GRIDLO

CK
Advance Release Copy
February, 2011
Alvin Ziegler
alvinziegler@gmail.com
148 Alhambra Street
San Francisco, California 94123
Telephone: 415.567.5760

© 2011 Alvin Ziegler

This book is a work of fiction. Names, businesses,

characters, organizations, places, events and incidents
are either products of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
GRIDLO
CK
A Novel of Suspense
By Alvin Ziegler
For my patient wife, Ginny
 _____________________________________________

“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

Biotechnology is transforming the world in

unimaginable ways—promising to extend our children’s
lives by decades. Everyone has a stake. Already doctors
are diagnosing disease genetically over the Internet.
The sea change in medicine came with the decoding
of the human genome in 2003, but it remained locked
because scientists understand less than one percent of
it. 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. Such breakthroughs could redefine
the business of healthcare and reshape global
economies forever.
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” establishes the principles of genetic
inheritance by studying pea plants.

1900 Thomas Hunt Morgan, American geneticist

discovers 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, determines that
chromosomes exchange information by
“jumping genes.”
1953
James Watson and Francis Crick ascertain the
structure of DNA.

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—launches.
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 IBM announces plans to bring the cost of DNA

2009 sequencing to as low as $100, making a
personal genome cheaper than a ticket to a
Broadway play.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

prologue

Friday, October 28
Meyrin, Switzerland

Jűrgen rushed from his apartment at 9:05 A.M., tightening

his watch strap. The Mercedes limousine purred at the
curb. He climbed into the backseat and squeaked into
leather seats.
“Let’s go,” he said through the limo window, lowering
the arm rest.
The limo hummed through the foothills of the jagged
Jura Mountain. 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 blonde hair beneath the driver’s cap.
“Where’s Adrian?” Jűrgen craned through the limo
partition.
“Out sick.”
This was no day for bumbling around in the twenty-
six cantons of Switzerland. “You do know the way to
CERN?”
The driver cocked her head around. “Yes, Director
Hansen.”
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

At least the limo service had briefed her. Hugging

mountain roads, the car passed four schoolchildren
playing tag at a bus stop.
Jűrgen slid papers from his briefcase to occupy
himself. He drummed fingers, studying his notes.
When the BlackBerry in his suit coat vibrated, he
scanned Tatiana’s missive: I’m wearing Escada perfume
—soon that will be all I’m wearing.
Gazing at the road, he checked the closeness of his
shave.
A petite redhead who traveled with silk handcuffs and
a riding crop awaited him 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
meet at a chateau high in the Alps where he would star
in her Russian seductress game.
He adjusted the knot on his tie. 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. Jűrgen envisioned Tatiana’s lips working his
chest while the limo cut along the highway, dropping in
elevation—until the tires grumbled over rocks. The noise
pulled him back to reality.
The driver veered the limo off the highway. Jűrgen’s
hands went clammy.
“What are you doing?”
They’d turned onto a side road. The road narrowed,
giving way to clover and dirt over a canopied path that
was no more than a partially paved cow trail.
“Hey.”
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Without answering, the driver pressed a button in the

glove compartment. Jűrgen noticed she wore an
earpiece.
Looking through the rear window again, his eye
caught the Bernese Alpine Valley. He hammered on the
glass divide. “Driver.”
No answer.
“Are you listening?”
“There is construction, Sir,” the chauffeur said
sternly. “We’re making a detour.”
The driver rolled up her sleeves. “We are close.”
The hard-faced 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.
A wave of nerves fluttered through his stomach.
The driver got out and whipped open Jűrgen’s car
door.
“Out.”
Jűrgen clung to the limo handle. “What do you want?”
The driver leveled a handgun at Jűrgen’s forehead.
“Whoa!” Throwing his hands high, he forgot his
dreams of achievement.
The clearing had the calm of a cemetery. Watching
the unblinking woman, Jűrgen dropped one foot outside
the car, then the other. His fists clenched. She had the
shoulders of a competitive swimmer. Caked on makeup
covered her face, but didn’t improve her masculine
features.
She opened the silver Mercedes trunk with the car
key, revealing a coil of heavy gauge fishing line and a
twenty-pound gym weight.
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

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

too.”
His mouth stone dry. As he lifted them, a buzz came
from overhead. A twin-engine plane—a businessman on
holiday, perhaps. If only Jűrgen could radio for help. His
eyes swept over the wooded lake, grasping at a way out.
Not even a house within sight.
So much for the land of neutrality.
The plane noise quieted. A breeze rustled crisp
leaves past his feet.
“Tie that weight to your leg. Knot it tight.”
Cradling the weight against his chest, Jűrgen begged,
“Who do you work for?”
“Save your breath.” She kept the gun trained on his
head.
He bent and tied, picturing the worst. Time to act.
“You’re not going to stop the Grid.” He said, hoping to
distract her.
Jerking into a standing position, he lunged, hurling
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. From the ground, she
pointed the weapon and fired.
He moaned and went to his knees. Touching the sting
on his shoulder, he gasped at the blood between his
fingers.
Panic mixed with fear.
The woman returned to her feet, winded.
“What do you want?” Jűrgen’s voice broke.
She lowered the gun. “Game’s over. Get the weight.”
Blood snaked down his arm. He crawled over dirt to
the gym weight, pulled it and the fishing line toward him
 GRIDLOCK
12

with one hand. Aching, he bound the line around his

ankle.
The woman brushed dust from her hat, gesturing for
him to get up.
Jűrgen lumbered to his feet, checking his shoulder.
“Does this involve Jude Wagner? Killing me doesn’t end
the medical revolution.”
“It’s a good start.” Her expression darkened, and 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 then dove under the
algae-covered surface, struggling underwater to untie
the weight. The October sun had failed to warm the icy
lake. With fingers going numb, he fumbled with the
fishing line. He gasped at the surface again.
And heard a blast. In the first nanosecond he felt a
sharp tap. 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

The dinged-up Mazda MX6 eased into a spot along

6 ALVIN ZIEGLER

crammed Russian Hill. Still becoming accustomed to

how it drove, Jude climbed out and snapped his door
locks closed with his keychain. Such luck finding a spot
one block from home. Seasoned agents got a clean
Crown Vic. Not Jude. Seized in a drug raid, his Mazda
bore all the scars of its street-gang past— pelted with
dents from its front fenders to rear bumper. Jude had his
supervisory agent to thank. He issued rundown cars to
freshman to screen out potential complainers.
A fog horn howl cut through the wind. Across the
gulch, Coit Tower glowed, a beacon in the dark. Jude
passed a family of five on Hyde Street exiting an ice
cream parlor, appearing as an after dinner bonding
ritual.
The store manager followed them out, flipping a
closed sign on the glass door. The dad’s scoop of ice
cream hit the pavement and kids shrieked with laughter.
A hazy childhood memory came to Jude while walking in
the wind. He pictured his mother carpooling him and his
rowdy friends from Little League games after the sixth
inning to the Baskin Robbins ice cream shop. She bought
a hot-fudge sundae for any batter who got on base.
She’d be proud that her boundary-testing son worked for
the FBI. He blinked away the home movies. His sister
Kate had predicted that living alone would lead to
brooding.
Head throbbing from straight bourbon, he came to
the entrance of his ground-floor flat. He picked up the
electric blue plastic bag containing his New York Times—
reminding him how behind he was on world events—
and carried it through the front gate to the
Mediterranean-styled three-story complex. Under a
trellis of ruby bougainvillea, he strode brick steps to his
door.
 GRIDLOCK
7

He put the key inside the lock; it cranked too easily,

without resistance. The Baldwin bolt had already been
turned. Jude tensed. The idea of reporting a break-in
crossed his mind, but he could’ve forgotten to lock up
himself. Slowly he 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?
Quieting his steps, he crossed the living room. He
regretted not grabbing his service weapon from under
his bed on the way out—a new agent blunder.
The bookcase had been emptied. Mystery
paperbacks, San Francisco history books and rock
concert ticket stubs decorated the floor. Papers he kept
stacked on the rice chest-turned-coffee table were now
strewn on the faux-oriental rug.
His breathing became choppy. The odor of another
man’s sweat hung faintly in the air. Maybe the intruder
hadn’t left. He listened for creaks in the floor. Except for
gusts lashing at the windows, he heard nothing.
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 lay on the floor. In the mini-study, he checked his
desktop computer. The drive bay gaped hollow and dark,
the hard drive missing. He backed up his email to that
drive. Someone could break into his messages and
obtain highly sensitive information about the Stanford
Grid.
Cursing to himself, he heard something scratching
his floors. He braced himself. The scuffling of hard-soled
8 ALVIN ZIEGLER

shoes came from the front hallway. Jude peered around

the corner. A man in a suit and gloves raced from the
closet and outside the flat.
Jude barreled into night air which howled off the bay,
then he started down the treacherous grade of Filbert
Street.
The wide man in boots bobbed in his flapping suit
jacket. Practiced at navigating the decline, Jude pursued,
clacking down the steps. As the street leveled, he
pushed. Each stride brought him closer to his subject.
They plowed past stucco apartments and into North
Beach. Jude clipped by Washington Square Park and a
closed coffee store. Six feet behind the man, Jude
lunged, snagged his feet and brought him to the ground
outside a neon-signed pizzeria. The man grunted still
gripping the hard drive beneath him. Jude put one knee
on him and worked to control his arms while he
thrashed.
“Call the cops,” a girl shouted from the restaurant.
“I’m a Federal agent,” Jude said.
He got the man’s left arm behind him when a white
Range Rover screeched to the curb and waited.
The man turned over, breaking free. He jabbed at
Jude’s face and missed.
Jude snagged his leg, sending him to the sidewalk.
The hard drive dropped to the ground. Jude scrambled
and grabbed it with one hand when he was slugged in
the abdomen.
Elbows tucked the hard drive close with one arm. He
tried to slug the assailant when he was rammed in the
knees. That buckled his legs and hurled him palms and
face down onto the pavement.
 GRIDLOCK
9

two

Friday, October 28
Meyrin, Switzerland

Alone on the second floor observation deck, Hideo

Onagi’s heart thumped. The hum of high voltage
electricity carried through the cement laboratory from
the distance. Noise travelled easily in this white
chamber, three hundred feet underground, beneath the
Franco-Swiss border. This is was where the famous
collider operated. He marveled at the bottom of a
cavernous, two-story room which opened into a tunnel—
the most expensive scientific experiment in history.
Below, a platform served as CERN’s maintenance station
to the monorail that traveled along a twenty-seven
kilometer circumference.
His stomach churned. Family turmoil and the gravity
of this presentation set off Hideo’s ulcer. Once this was
over, he'd fly to meet his estranged wife. After spending
months flying from city to city to find sponsors for the
Grid, Hideo realized that travel was ruining his marriage.
His wife and daughter were his sun and moon, and soon
they could be gone. Perspiration soaked his Polo shirt.
After rolling his sloped shoulders, he flipped through
3x5 note cards, reviewing his talking points. Returning
the cards to his pocket, his finger brushed against
something else there. He took out a photo of his nine-
6 ALVIN ZIEGLER

year-old daughter. He gazed at it briefly, then pushed it

back into his pocket.
The attendees arrived, gawking at girders and struts
that supported the high ceilings.
Two dozen board members and financial officers from
the world’s largest hospitals and universities jetted from
around the globe to this vast lab in secluded Meyrin.
They came to this glorified agricultural village to see the
scientific breakthrough that took decades to build. Just
one problem: Hideo’s speech partner, Niles Tully, was
missing.
Hideo nervously tapped his rubber-soled dress shoe
while attendees looked about, blank-faced, at the
consoles connected by colored wires lining the walls.
Hideo had given up his private practice to join Stanford
and change medical history. Jűrgen’s absence could
wreck his chance for vital donations.
These were Jűrgen’s contacts. Delay of action on this
genome project could cost tens of thousands of lives. As
CERN’s Life Science Director, Jűrgen said he’d handle the
walking-tour part of the presentation. Hideo used his
phone to fire off an unusually direct text message.
WHERE ARE YOU?
These strangers would render a pass-fail verdict on
work that had consumed him for years. At the trial of his
life, he was minus his expert witness.
Hideo flushed with embarrassment as the consortium
—huddled together like a mini United Nations—staring at
him. They’d come to hear a scholarly revelation about
how CERN would change medicine. But his area of
molecular biology involved computer science, artificial
intelligence and chemistry—not physics. Jűrgen
represented the CERN side of this partnership. It looked
like Hideo would have to wing it by himself.
 GRIDLOCK
7

He introduced himself and gestured toward the huge

bright blue metal pipe overhead. Large Hadron Collider,
he explained, was the most powerful accelerator in the
world, operating at minus two hundred and seventy-one
Centigrade—colder than deep space.
Gaining confidence, Hideo spoke up. “This nine-billion-
dollar underground linear accelerator was designed to
smash protons to analyze the questions of the big bang,
cosmology—oh—and unified theory. Superconducting
magnets are used to guide protons into a massive
collision for observation.”
A murmur rippled through the audience.
The pipe ran through a cement-lined tunnel extended
in a seventeen-mile subterranean circle. The metal used
could build another Eiffel Tower. On the wall beside the
pipe, exotic instruments flashed.
A fat man interrupted, looking at the tube. “Wait. How
does that relate to medical—”
“Bear with me.”
He needed to speed past Jűrgen’s part. Attendees
cared more about how their dollars could mine the
genome, the ultimate human recipe book. The genome
held four billion years of information on humanity. It was
arguably the greatest discovery in scientific history.
Hideo continued, “Scientists wouldn’t have gotten
anywhere without a big enough computer to analyze all
of the data. CERN employed a grid computer system to
study results.”
They started to chatter, some rubbed their arms. He
was losing them.
The fat man said, “Like an electrical power grid?”
“Not exactly. Computer grids link thousands of
computers to work as a single virtual machine. Particle
8 ALVIN ZIEGLER

collision produces vast amounts of data. Ultimately, the

Grid analyzes the equivalent of thirteen million DVDs
worth of information annually. Taking the Internet the
next step, the Grid will answer anything that involves
calculating, no matter how complex.”
He paused to let the message sink in and was
gratified to see he had eye contact.
A severe-faced woman dressed in black pointed with
interest at the flashing instruments. “So that’s grid-
based medicine?”
“Exactly.” Hideo held his hands open broadly.
“CERN’s physicists built the Grid to handle questions
that are far 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 checked
dials attached to electrical equipment.
Hideo raised his voice to speak over a new burring
noise, “The Grid also powers Stanford University’s
research. Through distributed processing, computers
everywhere work as one.”
A Persian man in a finely tailored, double-breasted
suit cleaned his glasses on his with a cloth looking
skeptical.
“Let’s go to Building Six,” Hideo said. I’ll explain how
Stanford will diagnose every disease.”
Mercifully, Hideo sensed his audience lightening up.
With a flick of his 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?
10 ALVIN ZIEGLER

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.
He 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 brochure packets were set on the table at
precise intervals for each person.
The orderly area reminded Hideo of his fastidious wife
and their heart-wrenching 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 or
medical science.”
“Yes,” the Persian man held his Evian.
“The genome is our roadmap to disease. All disease
has a hereditary basis. We’re tapping into that with huge
processing power. The U.S. government sequenced the
human genome in 2003, but that was just a start and
that took two-point-seven billion dollars.”
“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.
It’s time we match individual treatment to individuals.
Side effects from misprescription kills over 100,000
Americans a year.” he said.
Hideo took a deep breath. “As you’ll find in your
brochure, the Stanford Project works like this: a patient
has his genome sequenced by a company like 23andMe
 GRIDLOCK
11

based in the San Francisco Bay Area—this costs around

one thousand dollars. The results come back on two
DVDs to the patient and his doctor. That doctor then logs
onto Stanford’s secured website to access the Grid.
The Grid compares the genomic data from those DVDs
against millions of other online medical records, isolating
tissue samples from patients with other markers to that
disease. By comparing patient diseases on a molecular
level, we get a world of information: a person’s body
chemistry, his predispositions, his susceptibilities, and
his strengths and weaknesses to drugs. The result: a
customized treatment for your individual illness.”
Hideo fiddled with his wedding ring. “When you
combine this Grid that crunches massive amounts of
data with electronic records from hospitals for instance,
well, you end up with amazing power.”
The room went quiet.
Then a man with Scottish accent asked. “Can you
back up? Where do those online patient records come
from?”
“Good question. For years, medical researchers have
struggled with doing statistical analysis. Hospitals,
doctor’s offices and pharmacies used isolated computer
networks, blocking access to medical records for broad
comparison. Vital information couldn’t be cross-
referenced to gain a deeper understanding of disease.
“Finally, research hospitals started getting the data
online. And security systems were designed which
topped those of the ATM business. Of course, even
putting anonymous medical information online was
controversial. Everyone feared a privacy breach, but the
need to save lives won the war over privacy fears.
Computer standards were created and information
12 ALVIN ZIEGLER

pooled. Mind you, all names and hospital account

numbers were scrubbed. While this happened, the
search engines of the world connected that pooled
information to create a great dataset.”
“So, what’s next?” Someone asked.
“Already, at Stanford, we’re diagnosing volunteers’
illnesses through comparison, using their DNA. With
cancer, we’ll fight mutations with custom-made proteins
that conform to that person’s body chemistry.”
Several heads nodded.
The 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 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 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 virtually
free, but they get power from volunteers’ idle
computers. In the packet you’ll see how this Grid at
CERN relies on processing power from volunteers.
“I see doubt. Believe me, all we need is more funding.
Isn’t fighting cancer as worthy a mission as landing
spacecraft on Mars? If we don’t push medicine forward,
fifteen hundred Americans will go on dying from cancer
every day. Why not invest a fraction of that and get a
leg up on the fight against diseases like cancer?”
 GRIDLOCK
13

Audience members turned to one another. Hideo

scored a point.
He looked at his watch again. “The Stanford/CERN
partner-ship needs your support to bring a non-profit
alternative to today’s universal healthcare.”
As the group opened brochures an elderly man in the
front raised his hand. “What exactly would our
endowment money accomplish?”
To Hideo’s relief, eyes tracked him as he circled the
table. “First, your dollars will guarantee processing
power from places like CERN. Second, they’ll extend 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 formulate the
customized drugs.”
Hideo’s mind strayed to his flight. There was barely
enough time for him to get to the airport. After
delivering his final plea for investment, Hideo beckoned
for Jűrgen’s earnest assistant. A young man wearing a
tie and short sleeves entered the room with a remote
control in hand. Hideo explained that the CERN
representative would show a film about computational
biology.
Hideo excused himself, explaining he had a flight to
catch.
His pitch had to have won some new backers. But no
word back from Jűrgen. Something had to be wrong. His
absence could’ve blown this event. Fortunately, Hideo
14 ALVIN ZIEGLER

was quick on his feet and rescued the situation. He

feared he wouldn’t have the same luck with his wife.
5 ALVIN ZIEGLER

three

Friday, October 28
San Francisco, CA

Traffic and double-parked cars idled outside the pizzeria

that emanated the aroma of cornmeal crust. Red and
blue lights swung across retail buildings on Columbus
Avenue, drawing looks from the late crowd. A patrol
car’s P.A. chirp signaled for the traffic to move. The
attacker released Jude. He got to his feet, ran to a
waiting Range Rover, and roared off. A cruiser rounded
the corner.
A moment later, a voice from above hollered, “On
your feet.”
Flat on the sidewalk, Jude had drifted to high school
wrestling practice—a time when grappling was sport and
getting the girl, serious business. Those years vanished
when his eyes cracked open to two cops and a
bystander. There was nothing academic about the three
heads silhouetted against the night sky. Competitive
wrestling served as a dry run for the real thing.
Two cops stood, waiting. The older one with a bushy
mustache stared coldly.
Skull pounding, Jude rubbed the back of his head. “Did
you get him?”
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

A biting wind rushed down the street. Jude unsteadily

got up and took a step forward. “I’m with the FBI.”
“Hold it,” the older officer with the mustache said.
Jude was treating these cops too cavalierly. In training,
he'd learned that many cops on duty reported getting
dismissive treatment from feebs. And it didn’t help
matters that feds were famous for padding their arrest
reports with busts made by beat officers.
Everyone turned for an instant when the bystander
receded
into the pedestrian traffic. Headlights from passing cars
reflected on the younger cop’s brass nameplate above
his midnight blue shirt pocket. Jude read the name,
Flanagan, on the plate.
“What happened?” Flanagan asked, hooking a thumb
on his belt. He had the glare of a baseball umpire.
“Did you see him?” Jude asked, wiping sidewalk dirt
from the hard drive; he touched blood droplets on his
cheek.
“No.”
“What! You missed him? Did you see the white Range
Rover?”
“Stick to our questions.” The older officer said with
lips creased tight.
“Shit—the guy was even more trained in hand-to-hand
combat than me.”
“He was after that . . . computer part?” The cop
pointed at the hard drive that Jude held in his hands.
The older cop muttered, “That’s why you’re playing
tackle here on Columbus?”
Jude explained the break-in at his apartment and the
subsequent chase. Flanagan opened a leather-bound
notepad and scratched notes, weighing the account.
While he wrote, Jude removed his cell phone, speed-
 GRIDLOCK
8

dialed his colleague, Niles Tully, and told him to come by

his apartment.
Jude hung up as the older officer said, “And that’s
your profession . . . cyber work at the bureau?”
Jude nodded. The older cop holding his wallet checked
his badge and Stanford magnetic clearance card.
“Why the Stanford ID?” the cop asked, stroking his
mustache.
“I did some special work for them.”
Jude avoided elaborating on his role in the genomics
initiative at Stanford. Beat cops couldn’t be bothered
with how Jude used to work for Stanford and still
watched out for the University’s computer security.
“And you work at the FBI?”
Jude blinked dirt from his eyes. “I’m a new field
agent.”
The policemen exchanged glances. “Doing?”
“Electronic surveillance for the bureau’s grid
computer.”
Jude tapped the hard drive.
Flanagan shook his head.
“Don’t I look like a workaholic? You want a description
of the thief, right?”
Earnestly holding the pad, Flanagan filled his page.
After a quick ride up the hill in the squad car, the
three of them trod through Jude’s hallway. The older cop
gathered loose paper from the floor, and leafed through
them.
Jude swiped the papers out of his hand.
“Hey.” The older cop put his hand on his sidearm.
“Look. I just want to know if you’re going to have a
team dust for latents.” Jude asked.
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

