gridlock a novel of suspense
TRANSCRIPT
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A Novel of Suspense
By Alvin Ziegler
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Alvin Ziegler
148 Alhambra StreetSan Francisco, California 94123 USA
Telephone: 415.515.0809
© 2010 Alvin Ziegler
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_____________________________________________
“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
_____________________________________________
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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.
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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.
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“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.
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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.
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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?”
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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.
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“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
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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
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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“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
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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.”
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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?
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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.”
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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
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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.
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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.
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“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.
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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.”
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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
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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?”
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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
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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
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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
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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.”
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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
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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
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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.”
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“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.