GRIDLOCK

A Novel of Suspense
By Alvin Ziegler
EXCERPT
Alvin Ziegler
alvinziegler@gmail.com
Telephone: 415.567.5760
October, 2010
© 2010 Alvin Ziegler
 _____________________________________________

“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. The United States Government spent over $2.7 billion
on decoding our DNA, but that didn’t finish the job. 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. Unmercifully, the sick and
dying have been given a promise that science hasn’t delivered—
until now.
A lightning fast computer network called a grid is
interpreting our DNA. It can solve virtually any question that
can be calculated. Using grid technology, scientists are creating
custom drugs to treat diseases like cancer that are as individual
as a fingerprint instead of the one-size-fits all approach. This
revolutionary event could extend our lives by decades,
transforming the business of healthcare forever and disrupting
global economies.

This book was inspired by actual organizations, technologies, and

science.
 Actual Timeline of the Genome

Four Billion The beginning of DNA is thought to be created

Years Ago by the aggregation of simple molecules in the
primordial swamp that existed on earth at that
time.

1850’s Gregor Mendel, “the father of modern

genetics” established the principles of genetic
inheritance by studying pea plants.

1900 Thomas Hunt Morgan, American geneticist

discovered the basics of dominant and
recessive traits and links on a chromosome.
Awarded the Nobel Prize.

1950 Barbara McClintock, the world’s most

distinguished cytogeneticist, discovered that
chromosomes exchange information by
“jumping genes.”

April 2003 The Human Genome Project, a full map of our

genetic code, is completed for $2.7 billion in
thirteen years.

December The Cancer Genome Atlas—a three-year, $100

2005 million pilot project to explore the genetic
connectionto cancer—is launched.

May 2007 James Watson's whole genome is sequenced

at a cost of less than $1 million dollars.

September Craig Venter publishes the results of his own

2007 sequenced genome.

October 2009 IBM announces plans to bring the cost of DNA

sequencing to as low as $100, making a
personal genome cheaper than a ticket to a
Broadway play.
 prologue

