Prologue  

Soviet Union - Gorky Park - 87-11-12
Heavy, white clumps of snow hung from the gray leafless branches of the tall, shadowed, ice-covered trees. A thin figure shivered in the cold and turned towards a tree, hoping it would shield him from the biting, merciless night air. He was not a cruel or thoughtless man, but he had no money, and for three days, his son, his baby, had asked him for bread. He swallowed past the lump in his throat. A three-year-old should never beg for food. Times were hard, and he had been working for three months without pay from the government. “Soon,” they kept telling him. “Soon,” we will have enough money to pay you; soon, you will have money and your family will wish for nothing. It was not soon enough. What he was doing was unthinkable and God would frown on him. But, for him, there was no other way. His family was starving. 


He needed to feed his family, his baby, his son. His family must come first, and in order to feed the ones you love, a man, a father, would do anything, even the unthinkable, the unforgivable, no matter how terrible; nothing was too wrong, too unthinkable, unforgivable or horrible when your family was starving.
His numb fingers closed around the notebook and he turned from the trees. He looked up and shivered at the cold accusing moon that stared back at him, reflecting all of the faces of the people that would die screaming and cursing his name, in soundless prayer; begging for death. He closed his mind to them, his family was hungry, and they came first, no matter the cost.
“I didn’t see you at first. What are you doing, taking a piss?”
He jerked and turned towards the sound, the voice, as cold and desolate as the night wind made him pull his thin coat closer, “I didn’t hear you, I was trying to find shelter from the wind.”
He muttered, his warm breath momentary heating his cold lips.
The man laughed, an ugly sound, like shattering glass against stone. “The night is beautiful, why hide from it Mykile?” he asked sardonically.
Mykile shivered against the cold. “You are a fortunate man Doctor, I am not so fortunate as you. The cold is worrisome if you do not have proper clothes.” He said, forcing himself not to stutter as the piercing wind whipped his eyes and tore at his unprotected face.


“Do you have it Mykile?” the Doctor asked, tired of the word games, anxious to return to his warm house and his young mistress.
Mykile pulled the ragged notebook from his thin coat pocket and looked at him. “I have been waiting for you for over an hour. May I ask where you were?” he said, handing him the notebook.
The Doctor’s mouth twisted in a grimace of distaste as he took the book. “Does it matter?”
“No, I suppose not. I was curious, that was all,” he said quickly. His stomach growled and he blushed in embarrassment, grateful for the darkness.
“Why?” 
“I saw your car parked by the wall. I looked inside, but you were not there.”
He shrugged, “I went for a walk.” He said as he opened and thumbed through the book.
“It is all there?” Mykile said impatiently. He resisted the urge to stomp his frozen feet knowing that it would give Dr. Van der pol further reason to laugh at him. Van der pol looked up and smiled, as he pushed his fur lined hat back on his head. He regarded Mykile for several minutes then reached inside his coat and withdrew a small leather purse. He tossed it to Mykile insolently and watched as he scrambled to catch it. 
Mykile opened the bag and poured the silver coins into his pale, cold hand. He counted them, frowned, and then counted them again. “This is not what we agreed to!” he said, his voice shaking from the cold and his anger.


“That is all you get,” he sneered coldly.
Mykile closed his fist around the coins and swallowed past the fury in his throat. It was not much, but it would buy enough bread to feed his family for a month. He blinked back the angry tears that froze on his lashes and looked at Van der pol. “Good-bye Doctor,” he said and turned and walked away.
Van Der Pol watched him walk away in disgust. If he’d been in Mykile’s place he would have demanded his money, insisted on being paid as agreed. But men like Mykile were lambs, to be used by the lions of men like him. He frowned and wiped at the black smudges on the notebook, there were several of them, as though someone had handled something oily then picked up the book. He shrugged and looked after Mykile whose only memory were footprints made with heelless boots in the hard, deep snow. He smiled without humor, the Mykiles’ of the world were meant to serve his kind, and the sooner he got used to that fact the better off he’d be. Small man. Small thoughts. Small life.
He walked to his car, opened the door and got in. It purred to life when he turned the key and he sat back inhaling the warm air that circled him. For a man to commit treason against his country, Mykile showed surprisingly little courage after he cheated him. He expected a fight, a verbal protest at least. Maybe he was expecting too much, he and Mykile were nothing alike. After a few minutes he reversed out of the parking space, turned the car around and headed for the bridge. He picked up the notebook and frowned. There were black smudges on the cover and inside, staining the pages. 


