gridlock a novel of suspense

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A Novel of Suspense

By Alvin Ziegler



Alvin Ziegler

148 Alhambra StreetSan Francisco, California 94123 USA

[email protected]

Telephone: 415.515.0809

© 2010 Alvin Ziegler

mailto:[email protected]

mailto:[email protected]



_____________________________________________

“The Grid is expected to be the next World Wide

Web.”

—CERN, the Swiss research laboratory that pioneered both.

"The effort to decipher the human genome . . . will

be the scientific breakthrough of the century—

perhaps of all time.”

—President Bill Clinton, March 14, 2000

_____________________________________________



Facts

Wherever we go, we carry four billion years of

information on humanity—arguably the greatest

discovery in scientific history. The United States Government spent over $2.7

billion on decoding the hereditary information in

our DNA, believing it could extend our lives. But

decoding our DNA proved far simpler than

interpreting the data that it produced so its secrets

remained locked. Some liken the difference

between decoding our DNA and interpreting it to

the difference between identifying every part of the

space shuttle and getting it to fly—two very

different tasks. Unmercifully, the sick and dying

have been given a promise that science hasn’t

delivered—until now.

A lightening fast computer network called a grid

is interpreting our DNA. It can solve virtually any

question that can be calculated. Using the Grid,

scientists are able to create custom drugs to treat

diseases like cancer that are as individual as a

fingerprint. But doing so will send shockwaves

through corridors of industry.

This book was inspired by actual organizations,

technologies, and science.



one

Friday, October 28

Meyrin, Switzerland

Jurgen rushed from his apartment into mountain air

at 9:45 A.M., tightening his watch strap.

Dutifully, the silver Mercedes limousine purred atthe curb. He climbed into the backseat as

gracefully as a giant man could and squeaked into

leather upholstery.

“Let’s go,” Jurgen said through the limo window,

lowering the arm rest.

Like a slow-moving missile, the limo hummed

through the foothills of the jagged Jura Mountainstoward its target destination. Jurgen could see the

cerulean blue of Lake Geneva, surrounded by snow-

capped peaks that extended to the Savoy Alps in

France. Cloud wisps swirled over the water as if the

earth was cooling after its creation. Through the

mylar glass, red hair shone beneath the driver’s

cap.



“Where’s Adrian?” Jurgen asked through the limo

window.

“Out sick.”

Jurgen moaned. This was no day for bumbling

around in the twenty-six cantons of Switzerland.

“You do know the way to CERN?” Jurgen asked.”

Jurgen started to recite the organization’s

address. The driver cocked her head around.

“Yes, Director Hansen, I know the Center for

Nuclear Research, where the World Wide Web

started.”

Jurgen was pleasantly surprised to see that his

driver was a woman. At least the limo service had

briefed her. The leather seats squeaked as Jurgen

reclined. The car passed four schoolchildren playing

tag at a bus stop. Behind them, in the distance,snow-capped peaks surrounded Lake Geneva.

Jurgen shot his jacket sleeves over his cufflinks

and slid papers from his lambskin briefcase. He

drummed fingers, studying the talking notes he’d

prepared. He could picture the faces of executives

of the medical community. They had flown from

around the world on this crisp October morning tovisit CERN at Meyrin—some would probably be

disturbed to find that the town was only a glorified

agricultural village.

Jurgen wouldn’t let Dr. Onagi bore them today.

Thankfully, the show stopper would be the Grid

network. It would jumpstart genomic medicine.

He checked the closeness of his shave.



When the Blackberry in his Joseph Aboud suit

coat vibrated, he scanned the latest missive from

Tatiana: I’m wearing Escade perfume—soon that

will be all I’m wearing.

He adjusted the knot on his Hermes tie, and then

gazed on the road. The limo hugged mountain

contours as it dropped in elevation.

What awaited Jurgen after his pitch for dollars at

CERN was a petite redhead who travelled with silk

handcuffs and a riding crop. After a tense week of

making political documentaries for public

television, she helped him unwind with sexual role-

play. Tonight they would hook up at a chateau high

in the Alps where he would star in her Russian

seductress game. He text messaged a reply: Meet

me @ Zermatt airport, British Airways, Gate 14,term 2, 4 PM—ready or not, J.

Jurgen had picked up Tatiana at a Geneva

discotheque two weeks back. He didn’t know yet

how long he’d keep her—his girlfriend shelf life ran

five weeks tops; after that they become clingy and

he’s onto the next mattress actress.

Shrouded by tinted glass, he reclined against theheadrest. As the limo cut along the highway, Jurgen

envisioned Tatiana’s lips working his chest and

throat. He had made reservations at the luxury

mountain resort for their third date. He prided

himself on wowing even transient girls. And her

body made it easy to spend big money.

The blare of a truck horn startled him back to

reality. He straightened his slicked back blond hair.