The older cop said, “You’ve got your computer

equipment now, right, agent Wagner? Can you prove
they got anything else?”
“Assholes.” Jude said under his breath.
The older officer’s eyes narrowed. He turned to
Flanagan.
“Whadya know? The field office is hiring jerks without
verbal filters.”
“At least I do my job.” Jude shoved his hand through
his hair.
Flanagan shrugged. “Looks like all we got here is
breaking and entering.”
Not seeing anything else missing, and holding the
recovered hard drive in his hands, Jude knew he’d have
to check prints for himself. Just as well. The cops
appeared ready to lecture him on the risks of vigilantism
in North Beach. So when Jude heard the words, time for
a code seven, he was relieved they were signaling to
eat. The officers left without Jude showing them to the
door.
Locking it behind the police, Jude took stock of things.
The cost of losing Grid information was incalculable.
He turned his attention back to his hard drive and
ransacked living room. Moving to his computer desk, he
blew debris from the hard drive with a can of
compressed air and slid the drive into its bay. Navigating
to drive F, he saw with relief that the files were intact.
The pounding in his chest slowed, but only a little.
He went to the kitchen freezer and pulled a bag out of
Birds Eye frozen corn for his throbbing cheek. He stared
in the bathroom mirror at road burn texturing one side of
his face.
Straightening things as a way to cool down, he
realized a folder of business documents that had been
 GRIDLOCK
6

resting on his desk was gone—documents that pertained

to the Google deal. His nerves shot up again. It had
taken months of negotiations to strike this deal, a
confidential agreement that would impact the
pharmaceutical landscape overnight.
The impending partnership would connect the Grid to
Google’s world databases, ones that held most of the
world’s printed information, enabling users to query
medical data on the fly. The Grid 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 to tell her
what had happened. He’d fill her in on the details
tomorrow once her plane got in. Setting down his phone,
he warmed up some leftover chicken when heard a
knock. He peered through the peep hole in the door then
unlocked the bolt. Niles, Jude’s Grid partner, charged in,
smelling of cigarette smoke. In a navy pea coat, dress
white pants, and white bucks, he looked ready to report
to the British Navy.
Niles slammed the door and Jude locked it behind him.
“Your face is a mess.” Niles said.
They moved to the living room. Niles took in the
strewn papers.
“You’re more disheveled than a Jackson Pollack
painting,” Niles said in his Oxford English accent. He
snatched paper from the floor. “What happened?”
Jude sighed.
Niles sat in the corner club chair, removed a foil-
covered mint from his pea-coat pocket, unwrapped it,
and popped it in his mouth. “It’s like a ticker tape parade
in here.”
Jude refrained from sitting. “Some guy broke in and
got my hard drive.”
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Your hard drive? Damn it, Jude!” Niles slammed the

arms of the club chair.
“I got it back after I chased him all the way to
Columbus and fought him.”
Niles squinted with dismay.
“But I just found out he got papers on the Google
deal.”
“No! Did you get a look at this guy, I mean a real
look?”
“I saw he was a walking oak tree with stubbled, blond
hair. He looked paramilitary—ready for trouble. And a
white Range Rover pulled up for him.” Jude grasped to
recall more.
Niles bit his lip, seething. But his judgmental glare had
no effect on Jude. Niles dropped his hands on his knees.
“A lot of good that FBI job is doing you, Sherlock.”
Niles harbored resentment that Jude left Stanford for
the FBI. But that was misplaced anger. Jude hadn’t
abandoned the project and never could. His algorithm
was embedded into the Grid. And the FBI job helped
Stanford. It allowed Jude to study electronic surveillance
so that 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 curtailed black-hat
attacks.
Most quants knew the term hacker had originated in
the 1950s when a boy called Joe Engressia, 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 age eight that the U.S.
long-distance telephone exchanges responded to special
frequency tones. By mimicking the frequencies that
 GRIDLOCK
8

phone companies used, he got away with making

expensive calls for free.
An intruder could’ve wanted Jude’s hard drive to
obtain access to the Grid and do damage. But that
wouldn’t have helped without the key he carried in his
right front pocket. 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.
“I hope you can get some kind of detective help with
this.” Niles quipped.
“We’ll see.”
Jude couldn’t help but think about how his coding
breakthrough in the Stanford Grid acted as the spark to
accelerate personalized medicine, but so what? That
only represented one battle victory. As far as cancer was
concerned, the war had just begun at Stanford.
Jude said, “I’m going to try Hideo right now to give
him a head’s up. But he’ll be tough to reach. After
Switzerland, he was flying to Japan.”
“Right. Let’s hope that CERN funding-raiser won some
hearts. Either way, we’re going to find who nicked these
papers.”
Jude punched his number into his cell phone. The line
rang into voicemail. “Hideo, Jude. I need you to call as
soon as you can.” Jude clicked off and pocketed his
phone.
“We’ll have to try Hideo in the morning. And see what
he can do to protect the Google deal.” Niles said,
shaking his head. “Knowlan is going to lose it when he
hears about this.”
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Mercenary and bipolar, Gary Knowlan was Stanford

University’s bioengineering department’s Program Chief.
Jude touched his cheek.
“What are you going to do? Leave?”
“We’re not going to run through every angle on this
thing at a bar tonight. Not at this hour. Save it. Once you
get into this tomorrow, call me. And keep that head
clear, you hear me. No boozing.”
Jude rolled his eyes. Wind bellowed through his metal-
lined chimney. His face brightened with an idea. “You
working on the boat tomorrow?”
“Yes. I’ll be testing my new onboard stereo.”
“I’ll meet you at the marina. We can sail before Kate
arrives.”
Niles buttoned his coat, considering it. “Okay.”
He started for the door. “Usual time. And Jude,
whoever dared to try to bring us down, he’s not going to
succeed at this. We’re not going to let him.”
“I know that. He’d have to kill me first,” Jude said.

***

He walked around his living room rug, chewing on a

chicken drumstick. The evening’s event left Jude stewing
over the isolating journey he’d led since he moved from
Kentucky to California and buried himself in theoretical
computing study at Berkeley with Niles. Looking back,
this hunt really began when his mom died.
He tore off another bite of chicken. He couldn’t put off
the call to Stanford’s genomic medicine program
director, Gary Knowlan, even though he knew it would
wake him.
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Jude punched in the phone number to Gary Knowlan

and got right to the point. “Gary, it’s Jude. Bad news.”
It sounded like Knowlan knocked over a lamp.
“Damn it.” There was more fumbling on the other end
of the line. “I was asleep. What is it?”
“Someone broke into my place and stole paper work
involving our Google deal.”
“Oh, God! The world is watching us with a magnifying
glass,” Knowlan shouted, “investors, doctors, patients,
lawyers—and you lose paperwork? We can’t afford
carelessness.”
“This is your way of thanking me for updating you?
The thug could’ve crashed into your place just as easily
as he did mine.”
“But he didn’t. You better pray this doesn’t screw up
the agreement.”
There was a pause before anyone spoke. Jude could
almost hear Gary processing this, half awake. He finally
added, “How ironic is it that you’re going to be publicly
awarded for your genius discovery. You should know that
I’ve got serious misgivings about your banquet dinner.
It’s too early for us to celebrate and dance in the street.”
“Because you’re jealous.” Jude said.
Knowlan cackled. “Give me a break. I’m not jealous of
you, I’m livid. Your award night is a colossal distraction
and now we’ve got stolen papers to worry about.”
“The award night will be over in three days. You can
quit being bitter after that.”
“Shut up, Wagner.” Knowlan said.
“I know you’re resentful because you think that we
ganged up against you, but that’s not really the case.”
Knowlan was still fuming over how his idea of
commercializing the Grid got voted down by Jude, Niles
and Hideo.
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Wagner, we both know the reality of what happened.

Another reality is that you and your amada-of-three just
pissed away serious money.”
Knowlan hung up.
The conversation left Jude on edge even though he’d
expected the call would strike a nerve. This gave
Knowlan another opportunity to rant against making the
Grid a free web service—what he called pie-in-the-sky
medicine and project suicide. If the Grid were
commercialized, according to the plan that Knowlan had
struck with his Pharma company friends, he’d see a big
promotion and leave behind his days as program
director at Stanford, managing student scientists on
campus.
But it wasn’t Knowlan’s ego that got under Jude’s skin,
it was his harping on the award ceremony. The Turing
Award was distracting. Jude’s plan to help make Stanford
more secure had just backfired.
Pacing his way out of his fugue, Jude reconsidered the
break-in to his apartment play-by-play. It would be
horrendous if that intruder succeeded at accessing and
corrupting the Grid.
The message would be clear: if a hacker could
compromise the Grid and its 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.
With heightened resolve, Jude took a flashlight to his
hallway closet. It was the only part of his hall that
would’ve been undisturbed by foot traffic from the police
officer visit. He shined the flashlight low across the floor
and saw a shoeprint that wasn’t his own. Then he
recalled that one of his Academy manuals on evidence
collection contained inserts for exercises. He pulled the
 GRIDLOCK
14

manual from his bedroom shelf and found a gelatin lifter

inside a laminated pouch. He removed the black gel
plastic from its book pouch. In the hallway closet floor,
he carefully placed the plastic over the boot mark to get
a good impression. He let the gel lift set while he went
outside with a flashlight to check his car for a slap-and-
track. The Mazda underside looked like a used stunt car,
but it was free of attached hardware.
It was little consolation. Whoever instigated this had
an elaborate operation. A lot more thought had to go
into keeping the Stanford Grid project afloat.
15 ALVIN ZIEGLER

four

Saturday, October 29
San Francisco, CA

Jude clicked off his clock radio and the morning DJ.
Daylight came too early to Jude’s Russian Hill apartment;
raising his head took effort as the memory of his dream
cycled into conscience. He was running on a treadmill,
pounding on rubber. Every time his pace slowed, he
sank another inch into sludge.
He blinked the vision away. But he was reminded that
whenever he felt rundown, his focus strayed from work
to women or whatever took his mind off himself.
He glanced at the bloody skin on the left side of his
face in the bathroom mirror. After combing dirt out of his
hair, he dabbed the scrapes on his face with rubbing
alcohol on toilet paper. Niles could appreciate that Jude
worked for the FBI now, assigned to computer intrusion.
Jude’s paranoia over Grid security was justified.
Removing the T-shirt he slept in exposed broad
shoulders. His body hadn’t changed much from high
school days when he wrestled competitively. His resting
stance resembled that of a grappler going into round
one: legs shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent. His
former coach said he had the quickness of a sled-dog.
Back then, summers spent working construction jobs
added muscle definition to his arms. At the moment, he
 GRIDLOCK
6

felt stiff just putting his arms through the sleeves of a

button-down shirt.
He wondered how Hideo Onagi’s presentation had
gone at CERN. But sizing up why his place was broken
into would be his first order of business. In wrinkled
trousers, he walked from the living room to his bedroom
and snagged something sharp on his heel.
As the brambly sensation dulled, he saw an unfamiliar
black pen poking out from under his rug. Adrenalin ran
through him. He would’ve found it sooner if it wasn’t
wedged between the rug and floor pad. He nudged it
with his fingernail. The worn pen had nothing identifiable
except for some faded, illegible writing stamped in gold
along the barrel. He pulled a sandwich bag from the
kitchen. Using plastic as a glove, he scooped the pen
into the baggie, zipped it, and pushed it into his satchel
with the gelatin lifter in a separate divide and his hard
drive that was in another baggie. The gel lifter was
placed between two pieces of cardboard as moist
evidence degrades when placed in plastic containers.
Once outside, he put on his shoes and met a fog bank
that hovered around the apartment buildings. The
border between where the city ended and the bay began
looked blurry. A foghorn blew near Alcatraz; sea lions
barked at the wharf. San Francisco almost appeared
adrift at sea. Jude could relate. The ground shook and
the noise of metal on metal screeched. A cable car rose
over the crest of Hyde Street. It carried tourists in
sweatshirts and Bermuda shorts. Passengers cried
gleefully as the car, dinging its chipper arcade-like
chime, plunged toward Ghirardelli Square.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Though the fog made it a cold day for sailing, Jude

knew that being on the boat would clear his head.
Sailing had a Zen effect on him.
There had to be some report on his attacker from last
night. Jude went to his car, opened his mobile phone in
the wind, and rang the Central Police Station. The station
straddled Chinatown and North Beach, and it would have
handled last night’s skirmish on Columbus Avenue. The
police line beeped, recording the call. Jude asked for
Officer Flanagan. The line transferred from the front
desk.
“Officer Flanagan.”
“This is Jude Wagner, the FBI agent from last night.”
“Which response was that?”
“The one involving the Filbert Street apartment break-
in and the—“
“Right, the street-fighting fed. If you’re calling about
that Range Rover’s partial plate, we’ve got nothing.”
“Really.”
The officer said, “You’re quite the shit disturber.
Disorderly conduct for an agent, don’t you think?”
Time was wasting. Jude could tell this call wasn’t
going to help and pressed END. He reconsidered the
missing Google papers with terms for a deal with
Stanford.
They’d had to keep the deal a secret. If word had got
out that one of the largest, most cutting-edge
information tech companies was working with Stanford
to capture patient records, it would’ve turned the
biggest industry in the world—mainstream medicine—
upside down. Healthcare executives would panic to see
custom drugs selling at a fraction of their one-size-fits all
blockbusters, drugs that earned more than $234 billion a
year. If Stanford’s healthcare project were non-profit, it
 GRIDLOCK
8

could save billions of dollars on commercial advertising,

and even more on clinical studies.
He got in the Mazda, started it up and headed for the
Berkeley Marina.
Genomic medicine was cheaper in the long run than
traditional medicine because it analyzed a person’s
health predictively, showing which drug treatments
would be optimal for one gene-type. Traditional
medicine, however, was evidence-based and depended
heavily on expensive clinical trials and lab tests. And
because the Stanford team analyzed disease
genomically, relying more on computers than doctors, it
would produce fewer side-effects and misprescriptions.
The Stanford Grid would interpret a person’s genome so
precisely that a doctor could log onto Stanford’s
database and know which drugs to avoid and which ones
to use when writing a prescription for that patient. Any
neighborhood pharmacy could fill the order.
Jude left another message on Hideo’s cell, asking if he
could fire back an email if he was too busy to talk. Jude
thought about his award ceremony and Roger Knowlan’s
telephone tantrum. He was a manic nut case, but
Knowlan was right. It was no time to be celebrating, not
after the Google agreement papers had been swiped.
Jude crossed the Bay Bridge. As he had done a
hundred times before, he turned into the Berkeley
Marina parking lot to meet Niles for a sail. Kate said their
boat was like a tree house to a twelve-year old: a private
escape. It would be good to see her later.
The marina was deserted on this blustery October
day. None of the regular kids who lived on wind
surfboards were hitting waves. A bell attached to one of
the docked sailboats whimpered in the wind. The
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

constant settling of the land gnarled the asphalt with

fissures. The only sign of a visitor was Niles’s parked car.
Down the dock, Jude boarded the boat to find Niles
doing sit-ups on the deck as if he’d been waiting
overnight.
Smelling of teak oil, Niles put on his wire-rim glasses
and straightened his slicked back hair. With aqua
topsiders, he resembled a preppy version of Gordon
Gecko from the 1980s movie Wall Street.
If Jude was the artist, Niles was the art dealer in their
relationship: a spin doctor, a check-is-in-the-mail, we’ll-
sign-the contract-today Svengali who, unlike Jude,
remained a permanent member to the Stanford Grid
Project. Though he seemed to have an extra
chromosome for melodrama, Jude could count on Niles
to keep him up on the day-to-day at Stanford.
Jude pulled on a faded Old Navy sweatshirt, untied the
last slip line, and kicked off from the dock. The Tipsea
shoved away from the berth. They motored out of the
marina. Jude tugged on his cap, blocking wind and
sunlight. Standing at the base of the mast, he winched
the halyard, raising the sail. The sail flapped in the wind
until Niles cranked the mainsheet. He got it into optimal
position, billowing the sail. Quietly, they skimmed along
the water.
It took will power for Jude to return to sailing after
what happened on the family sailboat when he was
fifteen. He’d be better off forgetting that humid summer
afternoon of family sailing. The wind disappeared, the
boat motor stalled and those cicadas got louder on
Kentucky Lake that day.
Jude’s mother died just after a rigorous swim. Initially
the twins thought she may have drowned. But drowning
wasn’t the cause of her death. In fact, their mom had
 GRIDLOCK
10

been suffering from breast cancer which had irreversibly

spread. Jude and Kate didn’t learn of her condition until
after she’d died. Her body had simply given out after the
torture of the disease. In an instant, there was a void in
the house and Kate and Jude were no longer kids.
Their mother’s breast cancer had jump-started him
to research how computers were being applied in
medicine. Every weekend he tapped at the Internet,
delving deeper into medical websites. Kate worried
about him. Virtual reality could serve as anyone’s short
term refuge, but for the long term it was no way to live.
Niles turned to Jude. “Fancy this. I’m actually seeing
phantom-Jude two days in a row.”
Jude’s Quantico training and first month at the bureau
had kept him away.
“I saw you three times in the last four months—you
had me thinking you were giving up on Stanford.”
“Whatever, Niles. I’m here now.”
“So, where are we with this break-in?” Niles asked.
“What can the FBI do for us?”
“Got one lousy lead.”
“Which is what?”
“A pen I found at my place.”
Niles looked hopeful, but Jude shook his head. “It may
lead nowhere.”
In four days Niles would be flying to Switzerland to
hammer out an agreement with the search engine
company. The Google representative was in Meyrin
coordinating Grid issues with CERN. Niles would use the
opportunity to see his son Edward in London.
For some reason Jude wondered if Niles missed his
son. “Can I ask you a random question.”
“What?”
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Is it strange that Charlene raises Edward?”

“Charlene is a stellar mum. But I never knew I’d want
to see this boy of mine as much as I do. I think about
him daily. Niles
picked through his wallet and pulled out a picture of his
son, Edward. “Look at this. Isn’t he a bonnie lad? Turning
thirteen.”
“It’s debatable. He looks just like you.”
“Bollocks.”
“Is he still playing soccer?”
“He’s their ringer. You should start a brood one day.”
“You call that a brood, having a boy that’s halfway
across the world who’s being co-parented by your
lesbian friend? How often do you see him, three times a
year? The word virtual is good when used for grid
computing—bad when it applies to Dad.”
“Okay, wise ass.”
“I’m sure you’re doing a fine job with Edward,” Jude
said apologetically.
“Good.”
“I think I’m stuck on a traditional idea of how I’d raise
a family and what it would take.”
The boat rocked over swells.
“You’re never ready for kids, even when you find the
right person to make them with which you haven’t.
Charlene and I have things sorted, but I should’ve found
an American girl to do it with. Either way, life is easier if
you’re straight.”
“Your report on Charlene is better than what I’ve got.”
“What’s her name?” Niles said.
“Nathalie.”
“And this mystery woman would be?”
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“A waste of my energy. We started something at the

FBI Academy. Neither one of us could get enough of
each other. And now—”
“This is dire. You fancy a career woman who’s putting
that badge first.”
“And now we’re FBI partners.”
“Partners? Like Mulder and Scully in the X-Files?
“Sort of. Technically, she’s my training agent.”
“Forget your love ‘em and leave ‘em modus operandi
with this one.”
“Thanks for the advice, Niles. It saves me a lot of trial
and error.”
“You got yourself in deep. Shit like this takes a toll.”
A sailboat of similar size moved opposite them on the
port side.
“I’ll be fine. What I don’t know is why I talk to you?”
“Good question. Why does a guy who’s straight as an
arrow like you have a best friend who’s gay like me?
Ever wonder what the media’s going to do with that
once they find out your former Grid partner swings the
other way?”
“I’m not worried about that, Niles. If the tabloids print
I’m gay, I’ll be catching the girls with their guard down.”
“True. I’m the best wingman you’ll ever know. It is
pretty ironic, though, that the woman you really want is
an FBI agent.”
“Why is that?”
“Plenty of birds out there would admire your being an
agent. Yet you manage to go for a girl who is one
herself.
The oncoming sailboat passed with the man and
woman onboard giving a casual wave. Niles waved back
at them. “You still glad you became a full-time federali?”
15 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Yes. You know my job is good for Stanford. We’re in

this project for the long haul.” Jude thought about how
glad he was that Kate would be visiting. He needed to
get his mind off things. He told Niles that Kate would be
flying in later that day.
“Does she have a seat at the award ceremony?”
“Yes.” Suddenly, Jude realized that he hadn’t set aside
much time to spend entertaining Kate.
“Yeah, just don’t let that new girl or that ceremony in
two days go to your head—you’re still one of the team.
And obviously you’re still prone to screwing up the
simplest of things.”
5 ALVIN ZIEGLER

five

Sunday, October 30
Tokyo, Japan

The Ferris wheel nearly completed its first full rotation

with its newest passengers on board. Dr. Hideo Onagi
held his nine-year-old daughter’s chilled shoulder and
she gripped her vinyl seat. The Ferris wheel car swung
freely. From up here they had a mountaintop view where
city life below crawled serenely. It allayed Hideo’s mind
from his marital predicament. Under different
circumstances he’d be drinking Cosmos to celebrate the
completion of another Grid presentation. He was elated
that the medical project would remain not-for-profit with
Stanford University. But there would be no rest for him in
Tokyo. He even put Jűrgen’s absence out of his mind.
The skyline didn’t look the way it used to when Hideo
was growing up. More buildings towered, emblems to
Japanese industry. The expanse framed five ports: Chiba,
Kawasaki, Yokohama, Yokosuka, and on the west, Tokyo.
The heavily-built landscape receded into gray. At
midday, the autumn sun was breaking through a veil of
Tokyo smog.
“Daddy look.” Yomiko shouted, pointing at kids below
chasing dancing kite strings.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Clear day for Tokyo, isn’t it, Yomiko?”

“It’s beautiful, Daddy.”
Coveting family time, Hideo read manga comics to his
daughter on weekends. Yet at home in Palo Alto,
California, he seemed married to his job. His schedule
left few hours for his wife and Yomiko. If he could rewind
time, he would’ve struck a balance, listened to those
who called him too high-minded for his own good. But
his Grid team depended on him for everything at
Stanford.
Right now, Hideo’s wife, Asuka, dined with her
parents, strategizing about her permanent relocation
back to Tokyo with their daughter. Asuka couldn’t
function outside of Japan. Like some endangered zoo
animal, she had to ship back to her natural habitat or
pine away. She had asked for a divorce, claiming she
couldn’t be Japanese anywhere else. That phrase
haunted Hideo. He wondered if he was no longer
Japanese. He couldn’t remember when someone called
him “the Little Bullet,” the nickname that the Japanese
media had coined for him. But he couldn’t foresee living
in Japan again and abandoning his job. Fully
Americanized, he drove a classic Mustang and,
unbeknownst to his wife, shot pool and drank
cosmopolitans after work. He’d even come to resent
Japan’s outdated patriarchal systems of hierarchy and its
hidden xenophobia.
With a steel clank, the Ferris wheel lurched them
higher. He rubbed his daughter’s shoulders to warm
them. Yomiko squinted into wind. He knew how rarely he
would see his daughter once Asuka moved her to Japan.
This business trip was his opportunity to say goodbye to
her for now, while Asuka reunited with her parents—
parents whom, she insisted, they’d abandoned. How
 GRIDLOCK
8

could he steer the Grid project when he couldn’t keep

his family afloat?
Shame. Yomiko straightened her bangs while the
Ferris wheel moved again.
He mumbled a poem he knew.

Time is eternity and eternity is time.

What is time and who am I?
Time moves on but I am out of time.
In between. Time moves. Time stands still.

“What are you saying, Daddy?”

“Nothing—look, Yomiko, that outline is Mount Fuji,”
Hideo said, his arm still around her shoulders.
His daughter pointed in another direction, at hazy
spires. “And there’s Disneyworld.”
Precocious nine-year-old.
Windblown, they disembarked from the ride.
Yomiko headed to a meal truck, pulling Hideo by the
hand. They purchased bento box lunches and ice cream,
taking a bench that overlooked Tokyo Bay. Yomiko ate
her melting drumstick first. Hideo opened his box and
savored a soy-dipped salmon roll. While his daughter
watched the kids play with kites, he unfolded the Japan
Times, Sunday, October 30 edition. The front story
covered the latest medical debacle about how Clarkson
Reid, the largest pharmaceutical company in the world
after Johnston & Quib, had been shipping outdated drugs
to Africa to fight the AIDS epidemic that continued to
sweep the continent.
Amoral capitalist pigs. He snapped the paper
together. A few outdated drugs wouldn’t help anyone.
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

He trashed the paper into a green can. His wife’s

words came to mind. You’re boiling the ocean, Hideo.
Sadly, this was the only way Asuka could express her
frustration with his work.
But Hideo couldn’t leave the Stanford Grid Project. Not
after the holy grail of medicine was finally getting
started—successfully evaluating diabetes test patients
with a million times greater accuracy than a physician
could. Stanford’s massively distributed computer
network analyzed molecular patterns like weather
satellites that scanned the earth for climate changes.
The Grid matched molecular information from tumors
with exactly the right drug to suppress that tumor. To
treat each cancer patient individually meant heavy
analysis. The computer power of the Grid made it
possible.
He had overcome the perception that genetic
engineering tampered with nature and the ecosystem. A
few years ago Hideo had to wear moon-suits even for
tasks done inside air-locked laboratories. Since then,
attitudes had shifted as people came to better
understand genetic science.
“Let’s not leave, Daddy.”
“I must—I have a conference in Palm Springs,” Hideo
said.
Yomiko scowled. “What kind of conference?”
“Computer medicine, Neko, for sick people.”
She made an exaggerated frown. As she ate her
lunch, he observed how her fresh, young face bore
evidence of the refined beauty she would become. He
wanted to preserve memories of her growing up, storing
in his mind all that he would miss.
Yomiko leaped up. “Let’s go.” She tugged him by his
cuff. He dumped their paper lunch boxes and followed.
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Where are you going, Yomiko?”

