End to Ordinary History

by Michael Murphy

  “Why’s he so interested in parapsychology?” Morton asked. “You’d think he’d have better ways to spend his time.”

  “I’m not sure.” Fall shrugged. “He’s fascinated with the field certainly, but more than that, maybe he thinks he can make some kind of weapon using the power of mind over matter. Maybe he wants to build some kind of psychotronic gun. The Czechs are doing work that might develop into something like that. I’ve published some of it, in case you want to read it.”

  “I would be very interested in seeing it. Have you got any papers with you?”

  “I’ve got some in my suitcase at the Alcron,” Fall said apprehensively. “If no one’s taken them. Hus might’ve had my rooms searched by now.”

  “Okay,” Morton leaned forward with a look of concern. “You’re sure you were followed here? Followed all the way from the hotel?”

  “All the way. The guy kept ducking into doors, but he followed me down every alley and side street.”

  After a silence, Morton switched on an intercom. “Helen,” he said to the woman in charge of the embassy’s maintenance staff. “Do we have a room for a friend? He’s a guest of the State Department.”

  “Oh, my!” she answered plaintively. “All we’ve got is the room with the cot. He isn’t royalty?”

  “He’s young.” Morton smiled at Fall. “The bed’s hard, but he’ll like the view.”

  Morton leaned back in his chair. “I think you’ll feel better here. Hus can’t bug your room, and we’ll put him on notice that you’re not to be tampered with.”

  The offer startled Fall. “Do you do this often?” he asked. “This is instant service!”

  “Rarely.” Morton lit a cigarette. “But there aren’t many people with a story like yours. I’ve never heard of Hus or Magyar, and I don’t know anything about their psychotronics, but let’s stay on the safe side. How long are you going to be here?”

  “Three or four days. I can tell you exactly after I call my other friends.”

  “Good.” Morton smiled through the cigarette smoke. “Let me know what your plans are, and I’ll start to check on Hus. Meanwhile, you can use that cot and make your calls downstairs. It’s not fancy here, but the canteen serves real hamburgers. Bring your stuff from the Alcron, and let’s meet here at eight in the morning. We should know more by then. And I’d appreciate seeing that stuff you published. It might help me understand Boone.”

  Morton led Fall to the guest room on the floor above. “They’ll give you a pass downstairs to let you come and go,” he said.

  “I’d like to rest a while,” Fall said with gratitude. “I really appreciate this.”

  Morton strode off down the corridor, and Fall looked around the room. It had two windows with views of the Malá Strana. Between the windows hung a photograph of Richard Nixon and a painting of Neil Armstrong stepping onto the moon. Suddenly discouraged, he stretched out on the cot. Now that Kirov was in Moscow, he thought, the trip had lost most of its purpose. And if he were followed by the Czech police, Latko and Kocek wouldn’t want to see him. If Hus’s surveillance continued, he would go back to the States as soon as he could.

  His discouragement turned into depression. Finding Kirov seemed impossible now, and Magyar could not be trusted. This trip was beginning to seem like a waste of time and money.

  Downstairs, Bill Morton dialed his assistant. They had a man in the embassy, he said, who might help them solve the mystery of Lester Boone. He gave the assistant Fall’s description of Magyar and Hus. “Look at our files on Czech army intelligence,” he said. “See if we’ve got anything on a project there with psychotronics. What a godsend if this guy’s for real!”

  The weapon maker had been a problem for the embassy staff. He always refused Agency protection abroad, and his trips to Czechoslovakia raised questions about his parapsychology work. Though Boone always checked in with Morton, the Agency wondered why he risked being compromised in Prague. His refusal to name his Czechoslovakian contacts added to the government’s worries about him.

  “Hurry on this,” Morton said. “I’d like to know about Magyar and Hus by eight tomorrow morning.”

  Fall’s room at the hotel had been searched. Two books he had left side by side had been separated, and an entire stack of research papers was upside down. A maid had done it, he guessed, but she hadn’t been trained for this kind of work. He hoped this indicated his low priority with Czech intelligence.

  Fall carried his suitcase to the lobby. At the check-out window, the woman recognized his name. There was a message, she said, handing him an envelope. It had been delivered a half-hour before. The message was from Magyar, asking Fall to phone him as soon as he could.

