End to Ordinary History

by Michael Murphy

  But as Kirov approached his commission office in the Praesidium, he heard a loud voice inside. Opening the door, he saw Kozin bent over a desk berating a frightened secretary. As Kirov entered, Kozin turned with a look of fury. “Karel and Smyslov do not believe you!” he exclaimed. “And neither does Strelnikov. You think you made a fool of me this morning, but your lies are obvious to everyone.”

  Recoiling from the shock of this unexpected encounter, Kirov stood by the door. “It’s better if we talk by ouselves,” he said, almost in a whisper. “If we go over your charges calmly, you’ll see that they’re all mistaken.”

  “I’m tired of your stories, Kirov.” Kozin’s hands were shaking. “Don’t you see that your schemes are finished? I’m here to tell you that. Your schemes are finished, do you understand? Your commission will be disbanded.”

  They stood facing each other in silence, then a look of fear crossed Kozin’s face. Suppressing a sudden intense anxiety, he picked up a phone. “Get me Strelnikov’s office,” he said with a shaking voice.

  Kirov made a gesture toward his secretary that they shouldn’t interfere.

  “Strelnikov!” Kozin exclaimed, “there is an emergency. My people have uncovered new proof that Kirov is running a major conspiracy. I must talk to you!”

  Kirov watched without intervening, sensing that Strelnikov recognized Kozin’s breakdown. He stood motionless while the distraught figure hung up.

  “He will see me!” Kozin said, his hands trembling with fear and anger. “You will be arrested. So will Baranov. And Rozhnov and Darwin Fall and Muhammad Khan! They all will be exposed. Your so-called friends from Bukhara are here, ready to reveal your plots.”

  A wave of fear passed through Kirov’s silent equanimity. Was Kozin telling the truth? As if in answer, a uniformed KGB guard came into the room with an old man from Bukhara whom Kirov recognized. The man often came to the mosque to perform the zikhr.

  “You will tell us everything,” Kozin said when the door was shut, glowering at the frightened old man. “The entire story of your plots. Tell us everything you told me this morning. Everything about the things you heard the traitor Kirov say.”

  Kirov could see the old man had been beaten. Kozin, it appeared, had penetrated the circle in Bukhara that came to the desert mosque.

  Before the old man could answer, there was a knock on the door. Then a uniformed militiaman came into the room.

  “What do you want?” Kozin asked impatiently.

  “I have a message from Strelnikov’s office,” said the man, a middle-aged officer from the Moscow Police. “He wants you to see Doctor Petrovsky’s staff. People there will hear your accusations.”

  “Doctor Petrovsky?” Kozin exclaimed. “But I want Strelnikov! This is a conspiracy against the State. What will I do with these traitors?”

  “I only have this message.” The militiaman brought himself to a slightly menacing attention.

  Kozin faced him in cold fury. “Petrovsky!” he fumed, turning away from the crowd that had gathered by the door. “Petrovsky has nothing to do with this!”

  “Do you understand the message?” The militiaman held Kozin’s arms. “Petrovsky’s office is a block from here.”

  Kozin did not answer. Instead, he reached for a phone and asked for Strelnikov’s office. Kirov guessed he was bluffing. “Yes, Lomov!” he said loudly, repeating the name of Strelnikov’s assistant. “You say he will see me? Good! I will come at once with the man from Bukhara.” He hung up the phone and gestured for the old man and his guard to follow. Then he shouldered his way through the crowd and hurried down the corridor. Kirov and the others followed.

  In an effort to keep up with the rest, the KGB guard hurried the man from Bukhara along, while the militiaman ran ahead to intercept Kozin. “Come with me,” he said, grabbing Kozin’s arm. “If you don’t, I’ll put you under arrest!”

  “Do you know who I am?” Kozin shook the man’s hand away. “I work for the Secret Police. Come with me, I will explain everything.”

  Kirov watched them disappear into the anterooms outside Strelnikov’s office. Even thirty feet away, everyone heard them talking loudly. In the quiet of this corridor, the outburst was alarming.

  As Strelnikov came to his office door, he remembered his erotic dream. Somehow Kozin had appeared in it, too. “And what is happening?” he asked, glancing at his startled assistants. “What is wrong, Yakov?”