She turned. “You know, to our garden, without birds.”
She flashed him a toothy smile of innocence,
acknowledging his fear of birds. Chocolate ice cream
streaked down her face. He, too, wanted to relive their
Tokyo memories from Yomiko’s childhood.
He followed her to their old nature sanctuary. The
grounds appeared, clashing against the dense urban
background of Tokyo. Nearing the garden, Yomiko
pointed to an entrance lined with a maze of shrubs that
Hideo knew was Japanese boxwood.
“This way, Daddy.” She pointed to the bonsai-filled
menagerie. Inside the garden, they crept along pebble
paths with red maples that ran alongside lily-covered
streams. An elderly garden visitor sat meditating upon
sand and stones, surrounded by bamboo.
“Daddy, I want to move back here.”
He ignored that. “Select a rock, Yomiko.”
“Okay—that one beside the red tree.”
“Now, adopt it.”
“How?”
“Name it. Remember it. And it’s yours.”
Yomiko threw her head back, closing her eyes. “I
named it Chihiro, from the movie Spirited Away.”
“Fine. We’ll revisit old Chihiro one day. Say goodbye,”
he said softly.
She thought about it, fixed on the rock and waved her
arms. They meandered away from the garden, across
yards of grass where families picnicked with wine bottle-
sized Sapporo and Asahi beers. Strolling with her hand in
his, Hideo rehearsed his Palm Springs speech. He
removed an index card from his shirt pocket. But the
dozens of birds that settled in a flock at their feet
distracted him. His palms sweated at this and the two
 GRIDLOCK
12

vicious-looking dogs he saw sitting in the distance,

outside the garden.
“Yomiko, we must go.”
“Daddy, I’ll protect you from those black birds.”
He squeezed her hand and put the note cards away.
As they strolled toward the gift shop, her eyes suddenly
grew large. She cried: “Daddy, look out.”
Hideo spun around to confront two vicious white and
tan dogs coming at him from behind cherry trees. They
cantered toward him with fur raised on their necks. Like
hungry wolves, the weighty Akita Inu collided into him,
knocking him backward. Hideo stumbled. They circled,
snapping at him. He swung his arms to keep them from
turning on his daughter. One dog shredded the sleeve
from long-sleeved cotton shirt.
His daughter darted toward a tree, screaming.
He anchored his heels into the grassy earth to stand,
but the growling animals pinned him down, spewing
fetid breath and slobber.
With one arm, he motioned for Yomiko to keep
running. “Go. Go!” Instead she watched shrieking,
immobilized.
One berserk Akita closed its fangs on his forearm,
sinking teeth into skin and bone. The other animal bit
Hideo’s thigh. His extremities seared. He straight-armed
one dog’s muzzle. Its head snapped back and forward
again. He kicked the other, gasping. The second one
forced its fangs into his opposite arm, yanking it like a
flag in a gale. His shoulder popped and he screamed.
He saw picnickers jump to their feet and dash to help
him.
“Daddy.” Yomiko cried.
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Kneeling, Hideo snagged one dog’s ear and didn’t let

go. Furry tissue finally tore from its square head. A
torrent of blood ran down the animal’s head, slowing it.
Hideo had gained the upper hand until the other locked
its jaws on his cheek. Hideo lost his grip.
Teeth gnashed into his neck like ice picks, piercing
and crushing the vertebrae. Hideo saw white, and smelt
a coppery odor mixed with urine. It was more pain than
he imagined possible. His struggle diminished to stop-
action motion. Gasping, he fell flat to the ground.

Yomiko heard a whistle blow. One after another, the

dogs tore off in into the direction from which the sound
came, leaving a crimson trail.
Heeling, the canines sat before a blonde-haired
woman in a brown jumpsuit. She was crouched behind
cherry trees. Breathless, Yomiko watched the woman
reward her dogs with biscuits, then lean on fasten
leashes to them. Her gold cross glistened in the
sunshine.
Frightened and helpless Yomiko moved to her father’s
lifeless body and dropped to her knees sobbing.
The woman behind the trees disappeared.
A siren sounded. With lights flashing, an ambulance
sped onto the park knoll, swerving around parents who
swept children out of the way. Two medics sprang from
the swinging double doors with a stretcher. They sped to
where a little girl blanketed herself over the attack-dogs’
victim. One of the medics examined puncture marks on
the victim’s throat. He put one hand on top of another
and tried to resuscitate the gravely injured man. A
brackish odor made him cover his nose with his forearm.
He relayed, “There’s no hope for this poor man.”
15 ALVIN ZIEGLER

The other medic knelt to comfort the blood-stained

child.
“What is that you’ve got in your hand?” he asked and
pried two index cards from her shaking fist.
“They went over there,” the girl said crying.
“Who did?”
“The dogs. A lady was waiting for them and she was
here, but left.”
The medic looked at the trees where she pointed but
saw nothing. He read the note card:
“Algorithms like Jude Wagner’s solve problems
through computer instructions or code which greatly
speed up the computational process of personalized
medicine. How? Mathematically. Wagner’s code mines
key bits of data. This way, the Grid at Stanford can sort
the molecular information of a patient’s tumor and give
us an individualized snapshot of the illness. It’s step one
in custom disease diagnosis.”

The medic had no idea what he was reading, but it

looked important. He tucked the note card into his
pocket and put the deceased on the stretcher.

six
17 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Monday, October 31
Emeryville, CA

Marc Ferguson’s corporate office in Emeryville was

plush, complete with a private sitting room, bar and
bathroom. With revenues sagging, it smacked of excess.
The CEO stepped out of his office shower after his
morning run and dressed. Dreading his next meeting, he
quickly applied molding cream into his thick gray hair
and patted cologne on his square jaw.
Times were simpler when medical insurance covered
more of the cost of medicine. Just five years ago the
media had swooned over him, hailing him the Michael
Jordan of drug manufacturers for his unlikely rise from a
Pennsylvania steel worker family to the tough-minded
pill producer they depicted him as today.
How could they forget that he forged J&Qs blockbuster
drugs which earned over two billion dollars a year?
Launching a blockbuster drug was arguably the
highest stake game in business. It cost a billion dollars to
bring one to market; yet, one-size-fits all treatment had
had its day as personalized medicine was rapidly
claiming the altar of healthcare.
Ferguson thought he had remedied J&Q’s problems by
teaming up with Stanford’s corps of scientists, the new
darlings in genomic medicine. A month ago that fell
apart when The Stanford Grid team told Ferguson that it
would be severing its alliance with J&Q. The news carried
an awful sting. Ferguson dreaded how J&Q’s stock price
would drop when word got out. Never one to play by the
rules, he’d downplayed the report to venture capitalist,
Olivier Ramsey.
Ferguson looked out his window, now holding a
watered down glass of scotch. Emeryville looked small
19 ALVIN ZIEGLER

against San Francisco. Remove the strip malls and high

rises and Emeryville’s only merit was its proximity to the
Bay Bridge that led from the east bay to downtown San
Francisco.
An uneasy feeling loomed over Ferguson that Jude
Wagner would mention the break-up of J&Q and Stanford
tonight at his award ceremony. Setting down his scotch,
he moved to his desk and picked up line two.
Heather told him Mr. Ramsey was here.
“Send him in,” Ferguson said to Heather, the
executive assistant extraordinaire—the only company
person with whom he’d confided about his illness.
Dressed in a dark suit, Olivier Ramsey toted a
suitcase into Ferguson’s office, looking the veteran of
multiple bear markets on Wall Street. Under thick
eyeglasses, a cheerless line for a mouth cut across his
pale face.
“Did your plane come in early?” Ferguson said,
perfunctorily shaking hands.
“Mercifully. There was hardly any cabin space to
breathe.” Apart from his New York accent, Ramsey’s
speech lacked any note of inflection.
Ferguson made a comment about how Internet price
wars killed the airlines.
“Commercial airlines, not the private jets that you
ride.” Ramsey propped up his luggage. He took the chair
across the desk from Ferguson, and turned it so it
squared off directly opposite him.
“How’s your daughter?” Ferguson asked.
“Fine. Although she just hacked off her nice long hair.
The bellhop look must be in style.”
“Must be. Short and brown is how my daughter wears
it.”
21 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Ramsey checked his BlackBerry, ending the artless

chit chat. Ramsey, who was J&Q’s primary investor from
the beginning, had flown in for another status report. He
had banked on J&Q’s alliance with the Stanford
University. The Stanford team, with its revolutionary
computational biology, promised to usher flagging J&Q
into the new age of science.
The phone rang. Ferguson took a quick call from his
doctor, spoke a few words and hung up. He apologized
for the interruption. Reaching for a granola bar, he
leisurely tore it open and bit into it. Ferguson had a habit
of putting on a calm façade whenever his illness cropped
up—it had become his most coveted secret as a CEO.
Doctors had advised him years ago that he had a 50
percent risk of contracting Huntington’s disease since
his steelworker father had died from it. Five years after a
gene for HD was found, a blood test had confirmed that
Ferguson suffered from the deadly disease.
No cures for the disease existed yet so he’d started
developing one himself. He now awaited results on
preliminary testing of a new drug.
Ramsey huffed at the interruption, but Ferguson
ignored him.
“How’s the drugstore?” Ramsey finally asked in his
brusque New York manner.
“We’re pushing timelines with the Huntington’s drug,
and the breast cancer product is still a leader.”
Ramsey said, “It’s a leader, but we’ve got our share of
side-effects to worry about, I see.”
Ferguson knew that Ramsey, being a major financial
backer, read the side-effect reports almost as religiously
as himself.
Ramsey added, “What’s happening with the Stanford
team?”
23 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Ferguson coughed. “They don’t offer me status

reports until every one of their ideas has been sealed
like a can of tuna.” Ferguson looked away, dreading the
meeting that was scheduled in six days to dissolve the
Stanford alliance. Then he’d have to face a tirade from
investors and Ramsey—a fiery defeat in the waiting.
“Nicolette wants to know if you’re patching things
up.” Nicolette was Ramsey’s boss.
“I’m trying. I’ve got a call in to Hideo Onagi.”
Ramsey shook his head. “You know how I feel about
Jude Wagner.”
“You don’t trust him.”
“That mouth of his is a loose cannon. You can’t watch
him too closely while J&Q is vulnerable to bad press.”
Ferguson took another bite out of his granola bar. He
didn’t dare tell Ramsey how right he was.
5 ALVIN ZIEGLER

seven

Sunday, October 30
San Francisco, CA

Jude rolled off the sofa in his living room after 8 A.M.,
Sunday morning sun washing through bay windows. He
poked his head around his bedroom door and saw Kate
listlessly unpacking things into drawers with tennis
highlights playing on his bedroom TV. She pulled out her
book on the Dali Lama and thumbed through it.
“Is everything all right?” Jude asked.
“Yeah,” she said unconvincingly. “I just resent how
much effort it takes to get here, simply to see my bro.”
The casual spontaneity they enjoyed growing up as
twins had devolved to something more formal, an
adjustment they’d never acknowledged.
“Do you want coffee?”
“If it’s not too high octane, yes.” Kate stretched. “Tell
me, are you still going through girls like tissue paper or
is there someone special you need to tell me about?”
“I’m on dating hiatus.”
“You, on a dating hiatus? Never. I know the male
brain.” Kate clicked off the TV with the remote and
tossed it on the bed. “On another note, the most
evocative smell made me think of you the other day.”
“Bourbon or Tequila?”
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

She smiled. “Not even close. A breeze of freshly cut

grass. It blew through my cracked bedroom window at
home and it transported back to your mowing the lawn
on weekends in Kentucky.”
“Fortunately, that’s one chore I’ll never have to worry
about in San Francisco. And clearing the driveway of
snow is another.”
“Do you think you’ll ever go back to Louisville?”
“Doubtful.”
“Tell me about your break-in. What’s that all about?”
“My place was broken into. That’s about it.”
She got his text Saturday morning and shot back a
note, Lock up!
She insisted on hearing more, so he told her, and
ended, saying, “but they didn’t get anything.” He lied. It
was too early in the day to get into that. “It’s probably
an isolated incident.”
She let her question go for now, but gazed down at his
hands. “Chewed fingernails, I see.”
“Here we go again. Don’t tell me. It gives you a
glimpse under the hood—a look at my nerves. I’m doing
fine, Kate.”
Kate shrugged.
For a moment, he considered how he’d grown jaded
by the world’s misfortunes, as if nothing—from natural
disasters to suicide bombers and Al Qaeda—would gall
him. But this home invasion keyed him up. She must’ve
sensed it.
She said, “I don’t know how you do it.”
“What?”
“Do the work you do. It makes you so unpopular. First
it was the Stanford Grid, now law enforcement.”
“I must like the pressure of having detractors.”
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“I guess you do. Risky business always had a way of

finding you growing up. Call me predictable, but no
amount of money or status would tempt me to trade
teaching biology in Kentucky for what you did at
Stanford or do the FBI. I do admire you, though. Silicon
Valley is brimming with geeks half as talented as you—
most of them focused on earning their millions and
retiring by forty-five. That’s just not you.”
He chuckled and poured coffee in two mugs, handing
one to Kate. “I think about money a lot too, Kate. But my
primary goal isn’t to be happy and carefree, but to be
useful.”
“I like that,” she said.
They sipped their coffee.
She set down her cup. “Got something to show you.”
She led him to her open suitcase on the floor in his
bedroom. Using two fingers, she lifted out an impressive
gown. “I bought this for the momentous occasion.”
Jude eyed the piece, chuckled with approval and told
her he’d call a separate cab for her tomorrow night to
get to the ceremony as he’d be going early.

Kate finished unpacking her things from her case

while Jude fixed French toast. A scarf, sweats, and
underwear went into dresser drawers that Jude had
emptied for her stay. She removed her biology notes
from her suitcase for the class she’d be guest lecturing
and placed them on the bedside table. Could her lack of
energy could be tied to her recent mammogram? Her
exam was so inconclusive. She repeated her doctor’s
words: We can’t fret about this until we see your biopsy
results.
She ached to tell Jude about her worrisome checkup,
but she didn’t dare drop this on him now—not when he
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

was about to accept his award. She walked to the

kitchen and watched Jude making coffee, reconsidering
telling him.
No one but she, and possibly Niles, understood Jude’s
contrasting nature: his wrestler physique, quick reflexes
and strong jaw merely exposed his superficial facets.
Underneath this thirty-one-year-old exterior lived an
analytical insomniac. He was not only prone to analyzing
everything but being sucked into the undertow of life’s
currents. This played out through bar hopping and short
term relationships. Jude the Gemini was blessed—or
cursed—with a mind that rarely shutdown. His deeper
self wanted boundaries. He yearned to change the world
and himself. It’s no wonder that skin is the largest single
organ in the human body. Skin, for people like Jude,
acted as a protective shell to a murky, contemplative
interior.
She finally made a firm decision to hold off on telling
him. It would upset Jude too much to learn that she may
have inherited the disease that killed their mother.
Just as Kate said that, she heard how ironic the words
were leaving her mouth. She and Jude were as different
as Tabasco sauce was to honey, but now she was
exposed to risk too, a health risk.
Kate excused herself and went to the bathroom. For
the hell of it, she took a pro-biotic pill from her toiletry
bag, swallowed it and zipped up the remaining pills. Kate
negotiated with herself that after Jude’s award ceremony
she’d tell him that she was on hold for biopsy results. I’ll
navigate this, she reassured herself.
5 ALVIN ZIEGLER

eight

Monday, October 31
San Francisco, CA

Jude jumped off a cable car, wishing his free time with
Kate could’ve continued for another day. Once the
locksmith had finished changing the locks on Jude’s front
door yesterday morning, Jude made the most of the rest
of the day. He took his sister to watch the Fleet Week
aviation show from Alta Plaza hill. Between the fly-bys of
the U.S. Navy’s F/A-18 Hornets, Jude regaled her with
stories of his Quantico training.
Over an early dinner of sushi and Sake, Kate said that
her girlfriends couldn’t believe that sporty Kate wasn’t
dating, but Jude knew that what she’d faced three years
ago had scarred her. It bothered him just remembering
how she tried to become pregnant with her then
husband. When they couldn’t conceive after two years of
trying, her fertility-doctor spouse quit on her. Their
divorce had been quick.
Since then Kate had traded her dreams of
motherhood for teaching, exclusively.
Jude refocused on his work day. He needed to
examine the pen he found the other night. Ignoring the
 GRIDLOCK
6

smell of stale beer and car grease on the streets, he

hoofed to work.
He stepped through the double doors at Civic Center
to Four- fifty Golden Gate Avenue, the largest federal
office building west of the Mississippi River. He flashed
his shield to the slouched guard perusing Rolling Stone
magazine. Still fresh to the job, Jude paused in mid-stride
for Henry to verify credentials. Giving Jude’s badge his
once-over, Henry asked, “Late for a date today,
Wagner?”
“With my desk.”
“Don’t forget to save energy for marriage, man.”
“Right.”
Henry had recently finalized his divorce settlement.
“Women want it all,” he said. “I bought a Les Paul
Guitar in 1961 for $390. Guess what that’s worth now?
Over $90,000. No way my ex’ is getting that.”
“You can thank Jimmy Page for that—he transformed
the electric guitar.”
“You’re too young to know that,” Henry said, going
back to his reading.
Jude moved around the metal detector and wished
Henry a fine day as he moved into the hollow lobby.
Inside the elevator, he leaned against the back wall,
reflecting on how the FBI should have hired a grid expert
like himself a long time ago to upgrade the security
network. He straddled two worlds: law enforcement and
cutting-edge technology. His famous formula was
embedded into the Stanford Grid; it still sifted through
genetic databases, using past computer searches that
yielded relevant findings to generate a dataset for future
searches. Jude had elevated the field of computational
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

biology to a new art and would always have a stake in

the war against cancer.
Leaving the elevator, he traveled along the linoleum
corridor that ran nearly a football field long. Wooden
plaques read: LABORATORY SERVICES, FINGERPRINTING, NATIONAL
SECURITY. He strode by a cubicle farm, then came to an
opaque door labeled ELECTRONIC SURVEILLANCE.
Inside, Nathalie worked quietly at her varnished
government desk. Their short-lived fling in Quantico
training still played with his mind. He was sore and
sleep-deprived, and she displayed the picture of
togetherness and grace with her fine-boned, oval face.
While she adjusted strands of her sable hair into a
French bun, it revealed her olive-skinned swan neck. He
wanted to see her in a professional light but kept
imagining her in the nude.
Her aptitude and experience in mathematics and
quantitative reasoning had moved her up the bureau
ladder, making her a liaison between Tactical
Intelligence and Cyber Intrusion.
Inexplicably, he didn’t really know her outside of the
bedroom. She was a French-Canadian enigma to him.
The last thing he’d expected from the training academy
was to experience two weeks of government-sponsored
sex with an agent who was taking refresher courses. He
clearly remembered meeting Nathalie Noiret before
Quantico under different circumstances. Fate seemed to
be throwing them into each other’s path.
Jude sat down at his desk across from her, admiring
her for another moment.
“Hey, how are you?” She said.
“Crazed.”
“It’s too early in the new job for that.”
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Tell me about it,” he said. “How was your trip to

Montreal?”
“The usual family visit. A lot of food and debate about
how life would change in Quebec if it weren’t under
Canada’s rule. Nothing exciting.” She removed her
jacket and folded it neatly on her desk. Her strappy
black tank top revealed bare shoulders and her lean,
petite gymnast body. Every inch of her, feminine. Had
her desk been stationed in the cubicle farm, she never
would have had this freedom, but here in their office the
only audience was Jude.
She got back to her computer work.
Why that blouse today? If that doesn’t violate platonic
rules of office engagement…
Maintain a productive appearance, Jude put his head
down and coded, adjusting his algorithm again to
analyze suspicious Internet chatter. But he also carried
out a plan. He brought old code with him in documents
stored on a flash drive from home, and copied it to his
computer. This way, if the Cyber Supervisor questioned
what he’d been up to over the next several days, he’d
having something to show.
While Jude was faking productivity, Nathalie got up
and Errol Speer approached. Speer worked as Assistant
Special Agent in Charge, overseeing the Criminal
Division and Organized Crime.
Jude got a look at Nathalie from behind while she left
the alcove area and turned the corner.
Tall and cocky, Speer chortled, standing beside Jude’s
desk.
Jude knew Speer caught him checking out Nathalie.
“Look, it’s the rookie,” Speer said. Jude gave him a
lopsided smile. He owned office furniture more animated
than this company man.
 GRIDLOCK
10

Speer said, “If you think you’re going to get anywhere

with Agent Noiret, I’ll save you the time. Some guy
ditched her before Quantico. She’s emotionally
tattered.”
“How would you know?”
“Not much remains secret around here. You’ll see.”
“Hmpf. When did you hear this?”
“Before your Quantico training. Why?” A rude grin
crept across Speer’s face. “You think you’ve got a
Chinaman’s chance with her?”
Jude stood and gave him a challenging glare.
“My cousin finished the Academy before you and
applied for your field agent opening. But you got it
instead of him. He could’ve done the job standing on his
head—you’d better be damn good.”
“Or else what?”
Speer shook his head with a smirk and turned.
Too busy to dwell on Speer’s government-issued
personality, In the Crime Lab, Jude took a digital photo of
his gel lifter and did an electronic search to match the
type. The shoe make was Danner, ICH Military. Size
eleven. He could see from the computer image the boot
wasn’t the type civilians wore. And it was too much boot
for most field agents. He made a mental note of the
shoe’s appearance. Carefully removing the pen from its
zip-locked bag, he grabbed a spray bottle from the
laboratory fingerprint kit. He pumped it three times,
covering the pen in ninhydrin.
Out of nowhere, Nathalie walked into the lab, staring
at Jude. “What are you doing?”
“Without going into a big story, I’m dusting for prints
on this pen. You wanna give me a hand?”
“What is this about?”
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“I’ll tell you, afterward.”