With cowbells dinging through a cracked window,

he punched his father’s number in Copenhagen on

his Blackberry.

“Papa, today could mark the beginning of

medical history.”

“Jurgen, don’t let the title of Life Science Director

at CERN give you a God complex.”

His father’s voice cut out while Jurgen lowered

the armrest, then the call dropped. Jurgen hit

redial. No signal.

Looking through the rear window again, his eye

caught the Savoy Alps in France. The limo glided

through the rural countryside, going west through

the Rhone Valley.

He hammered on the window divide. “Driver.

This isn’t right.”“There is road construction, Sir,” the chauffeur

said sternly. “We’re making a detour.”

Jurgen’s watch read ten-thirty already. “Give it

some gas. I can’t be late.”

“I’m taking a shortcut.”

Jurgen’s claustrophobia surfaced.

The driver veered the Mercedes off the highway. Jurgen felt a nerve flutter. They’d turned onto a

road that could’ve been a long country driveway.

The limo’s tires grumbled over rocks. The road

narrowed, giving way to clover and dirt over a

canopied path that was no more than a partially

paved cow trail.

Jurgen’s mouth went dry. “Where are we going?”



Without answering, the driver pressed a button

in the glove compartment. Jurgen caught that she

wore an earpiece.

“Hey, lady. Go back to the highway.”

The driver rolled up her sleeves. “Patience, we

are close.”

“Patience my ass! Turn the damn car around.”

The woman hunched at the wheel.

Holding his Blackberry, Jurgen hit the three-digit

Swiss code for emergencies. He saw no bars of

cellular signal. Communications were usually good

in this area.

The limo halted meters from the edge of a lake

ringed with snowcapped peaks. Glacier water

reflected finger clouds moving across a pale blue

sky. A postcard setting until the driver whippedopen Jurgen’s car door.

“Out,” the driver ordered.

Jurgen held the limo handle. “What is this?”

The woman leveled a handgun at Jurgen’s

forehead.

Jurgen jerked his hands high, “Easy!”

Watching the unblinking woman, Jurgen droppedone foot outside the car, then the other. She had

the shoulders and frame of a competitive swimmer.

What looked like a birth mark covered the left side

of her face; it left a startling impression.

The woman popped open the silver Mercedes

trunk with the car key. Jurgen dropped his gaze to a

coil of fishing line and a twenty-pound gym weight.

Something told him this wasn’t about fly fishing.



“Remove the line,” the woman ordered. “The

weight, too.”

As Jurgen picked them up, he heard a buzz from

overhead. A twin-engine plane—a businessman on

holiday, perhaps. If only that plane could be

Jurgen’s charter. But even if he contacted help now,

it would come too late. He swept a gaze over the

wooded lake, grasping at a way out. There were no

houses within sight, no vehicles. No help.

So much for being in the land of neutrality.

The plane noise quieted. The clearing had the

stillness of a cemetery. A breeze rustled dry leaves

past his feet. The woman said, “Tie that weight to

your leg and knot it tight!”

Cradling the weights against his chest, Jurgen

begged, “Do you want money? Take my wallet, mywatch.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Who do you work for?”

“Those who protect us all.” She had the gun still

trained on Jurgen’s head.

“What about my protection?”

“Save your breath and get to work!” Jurgen bent and tied, imagining the worst. It was

time to act. “Is this about the Grid?”

Jurgen jerked into a standing position, carrying

the weight.

“Hey!” The woman shouted.

In a gliding motion, Jurgen lunged and hurled the

weight at the woman’s moving head. The weight

struck her shoulder, knocking her down. She



dropped the gun and fell beside the weight like a

door knocked off its hinges.

Jurgen leapt for the gun. With a quick crawl and

grunt, the woman beat him to it. On the ground,

she swung around, pointed the gun and fired.

Jurgen touched the red between his fingers.

Huffing, the woman awkwardly returned to her

feet.

“Please, what do you want?” Jurgen’s voice

broke.

She lowered the gun. “Get that weight before

you die right here.”

Blood snaked down Jurgen’s arm. He shimmied

to the gym weight, pulled it and the fishing line

toward him with one hand. With a pained

expression, he bound it around his ankle. The woman brushed dirt from her hat, glowering.

“Get up!”

Jurgen lumbered to his feet, checking his

shoulder. “Does this involve Jude Wagner? Killing

me doesn’t end the medical revolution.”

“Shut up.”

“It doesn’t change the FDA decision.” The FDA had recently approved genomic drug

trials for diabetes patients.

The woman’s face hardened. She motioned with

the gun barrel tip for Jurgen to step into the lake.

Jurgen hesitated then moved fearfully into the

water. Waist deep, he glanced at his college ring,

then stepped out of his loafers and dove under the

algae-covered surface. Underwater, he struggled to



lose the weight that was tied to his leg. The

October sun had failed to warm the icy lake. His

legs were turning numb and his frozen fingers

fumbled with the fishing line. His head surfaced.

