Robin Cook - Vector

Pausing to listen, Yuri could hear the television in Connie’s bedroom. It was then that he noticed his wife’s purse sitting in the middle of the Formica kitchen table along with the telltale wrappings from one of the neighborhood’s fast-food joints.

Yuri had been married for almost four years. He’d met his wife, Connie, when he’d first started working for the taxi company as a radio car driver and before he had his own vehicle. At the time he’d been rather desperate. His visa was about to run out. Marriage to a U.S. citizen seemed his only option.

Connie was an African-American woman in her twenties who’d seemed bored with her life and had been happy to flirt with the newly arrived Russian. She went out of her way to be nice to him and, using her position as a dispatcher, made sure he got choice runs.

Yuri had initially been attracted to Connie separately from his necessity to obtain a green card. As a youth in the Soviet Union, he’d loved jazz, which he associated with American blacks. Becoming acquainted with one socially was exciting. He’d known no Negroes as he’d grown up in Sverdlovsk but had seen them on television, particularly in sporting events, and was duly impressed.

Connie’s attentions were even more welcome in light of Yuri’s loneliness. The mostly Russian Jewish community in Brighton Beach where he’d been advised to move ignored him. The couple began to date and frequented jazz clubs both in Manhattan, where Connie lived, and in Brooklyn near Yuri’s apartment. At the same time Yuri began to learn about American racism, which initially confused him, since he’d assumed African-Americans would be held in high esteem for their cultural contributions. He’d never heard the term “nigger” until he and Connie were accosted on the street on several occasions. He was also surprised to learn that Connie’s family, particularly her brother Flash and his friends, did not think highly of him. They called him a “honky,” which he learned was as derogatory a term as “nigger.”

For Yuri marriage solved both the green card and the loneliness issues, at least initially. Unfortunately, Yuri soon learned that Connie had no intention of being the wife that Yuri expected from his Russian heritage. She had no interest in domestic duties and anticipated eating out every night as they’d done during their brief courtship. As Yuri’s climb up the economic ladder reached an impasse with the realization that he would not be able to use his microbiological background without expensive retraining and that he could not afford to stop driving a cab, his tolerance for Connie’s lifestyle dwindled. If it wasn’t for the fear of losing his green card, he would have kicked her out.

Connie’s ardor ebbed equivalently. Initially she’d seen Yuri as a romantic figure who’d come from a distant land to rescue her from a boring life. But soon after their marriage Yuri refused to do anything except drive his cab and drink vodka in front of the television. And then there was the violence. Connie had never been beaten before. After the first incident she would have left if she’d had someplace to go. The problem was that she’d burned her bridges when she married Yuri against her family’s wishes. Pride kept her rooted where she was.

Connie’s method of dealing with her unhappiness was to eat. She could find solace in a quart of ice cream, French fried potatoes, and a Big Mac, and she sought that solace frequently. Between that and a routine devoid of exercise, it wasn’t long before Connie’s weight ballooned. The more Yuri drank, the more Connie ate.

As they became more entrenched in their respective bad habits, their mutual hostility grew. Yuri and Connie lived in the same house but ignored each other until mere proximity would ignite a conflagration. Invariably, the quarrels escalated from stereotypic epithets to physical violence, and when they did, Connie suffered more.

A break in this pattern occurred when Yuri befriended Curt Rogers and Steve Henderson. He did not tell Connie-about his new friends but spent much of his time away from home as a result of their acquaintance. Curt and Steve never came to Brighton Beach. Yuri always traveled to Bensonhurst to see them. Connie was convinced he was having an affair, a belief that caused several knock-down, drag-out fights.

Then, all at once, Yuri began spending inordinate amounts of time in the basement. First he did construction, and the hammering and sawing drove Connie crazy. When she asked him what was going on, he told her it was none of her business. Then he started bringing in equipment, including powerful fans. Connie even caught sight of large stainless steel drums being carried in by white-trash “honky” skinhead youths. Such people terrified Connie, and she made sure they didn’t see her.

On more than one occasion, Connie demanded to know what was going on in her basement, but Yuri refused to discuss it. She began to think that Yuri was setting up a distillery to manufacture his own vodka. When she suggested this to him one evening, he responded by leaping at her and grabbing her throat.

“Yes, it’s a still,” Yuri snarled. “And if you tell anyone, I’ll kill you! I swear! And if you ever mess with it, I’ll beat you to a pulp. You stay the hell out of my basement!”

Connie had vainly tried to break Yuri’s hold on her neck by pulling his arms away, but she couldn’t. Usually when he was mad he just smacked her a few times, and that was it. But this was different. His black eyes drilled into her like he’d gone crazy.

In utter terror, Connie started to feel faint, her image of Yuri’s empurpled face began to blur, and her knees buckled. Only then did Yuri let go of her. Connie staggered to regain her balance and choked from the pressure he’d kept on her throat. With a burst of tears she ran from the room and threw herself onto her bed. From then on, Connie refrained from bringing up the issue of what was going on in the basement. Whatever it was, it wasn’t worth risking her life.

Yuri was irritated that Connie was home. On Monday nights she was supposed to work until at least nine. Her unexpected presence only added to the stress of a day that had already taken him on a roller coaster of emotions. With a trembling hand he poured himself a glass of ice-cold vodka from the freezer.

Leaning back against the countertop he took a sip of the glacial fluid and eyed the greasy remains of the fast food. In the background he heard the canned laughter of a television sitcom. He took more of the vodka in an attempt to stem his rising resentment. As he swallowed, his eyes wandered to the basement door. He was surprised to see that it was partially ajar.

“What the hell?” Yuri questioned. He usually swore in Russian, but through his friendship with Curt and Steve he’d become equally capable in English. Confused and progressively dismayed, he put down his drink and stepped over to the door. He was certain that he’d closed it that morning before heading out in his cab. It was Yuri’s routine to work in his basement lab for at least an hour in the morning and another hour in the evening to make sure his miniature bioweapons production facility was working smoothly. On Wednesday, his usual day off, he spent the whole day in the basement. That was when he activated his makeshift pulverizer, since most of the neighbors were at work. Like the pulverizer in Sverdlovsk, it made a racket even though it was a fraction of the size.

The door creaked as Yuri opened it wide. Snapping on the light, he started down the stairs. He stopped dead when he had a view of the stout combination steel and plywood door he’d made for the lab. Someone had taken a crowbar to the padlock, snapping off the hasp.

Yuri stumbled down the rest of the stairs in haste. Outrage clouded his vision. His breath came in angry and worried snorts between clenched teeth. The lab and the revenge it promised was the current focus of his life. He was terrified it had been violated.