  Kozin had trouble replying. Seeing Strelnikov so close was a shock, something he had not fully expected. Suddenly he seemed to be outside his body. The entity below him, the thing named Yakov Kozin, was running like a wild machine. “Everything is wrong,” he said hoarsely. “There are enemies all around us.”

  “Enemies?” asked Strelnikov. “What kind of enemies?”

  “Vladimir Kirov. Muhammad Khan. Georgi Baranov. Alexander Rozhnov.” He recited the names in a practiced litany. “And members of the Praesidium itself. You are surrounded, and I am trying to help you!”

  “I have heard about your claims,” said Strelnikov. “That is why I want you to review them with Doctor Petrovsky. Didn’t you get my message?”

  “I suspect Doctor Petrovsky,” Kozin whispered. “He is psychiatrist. Many psychiatrists are in league with these people!”

  “Not Doctor Petrovsky,” said Strelnikov softly, “He is my very good friend. You go see him.”

  Kozin returned to his body, seized by another fear. Was the Chief Scientific Secretary involved in the plot? Was he an ally of Kirov? Staring into Strelnikov’s eyes, he struggled against an impulse to say so, an impulse to shout the fact to everyone. But that would be too dangerous. Now, more than ever before in his life, he had to control himself. Summoning a crooked smile, he bowed slightly and turned to leave.

  But Strelnikov sensed his thought. “Yakov,” he whispered. “Come here. I know what you are thinking. Please don’t think like that. It will only make matters more confusing.”

  Seeing that Strelnikov could read his mind, Kozin was filled with a new kind of terror. Escape might be impossible now. But no one had stopped him so far, not Kirov, not Rozhnov, not their friends in the government. Despite his terror, he made a vow: he would take his story to every high official he could reach. He would save the State all by himself. “Yes,” he bowed. “I agree. I will try to compose myself. Maybe Doctor Petrovsky can help.”

  “Take Comrade Kozin to Petrovsky’s office,” Strelnikov told the man from the Moscow police. “They are expecting him.” He stepped back into his office. Poor Yakov had gone crazy, he told himself, but even so his charges should be checked.

  In the corridor, Kirov watched Kozin come past, walking like a zombie. It was clear he had been sent to Petrovsky. Kirov turned to the old man from Bukhara. Cowering against a wall, the pathetic figure pointed to his ankles. “They beat me,” he whispered. “I had to tell them something.” Kirov gave him a reassuring look, then turned and walked away. This was the time to see Strelnikov, who would be checking on Kozin’s claims by now.

  His intuition was confirmed when he reached his office. A message had arrived that Strelnikov wanted to see him.

  Strelnikov had a weary look as Kirov came into his office. “Kozin’s paranoia is out of control,” he said. “I had a militiaman take him to a doctor. People at the Committee for State Security are worried about him too.”

  “Yes, he is disturbed.” Kirov chose his words with care. “There are parts of this affair he can’t comprehend and they seem to be driving him crazy.”

  Looking at Kirov now, Strelnikov remembered the stone in his dream. Kirov had known its secret. “You will have to explain this,” he said. “What is it that’s driving him crazy?”

  “His inability to control events,” Kirov said. “He cannot fathom the mysteries my study implies. Perhaps he is struggling against something he secretly wants.”

  Strelnikov watched him with fascination, memories of his dream flooding back. Once again, he felt a powerful attraction to him. Kirov
’s courage, his intelligence, his vision were rare and valuable. This was a man he would like for a friend. Masking his feelings, Strelnikov took off his glasses to clean them.

  Kirov felt a strange intuition. Strelnikov, he thought against his better judgment, was entering a mystical state. He might be vulnerable to an encouraging phrase. “Have you heard the old Muslim story about the net of precious stones?” Kirov asked, citing an image Sufis used to test one’s understanding. “It is one way to understand Kozin.”

  Readjusting his glasses, Strelnikov said he had not.

  “It means that each of us reflects the other, to the end of space and time. It refers to mystic states in which one sees their essential unity with all others. Kozin, I think, is struggling against that kind of perception. He spends most of his time, you know, appraising other people, watching movies of them, listening to them carefully. Studying people so intently, one begins to identify with them. One secretly feels their life as your own. That is why spies sometimes have a change of heart about their enemies. Kozin, however, doesn’t understand this. Some of his colleagues say he has been obsessed with me. Maybe his paranoia about me comes from a secret identification.”

