Simultaneously, with a blinding flash of lightning overhead, the gate gave way with a metallic crack. The spinning tires of the pickup bit suddenly into the wet asphalt, and the truck went skidding across the parking area, turning one complete revolution before Kuryakin could bring it to a stop.
Corey Macklin was the first to reach him as he climbed unsteadily down from the cab.
“I am Anton Kuryakin,” he gasped. “I must speak to Dr. Kitzmiller.”
Three men from the security force, weapons at the ready, ran through the rain toward the truck. The others were blocking the path of the limousine, which was trying to follow Kuryakin through the shattered gate.
Corey caught the Russian as he stumbled and helped him upright as Lieutenant Purdue, followed by two of his men, pounded up.
“We’ll take over now, Mr. Macklin,” said the security chief.
Corey stood his ground. “This is Anton Kuryakin. He’s here on official business.”
“I’ll see that he’s placed in protective custody,” said Purdue.
“Please, I must talk to Dr. Kitzmiller,” said the Russian. “For the sake of your country and its people, do not detain me.”
Viktor Raslov, escorted by two of the gate guards, hurried up. The KGB men were being kept in the limousine where it had stopped at the shattered gate.
“This man is a Soviet citizen,” Raslov said. “He is traveling on a diplomatic passport. You cannot hold him.”
“Wait a minute,” Corey said. “Nobody is holding anybody here.” He turned to Kuryakin. “What is your business with Dr. Kitzmiller?”
“It is confidential.”
Corey looked at Lieutenant Purdue, the security guards, and Viktor Raslov. He turned back to Kuryakin. “I think you’d better give us some idea of why you’re here, or you will never get inside.”
“This is a grave insult,” Raslov complained. “This man belongs with my party.”
Lieutenant Purdue turned on Raslov. “Sir, you are both guilty of trespassing on a government reservation. You,” he said to Kuryakin, “have destroyed government property and forced your way into a highly sensitive facility. I am going to have to place you both under — ”
“Wait a minute,” Corey broke in. “Let’s hear what he has to say.”
Kuryakin looked from one of the men to the next and chose finally to speak to Corey. “In your American press Dr. Kitzmiller has been called the ‘Father of the Brain Eaters,’ has he not?”
Corey nodded. “I suppose that in a way I’m responsible for that.”
“It does not matter, you see, because it is not true,” Kuryakin said. “Your Dr. Kitzmiller is not the father.”
The other men stared at him. Corey said, “What do you mean?”
“He cannot be the father,” Kuryakin said evenly, “because I am.”
Frederich Kitzmiller’s lean face was darker than the storm outside. He glared at Corey Macklin as the two men stood in his office just off the laboratory.
“Absolutely not!” Kitzmiller thundered. “I have given you more time today than I should have because I let my sympathy overcome my judgment. But this is too much. I will not waste any more of my time with some double-dealing, lying pig of a communist!”
“The man is a scientist,” Corey protested.
“So was Dr. Mengele.”
“Won’t you at least talk to him, doctor?” Corey said. “He’s right outside with Lieutenant Purdue.”
“Give me one reason why I should see this Bolshevik.”
“He says he has critical information about the brain eaters,” Corey said. “He claims that he developed the same parasites in Russia a year ago.”
“Hah! Of all the discoveries and inventions the Russians have claimed over the years, this is one I would like to give them. But it is not true. I, Frederich Kitzmiller, brought what are now called the brain eaters into existence in this very laboratory.”
“I know the story,” Corey said impatiently. “You were experimenting with a new pesticide — ”
“Bullshit pesticide!”
It was the first time Corey had heard the icy Dr. Kitzmiller use coarse language, and he stared at him.
“There is no point in keeping up the pretense any longer, regardless of what Mr. Zachry thinks. The brain eaters were developed to be exactly what they are, for possible use as a weapon.”
“A weapon?” Corey felt as though he had been slugged over the head.
“Yes, of course. With the Russians’ lead in chemical-and biological-warfare preparations, we felt it critical to have a response. It was done under a specific, highly secret contract from the Department of Defense. Did you really believe that such a horrendous result could come from innocent research on a pesticide?”
“A lot of people did,” Corey said.
“Well, that was the intent.” Kitzmiller’s voice grew calmer, but the fire stayed in the flashing blue eyes. “It became an obsession with Zachry that the public should not know of the government’s part in it. It would have destroyed the power of the Pentagon, he said, and with it the current administration.” His thin lips stretched in a mirthless smile. “A lot that matters now.”
“Lou Zachry is with the Defense Department?”
“Yes, of course. When the ‘accident’ occurred, he was sent here immediately to oversee the investigation. Which one of his made-up identities did he use on you? No, don’t bother to tell me. There isn’t time, and it does not matter, anyway.”
Corey was shaking his head. “I can’t believe that anything so appalling could even have been considered as a weapon.”
“Ah, but you see, we did not anticipate the terrible virulence of our little parasites. How could we? When experiments on animals gave an indication of what we really had, the project was immediately canceled and the single test canister marked for disposal. Had it not been for the unspeakable carelessness of one employee, the brain eaters might have been stopped then and there.”
“But Kuryakin says — ”
“The devil take Kuryakin and all Russians! Let Purdue deal with him.”
“No!”
Kitzmiller looked up, surprised at the sudden snap in Corey’s tone.
“I don’t give a damn about your personal feud with the Russians. This man has taken a considerable risk in coming here. It’s possible that he can help. If he has nothing to offer, we’ve lost only a few minutes.”
Kitzmiller’s mouth was a grim line. “Very well, I will see him. Alone. And only long enough for him to prove to me that he is a liar.”
“I’ll send him in,” said Corey, and hurried out the door before Kitzmiller could change his mind.
The stocky Russian and the lean German scientist faced each other in the sterile office behind the Biotron laboratory. The air crackled with hostility.
“The agricultural expert, I presume,” said Kitzmiller with heavy sarcasm.
“And I salute the maker of fertilizer,” Kuryakin answered, speaking German.
They acknowledged each other with careful nods.
“I have heard of your work,” Kuryakin said. “Your real work.”
“And I yours. But apparently not all of it. Or so I am told.”
“We do have our secrets despite your spy satellites and CIA.”
“I have no time to compare espionage systems.”
“I will make my point. These brain eaters of yours were discovered by me in a Moscow facility thirteen months ago. We called it Project Romanov. A bit of socialist humor.”
“Why should I believe you?”
Kuryakin gestured toward a chalkboard along one of the office walls. “May I?”
Kitzmiller nodded brusquely.
The chalk clattered over the board as the Russian scribbled a series of formulas, talking as he wrote. “It was our thought that these parasites could be used in controlled circumstances as a biological weapon. Defensive, of course, to be employed only if we were attacked.”