Biohazard

Kalinin must have set this up. No one in the Kazakh army would have made such an offer without his approval. It was brilliant. If I accepted, he would not only be assured of keeping the Kazakh facilities under his supervision, but he would maintain control over me. I wondered if the president of Kazakhstan knew what offer was being made in his name.

"This is not what I came here to do," I said and turned toward the door.

Realizing that he had lost the argument, the Kazakh dropped his pretense of courtesy.

"Don't think you can fool us!" he shouted. "We know your type, with your pretty suit and your Marlboros! We know all about your consorting with foreigners."

He had used the classic Stalin-era phrase in Russian—"consorting with foreigners" — that had once sent thousands to prison.

"Are you threatening me?" I asked him, my hands trembling with anger and frustration.

"I'm warning you that you may have very serious problems in the future!"

I opened the door and walked out. Behind me, I could hear a protest from the startled Safrygin, but I didn't stop to listen.

When I returned to Moscow, I felt trapped. There would be no Kazakh citizenship, and no medical or scientific career, unless I accepted the role that had been picked out for me. I couldn't even be sure I would be able to continue in private business. By turning down Safrygin's offer, I had burned my bridges in both Russia and Kazakhstan. I no longer tried to hide my intention to get as far away from Moscow as I could.

It was Savva Yermoshin who finally showed me what I had to do.

I met my old KGB friend in a hallway of the Ministry of Medical Industry in central Moscow. It was a chance encounter. I had gone there to attend a meeting of the Russian Biological Society, a scientific group whose activities I continued to participate in.

Savva seemed glad to see me. He asked how I'd been and how my family was. We hadn't seen each other since I left the agency. After some idle chat, he punched me playfully on the shoulder.

"You know, Kan, some people are nervous about you."

"Why is that?" I said, trying to keep my tone light.

"It's not really important. I keep telling them they have nothing to worry about. I tell them it's true that Kanatjan travels a lot, but he would never live in another country without his family — and o! course he would never get permission to leave with them."

I said nothing.

Yermoshin laughed again. "So, are you a millionaire yet?"

"When I become one, I'll let you know," I said, matching In-. breezy manner.

We shook hands and I walked away. It couldn't have been easy for him to deliver that message. I had always understood that our friendship would never be placed ahead of his job.

Yermoshin suffered for that friendship. When I left he was transferred to a post outside Moscow and forced to leave the KGB. But his career wasn't hurt in the long run. He became a general in the federal tax police in a large Russian city where, I've heard, he has become a very rich man.

I owed him a debt of gratitude. I had been wondering whether to apply for passports for Lena and the children as a first step in settling abroad. Yermoshin made it clear I would never get them. The only way I could leave Russia with my family was to sneak out, like a criminal.

I thought I knew how it could be done. Over the previous months, I'd become friendly with a Russian businesswoman who lived in New York. She often traveled back and forth to Moscow, and we'd occasionally discussed business prospects in the United States. A few weeks after my return from Kazakhstan, I ran into her again at a private gathering.

I pulled her aside and quietly asked if she could do me a favor when she returned to America. I drew from my wallet the business card and telephone number given to me in December by Lisa Bron-son, the U.S. Department of Defense official who had accompanied us on our trip.

I asked her to call the number from New York and to find out whether Bronson would be willing to help me emigrate to America. I had not forgotten the conversation we'd held outside the White House in December. I hoped she hadn't either.

My friend looked surprised and slightly uneasy. But she had an adventurous spirit.

"I'm planning to be in Malta in July on business," I told her when she agreed to help. "I'll call you when I get there."

I left for Malta a few weeks later. As soon as I checked into my hotel room, I picked up the phone and called New York.

I was greeted warmly.

"I spoke to your friends," she said. "They are very interested, and they say you would be welcome in the U.S."

"Thank you," I said. "Please tell them I'm coming to New York for a business trip in September. I'll call you then."

I knew my U.S. hosts would expect to hear everything I could tell them about the Soviet program in return for their help. Some of my colleagues might consider this a betrayal. But I had come to believe that my real betrayal was to have pursued a career that violated the oath I had taken as a doctor.