  At eight o’clock the following morning, Fall met Morton in his office. The intelligence man looked weary. “No leads to Hus,” he said. “There’s nothing in our files. I wonder if he used an alias with you.”

  “I don’t know,” Fall said, handing Morton his message from Magyar. “What do you think I should do about this?”

  Morton read the note. “I think you should call him,” he said. “Tell him you’re suspicious and scared. If you want, I’ll listen in. Maybe I can figure him out.”

  “But this isn’t Magyar’s private number. If it’s his office, they’ll have us bugged.”

  “Good. We want them to know we’re tracking this. That’s your best protection.”

  “Okay,” Fall said. “Let’s make the call.”

  Morton dialed his assistant and asked him to ring Magyar’s number. “Tape the conversation,” he said. “And see if we can trace it.”

  A moment later, Magyar was on the line, sounding miles away. He seemed to be shouting. “Darwin, can you hear me? I tried to reach you at the Alcron!”

  “I’m at the American Embassy,” Fall said loudly. “I came here because I was followed. I thought that I might be arrested.”

  “Arrested!” Magyar’s voice came close. “But that is crazy! Why did you think that?”

  “Because of Hus, Edvard Hus. I don’t trust the man.”

  “Darwin, I’m surprised! I promise you, there is nothing to fear. But look, I want you to meet another friend of mine, a Russian parapsychologist. He’s read your catalogues. I have arranged a meeting at the Press Club for tonight. Ah, Darwin, this is absurd what you think about Hus!” Magyar sounded completely sincere. “Please believe me. You will laugh at this tomorrow. Will you come?”

  “I’m sorry, Stefan,” Fall said. “I don’t want to be followed like some kind of spy. I’m going back to the States tomorrow.”

  “But Darwin, this is crazy! Please, you cannot leave. This man is very important to you. He knows about all the Soviet parapsychology work. It would be crazy for you to miss him.”

  “How does he know so much about Soviet parapsychology?” Fall asked suspiciously.

  “He is an old friend of mine named Sergei Aitmatov. Darwin, don’t be stupid. Hus and I will prove to you that you have not been followed.”

  Fall glanced at Morton, who was listening on another line. “Go,” Morton whispered. “They know you have our protection.”

  “All right, Stefan,” Fall said reluctantly. “What time do you want me there?”

  Magyar gave him the time and place. “Promise you will be there?” he asked. “I know you will enjoy this.”

  Fall agreed and hung up the phone. “It sounds alright,” Morton said with amusement. “He certainly wants you there. But he knows we were listening. I could tell they were monitoring the call. You’re safe now that they know you’re here.” He paused. “One favor though. If we could photograph Magyar and Hus, it could help answer our questions about Boone.”

  “How can you do that?” Fall asked with apprehension.

  “It won’t be easy, but we have ways. It won’t reflect on you since they know you’re not CIA now. Not the way you’re acting.”

  “Go ahead,” Fall nodded. “If they’re going to follow me, take all the pictures you can.”

&
nbsp; 7

  AN ATTENDANT IN A white linen jacket waited at the top of the stairs on the second floor of the Press Club. Saying in broken English that Magyar and his friends were about to arrive, he ushered Fall to a spacious room set up for a small reception. On the oak-paneled walls a picture of Marx hung next to large color photographs of Prague. Bottles were arranged on a portable bar: Stolichnaya vodka, a Czechoslovakian Pilsner, and wine from Soviet Georgia. It looked like a club for the privileged, judging from the quality of the liquor and the deference of the attendant.

  “You like a drink?” the attendant asked.

  “A vodka,” Fall said, thankful for this chance to ease his nervousness. “What is this place used for?”

  “Partees. How do you say—marriages! People come here to have a good time!” The man made an apologetic gesture for his English.

  “Is Dr. Magyar a member?”

  “A member? No. There are no members.” He laid out dishes of caviar. “Everyone come here when they will be married!”

  Fall surveyed the room. It was about twenty feet by thirty with a ceiling, also of oak, some twelve feet high. He pressed his foot into the deep red carpet. Except for the portrait of Marx, the room might belong to an exclusive club in London or New York. He went to a mirror and straightened his tie. Lack of sleep the past three nights had left him hollow-eyed. He finished the vodka and asked the attendant for another.

