End to Ordinary History

by Michael Murphy

  Kirov changed into the newly pressed shirt, then sat to meditate. Was it right to his inner eye, was it right before God, to seek his home in the West? Would Atabet and Fall accept him as a friend?

  But meditation only heightened his conflict. For it showed him more clearly that his intuitions were right about these Americans. Jacob Atabet was the religious genius he had guessed, and his project with Fall was momentous. Everything Fall had said confirmed that. Kirov opened the Greenwich Press catalogue and read Fall’s essay again. It revealed an understanding of the body’s mysteries that could have come from Kirov’s school. Reading it, he felt a new despair. His work for Soviet intelligence was leading him away from his vows, while Americans like Atabet and Fall developed the Way he had given his life to. The irony of it caused a pressure in him that was near the bursting point.

  As often happened in crisis Kirov saw the mosque again, then an image of his grandfather’s face. They had spent the night in the ancient retreat, and as the famous mosaic caught the rays of a worshipper’s torch, he had been swept into ecstasy. In that blazing moment, more than twenty years before, he had vowed to join his grandfather’s mystic vision to his father’s Communist ideals. In the transformation of the State, the Earth of Hurqalya would blossom.

  Kirov had reviewed the event for months, but understanding it brought little relief. For his despair about Russia didn’t come from regrets about his past: his career had unfolded in a way to make him believe in a guardian angel. His position in Directorate T gave him power to protect his friends, and a place to encourage ideas that might enlarge the vision of the Soviet leadership. He wouldn’t have that position without the Orly Field coup. Without his efforts, the Soviet Union wouldn’t have discovered so many weaknesses in the NATO armed forces; it wouldn’t have known where the United States placed its nuclear weapons in Europe; it wouldn’t have broken all those American codes. The NATO losses he had helped to cause were “irreparable and incalculable” according to an American spokesman. Because of his success there was more chance for peace. That alone justified the path he had taken.

  Still, his work seemed meaningless now. The intelligence he was gathering for Directorate T had become increasingly trivial. More studies of parapsychology would not provide the vision his country needed.

  He looked out the window. Only in the West was there freedom enough to pursue the insights he treasured. The discoveries that Atabet and Fall were making seemed impossible now in Russia. And these Americans needed him. They were destined, it seemed, to work together. By joining their separate perspectives they would open a way into the larger Earth.

  A Russian guard sat by the telephone downstairs. Kirov asked him for a secure line, then phoned the American Embassy. A moment later he talked to Fall in English. “I must see you,” he said. “This afternoon if possible. There is an emergency.”

  Fall hadn’t expected the call so soon. “Are you all right?” he asked with alarm.

  “I am fine,” Kirov said calmly. “There is a café near the Charles Bridge. Can we meet there at four o’clock?”

  Kirov gave him the address and handed the phone to the guard. “This is an important contact,” he said in Russian. “He will give us something important.”

  In his room, Kirov gathered up his papers. One in particular would certify his authenticity to Western intelligence: the letter that had accompanied his Order of Lenin. Folding it into an inside jacket pocket, he remembered the secret ceremony . . .

  “Vladimir Mironovich Kirov!” the Chairman of the KGB had intoned his name. “Another Kirov to distinguish the State! Another hero of this remarkable family!” The Chairman had praised his father’s exploits, then he had talked for ten minutes more about Kirov’s own sacrifice at Orly Field. Five other KGB people secretly received the same honor that day for the triumph, but none had been praised with such fervor. It had been a special vindication, Kirov remembered, for as he took the medal he had said the holiest prayer of his grandfather’s school, had repeated it silently as he bowed to each KGB boss.

  Then he remembered his imprisonment and torture at the hands of the French. His scars were a badge he would carry all his life. Crisscrossing his ankles and calves were sharp red ridges left by the tourniquet wires. No longer so visible, but more painful, were the scars on his groin and testicles, left there by electric prods the police had used to force his confession. Kirov had said the same prayer during the torture that he had repeated while receiving his medal. With both groups, he had silently retaken his vows.

  But for twenty years he had worked to implement his vision, and now it seemed more impossible than ever. The heads of the Party and government, the leading philosophers and scientists he knew, were no closer to understanding him. More and more it appeared that the Soviet Union would not open to its higher destiny. That an American should recreate his school’s most sacred symbol—while finding a way into the Earth of Hurqalya—was the final indication that it was time to carry the vision abroad.

  Walking toward the Charles Bridge, Fall felt a sadness for the Russian that deepened when Kirov appeared, affecting a jaunty savoir faire. The man was clearly in trouble.

  They would go to a café where no one could hear them, Kirov said, for he had a confession to make. A confession and a proposal. When they reached their destination, Fall could see the American Embassy down the street.

  Kirov gestured toward a table by the window. “Sit here,” he said. “We will have a nice view of the river.” He nodded toward a thin figure outside watching the restaurant intently.