She sighed, stepped in front of him, pulled gloves out
of a drawer and put them on. She took a long lighter
from the fingerprint kit, and passed the flame an inch
from the pen, allowing the heat to bring out any ridges
in the ninhydrin. Jude watched. She picked up the black
powder and dusted the pen with it.
Her hands moved with delicate control like those of a
surgeon than of a Mathematics Ph.D. She examined the
pen for bifurcations using a magnifying glass and let him
do the same.
She raised her brown sphinx eyes. “It’s clean. The
narrow shape of the pen didn’t allow a broad surface to
get great prints. Your pen pal remains a mystery.”
“I was afraid of that,” Jude said.
He pictured his perp. The guy was wearing gloves.
Expecting the worst, Jude asked Nathalie to help him
check the hard drive too. As expected, she only found
grimy smudges. Another dead end.
He zipped up the pen again and placed it with the
hard drive back in his satchel. Walking back to their
desks, she asked, “Are you going to tell me what this is
about?”
She sat at her desk.
Jude set down his satchel and walked around to her
side of the desk. “My place was broken into three nights
ago.”
“Merde.” She looked alarmed. “What did the thief
get?”
Unprepared to explain his missing documents, Jude
regretted opening his mouth.
“Just some papers. I chased him and—it’s all over.”
“Nothing was taken?”
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Jude skirted the subject. “I’m not sure what they’re

after ….”
“You must have some idea,” she said.
“I wish I knew more.”
“Remind me to ask you about that later. On the
subject of intruders, you should know that Hackman is
giving us a new ticket on Cyber Intrusion, involving
Internet terrorist chatter…something is going on. He’s
been talking behind closed doors. I can just see him in
there, pulling on what’s left of his sideburns.”
“I’ll be on standby.” Jude only knew Hackman as an
imposing authority figure, a mystery man who refused to
discuss daily matters face to face. He delegated
everything, making middle-men disseminate orders to
agents. Agents were in awe of Hackman’s formidable
U.S. Government past.
Nathalie said in a hushed voice, “There’s a story to
Hackman you should know.”
“Which is?”
“I tell you later. Not here.”
Jude said, “Okay, anything else?”
Nathalie shook her head. “Not about Hackman, but I
did notice file clerks and agents had walked in this
morning whispering gossip.”
“About what?”
“There is talk about you being difficult. Speer is, how
do they say—handee-capping you.”
“What?” He said.
“Speer bet you would not last six months. You’re
already in the spotlight with this Turing Award. And the
attention you’re getting for your algorithm—it is a lot
from a new hire. You have to know that Speer jumps at
these things.”
 GRIDLOCK
8

Jude couldn’t be too surprised. He expected to have

personality differences with someone. People always do
when they start a new job. “Speer sort of sees himself as
the office watchdog, huh?”
“That’s it. He’s keen on authority.” She added, “I
heard something else—the field office is coming under
professional review.”
“What does that mean?”
Nathalie couldn’t keep this one quiet about their boss.
“Hackman received written censure for noncompliance
of some sort. I heard he mismanaged an FBI
subcontractor organization.”
Jude said, “You’re serious. So, what does this mean for
the office?”
“Office of Professional Review—OPR—could get
involved and put in oversight mechanisms. The way
things go around here, we may never hear the details.”
He didn’t know exactly what an oversight mechanism
was or what bureau contractors might do.
“What do you know about this assignment?” he
asked.
“We’ll be looking into a threat to a university. That’s
all I know,” she said. “Hackman is preoccupied with
justifying his delegation of duties. Tell me if you hear
anything. I’m in the dark.”
“It’s unlikely I’ll get more than you. We could
speculate on it over oysters sometime,” Jude said, aware
of their aphrodisiac effect. As the words came out of his
mouth, though, he wondered if it came across as a
desperate come on.
“If a dinner of mollusks is what it takes to penetrate
your shell, then yes. I can’t today, though.”
“Calling me distant?”
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“You told me you have been an island for half your

life,” Nathalie added.
“That’s true. Maybe I’ll always be alone.”
Her bangs fell into her eyes, like birch leaves fanning
finger lakes. A pouty look came over her that he couldn’t
interpret. He moved to her side, touched her arm to
apologize then quickly withdrew.
“You just troll for opportunities then? Jump on
whatever boat comes your way.”
He was lost and just came out with it, “Do you want to
forget what happened between us at Quantico?”
“No. But I don’t see how we can continue down a path
we can’t…”
“Finish. In public.”
“Yes. And don’t try to read meaning into everything I
say, okay? Let’s do the job.”
They did need to keep at professional arm’s distance.
Still, he couldn’t decipher if she had any deep regrets
about their being assigned as partners the way he did.
He reexamined the pen they dusted earlier with a
magnifying glass from the lab. A heavily used pen, only
smudges appeared on its matte plastic surface, but
under magnification, the letters –DYN---- ---UR-Y -OMP-
NY shone. The last word was obviously COMPANY, but he
couldn’t get the word before it. The gold print was too
faded.
He put the pen away and returned to what he’d been
hired to do—white-hat hacking. He needed to modify the
supercomputer, Sentinel. Sentinel ensured the analysis
of digital intercepts and seizures from wiretaps,
telephone calls, and emails. The FBI investigators
intercepted phone conversations and relied on Sentinel
to develop intelligence leads by detecting anomalous
patterns of computer usage, and to flag suspicious
 GRIDLOCK
10

events for system administrators. Over time, the data

management system in Sentinel had doubled in size,
causing slow-downs in processing. Previous
programmers had failed to accommodate for growing
demand.
Jude knew he could remedy the problem with his data-
mining ability. At the bureau, his job involved coding the
algorithm so it could pattern-check communications.
Pattern-checking helped the office distinguish everyday
Internet chatter from the malicious sort that led to
terrorism. Jude discovered on his first day at the bureau
that the data loader and security controls were strikingly
similar in design to Stanford’s. This realization led him to
reuse security code that he had written for the Grid
project, rocketing him ahead of schedule.
Jude’s second responsibility was to maintain the
bureau’s antivirus system. The bureau already had
machine-learning code that could detect unauthorized
executable code. He familiarized himself with the
program. It was written as a computer agent that could
be distributed across a grid network to contain malicious
software.
Since the new job required a working knowledge of
the bureau’s national and international applications, he
pulled up Interpol on his computer. Scrolling through the
new cases that populated the database, he paged
through screens of CAPs—Crime Against Persons reports
—when his eyes fixed on a familiar name.
He read the name again: Jűrgen Hansen.
Why was Jűrgen in the CAP report? Jude clicked the
heading to read the terse entry.
Swiss Police ballistics had evidence that CERN’s Life
Science Program Director, Jűrgen Hansen, sustained
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

fatal gunfire. The body and firearm were recovered from

Lake Geneva. Weapon used: Glock C18. Serial Number
154400-11-25.
Jude wheeled back in his chair, stunned. His Swiss
colleague was dead. Was it only six days ago he’d bar
hopped with Jűrgen in Palo Alto? Onagi held his latest
come-to-Jesus Grid strategy meeting then, followed by
toasts to how their partnership with Google would enable
the Stanford project to grow by millions of databases.
How did this happen? Who would’ve killed Jűrgen?
Jude trudged to the water cooler. Finishing two drinks
of water, he crushed the paper cup. Had someone killed
Jűrgen because he headed up genomics at CERN?
Jude went to the window, contemplating Jűrgen’s
death.
A local hiker, or rather his bird hound, found the body
following a bloody trail to Lake Geneva.
The body was fully clothed. Authorities found fishing
line tied around his ankles. With his wallet missing,
Jűrgen was identified through the Rolex watch that was
still on his wrist. Local police contacted the watch maker
and got the name of its owner by referencing the serial
number that was inscribed on it.
Jűrgen had been shot “Mozambique” style: two shots
to the target’s chest, then a third bullet in the center of
the head. This was the shooting technique used by all
elite U.S. military units, the Navy SEALS, Army Delta
Force, and CIA Black Ops.
The report stated the weapon used was a C18. Only
the United States FBI had a weapon with that serial
number. It had been stolen months ago from the San
Francisco bureau.
Jude returned to his alcove desk area and read more
at his computer. He stopped at the words, San Francisco
 GRIDLOCK
12

bureau. He didn’t know what to make of this, but he

knew the gun. He had fired it at Quantico’s range. The
C18 wasn’t issued to civilians. The first thing the
instructor told Jude when he handed the weapon over
was, “Watch it, this thing is designed to kill. It‘ll empty
its mag between 1100 and 1300 rounds per minute.”
He found out for himself that shooting the weapon at
full-auto felt like turning on a fire hose. It bucked in his
grip, ejecting a brass stream of spent casings. It was
quite a responsibility to have a gun like this. Special
agents were trained that if they drew a weapon they had
to use it, and they only used it to kill.
Surely the FBI didn’t put the drop on Jűrgen. Could
Jűrgen’s CERN partnership with the Stanford Grid project
have led to homicide?
Out of the thirteenth floor window, Jude looked at cars
and people passing below—the usual ebb and flow to an
ordinary day.
Jude sat motionless, still in disbelief. He couldn’t keep
from considering the lasting impact of this—undoubtedly
losing Jűrgen would hinder the Grid’s progress. He was
Stanford’s point of contact. Jűrgen drove the CERN
technicians to connect the CERN Grid to the Stanford
Grid.
Jude knew an internal FBI investigation would be
underway. But he was a rookie; the FBI would keep him
on the outside. Incidents of corruption would be held in
confidence within the ranks of the Office of Professional
Review.
He wasn’t getting a clear picture on anything. His
mind kept switching back to Jűrgen’s and Hideo’s
presentation for dollars at CERN. It would’ve been the
last push that Jűrgen could’ve made for the Grid project.
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Jude hoped for everyone’s sake that the Grid project

would go on.
Sorting this case out wasn’t going to happen through
standard operating procedure. The FBI couldn’t
investigate one of their own. It would go to the
Inspection Division and the Office of Professional Review.
Jude hated the possibility of wasting time. A case that
wasn’t solved in the first forty-eight hours only had a
fifty percent chance of being cleared. So, what if Jude
volunteered information to OPR? He knew things about
Jűrgen that OPR might not. His mind kept going there
even though he knew they’d probably not pull him into
the investigation.
He put the brainwork on hold, walked to Hackman’s
office and knocked on the door.
“Yes, come in,” said the Special Agent in Charge.
Jude stepped three feet inside the office and glanced
around the drab room. It had a law office air: massive
metal filing cabinets and leather high-back chairs. The
one touch of color came from a 1940s wall calendar with
stylized pastel illustrations of cruise liners. His eyes fixed
on another piece of nautical décor: two polished dingy
oars hung crossed on the wall behind the desk, bearing
the word Titanic. Something about those oars got under
Jude’s skin, leading him to ponder the possibility of
corruption running up the ranks of the FBI.
15 ALVIN ZIEGLER

nine

Monday, October 31
San Francisco, CA

A magazine sat on Hackman’s desk that caught Jude’s

eye. The cover pictured the image of a high ranking
Catholic figure, maybe a bishop. Hackman was still
looking at his computer screen, clicking his mouse, and
tugging on his sideburns when he slowly spoke, “Ye—e—
e—s, what is it that you want?”
“I found something disturbing, sir, on the CAP report.”
Hackman didn’t look up.
Jude thought of how Nathalie had described
Hackman’s hair as nearly nonexistent. She said it looked
as if heated machinations from his brain had steamed off
everything above, leaving a marble helmet of a head.
“Did you read about the homicide at Lake Geneva, in
Switzerland?”
Hackman let go of his mouse and turned to face Jude.
“Don’t tell me, it was done with a service weapon that
was registered and stolen from this office.”
Jude said, “You know about that?”
“That’s one more reason why I’m swamped.” He
pointed at a book that resembled an oversized ledger.
“These armory books are in a shambles. It’ll be an entire
 GRIDLOCK
6

day before I find out if that Glock was properly released.

And I’ve already got the OPR riding me about it.”

“The vic was a friend of mine. I could contribute

valuable information to OPR—”
Hackman cut him off, monotone. “I suppose the victim
had something to do with your Stanford Grid?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll pass that along, Wagner. But I understand CERN
has more than one controversial project going at all
times, so we don’t know what the motives were. Isn’t
that true?”
“Well—”
“Keep your head down. You may not have had
boundaries at Stanford, but you’ve got ‘em here. And
you may be a hotshot in electronic investigation, but
you’re just getting your feet wet.”
“Excuse me, sir—”
“We all have to earn trust.” Hackman said
imperiously. “It takes time for tech types to get that. And
I don’t need another blue-flamer.”
The term had come up at Quantico as a reference to
overzealous agents.
“But Jűrgen Hansen—the victim—was program
director for CERN. I’ve worked with CERN—”
“That might be of value as the investigation
progresses. They’ll have a list of persons of interest. I’ll
keep my eye on the details. In the meantime, you’ve got
enough work to worry about without more.”
Jude returned to his desk, agitated and restless. They
didn’t just hire him for his hacker past and ability to
reverse engineer systems. With his expertise, he
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

probably had a greater awareness of possible motives

for this homicide than anyone else in the FBI.
He did a couple hours of work and then quietly called
the American Embassy in Bern, Switzerland, asking to
speak with the Legal Attache. The call transferred to an
overseas special agent.
“Special Agent Fluhr, can I help you?”
Softly, Jude said, “This is Special Agent Wagner calling
from the San Francisco Field Office. A friend of mine
named Jűrgen Hansen appeared on our CAP report as a
victim of homicide in Lake Geneva. Could you have
someone call the Geneva Police to get me a report?”
Before Jude got an answer, he saw Hackman coming
his way. “Thank you for your help.” Jude put the phone
down.
Hackman gave Jude a suspicious glare and continued
plodding past him.
No matter what Jude suspected, more data points
needed to come to light. Doing things half-cocked would
only backfire on him. He needed to get out of the office
for a change of scenery. Leaving his alcove area, he
made his way down the hallway. Coming to the library,
he bumped into Nathalie and motioned for her to
accompany him and step behind the end of one tall
bookcase. She followed.
“I have something I have to tell you, but you’ve gotta
keep it down.”
“What?” Nathalie asked.
Standing beside Nathalie, Jude whispered in her ear.
“A colleague of mine in Switzerland—”
Suddenly, Speer rounded the bookcase aisle.
“Wagner, didn’t I warn you?” Speer said, wide-eyed.
Jude sighed. He told Nathalie that he’d talk to her
later and went for his jacket while Speer approached.
 GRIDLOCK
8

She lowered her voice for Speer, who was moving down
the hallway, “Lighten up.”
Speer turned, “I’m just looking out for the lone
female.”
“Believe it or not, I can work without the supervision
of adults,” Nathalie said.
Speer gave a phony laugh.
Jude went for the elevator. He wanted to tell Niles the
news straight away to blow off pressure. Jude saw
himself in the younger man, Jűrgen. He was
unpredictable, a wild card, but a key player. The project
wouldn’t be the same without him.
Outside the building Jude rang Niles from his cell,
gazing at the overcast sky.
Niles said he couldn't meet for lunch today. “How
about I give you a lift home after work and you tell me
then?”
“Fine.”
“In the meantime, check out that lunch place I
mentioned.”
Niles talked Jude into trying Café Flore, gave him the
address on Market Street and hung up.
Jude was clicking off when Nathalie tapped him on the
shoulder from behind. She looked at him with a foolish
grin.
“I overheard Café Flore. They don’t have oysters, but
I’d join you there. Being that it’s Halloween, I thought I
should get out of the office after all.”
“I can tell you’re used to getting your way.”
She nodded, and he caught the eye of a cab driver.
They got in. Of all the surprises springing up, her fresh
face proved the most welcoming.
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Acting as nothing more than coworkers, Jude and

Nathalie took a patio table at a bustling restaurant on
Market Street that smelled of mac ‘n cheese. They sat
beside customers in costume. Some were dressed in
drag, and those who weren’t had tight denim and every
variety of leather jacket.
Jude knew that in his beige suit he couldn’t have
resembled a fed any more if he had planned it,
especially on Halloween in the Castro District.
Then it hit him; Niles’s recommendation of this spot
was his practical joke. Café Flore was as gay a
restaurant as they come. The long-windowed café looked
to be a proud Castro Street landmark. Leave it to San
Francisco to have a lesbian and gay neighborhood right
next door to Nob Hill. Nob Hill still maintained
gentlemens’ and ladies’ clubs as sacred.
Jude grinned with amusement.
“What’s so funny?” Nathalie asked in her bolero
jacket with epaulets, ready to go on war assignment like
some eager news correspondent. “Is it the fact that I’m
practically the only woman here? If that’s it, I don’t
mind.”
“I just think we stand out.”
“On Halloween? I doubt it.”
The place had a European café feel. They had found a
seat at the busiest time of day.
A goateed waiter took their orders.
Jude decided he wouldn’t talk about Jűrgen. Not now.
“So, do you have any questions about how the bureau
functions?” she said, acknowledging him as the new
hire.
“Where do the office people go for drinks after work?”
He said. “I’ll be sure not to go there.”
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“It’s not a welcoming crowd. You wouldn’t want to

avoid me though, right?” She said coquettishly.
He didn’t know what had gotten into her—she was
acting like her old self. Enough with the charade. “Do
you want to continue what we started at Quantico?”
Nathalie blushed.
Jude waited for an answer.
She bit her lower lip. “There should be a way to work
this out and be together. I think about our nights at the
Academy. Nights without sleep. But I don’t know. I doubt
a relationship between partners could survive. I just
don’t see how…”
Jude looked straight at her. He wasn’t in the right
frame of mind to be having this conversation. “I don’t
give a shit about rules regarding agent conduct.”
“I knew working together was going to be tough.”
He wasn’t going to force the idea no matter how often
he drifted to their having sex in Virginia. “Maybe an
affair that starts at the Academy is doomed for failure
from the start.”

Natalie gave a slow nod when a deterministic moment

hung between them—a sense of powerlessness to being
partners but not lovers.
He felt a tinge of regret by what they did at the
nation’s elite FBI training facility. What were they
thinking then? With its blocky gray buildings, Quantico
held the warmth of a mental institution. He had to live
with their mistake. Jude was tempted to say that his
colleague had been murdered in Switzerland but
stopped himself by getting Nathalie to explain how she
came into this line of work.
Nathalie cleared her throat. In her French accent, she
recounted how it all started at age fourteen. “That is
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

when I found my adoption document. At that point, I felt

that my whole life history was a lie. But it put me into
action. It forced me ask questions about myself. It
played a big role in getting me into this profession.” Her
burgundy lips formed her consonants with the light
precision of a pianist.
For a moment, the feeling of their skin-on-skin contact
revisited.
She continued, “After finding my adoption agency, I
visited City Hall. I think it was called the Office of Vital
Records. Anyway, I searched for my biological parents,
but I was having a hard time. No one would help. But I
couldn’t quit. I had to find ... my identity and sleuth it. I
sifted through records and found that my mother lived in
Quebec. I called. She refused to see me. She couldn’t tell
me where my father lived. I still haven’t located him.”
She seemed to know what he was thinking. “Don’t be
sorry. All that shaped who I am today.”
She went on to say how that discovery motivated her.
Since her adoptive mother was born in the U.S., she was
able to go to college in New York, at Columbia and live in
the lower forty-eight.
He asked again about her trip to Montreal. She said it
was boring really. “Now, tell me about your Grid . . . the
nitty gritty as you Americans say? Besides how the Grid
links legions of idle computers to work as one. What is
your algorithm doing?”
“It’s speeding up Stanford’s Grid. Improving the Grid
could make today’s medicine appear obsolete—like
sixteenth-century blood-letting through leeches.
She said. “You must have created a special
algorithm.”
Their sandwiches arrived with condiments and mineral
waters.
15 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Between bites, he described how he and Niles had

met at Berkeley, doing a job that isolated them: working
at the Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence project—
SETI. At the time, SETI@home was the largest grid in the
world, connecting five million computers. Basically, the
computers scanned information that was received from
the world’s largest telescope in Arecibo, Puerto Rico,
scouring for light patterns or signals that might point to
life in space.
The problem was that the SETI computers were
bottlenecked by the sheer volume of data hitting the
telescope. Jude set out to develop a solution. Eleven
months later, he had designed an algorithm that
mathematically uncorked the SETI grid, letting data flow.
She took a second bite of her shiitake mushroom-
cashew burger. “Okay, but you’re no longer searching
for ET . . . and neither is Niles. He’s your sailing friend?”
“You remember that? I must’ve told you about him at
Quantico.”
“Je me souviens. I remember. It’s the motto on the
Quebec license plate.” She gave an angelic smile.
“Yes. Niles is my impetuous Grid partner. Stanford
hired both of us from Berkeley where we used the Grid
to search outer space. We’re doing the same work, only
searching through data at the molecular level.”
Nathalie kept asking how it all worked. She wanted to
know how it differed from the Internet.
Jude reminded her the Web, originally, only let you
view information, statically. But Grid was Web 2.0. It
allowed you to calculate, analyze, and synthesize data.
Like a real database—a leap from just surfing pages.
The waiter asked if they needed anything. Jude
politely waved him off. His mind digressed to Jűrgen
again.
17 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“So, where does healthcare come in?” she asked.

Jude heard a plate smash in the kitchen. He looked,
saw a waiter apologizing to someone and said, “the
medical world faces the same data-sifting dilemma that
SETI did. Stanford is designing healthcare solutions that
are tailored to each person, using the decoded human
genome.”
Nathalie sipped Calistoga with a flash of excitement in
her eyes. “Let me guess how it works.”
Jude was ready to surprised, given her Mathematics
degree.
She said, “The Grid system accounts for everything
about you.” She raised her voice over the noise of the
crowd. “Pills you’ve taken, your environment, your
genetic makeup and your symptoms.”
“That’s right.” Jude said. “Then, based on your
genome, the online system calculates all your complex
individual data and—“
“Voila—it shows which drugs you’d be most
responsive to for your condition. Your doctor would know
which drugs to avoid and which to use all from his
desktop.”
“You’ve read about it?” Jude asked, energized.
She nodded. “It’s quite avant-garde.”
He explained that the Grid wouldn’t address day-to-
day emergencies like broken arms, cuts, burns, or baby
deliveries. Or homicides, either, he thought,
remembering Jűrgen with a shudder. But it would be the
ultimate diagnostic and treatment tool for long-term
problems like heart disease, stroke, cancer, and more.
They finished their burgers and he was still rambling.
They paid the bill, and Jude left a tip. He pulled out the
rattan chair for her. When she stood in snug slacks, he
tried not to notice the peak of cleavage showing
19 ALVIN ZIEGLER

between buttons on her blouse. A part of him wanted to

wear blinders, but another part of him worried about
forces the Stanford team were blind to.
21 ALVIN ZIEGLER

ten

Monday, October 31
San Francisco Bureau

In the cab back to the office, Nathalie’s mathematical

mind wouldn’t let their conversation rest—her eyes
lighted with curiosity. The Grid’s potential appeared to
be crystallizing; she tapped her chin with her index
finger, thinking about Stanford’s genomic medicine
treatment.
Jude promised to tell her more if she’d only tell him
the Hackman story. After all, Hackman was going to be
attending Jude’s award ceremony.
Nathalie grinned to the bargain. Hackman, she said,
was the intelligence czar who ran the National
Reconnaissance Office in Chantilly, Virginia for years and
years. He spearheaded the reconnaissance satellites
program and perfected the launching of those satellites
aboard Titan IV rockets and made the NRO vital to the
armed forces by masterminding the “eye in the sky.”
Eventually, he was demoted to SAC in San Francisco
because he handled professional misunderstandings as
personal attacks.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

The taxi hit a pothole that rocked the car and jolted
them. Nathalie strapped on her seatbelt and continued,
“Just watch your step around him and follow protocol.”
Jude thought about his walking in on Hackman.
“H’mm. Here’s how the Grid works, practically.”
She shifted in her seat in the back of the cab to listen.
“First, a person would have his or her genome
sequenced—by an outlet which will soon appear in malls
like a contact lens store. That analysis might cost the
same as prescription lenses. In a week’s time, you or
your doctor would get results on a protected website.”
“Go on.”
“From his PC, a doctor will connect to the Grid through
a website, but this won’t just be the Internet. It will be a
service that interprets an individual’s genome. This
service will put more medical knowledge in a user’s
hands than entire hospitals could provide on all of their
patients combined. The Grid website would strip your
information of personal identifiers so it could be
statistically pooled with others. You or your doctor could
specify your medical question, and enter your medical
history.
She smiled at him with acknowledgement.
He took a breath. “The Grid would sift through genetic
databases, using past computer searches that yielded
relevant findings to generate a dataset for your search.
Next, the program would process your query against
your DNA, checking if your genes were marked for, say,
colon cancer. Ultimately, the Grid would determine your
mathematical susceptibility to disease. A doctor could
look at this and recommend drugs based on your
chemical makeup.”
“And magic. I see how this became your raison
d’être.”
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

They got out of the taxi.

She put her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry I’ll miss the
pomp of your award night. I will be stuck at the office,
working late.”
“Not a worry.” Honestly, he would’ve liked for her to
be at his award ceremony.
He cast all of that foolish longing out of his head and
turned his attention to Jűrgen’s murder. He had to take
some kind of action. But unraveling a homicide on
another continent was not going to be easy, especially
as a rookie.
He considered Jűrgen. Jude couldn’t say for sure that
the break-in to his flat was connected with Jűrgen’s
murder. But he had strong feeling it was.
He let it go for now. Identifying who broke into his
place topped his list of to-do items. But dusting for prints
at home was futile—too many surfaces where people
could have left prints innocently. And even if he found
prints, what would that prove without having examples
to compare them against?