Friday, October 28
Meyrin, Switzerland

Jűrgen rushed from his apartment at 9:45 A.M., tightening his

watch strap. The silver Mercedes limousine purred at the curb.
He climbed into the backseat and squeaked into leather
upholstery.
“Let’s go,” Jűrgen said through the limo window, lowering
the arm rest.
The limo hummed through the foothills of the jagged Jura
Mountains. He 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. Through the
mylar glass, he glimpsed blond hair beneath the driver’s cap.
“Where’s Adrian?” Jűrgen asked through the limo window.
“Out sick.”
This was no day for bumbling around in the twenty-six
cantons of Switzerland.
“You do know the way to CERN?”
Jűrgen started to recite the organization’s address. The
driver cocked her head around.
“Yes, Director Hansen.”
At least the limo service had briefed her. The car passed
four schoolchildren playing tag at a bus stop.
 Jűrgen slid papers from his briefcase. He drummed fingers, studying his talking notes. He
pictured the faces of executives of the medical community. They had flown from around the
world to visit CERN—some would be annoyed to find that Meyrin was only a glorified
agricultural village.
Jűrgen wouldn’t let Dr. Onagi bore them today. No. The Grid network would be the show
stopper.
He checked the closeness of his shave.
When the BlackBerry in his suit coat vibrated, he scanned Tatiana’s missive: I’m wearing
Escade perfume—soon that will be all I’m wearing.
He adjusted the knot on his tie, gazing at the road. The limo hugged mountain contours as
it dropped in elevation.
A petite redhead who traveled with silk handcuffs and a riding crop awaited Jűrgen after
his speech at CERN. She helped him unwind with sexual role-play. He text messaged a reply:
Meet me @ Zermatt airport, British Airways, Gate 14, term 2, 4 PM— J. Tonight they would hook up
at a chateau high in the Alps where he would star in her Russian seductress game.
Jűrgen had picked up Tatiana at a Geneva club two weeks back. He didn’t know yet how
long he’d keep her—girlfriend shelf life ran five weeks tops.
Shrouded by tinted glass, he reclined against the headrest. As the limo cut along the
highway, Jűrgen envisioned Tatiana’s lips working his chest. The blare of a truck horn pulled
him back to reality.
Looking through the rear window again, his eye caught the Bernese Alpine Valley.
He hammered on the window divide. “Driver.”
“There is construction, Sir,” the chauffeur said sternly. “We’re making a detour.”
Jűrgen’s watch read ten-thirty. “Don’t make me late.”
“I’m taking a shortcut.”
Jűrgen’s claustrophobia surfaced.
The driver veered the limo off the highway. Jűrgen felt a nerve flutter. They’d turned onto
a side road. 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.
His mouth went dry. “What are you doing?”
Without answering, the driver pressed a button in the glove compartment. Jűrgen caught
that she wore an earpiece.
“Hey.”
The driver rolled up her sleeves. “We are close.”
“Are you listening?”
The woman hunched at the wheel.
Holding his BlackBerry, Jűrgen hit the three-digit Swiss code for emergencies. No cell
signal. Communications were usually good here.
The limo halted at the edge of a lake. The driver whipped open Jűrgen’s car door.
“Out,” the driver ordered.
Jűrgen held the limo handle. “What is this?”
The woman leveled a handgun at Jűrgen’s forehead.
He jerked his hands high, forgetting those visions of greatness. “Easy.”
 The clearing had the calm of a cemetery. Watching the unblinking woman, Jűrgen dropped
one foot outside the car, then the other. She had the shoulders of a competitive swimmer. Bad
make-up covered her face.
The woman with heavy makeup popped open the silver Mercedes trunk with the car key,
revealing a coil of fishing line and a twenty-pound gym weight.
“Remove the line,” the woman ordered. “The weight, too.”
As Jűrgen picked them up, a buzz came from overhead. A twin-engine plane—a
businessman on holiday, perhaps. If only that plane could be Jűrgen’s charter. His eyes swept
over the wooded lake, grasping at a way out. There were no houses within sight.
So much for being in the land of neutrality.
The plane noise quieted. A breeze rustled dry leaves past his feet.
“Tie that weight to your leg and knot it tight.”
