End to Ordinary History

by Michael Murphy

  “Who would I tell?” Fall said. “The last thing I want to be is a CIA scout.”

  “All right,” Boone said, holding up a hand in warning. “I’m telling you this to set the record straight. But you keep it to yourself, you hear? The only reason I met him was curiosity. I was just plain curious about someone who could stir up those stories.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “We talked about everything—and nothing. That son of a bitch didn’t tell me a thing, but when it was all over I realized what he’d squeezed out of me. No secrets, mind you, but all kinds of information.” He shook his head with disgust. “First time someone ever did that. I think he hypnotized me. But that’s all that passed between us. You tell our friends in Czechoslovakia that. There’s no deal between us. No secrets. No money. No nothing. Nothing, you hear?”

  Fall nodded his agreement as he studied the stern, rugged face. Boone could be telling the truth, judging from his expressions and gestures. Maybe the stories had come from their single meeting.

  “But he never mentioned Soviet parapsychology,” Boone said. “I tried to angle around to the subject, but he kept sliding off. He’s a real smoothy. Didn’t ask me anything, though, about the Starr Foundation.” Boone stretched his legs on the footrest. “But you know—I don’t think he’s really that interested in pscyhic research. I think those stories about him are some kind of front. It’s military secrets he’s after, and information about our electronics industry. Your Silicon Valley out in California, that’s what he’s curious about. That’s the kind of thing he got from me, I realized later, damn it! He got the name of an alloy we’re using in one of our planes, something I never should’ve mentioned. He made a fool of me.”

  Fall was changing his mind about Boone’s connection to the Russian spy. Though the old man was probably veiling some of the facts, maybe they had met just once. The CIA might be as mistaken as his friends in Prague.

  “But Darwin, you don’t believe these rumors, do you?” Boone asked with a fatherly look. “You know me too well to think I’m run by Kirov. That has to be a pile of shit.”

  “I believe you,” Fall said. “Magyar’s group is a rumor machine. The poor bastards live in fear half the time, trying to keep their research going with Army support. Paranoia’s their way of life.”

  Boone leaned back in his chair. “But why did you want to see us?” he asked. “Comin’ all the way down here like this, I figured you didn’t trust the telephone. You got someone on your tail? Wouldn’t be surprised after your last catalogue.”

  “What do you mean?” Fall asked with surprise.

  “Hell. You know! That Gorski thing. Your Russian translations. Some jackass in the CIA might be alarmed. They’re always after us.” He glanced at Cruz. “They always think we know something they don’t. Shit! And they don’t do a thing about it. Don’t talk to Russian immigrants who’ve worked in the psychology labs. Don’t do any research.”

  “But they’re funding your work, I thought.”

  “You call that funding? Thirty, forty thousand a year? Hell, that barely pays Isaac’s salary! But let’s forget them. You and I know more about the Russian work than the Agency’s whole Life Sciences Division put together. Tell us what you’ve heard about Pavlita and his psychotronic machines, and I’ll tell you what we’ve heard from Magyar.”

  The bargaining had started, Fall thought. Boone would trade information item for item as if this were a business deal upon which his fortune depended. “Here are some new descriptions of work in Prague that should interest you,” Fall said, taking a folded paper from a jacket pocket. “Kocek sent them to me. They’re results from his new psychotronic generator.”

  “Pretty good. Yeah, not bad.” Boone passed the paper to Cruz. “You’re good at collecting this stuff, young man. I think they trust you more than me. What else you got?” A sly, genial smile crossed his face. “You must have something more.”

  “I’ve got some more of their reports at my office. Maybe I can send them. There’s one especially you will like—a diagram of their new machine.”

  “So we’re bargaining, are we?” Boone grinned. “I thought we’d gotten beyond that. What do you think of that, Isaac? He’s gettin’ some of my bad habits. Darwin, what can we tell you? You’ve seen our random-event machines. What else would you like to know?”

  “Whatever you’re doing, but Kirov first of all. He’s the main reason I’m here. Magyar’s people say he knows more about bodily transformation than anyone else they know. He could help my work.”

