Biohazard

Not long ago an American official who had just returned from a visit to Moscow showed me a brochure celebrating the twenty-fifth anniversary of the founding of Biopreparat. Prominently featured on the brochure was a photo of Yury Kalinin, who was also celebrating his sixtieth birthday. To my surprise, I learned that Kalinin was still a general, five years past the normal retirement age for Russian officers. How, I wondered, could Russia maintain that Biopreparat was solely devoted to peaceful research when its director continued to hold a military rank?

As if to emphasize the point, my old boss recently decided to send me a message.

On a muggy Friday evening last August, a man in a charcoal gray suit walked into the lobby bar of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in Pentagon City, a few miles from where I now live. Hesitating at the doorway, he peered at the crowd like a passenger dropped off in a strange port.

I felt a twinge of nervousness as he threaded his way toward my table. He was the director of a Biopreparat research facility — the first person from my former circle to cross my path in five years.

A State Department acquaintance had told me he was visiting Washington to raise funds for his institute. On an impulse, I decided to call him at his hotel and suggested we meet for a drink. He was reluctant, but he called back several hours later and agreed to meet me at the Ritz-Carlton bar.

I was told by friends in Moscow that the KGB opened an intensive investigation immediately after I left. The United States did not publicize my defection, choosing instead to comply with the secrecy demanded by Moscow under the terms of the trilateral agreement negotiated after Pasechnik's defection. There were reports in 1993 and 1994 about a "second biological defector," but my identity was never revealed. Nevertheless, the breadth of the KGB investigation suggested Moscow was preparing a dossier to discredit me, should it ever become necessary. Nearly everyone I had known or worked with in my entire career at Biopreparat was interrogated, and some of my colleagues had suffered from their association with me.

The jazz band was beginning a new set when we shook hands. My friend looked at me with what I took to be amusement. I was wearing the summertime uniform of suburban America: a sports shirt and casual slacks. He was in a dark, ill-fitting suit, too heavy for the heat.

"So," he said, glancing at the faces nearby as he took a seat. "Which ones are yours and which are ours?"

I laughed. It was a line whose black humor only two ex-Soviet bureaucrats could appreciate. But he'd drawn a line between us: I was now one of "them."

I had a glass of wine. He ordered a martini and we settled into what I hoped would be a conversation about old times. It wasn't until I asked about his current projects that he grew animated. He began to tell me about a "biological defense project" funded by the Ministry of Defense. I started to talk about about my own work when he put his hand on my arm.

"You don't have to explain yourself," he said. "I know why you came to America. You've made your decision, and I've got no problems with that. I'm not someone who thinks you're a traitor."

He let the statement hang in the air, as if to remind me that others did. Then he gave a dismissive shrug and tried to smile.

"Kan," he said, "I hope you don't mind if I inform Kalinin that we have spoken?"

I couldn't hide my astonishment. Until that moment, I'd assumed that Kalinin had retired. My friend's initial hesitation about seeing me, followed by his decision to come to the hotel, now seemed ominous. Had he requested permission to meet with the "traitor"? There would have been enough time for him to call Kalinin before coming to the Ritz-Carlton.

"Of course I don't mind," I said uneasily. "How is the general anyway? I thought he would have left Biopreparat by now."

My friend shook his head.

"He's the same."

We fell into an awkward silence.

"You know," I said at last, "I'd love to go back some day, maybe after I get my U.S. citizenship."

"That wouldn't be a good idea," he said at once.

"Why not?"

He stared at his glass.

"Kalinin has been telling people that if you ever return to Moscow you won't be leaving," he said.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"He says you betrayed our secrets."

"So he'll have me arrested?"

"Worse."

I was beginning to regret the whole encounter.

"What can he do?"

My friend concentrated on his martini.

"It would be no problem to find someone to kill you," he said.

"This is ridiculous."

"It's not ridiculous," he said stubbornly. "You don't know what it's like in Moscow these days. You can get someone killed for ten thousand dollars."

My dubious look only served to increase his agitation. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face.

"Okay," I said finally. "Thanks for the advice."