Cradling the weights against his chest, Jűrgen begged, “Do you want money?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Who do you work for?”
“Those who protect us all.” She kept the gun trained on his head.
“What about my protection?”
“Save your breath.”
He bent and tied, picturing the worst. Time to act. “Is this about the Grid?”
Jűrgen jerked into a standing position, carrying the weight.
“Whoa.” The woman shouted.
He 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.
Jűrgen leapt for the gun. With a crawl and grunt, the woman beat him to it. On the ground,
she pointed the gun and fired.
He touched the red between his fingers.
Panic mixed with fear that his life could end—this maniac wanted him dead.
Winded, the woman awkwardly returned to her feet.
“What do you want?” Jűrgen’s voice broke.
She lowered the gun. “No more games. Get the weight.”
Blood snaked down his arm. He shimmied to the gym weight, pulled it and the fishing line
toward him with one hand. Aching, he bound it around his ankle.
The woman brushed dirt from her hat, gesturing for him to get up.
Jűrgen lumbered to his feet, checking his shoulder. “Does this involve Jude Wagner?”
The woman’s face hardened. She motioned with the gun muzzle for Jűrgen to step into the
lake. He hesitated then moved into the water. Waist deep, he 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.
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. Time stopped.
Ripples spread in symmetry above his sinking head.
 one

Friday, October 28
San Francisco, CA

Jude locked his Mazda MX6, surprised to find parking on crammed Russian Hill. He passed a
family of five on Hyde Street parading from an ice cream parlor. The store manager followed
them out, flipping a closed sign on the glass door. The kids giggled at their father when his
scoop hit the pavement.
The scene resurrected a hazy childhood memory. His mother used to carpool him and his
friends from Little League games to the Baskin Robbins ice cream shop after the sixth inning.
She would buy a hot-fudge sundae for any batter who got on base. She would’ve been proud
that her wild-eyed son had become an FBI agent.
At his ground-floor flat, he shook off the effects of bourbon. Kate had told Jude that his
living alone led to brooding.
He picked up the New York Times electric blue plastic bag and 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 put the key inside the lock; it cranked too easily. No resistance. The Baldwin bolt had
already been turned. The idea of calling the cops crossed his mind, but he could’ve forgotten to
lock up. He slowly pushed the door open and moved inside his narrow place. The ceiling
spotlights in the hallway had been switched on.
Had he turned 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, he heard nothing. Not even a fog horn.
Lightly, he stepped to the kitchen with the oversized rail-station-style clock hanging on the
wall. 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. In the mini-study, he checked on his desktop computer. The drive
bay was hollow and dark, the hard drive missing.
Cursing to himself, he heard the scuffling of hard-soled shoes from the front hallway.
Around the corner, a man in a suit and gloves kicked open the closet door, then raced outside
the flat.
 Into draughty air howling off the bay, Jude barreled down the steep grade of Filbert Street.
Across the gulch, Coit Tower glowed, a beacon in the night.
The wide man bobbed in his flapping suit jacket. Practiced at navigating the decline, Jude
easily tapped down the steps. As the street leveled, he 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 so after a breakthrough he had made earlier that day. He
regretted not grabbing his service weapon from under his bed on the way out—a new agent
blunder.
They plowed into North Beach. Jude clipped by Washington Square Park. A faint aroma of
roasted bean emanated from a closed coffee store. Only ten feet behind the man, Jude lunged
and brought him to the pavement outside a pizzeria. While on the ground, the man gripped the
hard drive. 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. Jude snagged his leg, sending him to the sidewalk.
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, fending off the assailant. Jude thrashed about
until he was rammed him in the knees, sending him palms and face down onto the pavement.
 two