He lifted it to his nose and inhaled, the scent was not unfamiliar to him, and he remembered it as a boy when he’d watched his father tinker with his car in the garage. He looked up; he was approaching the small, old bridge that spanned a deep river. He gently stepped on the breaks and the car did not slow down. He frowned, and pressed harder, fighting panic. The brakes were fine. The car was almost new. He pressed again.
Nothing happened. Van der pol looked at the book in disbelief as the car careened out of control, sliding on a patch of ice and plunging head first into the deep, icy river. He struggled against the cold as the car’s electrical circuits burnt out and he realized that his prize possession would be his tomb. “Perhaps,” Van der pol thought, as he ceased to struggle and the freezing water swallowed his car and sucked the warmth and life from his body, “Mykile and I are not so different after all.” 

“Dennis, listen to me, please! If we release the virus as it was created, it will destroy not only your designated group but everyone and everything that it comes in contact with.”
“What is your point Phillip?” Dennis asked sarcastically.
Philip sighed tiredly, his wife Marian was right; he was in over his head. When he was approached six months ago, he’d jumped at the opportunity to prove he had deserved the Nobel Prize he received at the age of twenty-five. The environmental experiment they offered would be his last chance for a moment in the sun before he retired at sixty-eight. 


He realized too late that his moment of glory could cost millions of people their lives, but he had to keep trying.
“Dennis, if we alter the direction of the virus as I hypothesized in my lab notes that you read, it would be just as effective. In fact,” his voice trailed off as Dennis walked slowly towards him, a look of hatred on his pale, cold face. He stopped when their faces were inches apart.
“Listen to me old man. You will not alter any component of this experiment unless you’re told, is that clear?!” He snarled, as tiny drops of spittle sprayed over Phillip’s heated face. 
Philip wished he had done as Marion had asked him to, she always knew best. They’d been married for forty-five years. When he’d left his post at Harvard, she encouraged him to retire to their modest home in the country and teach on a part-time basis at the local college. 
He’d scoffed at the idea of doing nothing for months at a time, but secretly he felt old and useless, like a horse, unable to run, sent to the glue factory. He’d had a great career. It was time to move aside and let someone else have a chance. “Did you fall asleep old man? Should I get you a pillow?” Dennis asked sarcastically, as he watched a lifetime of emotions cross Philip’s face.
He enjoyed Philip’s discomfort and rejoiced at the knowledge that he was afraid of him. Dennis was thirty years younger, a bully and jealous of Philip’s past accomplishments. He was fed up with Philip’s awards and accolades being shoved in his face day-after-day. 


Phillip wasn’t so crude to actually remind him of the awards, but each time Dennis made a mistake, Phillip corrected him. Dennis knew Phillip was laughing at him, finding his skills lacking in the lab and ha hated him for it.
“Dennis, you can’t fully understand the ramifications of what we’ve done here,” Philip said tiredly.
“I understand better than you know Doctor. I understand that it is my time to shine now! This project could not have gotten off the ground without me, and we both know it! You may have recreated the virus, but I enabled it to survive in the carrier fluid, coaxed the cells into the mutations and perfected the contaminant factor. Your job is over. You’re just the lab assistant now, so be a good boy and get the mice ready. Our benefactor should be here soon.” Dennis turned and walked away leaving Phillip quivering in his wake.
Phillip watched him, with dread and fear. His eyes, empty, tired and lost, followed him around as he turned on burners and began preparation for their visitor. Phillip starred into the blue flame of the burners and realized that they were whispering to him. They were telling him that it was time to cleanse himself of his mistake, to right the wrong he’d done. 
He heard the voices and understood their message. He nodded to the flames, he knew what he had to do, his destiny was clear, and he would not fail them. 
Dennis looked at Philip and smirked at the tears glistening in his eyes. Here stood the great researcher and lecturer, near tears, quivering and helpless in his lab.
“Philip, are you waiting for an engraved invitation or are you going to help me?”
“Of course Dennis, whatever you need, I’ll help you.” Phillip said quietly.