  Boone seemed genuinely puzzled. “You know anything about it, Isaac?” he asked.

  “Nada. Not a thing.” Cruz folded his hands in front of his face. “I think he is mainly a legend. A mystical James Bond, incorporating us all in his network. A Rasputin from the KGB.”

  Cruz’s dark, narrow face, half-concealed behind his folded hands, had a masklike impassivity. In contrast, Boone’s feelings seemed transparent. “Isaac’s right,” he said, slapping his chair. “This business generates so goddamned many rumors! Hell, I don’t know. Maybe he does know something about your bodily transformation, but don’t ask me about it. I hope you’re not going to all this trouble because of Magyar’s people. I hope you have more sources than that.”

  “All right.” Fall lowered his voice. “Can we agree to keep this quiet? Some of it sounds crazy.”

  Boone glanced at Cruz, then nodded. “A promise,” he said. “Nothing goes beyond this office.”

  Fall told them about the surveillance of the farm in Olema and their intuition that Kirov was involved. “It sounds paranoid,” he said, “but we think the man is reaching out to us. God knows why. It sounds so crazy I’m embarrassed to tell you. But that’s the extent of it—the stories from Prague, the CIA rumors, and our sense he’s watching us.”

  “It sounds crazy, all right,” Boone said. “Chasin’ down here with so little to go on. I wish we had more to tell you.”

  Fall sensed this was the truth. “Damn it! This trip’s all for nothing, I guess. You got anything else I can see? Any new projects I can report on?”

  Boone rose from his chair with energy. “Come on, Isaac. Let’s show him the shop.”

  “There is not much that is new,” Cruz said with displeasure. “But if you like, we can look around.” He led the way out the door and down a flight of stairs to a room that Fall hadn’t seen in his previous visit. Two men worked on a small computer. “They are making a program for our random-event machines,” Cruz said. “A good program, I think. It is a shame we have so few good subjects.”

  “Are they working full time?” Fall asked. “They weren’t here before.”

  “They came last month,” Boone whispered so the men couldn’t hear. “I’m gettin’ extravagant, Isaac says. We’ll have to let ’em go pretty soon.”

  “This is our machine shop.” Cruz gestured toward benches covered with tools and spare parts. “We have a lot of gadgets, in spite of our talent shortage.” He seemed bored by the subject now and turned to lead them from the room. Crossing the corridor, they went into a white-walled laboratory filled with animal smells. A row of cages covered a long, narrow bench. “Mice and guinea pigs,” Cruz said. “For our experiments with psychic healing. Some of them have tumors that people in Dallas and Houston are praying for. But the results are not very good. We need more people like Ramón. He would heal all these tumors in a day.” He picked up a swollen mouse. “This one is almost dead now, in spite of our prayers for it.” Cruz tossed the mouse into its cage and headed toward the door. “The people in the experiment come from church groups. Mainly ladies in the Texas Society for Psychic Research. We don’t have to pay them.” As they left the room Cruz explained that every participant had a picture of the animal he was trying to heal. A pity, he said, that so many would have to die for such a small experimental result.

  Boone seemed ill-at-ease with his research man’s account. “Come on, Isaac,” he objected. “We’re gettin’ some gre
at results. Let’s show him the Red Lab.”

  Cruz made a gesture of disgust. The Red Lab, he said, was closed for repairs. “This is really all we have to show you,” he said with weariness. “A few random-event machines waiting for a subject. Some mice and guinea pigs, and two electronics men who will soon be fired. With thirty or forty thousand, you cannot do very much.”

  “That’s right,” Boone sighed. “That’s about all there is. Darwin, I’m sorry we haven’t more to show you. Poor pickin’s for a trip to EI Paso.” He looked down at Fall with regret. “I’ll tell you what, though. After you send us those diagrams, I’ll send you some new stuff from Prague. There might be something in it you haven’t seen before.”

  Fall was surprised by this sudden end to their meeting. “So!” Boone slapped his shoulder. “Let me walk you out.”

  The commanding figure gently turned Fall around and guided him toward the exit. Outside, the chauffeur still leaned against the silver Mercedes. “Have a good trip back,” Boone said with energy. “And keep up the good work. When your book is done, you send it down here!”