  Magyar came into the room, his arms outstretched. “Darwin! I’m glad you got here early! Hus and my Russian friend will be here soon.” He poured himself a glass of wine. “I’m glad we can talk alone. Your suspicions have upset me!”

  Whether from the vodka or from Magyar’s ebullience, Fall felt a sudden confidence. “But I should have been suspicious.” He playfully grabbed Magyar’s arm. “You know I was followed when I left the hotel. Hus thinks I’m here to get articles from your friends about the new regime. Now tell me—that’s what happened.”

  “That is crazy!” Magyar looked hurt. “Hus will laugh when you tell him. I promise—we have nothing to do with state security. We don’t work for the police, but the Army. Now, please, you must believe me.” He pressed a finger to his lips. “But let’s not talk about this with my friend. He is a fan of yours. He knows something about the Soviet work with psychic self-regulation.”

  This was the Magyar Fall remembered, ebullient and impatient, always promoting the cause of psychic research. Fall finished his second glass of vodka. As he did, Hus came into the room with Kirov.

  Magyar introduced them. “Darwin Fall, this is Sergei Aitmatov. He has read your catalogues.”

  The Russian was pale and slightly withdrawn, a small figure next to Magyar and the dark, stocky Hus. He shook Fall’s hand and turned to take a glass of wine from the attendant.

  Fall felt an urge to laugh. Magyar, Hus, and he were part of a gigantic comedy reaching from America to the USSR. He laughed aloud as he thought of Atabet listening for spies in Olema. Hus watched him with apparent good humor while Kirov spread a piece of bread with caviar. Magyar forced a smile to cover his embarrassment. Fall put down his glass and wiped his face with a napkin. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t do this very often. Don’t ask me to explain it.”

  The Russian seemed distracted, but Magyar’s rosy face turned crimson. “Edvard,” he said, “he thinks you had him followed. I think he has been under pressure. Is that what you’re laughing at, Darwin?”

  “Not exactly,” Fall answered, reaching for a third glass of vodka. “What’s funny is that we’re all so suspicious. Now, Hus, you did have me followed. They told me that at the embassy. But why? Why are we all so suspicious? Isn’t that right, Aitmatov?” Fall asked, turning to the Russian. “We should laugh at these cold-war suspicions. Isn’t it stupid that friends like Magyar and me should play these games of cops and robbers?”

  Kirov shrugged. He looked almost invisible to Fall, as if his body were made of ectoplasm. Was he suffering from a blood deficiency?

  “We are driven,” Kirov said in a slow but excellent English. “Driven to do these things. We act like living machines.”

  His voice grew softer as he talked, yet his words had a strange penetration. Again Fall felt like laughing. The combination of depth and vulnerability in Aitmatov’s manner seemed as humorous as Hus’s game of cops and robbers.

  But the Russian might think he was mocked, so Fall raised his glass in a toast. “To brotherhood!” he said. “And transparency!”

  “And to your work,” Kirov answered. “It interests me very much.”

  For the first time Kirov smiled. It was a faint but complex expression. The man was born to an unusual family, Fall could see—the charm in the curl of his lip must come from centuries of breeding. Was he descended from aristocrats?

  There was silence as they drank. Fall imagined that the Russian enjoyed his challenge.

  “So you have read his catalogues?” Magyar asked Kirov to break the silence.

  “Just this one.” Kirov pulled the Greenwich Press brochure—limp from much perusal—from a jacket pocket. “You can see I’ve studied this,” he said to Fall. “I am a student of psychic research. An amateur, but faithful student.”

  Because the man’s blue eyes had a slightly Oriental tilt, Fall wondered if some of his ancestors were Central Asians.

  “Sergei dabbles in many things,” said Hus. “But in only one of them well. He is an expert in hydroponics. You should see the cabbages he grows on his roof in Moscow!”