Shards of driftwood floated by as he tried to

breathe.

Gasping, he heard a blast. In the first

nanosecond he felt a sharp tap. In shock, he felt no

pain. But he could no longer fill his lungs with air.

Another shot slammed into his forehead.

Ripples spread noiselessly, expanding in

symmetry above his sinking head.



two

Friday, October 28

San Francisco, CA

Aiming his car key button at his Mazda, Jude locked

the MX6 on steep Hyde Street. One block from

home, he had found a spot without circling. Just

what he needed after one too many bourbons.

Russian Hill was known for its views but was

equally recognized for horrendous parking.

He drifted by a family of five parading from an

ice cream parlor. The store manager followed them

out, flipping a closed sign on the glass door. Their

trip for dessert looked like a nine o’clock ritual. The

kids goofed on their father when his scoop landed

on the pavement.

Jude’s footsteps slowed when a hazy childhood

memory circled from years back. Jude’s mother

used to carpool him and his friends from Little

League baseball games to the Baskin Robbins Ice

Cream after the ninth inning. She would buy a hot-fudge sundae for any batter who got on base. She

would’ve been proud of how Jude was working to



improve medicine at Stanford. It was his way of

rewriting his childhood history. He shook off the

memories. Brooding was a bad habit. It snuck up on

him while he lived alone.

Coming to his rented ground-floor flat, he picked

up the New York Times electric blue plastic bag. He

carried it through the front gate to the

Mediterranean-styled three-story house. Ruby

bougainvillea covered the stucco exterior. Under a

trellis of hibiscus, he strode brick steps to his door.

He tumbled the key inside the lock; it cranked

too easily. No resistance. The Baldwin bolt had

already been turned. That had a sobering effect.

The idea of calling the cops crossed his mind, but

he didn’t feel like waiting. He moved inside his

narrow, railroad-configured place. The ceilingspotlights in the hallway had been switched on.

He remembered turning them off when he’d left

that morning. Crossing the living room, he made a

fist. The bookcase had been emptied. Mystery

paperbacks, San Francisco history books and rock

concert ticket stubs decorated the floor. Papers

that had been stacked on the rice chest-turned-coffee table were now strewn on the oriental rug.

Maybe the intruder hadn’t left. He listened for

creaks in the floor.

Except for wind lashing at the windows, there

was nothing. Not even a fog horn.

Lightly, he stepped to the kitchen. Open

cupboard drawers showed rearranged boxes of

pasta noodles and chips. In the bedroom, his



Chinese dresser doors were ajar. Shirts, suits and a

high school wrestling trophy had tumbled out on

the floor. He went to the mini-study to check on his

desktop computer. The drive bay was hollow and

dark; the hard drive— missing.

Cursing to himself, he heard a scuffling sound of

hard-soled shoes from the front hallway. Around

the corner, he glimpsed a man in a suit who kicked

open the closet door, then raced outside the flat.

Into draughty air howling off the Bay, Jude

barreled down the dizzying grade of Filbert Street.

Across the gulch, Coit Tower glowed, a beacon in

the night.

The thick-bodied man bobbed in his flapping suit

jacket. Practiced at navigating the decline, Jude had

an edge. He tapped down the steps. As the streetleveled, Jude locked on his subject, advancing on

his strides. Years of Grid information was stored on

that hard drive. While Jude usually backed up

everything daily, he had failed to do that for a

breakthrough he had made earlier today. He

regretted not grabbing his service weapon from

under his bed on the way out—a new agentblunder.

They plowed into North Beach. Jude clipped by

Washington Square Park and caught a faint roasted

bean aroma that emanated from a closed coffee

store. Only ten feet behind the man, he went for it.

Jude lunged and brought him to the pavement

before a pizzeria. While on the ground, the man



held the hard drive tight. With one knee on him,

Jude pulled the man’s arms behind him.

“Call the cops,” some voice from the restaurant

shouted.

“I’m a Federal agent,” Jude said.

The man turned over, breaking free. A Range

Rover skidded to a stop. A spry woman in a brown

jumpsuit hopped out like a hockey player hitting

ice. Next, her boot pressed into the back of Jude’s

neck, forcing him to asphalt. With her mitt of a

hand, she snatched the hard drive and papers.

Jude snagged her leg, sending her to the

sidewalk for a time out. The hard drive dropped to

the ground. Jude intercepted it before he was

slugged in the abdomen.

