(4 of 7)
"It's better this way. After all, you're the one who took the notes." I signed. Mikoyan hid the folder under a pile of shirts. Catching my look of bewilderment, he explained, "Here it will be better preserved. Besides, this man of yours probably invented a lot of that stuff."
On the morning of Oct. 12, the spacecraft Voskhod with a crew of three had been launched into orbit. Father knew the time of the launch, and he kept looking at his pocket watch. Finally he said, "They've launched already." He looked toward the telephones but they were silent. Usually everybody wanted to be the first to call with the good news. But this time the phones were silent.
Father busied himself with his papers, but he couldn't concentrate. Half an hour, 40 minutes passed. I felt uneasy. It was as though everyone had forgotten about Khrushchev. Similar thoughts were apparently troubling my father. "Connect me with Smirnov ((his aide of 30 years))," he ordered.
The call went right through. "Comrade Smirnov, why haven't you reported about the launch of the cosmonauts?" Smirnov said something about how there was nothing unusual about the launch. Father's irritation grew. "Then why didn't you report? You're supposed to report the results immediately." Of course, by now Smirnov knew everything and was in no hurry to call. Father hung up furiously.
Evening was falling. Father and Mikoyan were strolling along the beach. They were interrupted by a duty officer who ran up to them panting.
"Nikita Sergeyevich, Comrade Suslov asks that you come speak to him on the phone." Father went into a little office and picked up the receiver. "Yes, Comrade Suslov?" There was a long pause. "I don't understand. What questions? Go ahead and deal with them without me." Another pause. "What can be so urgent? I'll be back in two weeks, then we can discuss everything." Father's nerves were beginning to show. "I don't understand any of this. What does that mean, you 'all got together'? We'll discuss agricultural problems at the plenum in November. There will be plenty of time to talk it all over then."
"Well," Father finally gave in, "if it's so urgent I'll come tomorrow. Goodbye."
The next afternoon Khrushchev and his entourage boarded an Ilyushin 18 jet for the more than three-hour flight to Moscow.
He and Mikoyan went into the rear cabin. My father did not like to be alone and always had company. This time it was different. "Leave us alone," he curtly ordered. The two men were working out what line they would take, playing with alternatives, trying to guess what lay in store for them at the airport.
The landing was smooth as usual. In recent years members of the Central Committee Presidium came to see off or meet my father. This time the tarmac was empty, with only two figures barely seen in the distance. It was a bad sign. The ramp was slowly rolled up. The mysterious figures approached. It was KGB Chairman Semichastny, accompanied by an aide.
Semichastny offered a polite but reserved greeting: "Welcome back, Nikita Sergeyevich." He leaned over to my father, and, as if in confidence, told him in a low voice, "Everybody has gathered at the Kremlin. They are waiting for you."
My father turned to Mikoyan and calmly, almost lightheartedly, said, "Let's go, Anastas."