Biohazard

"It's clear to me, at least, that we now have a normal government in this country," he said, his voice breaking with emotion. "If we had let things go any further, we could have broken up into little pieces. My father died in the war to ensure that didn't happen."

When he finished, a few people were nodding their heads in agreement.

"Send the letter!" someone called out.

"Send the letter!" the crowd echoed.

Drivers were sent to deliver copies of our note to the White House, Gorbachev's residence, Biopreparat headquarters, and Obshchaya Gazeta (Common Newspaper), a new journal edited by reporters who were defying the GKChP censorship.

When I returned to my office, I found a message waiting from Kalinin's secretary. I called her immediately.

"Will you be in your office for the rest of the day?" she asked.

"Yes, why?"

"The director intends to pay you a visit," she said, and hung up.

Kalinin arrived at 5:00 P.M. He was carrying my letters of resignation and a copy of the Biomash proclamation of support. There were dark circles under his eyes and his hair was uncombed. In all the years I had known the general, I had never seen him look so frayed.

"You know" — he smiled weakly, breaking the silence between us—"I really think I would like some tea."

He took the chair across from me and placed my letters and the proclamation down on the desk. When an attendant finally walked in with the tea, he gulped it down greedily.

"Ait you feeling all right?" I asked.

"I've had better days," he said in a low voice.

We sat in silence until I grew uncomfortable.

"Why did you come?"

Instead of answering, he put his teacup down and placed both hands on the desk. He seemed to be trying to steady himself.

"Kanatjan," he began at last, "I want to admit something. I have a lot of respect for Gorbachev — you must know that. When all this happened, I didn't know what to do. Last night, I couldn't sleep at all."

He waited for an answer, but when none came he continued.

"The trouble is," he said, "these leaders — Yazov, Pugo, Baklanov — are good people. I know them well. They are decent citizens and they love their country. What is a person supposed to think?"

"I can't tell you what to think," I said. "But who are these leaders? Who elected them?"

"That's not the point!" Kalinin replied with some of his old sharpness, and then he slumped into his chair.

"I'm only trying to tell you that they love their country," he said. "They are patriots like you and me, like all of us."

"General, I've made my decision. You will have to decide too."

Kalinin covered his eyes with his hand. Amazingly, he looked as if he was about to cry.

"You don't understand, Kanatjan, you really don't… how difficult…" He stopped, unable to continue.

I looked away. I thought I knew Kalinin well enough to know he would never forgive me for witnessing his moment of weakness.

Yet for the next extraordinary hour, we talked as we had never talked before. He told me about the problems he faced, the hurdles he was made to jump by bureaucrats at the Central Committee who wanted his job, by the Military-Industrial Commission, by all of his enemies. This man, whom I had never seen lose his bearings, spoke to me not as a subordinate, but as a confessor.

Then, as abruptly as he had begun, he stopped.

"The thing is, you see… these are our people," he said stiffly, trying to regain his composure.

"They are not my people," I answered. "I support our president. Maybe he wasn't elected democratically, but—" Kalinin cut me short with a wave of his hand.

"I don't want to argue with you, Kanatjan," he said, sighing. "All I want is to suggest a compromise."

He pointed to the two papers left on my desk.

"These… are premature," he said. "There's going to be a meeting of the Supreme Soviet on August twenty-sixth; Lukyanov has already announced he will take up the matter with them. Why don't we wait to see what happens before you make any rash moves?"

My sympathy for Kalinin evaporated. The motive of his visit now seemed perfectly clear: he understood the meaning of the barricades at the White House as well as I had. He was shrewd enough to understand that the success of the coup was no longer as certain as it had appeared on the first day. Men like Davydov saw the world in primary colors, but the general was too intelligent to believe in his own rhetoric. Our proclamation of support provided him with a political life raft if Gorbachev returned to power, and he needed me around to make it legitimate.

Still, I couldn't help but feel sorry for the man. He had probably poured out more than he had intended in his confession to me.

"I believe our country needs to be strong," he continued. "I know how you feel about our program, but we can't afford to lose anyone now."

He looked at me and tried to smile.

"I beg you. I beg you. Stay."

I had to think quickly. Whether I resigned now or later would make no difference to anyone but me. If I left now as I had intended, my staff might feel betrayed.