Elbows tucked, he held the hard drive close andfended off one assailant while the other scrambled

for his denim pockets. But they were impossible to

get at with Jude thrashing, so they rammed him in

the knees. He went palms and face down onto

pavement.



three

Friday, October 28

Meyrin, Switzerland

From the observation deck, Hideo looked down at

the bottom of a cavernous, two-story room, staring

glassy-eyed at the most expensive scientificexperiment in history. Alone, three hundred feet

underground, in the all-white chamber, Hideo could

almost see his breath and hear his heart beat. He

nervously tapped his Ecco shoe. The whiteness, the

uninterrupted stillness, the loneliness of this

laboratory, conspired to attack Hideo’s composure.

His stomach gurgled. Family turmoil and the

immense significance of the imminent presentation

had set off his ulcer. He had arranged to fly to his

estranged wife as soon as this was over, but he

could not worry about that now.

The time had come for Hideo to illustrate the

scientific breakthrough; a product of decades of

effort by hundreds of the world’s most

distinguished scientists.



Above him were enormous girders and struts

supporting a high-ceilinged space. Below, a sort of

subway platform served as a maintenance station

to the monorail that traveled along a twenty-seven-

kilometer circumference. Here, beneath the Franco-

Swiss border, in this subterranean complex, is

where the famous collider experiments happened.

Hideo’s attendees gradually arrived, two dozen

board members and financial officers from the

world’s largest hospitals and universities had jetted

from around the world to this vast lab in secluded

Meyrin. They looked about, stone-faced, at the

elaborate consoles that were connected by colored

wires that lined the walls.

The potentially world-altering significance of this

scientific work at CERN should be obvious. Still,Hideo knew that the history of science had been

strewn with discoveries of immense importance

that were first met with cold indifference or

skepticism—quantum physics, for example—and

allowed to lie fallow for decades before acceptance.

The world couldn’t afford that mistake to be

made today. Delay of action on this Stanfordgenome project could cost tens of thousands of

lives. No wonder, then, that Hideo was anticipating

Jurgen’s entry with every fiber in his body.

Jurgen, CERN’s Life Science Director, should be

here already. These were his contacts. Jurgen said

he’d handle the walking-tour part of the

presentation. Hideo’s stomach churned again.



He was going to have to fill in for Jurgen. But

Hideo represented Stanford. His area of molecular

biology involved computer science, artificial

intelligence and biochemistry—not physics. Hideo

felt like an out-of-town lawyer who stood alone

before a restless jury. It was the trial of his life, but

he was minus the expert witness. These strangers

would render a pass-fail verdict on work that had

consumed him for years. This presentation for

funding could draw vital donations.

Hideo flushed with embarrassment when the

consortium—huddled together as a mini United

Nations—looked at him. He could almost hear their

thoughts. They wanted some scholarly revelation

about how this would save lives. That would come.

First, they had to see what CERN’s Grid computerdid. To kill a few minutes, he flipped through 3x5

note cards, reviewing his talking points.

Returning the cards to his pocket, he felt

something else there and took it out a photo of his

daughter, Yomiko—age nine and the joy of his life.

He gazed at it briefly, then pushed it to the bottom

of his pocket. He gestured toward the huge brightblue metal pipe overhead.

After introducing himself, Hideo said “this pipe

runs through a cement-lined tunnel that extends in

a seventeen-mile subterranean circle. The metal

used here could build another Eiffel Tower.” On the

wall beneath the pipe, exotic instruments flashed.

The audience started to chatter.



“As you may know, the Large Hadron Collider is

the most powerful accelerator in the world,

operating at minus two hundred and seventy-one

Centigrade or minus four hundred and fifty-six

degrees Fahrenheit—colder than deep space.”

Hideo thought to himself then said. “This nine-

billion-dollar underground linear accelerator was

designed to smash protons to analyze the big

questions of physics, cosmology, the big bang—oh

—and unified theory. Superconducting magnets are

used to guide protons into a massive collision for

observation.”

A fat man interrupted, looking at the tube above,

“Okay, but how does that relate—”

“Please bear with me—scientists wouldn’t have

gotten anywhere without a big enough computer toanalyze all of the data. CERN employed a computer

system called a grid to study results.”

Attendees murmured, rubbing their arms. He

was losing them.

Fat man: “Like an electrical power grid?”

“Not exactly. Computer grids link thousands of

computers to work as a single virtual machine. ThisGrid analyzes the equivalent of thirteen million

DVDs worth of information that the particle collision

produces.”

A hawk-faced lady dressed in black: “What does

this do for healthcare?”

Hideo spoke rapidly. “We’re repurposing this

world computer to analyze the human genome—

the total hereditary content of an individual. It



holds four billion years of information on humanity,

the ultimate human recipe book. That’s why you’re

here, to see how your dollars can make practical

use of the genome, the greatest discovery in

scientific history. Interpreting the genome enables

us to diagnose every disease. You see, the Grid will

change society as the Internet did; it will not only

crunch diagnoses, but will answer anything that

can be calculated.”

He paused to let the message sink in and was

gratified to see he had eye contact.

