Robin Cook - Vector

Beyond the plywood door was the entry chamber with a showerhead and plastic bottles of bleach. Hanging on a wooden peg was a SCBA hazardous materials suit Curt had managed to get out of the firehouse. The face mask was supplied by a steel cylinder filled with compressed air. When Yuri was in the lab he wore the suit with the cylinder on his back like a scuba diver.

The entry chamber had two other doors, both constructed similarly to that at the entrance. Both also had been secured by padlocks for safekeeping and both padlocks had been similarly broken off. Yuri yanked open the door to his left. It was his storage compartment and was surrounded on two sides with the concrete foundation walls of the house. The third wall contained floor-to-ceiling shelving, which was filled with microbiological supplies such as petri dishes, spare HEPA filters, agar, and jars of nutrients. The room’s interior was undisturbed, despite the broken lock.

Steeling himself against what he might find, Yuri moved over to the door to the lab itself. He switched on the interior lights before cracking the door. He could tell the main circulating fans were functioning normally by the breeze flowing into the room. It rustled his hair and caressed his face. To be on the safe side, Yuri held his breath while he scanned the lab’s interior.

The gleaming fermenters were arrayed directly in front of him along the back wall of the lab. His makeshift hood was to the right. It functioned as his incubator, with a heat lamp and a thermostat, and also as his repository for the bioweaponized anthrax and botulinum toxin he’d already produced.

Yuri’s lab bench was to the immediate left. On the bench stood the glassware he used for crystallizing the botulinum toxin. Beyond the lab bench was the pulverizer and the drier for the anthrax spores.

Yuri’s pounding heart began to slow. The lab seemed normal with nothing out of place. It appeared exactly as it had when he left it that morning, including the way the glassware was positioned on the bench. With a sense of relief, Yuri pulled the door closed. It whistled from the inrushing air just before sealing on its weather stripping.

He looked down at the broken hasp. Although his anxiety had abated, his anger hadn’t. Then his eye caught something on the floor. Next to his foot was a carelessly discarded French fried potato along with a small smear of ketchup. Connie!

A muffled titter of laughter filtered down from above. Yuri was consumed by fury. With a string of expletives, he rushed from the room and took the stairs two at a time. When he got to the partially open bedroom door he pounded it open with the flat of his palm.

Connie glanced up from her TV show. She was supine on her bed.

“Why did you go downstairs?” Yuri snarled.

“I wanted to know what was going on in my basement,” Connie said. “I have a right, considering all the time you spend down there.”

“Did you touch anything?” Yuri demanded.

“No, I didn’t touch nothing! But I can tell you, that ain’t no still, not with all that stuff that looks like it came from a hospital.”

“I’ll teach you to disobey me!” Yuri snarled as he hurled himself at his wife.

Connie screamed and rolled to the side. The combination of Yuri’s impact and Connie’s weight was too much for the slats under the box spring, and the bed collapsed to the floor.

Monday, October 18

6:15 p.m.

Curt was driving his Dodge Ram pickup with Steve riding shotgun. They’d turned off Ocean Parkway onto Oceanview Avenue and were searching for Oceanview Lane.

“My God!” Steve commented as he surveyed the neighborhood. “I’ve lived in Brooklyn my whole life and I’ve never seen this cluster of little houses. It looks like some place in the Carolinas.”

“Seems they would have been knocked down by now and some highrises put up,” Curt said. “Keep your eye out for Oceanview Lane. It’s one of these little alleyways.”

“There it is,” Steve said. He pointed through the windshield at a small hand-painted sign tacked to a telephone pole.

Curt turned into the lane and slowed appreciably. It was narrow and cluttered with trash cans and dead leaves.

The two firemen were still in their uniforms. They’d driven to Brighton Beach as soon as they got off work at five P.M. The trip had taken just over an hour. Night was falling rapidly with the overcast sky, and the lane was dark except where it was illuminated with Curt’s headlights. There were no streetlamps.

“Do you see any house numbers?” Curt asked.

Steve laughed. “This place is a slum. I don’t see any signs.”

“There’s thirteen,” Curt said. He pointed to a trash can with the address painted on the rim. “Fifteen should be the next one.”

Curt pulled up to a closed garage door and killed the engine, and the two men climbed out of the truck. For a moment they studied the house. Crammed in among the others, it was mildly dilapidated and sorely in need of paint.

“It doesn’t look too stable,” Steve said. “One little nudge and the whole thing might tip over.”

“Can you imagine how fast this would go up in flames,” Curt said.

Steve turned to glance at his friend. “Is that some kind of suggestion?”

Curt shrugged. “Just something to keep in mind. Come on, let’s pay our Russky friend a visit.”

They opened a gate in the chain-link fence that ran along the front of the house. The walkway beyond was cracked concrete just visible through a blanket of dead leaves. The tiny patch of lawn was overgrown with weeds.

Curt searched for a doorbell, but there wasn’t one. He opened the torn screen door and was about to knock when a large crash sounded from within. The two firefighters looked at each other.

“What the hell was that?” Steve asked.

“Beats me,” Curt answered. He was again about to knock when there was another crash. This time it was followed by the sound of broken glass. They also heard Yuri curse loudly in Russian.

“Sounds like our Commie friend is wrecking his house,” Steve said.

“It better not have anything to do with the lab,” Curt said. He rapped loudly on the door. He wanted to make sure Yuri heard him.

After waiting several minutes and hearing nothing from inside the house, Curt knocked again. This time there were footfalls, and the door was snatched open.

“Company,” Curt said. He tried to look past Yuri to see if he could tell what had broken.

Yuri’s expression went from anger to surprise and obvious delight as he recognized his friends. Although his face remained flushed, he smiled broadly. “Hey, guys!” His voice was hoarse.

“We were in the neighborhood,” Curt said. “We thought we’d just drop by to say hello.”

“I’m glad you did,” Yuri said.

“We heard you’d been by the firehouse,” Steve said.

Yuri nodded enthusiastically. “I was looking for you guys...”

“So we heard,” Curt said stiffly.

“You’re not supposed to come to the firehouse,” Steve said.

“Why not?” Yuri asked.

“If we have to tell you, then we’ve got a problem,” Steve said.

“Security is a big concern in an operation like we’re planning,” Curt said. “The fewer people who associate us publicly, the better off we all are, especially with you being a foreigner and all. We don’t have too many friends with Russian accents. You show up looking for us, the other firefighters are going to start to wonder.”

“I’m sorry,” Yuri said. “I didn’t think there was a problem at the firehouse, especially when you mentioned that many of your comrades think the same way you guys do.”

“We’ve our share of patriots,” Curt admitted. “But none quite as patriotic as we are. Maybe we should have spelled it out more clearly. Anyway, now you know you don’t come to the firehouse.”