  When the waitress came, Kirov fixed his attention on her. Her solid, heavily lined face formed a stable point of reference. Defection was evil, he thought—evil and absurd. How could he turn on Baranov, who had protected him for twenty years, and Umarov, his beloved friend, and their comrades in Samarkand? All of them risked their lives to preserve the order’s teaching. And how could he abandon his nation? With all its flaws, with all its suffering, it was still accomplishing much of its promise. As Fall ordered coffee, Kirov turned to see the man outside. If he were going to seek asylum in the American Embassy, this was the time to do it.

  “You have a proposal?” Fall whispered.

  “I have knowledge that will help your work. Some insights that will surprise you.” In a low voice, Kirov started to describe the mosque near Samarkand. But as he did, he saw the horror his defection would cause. There would be reprisals and the mosque would be closed. Baranov and his friends would be in jeopardy.

  As he talked, a second self began to form—a consciousness detached from the scene around them. Suddenly his true self was stationed in perfect clarity above this chain of events. A presence that contained his entire field of vision could see that the person talking now would retreat from this encounter.

  The larger self in which Kirov’s consciousness centered had formed a resolution. There would be no defection now, or ever. With all its problems, the Soviet Union had a stupendous destiny. The vows that had shaped his life would hold.

  And then, as if in answer to this clear decision, a man from the KGB safehouse came out of the crowd toward the window signaling that he had an important message.

  He was in and out before the other diners noticed. The envelope he left on their table might have been dropped by a ghost.

  Kirov was talking about the mystery schools of Central Asia, about the spread of the Zoroastrian religion into the great oases of Samarkand and Bukhara some two thousand years ago. But he also opened the envelope and scanned the note inside. It was from Baranov. He must return to Moscow, it said. There was a crisis that called for his presence, a “crisis of angels.”

  Kirov looked at Fall with composure. “You must think this is madness,” he sighed. “But a most extraordinary thing has happened. I will have to phone you at the embassy. Will you forgive this rudeness?”

  Then he had a daring idea. “Would you be willing to meet me in Moscow?” he asked. “I may have to go there today. I can arrang
e a room for you at the National Hotel. I will see that you get a room in front with a view of Red Square. We can meet there sometime next week.”

  “But why? You can’t tell me what’s happening?”

  “No, I can’t,” Kirov whispered. “I am not sure myself. But there are things you can learn from me. I know about secret Soviet work in parapsychology. And more. Things are happening there that will help your work.”

  Alarmed and dismayed, Fall nodded. Kirov paid the waitress, and they went outside.

  “I will send you a message at the embassy,” Kirov said. “You must not be worried. I was going to invite you to Moscow anyway, but events have only speeded the invitation!” His intense blue eyes suddenly brightened. “I promise you an interesting time,” he said, turning away among the passersby.

  Walking toward the embassy, Fall felt a sudden excitement. Given his remarkable sophistication about the body’s transformation, Aitmatov almost certainly belonged to a school with aims like his and Atabet’s. Such a school, if it existed, might confirm and illumine their work.

  And yet, the Russian’s inconsistency disturbed him. Would the man follow through on his offer? And if he did, would it be safe to visit his school’s retreat? Since travel to most Central Asian deserts was forbidden to foreigners, wouldn’t they break Soviet law by visiting the secret mosque? As he went into the embassy, Fall decided to share his doubts with Morton.

  10

  IN HIS ROOM, Kirov packed his suitcase and wrote this message for Fall:

  I will reserve rooms for you in the National Hotel, beginning tomorrow. You will enjoy the Moscow circus, especially the elephant. Perhaps we can travel to Novosibirsk to see your colleagues there. And to Samarkand to look for mosques.

  Sergei Aitmatov.

  The message was delivered to the American Embassy an hour later, and Fall reviewed it that afternoon with Morton. The intelligence man was puzzled. “The elephant?” he said. “That refers to your experiment with the Russian? I’m sorry, Fall, but this is way off my beat. I don’t think I can help you.”

  Morton’s check on Magyar and Hus had produced nothing beyond the information Fall had given him. “Aitmatov just sounds like someone eager to connect with Americans,” he said. “Though he’s more original than most. Inviting you to Central Asia’s an unusual trick. Do you want to go?”

  Fall was embarrassed by the trouble he had caused the embassy staff. “I don’t know. Maybe he does have a school there. And Samarkand would be an adventure. It makes me nervous, though, that he can get a room so easily at a place like the National.”

  “That’s no big deal,” Morton said with a shrug. “But if you’re nervous, I’ll give you a letter to a friend at the embassy in Moscow. You can check with him if you like. And I’m sure he can get you permission to see his mosque. Tourists in Samarkand can go out to the desert. The only thing that worries me is Boone’s involvement. We’d appreciate your telling us anything else you learn about his activities here. You’re not going to see Magyar again?”

  “I can’t. His housekeeper said he’s left town for a two-week vacation, but she doesn’t know where. And I don’t want to visit with Hus. Magyar must have orders to avoid me.”

  “What about your other friends, Latko and Kocek?”

