Biohazard

I shrugged and went home to pack for Siberia.

We asked Gosplan for special funds to charter a plane to Koltsovo, where Sandakchiev was preparing to welcome us to the Vector base. The charter was worth the extra expense. We wanted to keep our tiny group under scrutiny as we headed into the secret military regions of Siberia.

We left Moscow in the late afternoon and encountered rough weather just as we crossed the Urals, forcing us to make an emergency stop in Sverdlovsk.

Such delays were normal during the Siberian winter, when passengers on scheduled flights sometimes found themselves stranded for days at a time. Having our own plane gave us an edge, but our guests didn't see it that way. They decided this was another example of Soviet duplicity. I would have liked to explain to them that Russian weather respected neither Communists nor capitalists, but I held my tongue.

As soon as they were told where we'd landed, they grew nervous about being trapped in the place where the 1979 anthrax accident had first aroused Western suspicions.

"We won't be here long," I insisted. "We've got clearance to lake off first as soon as Novosibirsk opens up."

A few of them ventured our of the VIP-lounge, where we'd parked for the night, into the main terminal, only to withdraw in horror when they saw the hordes of stranded travelers slumped over luggage and sleeping on the floor. This helped convince them that our delay was not staged. When the pilot came in at 4:00 a.m. to announce that we were ready to leave, they followed him outside with relief.

We crossed the icy tarmac and waited for the pilot to kick open the door of the aircraft (it had frozen shut during our layover) before following him inside. Our security forces had not been idle during the stopover. As we left the VIP lounge, one woman in the group complained that her purse was missing.

"It must have been an airport employee," I said, although I doubted any airport worker would have dared to trifle with a group so clearly under KGB protection.

At Koltsovo, a member of the delegation discovered his luggage had been tampered with. When I confronted Yermoshin, he drew back in mock affront, full of protests.

Sandakchiev was waiting for us in the predawn darkness at Novosibirsk with a fleet of Volgas and minivans. He proved an even better host than Urakov. He was genuinely excited by the opportunity to share scientific research with his Western peers.

They didn't share his enthusiasm. As soon as the effusive Armenian launched into a lecture about the latest advances in Soviet immunology, he was cut off.

"Please," one of the visitors said edgily, "we would really like to see your labs."

Sandakchiev looked disappointed. Our guests were treated to another warning about quarantine and then escorted into the facility.

I could see their eyes widen with astonishment as we took them past enormous steel fermenters, larger than what any Western pharmaceutical firm would ever use for the mass-production of vaccines. We had taken them to one of Vector's principal research labs — but we made sure to keep them on the ground floor.

In the upper levels were floors dedicated to work on smallpox, Ebola, Machupo, Marburg, Junin, and other hemorrhagic fevers, as well as V 1*1'., Russian spring and summer encephalitis, and a number of other deadly viruses. Fortunately, the fuzzy protocol of the visit had left them uncertain as to how hard to press us.

They asked whether they could take air samples and smears from some of the lab areas.

"We haven't tried to hide the fact that we work with dangerous strains — for defensive purposes," I replied. "But I don't have any instructions about allowing you to take samples outside the country. We don't want to be responsible for a terrible accident."

Neither did they.

"I can always ask for permission," I added helpfully. "It might take time and you'd have to wait here for an answer, but I'm sure you'll be well treated."

They didn't press further.

Sandakchiev and I noted with relief that they had not brought special equipment. We had feared for months that the visitors would be carrying advanced monitors capable of detecting viral DNA. Such monitors would have picked up irrefutable evidence of smallpox, and we would have a lot of explaining to do.

The only member of our team who truly seemed to be enjoying himself was Yermoshin. He was convinced he'd identified the lead American intelligence officer and spent the rest of our excursion cordially attempting to trip him up.

"He speaks Russian, and he clearly knows as little about biology as I do," Savva whispered to me with delight. "All he cares about is asking everyone political questions."

By the time we got to Leningrad, I had begun to relax. The worst was behind us. Nothing at Pasechnik's old institute would pose a threat. Or so I thought.

During the tour, one of the visitors stopped before an imposing machine.

"What's this?"