Anthrax: The Hunt Narrows

Nob

ody just waltzes into the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases. The lab, better known as USAMRIID, sits on the grounds of Fort Detrick, in rural Maryland, about an hour north of Washington, and before you can even get close to the mostly windowless concrete building, you have to get on the base itself. Employees must flash their badges, and visitors must show two forms of photo ID--and open their trunks and glove compartments--before guards will let them pass. To enter the lab itself, armed security guards, present around the clock, must wave you through.

Why such scrutiny? Because USAMRIID handles the deadliest pathogens known to man, including Ebola, Marburg virus, Rift Valley fever--and, of course, anthrax. It was at Fort Detrick that the U.S. stockpile of biological weapons was manufactured in the 1960s, and at USAMRIID that research into deadly germs was concentrated for the next three decades.

But amid several positive steps last week in the nation's recovery from the anthrax attacks--a doubling of the reward for information to $2.5 million; news that scientists at the Institute for Genomic Research in Maryland were close to making a genetic fingerprint of the anthrax powder; the reopening of the freshly decontaminated Hart Senate Office Building--USAMRIID itself was under attack. The Army was scrambling last week to answer charges that controls inside the lab over the past decade were at best lax and at worst scandalous. The reports added support to a growing suspicion that whoever sent the anthrax letters may have had strong ties to USAMRIID or may even have worked there in the past.

The Hartford Courant revealed last week that some 27 samples of anthrax, Ebola and other pathogens were missing during a 1992 inventory at USAMRIID. According to several former employees and at least one current one--as well as internal Army documents released in response to a 1998 lawsuit and first made public in December--it was surprisingly easy for employees to get hold of highly infectious bacteria. Walking out with some in your pocket would have been no problem at all.

It is clear from the same documents that discipline and morale at the lab in the early 1990s were a mess. USAMRIID at the time was roiled by alleged racial and sexual harassment, factions warring over the lab's leadership, accusations of incompetence and even theft of research. One particularly nasty clique formed a "Camel Club," whose symbol was a toy camel outfitted with outsize sex organs and whose members wrote lewd limericks mocking co-workers and sponsored notorious hot-tub parties. In short, USAMRIID had become a breeding ground of resentment and hateful high jinks.

At least two dissatisfied former employees are suing. Richard Crosland, 55, a microbiologist suing for age discrimination after his 1997 layoff, worked primarily with botulinum toxin. "7-Eleven had better inventory controls than USAMRIID," he says. "The inventories were pretty much a joke. People often just filled them in using last month's forms. In my 11 years there, they never once asked for my botulinum toxin records. If I had taken it all home--which of course I didn't--no one would have known." How can he be sure? "After I was fired," says Crosland, "I made three trips out the front door, past security and to my car, carrying boxes. No one ever checked what I was taking with me."

Another former employee, Ayaad Assaad, whose lawsuit over his 1997 dismissal led to the release of the Army documents, says he got a call last year from security reporting a power outage in a freezer; when Assaad explained he had not worked there in years, the guard said his was the only name on the security roster. Assaad also complains that he was the chief target of Camel Club harassment. The Army has confirmed the charge and issued an apology.

But while he admits that there were problems at USAMRIID in the past, Colonel Edward Eitzen, the lab commander, says the allegations of easy access to toxins and lax security are grossly exaggerated. "It would be very difficult to stop a determined insider from removing samples even if you were stopping everybody on their way out," he concedes. But, he says, "even prior to 9/11, we were as good or better than any other laboratory in terms of our security and our safety." Of the 27 missing samples, 26 have been tracked down, he maintains, and in any case, they had all been inactivated and were no longer infectious. As for the Animal House behavior, Eitzen chalks it up to a small group of people who have since been disciplined. (Says one unrepentant former Camel Club member: "What I did on my own time is nobody's business.")

Assaad's troubles, though, didn't stop with his departure from the lab. In late September, he was the subject of an anonymous letter that was forwarded to the FBI. The note had highly specific details about Assaad and claimed he was preparing a biological attack. It was sent before the first anthrax case broke.