Henry didn’t dismiss the need for such research. It was vital for national defense, and intellectually thrilling. He had joined an obscure and clandestine world where his counterparts—in Russia, Iran, China, North Korea—knew each other only by reputation and rumor. They played a game in which one’s cards were rarely shown. Terrorists were also actively cooking up diseases. Al-Qaeda attempted to cultivate anthrax. The apocalyptic Japanese science-fiction cult Aum Shinrikyo, with microbiologists on staff, also experimented with anthrax as well as botulism. These diseases, at least, were not contagious, but there was little reason to think that terrorists would stop short of that.
Henry was good at his job—more than good, in fact—but he was modest enough to recognize that the true genius in this dark endeavor was Jürgen Stark, his charismatic chief. While their counterparts in the realm of nuclear physics were creating bombs that could eliminate life on earth, Henry and the other young scientists in Jürgen’s lab were doing much the same, tinkering with nature to learn how to destroy humanity.
Jürgen’s team had been assembled at the National Biodefense Analysis and Countermeasures Center. The entire building was classified; no one else on the Fort Detrick campus knew what went on inside. The goal was to engineer biological pathogens that might be created by terrorists or malign states. In 1972, the United States had joined more than 181 countries in signing the Biological Weapons Convention, which banned the development, production, and stockpiling of toxins and biological weapons. The Soviets had also signed, but they saw the treaty as an opportunity to expand their production and create a biowarfare monopoly. Even now, Henry knew, the Russian biowarfare unit was expanding. Putin openly declared that Russia was developing “genetic” weapons that would be “comparable to nuclear weapons.” Hampered by the legal restraints, Henry and others secretly labored to keep up with Russia’s bold advances in the darkest realm of science.
Jürgen was tall and slender with Nordic blue eyes that broadcast the self-confidence and brilliance that were his special gifts. He was vain about his looks and especially about his hair, which was platinum blond and almost as white as the lab coat that flapped behind him as he fluttered through the office. He wore his hair long enough that sometimes it caught in his eyebrows, and he would toss it about like a prideful schoolgirl when he wanted to make a particular point. Every moment in that lab was uneasy and exciting and charged with meaning, reflecting qualities at the core of Jürgen’s mesmerizing appeal. He was one of the greatest scientists Henry had ever known—imaginative, technically brilliant, and willing to go to extremes.
As far as Henry knew, Jürgen had no romantic relationships. His sexual preference was the subject of endless speculation among the researchers. He rarely sought out colleagues for a drink or dinner, unless there was a professional objective in view, and on those occasions he could be irresistible. Henry knew that charm was a social mask that Jürgen put on, but even so, he marveled at Jürgen’s ability to metamorphose.
Jürgen had a fetish for orderliness. Henry had never seen a lab as clean and tidy. A prank among the researchers was to cant the incubators and colony counters so that Jürgen would compulsively readjust them every time he passed by. He never seemed to catch on. Once Henry found the men’s room closed off because Jürgen was having it repaired. “The corners were out of line,” he said. After the repair, Henry couldn’t tell the difference.
One day as Henry was leaving, Jürgen asked what he was doing that night. The question caught Henry off guard. “I’m going to a movie,” he said.
“What are you going to see?”
“Adaptation.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a comedy about a guy trying to write a movie. It’s supposed to be funny.”
“Have you got a date?”
“No. You want to come?” That seemed to be the object of the inquiry.
Jürgen looked surprised, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him. “Oh, no, I really don’t like movies.”
That answer was a bit irritating, but Henry decided it was up to him to goad Jürgen into doing what he obviously wanted to do, which was to enjoy some human companionship. They wound up going out to dinner after the show. It was the first time Henry heard Jürgen laugh, a kind of tee-hee-hee laugh, which sounded experimental.
Jürgen rarely entered a lab when animals were on the table. There were awful scenes in those rooms sometimes, especially with the primates, which