Red Moon Rising Sputnik and the Rivalries That Ignited the Space Age - Matthew Brzezinski [15]
It was through the Mousetrap that Khrushchev’s ZIS-110 slid. In a few months, he would have a new limo—the sleeker, squarer ZIL, modeled after the 1954 Cadillac—and the first party secretary was anxiously awaiting its delivery. In addition to the modern redesign, the ZIL held the promise of being the ultimate Soviet status symbol, because only three people in the entire country would get one: the first secretary of the Central Committee, the chairman of the Supreme Soviet Presidium, and the chairman of the Council of Ministers. Like Khrushchev’s new house on Lenin Hills, with its gardens and fountains, cherry trees, and panoramic views of the Moskva River, the ZIL was a coveted perk that would help the CIA divine the shifting pecking order of communism’s quarrelsome high priests. In the opaque Soviet system, one glance at the Kremlin motor pool could yield more intelligence than a year’s subscription to the newspaper Pravda.
Pravda never made mention of the work in Kaliningrad, for if the name was even spoken “it was always in a whisper,” Sergei Khrushchev recalled. Such was the secrecy surrounding the missile complex that the name of the man who awaited the Presidium delegation this February morning had also been erased from all records. He had been given a pseudonym and was obliquely referred to in official communiqués simply as the Chief Designer. The Chief Designer was a prisoner of his own success. He was deemed so important to national security that a KGB detail watched his every step. For as long as he lived, he would not be permitted to travel abroad. He could not openly wear the numerous medals and citations he received, nor could he have his photograph publicly taken. All this was for his own protection, because the Soviets were convinced that the CIA would try to kidnap or assassinate him. The veil of anonymity would be lifted only after his death, when his name would replace Kaliningrad on post-Communist maps. But back in 1956, Sergei Korolev’s true identity was a closely guarded state secret.
Korolev greeted his guests formally, exchanging rigid handshakes with the Kremlin cardinals. Molotov, the aging diplomat, whose signature had adorned the nonaggression pact with the Nazis, was the senior member of the group. By dint of his decades as foreign minister, he was also the most worldly and urbane. Kaganovich, Khrushchev’s mustachioed former mentor, was another story. Once rakishly handsome, he had grown fat, old, and ugly, and was resentful at heaving been leapfrogged by his protégé. Kirichenko was the new boy, tall and big-boned. He’d been brought in by Khrushchev, who was trying to pack the Presidium with his own acolytes. The last to extend a hand was Bulganin, Khrushchev’s bitter rival, the sly Soviet premier with a sinister silver goatee.
Bulganin and Khrushchev shared power under an uneasy arrangement that satisfied neither man and sowed confusion both at home and abroad. Bulganin, as chairman of the Council of Ministers, headed the government. Khrushchev headed the party. But who was the head of state? According to communist dogma, the government was supposed to answer to the party. But in practice, the subordination was not always so clear-cut. When Eisenhower met both men in Geneva for talks the year before, the