  Kirov bowed in response. “Hus is jealous of my cabbages,” he said with quiet irony. “And he knows that if he makes fun of them too much, he will not be invited to dinner. But here!” He opened the catalogue to the description of Fall’s book. “Your study of ‘supernormal physicality.’ That is something our sports establishment would like to know about.” He moved lightly on the balls of his feet, as if he were gesturing with his entire body. “But I am not certain I understand what you mean by ‘supernormal.’ Your study of stigmata, for example?”

  “They are examples of our body’s ability to manifest an ideal. Our cells conform to our passions, as mine are conforming to this vodka . . .”

  “Aitmatov will be interested in your analysis,” Magyar said, putting a solicitous hand on Fall’s shoulder. “But first we should have something to eat.”

  Fall’s confidence had turned to a sense of the grotesque. Magyar’s big green eyes seemed to protrude from his head, and Hus looked like a gangster. The two Czechs formed a startling contrast to the elegant, evanescent Russian.

  Kirov moved closer to Fall. “Is your study the only one of its kind? I don’t know of anything like it in the Soviet Union.”

  The man came in layers, Fall thought—now he had a subtle but unmistakable radiance. “I don’t know,” he answered. “I’ve been at it twelve years and I’m only scratching the surface.”

  “He is modest,” Magyar said to Kirov. “His study is unique. We are all waiting to see it. You must encourage him to publish it soon!”

  Kirov held up the catalogue. “This cover,” he said, “is it connected to your book?”

  In the reproduction of Atabet’s painting on the catalogue cover, a winter sun was rising through the hills of San Francisco. A chill ran up Fall’s back. He had looked at it countless times before, but it had never occurred to him that the image might represent the central aspect of his theory. Suddenly the picture seemed alive. Its brightness was upsetting.

  “This vodka!” Fall looked to Magyar. “Stefan, you’re right, I think I’d better have something to eat.” He stepped to the bar, steadying himself, and spread caviar on a biscuit. But the painting still turned in his mind, upsetting his concentration.

  The Russian put the catalogue in his pocket, then placed his glass on the bar. Though Fall could not be certain, it seemed that the man had hypnotized him. He felt a rush of fear. The three were watching him now, and not one was reaching out to help.

  “Now what were we saying?” Fall asked.
“About that painting? Stefan, you’ve got me drunk!”

  “I asked if there was a connection between the painting and your book,” Kirov said. “You had them side by side in a way that might suggest it.”

  “Is there a place I can sit down?” Fall reached for Magyar’s shoulder. “I think I’m getting sick . . .”

  The attendant’s face showed concern and amusement. “Too much vodka,” he said. “You must drink this coffee.”

  Though the room was still turning, Fall sat up to take the cup. “A taxi is coming,” the man said. “Dr. Magyar will take you to your hotel.”

  A uniformed taxi driver came in from the street. Fall drank some coffee and got up unsteadily. Slipping into his overcoat, he walked out to the cab. Magyar and Hus got into the back seat with him.

  “I should have warned you,” Magyar said with a solicitous look. “Three glasses of vodka so fast when you are not used to it! Then poof.”

  As the car moved away from the curb, Fall slid down in the seat and waited for the spinning to stop. If he did not hold a center, it would turn to nausea. When they reached the embassy, Hus got out and rang the bell. Magyar put a hand across Fall’s chest. “Wait here until someone comes to the gate,” he said.

  A cold sweat covered Fall’s lips, and he felt the afterglow of shock. “What happened to Aitmatov?” he murmured. “He’s an interesting man.”

  “He stayed at the club,” Magyar said distractedly. “We are going to have dinner there.”

  Hus came back to the cab. “Here,” he said with disgust. “Let us help you inside to make sure you are not arrested. I hope you will trust me now.” He and Magyar helped Fall to the gate. A Marine guard led him through a courtyard to the main door while the Czechs said good-bye and drove off.

  The man on duty walked Fall up the stairs to his room. “Too much vodka?” he asked. “They apologized for the party.”

  Fall nodded apologetically and asked to see Bill Morton. “He won’t be back until tomorrow,” the man replied, “but I’ll leave him a note.”

  Fall lay on the bed and focused on the ceiling. He felt a glow of relief, and saw an image of Atabet’s painting. What had Aitmatov meant about its connection to his book? His brain would not respond, however, to a call upon it. Gradually, inexorably, he sank into a heavy sleep.