Suddenly, she was aware of somebody close by. She turned and came face-to-face with a female behind the clear plastic suit mask looking suspiciously at her.
“Where is Comrade Yu Son today?” a high-pitched, authoritative voice came through the head communication system.
Grace controlled her panic and replied calmly, gambling on the outcome. “She’s not on duty. I have just arrived here and was told to use her workstation until one is allocated.” She then quickly changed the subject in the hope of diverting the woman’s attention. “The one mil of vaccine I applied to the Interleukin smallpox sample had a very rapid effect. A lesser dosage would, in my opinion, have done the same. I am about to try to prove the theory.”
The woman kept her eyes intently on Grace for what seemed a lifetime and then bent down to look through the microscope. Seconds later, she stood up again and smiled. Relief flooded Grace’s senses.
“A very clean dish,” the woman said. “Good for you to have seen the obvious so soon. You do not have to test the theory. I have already done so and it works. All that remains now is to test it on our human subjects. I have requested four new specimens to be given lesser proportionate dosages and we will observe the effects,” she added matter-of-factly.
Dispassionate bitch, thought Grace, desperately wanting to know from her what type of bacteria was being used, but afraid to ask for fear of exposure. She was sure every virologist in the room would know the make-up of the vaccine. “I look forward to monitoring the results,” she said, sick inside.
The woman stared at Grace, then asked, “Where were you before this posting?”
Grace did not hesitate; she had done her homework for just this situation and replied confidently, “Camp 22, Haengyong. I was there for one year.” She referred to the notorious labour camp in the northeast of the country where some 55,000 prisoners, including women and children, toiled each day to produce goods for sale in foreign lands and where over twenty-five percent of the inmate population die every year from overwork, but mostly from the testing of biological and chemical agents.
The woman nodded. “And before that?”
“Chongju – two years.” This was a facility where biological agents were weaponized.
“Did you work with Professor Park Ung Gul?”
Grace’s mind raced; the woman was probing. Grace did not recall a professor of that name when running over the names of senior virologists that were shown to her.
She took a chance. “I do not recall a professor of that name when I was there. Perhaps before that?”
The woman smiled, nodding at the same time, then proceeded in a casual way to question Grace on technical aspects of the IL-4 gene and the various variola major strains until she appeared satisfied that Grace knew what she was talking about. Nodding again, the woman seemed to lose interest and began to turn away.
Grace took another big risk. “As I am new here, could you tell me where the vaccine is stored? I will return the vial on my way out.”
Turning back, the woman answered sharply, “Technicians will do that – leave it.” Then she hesitated. “On second thought, I will show you; you may be called to experiment at unusual hours when they are not here. Follow me.”
Grace unhooked the air-hose and duly obliged, unable to believe her luck. Just how much longer could it last?
In Level 0, Ryder waited anxiously. Grace had entered Level 1 over two hours ago. Hanging around the airlock was beginning to attract suspicious glances, so much so, that he and the other two men were forced to split up and leave the corridor altogether for short periods before re-entering singly at various intervals. If she wasn’t out within the next hour he decided they would go in.
Grace followed the woman along the corridor to where the freezers were kept at the entrance to Level 4. When they arrived, the virologist pointed out the large liquid nitrogen freezers in which the super virus was stored and watched as a technician lifted the circular lid of the waist-high, drum-shaped unit, emitting a cloud of white vapour, which poured down the side of the drum and onto the concrete floor. The technician carefully removed a rack of vials from a trolley and placed it inside. Less than a minute later, the lid was replaced to avoid the reservoir of nitrogen in the bottom from heating up and creating a fog-like atmosphere in the room.
“Does that hold the entire stocks of IL-4 smallpox here?” Grace asked innocently, wanting to find out if more was stored elsewhere, while glancing around to see if a furnace was nearby. There wasn’t.
“Yes, this is the only place where it is manufactured. Once it is full, the contents are sent to Chongju for weaponization,” replied the virologist, guiding Grace away.
She decided it would be futile to attempt to find a furnace and empty the contents of the freezer into it – firstly, because there were too many vials; and secondly, a furnace could be some distance away making it impossible to transport the freezer contents without discovery. Her priority now: to get out with a vaccine.
Expecting to be shown another freezer, or at least a refrigerator holding the vaccine, Grace was surprised and greatly relieved when the woman opened a door close to the air-lock and both entered a smaller workroom that housed lab testing equipment on one side and shelves containing an assortment of vials on the other, next to a stainless-steel bench and sink unit. At the sink stood a technician siphoning liquid from the racked vials into small stainless-steel tubular containers. The containers, explained the woman, held stocks of the vaccine for experimental purposes and were vacuum-designed to maintain the potency of the vaccine for up to three weeks without refrigeration. She added that this was necessary to inoculate the population in the more remote regions of the north. Manufacturing for mass use, she said, was carried out in Pyongyang. Grace eyed the six-inch long, two-inch diameter tubes and wondered just how she was going to steal one, or maybe two, and get them out. She worried too if they would have sufficient time to get back to the sub and to a refrigerator. The virologist showed her how to siphon off the liquid into the vials, excused herself, then left.
Grace went out shortly after and milled around in the freezer area with other personnel until the technician came out of the room pushing a trolley of vials. Grace sidled back into the room, took two tubes from the rack, checked that they held the vaccine and, with adrenaline pumping, left and headed straight for the exit. Unsuccessfully attempting to conceal the containers in the palms of her hands, she unplugged the air-hose and entered the small ante room. Here she removed boots and pushed the air-lock operating pad praying no one was coming through or waiting on the other side.
The air-lock decontamination doors slid open – the room was empty. She stepped in, turned on the shower with difficulty and hoped it was Lysol spraying the space suit clean. One minute later, she exited the chamber and went back into the common changing area. Thankfully only a handful of people were there, all on the far side. She clambered out of the suit, removed her gloves, tape and socks and binned them, wrapping the tubes in a surgical cap before heading for the female locker room, her heart in her mouth.