The Link (35 page)

“If I can put it into words,” he says.

“Columbus looking for his boat?” she suggests.

“More like Columbus on the ocean, looking for a continent,” he says. “Hoping to hell he isn’t sailing in the wrong direction.”

“Like Russia,” she says.

“Oh,” he says concedingly, “whichever way I go, I seem to discover
something
. It’s just that I have this increasingly urgent sense that I’d discover more and faster if I went in the right direction.”

“Arizona?” she asks.

He chuckles. “No, I doubt that,” he says. “What in hell would digging up a few skulls do for me?”

He leans over and kisses her. “If I act like this again,” he tells her, “remember what it is. It’s never you. I adore you and I’ve got dibs on you for the rest of my life.”

“Dibs?” she asks, not understanding.

“Just claim,” he says. He kisses her hand and they exchange a smile of love.

En route, they discuss the coming trip.

So far there are five names on their approved list. “Five in all Russia?” Cathy says, taken back.

“It’s just a beginning,” Peter assures her. “I’m certain it will open up as time passes.”

The five are Adamenko, Ermolaev, Vilenskaya, Mikhailaev, and Bekhtereva.

“Why Bekhtereva?” Cathy asks. “She isn’t interested in psi.”

Peter shrugs. “One does not complain under the circumstances,” he says.

Cathy nods. “Of course; I’m sorry. I’m sure you’re right and it will open up as time passes.” She looks momentarily regretful. “I do wish Kulagina were on the list though.”

“Perhaps she will be in the end,” Peter says.

Briefly, they discuss the approach to psi in Russia.

The scope of their inquiry, covering more than forty years, indicates, without question, that they take an interdisciplinary approach to the phenomenon called, by the Soviets,
bio-communication
.

Their efforts are funded annually by upwards of several million dollars, a conservative estimate, Peter feels. Most of this work centers on the effects of electromagnetic and electrostatic fields on the central nervous system during certain forms of paranormal phenomena.

“Elmoski Staffordski,” says Robert and they smile.

“Literature coming out of the Soviet Union indicates an enduring interest in mental radio, biological radio, long distance telepathy and hypnosis,” Peter says.

“Mind control in other words,” says Teddie dourly.

“Let’s not assume the worst before we even get there,” Peter says. He and Teddie have taken on a minor adversarial posture since Harrowgate.

They arrive at Sheremetyevo airport in the afternoon and look for their contact. “Should be here,” says Peter.

Robert has a brief fantasy about the contact—a brooding, black haired and mustached man in a Stalin-like outfit; deep-voice, cold, suspicious.

“Mr. Clarke?” says the lovely, young woman coming up to them.

“Yes,” he says, smiling.

“I am Ludmilla Viyakov, your guide,” she says. Robert smiles to himself. He continues to bat zero on his fantasies.

A Zil limousine is waiting outside the terminal after Ludmilla gets them quickly through customs and the official government tourist agency where they are checked off as anticipated foreign arrivals.

Teddie gives the man behind the counter a look as the man mumbles something.

En route to their hotel, Ludmilla tells them that “as formally agreed upon” she will “pilot” them around during their visit to the Soviet Union. She represents a government outlet that assists foreign visitors inside Russia.

Teddie says something to her in Russian and they look at him in surprise. They didn’t know he spoke the language.

“I was going to keep it a secret,” he tells them. “But I’ve decided instead to let them know, from the outset, that they will not be able to say anything in our presence I will not understand.”

His smile is humorless. “Like that ass at the airport who referred to us as ‘stupid tourists’.”

Ludmilla looks embarrassed by his words and Peter, glancing at Teddie critically, quickly changes the subject.

“We were saying,” he tells Ludmilla, “that we’re disappointed that Kulagina is not on our list.”

Ludmilla says that she will “see about it” but Kulagina doesn’t see people as a rule any longer.

“A pity,” Peter says. “She was high on our list in light of her awesome ability at telekinesis.”

Ludmilla nods.

“What about Kirlian?” Cathy asks.

“Oh, that would be impossible, I’m afraid,” Ludmilla answers.

It is early rush hour as they drive through downtown Moscow. People are lining up at bus and trolley stops. Dusk is falling and, in the distance, they see the huge, five-pointed stars atop the spires of the Kremlin’s towers. The stars glow with a ruby light in the dim illumination of the afternoon.