Friday, October 28
Meyrin, Switzerland

Alone on the observation deck, Hideo Onagi felt his heart thump. Noise travelled easily in this
all white chamber, three hundred feet underground, beneath the Franco-Swiss border. This was
where the famous collider operated. He stared glassy-eyed at the bottom of a cavernous, two-
story room at the most expensive scientific experiment in history.
His stomach churned. Family turmoil and the gravity of this presentation had set off
Hideo’s ulcer. He had arranged to fly to his estranged wife once this was over.
He flipped through 3x5 note cards, reviewing his talking points.
Returning the cards to his pocket, he felt something else there and took out a photo of his
daughter, Yomiko—age nine and the joy of his life. He gazed at it briefly, then pushed it back
into his pocket.
Below, a sort of subway platform served as a maintenance station to the monorail that
traveled along a twenty-seven kilometer circumference.
Hideo’s attendees arrived taking in girders and struts which supported the high-ceilinged
space. The time had come for him to show off the scientific breakthrough that took decades to
build.
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 consoles that were connected by colored wires that lined the walls.
Hideo tapped his rubber-soled shoe for composure, afraid he’d blow his chance to get vital
donations. The history of science had been strewn with great discoveries that were first met
with cold indifference before acceptance. That couldn’t happen here. Hideo had given up his
private practice to join Stanford and change medical history. Delay of action on this genome
project could cost tens of thousands of lives.
Jűrgen, CERN’s Life Science Director, should be here. These were his contacts. Jűrgen said
he’d handle the walking-tour part of the presentation. Hideo used his phone to fire off an
unusually direct text message to Jűrgen. WHERE ARE YOU?
Although Jűrgen represented the Stanford University side of things, Hideo was going to
have to fill in for Jűrgen. But Hideo’s area of molecular biology involved computer science,
artificial intelligence and chemistry—not physics.
At the trial of his life, Hideo was minus the expert witness. These strangers would render a
pass-fail verdict on work that had consumed him for years.
 He flushed with embarrassment when the consortium—huddled together as a mini United
Nations—stared at him. They had come to hear a scholarly revelation about how this would
change medicine. That would come. First, they had to see what CERN’s Grid computer did.
Hideo felt like an out-of-town lawyer before a restless jury.
He gestured toward the huge bright blue 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—colder than deep space.”
Hideo thought a moment, then said, “This nine-billion-dollar underground linear accelerator
was designed to smash protons to analyze the big questions of the big bang, cosmology—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. “Wait, how does that relate—”
“That’s coming. Scientists wouldn’t have gotten anywhere without a big enough computer
to analyze 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 said, “Like an electrical power grid?”
“Not exactly. Computer grids link thousands of computers to work as a single virtual
machine. This Grid 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?”
Medical chiefs knew less than he had expected. Hideo spoke with tension in his voice.
“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 mine 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 handle before. 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’s research. It’s all about distributed processing power, connecting computers
everywhere to work as one.”
 A Persian man in a finely tailored, double-breasted suit said, “How will this help the
general public?”
“I’m getting to that.”
The hawk-faced woman said, “So Jude Wagner isn’t speaking today?”
Jude had achieved international acclaim for his computer discovery and would soon
receive the Turing Award from the Association for Computing Machinery.
“Let’s go to Building Six,” Hideo said, “I’ll explain as we have refreshments.”
Mercifully, Hideo sensed his audience lightening up. With a flick of a CERN tour guide
flag, he directed them forward.
He stole a look at his watch. Jűrgen was over an hour late. Good god. Could he be hung
over sick from a night of carousing?
After an elevator ride to the ground level, they filed to Building Six. While the group
exchanged hotel stories and restaurant recommendations, Hideo checked his phone. No
messages.
Hideo led the way to a conference room where attendees ate hors d'oeuvres until he
motioned for everyone to get comfortable at the rosewood table. 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 the conference room to get back to his
performance. Jűrgen’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 Polo shirt. Hideo fiddled with his wedding ring.
“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. 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 over 100,000 Americans a
year.” he said. “Genomic medicine will change 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, some of this is in your brochure. The Stanford
Project works like this: a patient has his genome sequenced by a company like 23andMe based
in the San Francisco Bay Area—this costs around 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 this Grid that crunches massive amounts of data with electronic
records from hospitals for instance, well, you end up with a very powerful thing.”
The audience had gone dead silent.
“Can you back up?” A man with Scottish accent asked. “Where do those patient records
come from?”
“Good question. For years, medical researchers struggled 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 with everyone 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.
“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 tons 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 that person’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, Jűrgen Hansen, CERN’s Director of Life Sciences, is the liaison
between this lab and Stanford’s. He maintains the physical Internet connection which links this
Grid to Stanford.”
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. Not only do grids run over the Internet,
which is free, but they get power from volunteers’ idle computers. In the packet you’ll see how
this Grid at CERN relies on distributed processing power from volunteers.
“I see doubt. 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 a fraction of that and get a leg up on the fight against diseases like cancer?
You can see what a marvel CERN’s Grid is if we’re using it to make sense of the Big Bang.”
Audience members turned to one another. Hideo 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 agree 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.”
Brochures were being opened when a man entered the room.
“Excuse me for being late.” He said.
While the room was silent the new man found a seat and took the opportunity to speak.
“Apologies 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. “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. And,
yes, we’ll need specially trained pharmacists to mix the customized drugs.”
The room went quiet. After fielding another dozen questions, Hideo’s mind strayed to his
flight. His plane was leaving in less than two hours. Barely enough time to get to the airport.
He delivered his plea for investment and thanked everyone.
But nothing from Jűrgen. Something had to be wrong.
Still, Jűrgen’s absence hadn’t been as detrimental as Hideo had thought. His pitch had to
have won some new backers.
“Excuse me, everyone,” Hideo announced. “I have a flight to catch.”
 three