The hawk lady pointed skeptically at the flashing

instruments. “This is how you’ll change medicine?”

“Let me explain. CERN’s physicists built the Grid

to handle questions that are exponentially more

complex than any computer systems could handlebefore. Conveniently, the Grid runs over the World

Wide Web—which CERN also invented to analyze

atom-smashing results.”

A technician entered the room below and started

electrical equipment.

Hideo raised his voice to speak over the burring

noise, “The Grid also powers Stanford University’sresearch. It’s all about distributed processing

power, connecting computers everywhere to work

as one.”

A Persian man in a finely-tailored, double-

breasted suit: “How will this help the general

public?”

“I’m getting to that.”



The hawk-faced lady said, “So Jude Wagner isn’t

speaking today?”

“He’s not.” Hideo wrung his hands. He and

Jurgen had invited Jude to be present for this

important meeting, but these days, Jude was

overbooked. He now worked for the FBI. The bureau

desperately needed computer experts of Jude’s

caliber to improve their electronic surveillance unit.

The public recognized Jude for his computer

discovery. And to international acclaim, he would

soon receive the Touring Award from Intel

Corporation.

Hideo was sorry that he’d miss the award

ceremony, but right now his trip to Tokyo took

priority.

“Let’s go to Building Six,” Hideo said, “I’ll explainas we have refreshments.”

Mercifully, Hideo sensed his audience lightening

up. With a flick of a CERN tour guide flag, he

directed them.

He stole a look at his watch. Jurgen was over an

hour late. Good god. Could he be hung over sick

from a night of carousing and forgotten about thispresentation?

After an elevator ride to the ground level, they

filed to Building Six. While the group exchanged

hotel stories and restaurant recommendations,

Hideo used his phone to fire off a text message to

Jurgen.

WHERE ARE YOU?



Hideo led the way to a conference room. Trays of

salmon, mini-bagels with cream cheese, capers,

pears, grapes, quiche squares, tarts waited on the

side cabinet.

“I’m afraid we’re running late. Please kindly

bring a plate to the conference table after you’ve

served yourself.”

The audience members crowded over to the hors

d'oeuvres. Hideo motioned for guests to get

comfortable at the rosewood table. The servers

entered and disappeared with empty platters.

Bottles of Evian water and folders were set on the

table at precise intervals for each person.

The orderly area reminded Hideo of his fastidious

wife and their soul-searing divorce. His daughter’s

face flashed before him. He moved across theconference room to get back to his performance.

Jurgen’s absence had thrown him off.

“Okay. The question from earlier was how this

Grid partnership with Stanford was going to help

the public.”

“Yes,” came from the Persian man, sipping

Evian.“The goal is to improve everyday medicine using

our genomes. The genome is our roadmap to

understanding disease. All disease has a hereditary

basis. We’re tapping into that with huge processing

power. The U.S. government got us part of the way

there by sequencing the human genome in 2003,

but that was just a start and that took 13 years and

two-point-seven billion dollars.”



Perspiration soaked his shirt. Hideo fiddled with

his wedding ring, distracted by thoughts of his wife

and daughter. He wondered if his Yomiko missed

him.

“What does genomic medicine do that traditional

medicine can’t?” The fat man asked.

“Traditional medicine is failing. It treats everyone

who has cancer with a short list of drugs like we’re

all the same. But in reality, cancer is as individual

as a fingerprint. We’re talking about one-point-four

million people being diagnosed with cancer

annually in the U.S. alone who are being lumped

together with treatment that ignores their DNA. It’s

time we match individual treatment to individuals.

Side effects from mis-prescription kills 100,000

Americans a year.” he said. “Genomic medicine willchange this.”

“How?” Hawk Lady asked.

“Once we identify an individual’s genome, a

world of information becomes available to us: a

person’s body chemistry, his predispositions, his

susceptibilities, his strengths and weaknesses on a

molecular level.”Hideo took a deep breath.

“By the way, feel free to turn to your brochures.

The Stanford Project works like this: a patient has

his genome sequenced by a company like 23andMe

based in the San Francisco Bay Area—soon, this will

cost less than one thousand dollars. The results

would come back on two DVDs to the patient and

his doctor. That doctor could then log onto



Stanford’s secured website to access the Grid. The

Grid would compare the genomic data from those

DVDs against millions of other online medical

records, isolating tissue samples from patients with

similar symptoms or disease. The result: a

customized treatment for your individual illness.

When you combine the Grid that crunches

massive amounts of data with the U.S.

Government’s National Cancer Institute grid which

is called caBIG—the cancer Biomedical Informatics

Grid, well, you end up with a very powerful thing.”

The audience had gone dead silent.

“Can you back up? Where do those patient

records come from?” asked a man with a Scottish

accent.