  “They’re not answering, either. Maybe they think I’ll get them into trouble.”

  “Could be. Your staying here at the embassy might have worried them. Hus must know we’re checking on him and could’ve told the others. I’m sure Boone knows what he’s doing, though. He’s not about to give away items about his fighter planes, no matter how much he wants their psychotronics. But I’ll be damned if I know why the State Department lets him come here all alone. Makes a lot of trouble for us.”

  Morton looked at his desk, searching for anything he might have overlooked. “When do you want to leave?” he said at last.

  “The day after tomorrow. I have a ticket to Moscow on Aeroflot. When can I get that letter?”

  Morton promised to write it in the morning and stood to shake Fall’s hand. “Good luck,” he said. “Keep an eye on that elephant.”

  A group of army officers sat in front of Kirov on the Aeroflot passenger plane, and seven KGB men sat behind him. There were few other people on this flight, and the seats beside him were empty. Relaxing into his seat, Kirov reread the note from Moscow.

  In Baranov’s code, “angels in crisis” meant that people in high places were having problems that required help. Which angels? Kirov asked himself. Members of the government’s Committee for Science and Technology, for which Baranov worked? Was there debate about Baranov’s proposal that an institute be formed to study the paranormal powers of the mind? Kirov checked his excitement as he weighed the possibility. If the Committee included supporters for the proposal, his and Baranov’s ideas were gaining legitimacy in the highest government circles. Only approval by the Academy of Sciences could give their work more prestige. Kirov leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, to consider the consequences. If he and Baranov could find support in the Committee for Science and Technology, he might be close to leaving Directorate T. Then the KGB’s dirty side might haunt him no longer, and his conscience might find some peace. For in these last few months, the cruelties of the secret police had disturbed him more and more.

  He thought of the old Ukrainian woman, her square, defiant face in pain, her threadbare dress in shreds. In Prague the day before, the guardians of the State had mistaken her for a Ukrainian dissident. Two Russian advisers of the Czech police had supervised her interrogation, while a Czech bully read accusations against her. The woman was defiant, Kirov had told them, because she was protecting a relative. But the bullies had not believed him, in spite of his status and fame, and had beaten her while he watched.

  Silently pleading for help, her square-jawed face resembled the faces of so many police victims in its combination of strength and fragility. The police had tortured thousands like her. Remembering the incident, he turned to the men in back. None, he thought, could succeed in a line of work that required human sympathy. Not one would he choose as a friend. He studied a thin, wiry figure who would not join the general conversation—the cruelest in the group, probably, and the most conscientious. Next to him sat the inevitable playboy, ostentatious in a blue tailored suit with a turtleneck sweater. Kirov visualized his unctuous approach to women, accompanied by hints of his KGB influence. Playboy and Puritan, two familiar types in the Secret Police—even in this passing glance he could see that they hated each other. And behind them, two squat figures gazed from their aisle seats at the military men in front: were they keeping track of the army, even on this transport plane? That was possible. He had known surveillance people, both men and women, who were incapable of any human exchange other than watching for hints of disobedience, people whose emotional range was reduced to a bare silent witness. In a two-second scan of the group, Kirov saw all this and remembered the Ukrainian woman. Had she sensed that he could help her?

  He leaned back to compose himself. It would take all his strength to ward off these memories and feelings, for his conscience had grown relentless. Yet he must keep it in perspective. If angels were in crisis, a more profound conscience might be calling, one that saw past this moment in history, one finally that would redeem his paradoxical work.

  Then he thought of his friends in the mosque. An image of the Well of Light renewed him. He could smell the desert and hear the names of God. The holy chant, sung there for a thousand years, was ringing in his ears. Knowing that he could protect the ancient center consoled him for the uncertainties that tormented him now.

  Two hours later, Kirov crossed a narrow landing strip at an airport outside Moscow. In Prague the day had been brilliant, but here it was overcast. Swirls of dust blew up between the planes, and the hills to the west were covered with leafless birch trees. Pulling up his coat collar, he bent into the wind. The place looked uglier than ever, its hangars and maintenance shops sagging, its ru
nways littered with junk. It was a startling contrast to the airports of Europe.

  A man stood by the runway, waiting with a car. In a moment Kirov would be under permanent watch by the men of the KGB Center. Coming into Moscow like this, he thought, was like a soul’s descent to the ordinary earth from the world of Hurqalya. Now he was bound by a smaller horizon. But the thought did not upset him. His decision was permanent, his course set. He would live this circumscribed life with the fullness he had learned from his teachers.

  11

  THE STATE COMMITTEE for Science and Technology works with the Soviet Academy of Sciences to guide scientific research and development in the Soviet Union. Its analysts and translators track foreign science with a thoroughness few other countries can match. Its planners help guide the government and Party in nearly all their science spending. Its departments and advisory groups deliver opinions to its ruling Collegium that help shape the nation’s five-year plans. No other group save the Academy of Sciences has more influence on scientific opinion within the USSR.