Biohazard

Yermoshin appeared in my office one day with the stunning news that KGB chairman Vladimir Kryuchkov had sent a memo to Gorbachev recommending the liquidation of our biological weapons production lines.

According to Yermoshin, the memo argued that the Pasechnik affair had put the Soviet Union in an embarrassing and vulnerable position. The biological warfare program was no longer a secret. In our diplomatic reply to the U.S. and British governments, we had been forced to accept the idea of opening up our facilities. Kryuchkov insisted that there was nothing to do but cut our losses. Such a move might even restore our strategic advantage, since it would force the Americans to open up their biological warfare facilities.

This was the kind of shrewd tactic Kryuchkov excelled at. I was also certain no one in the army or the leadership of Biopreparat would go along with it.

"Not everyone in the KGB supports it either," Yermoshin said. "Bobkov for instance." He was referring to the KGB's first deputy director.

"But you don't know Kryuchkov. Gorbachev trusts him completely."

The odd thing was that I found myself agreeing with the KGB chairman.

Like everyone else, I was furious with Pasechnik and believed he had put our security at risk. But where others desperately wanted to preserve the status quo, I saw no choice but to change course. If the Americans and British came to Russia and observed the size of our production lines, we would be forced to abandon them and to dismantle our entire program. Pasechnik knew a lot, but not everything. He was familiar with our research work but knew very little about our production techniques. Why not try to hedge our bets? If we were to dismantle a significant portion of our production facilities, maybe we could preserve our research programs. If circumstances required, we could always recover our strength. So long as we had the strains in our vaults, we were only three to four months away from full capacity.

Yermoshin told me he had been authorized to discuss the KGB memo with officials at Biopreparat and in the military. Kryuchkov was politically savvy enough to realize he needed military support.

Yermoshin wasn't surprised when I told him I thought Kalinin would oppose the plan at all costs.

"That's why I didn't go to Kalinin to begin with," he said. "You're second in command. I thought we could go together to see Bykov."

This was dangerous. Kalinin would regard any attempt to go behind his back as insubordination. To approach his worst rival would be treachery. But I saw no alternative.

A few days later, Yermoshin and I went to Bykov's office at the Ministry of Medical Industry in central Moscow. We didn't call ahead for an appointment.

Bykov didn't seem particularly fazed by our unexpected visit. He was more intent, as he sauntered into the reception area, on smoothing the wrinkles from his dark blue suit.

"What brings you here," he said, without an ounce of curiosity.

"Valery Alekseyevich, something important has come up that we need to discuss with you," said Yermoshin.

He sighed, glanced at his watch, and waved us into his office.

We remained standing in front of his desk. He did not invite us to sit down.

"Well, get to the point!"

"The point," Yermoshin said, squaring his shoulders, "is that the KGB believes our biological production lines must be cut. I've been authorized by my superiors to seek your support."

Bykov turned to me.

"What do you think?"

"I agree," I replied at once. "The program wouldn't suffer. We can always—"

Bykov cut me off with a wave of his hand.

"It will never happen," he said brusquely, turning back to his desk.

"You can go now." He didn't look up as we left.

Inside the Kremlin

Moscow, 1990

The headquarters of the Military-Industrial Commission, one of the Soviet Union's most powerful institutions, is a nondescript gray and yellow building backed, as if for protection, against the south wall of the Kremlin. I had been going there as much as four times a month since 1988. By March 1990, when I was summoned to a special meeting, it was almost as familiar to me as my office.

Alexei Arzhakov, the slender deputy chairman of the commission, nodded when he saw me walk in. His boss, Deputy Prime Minister Igor Belousov, was sitting at the head of a large oak conference table. As chief of the agency that supervised the nation's military production, Belousov effectively controlled more than two thirds of our industrial enterprises. In the Soviet system, the manufacture of arms and defense-related products was closely integrated with civilian work.

Inside the conference room were some of the most important members of our warfare establishment, including General Valentin Yevstigneyev, the new commander of the Fifteenth Directorate, and Oleg Ignatiev, head of the commission's biological weapons directorate.

The meeting began on a now-familiar note: in the aftermath of Pasechnik's defection, how should we respond to the American and British accusations?