***

At the foot of the federal building, Jude waited

impatiently for Niles to give him a lift home. His heart
warmed at knowing that Kate would be present at his
award ceremony until thoughts of Jurgen hit again. After
the ceremony, he’d start a suspect list. He glanced back
at his new place of work: copper-colored window frames
ran in geometric tracks across a monolithic slab. The
generic entrance did nothing to inspire employees
either. No engraved quotations or sculpture of Justice
with her scales could be found.
 GRIDLOCK
6

He turned to the stopped traffic, smelling fuel exhaust

that spouted from a double bus. A car horn blared—the
usual commuter road rage. His watch showed 4:45 P.M. In
two hours, he’d be shaking hands with San Francisco
socialites and Turing Award technorati. With the award
banquet being held in his honor, Jude needed to get this
disaster with Jurgen off his chest.
White clouds overhead scudded along from the east,
developing into fog in the west. A few yards away, a
giant crow pecked at a flapping pigeon in the street. The
wind shifted, and a foul smell blew by.
Jude considered how tough it would be for anyone to
piece together who killed Jűrgen in a remote area of
Switzerland. Homicides committed outdoors versus
indoors were so much tougher to investigate. Neighbors
couldn’t be interviewed; doors couldn’t be checked for
forced entry; rooms couldn’t be examined for traces of
DNA.
Jude considered how Jűrgen had boasted by email
about a new wild-child girlfriend who went by the name
Tatiana. Maybe Tatiana knew something. He might
chase that lead down later. Ultimately, though, whoever
was pulling strings to both Jude’s break-in and Jűrgen’s
death in Switzerland would have to be highly motivated,
organized and threatened by the Grid project.
Niles’s racing green BMW emerged from the line of
stop-and-go commuter traffic and swung to the curb.
Music blared from his car stereo. Jude slid into the
passenger seat.
“I don’t know why San Francisco doesn’t have a
congestion charge like they do in London. What’s the
urgent news you had to tell me before tonight’s event?”
Niles asked, turning down the stereo. “Any leads on that
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

break-in at your apartment?” He wended back into the

rush hour snarl.
Jude looked out the passenger-side window. A
helmeted mother was pedaling a bicycle alongside them.
A child rode in a framed pack on her back.
He rubbed his chin. “Very bad news. Jűrgen is dead.
Homicide.”
Niles swerved, nearly hitting the cyclist.
“Look out!” Jude shouted.
The bicycle woman flipped Niles the finger as he
corrected back to his lane.
“Murdered?” Niles turned to Jude.
“Jűrgen was shot and found in Lake Geneva.” Jude
relayed what little he knew. Niles adjusted his wire-rim
glasses. “Do we know who did it?”
“All I know is that his killer used an FBI automatic.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“What did your lab work turn up?”
“Nothing.” Jude fired back. “We’re not going to get
answers in a day.”
“Did you talk to anyone about this at your office?”
Niles turned off the stereo completely.
Jude explained how his boss shut him down, saying
Office of Professional Review was handling it.
“Couldn’t you go to Office of Professional Review with
what you know about Jűrgen?”
“Go around my boss? They’d laugh in my face and get
word back to Hackman that I’d gone over his head.”
“Then what next?”
“I need to feel this out without getting fired. But I
agree, this may be the OPR’s problem, but we need to
know what happened sooner rather than later.”
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Are you mad? You only have so much CPU power in

that head of yours; don’t kill yourself. We’re talking
about murder and your place has already been broken
into.”
Niles had a point. If the intruders were brazen enough
to break into Jude’s apartment, they were capable of
doing worse. Jude and Niles had to be on alert.
Stanford’s deal with Google would stir up even more
controversy. Surely the press would report how this big
alliance threatened to disrupt traditional pharma.
“Niles, turn right here.”
“What? Why?” Niles turned onto California Street.
“I’d just like to walk and think here before the award
dinner.”
Jude admitted that it didn’t make sense but said that
seeing the hotel before the night got underway would
calm his mind.
At the top of the hill, Niles parked in a yellow zone.
They got out and headed down the street in the biting
wind.
“Will you tell Knowlan about Jűrgen tomorrow?”
“Why me?” Niles asked.
“It would be helpful.”
“I’ll try to do that before I pack for Switzerland. Did I
tell you I rented a room at the Mark? I was going to
celebrate in high style tonight.”
Jude scratched his head.
“Did you check out my restaurant recommendation?”
Niles asked.
“You got me.”
A smile crept across Niles’s face.
Jude walked toward the Mark Hopkins Hotel. Niles
followed. It felt odd that tonight, of all nights, he’d be
accepting an award on behalf of his discovery. Jűrgen
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

would never see the CERN/Stanford partnership do its

part to fight cancer.
The wind caused their suit pants to flap.
“Jude. How much longer? It’s freezing.”
Jude walked ahead.
Niles let him have his moment of mourning. Visibility
had diminished into a cloudy wall. In their five minutes of
walking, the hill had become alien. In the “Wild West”
days, the top of Nob Hill was home to the four railroad
barons of the Central Pacific Rail Line—C.P. Huntington,
Leland Stanford, Mark Hopkins, and Charles Crocker, the
Big Four. All of those mansions were gone, but Nob Hill
still represented power and wealth.
Tonight, with gray, brooding skies and icy San
Francisco wind at his back, the surroundings resembled
a setting from Hitchcock’s Vertigo.
A few steps farther and California Street plummeted
east into downtown. Jude stopped at the crest, and Niles
joined him at him at his side. Two taxis darted past them
in a yellow hurry, tilting off the steep grade. Jude could
only make out the outlines of the high rises below,
hugging the waterfront like city ambassadors standing at
attention to dazzle arriving tourists. Buried beneath the
Transamerica Pyramid and other nearby buildings were
the scraps of tall ships from 160 years ago. The forty-
niners who had rushed to California to find gold in the
Sierra foothills, left everything behind—even their ships.
The ships’ graveyards became the Financial District.
Jude felt a peculiar kinship. In a way, he’d also sailed
from home, burning bridges when he moved from
Kentucky. But he wasn’t chasing gold or the gambling,
crime, and prostitution, which had thrived in the Barbary
Coast. He just wanted to fight cancer. Or was he also
 GRIDLOCK
12

caught up in the rush of success? He wondered what

Nathalie would say.
Jude resolved to confide in her about what had
happened. She could help him sort through motives and
suspects for Jűrgen’s death.
At Quantico he’d wondered what it would be like to
collaborate with her. Now, he was her partner, but he
still excluded her from important areas of his life.
Yeah, he’d tell her.
“I’m turning to ice,” Niles said, walking up to Jude.
They turned and went to the car.

Niles drove Jude to his flat where he knew Kate would

be waiting. “Ya know, Jude, it’s entirely possible that our
killer could be attending tonight’s event. Surveying
things.”
“The thought crossed my mind. Anyone dead set on
interfering with the Grid could use the ceremony to
gather information . . . and plan for another killing.” Jude
opened the passenger door, hoping that they’d find the
assailants before they strike again.
5 ALVIN ZIEGLER

eleven

Monday, October 31
San Francisco, CA

While Jude put his cuff links on, Kate was curling her hair
in the bathroom, staring into his mirror. He rehearsed his
acceptance speech when she asked him what to expect
from his banquet dinner. Apart from Jude, the only
person Kate knew who’d be attending was Niles. Jude
described a few of the expected guests. She asked, “Do
you think you’d ever be in the position of accepting this
award for your algorithm if you never visited Kano?”
“There’s no way on earth,” Jude said from his
bedroom.
Even now, just visualizing that spot in Nigeria made
Jude’s stomach clench all over again. That trip to Africa
changed him forever. It happened after his mother died,
after he’d wiled away weeks, holed up in his bedroom.
Finally, he took action to pick up his spirits. He stayed
after school to watch a grim school assembly video on
kids in Africa. It struck a chord with him and he quickly
signed up with a group of high school students who were
doing a project in Kano, Nigeria. He realized he needed
to get far away from Louisville, Kentucky.
The experience he embarked on left him with a
jaundiced view of the drug business.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Thunderstorms had rumbled when Jude arrived in

Kano. Sheets of water thudded onto the corrugated
metal roof of the clinic in one of Nigeria’s northern
villages. June was Kano’s rainy season. By week three of
his eight-week volunteer stint, rain still poured down.
Jude’s clothes and his cot stank of sodden red earth and
sweat.
The volunteer leaders called on Jude for various tasks
—none of which involved tech support. At first he
resented being brought in under false pretenses and
then got over it when he saw how much help was
needed, and how many kids were being transported to
the medical clinic for treatment. He aided social workers
by feeding and giving shots to children with meningitis,
malaria and other diseases.
Luckily, a Big Pharma company, Mayer, learned of the
sickness that had become a meningitis epidemic and
flew twenty-seven doctors to administer a new drug,
Trovan. The village exhaled in collective relief when the
American doctors arrived. Jude returned to study
computer science at Berkeley with a new appreciation
for contemporary modern science.
Six months into his freshman year, Jude received a
letter from his Kano social worker pen pal. She was
completing her law degree.

Dear Jude,
I hate to be the messenger of tragic news, but I
thought you should be updated on our Kano kids. Eleven
of the thirty children we fed and looked after have died.
It’s crushing. The remaining nineteen suffer, I hear, from
acute arthritis and side effects from their Trovan
treatment—remember Tina’s bulging eyes?
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

I’m sickened to learn that Mayer may have known—

the company’s being sued by the Nigerian government,
declaring the experiment was “an illegal trial of an
unregistered drug,” which violates Nigerian law. This
was reported by the International Declaration of Helsinki
that governs ethical medical, research and the U.N.
Council on the Rights of Children.
Not only was the drug untested, it was administered
without parental consent, and ten of the twenty-seven
doctors that Mayer brought to Kano were paid African
physicians, bribed from their usual medical work in other
parts of Nigeria.
Again, I apologize to be writing you with such a sad
report. I thought you should know. Promise that my next
letter will be happier.

With love and sadness for Kano,

Juliette

Thank god Stanford never locked in an actual

partnership with the Pharma company, Johnston & Quib.
Putting the past behind him, he unbuttoned two shirt
studs he’d just put so he could open his tuxedo shirt. He
wiped more deodorant on his underarms for the evening
that couldn’t have come at more stressful time.

He hopped out of the taxi and slowed his walk as he

neared the Mark Hopkins Hotel. Spotlights waved
mechanically across the building’s stately façade. A
semicircle of chanting demonstrators stood between
Jude and a doorman in tails.
He was in no mood for this. The fanfare seemed vain.
Things were simpler when he was quietly writing his Grid
algorithm in the Berkeley hills.
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Not anticipating the demonstrators, he angled his

head down and pushed through the seething crowd that
police officers tried to contain. He hoped that some of
this would clear out by the time Kate arrived. Weeks ago
Hideo Onagi had cautioned Jude to expect a backlash
against the media attention the Grid had received lately.
News stories covering genomic medicine, involving
words such as Pharmacogenomics, whipped up a frenzy
of detractors. For some, Stanford’s biotechnology
department represented Dr. Frankenstein’s monster,
anything but medical advancement; tonight proved
Onagi’s point. Protestors whistled and shouted insults.
Jude read the slogans scribbled on placards: Heathen
Pigs, Go to Hell, Don’t Play with DNA, Those Who Play
God are Damned. An elderly black man pointed at Jude
and jeered, “There he goes.” Heads turned toward Jude.
He moved quickly past a priest. The priest’s head
bowed and lips moved: “Forgive those who commit
grave sin against the natural law.”
Half a dozen demonstrators shouted. “It’s Jude
Wagner.” They moved frantically toward Jude.
He knocked someone’s hand away from his tuxedo
jacket and darted through the crowd. Two cops ran out
and blocked those who were chasing Jude to prevent
them from going any farther.
Protests rang in his ears as he plowed past the melee.
He joined guests who paraded from the valet parking
station in black tie, clutching scarves. Stretch limos lined
the hotel’s brick driveway.
Once inside the wood-paneled hotel, he struggled for
an inner calm. Following instructions he’d been given by
an event coordinator, he moved from one coffered-
ceilinged room to the next. Soon he recognized the
mayor of San Francisco and heard him respond to a
 GRIDLOCK
12

question about the City’s impending financial

Armageddon. “We look good compared to the state of
California.”
The small crowd chuckled.
After shaking hands with the mayor, Jude was led by a
photographer’s assistant to have pictures taken with
executives from ACM, the event’s corporate sponsor.
He worked the room for twenty minutes, absently
eating caviar, and sipping champagne.

***

Niles was determined to make the most of things. At

the paisley carpeted cocktail bar, he sipped a gin-and-
tonic, noticing how the chandelier reflected in his patent-
leather shoes.
The heavy, balding man beside him must be Jude’s
boss. His nametag didn’t say FBI or give his title but it
did read, Alexander Hackman, Guest of Jude Wagner.
Jude talked about Hackman enough for Niles to
appreciate the big man headed San Francisco’s field
office.
“What brings you here tonight?” Niles said to the boss
eating olives from a napkin.
“An opportunity to learn about computers. And
yourself?”
“I work on the Stanford Grid.”
“You’re part of Jude Wagner’s former project?”
Niles nodded.
“Amazing work . . . . Let me offer my sympathies on
the loss of your Grid colleague.”
“Thanks.” Niles adjusted his glasses. He certainly
hadn’t expected Jűrgen’s murder to come up.
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Heinous incident. Awful way to die, being attacked

by dogs.”
Niles knew a look of surprise crossed his face.
“Sorry, don’t you know?” Hackman eased his
wineglass onto the bar.
“Dogs?”
“There was a small article in today’s paper. You’d
expect something like that to happen in some gang-
ridden neighborhood around here, not in one of the best
parks in Tokyo.”
Tokyo? Not Geneva? Their only colleague in Tokyo
was Hideo Onagi, who’d gone there for a few days to try
to reconcile with his wife.
Niles couldn’t hide being shell-shocked. Two
colleagues dead?
“Excuse me.” He tried to locate Jude in the noisy
crowd. No luck.
He got past standing guests to reach the hotel’s
entrance. At the reservation desk he called the attention
of a young clerk behind it.
The clerk handed Niles today’s San Francisco
Chronicle. Niles rifled through it to the world news
section. In the back, bottom of the page, he found the
report he was looking for:
“Genomic Science Industry Leader Dies
Hideo Onagi, Ph.D., Program Chief of the
global human genome research project at
Stanford University, was attacked and killed
by two Akita Inus while strolling with his
daughter in Kasai Rinkai Park in Tokyo.”

Niles’s stomach lurched. The Stanford team must’ve

had their heads buried so deep in the sand with this
award ceremony business that no one read this. Jűrgen’s
death certainly sent Jude reeling.
 GRIDLOCK
6

Shattered and dazed, Niles tore out the article and

discarded the rest of the paper. Maintaining British
reserve, he set out to find Jude.
Back in the cocktail room he recognized Jude’s sister,
Kate, talking with two middle-aged men. He was
surprised to see the tomboyish academic sister dressed
so provocatively. Her lilac gown showed off her breasts.
Standing around 5’ 8”, with a high forehead, intense
green eyes, and a confident posture that matched
Jude’s, no one could doubt that she was his twin.
In his double-breasted Armani tuxedo, Niles kept his
nerves in check. He came up and offered Kate a kiss on
the cheek, but she pulled away for fear that she might
be catching a cold.
Niles started to ask if she had seen Jude when she
introduced him to Marc Ferguson and Olivier Ramsey.
The men looked familiar to Niles. Their name tags
read: Marc Ferguson, CEO, Johnston & Quib, and Olivier
Ramsey, Pinsky Investments.
Ferguson, the older of the two, had a strikingly
masculine face under thick gray hair. He smelled of
musk aftershave. Ramsey looked like a high-level
accountant. His thinning hairline combed straight back.
“Niles is Jude’s Grid partner,” she said warmly. Her
loosely-curled blonde hair fell on a tanned back. Niles
imagined that these two men must be pleased to have
bumped into a beauty such as Kate.
The two men exchanged glances.
Suddenly, Niles recalled who Ramsey was: a big time
venture capitalist who had sunk a lot of money into J&Q.
Ferguson must have wished that Ramsey wasn’t here
with him. The VC must be all over him since Stanford
was backing out of the partnership with J&Q.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Unfortunately for them, it made sense that Stanford

was leaving J&Q. With the rising costs of healthcare in
America and the steady decline of quality care, the
timing could not be better for a revolution in medicine
that could lead to a new universal healthcare. But such
innovation surely undermined mainstream business,
from Pharma to insurance.
Ramsey’s firm had invested heavily in the Grid. They
had treated the Grid like a godsend for giving the
company first cracks at the new science of personalized
medicine. Niles wondered if Jude would break the news
tonight about their project going non-profit.
“And what brings you to the event?” Niles asked the
men, still feigning an air of nonchalance.
Ferguson said, “Like everyone, we’re keen on the
future of medicine.” His smart pocket square elegantly
matched his exquisitely tailored tuxedo.
Niles was distracted over Hideo’s death.
“Are you all right, Niles?” Kate asked.
Niles said he was fine.
Ramsey’s eyes roved aimlessly.
A bell chimed four times. Dinner service had started.
Niles scoured the Peacock room for Jude.
Hundreds of guests eased toward their tables. Niles
clenched the newspaper article inside his pants pocket.
Someone’s killing Stanford Grid members—where the
hell is Jude?
5 ALVIN ZIEGLER

twelve

Monday, October 31
San Francisco, CA

Jude adjusted the corners of his bow tie in the bathroom

mirror, hearing the rumble of dinner guests through the
tile walls. Hundreds of technology and life science
leaders yammered over cabernet. They sounded like a
herd of cattle. Jude had only eaten half his dinner when
he stepped away.
Speech time neared. Award money would come in
handy. He’d finally spring for new furniture, pay off
Kate’s car loan and fix up the Tipsea.
If only he didn’t have Jűrgen’s murder hanging in the
air. He diverted his attention to reading the evening’s
program, a pamphlet presented on heavy paper. On top,
it read, ACM proudly sponsors the annual Alan Mathison
Turing Award Banquet. The dates 1912–1954 appeared
beneath an old photograph of Turing, along with the
words, “The Turing Scientific and Technical Award
acknowledges discoveries that trigger Silicon Valley
trends . . . ”
A one-paragraph biography of the man followed.
Turing’s name reminded Jude of his mother. Jude held
the sink counter.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

The family was vacationing in England. Jude’s Dad and

sister went to the movies while he and his mother
strolled through Bletchley Park, north of London. Jude
acted as tour guide, explaining that Alan Turing was the
father of computer science and cryptography.
Turing, he exclaimed, was an elite Cambridge
mathematician who was drafted into code-breaking. His
work sped up the defeat of Germany by two years. It
started in 1939, just when World War II began.
Jude’s mother rubbed hands for warmth while Jude
went on excitedly about how Turing joined the
Government Code and Cypher School at Bletchley Park.
Within weeks, Turing designed an electro-mechanical
machine that broke the infamous German cipher system
known as Enigma. For three years he supervised the
decoding of German naval messages. He did it by
unraveling their black box.
“We done yet?”
Jude unfolded the tour leaflet, saying how he wanted
to do this stuff one day, work with computers. He added
how Bletchley Park provided a role model for the NSA.
“Jude, you can do whatever you set your mind to.
Your father says the world is our marble—that we etch
ourselves into it. But we’re the stone, Jude. The world
chisels character into us, sculpting a masterwork. Don’t
be afraid of change.”

Jude splashed water into his face, then looked in the

mirror at redness from the scrapes healing on the side of
his face. The road rash from hitting the sidewalk three
nights ago had almost disappeared.
He swung open the restroom door. Smelling roasted
lamb, he maneuvered between tables across the
Peacock Court ballroom. Cocktail dresses shimmered,
 GRIDLOCK
8

jewelry sparkled. Captains of industry schmoozed

between bites of meat and polenta at tables of ten. He
passed a TV camera. Eyes trained on him from every
direction. He’d heard it all before: His algorithm
discovery promised to change Grid computing forever.
Whenever he saw this sort of news on TV, he’d change
channels.
Jude returned to his seat at the head of the table.
A man with crabapple cheeks and reading glasses
held wrinkled notebook pages at the podium.
“Greetings.” His voice boomed through the speakers.
“Did you know that even when you type one hundred
words a minute on your PC, valuable processing power
goes wasted? Jude Wagner did. He believed the most
valuable world resource—more vital than the burning
property of oil—was computers that sat unused on our
desks.
Ladies and gentlemen, Jude Wagner has helped
harness that precious resource at Stanford University.
He’s improved computer grid networks, linking the
individual power of millions of volunteers’ computers so
they can better analyze the ten trillion cells in each of
our bodies, which evolve and mutate over indiscernible
nanoseconds. As a result, Stanford is about to make
possible what no drug company or medical expert could
—individualized disease cures.
“What took the Indiana Supercomputer Center ten
years to accomplish, our award recipient did with his
algorithm in only two years. We all will reap the benefit
of better health. I’m honored to present Jude Wagner,
our young ambassador to the genomic era, with the Alan
Mathison Turing Award.”
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Applause. As Jude ascended the steps, he heard

another cheer from a table nearby. Looking that way he
saw Niles and the mirror image of his mother, his twin
sister, Kate. He beamed at her. She gave him a nod.
The man at the podium handed Jude a plaque and an
envelope. Jude accepted the award with a twinge of guilt
that he was getting all of the attention now.
He thanked everyone and collected his ideas.
“Tonight we celebrate not only a new dimension of
science but the birth of a molecular economy.
“I’m proud to say that this Grid will take the Internet
to a new level.” The news of Stanford severing its ties to
Johnston & Quib would be announced in a few days. Jude
decided to let the report rip. With sweaty palms, he
pulled the mic closer. “Stanford is pioneering a free
universal healthcare.”
The crowd gazed attentively.
“One day the Grid will make personalized medicine
free. The question I’ll be asked is how. The simple
answer is that our research runs over the Internet and
Stanford University has waived copyright protection.”
Through applause, he continued, “Since human
biology has become a computational problem, solutions
depend on computer power. For a fraction of what the
government spends on Medicaid, it could give people
custom-tailored therapies for hundreds of diseases. The
Grid leapfrogs us from traditional diagnoses—that focus
on symptoms from illness after onset—to prevention.
We’re spotting the genetic basis of a disease before it
hits.
“Doctors and patients will use the Grid to obtain
personalized data once that patient has his genome
sequenced. The dream is universal healthcare accessible
 GRIDLOCK
10

from every desktop in America. It’s time we democratize

medicine.”
Jude tugged on his tuxedo cuff. “All the computer
power we need is available through peered processing,
shared information through our idle computers.” Jude
took a breath. “Our connected computers, combined, are
a force of nature. As a digital community, we become a
giant research lab that blows away any pharmaceutical
companies’ research capabilities. Soon, outdated,
expensive drugs won’t be the only choice.”
Jude noticed Olivier Ramsey putting his elbows on the
table, shaking his head. He expected that Marc Ferguson
had told him about Stanford leaving. Ramsey murmured
uncomfortably over his words with Ferguson seated next
to him.
“Scientific collaboration over the Internet will not be
accepted overnight,” he continued, “but my colleagues
have diligently worked to make the Grid easy to use and
powerful by expanding university and search engine
connections and solidifying our affiliation with CERN in
Switzerland.
“CERN has the world’s largest Grid. This will be the
work horse for our genomic project.” Jude resisted
explaining how Stanford’s deal with Google would bring
more access to medical data and accelerate growth of
the Grid by enabling access through the Google website.
“The human genome has been evolving from before
the first chimpanzee, the first mosquito, and even the
first bacterium. Our DNA grew from the planet’s start.
So, unraveling DNA will not only help battle disease, but
it will unearth age-old mysteries about homo-sapiens.
Bill Clinton called it ‘learning the language in which God
created life.’
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“We have a lot of challenges ahead and we’re not

always going to win the popular vote, as you could see
by those gathered outside this hotel this evening, but
we’re not going to be deterred.”
After another five minutes of speaking, Jude thanked
ACM for hosting this award. “I also want to recognize my
sister, Kate who has always been there.”
He saw Kate raise her glass.
As applause filled the air, Jude returned the mic to its
stand.
Then he joined Kate and Niles at their table with
Alexander Hackman, Roger Knowlan and the two soft-
spoken ACM sponsors Jude had posed for pictures with
earlier.
Kate hugged him. Her cheeks glowed and her springy
blonde hair resembled their mother’s.
He handed the plaque to her.
“Bravo, Jude,” Kate said, looking over the award.
Niles glanced at it glumly and passed it around the
table.
Knowlan took it, apparently unimpressed. The ACM
fellow said, “it looks like you all know one another all too
well.”
Knowlan nodded to that. He reminded everyone that
he was the practitioner who actually ran genomic
testing, using the Grid.
Ferguson and Ramsey came to Jude’s table. He stood
to welcome them, although they didn’t look eager to be
social.
Ferguson’s blue eyes glared with hostility.
Jude knew how peeved Ferguson and Ramsey might
have felt to hear him talk about the Grid offering free
drug research, but the debate on this ended when the
National Institute for Health granted Stanford $19 million
 GRIDLOCK
12

to advance personalized medicine. It instilled confidence

in the Stanford Grid team that they could get more
funding from the public sector. Stanford could use the
money to pay back what J&Q had invested. Lastly,
Stanford’s team had to break its alliance with J&Q before
signing a non-profit agreement with Google.
The medical business needed to accept the tide of
change.
“It’s an impressive showing,” Ramsey said, scratching
his head, withholding another sentiment. “Have plans
changed with the Stanford J&Q partnership?”
“You’ll need to talk to Hideo about that,” Jude said.
Ramsey’s face hardened.
Ferguson pulled Ramsey away from Jude’s table
before matters escalated.
Jude felt relief; he didn’t need an argument. It was
awkward enough that Hackman had invited himself. Jude
said, “Have all of you met my guest, Alexander
Hackman?” Jude maintained discretion about his boss’s
profession, although Hackman certainly looked the part.
Hackman gave a jowly nod that said he’d been
introduced.
Everyone took his seat.
“That was some speech,” Hackman said in a sarcastic
tone. “Maybe genomic medicine will replace God.”
Jude tried to ignore that. The big band, Fever Pitch,
comprising a trombone, trumpet, stand-up bass, and
drum kit, filled the lull in conversation, launching to
“That’s Life”.
“Maybe I should start going to church,” Jude said.
“Maybe you should.” Hackman broke his bread and
chomped into a piece.
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“I’ve got an incredible story,” Roger Knowlan said,