  “That each of us reflects the other,” Strelnikov murmured, “to the end of space and time. Yes, I could see how one might struggle against that.” He remembered riding a panther through the streets, a panther like this Kirov. In the dream he had hovered between pleasure and panic.

  Kirov saw that Strelnikov understood. Was he a member of some practicing group? “Have you heard of Tamerlane’s Angels?” he asked, carried away by this amazing possibility. “Or the Path by Kyzyl Kum?”

  Strelnikov felt a dagger stab. “Tamerlane’s Angels” and the “Path by Kyzyl Kum” were the passwords Kozin had ascribed to Kirov’s group. Was there truth in his paranoid claims? “No, I don’t know what they mean,” he said with weariness. “But I would like to.”

  To Kirov, Strelnikov’s face seemed to form a single tear, dropping from the eye of some larger countenance. Now another person sat before him, a person bound to do his awful duty. “So what do these terms refer to?” he heard the Scientific Secretary ask.

  “They are old Sufi passwords,” Kirov said, attempting a retreat from his blunder. “They are used by groups that practice a mystic way leading to illumination. I thought you might know about them.”

  Strelnikov saw that Kirov was suddenly embarrassed. “And what are you after?” he asked with a sad expression. “What do you seek in your ambitious proposals?”

  Kirov paused before answering, uncertain now what this complex man was asking. “I am hiding nothing,” he said at last. “Everything I want is there in my proposals. A careful tolerance of religious groups, more study of the mind, a possible revising of our Marxist understanding that could lead us toward a more interesting future. I am not hiding anything in the sense that Kozin claims. There are no plans to overthrow the State.”

  Strelnikov felt profound weariness beneath his cool demeanor. Everything Kirov said was true, all his instincts told him, yet he must have comrades who answered to code words like the ones he had just repeated. Even though this man embodied something his heart reached out to, he could not allow secret scheming. “I believe you,” he said. “But we must continue our inquiry into Kozin’s claims. It will not interrupt the review of your proposals.” He avoided Kirov’s glance. “I am glad we have had this talk, and perhaps we shall have another.”

  Masking his fear with a formal nod, Kirov left the office.

  Strelnikov started pacing, struggling against an impulse to shout with anger. The complexities of these events were increasing in a way that would cause a scandal. He crossed and recrossed his office trying to calm himself. Then he cursed out loud. Kirov’s use of passwords like “Tamerlane’s Angels” meant he was allied with subversive groups. That felt like a stab in his heart. For if Kirov was, then who else might be a secret schemer? Was the whole world breaking down? Gradually he calmed himself and poured a glass of vodka.

  Five minutes later, he was numb and cold and detached. In his coldness he made a resolution. He would no longer be charmed by this Vladimir Kirov. The erotic element in his feeling for the man was turning to disgust. He shuddered as he remembered the panther.

  The episode had shown him that mysticism like Kirov’s was no guarantee against treachery and falsehood. He would search out Kirov’s past as if he were a proven traitor to the state. But as he made this decision, Strelnikov felt a sudden grief. Another vodka did not help. A pressure was growing inside him now that threatened to tear him apart.

  32

  WALKING TOWARD HIS APARTMENT on Ujinsky Pereulok, Kirov felt a sense of suffocation. Having recognized the secret phrases, Strelnikov would distrust him now and be suspicious of all his proposals. He had never blundered like this before. Had he been deliberately trapped? That was impossible, he decided. Strelnikov had been in an exalted state, however well-controlled, and had wanted to be a friend. As he reviewed the exchange, Kirov felt a pressure in his chest. He and Baranov were in jeopardy.

  One thing was certain: he must reassure Directorate T and the State Committee for Science and Technology that his commission’s proposals were designed in part to promote social harmony. He must make the point in such a way that no one could possibly doubt its validity. In the next few hours he must find a way through the labyrinth he had stumbled into.

  In his apartment a handwritten note lay on the bed, placed there by the cleaning woman. Written in an emergency code that he and Baranov used, it said that friends were taking steps to protect him. More instructions would arrive that afternoon.

