won’t be seeing each other anymore.”
I found I could barely speak, that I had tears in my eyes. “Yes.”
She sighed. She also had tears in her eyes — sadness or anger, I couldn’t tell. “Then you should probably leave.”
I put down the glass and stood up.
So did Katya, reaching for me. Our arms went around each other. I wanted to put her head on my shoulder, to console her, but she was so tall the idea was ludicrous. We merely touched foreheads for a moment. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” I was failing in my search for magic words.
“I know. I hope you believe the same of me.” I opened the door. “One last bit of advice, from someone who was fonder of you than she should have been: When they order you to the hospital, watch out.”
This was alarming, not just for what she said, but for the abrupt change of subject.
“Why? Will they try to kill me?”
She smiled and shook her head. “They can kill you now, silly. No. When they send you to the hospital, they’re getting ready to kick you out of the cosmonaut team.”
“How am I supposed to stop them?”
“That’s up to you. I just thought you should be warned.”
Then I did kiss her, fiercely, passionately, finally.
It was dark, of course, when I left Katya’s building and headed for the Belorussia Station. There were few people on the streets and no kiosks open; curious, because it was a typical winter night when people would shop.
I saw that a black Zil was rolling down the street a little behind me. Even more curious. I glanced around, wondering who was being followed.
Me. The car slowed, and I began to run down a cross street.
Another car, this one a Volga, suddenly flashed its lights in front of me. I was trapped. This car had militia plates — local police. So while there was nowhere to run, I had no reason to run. After all, I was a military officer in uniform!
But these militia officers weren’t in uniform, which was unusual. One of them, gray-haired, hawk-nosed, said, “Passport.”
I handed it over without a word—
— as one of the others hit me from behind, a sharp blow to my back that forced me to my knees. Outraged, wincing, I turned to look at my assailant, who was a heavyset young thug.
And behind him… Uncle Vladimir.
He stepped forward and gently helped me to my feet, saying, “That’s how it used to be done, Yuri. We would distract you, then hit you from behind.” He tapped a finger on the back of my head. “With a bullet.”
I was still panting from the pain in my back. It was difficult to talk. “Why are you doing this?”
“You needed a stronger lesson. You’re a bright young man with a great future, but you’re also bullheaded, like your father. I’ve learned that I can’t be subtle with you.” He leaned close. “Let it go.”