  Lester Boone strode down the corridor with an energy beyond his sixty-eight years. Taking three stairs at a stride, he went up to Cruz’s office. The research man was pacing back and forth behind his desk, cursing softly in Spanish. “Boone!” he exclaimed. “What were you thinking, having him see the Red Lab? You were playing with dynamite!”

  “Now, Isaac,” Boone said, extending his arm in a pacifying gesture.

  “Calm down! He doesn’t suspect a thing. Not a thing.” He locked the door behind him. “Let’s talk about this without getting upset. Isaac, he didn’t see enough to get suspicious.”

  “He is an expert in these matters,” Cruz said, sitting behind his desk. “He is one of the few people in the world who could estimate how much we are spending. If he had seen the other labs, he would have known at once. And he might have seen the Russian machines. It would ruin everything for us if anyone learned about that!”

  “I got carried away,” Boone said apologetically. “You were right to steer him out. But don’t worry. He saw two of our people, out of how many? Sixteen? He saw just about forty thousand dollars’ worth.”

  “But I do not like it. He did not tell us all his reasons for coming here. Boone, do you believe his story—asking us about Kirov like that? What does he suspect?”

  “Isaac, he told us the truth.” The old man waved impatiently. “I’ve known him long enough to tell. He doesn’t have a clue about our arrangement with Kirov. But I’ll tell you what does intrigue me. It’s him and Atabet. They’re on to something, I think. This Atabet might be for real. The way they’ve psyched out Kirov’s interest is amazing. It’s the damnedest thing. Somehow, someway, they’ve felt his interest in them. I told Kirov he shouldn’t have bugged their place. You can’t deal that way with clairvoyants.” He slapped his knee. “Shit! These spy wars take the damnedest turns. No wonder those chicken-hearted bastards at the Agency don’t want to play. This kind of stuff is way over their heads.”

  “Boone, I don’t like it.” Cruz scowled. “What did he come here for? You don’t think he’s looking at us for the CIA?”

  “Isaac, will you stop that? He came for the reasons he said. And I’m glad he did, because he’s got a talent we can use. Isaac, I’m gonna’ offer to pay his way to Prague to see what Magyar’s up to. If Magyar’s told them about my meeting Kirov, we’ve got to know why.”

  “You mean we’ll get Edvard Hus to watch them?”

  “Yes. And Kirov, too!” Boone said. “He can meet them with an alias.”

  Cruz leaned back from his desk. “Yes,” he whispered, “it might work. But what reason will you give him for the offer?”

  “The real one.” The old man smiled wickedly. “That we’re interested in Magyar’s work. Then we’ll tell our master spy. Kirov will finally meet his American face to face. Hus can watch them and tell us about the meeting. Maybe we can find out what Kirov sees in Fall and Atabet.”

  There was silence as they considered the plan. “Yes,” Cruz said at last. “It is a good idea. We can solve three mysteries at once: what Magyar’s group is thinking, what Kirov sees in Fall, what Fall and his friends want from Kirov. You are a clever man, señor.”

  Boone lowered his voice. “And no one at the CIA will know. They’ve let us down too long to share this.”

  “We shouldn’t be too hard on them,” Cruz said. “Losing two subjects in a Witch’s Cradle will not make them many friends in Congress. But when we perfect our Red Lab, they will be back with their grants and more.”

  As Fall walked toward his car, a station wagon drove off the access road and stopped beside the warehouse. Three women came out of the building and walked toward the parking lot. Through the large open door behind them, Fall saw five more people standing in a lab Boone hadn’t shown him.

  The three women got into the station wagon and drove down the road toward El Paso. Fall hesitated, his heart beating rapidly. If there were eight people at work in addition to the men Cruz had shown him, Boone—or the CIA—must be supporting a million-dollar project. A chill ran up his back. Boone had said something about a Red Lab and Cruz had changed the subject. Had they been hiding the most sensitive part of their work? He approached the door, then stopped. On a bench inside the lab stood models of a satellite, and near it hung a Witch’s Cradle like the one he had seen before.