“When accepting my Ph.D. diploma, I felt a pain in my
chest and fell to the ground. I was whisked to the
hospital, believing I was having a heart attack. Doctors
assured me I wasn’t. After I told them my brother and
sister died from heart complications, the doctors
determined that my siblings had a rare inherited heart
condition called stress-induced polymorphic ventricular
tachycardia. The hospital ran genomic tests and
concluded that I was at seventy percent risk of a fatal
heart attack. Doctors implanted a pacemaker and
defibrillator in my chest before I even showed
symptoms. When my heart fibrillates, as it did that day,
the technology kicks in.”
Everyone looked impressed, but Niles. He hadn’t said
a clever quip all evening, leading Jude to suspect
something was off.
Next, Niles slipped a credit card receipt into Jude’s
hand. What Jude saw scribbled on the back gave him
pause: Bad news. Must talk now.
Niles held his napkin tight. Did Niles hear some violent
reaction to Jude’s speech?
Jude surveyed the room with suspicion. Nothing
appeared out of place.
Jude wedged the paper into his trouser pocket and
checked his watch. There was no way to leave
discreetly. The instant that the waiter placed the crème
brulee on the white tablecloth, Jude motioned to Niles
that it was time to go and announced that they would be
returning soon. He knew that probably wouldn’t be the
case.
5 ALVIN ZIEGLER

thirteen

Monday, October 31
San Francisco, CA

“What on earth is going on?” Jude said, sitting across the

table from Niles in the Mark Hopkins downstairs bar.
Niles glanced over his shoulder at bar patrons who
appeared to be winding down for the night. Holding the
paper tab of an Earl Grey tea bag, he tipped milk into his
cup. His hand trembled.
Niles handed Jude an article torn from a newspaper.
“This.”
The first words Jude read about Hideo stopped his
breath. “No.” As reality sunk in, he felt the loss in his
gut. He’d grown close to Hideo Onagi.
Jude checked the headline again, then looked back at
Niles. But Niles stared vacantly into the lobby, sipping
his tea as if it were medicine.
Jude ordered bourbon to adjust from warm applause
to staggering grief. The other bar patrons carried on with
their business, unaware of their conversation.
“Why?” Jude asked. “A freak dog attack in a Tokyo
park? This is all too incredible.”
“I could vomit.”Niles said.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

A waitress brought Jude his drink. He put away half of

it. “This is going to be a real uphill battle to keep the
project moving, but we cannot and will not be deterred.”
“We’re screwed. Who’s going to replace Hideo Onagi?
The man lived for this Grid dream,” Niles said.
Jude set his empty glass on the table, thinking.
Niles sat detached with fists in his pockets.
Jude loosened the collar of his tuxedo shirt. “We
succeeded at getting ourselves into one hell-of-a-jam.”
Niles said, “We’re out of our depth.”
“We can’t let up now,” Jude said. “The Grid must pose
an awful threat if someone is willing to kill over it.
Hideo’s death and Jűrgen being shot just has to be tied
to the Grid. Someone’s trying to stop it and this freak
accident with Hideo really succeeds with setting us
back.”
“So much for our getting rich.”
“Niles, remember we’re making this free, without
patent.”
“Don’t be daft. You knew damn well it would’ve
generated millions in ad dollars.”
“Niles. Hideo and Jűrgen are gone. Forget about ad
dollars.”
“I’m sorry that my thoughts aren’t as orderly as yours
are now.”
Jude said, “Here’s my shot at thinking orderly. You’re
obviously going to Switzerland alone now, and you’ll
have to act on Hideo’s behalf, too. You’ll need to sign
the deal he made with Google.”
They needed Google to extend the reach of the Grid
so that volunteers could provide idle PC power.
Jude continued, “We’ll have to cancel the Palm
Springs computer conference. In fact, you should cut
short your trip to Switzerland.”
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Niles sighed. “I’ll call to cancel the conference myself.

Nothing makes sense. Even this tea is rubbish.”
Jude rubbed his bruised cheek.
Niles said, “I’m gutted over this. We have to tell the
police.” Niles pulled four dollars out of his wallet and set
them on the ornate table to pay for tea and tip.
“Right, and once the cops get through asking us
questions, they’ll tell us to keep out of it. Then we’ll be
in a worse position. Besides, the cops don’t have any
jurisdiction over Hideo’s dog mauling in Tokyo. I don’t
know how they’d connect that to my break-in and
Jűrgen’s murder in Switzerland? This would be an FBI
matter, yet I don’t know who to trust at the bureau.”
Niles said, “How on God’s earth are we going to
protect the Grid if Jűrgen was murdered because of it?”
“There are no easy answers. Before we do something
rash, let’s go over things ourselves: Jűrgen, the break-in
at my place, Hideo’s attack. It’s so sudden,” Jude said.
“I’ll tell Knowlan what’s happened but we’ve gotta be on
the lookout constantly.”
“This is doing my head in,” Niles said.
“You and I are going to have to push this Google
agreement through. Too many lives depend on it.”
Niles looked perplexed.
Jude reread the article about Hideo. “This article says
the dogs’ owner vanished. If your Akitas killed someone,
wouldn’t you stick around to explain? To leave the scene
is like a hit and run.”
Niles said, “Definitely. Surely, the cops would want to
question the owner about what happened.”
“These events may have happened in different
countries but all in a short stretch of time. And each one
involves a Grid member. In a world with six billion
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

people, six times a day, a one-in-a-billion shot is going to

occur. But I still don’t believe this is coincidence.”
“We have to go to the police, Jude.”
“I’m telling you,” Jude said, “if you do that, they’ll
probably ask us to stay put. You wouldn’t even be able
to sign this deal with CERN and Google in Switzerland.
By the way, I think we’ve obviously got more than one
saboteur. We have to try to profile them. Whoever they
are, they operate globally, and they made Onagi’s death
appear like an accidental dog attack. Not amateurs.”
Niles listened.
“The suspects have gotta be well-funded to be jetting
around or paying assassins in various cities. Some of
them are probably familiar to us. All of this looks like an
intricate plan.”
“I’m gonna piss on myself.”
“And it’s someone who obviously stands to lose a lot
from our Grid.”
“We need to list whoever might want to bring down
the Grid. That person is probably hiring experienced men
in their twenties or thirties.”
“Why?”
“That’s the baseline for hit men. Regardless, we have
to find who’s organizing them.”

After Jude left to find Kate, Niles remained at the bar

mulling events, stirring his tea. He sensed hostility from
Hackman at the table tonight and wondered what that
might be about. He noticed Kate crossing past the lobby,
chatting with someone he didn’t know. She rubbed her
underarm uncomfortably then disappeared before Niles
could stop her.
 GRIDLOCK
12

In his Mark Hopkins hotel room, Niles switched on

lights and his bedside table lamp. The room was
traditionally appointed with dark English furniture and
golden draperies. A potted palm stood in the corner. He
had reserved the room in anticipation of getting
smashed. He had second thoughts about doing that now
but the room was paid for, so he unsnapped his
cummerbund, removed his tie and shoes, and put the
items in the closet with his jacket. Moving to the dresser,
he unfastened his cufflinks, when he noticed something
on the floor by the door. A business-sized envelope. He
must’ve walked right over it.
Niles peeled open the unmarked envelope and
examined the page enclosed.
“You’ve seen what we can do to abortion clinics you
God-forsaken heathen. If you and your Grid continue to
tamper with DNA you’ll meet Onagi’s fate.”
Niles let out a groan of despair. He put the letter in his
pocket, grabbed his things and left.

Jude’s watch hands nearly pointed to twelve. Sleep

was unlikely after learning about Hideo’s death. All of
this needed piecing together. Jude needed to
decompress and felt drawn to his old haunt. Then, he
heard a knock on the door. He opened the door with his
weapon drawn.
“What are you doing with that in my face?” Niles
asked.
Jude looked to see that Niles was alone and lowered
the weapon. “Niles, you’re pounding on my door in the
middle of the effing night.”
“Are you going to let me in or just stand there like a
security guard?”
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Jude opened the door wide enough for Niles to enter,

closed it behind him and locked it. “What is this about?”
“I’ll tell you once you lose that damn gun.”
Jude placed the weapon underneath his bed and
returned to the living room, where Niles had taken a
seat in the club chair.
“Why are you a badge-carrying, gun-toting special
agent anyway? Don’t they usually hire computer
specialists to be just that?”
Jude explained how the FBI had two job tracks,
Professional and Field Agent. The increase in white collar
and cyber crime demanded that more field agents hold
advanced degrees in areas such as computer science.
“Without highly skilled investigators,” Jude said, “the FBI
would be hopelessly out-matched by sophisticated
criminals.”
Niles stopped listening and pulled an eight-and-a-half-
by-eleven paper out of his pocket and waved it at Jude.
“Care to see what greeted me in my hotel room tonight,
before I got to the chocolate on my pillow?”
Jude took the paper by its edges and looked it over,
carrying the note to the sofa. Niles waited for Jude’s
reaction.
“We were right,” Jude said.
“About what?”
“Our culprit came by your hotel room tonight. They
were probably at the dinner.”
“And that narrows the target list to a few hundred
people.” Niles added, beyond agitated.
“Yes, Niles. It narrows the target list. I’m more
convinced than ever that whoever is behind this knows
us well enough to have our smallest movements down.
Who, besides me, knew that you were renting a room in
the Mark Hopkins tonight?”
 GRIDLOCK
14

“No one.”
“How would anyone know that you rented a room
unless they were following you, and probably me, very
carefully through the day?”
Niles bit his thumbnail. “Mind if I stay here tonight?”
“No. You can sack out on the sofa.” Jude got up. “But I
need a drink.”
“Jude?”
“What?”
“Some anonymous person has threatened that if I
don’t drop what I’m doing at Stanford, they’re going to
kill me. What do they want me to do, hand in my
resignation?”
“Maybe.”
“I’d probably oblige them and quit if I wasn’t leaving
town anyway.”
“Unfortunately, it appears we’re no safer away from
California.”

fourteen

Monday, October 31
San Francisco, CA
6 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Putting on moccasins and his suede jacket, Jude set out

into the night. He walked down shop-lined Hyde Street
for a beer at the Hyde Out bar.
In the misty dark, he saw an attractive young woman
strolling in the same direction. The sight of her reminded
him of Nathalie. The curves of her body, even the taper
of her waist was recorded in his brain. Their time
together seemed distant.
Adults in costumes sauntered by him, hollering at
each other—the aftermath of Halloween partying. On the
corner, an Asian woman wearing dishwashing gloves
paid no attention to them while she rummaged for
aluminum cans in a waste can.
A cable car clacked along its tracks and stopped at
the intersection in front of the Hyde Out. As the name
suggested, losing people could’ve been the house
special. Jude was okay with that tonight.
Inside, burnished dark wood bar curved from the front
door to a metal restroom sign. Regulars drank solo,
slouched at the counter. The brass tap pumps dripped.
Everyone wore an aroma of hops.
He took a stool as Don Henley’s Hotel California
warbled from the 1950’s jukebox. With a wave at the
spigot, he ordered a Sierra Nevada.
Frustration gnawed at his gut. Just when the Stanford
project was gaining momentum, somebody dared to
block it. For the first time the Grid looked as vulnerable
as a newborn child. He couldn’t guarantee that his
network wasn’t going to be hacked.
He looked at his hands. His nails were chewed to the
quick. He quit the habit of nail biting years ago after
reading that such impulsive behavior represented a
cognitive disconnect between mind and body. He left
 GRIDLOCK
6

ideas like this and Eastern philosophy to his sister, but

the notion didn’t sound far-fetched.
Drinking his beer, he noticed the same alluring young
woman he saw outside had taken the stool next to him.
She wore a V-neck sweater with cleavage. She gave him
a lazy-eyed stare, went to the bathroom and returned
without her sweater, wearing a semi-transparent white
tank top shirt. Her strawberry-blonde hair framed her
youthful face perfectly.
He took it all in. The Irish barkeeper refilled his stein.
The regular customers at the sticky bar appeared to be
extras hired for atmosphere.
“Where do you work?” Jude asked the young woman
beside him, starting the dance. Maybe she was the
sexual distraction he was after.
“Um, at AT&T. I’m so thirsty, I could drink
mouthwash.”
He introduced himself and asked her name.
She mumbled Heather.
“So, Jude, what’s up?” The glamorous stranger looked
him up and down. “You look stressed.”
“You could say that.”
“You from the south?” A reference to his drawl.
“Kentucky.” He pulled on his amber draft, looking
around the bar.
“That’s open space country with bluegrass. The only
wide open space I’ve seen was when I visited my Dad in
Bakersfield.” Her whisky voice aroused him. He watched
her reapply lip gloss, dotting her mouth, when a clunking
noise made her jump. She went on with what she was
doing after finding the source behind the bar: an old relic
of an ice maker.
“What do you do?” she asked.
6 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“I’m involved in a science project at Stanford

University.”
Few people would ever learn that Jude worked for the
FBI.
“What kind of science?”
With such cat eyes and runway-model good looks, she
didn’t need makeup and certainly didn’t need to work for
a man’s attention.
“Basically, it’s computer work involving diseases like
cancer.”
She didn’t break focus, so he went on. “When
someone has cancer, the Grid shows what custom drug
we should make for that person to stop the replication of
bad cells.”
“Working on cancer is more than most of us can say.
Is that why you look so wound up?”
“It could all go down the tubes.”
“Why is that?”
“Ah, just a series of unforeseen disasters.” He wasn’t
going to say more. Not to a stranger.
“Bad times. Life is hard, surprising and strange.”
That resonated. Last week he had a driving
confidence in the Stanford project. Now he felt the need
to remind himself of what the Grid could do. A part of
him wanted to tell her how grids were running the world,
working in the background, supporting daily life like
weather satellites, sorting airline reservations, mapping
the earth’s surface, powering online video games,
delivering Internet driving directions, analyzing global
warming and performing crash test simulations. But
what did it matter to her?
“Life is strange,” he added, “but talking about it
doesn’t change a thing.”
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Part of him wondered if this fantastic-looking

strawberry blonde could be up to something. But he
knew was paranoid now.
“Life’s an uphill climb with Mount Whitney waiting on
top.” She smacked her lips at the last sip of her beer.
She signaled to the bartender for another and leaned
close to Jude.
He felt the warmth of her breath. Acting unaware, he
fantasized how he’d undo her bra and panties and work
his way up her body. She must have thought she had
him. Twisting her hair, she said with a grin, “Tell me
more about what you do.”
He pondered the situation; he couldn’t allow his
fantasies to become reality. Not tonight.
“I don’t want to bore you.”
“I have a high tolerance for boredom with the right
beer and charming man.”
She reached out to him. “Let me see your hand.”
Jude opened his palm.
She traced the line that ran up from his wrist toward
his index finger. “Whoa. Some big event is happening for
you. What could that be?”
“Why don’t you tell me.”
She held his hand closer. “It looks like you’re on some
kind of mission. Is that right?”
He didn’t feel like being quizzed but he also wanted
her. An even bigger part of him wanted his hot and cold,
hard-to-read partner, Nathalie.
She went on dreamily while they finished another
round. “You have the life line of a . . . a truth seeker.
Your path is going to be like something in Greek
mythology. Like a quest.”
He looked up at her. “Not bad.”
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Will you excuse me. I have to visit the ladies’ room

again. Promise me you won’t leave.”
“Okay.”
With controlled slowness, she slid her legs off her
stool and went to the bathroom.
She exited the women’s room and went to the
jukebox. She quickly glanced to see if Jude was still
sitting at the bar. Appearing satisfied with that, she fed
the glass and chrome machine then tapped her
selection. As U2 began to jangle, her phone rang. She
stepped away from the juke box and answered it. She
spoke loudly over the music. Watching her over
enunciate her words, Jude tried to read her lips. It
appeared that she said, “I’ll pick her up at one-thirty.
Goodbye.”
After she hung up her phone, she quickly returned to
her seat.
“Is everything okay?” He asked.
She shook her head dismissively. “Gotta go. Wanna
walk me to my car?”
“Sorry, I have to be getting home.” Jude didn’t trust
himself with her.
She swallowed the last of her beer and signed her
credit card bill. The bartender took her bill.
She slung her purse over her shoulder. “You sure you
don’t wanna come?”
“Not tonight.”
“Why don’t we exchange phone numbers?”
His mind flickered to Nathalie again and he shook his
head. He got up and headed to the door first.
With hands on her sides, she blocked his passage
through the door. He pushed by, ignoring her.
“Wait . . . When’s your birthday?”
“June 11.”
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Her eyes lighted as if she had discovered something

diabolical. “Sign of the twin. That’s a masculine, air sign.
Ruled by Mercury. Romantically, we’re a classic fit.”
He thought about it.
She went on, “I really would like to hear more about
your cancer work.”
“Maybe next time.” He waved and checked her out
from behind as she went, weaving down the street.
Heading home, Jude visualized what sex would’ve
been like with Heather. He wished he weren’t so finely
attuned to the pull of the opposite sex. He passed
shadowy Victorian buildings with burlesque facades and
maintained a steady pace while he considered the sign
of Gemini.
5 ALVIN ZIEGLER

fifteen

Tuesday, November 1
Piedmont, CA

Ferguson clicked open his iron gate on Sea View Avenue.

Grumbling to himself about J&Q, he drove up the slate-
paved circular driveway to his Piedmont estate.
Piedmont was a city unto itself, a posh enclave
entirely surrounded by Oakland, which had one of the
highest murder rates in the U.S. Piedmont had no more
in common with its neighbor than Bel Air had with east
L.A.
Even in Piedmont, Ferguson’s faux French manor
house made a statement—or would have, if the eight-
foot-high stucco walls surrounding the property hadn’t
kept it out of view. A chef and housekeeper occupied a
wing that looked like a second large house; it hid a pool
and patio with a lush valley view.
Parking his Bentley near the front door, he saw his
daughter’s white SUV rolling up the cobble stone
driveway behind him. They hopped out of the cars, and
Lori hugged her father. Her usual dress always looked
out of place on such opulent, conifer-covered grounds.
With shortly cropped brunette hair, she wore black
jeans, boots and a waist length brown jacket. The only
 GRIDLOCK
6

color about her showed in her rosacea cheeks. Lori had

designed the security system for the estate. The
perimeter walls had square security lights at twenty-foot
intervals, and a camera was mounted above the front
doors and back. The system had other features, so
elaborate that Ferguson wasn’t sure how they all
worked.
“When did you get back from your trip?” he asked.
“Just now. I came straight from the airport.”
He opened the iron-banded oak door as Lori followed
him in. She unzipped her jacket and removed it. In the
foyer, Zeus came to her side, wagging his tail. She
kissed the Rottweiler’s head, and turned to her father.
“Daddy, you don’t look so hot.”
“I’ve been better.”
They talked about his condition until she said how
starving she was from jumping time zones. She went to
the kitchen, talking as she walked. “No work today?” She
asked.
“Called in sick. I needed to take a day away from the
office.”
“The CEO has to call in when he’s sick?”
“Even CEOs have responsibilities, darling. You know,
the meetings never end. Can’t leave people in the
lurch.”
“If you’re going to take a day off, make it count and
rest. I’d tell you more about my trip, but that would bring
up the subject of work, right?”
“You’re quick,” he said, knowing full well he always
worked at home no matter how he felt.
Ferguson knew his daughter was being sympathetic to
the Stanford Grid Project departure he had been
complaining about. He felt bad his daughter worried
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

about his Huntington’s disease. Without any other

family, they had to stick together. Lori’s mother, a
longtime alcoholic, left the house years ago.
Lori opened the refrigerator and laid out mustard,
ham, cheese, and bread on the sleek granite counter.
“Want a sandwich?”
The thought of eating made Ferguson nauseous. “No,
thanks.”
“I’m going to walk Zeus,” she said.
Earlier this morning Ferguson had tried to take the
Rottweiler his daughter had given him for a walk, but he
trudged back up the mansion driveway after just five
minutes. He felt dizzy and heard things. Voices in his
head warned him that the company would soon collapse.
He wondered if his fears had any real basis.
Huntington’s disease caused paranoia.
“I’ll be in my study.”
There he beat on the speed bag that hung from the
ceiling in the corner, but quickly lost energy. A star
boxer in college, he wasn’t going to let his condition
decline without a fight.
He refused to accept the he lost his Midas touch.
Years ago he was known for fattening bottom lines by
producing blockbuster drugs that involved minimal risk
and produced maximum returns. He’d confided in his
daughter a month ago that stock he intended to leave
her might plummet. Moisture welled in his eyes.
Ferguson had started J&Q himself: it was a drug
treatment superstar until those side-effects were
reported.
At his desk, he bemoaned the fiasco of last night’s
Turing Award ceremony. Genomic medicine would make
the era of blockbuster drugs obsolete. Drug
 GRIDLOCK
8

manufacturers needed to reposition themselves or face

incalculable losses.
Ferguson had persuaded Olivier Ramsey’s investment
firm to pump $60 million more into J&Q with the promise
it would have first access to the new science network.
Those ungrateful academics were too naïve to realize
how controversial their decision would be to offer free
diagnosis. Or maybe they weren’t so naïve—they’d
successfully kept their dream of free medicine a secret
while they drummed up donations.
He could not believe the turn of events. Stanford’s
Grid Project was emerging as Big Pharma’s greatest
competitive threat, and Ferguson had cheered it on.
It didn’t help matters that Ramsey had schlepped
from New York to attend the ceremony intent on sizing
up the success of J&Q’s investment. Once Ramsey
reported the horrible news Wagner revealed in his
speech, the J&Q board would hand Ferguson his ass on a
platter.
He took the speed bag and pummeled it, imagining
every strike was connecting with Jude Wagner’s nose. A
minute later he pulled off the gloves and flung them
across the room with all his might.
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

sixteen

Tuesday, November 1
San Francisco, CA

Back at the office the following morning, Jude set aside

his thoughts about running into that seductive stranger,
Heather. He focused on computer coding when violent
pictures played in his head of Akitas attacking Hideo
Onagi. These events had a hold on him more than he
realized. He wanted clues and to find proof of motive.
The two homicides and the break-in at his apartment
must involve the Stanford project. This suggested a
crime pattern that was not personal—more like a war
than a duel.
But even if removing Jűrgen and Hideo wasn’t
personal it didn’t lessen the impact of their deaths.
Actually, it troubled Jude more to think that they were
nothing more than targets on a map.
Any scrap of new information would help. All he had
was the serial number to the handgun that killed Jűrgen
and that didn’t help. While he could run a weapon serial
number against the ATF database, The Bureau of
Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms wouldn’t have a weapon
history of a federal firearm.
But when a crime occurs, it always leaves a trace.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

At his desk, he clicked to the FBI agent manifest to

search for those who worked in Switzerland. A list
appeared of FBI agents who were guarding embassies,
consulates and select dignitaries. It was a start. More
importantly, though, he needed to follow possible
motives until that led to a suspect.
Jűrgen’s role at CERN would have a disruptive effect
on medicine. It could do irreparable damage to Pharma.
But the question lingered, if Big Pharma’s revenues
were threatened, why would the FBI be complicit in
murder? Whatever opinions he had, he couldn’t force
conclusions.
First, Jude called the Geneva authorities, but the
officers involved with investigating the murder at Lake
Geneva were away. He was also told that this matter fell
outside of his jurisdiction.
Next he called a telephone number he found on his
computer for the Japanese police. Not knowing the
language, Jude sensed it was a long shot to think he’d
get anywhere by ringing this Tokyo number, but he
punched in the number anyway.
“Hello, is there someone there who speaks English?”
He heard a click as he was placed on hold. A moment
later, a female voice came on the line.
“Yes, hello.”
“I’m with the FBI in San Francisco, California, and I
want to speak with someone about the dog-mauling that
occurred in a Tokyo park on Sunday.”
“Dog mauling?”
“Yes, by two dogs. Akitas. I realize that this is not a
customary request but I would greatly appreciate any
assistance.”
“Your name, sir?”
“Special Agent Jude Wagner, working Cyber.”
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“And what is it you would like assistance with?”