Friday, October 28
San Francisco, CA

A patrol car’s P.A. chirp signaled cars to move. The attackers released Jude as the cruiser
whipped around the corner and stopped. The man and woman ran to the Rover and screeched
off.
The words, “on your feet,” came from a voice above.
Flat on the sidewalk, Jude flashed back to high school wrestling practice. That vision
changed when his eyes opened to two cops and some bystander. Three heads silhouetted
against the night sky. One cop gave a repulsed expression at Jude’s alcohol breath.
“I’m with the FBI,” Jude choked.
No response came from the mustached officer. Two cardboard cutouts of men would’ve
been more animated. After getting on his feet, Jude took a step to show 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. It didn’t help
matters that feds were famous for padding their arrest reports with busts made by beat officers.
“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 plate.
“Did you see them?” Jude asked, flicking sidewalk dirt from the hard drive; he touched
blood droplets on his cheek.
“No. Why don’t you begin answering our questions?” The older officer with the bushy
mustache picked his teeth while he spoke.
“He must’ve been trained in self-defense.”
“He was 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 explained the break-in at his apartment and the subsequent chase. The uniforms
looked to be weighing his tale as one version of the story. The younger cop opened a leather-
bound notepad and scratched down notes. While the officer wrote, Jude removed his cell phone
and speed-dialed his colleague, Niles Tully. Jude told Niles to come to his apartment and hung
up.
The older officer said, “And that’s your profession . . . cyber work at the bureau?”
 Jude nodded. The cop holding his wallet checked his Stanford magnetic clearance card.
“Why do you carry Stanford business cards?” the cop asked, stroking his mustache.
“I did some special work for them.”
Jude avoided elaborating on his role in the genomics initiative.
“And you work at the FBI?”
“I’m a new field agent.”
The two cops exchanged glances. “Doing?”
“Electronic surveillance, Grid computing.”
Jude tapped the hard drive. “Don’t I look like a workaholic? You want a description of the
thief, right?”
The cop with the pad filled his page.
After a quick ride up the hill in the squad car, 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 for latents?” Jude asked.
“You’ve got your computer equipment now, right. Can you prove they got anything else?”
Jude sighed audibly.
“Then it’s only breaking and entering, isn’t it?”
Not seeing anything else missing and holding the recovered hard drive in his 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 officers, 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 the freezer 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 cool down. Gathering his concert tickets, Wired magazines, auto
insurance papers and bank statements off his living room floor, he realized a folder of business
documents that had been resting on his desk were gone—documents that pertained to the
Google deal. His nerves shot up again. It took months of negotiations to strike this deal and it
would change the pharmaceutical landscape overnight. He could call in a stolen property claim
but he had taken an oath of secrecy. The impending partnerships with Google would connect
the Grid to Google’s world databases. The power of these databases was phenomenal: they held
most of the world’s printed information and enabled users to query medical data on the fly.
This would extend Stanford’s reach to millions of pages of medical data for free in exchange for
online advertising.
Jude text messaged Kate again, 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, he heard a knock. After peering through the peep hole in the
door, he unlocked it. Niles, Jude’s Grid partner, 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.
Niles slammed the door. Jude locked it behind him.
“Your face doesn’t look too good,” Niles said.
They moved to the living room while Niles looked at the papers, strewn.
“You’re more disheveled 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 foil-covered mint from his pea-coat pocket, unwrapped it and popped it in his
mouth.
Jude didn’t sit. “He was after my hard drive.”
“Did you see the tosser?”
“I saw him, but not clearly.”
“What happened?”
“I found him in my apartment and chased the guy all the way to Columbus. But he didn’t
get my drive.” Jude touched his cheek. “What they did get was the Google papers.”
“What?”
Niles looked around again. “Damn it. You’ll get your bureau on this, right? Ply that job of
yours.”
Jude glared at Niles’s tone. Niles disliked that Jude left Stanford for the FBI. But Jude had
not abandoned the project. In fact, Jude’s algorithm was embedded into the Grid and the FBI job
allowed him to study electronic surveillance so he could help Niles safeguard the Grid against
hackers.
Losing patient data would ruin public trust—torpedoing the entire medical effort. Jude had
become a white-hat hack—a hired coder who stopped black-hat attacks.
Most quants knew the term originated in the 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. The hacker idea came when
he saw that the 2600Hz idle tone signaled a toll free call. He mimicked that frequency by
whistling which connected his long-distance call at no charge.
An intruder could have wanted Jude’s hard drive to obtain access to the Grid. But that
wouldn’t have helped. He 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. Jude 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.
“There’s gratitude.”
“We’ll ring 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 Jűrgen. Wonder how much that
raised. Either way, we’re going to find who nicked these papers.”
“I’m glad you’re so confident.” Jude said.
 “Listen, I’m knackered.”
“You’re going to sleep?”
“We’re not going to run through every angle on this thing at a bar. Not at midnight. We go
at this tomorrow. After you get started, call me. And keep that head clear. No bevies.”
“You are giving a homily on abstinence? Where’s my recorder?”
Jude’s face brightened with an idea. “You 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. “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, 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.
 four

Midnight, Friday, October 28

San Francisco, CA

Jude paced his living room rug with a chicken drumstick he took from his fridge. He chewed on
it vacantly. His call had awakened Roger Knowlan, Stanford’s genomic medicine program
director. Knowlan knocked over what sounded like a lamp, when he was told about the stolen
Google papers.
“The world is watching us with a magnifying glass,” Knowlan shouted, “investors,
doctors, patients, lawyers—and you lose paperwork? How could you be so careless?”
“This is your way of thanking me for updating you?” Jude said curtly. “This thug could’ve
jumped you just as easily as me.”
“But he didn’t. You should know that I’m going reluctantly to your award dinner. It’s too
early for us to celebrate.”
The call left Jude on edge. But Knowlan had reasons for not attending the award ceremony.
Jude, Niles and Hideo Onagi had an us-against-them relationship with mercenary Roger
Knowlan—despite their common goal to create the medical Grid. Knowlan wanted to
commercialize it and be a partner with a private company. He was bitter that the Stanford Grid
Project was backing out of their deal with pharmaceutical company, Johnston and Quib and
going non-profit again. Jude, Niles, and Hideo were an armada of three who wanted the Grid
free. Knowlan fumed over this calling it project suicide. Being that he was program director at
Stanford, Knowlan would now go back to managing student scientists and daily operations on
campus.
Knowlan could be a manic depressive asshole but he did bring Hideo on board to become
Stanford’s program chief. As a bioinformatacist, Hideo was ideal. He once owned a diagnostics
company. Jude Wagner provided the vital computer code to accelerate the Grid.
Jude considered the break-in. The intruder could’ve been after something else, but
probably he wanted access to the Grid, intending to corrupt it.
The message would be clear: if a hacker could crack the Grid’s privacy controls, the public
wouldn’t donate their idle computer power to it. Nor would they trust uploading their genome
to the Grid for analysis. If that happened, the network couldn’t function.
Damn that thief. He and Niles would have to stop bickering like band members on tour
and concentrate to keep the project alive.