mass produced.
To keep one from falling, illumination was provided by a few lights. The lack of heat and the drafts made the inside seem colder than outside. No one spoke as they passed through the cold, echoing, abandoned, anthrax-fermenting room. Instead, they waited until they got to their less hostile lab downstairs. The elevator no longer worked, and there was no money to fix it. Their lab was kept in the best part of the building. Building 221, like 241-244, and 231, were equipped with bio-containment systems with high efficiency air filters and fans for maintaining negative air pressure, individual air supplies, sterilization autoclaves, and submarine doors. The system in 221 still worked, due to continued maintenance. The modest amount money coming in was enough for utilities to heat and power his private lab in a small portion of the huge building.
They walked through the unheated, huge, fermenting rooms, now inoperative, where the Soviets had built ten, five thousand gallon fermentation vats for brewing anthrax microbes.
He put down the plastic bag which contained animal remains for his special Ebola. He would later suit up in one of the special pressure suits, clean the special area of Ebola, and add the new food.
Dr. Volkova made Russian tea for them in glass cups with metal bases.
He continued complaining. “I’ll probably have to destroy my beautiful samples one day! Using part of my paltry salary and favors, I have continually brought in animal tissue to keep alive samples of Marburg virus from Uganda, Zimbabwe, South Africa, and Kenya. I kept alive the magnificent Ebola from Zaire--now called the Democratic Republic of the Congo by those savages--and from Sudan, Central African Republic, Gabon, Nigeria, Ivory Coast, Liberia, Cameroon, Kenya, and also Uganda. And, of course--” He smiled. “--my special variant with altered RNA. I can make it work on a given race and keep it reproducing that way. But who will pay me for what I can do? Probably no one, except those lunatics in the Middle-East and who would lead to our being caught for sure.
“If I do have to destroy my samples, the variants that I have created will be lost. My genius will go down the drain! I’ll probably end up continuing to work on producing the ridiculous fungi that the government claims will be used to eradicate the growing of poppies, as though the dope trade of this region is going to be eradicated. Ridiculous! My life’s work has become an unwanted commodity. I’m an unwanted commodity.”
She came up behind him and gave him a strong hug. “Darling, you’re a wanted commodity to me.”
He calmed down, accepting her embrace. He then directed his attention to the moment. “What about this American female who’s coming? Do you think that her arrival will speed up the money from America to tear down the interior of this building so that I’ll have nowhere to keep my specimens?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Why don’t we ask her?”
CHAPTER 6
By coincidence, and because of the difference in time zones, just hours before Doctors Dorogomilov and Volkova had their conference, an expert from the CIA, Dan Horn, was briefing Christine Rhyes-Walters of the State Department for her mission to that very facility. He had numerous pictures of the inside of the buildings, all of which had an address of only Postal Mailbox 2076. Additionally, he had a stack of documents and satellite photos, all of which were labeled top secret.
Rhyes-Walters had been with the State Department for two years, her appointment arranged by her father with his political contributions to the president. She kept her family name when she married and used it with the hyphen. Although never slender, she had gained weight since she’d taken the job, and her blue business suit, one of which she bought when appointed, was now too tight. She was headstrong, opinionated, and not too bright.
As Rhyes-Walters looked at pictures of huge vats used for
To keep one from falling, illumination was provided by a few lights. The lack of heat and the drafts made the inside seem colder than outside. No one spoke as they passed through the cold, echoing, abandoned, anthrax-fermenting room. Instead, they waited until they got to their less hostile lab downstairs. The elevator no longer worked, and there was no money to fix it. Their lab was kept in the best part of the building. Building 221, like 241-244, and 231, were equipped with bio-containment systems with high efficiency air filters and fans for maintaining negative air pressure, individual air supplies, sterilization autoclaves, and submarine doors. The system in 221 still worked, due to continued maintenance. The modest amount money coming in was enough for utilities to heat and power his private lab in a small portion of the huge building.
They walked through the unheated, huge, fermenting rooms, now inoperative, where the Soviets had built ten, five thousand gallon fermentation vats for brewing anthrax microbes.
He put down the plastic bag which contained animal remains for his special Ebola. He would later suit up in one of the special pressure suits, clean the special area of Ebola, and add the new food.
Dr. Volkova made Russian tea for them in glass cups with metal bases.
He continued complaining. “I’ll probably have to destroy my beautiful samples one day! Using part of my paltry salary and favors, I have continually brought in animal tissue to keep alive samples of Marburg virus from Uganda, Zimbabwe, South Africa, and Kenya. I kept alive the magnificent Ebola from Zaire--now called the Democratic Republic of the Congo by those savages--and from Sudan, Central African Republic, Gabon, Nigeria, Ivory Coast, Liberia, Cameroon, Kenya, and also Uganda. And, of course--” He smiled. “--my special variant with altered RNA. I can make it work on a given race and keep it reproducing that way. But who will pay me for what I can do? Probably no one, except those lunatics in the Middle-East and who would lead to our being caught for sure.
“If I do have to destroy my samples, the variants that I have created will be lost. My genius will go down the drain! I’ll probably end up continuing to work on producing the ridiculous fungi that the government claims will be used to eradicate the growing of poppies, as though the dope trade of this region is going to be eradicated. Ridiculous! My life’s work has become an unwanted commodity. I’m an unwanted commodity.”
She came up behind him and gave him a strong hug. “Darling, you’re a wanted commodity to me.”
He calmed down, accepting her embrace. He then directed his attention to the moment. “What about this American female who’s coming? Do you think that her arrival will speed up the money from America to tear down the interior of this building so that I’ll have nowhere to keep my specimens?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Why don’t we ask her?”
CHAPTER 6
By coincidence, and because of the difference in time zones, just hours before Doctors Dorogomilov and Volkova had their conference, an expert from the CIA, Dan Horn, was briefing Christine Rhyes-Walters of the State Department for her mission to that very facility. He had numerous pictures of the inside of the buildings, all of which had an address of only Postal Mailbox 2076. Additionally, he had a stack of documents and satellite photos, all of which were labeled top secret.
Rhyes-Walters had been with the State Department for two years, her appointment arranged by her father with his political contributions to the president. She kept her family name when she married and used it with the hyphen. Although never slender, she had gained weight since she’d taken the job, and her blue business suit, one of which she bought when appointed, was now too tight. She was headstrong, opinionated, and not too bright.
As Rhyes-Walters looked at pictures of huge vats used for
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