“Well, I would like to know if a report was filed. I think
the park’s name is Kasai Rinkai, in Tokyo—the man’s
name was Hideo Onagi.”
“Your badge number, Wagner-San?”
Jude fished out his credentials and read her the badge
number.
“I’ll need to verify you. My chief would like this before
we discuss the matter.”
After a five-minute wait, Jude heard the woman’s
voice again. “I’m sorry for the delay, Wagner-San, but I
must ... a ... do things according to regulation—it is not
usual to receive such a request. I do have information
about one Onagi-San who recently died at Kasai Rinkai
Park. He’s Japanese American and lives in Palo Alto,
California.”
“That’s the man.”
“We know very little. An ambulance and officers were
called to the park. A man was found dead, from wounds
that appeared to be inflicted by a very recent animal
attack. The corpse was still very warm. The witness
described the dogs as black and tan. They weighed more
than she did. I am looking at . . . what the girl said.”
“A young girl was the witness?”
“Yes. Hideo Onagi’s daughter gave the police officer
her statement. She insisted that her father was
murdered, by plan.”
“Was there evidence that the attack might have been
directed by the dog’s owner with the intention to kill Dr.
Onagi?”
“That is just what the girl reported. We have not
substantiated that.”
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Onagi was a friend of mine. Please call if I can help in

any way.” Jude left his personal cell phone number with
the officer.
“We are happy to have your telephone number.”
Jude hung up the phone slowly. Shaking his arms to
release stress, he considered his next move.
The dog mauling piled more worry on top of the threat
letter that was left in Niles’s hotel room. Jude had no
idea what his next step should be. Speaking directly to
Hideo’s daughter would help. He rang the five hotels he
thought Hideo might have booked for his family in
Tokyo, but failed to uncover any guest party that had
checked in under Hideo Onagi. Jude shifted his energies.
He removed the letter from his pocket and held it to a
desk lamp. A subtle outline of a watermark showed. He
marched with the letter to the crime lab.
A senior lab technician was arguing with a younger
one over protocol for handling evidence.
“Anyone mind if I use the light table?” Jude asked.
The older lab staffer fluttered his hand in the air, not
wanting to be disturbed.
Jude’s cell phone vibrated and he noticed a call had
gone to voicemail. He ignored it and flipped on the light
table and adjusted a large magnifying glass affixed to a
pivot, hoping to get a good view of the watermark. When
he put the page on the clear glass surface, the high-
wattage bulbs underneath illuminated the subtle
demarcation. It read UNITED BISHOPS ASSOCIATION.
Jude was dumbstruck. Who or what is the UNITED BISHOPS
ASSOCIATION? The name didn’t sound familiar. He flashed
back to the religious protestors who had circled him
outside the Mark Hopkins. He looked over his shoulder.
The lab employees had left.
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Think about the slogans, their faces, anything. Were

religious zealots behind the murders? If so, what faction
was it, and why would they draw attention to their deeds
so carelessly by using paper with a watermark like this?
Jude carefully tucked the page into his pocket and
checked his voicemail. Gary Knowlan called, reporting
Hideo Onagi’s office at Stanford had been broken into
and vandalized. Jude thought briefly about that.
Passing Hackman’s office on his way back to his own,
Jude overheard his name. Backing up, he looked inside
the office to see Hackman on the phone. Jude eased
closer to Hackman’s door, trying not to appear as if he
was eavesdropping.
“It’s time step up things with Wagner,” Hackman said,
“we have to reel him in.”
Jude heard the receiver hit the cradle and moved
down the hall, mulling over Hackman’s words. What
could “reel him in” imply?
He didn’t have an answer, so he tucked the
information away in his head and shifted gears
completely. Back at his desk, he rang the Mark Hopkins
Hotel to speak with the staff on duty last night. The front
desk clerk said they would notify him of any report, but
doubted if anyone had seen anything. Anyone could
shove it under the door.
Nathalie came in clutching an accordion file folder,
wearing a knee-length black skirt. She grinned. “How did
it feel to be honored last night while I was snowed under
with work?”
“The event didn’t go as I had imagined.”
“Why?”
They moved to their desk alcove.
She glanced at him curiously. “Your face is more
crinkled than your gray suit. What’s the crisis du jour?”
15 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Horrible news.”
Nathalie dropped her file on her desk and pulled her
swivel chair beside his. He saw a flash of her thigh and
turned away. Information Jude intended to keep to
himself spilled out.
“Two of my Grid colleagues, Jűrgen Hansen and Hideo
Onagi, have died.”
“Mon Dieu. How?”
“Hideo was mauled by Akitas in Tokyo two days ago.
Last Friday, Jűrgen was shot outside of Geneva. And
Niles…he got a threat, warning he’d die too, unless...”
“Unless what?” she said, in a hushed voice.
“Unless he stopped work on the Stanford Grid.”
Nathalie leaned back, mystified. “And someone broke
into your flat, no?”
“Yes.”
“You have no idea who?” She mumbled.
He gave a head shake.
“You’re going to Hackman, right?”
“No. While he’s the one who told us about Onagi, I
don’t think we should tell him about the rest . . . not yet,
not until I wrap my head around this myself.”
“Why?”
“It was an FBI-registered Glock that killed Jűrgen.”
“What?” Her eyebrows furrowed. “Do you suspect
collusion . . . I mean from inside?”
“There’s no telling who’s involved.”
“Be careful. Don’t slip into making reckless
assumptions.”
“I’m not. I’m working to find a connection.”
“First, follow where evidence leads. As Meno’s
paradox taught, you can’t set out to find something new
if you already know what it is you intend to find.”
17 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Great, Nathalie. But we still need a suspect list and

all I’ve got is the entire San Francisco FBI, and business
leaders in the pharma industry. Hold that, and the
insurance industry since they’ll also be turned inside out
by Stanford’s universal healthcare initiative. And what
can I do with that? Start by requesting an interview with
the CEO of Johnston & Quib? Maybe.”
“Jude. I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way. New hires
can’t run around arranging meetings with CEO’s Even for
me, I’d need approval before engaging someone like
that.”
“We should talk about that later. Right now I’m going
to Hideo’s office at Stanford to find whatever I can.
Stanford’s Grid Director called me. He says I should
come down and investigate because there’s vandalism.”
Jude patted his pants pocket, checking for his car keys.
“For a new person, you certainly—”
“Push protocols?”
“Yes, I’m not saying you should be chained to your
desk. God knows I’m not. Just keep your head screwed
on.”
“I know. I’m new and I should remember my part.”
Nathalie said, “Like it or not, that’s true.”
“I’m going to prepare you for something—I accept the
consequences and I know they’ll come because from
here on out I’m going off script.”
She chuckled to herself, appearing mildly concerned.
“Okay. And that reminds me. I overhead something odd
in Hackman’s office this morning.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know who he was speaking with. He said
something to the effect of, ‘we’ve gotta keep a close eye
on Wagner.’ It sounded as if he was strategizing on what
to do with you.”
19 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“That’s truly strange. I heard him say something

similar.”
“Maybe we’re reading something into it we should
not.”
“I still have to make this trip to the South Bay,” he
said.
“Just be accountable.”
“Okay, but doing nothing would be a greater
mistake.”
“So, first you had Jűrgen, then your break-in and now
Hideo. Things aren’t getting any better.”
“That’s right,” Jude said. “Once is happenstance.
Twice is coincidence. The third time it's enemy action.”
“Is that another one of your quotes?”
“It’s from James Bond. Goldfinger, who considered
himself an expert pistol shot, claimed he never missed,
and always shot his opponents through the right eye.”
“You had to add that.”
“Look. Don’t try to stop me.”
“All right, then I’m going too. You are probationary.
I’m not. OPR is going to keep Hackman busy today
anyway.”
She was proving her unpredictability again. “What do
you mean?” he asked.
“I heard some office gossip that Hackman’s being
investigated. They say he’s slipping up since he’s
nearing the barn, whatever that means.”
“It means Hackman’s cutting corners because he’s
approaching retirement.”
“Oh, really,” Nathalie said. “Maybe he’ll get sacked
before we have a confrontation with him.”
“Yeah, right. Does Hackman go to any church?”
“What sort of question is that?”
“Just tell me.”
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“I don’t know which one, but I’m sure he does.”

“Why?”
“Everyone knows he’s a religious man.” she said. “If I
go with you, I can cover for us if anyone questions what
we are doing.”
“You sure about this?”
She picked up her jacket off her chair, and knotted it
over her shoulders decisively.
“I’ll meet you at the elevator.”
He didn’t ask again. He just started walking, realizing
that the Nathalie he had met at Quantico wasn’t gone
entirely—her defiance of authority, buried beneath her
professional code of ethics and her French reserve,
surfaced again.
Nathalie showed up at the elevator with a fingerprint
kit that she had presumably borrowed from the lab.
“You came with the kit,” he said.
“You said there was vandalism so I’m coming
equipped. I may be in Intelligence Analysis, but I still
know how they do things in the Crime Section.”
He was glad that she would be riding along.

Without speaking, Jude walked through the parking

garage with Nathalie to his Mazda. Even in the haze of
grief, Jude caught himself liking the sound of their
footfalls echoing in unison. Nathalie’s company was
calming, but her closeness was also arousing. Bad sign.
A routine walk with her like this shouldn’t ignite a rush of
bittersweet memories. But that was quintessential
Nathalie; even recollections of her surprised him. Her
independence was what most attracted him to her. Yet
that same trait was driving a wedge between them.
What were the odds that they would be assigned to work
as partners?
 GRIDLOCK
8

Slinging his coat on the backseat, Jude struggled with

the exotic force of her French lavender fragrance. He
stared into space, lost in the memory of kissing her
shoulder, neck and mouth and removing the last piece of
her lingerie. Fighting the urge to take her again, he
straightened up and dug clumsily into his pocket for
something. Trying quickly to mask his discomfort, he
handed her the bag that had the pen inside.
“It’s the dead-end pen we dusted,” she said.
He turned the key in the ignition. As the motor
hummed, he collected his addled thoughts. “Right. See
the blurred gold stamp? It had three words. The last is
COMPANY. The letter before that were DYN--- ---UR--Y.
“The guy who dropped it was wearing Danner boots. A
military style. Size eleven. Any ideas?”
“- - -UR- -Y.” Nathalie mulled the letters aloud. Doesn’t
ring a bell. Neither does DYN. Anyone could buy those
boots. I know the brand. If anything else happens,
though, we’ll have a shoeprint to check against.”
Jude sped down the freeway south to Onagi’s Stanford
laboratory, air conditioning on high. It was good to be
moving. Temperatures had swung from brisk to warm,
another fall day in San Francisco.
“Then why wouldn’t they want you? I’m worried they
will.”
He wasn’t sure how to take that, but it felt good to
hear her concern nonetheless. “Glad to know you care.”
She gave him a cockeyed look that didn’t clarify
matters.
“It’s true, the Grid relies on my algorithm, but killing
me wouldn’t remove the code. Great chunks of my code
are in the public domain already. Computer algorithms
are a mishmash of public property. Anyway, the Grid
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

would still work without my algorithm just like the

Internet would work without some improvement. What
worries me is that Roger Knowlan is put at risk as
director in charge at Stanford, and Niles now has to do
Hideo’s job. They could be the next victims. They’re
Stanford employees—not me.”
“I do not buy that,” Nathalie said. “Connaitre le
danger.”
“And that means?”
“Don’t ignore the danger that’s out there.”

***

Jude cruised through the vast Stanford campus until

he came to the chemistry complex. He saw Roger
Knowlan’s new Jaguar with PIONEER on the license plate
and parked beside Hideo Onagi’s empty parking spot.
Seeing his late colleague’s name on that space made
Jude’s stomach tighten.
So many images of Onagi streamed to mind—how he
insisted on going double or nothing when he lost at pool
and bought that round of drinks as an enticement.
Jude stopped the engine and turned to Nathalie. “Can
you wait here and scout what you can about Onagi’s and
Jűrgen’s deaths on your tablet?”
“Yeah, you go inside while I burn alive out here. I
can’t get used to these temperature swings.”
He apologized and put the keys in the ignition so she
could start the engine to run the AC or lower the
windows.
Stepping into the stiflingly hot car park, he spotted a
hummingbird buzzing from a flowerbed. It flew forward,
backward, then hovered in place. A brilliant color of pink
marked its head. In a nano-second, it flitted skyward.
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Making his way down the walkway, Jude recalled lively

work dinners he had had at Hideo’s house. That Stanford
cadre that occasionally had drinks past midnight was
history.
Through the breezeway and doorway, Jude entered
the Research Institute. The administration office was
empty—apart from the eye of a security camera that
Jude looked at, hanging on the wall behind the front
desk.
Shelly, the Australian lab tech, rounded the corner
carrying a box of files. Seeing Jude, she set the box down
and hugged him with a long embrace.
“He was a dear man,” she said with a catch in her
voice.
“We’re going to support one another here,” Jude said.
A familiar sight caught Jude’s eye. On the wall behind
the reception desk was a giant mounted graphic of Craig
Venter’s sequenced human genome breakthrough from
2003—dozens of black-and-white striped lines.
The picture hung there every day at Stanford for
years, but Jude never felt anything looking at it. Today it
reminded him of how idealistic they all were from
conception. Blind to what they were starting.
The longer Jude stared at the genome blow-up, the
more haunting it became. The squiggly pairs of lines no
longer looked like a blueprint for medicine’s future but a
diagram for mayhem.
“I’ve got something to show you,” Shelly said with a
soft lilt, gently directing him away from the wall and
toward Hideo’s office.
Jude wasn’t surprised to see the door crisscrossed
with crime tape, but didn’t feel entirely prepared for it
either.
“Have you been in here?”
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Yes, but I didn’t touch anything. I called the police

straight away. They left two hours ago.”
“Do you know if a print team has dusted this room?”
“They haven’t. The police said two men would come
to get fingerprints, but they haven’t come by. I was told
to keep out.”
“So, Roger is here?” Jude asked.
Before she could reply, Roger Knowlan turned the
corner and Shelly left.
“You think Shelly will be all right?” Jude asked.
“Once she gets over the shock, yes. Onagi’s family is
in Tokyo, by the way.”
Jude said, “I know. Have you seen Hideo’s office?”
“No,” Roger said, raising his head to make eye
contact. “I hear it’s been turned upside down. There’s
police tape all over the doorway.”
Knowlan’s face had a blank look of disbelief.
“Shelly told me.”
“Have you come to investigate?”
“Not officially. I’m not here on FBI business. I brought
special agent Noiret to find what we can off the books.
She’ll be coming along. She’s in the car.” Jude said. “I
appreciate your calling me, Roger. I’m going into the lab
now.”
Knowlan seemed to be okay with that. He followed
Jude down the hallway and into the lab.
It flabbergasted Jude and Niles that Hideo and
Knowlan had remained close friends through all of the
heated debates about commercializing the Grid but they
both wanted to see the Grid work miracles. Knowlan sat
down rigidly and crossed his arms. Wearing a finely
tailored blazer over a button down shirt, Knowlan had no
tie and polished shoe boots. His attention to men’s
15 ALVIN ZIEGLER

fashion appeared as a shot at compensating for his

small-boned frame and moody social awkwardness.
Jude heard the front desk phone ring. Shelly shouted
down the hallway, “It’s Niles Tully on the line. He’s
calling from outside his dentist’s office to check on
things. I told him you were both here.”
“Can you transfer the call into the lab?” Jude asked.
“Yes.”
After three beeps, Jude put the call on speaker phone.
Knowlan paced anxiously.
“Niles, it’s Jude and Roger.” Jude positioned the phone
so Niles could hear them clearly. Knowlan sat on a desk
corner, chin in hand, looking at a desk photo of Hideo
with his wife and child.
As Knowlan turned away from the photo, Niles’s voice
carried into the room. “Good. Now, to both of you: what
the hell is going on—people are dying.”
“That’s what we’re trying to sort out,” Knowlan
shouted back. His volume obviously came from raw
nerves.
“Did you find out anything more about Hideo?” Niles
asked.
“His office has been vandalized, but we haven’t seen
it. Not yet anyway.” Knowlan said. “You’re getting ahead
of us.”
Jude said, “I have news. I spoke with Tokyo police and
found out that Hideo’s dog attack may not have been
accidental.”
Knowlan’s head whipped around, giving Jude steady
eye contact for the first time since he had arrived.
“How do they know that?”
“Apparently his daughter, who seems to be the only
material witness, told the police that someone
commanded the dogs to attack him.”
17 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Knowlan rubbed his forehead. “Really?”

“Bloody hell. What do we do with that?” Niles asked.
His voice was overmodulated on the speakerphone,
sounding strained.
“No traceable abrasions, contusions or fibers. It’s a
clever way of making an attack look unplanned. And how
do you prove that an animal’s owner premeditated
homicide when all he’s got to do is whisper attack to a
trained—”
“I can’t believe this,” Knowlan interrupted, wide-
eyed. “We’ve faced enough scientific obstacles without
this.”
“Can either of you picture anyone wanting Hideo dead
for a personal or professional reason?” Jude asked.
“Hideo didn’t have enemies,” Knowlan said. “Niles, I
wish you luck with the CERN/Google deal, but to be
honest, this isn’t the best time for your call. I need air.
So long, Niles. I’ll be outside, Jude.”
Knowlan got up and left the room.
Niles spoke again. “Jude, I feel like we’re all walking
around with targets painted on our backs.”
“I know,” Jude said. “I did find something on that
threat letter.”
“What?” Niles asked.
“There was a watermark with the words, United
Bishops Association.”
“What the hell?” Niles asked. He sounded
exasperated over the speaker phone.
“I’m not sure yet,” Jude said.
Niles said, “And we know how religious
fundamentalists feel about genomic medicine. What
next?”
The future they had worked so hard for had finally
arrived, but with the crash landing of a meteorite.
19 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“I’ll get back to you.” Jude said.

Niles’s voice came on again. “Okay, but what about
me? What can your bureau do for my security? Jűrgen
was murdered at CERN and I’ll be meeting with CERN
executives in Switzerland.”
Jude continued, “Actually, Niles, I thought since you’ll
be with CERN people you could ask questions. Find out if
Jűrgen had enemies.”
“Fine. Heave me onto the train tracks. What kind of
covert operation is this?”
Jude ignored him. “We’ll compare details after your
trip.”
“You’ve gone on about nothing but sex and Quantico
lately, Magnum PI. Why don’t you focus on this?”
“Look, Niles. I know what you want. I can’t go back to
Hackman and press him about an FBI-registered
weapon. This is only my fourth week at the field office.
Give me a break. The firearm could’ve been stolen. I’m
going into Hideo’s office now. More later.” Jude hung up
the phone.
He walked outside to meet Knowlan under the
breezeway.
“Jude, can’t you ask the FBI to put you on this case?”
Roger asked.
“I can’t pick and choose assignments any more than I
already am.”
“Can you at least tell me if we’re being sabotaged?”
Roger said.
“If I could put my finger on something, Roger, I
wouldn’t be standing here talking with you.”
“What about the lab?” Knowlan said, “Shelly says
Hideo’s office has been ransacked but his lab
workstation looks intact. What do you make of that one?
21 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Why would his office be turned upside down and not the
lab?”
“They probably hit his office because that’s where
they thought Hideo would’ve kept a Grid access key.
They had no idea that you and I were the only ones who
carry the key.”
Knowlan said, “What do you propose I do with my key,
Jude?”
“Carry it. There’s no safer place for it than on you.”
Knowlan put his hand in his pocket and scowled,
obviously dissatisfied with that answer.
Nathalie walked up, holding the fingerprint kit. “It’s
not good to leave a lady waiting, you know.”
Jude wanted to look over the place alone first then
forgot to call her in. “You’re going to have me
apologizing all day, aren’t you?”
She ignored him.
“Nathalie,” Jude said, “this is Roger Knowlan. He’s
now in charge of things at Stanford.”
“How are you?” she said.
He adjusted his sport coat. “Been better.”
Jude wanted to get a look at Hideo’s office, so he
gestured for them all to go inside again.
They stopped outside of the doorway covered with the
yellow police tape.
“Technically, we shouldn’t go in here,” Nathalie said.
“I trust you won’t put this in your 302 Field Report.”
Jude peeled away the three strips of tape and entered
the room. Nathalie followed. Shelly watched from the
doorway.
“Mon Dieu, she said. “Looks like a hate crime.”
On Hideo’s whiteboard was a quote written in bright
purple marker—the same variety of pen that Hideo
23 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Onagi routinely carried: “Those who play god will be

sacrificed.”
A chill crept over Jude.
“Definitely moralizing going on here.” Jude pondered
the words, then rolled up his sleeves. Again, he recalled
the protesters’ placards at the Mark Hopkins—a fiery
protestor’s face flashed before him.
Roger Knowlan appeared at the doorway. “Whoa.
What do you make of this?” he asked.
“Give us some space here, Roger. We just started
working,” Jude said.
Their way was blocked by chairs and books that had
been flipped. A desk lamp was broken on the floor. White
glass crunched beneath their feet.
Jude and Nathalie stepped carefully, guessing what
might have happened.
Jude asked the lab technician, who now hovered at
the door with Roger, “Shelly, did the cops come to any
conclusions with this?”
“No idea. They just asked questions,” she said.
Hideo’s computer was still intact on the steel desk.
The chassis on his tower was locked.
“Why do you think his computer wasn’t destroyed?”
Nathalie asked.
“I can only imagine they thought the Grid access key
was on it and didn’t destroy it for that reason.”
“Makes sense,” she said. Nathalie went ahead to dust
the keyboard for prints. Once done, she handed Jude a
pair of latex gloves. He blew air into them, one at a time,
and pulled them on. Jude sat down in front of the
computer and booted it up. He keyed in a series of
letters, then hit ENTER. He accessed the history buffer.
The last set of operations performed at that computer
appeared on the screen, scrolling in reverse
25 ALVIN ZIEGLER

chronological order. The terminal flashed lines of

commands. Jude printed the screen by sending the print
job to the shared printer. Hideo’s printer had been pulled
apart.
“Any latents?” Jude asked.
“Looks like they wore gloves.”
Since she didn’t find fingerprints, she wouldn’t risk
disturbing evidence when she wiped clean the black
print powder. Had they found prints and left the powder,
they certainly would’ve had some explaining to do to the
police fingerprint crew.
“We have to go.” Jude removed the gloves.
“I’m done.”
They all left the office for the hallway. Jude snatched
the page from the front printer. Roger followed them
with his cell phone open in mid-dial.
“If you find anything, call,” Roger said.
Jude agreed, while Nathalie took her kit to the car.
Jude asked Shelly, “How can we access the video log
from the security camera in the lobby?”
She said, “The police have already checked that. The
video monitor power was turned off for three hours in
the middle of the night, then flipped on again.”
Jude didn’t have anything more to ask her.
“I’d say godspeed with solving this,” she said, “but I’ll
say good luck instead.”
Jude walked to the car.
“Wait,” Shelly called. She ran to catch up with him.
“Take this.” She handed a blue paper crane to Jude.
“This was Hideo’s.”
“Thanks,” Jude said. He knew Hideo’s habit of giving
origami cranes to colleagues. “Ori means fold,” he would
say. “We’ll make magic through folding proteins.”
27 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Jude looked at the crane, remembering something

Hideo once said: “We are both dreamers. Without us, the
Grid will go nowhere and the ruling elite will squash the
revolution.”
5 ALVIN ZIEGLER

seventeen

Tuesday, November 1
San Francisco, CA

Kate opened her Mead teacher’s folder and prepped for

her lesson. Imbued with a new excitement for scientific
discovery from the night before, she couldn’t wait to be
in front of college students again. Seeing her twin
brother being revered as a tech star had invigorated her.
Despite feeling rundown, she was glad that she had
arranged months ago to guest lecture at San Francisco
State University. She promised to fill in for at least one
day for her biology professor friend who took any day off
she could get. This trip killed two birds. It enabled her to
work and visit Jude.
Walking into the Life Science Center, she admired the
glass skylight three stories high above her head. When
she got to the lecture hall, she set down her briefcase
and chalked CELL DIVISION on the blackboard.
Voices reverberated through the auditorium. Students
streamed in to fill the 250 seats. She answered
questions from one student about where she was from,
and the next minute she regaled him with stories of
watching the races at the Kentucky Derby. “And the
 GRIDLOCK
6

parties leading up to America’s most celebrated horse

race are like no others,” she said.
Professor Wagner made a hand gesture. Everyone
took a seat. Kate checked her own forehead for fever.
She felt hot, but couldn’t be sure by touching her own
head.
She plugged in her Sony portable stereo, then pressed
PLAY. Handel’s Messiah sounded forth—a suitable
backdrop, she thought, to a lecture that explored the
magnificence of human biology. She always liked to
launch her lectures with dramatic music to dramatize
the miracle of science. As the music reverberated, she
scratched quotations on the board.
I believe in God, only I spell it NATURE.
–Frank Lloyd Wright (1869–1959)

Nature does nothing uselessly.

