Biohazard

I groaned inwardly. I had forgotten about Pasechnik's jet-stream milling equipment. It had been too heavy to move. No one had informed me that the machine was still active, and I silently raged against Pasechnik.

The institute's deputy director, a man named Vinogradov, came up with a quick-witted response.

"For salt," he said. "That's where we mill salt."

I think by then our guests had had enough. They didn't even bother to smile.

On the last night of their stay we gave them a banquet at their hotel. I stood up to offer a toast.

"I know you think we weren't very open," I said. "But please remember this was a first for all of us, after so many years of mistrust between our countries."

I went on, pausing meaningfully, to say, "We all have our secrets… in biodefense, but after all, this won't be your last visit, and we look forward to being your guests soon. Once relations improve, things can only get better."

I was rather proud of the speech. I thought I had struck just the right note of candor and diplomatic evasiveness. The day before, coalition forces led by the Americans had launched Operation Desert Storm in Kuwait. I decided to sweeten the moment with an expression of solidarity.

"I would like you to know that a lot of Soviet people support your actions in Iraq," I said. "I truly hope you win."

Strangely, no one reacted. I wondered if our translator had been doing his job.

"Kanatjan," Yermoshin advised me quietly after dinner, "I think you should stay away from politics."

Two weeks after the delegation left, Biopreparat prepared a report for the Military-Industrial Commission. We claimed a kind of victory. Although the delegation had seen enough to make them suspicious, they could prove nothing, and we had given nothing away.

Kalinin was almost as happy with me as he'd been when I developed the tularemia weapon at Omutninsk.

I returned to my office at Biomash, thinking I had earned the right to proceed with my plan to convert at least one corner of the vast Biopreparat empire into an outpost of useful activity.

Throughout that spring and summer the Soviet Union sank into further political disarray. The scientists under my command seemed delighted to be doing peaceful work. One team took the job of converting the mobile production assembly lines used to fill bomblets with biological agents into automated lines for vaccines.

I spent less and less time at Samokatnaya Street. I would occasionally stop in to say hello to old friends, but I kept as far as possible from my second-floor office.

From time to time, I would receive a call from an irritated Kalinin.

"I tried to find you the other day to get you to a meeting at the Central Committee," he said, "but you're always unavailable. Don't imagine you're fooling me. I know what you're up to."

By now, I really didn't care. Eventually he stopped inviting me to the "urgent" meetings that had once been such an important part of my life.

One reason why Kalinin could do little more than complain about the changes I was making at Biomash was that it was now official state policy to convert military plants, whenever possible, to civilian purposes. Often the transformation was ludicrous. Workers at a plant that formerly manufactured jet fighters in the center of Moscow were suddenly producing washing machines and food mixers. Their products were of such poor quality that it was hard to imagine how they would attract even the most hard-pressed Soviet consumer.

All the same, our militarized economy was undeniably changing. A few other civilian managers at Biopreparat headquarters had left the organization completely.

I learned that Kalinin was having trouble keeping some of his large offensive research projects afloat. He reduced my institute's portion of budget allocations, insisting that all managers had to tighten their belts.

The lack of money forced me to look outside for help. Valery Popov, a friend from Biopreparat who had left to become president of the newly formed Russian Biomedical and Pharmaceutical Association, offered to help arrange the financing of some of my projects.

In the summer, Popov introduced me to an American businessman named Joel Taylor, a retired arms-company executive from Austin, Texas, who ran a company called Cornucopia. Taylor had developed a plan to ship used American hospital equipment to Russia, but he couldn't find anyone to supply transportation.

I called friends at the Ministry of Defense who said they would happily supply a cargo plane if someone paid the $30,000 in estimated fuel costs. Popov and I managed to obtain part of the money from private sources in Moscow. After weeks of lobbying, we got a tentative expression of interest in paying the rest of the bill from the Ministry of Health.

"I've arranged for the minister to meet Joel Taylor," Popov announced with excitement one day. "Can you join us?"

I gladly agreed. The meeting was scheduled for August 19.

Three Days

Moscow, August 1991