Biohazard

"You have a good record and excellent recommendations from your teachers," he began. "Do you enjoy research?" "Yes, sir," I said at once.

"Good," he smiled. "You seem to be exactly the sort of person we're interested in." "What for?" I asked.

"I work for an organization attached to the Council of Ministers," he said elliptically, "and we could use your skills. I'm not permitted to say more, but I can tell you it has something to do with biological defense."

When I heard the phrase "Council of Ministers," I was thrilled. It was the highest government body in the land, redolent of power and authority. The prospect of working in a secret program for the state excited me, as did the idea of living in Moscow — which I automatically assumed was part of his invitation.

I also assumed he was not telling the entire truth when he spoke of biological defense. A special knowledge comes with growing up in a state like the Soviet Union. You were constantly alert to the probability that what you were being told had little relation to the message that was being conveyed. But the fact of the matter was that, at the age of twenty-five, I was too flattered by his attention to care.

"I'm interested," I said.

"Naturally," he went on, watching me carefully, "nothing can be final until we check you out. I'm going to give you a number of forms. Answer every question, in detail, and bring them back to me."

I stood up, forms in hand, and turned to go.

"One more thing," he called out. "Don't tell your friends or teachers about this conversation. Not even your parents."

The interview had lasted less than ten minutes, but it was enough to inspire in me a sense of the significance of what I was being asked to do. I obeyed his order almost to the letter. I called my parents and told them I might be getting an important assignment in Moscow, but that they would have to wait before I could tell them more.

A few weeks after the interview, we stood in our crisp new junior lieutenants' uniforms and polished knee-length boots on the parade ground of the institute. It was graduation day, and the commanding officer began to read out the names of every newly commissioned lieutenant and his assignment. A few students received coveted postings in East Germany or Poland. Others were condemned to the backwoods boredom of a provincial army base.

My name wasn't called until the end of the ceremony.

"Lieutenant Kanatjan Alibekov!"

I stepped forward and saluted.

"You are assigned to the Council of Ministers of the Soviet Union!"

The names of four other classmates followed, all with the same assignment. Unbeknownst to me, they had also been interviewed by the friendly white-haired man.

I couldn't help but grin: I was going to Moscow.

Several days later, each of us was called to the school's administrative office to receive our letter of assignment. I looked it over quickly, and my face fell.

I was assigned to a post office box.

"What does this mean?" I asked. "Where is this?"

The officer who gave me the letter tried not to smile when he saw my expression.

"Omutninsk," he said. "It's near Kirov, but you're not supposed to tell anyone. You'll be getting a letter of authority, which you can use to get a train ticket."

All five of us, it turned out, were going to the same place. Some of our other classmates had been impressed when they first heard of our assignment to the Council of Ministers. A few shrewder students understood that we were pointed toward secret work. Some even guessed that we were going to biological "research facilities," although no one was quite sure what they were, and no one dared ask.

"You're going to have a very short life," one of my friends said breezily. "I've heard no one lasts in those programs more than a couple of years."

BIOHAZARD

Lab Work

Omutninsk, 1975

I have lost all sense of smell and have the broadest range of allergies of anyone I know. I can't eat butter, cheese, eggs, mayonnaise, sausages, chocolate, or candy. I swallow two or three pills of anti-allergy medicine a day — more on bad days, when my sinuses start to drain. Every morning, I rub ointment over my face, neck, and hands to give my skin the natural lubricants it has lost. The countless vaccinations I received against anthrax, plague, and tularemia weakened my resistance to disease and probably shortened my life.