  Another woman came out of the door. “Where’s the road to El Paso?” Fall asked her.

  “Down there.” She pointed toward the highway. “What are you doing here? You here on business?”

  “I’m a friend of Boone’s. I’ve published his work in parapsychology.”

  She was a thin, intense-looking woman in her forties, dressed in a trench coat and jeans. “Take that road toward the highway,” she said, turning back into the lab and shutting the door behind her.

  Fall quickly got into his car and drove out of the parking lot. Cruz hadn’t wanted him to see the Red Lab, he thought, because they had lied to him about the size and nature of their project. They were developing psychokinesis as a weapon of war, and the satellite models must help them focus on Soviet spacecraft, while the Witch’s Cradle helped their subjects work up energy. There was no telling what other rituals and devices they used. Random-event machines shaped like Valentine hearts, erotic dances and voodoo ceremonies: Cruz would use anything that summoned an extra psychic force. Catching a last glimpse of the broken-down warehouse through his rearview mirror, Fall felt a sense of disgust. Boone’s decrepit building had become one of the world’s most unlikely factories of war.

  5

  AN HOUR AFTER HIS return from El Paso, Fall sat alone in his Greenwich Press office. Everyone else had gone home for the night, and the place was unusually quiet. Even the street outside was silent. Taking off his shoes, Fall lay on the couch. After five hours traveling, he could finally relax.

  But as he lay down the phone started to ring. It was Corinne or Atabet, he thought, wanting to know when he would come to Olema.

  When he picked up the phone, however, the voice had a deep Texas drawl. “Lucky to get you, Darwin!” said Lester Boone. “I had to call you right away after our talk this morning. I’ve got a proposal for you. You got a minute to listen?”

  Startled, Fall sat up. “Yes, I’ve got some time,” he said. “What’s on your mind.”

  “Good!” Boone said warmly. “That stuff you gave me this morning’s good. So good in fact that I want to make you an offer. I’ll pay your way to Prague to find out more about those psychotronic machines. Would you like that? I’ll cover all your expenses with five thousand dollars on the side.”

  Fall was stunned by the offer. The materials he had given Boone must hold more information than he’d realized. “When would you want me to go?” he asked with hesitation. “My schedule’s crowded now.”

  “Whenever you say. You get things from them I can’t, so the fee’s worth it to me. And I’ll tr
y to get my friends in Prague to set up a meeting with Kirov.”

  “I’m definitely interested, but let me call you back. Will you be at the lab tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be there all day expecting your call. But you better take me up on this, young man. If you don’t, I’ll go see Magyar myself!”

  Fall hung up and sat back exhausted. He needed to sort out his feelings about this, he thought. It was good he was seeing his friends in Olema that night.

  At 9:00 that night, Fall met Atabet and the Tibetan at the Rodeo Bar in Olema. For two hours they reviewed Fall’s trip to El Paso, coming gradually to agree that Lester Boone was running a research enterprise with a million-dollar budget. But the CIA, they decided, was giving him only thirty or forty thousand dollars a year, just as Boone had said. The project was essentially his own adventure.

  “Given all the disclosures about their work with LSD and hypnosis,” Fall said, “our intelligence agencies wouldn’t touch a project with psychics and Witch’s Cradles. They probably pay for the random-event machines, but that’s the extent of it. Boone covers the rest of the bill himself. No wonder the CIA wants to know more about him. If our guess about his project is right, he’s the largest supporter of parapsychology in the world, with the exception of the Soviet government. The largest in history, I guess. There can’t be more than fifteen full-time people in all the other U.S. labs combined, so he must employ half the parapsychology people in the country!”

  Kazi Dama was troubled. “The man is frustrated by the government,” he said, “because they will not back his research. He wants to beat the Russians, and he knows that psychic power works. That is a bad combination.” He turned to Fall. “I don’t think you should take his offer. You don’t need his money, do you? You could go to Prague on your own.”

  “It’s not the money,” Fall responded slowly. “It’s the connections he’ll make for me. He’s given Magyar and Kocek money for their work, and they owe him a favor. Maybe they can lead me to Kirov.”