“Good question. For years, medical researchersstruggled with doing statistical analysis. Hospitals,

doctor’s offices and pharmacies used disparate

computer systems. Thus, networks couldn’t

communicate, making medical records

inaccessible. Vital information that could save lives

was wasted.

Finally, research hospitals teamed up witheveryone possible to get the data online. The

solution started with creating systems of security

that topped that of the ATM business. Of course,

even putting anonymous medical information

online was controversial. Everyone feared the

upshot of a privacy breach. But the need to save

lives won the war over privacy fears. Computer

standards were created and information pooled.



Mind you, all names, social security numbers and

hospital account numbers remained anonymous.

While this was happening, the search engines of

the world connected that pooled information to

create an even larger dataset.”

“So, what’s next?” The question came from a

man seated at the far end of the table.

“Well, already at Stanford, we’re diagnosing

volunteers’ illnesses through a system of

comparison, using their DNA. The Grid matches bits

of molecular information from tumors with exactly

the right drug to suppress that tumor. To treat each

cancer patient individually means a boat load of

analysis. The computer power of the Grid makes it

possible. In the case of cancer, we fight mutations

with custom-made proteins that conform to thatperson’s body chemistry.”

Some heads nodded subtly.

A Persian man asked, “Is there someone from

CERN who is assigned to this Stanford Project?”

“I should’ve mentioned, Jurgen Hansen, CERN’s

Director of Life Sciences, is the liaison between this

lab and Stanford’s. He’s setting up the physicalInternet connection to link the grids.”

The Scottish man said, “Personalized medicine is

a pipedream until we make it affordable.”

Hideo stood tall to elongate his short stature.

“Exactly. That’s the point here. We’re also in the

business of democratizing medicine; making the

costly part—research and diagnosis—free.”

“How?” the same man interrupted.



“We’re leveraging shared computer resources

here. Not only does the Grid run over the Internet,

which is free, but it gets power from volunteers’

idle computers. In the packet you’ll see how the

Grid here at CERN relies on distributed processing

power from volunteers.

I can see doubt out there. Believe me, all we

need are the resources. Isn’t fighting cancer as

worthy a mission as landing spacecraft on Mars? If

we don’t push medicine forward 1500 Americans

will go on dying from cancer every day. And thirty-

nine million people will still have AIDS in Africa

because old expensive drugs are failing.

Why not invest the smallest fraction of that and

get a leg up on the fight against diseases like

cancer? You can see what a marvel CERN’s Grid isif we’re already using it to make sense of the Big

Bang. “

Audience members turned to one another. Hideo

had scored a point.

Looking at his watch, he checked on the time

leading to his departing flight.

“I know this is a lot to swallow, but we can allagree that healthcare in the West is disappointing.

The Stanford/CERN partnership is testing a non-

profit alternative to our existing universal

healthcare, and we need your support.”

The place was silent until a man entered the

room.

“Excuse me for being late.” He said.



While the room was silent the new man took the

opportunity to speak. “I apologize if you’ve already

covered this, but what exactly would our

endowment money accomplish?”

To Hideo’s relief, eyes tracked him as he circled

the table. The late arrival found a seat.

“Your investment will pay employee salaries to

build Stanford’s online service. Your dollars

guarantee we have processing power from places

like CERN. It also extends our Grid to every home

PC—running like a worldwide database—bringing

supercomputing power to desktops, virtually. We’ll

have one enormous “virtual” super computer—the

same way researchers from 25 countries analyzed

the collision of particles here through a Grid of

institutions and universities around the world. Andyes, we’ll need trained physicians to mix the

customized drugs.”

The room went quiet. Hideo’s mind strayed to his

daughter; he winced with stomach pain.

He ended with an impassioned plea for

investment, answered twenty minutes of questions,

then checked text messages again. Nothing from Jurgen! Something had to be wrong.

Still, his absence hadn’t been as detrimental as

Hideo had thought. His pitch seemed to have done

the trick.

His plane was leaving in an hour. Barely enough

time to get to the airport. “Excuse me, everyone,”

Hideo announced. “I have a flight to catch.”



four

Friday, October 28

San Francisco, CA

A squad car’s P.A. chirp signaled cars to move out

of the way. The attackers let go of Jude as the

black-and-white whipped around the corner and

stopped. In seconds, the man and woman ran to

the Rover and screeched away.

“On your feet,” came from a voice above.

Jude’s eyes rolled open to see a bystander and

two cops. Three heads silhouetted against the night

sky. One cop gave a repulsed expression at Jude’s

alcohol breath. One strike against him.

“I’m with the FBI,” Jude choked to the mustached

officer.

No response. Two cardboard cutouts of men

would’ve been more animated. After Jude got on

his feet, he showed the officer his wallet and

badge. The bystander vanished into the dark.“Stand back,” the officer said. Jude understood

that many cops had been treated dismissively by a



feeb at some point on duty. That could’ve been the

case here. Also, feds were famous for padding their

arrest reports with busts made by beat officers. It

didn’t help matters. They collaborated like political

rivals.