  Kirov looked at his watch. His meeting with Strelnikov had taken place only an hour before, at roughly one o’clock. The message must have arrived in the last few minutes. He went down to the building’s entrance hall, and asked the lady who watched the door when the note had been delivered. About ten minutes before, she said. A messenger had brought it from Baranov’s office. Kirov was amazed. The note was not in Baranov’s hand, but who else knew their code?

  Concealing his elation, Kozin left Petrovsky’s office. He had answered the psychiatrist’s questions sensibly, with no sign of anxiety or rage. When Petrovsky had asked what his problems were, he had said that his colleagues simply felt he was working too hard. He appreciated the Scientific Secretary’s concern, and would sleep a little more that night, but he had never felt more energetic in his entire life. The real problem, he joked, was a female assistant who took an overly protective attitude toward him. She had caused Strelnikov’s worry. The story had satisfied Petrovsky. When he phoned the Praesidium, an assistant said that Strelnikov would return his call within the hour. Thinking the matter settled, the doctor let Kozin go.

  Walking to his office, Kozin felt a new confidence. With perfect clarity, he saw every move he would make. There were people he could trust in the midst of this stupendous intrigue, and he would talk to every one within the next few hours.

  Kozin was certain now that he would finish Kirov’s career, but exposing Strelnikov would be more difficult. He had not watched over the elite, however, without learning ways to compromise them. There were things to reveal about anyone, including the famous academician. In this moment, all his years of sacrifice and all his unrewarded labors would come together. The heroic act he now foresaw would win him the gratitude of Soviet leaders for many years to come.

  Half an hour later, Kozin had arranged separate meetings with four highly placed KGB men. By five o’clock that afternoon he would plant enough rumors about Kirov and Strelnikov to keep them on the defensive for weeks. Once that was accomplished, he would do something even more audacious.

  Smyslov and Karel guessed that Kozin’s paranoia was part of a nervous collapse, but after they talked to Kirov’s superiors they decided to check some of the surveillance man’s charges. There were just enough suspicions about Kirov in the KGB offices to lend Kozin’s stories credence. With Strelnikov’s consen
t, they put Baranov under surveillance, had several Muslim leaders in Moscow followed, and ordered the arrest of Darwin Fall.

  Strelnikov was relieved at these developments, for he felt increasingly divided. In the hours after his exchange with Kirov, his agitation was offset by a crippling detachment. The intensity of this division had produced what seemed two separate entities, forcing a choice upon him. Was he the wounded figure hiding his emotion, or the one who seemed so free? As he waited to meet with Rozhnov, the split was painfully acute.

  Strelnikov crossed his office slowly, counting every step. He had to be careful, for his state was dangerous. He stood by a table—like a figure frozen in a photograph, his thoughts growing more and more distant.

  He walked unsteadily to his desk, struggling for composure. Had someone in his office drugged him? He sat with his head in his hands, remembering Kirov’s words about a net of jewels. Had Kirov tried to tell him something about this extraordinary state?

  “Come in,” he heard himself answer a knock on the door. “Rozhnov, have a drink while I finish this business.”

  “Are you all right?” he heard Rozhnov say. “Can I get you something?”

  “A vodka,” he said faintly. “Then bring a chair and sit down.”

  To compose himself, Strelnikov stared at a photograph on the wall above his desk. It showed one of his most famous inventions, a laser for the spectroscopic analysis of living cells.

  “Did you say a vodka?” Rozhnov asked.

  “Yes. Thank you. I need it badly.” From the photograph now came an emission of light that seemed to fill the room.

  Rozhnov crossed to the desk looking as if his body were suspended in air. Had he been drugged, Strelnikov wondered, or had he suffered a stroke? But as Rozhnov handed him the glass, he felt thankful, felt grateful for the gift he was given. Without drinking, he looked into the face across the desk. It seemed to hold centuries of wisdom.

  “Kirov’s commission is causing a scandal,” he said. “Everything’s turned upside down . . .” His voice faded. Rozhnov’s face seemed ugly and close, the face of a witch from a Russian fairy tale. But then it was sweet and friendly, an elfin center of beneficence.