Ludmilla asks them if they are up to checking into their rooms, having a quick supper, then going to the theatre to see Wolf Milerovo, the famous mentalist; it is his final performance in Moscow tonight and she thought they might enjoy watching him.

“Absolutely!” Peter answers for them all without hesitation. He smiles at Cathy. “See?” he says. “Already the list expands.”

Having supper with Ludmilla, she tells them (“in case you did not know”) that Milerovo is employed by the giant government agency called Goskonzert which “handles” the professional lives (“and personal, no doubt” murmurs Teddie) of some 9,000 traveling entertainers from singers and ballet dancers to clowns, high-wire acrobats and mentalists such as Milerovo and Dadashev.

As discreetly as he can, Peter asks why they were allowed to come to Russia on such a tour, “—since it has been some time since others have done so.”

She answers (in much the manner of a churchgoer speaking a much-repeated litany) that the government is “highly interest” to see their reaction to current work in “bio-communicative methods” and, also, of course, “extremely curious” to observe Mr. Berger at work.

Teddie says something to her in Russian, his tone abruptly intimate. Ludmilla blushes. “What did you say?” asks Peter.

“Personal,” says Teddie.

Peter gives him an uneasy look but does not pursue the subject.

Shortly afterward, they are in a Moscow theatre, watching Wolf Milerovo perform.

It is a fitting start to their tour. Time and again, the standing-room-only audience roars its appreciation of the dapper, ascetic looking man as he performs astonishing feats of mind reading and thought transference. (Translated by Ludmilla and Teddie). The wiry, gray-haired performer can do no wrong, in full control of his audience. With an almost contemptuous air, he answers correctly every challenge hurled at him.

Later, visiting him back stage, they see the price Milerovo has paid for being forced to continue his tours by Goskonzert. He is an old man, clearly exhausted.

In spite of this, he is polite and tries to be conversational, his words interpreted for them by Ludmilla. (Robert occasionally glances at Teddie to see if the translation is accurate; it seems to be.)

No, he has never been examined by doctors, he answers Peter’s question. True, it might have helped to explain his powers. Once, he had yielded to the insistent pleas of a woman neurologist in Belaya Tserkov and learned that there seems to be, in the regions of his head and chest, more heat than normal. But that is all he has ever learned about his abilities.

He repeats what is clearly a much-stated anecdote about himself. (We see it dramatized.)

“I was due to give several concerts in Ashkhabad,” he tells them. “But walking along the street the first day I was suddenly enveloped by a sense of alarm.

“Something began to ache and trouble me. With every minute, the feeling of alarm increased. I was overcome with a powerful impulse to leave the city immediately.

“It became so strong that, for the first and only time in my career, I cancelled all my local performances and left for Moscow without delay.”

They are back in the dressing room. “Three days later,” Milerovo completes the story, “Ashkhabad was leveled by a devastating earthquake which killed fifty thousand people.”

Ludmilla chatters on the way back to the hotel in their limousine.

“Wolf Grigorievich Milerovo was incredible,” she says as though he is already dead. “But Tofik Dadashev is already better than Milerovo was in his hey-day. That’s why he’s on the road so much. He is fantastic!”

“Can we see him?” Peter asks.

“I will do the best I can to arrange it,” she answers.

Back at the hotel, Robert walks Cathy to her room and kisses her goodnight. “I suppose it would be gauche of us to room together on this trip,” he says.

“I’d love to, darling,” Cathy says. “You know I would but Harry would surely hear of it and I’ve hurt him so much already. We are still married.”

“I understand,” he says. He kisses her again and they cling to each other.

“Maybe later,” Cathy says.

Robert returns to his room and unpacks. In his overnight bag, he finds the wrapped crystal cone and uncovers it, holding it in his palm. He stares at it a long time as though hoping it will provide some kind of answer for him.

Later that night, he has the dream again.

It is the most horrible it has ever been. It seems to go on and on, his raging, demented mother dragging him along the hallway, too powerful for him to resist, screaming at him as she hurls him brutally into her bedroom, slams the door and locks him in.

He wakes up, soaked to the skin. Quietly, he rises and walks unevenly into the bathroom, removes his wet pajama top and pats at his body with a towel, staring at his pale, drawn reflection in the mirror.