“What happened here?” The younger cop with

the flat nose hooked a thumb on his belt.

Headlights from passing cars reflected in his brass

name badge.

“Did you see them?” Jude asked, flicking

sidewalk dirt from the hard drive; he touched a

blood droplet that rolled down his cheek.

“No. What’s your story?” The older officer with

the bushy mustache picked his teeth while he

spoke.

“They broke into my place.”“And they were after that . . . computer part?”

The cop pointed at the hard drive that Jude held in

his hands.

The other cop muttered, “That’s why you’re

playing tackle here on Columbus?”

Jude filled them in on the break-in at his

apartment and the subsequent chase. The uniformslooked to be weighing his tale as one version of the

story. The younger cop flipped open a leather-

bound notepad and scratched down notes. While

the officer wrote, Jude removed his cell phone and

speed-dialed his friend and colleague, Niles Tully.

The older officer turned to Jude, “And that’s your

profession…information technology at the bureau?”



Jude nodded. He watched the cop holding his

wallet check his Stanford magnetic clearance card.

“Why do you carry a Stanford access card?” the

cop asked, stroking his mustache.

“I consult for them.”

“ And you work at the FBI?”

“I’m on call at Stanford—a few hours a week—for

a special project.”

The two cops exchanged glances. “Doing?”

“Grid computing.” Jude avoided elaborating on

his role in the genomics initiative.

Looking distracted, the officers held up the

questioning.

“What?” Jude asked. “Don’t I look like a

workaholic?” Jude tapped the hard drive.

“You want a description of the thief, right?” The cop with the pad jotted away.

After a quick ride up the hill in the cruiser, the

three of them trod through Jude’s hallway. The

mustached cop gathered loose paper from the

floor, leafed through them.

“Aren’t you going to have a team dust forlatents?” Jude asked.

“You’ve got your computer equipment now,

right. Can you prove they got anything else?” He

punched the word prove.

Jude’s folded arms dropped to his sides.

“Then it’s only breaking and entering isn’t it?”

Not seeing anything else missing and holding

the recovered hard drive in his hot hands, Jude



knew he’d have to check prints for himself. When

one said to the other, time for a code seven Jude

got that they were signaling to eat and their short-

lived inspection was done. Fearing a lecture on the

risks of vigilantism in North Beach, Jude led the

officers to the door.

After locking the door behind the cops, Jude blew

debris from the hard drive with a can of

compressed air and slid it into the drive bay. Then

he navigated to drive F to check for damage. With

relief, he saw the files. The pounding in his chest

slowed, but he couldn’t forget that whoever

instigated this had dangerous ideas and an

elaborate plan of operation.

He went to the kitchen, pulled a bag out of thefreezer and rubbed Birds Eye frozen corn on his still

raw, throbbing cheek. Moving to the bathroom

mirror, he stared at scrapes from road burn that

textured one side of his face.

Jude straightened things to calm down. While

collecting his concert tickets, Wired magazines,

auto insurance papers and Wells Fargo bankstatements off his living room floor, he realized

something: a folder of business documents that

had been resting on his desk were gone—the

documents that pertained to the Google deal. His

nerves shot up again. It took months of

negotiations to strike the Google deal. He

considered calling in a stolen property claim. But



the Stanford team had taken an oath of secrecy

about the Google deal, so he didn’t.

Jude’s team was proving they could genetically

diagnose disease over the Internet, using the Grid.

If successful, they would forever change drug

treatment; the public knew this.

What Stanford hadn’t made public was how their

impending deal with Google would connect the Grid

to Google’s world databases. This would extend

Stanford’s reach to millions of new electronic

patient records for free in exchange for online

advertising.

This was big news. It meant that patients could

realize precision diagnosis over the Internet for

pennies. With research being the most costly part

of making drugs, soon the Grid could be used tofind custom-tailored drugs, using a patient’s

genome.

The Google deal had been shrouded in secrecy

since the initial negotiations because it threatened

conventional medicine, the biggest industry in the

world. Such medicine relied on blockbuster drugs—

one-size-fits all treatments. Blockbusters earnedthe pharmaceutical industry $234 billion annually.

This new partnership would change the

pharmaceutical landscape overnight—custom-

tailored drugs could now be made very cheaply.

Well aware that this relationship would cause a

ripple effect across industries, the P.R. teams at

Google and Stanford had recommended a big bang



announcement that depended on no leaks that give

lobbyists forewarning.

The Stanford team wanted to be tactful about

how they announce that custom-tailored drugs

could be made very cheaply. The plan was for Jude

to delicately break the news at his award ceremony

without mentioning Google.

