Robin Cook - Vector

The KGB immediately began an elaborate campaign of misinformation, claiming the problem came from contaminated cattle carcasses processed at the Aramil meatpacking factory. The families of the dead were denied their loved ones’ bodies. By decree all the dead were buried in deep graves in a separate part of the main city cemetery.

Yuri suffered terribly. It was more than the emotional trauma of losing his mother and the enormous personal guilt of knowing that he was involved in causing her death. As the most junior employee involved in the disaster, he was the designated scapegoat. Although the subsequent official investigation suggested that most of the responsibility lay with the night maintenance worker and the shift supervisor who did not replace the clogged filters with new ones nor adequately record that they had removed the old filters, it was Yuri who took most of the blame. Theoretically, he was supposed to check the presence of the filters before start-up, but since the filters lasted for months and were rarely changed, no one checked them on a daily basis, and Yuri had not been taught to do so by his shift supervisor during his orientation.

Because of national security issues and the required secrecy, Yuri was held for a time in a military stockade instead of a normal prison before being sent to Siberia. In Siberia he eventually ended up at another Biopreparat facility called Vector located in a city called Novosibirsk. Although Vector was known mostly for work with weaponized viruses, including smallpox, Yuri was assigned to a small team trying to improve the efficacy of weaponized anthrax and botulinum toxin.

As for his brother Yegor, Yuri had never seen him again. He’d not been infected by the released anthrax, but he was not allowed to visit Yuri during Yuri’s confinement in the military stockade nor in Siberia. Then, after graduating in June, Yegor was drafted into the army. In December 1979, he was sent into Afghanistan in the initial invasion and was one of the first casualties.

Yuri sighed. He did not like to think about his past miseries. It made him feel anxious and out of control. Furtively his eyes again scanned the neighborhood through the taxi’s windshield and with the help of his side mirrors and rearview mirror. There were a few pedestrians, but no one paid him any heed. Yuri took another quick swig from his flask before replacing the now empty container under his seat. Once again he’d run out of vodka before the day was finished.

Still feeling agitated, Yuri opened the door and got out. He didn’t step away from his cab. He merely stretched and twisted from side to side to relieve a chronic discomfort he felt in his lower back from sitting all day. He took several deep breaths. Somewhat soothed, he climbed back into the cab. He was about to switch off his off-duty light when he realized that his present location wasn’t that far away from Walker Street and the Corinthian Rug Company. Needing a diversion, he decided to head down to the neighborhood. It would make him feel a lot better if he had some positive news about the rug merchant.

At three-thirty the city traffic was starting to coagulate as it always did as rush hour approached. It took Yuri more time than he expected to drive down Broadway, especially in and around Canal Street. Fighting to maintain his patience, Yuri finally was able to turn onto the relatively quiet Walker Street.

As he approached the Corinthian Rug Company office he fully expected to see it shut up tight as it had been earlier. He was prepared to accept the situation as further corroboration that Jason Papparis had been infected and was either dead or at death’s door. The question in Yuri’s mind was whether he should risk inquiring again in the stamp store. But to Yuri’s surprise and consternation the front door of the rug company office was wide open and the lights were on!

Dismayed, Yuri put on the brakes and slowed his cab to give himself a glimpse inside the shop as he glided by. What he saw was Jason Papparis standing in front of one of his file cabinets!

“O Godspodi!” Yuri mumbled despite his atheistic beliefs. He pulled into a loading zone. Twisting around in his seat he looked back at the open door of the rug store office. What could have gone wrong? The powder had to be effective. He’d used all the tricks that he and his team had devised at Vector. In the ten-plus years he’d worked at the Siberian facility he and his coworkers had increased the efficacy of weaponized anthrax by a factor approaching ten. Most of the increase had come from simple additives to the powder to maximize the suspension and the diffusion of the particles in the air, although some of the increase had come from the way the cultures were grown. With his current weapon, Yuri had used all the stratagems.

Yuri ran a hand through his hair. Maybe the letter had gotten lost or delivered to the wrong person? Or maybe even someone in the post office had decided to open it out of curiosity? Yuri wondered if he should have thought of a different way of infecting Mr. Papparis. At the time he’d come up with the letter idea, it had seemed so perfect.

Yuri got out of the cab. With the taxi’s blinkers on he ran across the street, skirted a mountain bike locked to a “No Parking” sign, and passed the stamp store. As he came abreast of the window of the rug office he peered inside. Jason was nowhere to be seen. The two doors that he could see in the rear of the office were closed.

After making sure no meter maid or policeman was in sight, Yuri walked to the open door. He hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to do. Confused curiosity propelled him over the threshold. He had to talk to the rug merchant.

“Did someone call a taxi?” Yuri called. His voice was weak and uncertain.

A figure loomed up from behind the desk supporting the copy and fax machines clutching papers in his hand. To Yuri’s shock the man was wearing a surgical mask, a hood, and a gown. The image was so unexpected that Yuri stepped back out the door.

“Wait!” Jack called. He tossed the papers he was holding onto the desk and ran after the taxi driver. He caught up to him on the sidewalk.

“Did you call a taxi, Mr. Papparis?” Yuri asked. He glanced over at his waiting cab. He wanted to get the hell out of there.

“I’m not Mr. Papparis,” Jack said. He pulled off his latex gloves and struggled to get out his medical examiner badge. He showed it to Yuri, who backed up another step. Yuri thought it was a police badge.

“The name’s Jack Stapleton; I’m a medical examiner,” Jack said. He put away his wallet, then undid his face mask. “How well did you know Mr. Papparis? Did you drive him often?”

“I’m just a cab driver,” Yuri said meekly. He wasn’t sure what a medical examiner was, although with an official badge he obviously worked for the government.

“How well did you know Mr. Papparis?” Jack repeated.

“I didn’t know him,” Yuri said. “I never drove him.”

“How did you know his name?”

“I just got a call to pick him up.”

“That’s interesting,” Jack said.

Yuri felt distinctly uncomfortable. He did not like dealing with state officials of any kind. Besides, the individual standing in front of him looked vaguely familiar, a fact that added to his unease. And on top of that the stranger was looking at him curiously, even suspiciously.

“Are you sure you got a call from a Mr. Papparis on Walker Street?” Jack said. “Mr. Papparis of the Corinthian Rug Company?”

“I think that’s what dispatch said,” Yuri said.

“I find that hard to believe,” Jack said. “Mr. Papparis died over the weekend.”

“Oh!” Yuri said. He coughed nervously while he struggled to come up with some plausible explanation. Nothing came to mind.