Biohazard

The next day I was summoned to Berdsk KGB headquarters. A second notice was sent to Vladimir Rumyantsev, the friend who had worked with me on the project.

We walked to the KGB's two-story building near the center of town, too frightened to speak. An officer in civilian clothes escorted us inside and waved me into the commander's office. Rumyantsev was told to wait his turn.

The commander, Kuznetsov, was reading my report. Piles of paper were strewn across his desk. I looked around for somewhere to sit, but there was no chair.

Kuznetsov didn't bother to glance up when I walked in. He read my paper with an impassive absorption that reminded me of one of my professors at Tomsk and shook his head every few minutes in theatrical dismay. Finally, he pushed his chair back, stood up, and strode over to me, placing his face within a few inches of my own.

"Why did you do it?" he shouted.

"I received an order," I responded weakly.

"So, you're a fascist?"

"What?"

"Only a fascist would answer that he killed people because of an order."

"But I didn't kill anybody," I protested. "I just did the work I was asked to do."

"That doesn't matter. You are obviously the kind of person who would kill on demand. You have no brain of your own!"

His voice increased in decibels with each sentence. I was petrified. I almost began to believe I had killed someone.

The tirade seemed to go on for hours. Kuznetsov continued to accuse me of being a fascist, and I continued to deny it. I didn't know what else to do, or exactly what he wanted. Would he stop shouting if I confessed to my fascist tendencies? A confession seemed pointless, especially if I was going to be fired anyway.

The image of my father and his battle decorations passed through my mind. Would he believe his son was a fascist?

"Look," I said at last, my voice rising in frustration. "If you think I'm a fascist, why don't you put me in jail!"

Kuznetsov stopped shouting, looked deep into my eyes, and went back to his desk. The sudden quiet was chilling.

"Well, Lieutenant," he smiled, "we don't need to do that. People make mistakes. I can forgive you, perhaps — but I need your help."

"How?"

"I'll tell you," he said, spreading his large hands on the desk. "One of the things in your favor is that we know you've just joined the Party, correct?"

I nodded. Communist Party membership wasn't essential to employment in our labs, but it was one of the criteria for getting ahead. I had joined because I knew it would look good on my record.

"You're bright and you're a scientist," Kuznetsov continued, now radiating benevolence. "But a lot of other scientists haven't joined the Party. That means we really don't know what kind of people they are or what they're thinking. Maybe they have doubts; maybe some of them express opinions against our Motherland."

Kuznetsov looked at me expectantly, but I had no idea what he was getting at.

"Well," he came to the point. "You can help us figure out what's going on."

Then I understood. "You want me to be an informer?" I said.

"No, no," he answered quickly, as if the idea repelled him. "Just a kind of assistant."

All at once, my confidence returned. They weren't going to fire me, after all. I felt ashamed of having been so frightened. I replied, lightly, "Without pay?"

It took a moment for my question to sink in. Then Kuznetsov exploded again.

"It you think this is a joke, you'll be sorry soon enough," he said, and dismissed me.

I found Rumyantsev, pale and nervous, pacing the hallway outside the office. I didn't know what he had heard and was about to whisper an encouraging word when Kuznetsov appeared behind me.

"Don't wait around for your friend," he said. "Go home."

Rumyantsev came to my apartment later that night, carrying two bottles of vodka. Silently, we finished one bottle and then started on the other.

At last, he spoke.

"Kanatjan," he said, "I know you told them no."

"That's right," I answered, now fully recovered from Kuznetsov's interrogation and proud of having stood up to him.

He took another drink and pursed his lips. "It's the same thing I told them."

"It doesn't matter," I said. "Don't worry about it." We went on to other subjects.

Over the next several months he would from time to time pull me aside at parties and make oblique references to our interview with the KGB.

"You're such a good guy," he said once, clapping me on the back. "I'm a bad guy."

I didn't want to believe that Kuznetsov had been able to bully my friend into serving as an informer, but I also didn't want to know if it was true. We drifted apart after Berdsk. I helped him secure a senior post in Biopreparat when I became deputy director, but he was fired when his superiors accused him of arrogance. Many years later, after I arrived in the United States, I was hurt to learn that he had told a mutual friend I was a spy.

By the time we finished our construction program at Stepnogorsk, the facility looked like the mountain of metal Tarasenko had warned me about.