The days where corporations had total control

over healthcare could be coming to an end. The

Grid even created hope to curing cancer, but the

work was still vulnerable.

The company heads of Googleplex were ready.

Not only had they organized the world’s printed

information, but they could query medical records

on the fly; and not just view-only records but live

data. Jude got off a quick text message to his twin

sister, Kate, in Kentucky telling her what had

happened. Setting down his phone, he opened the

fridge door and transferred chicken leftovers onto a

stoneware plate.

With a chicken leg in hand, Jude heard a knock.

After peering through the peep hole in the door, heunlocked it. Niles charged in, smelling of cigarette

smoke. In a navy pea coat, dress white pants and

white bucks, he looked as if the British Navy had

left port without him.

“What’s up?” Niles slammed the door. Jude

locked it behind him.

“Your face doesn’t look too good.”



Niles moved into the living room and saw the

papers strewn.

“You’re more scattered than a Jackson Pollack

painting.” Niles said with his Oxford English accent,

snatching paper from the floor. “What happened?”

Niles took the corner club chair, removed a mint in

foil from his pea-coat pocket, unwrapped it and

popped it in his mouth.

Jude moved to the leather sofa. “They were after

my hard drive.”

“Blimey.” Niles looked around again. “Did you

see the tosser?”

“I saw them all right, but not clearly.”

“So, there was more than one. Don’t tell me they

got away.”

“There was only one person in my apartment,and someone came along later who helped the

thief get away. But they didn’t get my drive.” Jude

touched his temple. “What they did get was the

Google papers.”

“What?”

“I suppose they went for whatever they could

get.”Niles got up and walked slowly around the place,

staring at the floor.

“Damn it! So, now what? You’ll get your bureau

on this, right? Ply that job of yours.” Niles said.

Jude looked at his Grid partner.

He knew that Niles resented Jude’s leaving

Stanford for the FBI. Niles felt that he had

abandoned the project. It looked that way, but Niles



should’ve known better. No one was more

indispensible to Stanford’s genomic project than

Jude. Officially Jude had changed jobs, yes. But

Stanford held onto him as their go-to man for

algorithm fixes. They had no choice. Jude’s code

was embedded in the Grid.

Niles refused to accept that Jude’s bureau job

benefitted their old team at Stanford. But it did.

Working at the bureau let Jude study electronic

surveillance so he could safeguard the Grid against

hackers.

Losing data about patients would destroy public

trust—torpedoing the entire medical effort. Jude

had become a white-hat hack—a hired coder who

stopped black-hat attacks.

He recalled how the term hacker originated inthe 1950s when a boy called Joe Engressia, who

was born blind, developed perfect pitch as a result.

Being able to precisely match a tone of any

frequency through singing or whistling, he

discovered at eight years of age that the U.S. long-

distance telephone exchanges responded to special

frequency tones. He quickly learned that the2600Hz idle tone signaled a toll free call. He

mimicked that frequency by whistling which

connected his long-distance call at no charge.

Intruders could have wanted Jude’s hard drive to

obtain access to the Grid. But that wouldn’t have

helped. Jude carried his key fob in his right front

pocket. It held the Grid access key. The key

displayed a number that changed every thirty



seconds—in sync with the Grid server—enabling

Grid access. He may have been cavalier about his

clothes and car, but not about cryptographic

procedure.

“Maybe your secret agent business won’t be a

waste, after all,” Niles quipped.

“You could show some gratitude.”

“We’ll call Hideo in the morning. Tell him about

the leak. See what he can do to protect the Google

deal.” Niles said.

“I doubt we’ll reach him. After Switzerland, he

was flying to Japan.”

“Right. Today he gave that funding speech at

CERN with Jurgen. Wonder how much money they

raised? Regardless, we’re going to find who nicked

these papers.”“I’m glad you’re confident,” Jude said.

“Listen, I’m knackered.”

“You’re calling it a night?”

“We’re not going to run through every angle on

this thing at a bar. Not at midnight. We go at this

tomorrow or on Monday, all right? After you get

started, call me. And keep that head clear. You looklike a caged animal. No bevies.”

“You are giving a homily on abstinence? Where’s

my recorder?”

Jude’s face brightened with an idea. They shut

down their cell phones on Niles’s boat. It was one

place free of distractions. “Wait. You are working on

the boat tomorrow?”

“Yes.”



“I’ll meet you at the marina. We can get a sail in

before Kate arrives.”

Niles buttoned his coat, considering it. “Okay.”

Niles started for the door, and then turned.

“Usual time. And Jude, whoever these low lifes are,

they’re not going to shut us down.”

“Not over my dead body.”

“Like you say, lives are at stake. Healthcare’s in

a quagmire and we’ve got a duty to see this

through. But I might reconsider that if I don’t get

seven hours of sleep.” Niles closed the door.

gridlock a novel of suspense

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