Вил Мирзаянов - State Secrets - An Insider's Chronicle of the Russian Chemical Weapons Program

The defense of my dissertation was scheduled for the end of May, 1965. Before the meeting of the Science Council, I finished all the technical work and was going to leave the Institute of Petrochemical Synthesis earlier than usual. One day, I suddenly bumped into Professor Sokolov in the corridor. We greeted each other, and the professor said in his squeaky voice that he knew about my defense and had even read the abstract. Then Sokolov added that my work had made a good impression on him and he was ready to support me at a meeting of the Science Council.

I was amazed at his generosity and openhanded attitude. I had caused so much trouble for my former supervisor. But then Sokolov quickly brought me back down to earth, by asking me to sign just one paper. He took a few sheets of paper out of his briefcase. The text read that some time ago, due to lack of experience and poor knowledge of the scientific literature, Vil Sultanovich Mirzayanov had written incorrectly about the use of sources by Professor V.A. Sokolov, the author of numerous large monographs. Now he deeply regretted it and asked that these allegations be dismissed for having no basis in reality.

The application was addressed to the Minister of Geology. I looked at the blackmailer, considering how I could hit him without crippling him. But I managed to control myself and even asked idiotically if that was all. “Yes, yes, of course, you know, Nikolai Sergeevich doesn’t like scandals, and I can arrange this tomorrow if you behave prudently,” he concluded.

Instantly, my whole life passed in front of my eyes. I remembered the enormous difficulties that I had to overcome to approach one of the crucial moments of my scientific career. By that time, I had divorced my wife and lost my family. Everyone who knew anything about the Soviet system, was very well aware that the path to research was closed to any scientist, however talented, without an official scientific degree. Usually, the science councils, where a dissertation is defended, evaluate the quality of work, only by official reviews of specifically appointed opponents and speakers on the topic. Among the members of the Science Council, there can be no more than three or four specialists on the dissertation topic under discussion. The rest rely strictly on their intuition or other external factors. Any negative review or comments can produce an unfavorable result in the secret vote. If a candidate for a degree fails to get two thirds of the votes of the council members present at the meeting, the dissertation “is knocked down”, and the candidate loses the chance to defend his or her work again. The label testifying “low” qualification of the candidate sticks with him forever and only real luck can help him get rid of it.

I displayed some “prudence”, and signed two copies of the appeal. Then I felt smeared with indelible dirt from head to foot. I couldn’t overcome this feeling, either during the defense of my thesis or after it. The speech of Professor Sokolov, who supported my dissertation, caused a sensation.

After the results of the voting were announced, I told my supervisors about my degradation. They comforted me in every possible way, but at heart I cursed myself and swore never to bargain with my conscience again.

After my divorce, there was nowhere for me to live, because of the housing shortage in Moscow. Rita and I still shared a room and the situation was becoming increasingly more stressful. My only option was to try to buy a new cooperative apartment, and I couldn’t afford to continue working at VNIIKA NeftGas on my salary. So I began to look for new work. Unexpectedly, Professor Victor Berezkin, my masters’ thesis advisor, offered to help me. He did not explain where he had recommended me for work, but he proposed that I meet with an acquaintance of his, a man he had once worked with who was a representative of one of the Post Office Boxes.

I agreed to this, though I remembered the story of my friend Volodya Shakhrai about how Berezkin had been poisoned during his time working at the Central Scientific Military Technical Institute (TsNIIVTI), researching chemical agents. After a long cure, and it seems a not an entirely successful one, he developed a strong allergy to literally every chemical solvent.

Several days later I met with Aleksei Beresnev, who introduced himself as chairman of the Analytical Department of “Post Office Box 702”. We didn’t have a professional conversation, but he proposed that I go to his institute and fill out the paperwork necessary to get access to work with secret documents.

I went to the address Beresnev gave me, and there I was stunned by the sight of a gloomy and decrepit old building on the Highway of Enthusiasts. I wondered if I was in the right place. You could get a glimpse of this monstrosity from a bridge that passed over the railway on the way to Post Office Box 4019, where I had worked as a shift engineer for the last 2 years. During that time, I had gone several times to a “night resort”, which was located in the Tarasovka Settlement, half an hour’s trip from the Yaroslav Train Station on the Northern Moscow Rail Line.

Workers visited this night resort from different Post Office Boxes, and allegedly some of them had worked on the synthesis of chemical agents and on their military applications. I listened to their horror stories and came to the conclusion that they were engaged in a suicidal business. How ironic it was that I willingly agreed to work in this kind of nightmare. I was strongly motivated by the salary, so I could have my own place to live in.

Next, I went to explain the reason for my forthcoming departure to my bosses at VNIIKANeftGas. It was bizarre, but my explanation threw the Secretary of the Party Committee into a rage. He refused to approve my application for withdrawal, and accused me of being egotistical. I was forced to work with an old party hack, a lathe operator.

This man tried to change my mind over the course of several hours, explaining that earnings appeared to be a completely trivial motivation for a party member. In his opinion, the fulfillment of your duty to the party was the most important thing. Of course, it was the same Party Committee at my job, which determined what my “duty” was. This old hand and the “party line” did not succeed in changing my mind, because I was pretty sure I could not continue living in a one-room apartment with my ex-wife. Then, I still had to suffer through another committee meeting of the Party Committee, which wanted to “dress down” their obstinate comrade.

I was given a reprimand, but it was really nothing more than a private assault on me. I was hoping that these people would not decide to give me a “party penalty”. Where could I disappear to if they wanted to do this? How would I be able to “continue to fulfill the party line” as they expected, if they didn’t sign off on my withdrawal?

I decided to “shoot the bank”. On the advice of a friend who was a lawyer, I refused to go to work. I had the right to do that under the Soviet Labor Code; moreover, the administration of VNIIKANeftGas was required to pay me in full for my absence from work. Apparently, the demagogic Soviet system, in order to prove the omnipotence of the working class, had written some unexpected idiosyncrasies into the law. Then along came a joker – a daredevil, who threw down a challenge, and established a precedent in the area of private issues.

I openly gave notice to the Party Committee and to the director of the institute that I might utilize this law. “Ah, does this mean you want to live by the law, and not by the rules of the party of Lenin, like a lawyer?” my educator, the lathe operator asked me indignantly. This conversation was already becoming more dangerous, and I barely managed to ignore his provocation.