–Aristotle (384 BC–322 BC), Politics

Kate thought, If a professor doesn’t challenge her

students’ worldviews, then she’s failed.
Not everyone appreciated her impassioned teaching
philosophies, though. Parents of students at the
University of Kentucky sent letters last year, complaining
that Professor Wagner advocated humanism over
religion. The Dean of Science at the University of
Kentucky warned her. By letter he demanded that
evolution be taught alongside creationism, “ex nihilo.”
When she refused to listen, the Dean threatened to put
her on leave without pay, but she knew it was a
toothless threat and continued as always.
She had spoken for some twenty minutes when she
noticed a disturbance: two students in the back row
6 ALVIN ZIEGLER

were talking and exchanging headsets. It appeared that

two others were listening to music that just played in
their heads. Kate cleared her throat and the talking
stopped.
“Mutation is a constant,” Kate explained to the class.
“There’s good mutation and bad. Our bodies experience
continuous change. It can be bad, even cancerous, when
there’s uncontrolled cell division.”
One back-row student in a Green Day t-shirt
interrupted her with laughter. “Come on. Let’s be serious
about mutation, prof. Without it, we’d all be apes.”
Glad this kid’s not mine, she thought. Feeling
unstable, she braced herself against the chalkboard tray.
“That’s true,” she said. “There is natural mutation, as
in the case of evolution, but DNA transformation through
radiation is just one example of harmful mutation.”
Without warning, her knees failed.
Faces, ceiling, walls swirled around her. As her legs
crumpled, she dropped onto the wooden stage.
5 ALVIN ZIEGLER

eighteen

Tuesday, November 1
Emeryville, CA

Olivier Ramsey brushed bread flakes from the table at

the Emeryville office. Hunched at his notebook computer
in the J&Q conference room, he wolfed down an egg-and-
cheese croissant. Last night’s events had angered him
deeply. Had he known Stanford was going to pull out he
never would have invested more in J&Q. Ramsey’s boss,
Pinsky was going to have his neck. He should have seen
this coming when Ferguson hinted that Stanford could
leave.
Wiping his mouth, he readjusted his laptop screen,
typed and saw that J&Q’s stock had dropped seven
percent already. Fuck me.
An email arrived. It was Ramsey’s FDA insider.
Olivier—Google is up to something big. They are
seeking approval for a diagnostic product, running over
the Stanford Grid and it could change medicine.
–Maureen Putnam

Ramsey absorbed the meaning of Google becoming

the information gatekeeper to a universal healthcare
 GRIDLOCK
6

alternative. The Grid would be a new system of

diagnosis, connecting and directing all medical data.
Eventually, doctors, hospitals and insurance companies
would adopt the socialized medical information system.
Blood warmed in Ramsey’s ears. Flipping through the
sequence of events that led up to his investment, he
couldn’t believe his naiveté. Where’s Ferguson?
He thumb-clicked his BlackBerry to the Stanford Grid
website to see how much news of this Google deal had
surfaced to the public:
Stanford University’s Grid team seems to have cut
their exclusive ties with former partner Johnston & Quib
Pharmaceuticals based in Emeryville, California. It’s
seeking a new dance partner with which it can pool
medical information across thousands of databases to
fight disease.
-Associated Press

Ramsey rubbed his neck, ruminating over the

implications for the fortune he had invested. He
snatched the telephone handset and punched at
numbers.

***

At the wet bar in his study, Ferguson mixed a scotch

and soda, knowing it would take more than whisky to
alleviate the pressure. He took a sip in his favorite
reclining chair and tried to meditate on the view of the
surrounding hills, beyond his estate wall.
Before he could settle in, the phone rang.
6 ALVIN ZIEGLER

He had no stomach to manage another crisis at the

office. Ferguson took a deep swig of his scotch before
going to his desk and picking up the receiver.
“Ferguson, you schmuck.” the caller said. “Where the
hell are you?”
As Ferguson began to speak, Ramsey shouted,
“Forget-about-it. Get your ass in this office and start
answering for what’s happened and be prepared to
grovel on your knees. I’ll be in the small war room—
waiting.”
Ramsey’s end went dead.
Ferguson grievously resented having to jump
whenever Ramsey called, but Ramsey’s firm called the
shots, and Ferguson had to own up to his mistake in
coordinating the Stanford Grid partnership. Aching, he
took a foil-sealed tablet from his pocket, unwrapped it
and popped it into his mouth.
While driving to his office, Ferguson rang his physician
to check on results from his latest visit.
“I’m sorry Mr. Ferguson, you and I need to go over the
findings in the office.”
“Dr. Cooper, I’m not the type of person who can wait.
Can’t you tell me this over the phone?”
“Mr. Ferguson, this isn’t something that—.”
“Please.”
“Okay. Unfortunately your Huntington’s Disease has
advanced.”
Ferguson held a breath.
The doctor continued, “I can’t predict anything, but—”
“How long do I have?”
“Impossible to say—six months to a year, maybe
less.”
Ferguson hung up with thoughts spinning. He’d be
dead sooner than he expected.
8 ALVIN ZIEGLER

***

Twenty minutes later, Ferguson carried two mugs of

coffee into the war room. Ramsey sat at the head of the
polished mahogany conference table, as if he, not
Ferguson, were CEO of J&Q. He wore a crisp white shirt,
Ferguson noticed. Ramsey aggressively tapped his pen.
His body language said he wanted blood. Thank God
Ramsey was scheduled to fly back to New York tonight.
Ferguson wore a scowl on his face when he entered.
But he didn’t care. Ramsey’s gaze never moved from the
screen on the laptop computer in front of him. Ramsey
never held eye contact. Ferguson had heard that he
suffered from prosopagnosia, or face blindness. Ramsey
relied on clothing, gait and voice to identify people.
Ferguson considered it ironic that he never forgot a face
and Ramsey never remembered one.
Ferguson handed Ramsey a mug and slowly pulled
out one of the leather-seated chairs and sat down. “It’s
Kona, brought it in myself,” he said, resting his own mug
on the table.
Ramsey shook his head as he slowly read the
motivational quote that was plastered on his mug: A
FAILURE IS A MAN WHO HAS BLUNDERED, BUT IS NOT ABLE TO CASH IN ON THE

EXPERIENCE. ELBERT HUBBARD.

“Ironic quote, Marc. You should have kept this mug for
yourself.”
Ferguson took a pill with a sip of coffee, stupefied by
his doctor’s report: You’re dying, Marc.
Ferguson couldn’t remember what Ramsey had said
last.
10 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Ramsey’s face darkened. “How has Stanford gone

from bringing us into the age of digitized records to
becoming a competitive threat?”
“I don’t know how we lost them. We never saw that
coming.”
“It’s not we, plural and royal, it’s you, singular and
moronic. I hope you have your shrink on speed dial
because after this pow-wow you’ll need to increase the
strength of those prescription pills you’ve been
popping.”
“I’m fine, Ramsey. It’s just indigestion—”
“Don’t deflect, Ferguson—this is dire.” A line in
Ramsey’s forehead deepened. “I think you owe me an
explanation for last night.”
“I had planned on telling you about Stanford backing
out after the ceremony. I didn’t want to upset you
beforehand and had no idea that Jude Wagner was going
to spill his guts. Who could have known they were going
to become the Mother Teresa of genomic medicine?”
Ramsey’s face turned purple. “God damn you,
Ferguson. You should’ve told tell me this sooner. I’m
losing millions with your stock. J&Q has gone from being
a partner with Stanford to being their pawn in this game.
Need I explain that the wealthiest industry in human
history is about to topple here—you’re nudging us over
the edge.”
Ferguson cleared his throat before changing the
subject. “You did hear that the Stanford/CERN liaison,
Program Director Jűrgen Hansen, died in Switzerland.”
“Really? No.” Ramsey’s face showed a glimmer of
warmth. “That’s a pity.”
“It could be fortuitous,” Ferguson said.
12 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“It could slow them down. But their plan to offer free
diagnosis, genomically, will really hurt if I’m still holding
your stock then.”
“Hurt us and the rest of pharma.” Ferguson shook his
head.
“And Jude Wagner’s algorithm makes it all that much
worse. The Grid could make thousands of Pharma
employees redundant.”
“This medical revolution will leave waste in its wake.
To quote my daughter, no one’s safe these days.”
Ramsey said. “Has your daughter gone into
medicine?” It had been years since Ramsey had seen
Lori.
“She’s in the private security business.” Ferguson
looked away, reflecting on his ambitious daughter.
Ramsey tried to meet eyes with Ferguson. But he
maintained distance and broke their silence by tossing
away the granola bar wrapper. “You’ll have to excuse
me. My doctor had a cancelled appointment I’m going to
take.”
Ramsey poured himself a glass of water. “You’re
walking a tightrope here, Ferguson. You promised your
board and Pinsky Investments that partnering with
Stanford would put us in the genomic game. But I reread
the corporate agreement last night. Nothing bound them
from backing out. How did you overlook this?”
Ferguson thought. He’d have to make sure that some
in-house lawyer’s head rolled.
Ramsey said, “We’ll be meeting again tomorrow
morning.”
“But you’re going home tonight.”
“Change of plans.”
“You’ve postponed your flight?” Ferguson’s heart
sank.
14 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Ramsey tapped the face of his watch. “I’m going to be

in your hair the whole damn week. Look at this website.”
Ramsey set down his nearly full mug and shoved his
notebook computer up to Ferguson’s face.
Ferguson saw the Stanford Grid homepage.
Something about a search engine. He looked away.
“I never predicted this would happen.” He lied.
“You heard about their Google alliance, didn’t you?”
“No. What—”
“No? It will seal the coffin of our business model. It’ll
extend Stanford’s Grid to databases everywhere.”
Ferguson coughed. “Google alliance? Who told you
this?”
“That doesn’t matter. We’ll hear details in the news
soon enough.”
Shit, Ferguson thought. Google would be a powerful
catalyst for personalized medicine. He could see Google
web-enabling an index of the genome and private-sector
databases. Though Stanford’s name would appear on
the Grid’s public-medicine home page, Google would be
the search-engine intermediary, the invisible middle-
ware, transferring the patient’s genetic data to
scientists.
Ramsey was right. Linked with Google, Stanford’s Grid
would be unstoppable. Ferguson should have moved
toward personalized medicine years ago. If only he
hadn’t been feeling so wretched. Fighting this disease
had put him off his game.
Ramsey rubbed his deep-set eyes. They showed
fatigue—which Ferguson was glad to see: the invincible
banker had vulnerability beyond his impaired vision.
The conference room phone rang. Ramsey clicked a
button.
“Olivier Ramsey.”
16 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“It’s Pinsky.” The gravelly female voice crackled over

the speaker phone from New York.
Ramsey grimaced at Ferguson and hit MUTE. “Do you
care to give my team an update, Marc? Or shall I?”
Ferguson finished pouring himself a glass of water.
“I’ll do it,” Ramsey said.
Ferguson hated this. With Ramsey hovering like a pit
bull and barking at him about how dire the state of
affairs had become, Ferguson was beginning to feel like
a gnawed bone.
Ramsey unmuted the speaker. “Hello, Nicolette. I’m
here with Marc Ferguson. He’ll fill you in.”
“Mr. Ferguson. It’s Nicolette Pinsky,” the woman said.
Ferguson had never met Nicolette, but the voice
described her. Ramsey’s boss sounded like a hard-faced
tyrant.
She didn’t wait for a response. “We’re not going to sit
around idly watching as our investment goes down the
tubes. Ramsey says Stanford’s Grid is moving the goal
posts, threatening quarterly returns. What are you doing
to stop this?”
Ramsey had once told him that Pinsky had fired a new
banker who was expecting twins because she got tired
of hearing how happy fatherhood would make him.
Ferguson spoke into the squawk box: “I take
responsibility for what happened.”
“Let’s be honest, Mr. Ferguson,” Pinsky said, “That
doesn’t change where we are and we’re not the Make a
Wish Foundation. That’s what we’ll become if we let this
online system make custom prescriptions.”
“That’s right,” Ramsey said with a break in his voice,
wiping his glasses with his shirt.
18 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Interesting, Ferguson thought. He’d never conceived

that Ramsey was afraid of anything until now. Ferguson
told Pinsky that he had things under control.
“That’s not what Olivier tells me,” the New York voice
pushed. “Losing Stanford is a major fuck-up. We need to
go on the offensive to keep Wall Street and the public
from believing J&Q’s business model is outdated.”
“I say we create a scare,” Ramsey added.
“There’s an idea,” Pinsky said.
Ferguson laid his hands flat on the table. “A scare?”
“We’re beyond polemics, Mr. Ferguson,” she said
matter-of-factly. “Go on, Ramsey.”
Ferguson downed his glass of water in one motion.
“We’ve been goddamn hopeless at stopping this,”
Ramsey said. Then he looked up, brightly. “I’ve got it.”
“What?” the Pinsky voice asked.
“The best way to kill a supplier is to dry up demand.”
“Get to the point, Olivier.”
“The Grid survives on public trust—belief that it’s
secure to download the software to a personal
computer.”
“Go on.”
“Suppose we leak the threat of a Grid virus,” Ramsey
said. “It’d create fear, compromise public trust in the
Grid program.”
“You’re on to something,” Pinsky said. “Nobody would
volunteer his or her PC if they knew it exposed them to a
computer virus.”
“It could tarnish the Stanford Grid’s image and
discourage Grid volunteers for months.” Ramsey said.
“But why just leak a rumor that there’s a virus?”
Pinsky said, sounding upbeat. “Why not develop a virus?
Actually release it on the Grid?” She laughed. “Fight
technology with technology.”
 GRIDLOCK
19

“Oh god,” Ferguson said softly. “You’re confusing

mass disruption with mass destruction.”
“All’s fair in love and business,” Pinsky said.
Ferguson stood up, wringing his hands in disbelief.
“Really, it’s not a good idea to—”
Pinsky ordered over the speaker phone, “Ramsey,
this is on you—it’s your responsibility to make it happen.
Find a virus writer, assess the cost, and tell us when it
would fly—or crash, in this case. And cover your damn
ass, Olivier.”
Ramsey said, “You’d be surprised how much thought
I’ve already given this.”
“This is for the greater good,” the gravelly voice went
on. “No one wants this much knowledge dropped in their
lap. Who can deal with knowing what diseases their
genes carry and when they’re going to die?”
“You hear that?” Ramsey said to Ferguson.
Pinsky continued, “Imagine us all walking around
knowing we’re prone to anal cancer like Farrah Fawcett,
or whatever disease?”
“But wait,” Ferguson said. “Knowing our risks is a
good thing.” If only Huntington’s disease were curable.
Maybe he could have taken preventive measures. Now,
it would even be a miracle if custom drugs could help.
“Mr. Ferguson, I wish it were that simple,” Pinsky said.
“Even your children aren’t safe, Ramsey. Excuse the
example.”
“Mine?” Ramsey turned, accidentally knocking over
his mug, spilling his coffee.
Ramsey grabbed napkins, wiping up the coffee to
Pinsky’s voice.
“Suppose someone draws a genetic correlation to that
face-blindness disease you have. One day when your kid
20 ALVIN ZIEGLER

gets pregnant she’ll be slapped with the percentage

chance that the baby will inherit your disorder. Too
much knowledge is a burden.”
Ramsey picked his teeth with his fingernail. “I’ll make
special note of that.”
Ferguson couldn’t help grinning. Ramsey turned a
dagger look at him.
Pinsky grumbled again. “Do whatever it takes to stop
these hacks and their Grid. P.S., don’t worry about what
the SEC or any other papacy will forgive, we’re doing
this to help people.” The phone line suddenly clicked off.

In a daze, Ramsey walked to his car, wanting to hang

someone. He knew he wasn’t getting the whole story. He
had talked his boss, Nicolette Pinsky, into investing in
J&Q and something about it smelled. Pinsky Investments
was easily won over by the promise of the newly formed
partnership that J&Q had with the Stanford Grid Project.
Ramsey was burdened with getting a return from a non-
profit entity.
He saw red just thinking about the Stanford team. But
he couldn’t talk sense into that arrogant lot. Academic-
scientist types were deaf to business advice. Ramsey
noticed he was sweating under his collar with frustration.
He needed ideas on how to stall the Grid.
22 ALVIN ZIEGLER

nineteen

Tuesday, November 1
Highway 280, North of Woodside, CA

Jude and Nathalie got around a station wagon that was

slowing them down, then sped north in silence along
Highway 280, heading toward their San Francisco office.
He speculated about the meaning of the threat they’d
found on Hideo’s white board.
When a pickup truck they trailed backfired, Jude and
Nathalie jumped in their seats. They laughed. Jude let up
on the gas pedal. Nathalie buzzed her car window
halfway down. Fresh air released some tension.
The Junipero Serra Freeway took them through miles
of green hills and along Crystal Springs reservoir, a
government-protected watershed formed from a natural
rift created by the San Andreas Fault. Jude thought
about how much water was piped to Crystal Springs
from Yosemite National Park. Millions of people
depended on that water, but few gave it a moment’s
notice. It ran through a grid of pipes. A medical grid
could be just as useful.
Jude told Nathalie about the quotes he saw on the
demonstrator’s signs at his award ceremony. One read,
“Before you were born I consecrated you.” Another read
 GRIDLOCK
6

something to the effect of, “Whoever sheds man’s blood,

by man his blood shall be shed.”
Nathalie worked her mini-computer.
Jude broke their silence. “Can you search the web?
Maybe we’ll find some other context where those quotes
appear.”
“I’m working on it already. Don’t push.” She thumb-
punched keys on her device.
“Pahr-dohn moi,” he said.
“So, tell me. How exactly is the Stanford project
changing medicine? I mean, how quickly are traditional
drug companies adopting the notion of personalized
drugs processed over the Internet?”
“Like molasses. Why?’”
“I think it’s going to take lawsuits to get drug
companies to modernize.”
“You’re probably right,” Jude said.
“My bet is that people will have to sue their insurance
companies to get personalized drugs paid for. I see a
bumpy transition.”
“That’s true, but initially we have to prove that
custom drugs are possible for everyone.”
She heaved a deep breath, “That’s a tall order.”
Jude glanced over at Nathalie, scrolling through
websites. She stopped at one website with black-and-
white Hollywood photos. The homepage featured a
familiar little girl with ringlet hair, dancing in white
tights.
“What are you doing?” Jude asked.
“More trivia. What actress drew top box-office sales in
the U.S. from 1935 to 1938 and lives in Woodside?”
Jude looked over at Nathalie’s computer.
“Shirley Temple.”
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“You peeked.” She clicked again. “I’m not coming up

with anything definitive.”
“Too bad.”
She clicked again. “Except for this,” her voice raised.
“According to this BBC story, two staunch Catholic
groups—the United Bishops Association and a group
called Human Life Forever—cite these verses when they
are demonstrating against genetic biology and stem cell
research.” Nathalie let out a puff of air. “Maybe the
religious conservatives are lumping you and your
genomic research in with abortionists.”
“United Bishops Association?”
“Yes.”
Jude reconsidered leads: Jűrgen had been shot with an
FBI service pistol, a man had stolen the Google papers,
Jude found a black pen with the word COMPANY inscribed
on it and a woman directed her dogs to attack Hideo.
How, if at all, did these things connect with the United
Bishops Association?
Jude’s boss posed a separate problem. Hackman
seemed to have it in for Jude. On top of that, Hackman
was a religious man and the religious right vehemently
opposed gene-based science. Jude had no doubt that
Hackman had the Stanford Grid in his cross hairs.
Jude’s phone rang. Seeing Kate’s name in LED, he
flipped it open.
“Hey Kate.”
“Jude, listen. I’m not well—I’ve been taken to a
hospital in San Francisco.”
“What’s wrong?”
“No word yet. They’re running blood tests,” she said.
“What happened?”
Nathalie turned toward Jude, overhearing one side of
the conversation.
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“I blacked out. I have no idea. I’ll call if anything’s not

normal.”
Jude picked up fear in her voice, something he hadn’t
heard in a long time. “Kate, don’t worry. I’m coming.”
“Thank you, I know you’re busy—at least I’m
nearby ....”
“Which hospital?”
Nathalie put her window up so Jude could talk.
“California Pacific Medical Center, on Sacramento
Street and Webster.”
“Got it. I’ll be there soon.”
“Good.”
Jude closed the phone and rubbed his neck.
“Now what’s wrong?”
“My sister Kate. She’s not well.”
“We’ll concentrate on these quotes later.”
Jude looked at Nathalie and back at the road when his
thoughts strayed to Kate, laid up in a hospital. It
reminded him of his mother, Claire. Kate and Jude were
just fifteen when their home life changed forever. Their
mother, Claire, stopped breathing after a swim one
summer Sunday, and shortly thereafter they were
burying her.
The void at home from mom’s absence hit Kate and
Jude differently. Kate and their dad cut out nightly to see
people while Jude stayed barricaded at home, glued to
his PC. Their mother’s breast cancer had lit a fire under
Jude to research how computers were being applied in
medicine. Every weekend he tapped at the Internet,
delving deeper into medical websites. She worried about
him. But virtual reality had become his refuge.
Kate kept a lid on Jude’s weird behavior. It wasn’t
something you blurt. Only an obsessed sixteen-year-old
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

could love his computer the way B.B. King loved his
guitar. But Jude’s PC was his Lucille.
When his college acceptance came, Jude packed his
hand-me-down Toyota Tercel for the trip to Berkeley,
California. Kate wasn’t accepted at Berkeley, so she
attended the University of Kentucky in the fall. Their
father called his going away to school a Huck Finn
escape from reality. Jude’s dad had always enforced the
rules until then.
Jude told Kate that after a four day road-trip from
Kentucky to Berkeley, he was assigned to a 15’ by 20’
rugless dorm room with roommates—but that’s all he
needed to study.
Even then he knew that he’d never teach or do
anything that conventional. Jude was the type to
challenge the mainstream, do something no one else
had ever done.
As if she were reading his mind, Nathalie said, “I really
hope your sister is going to be okay.”
He nodded and kept his eye on the highway.”

***

Jude and Nathalie traveled the freeway off-ramp that

led into downtown San Francisco. It took so much effort
to find any information on these assailants. Jude felt as if
he was scaling a glacier, kicking at footholds for
leverage. Hackman had to be up to no good. But
Quantico warned against forcing inferences from facts
rather than trying to understand them. He had to resist
the temptation to leap to conclusions.
After some driving, Jude mumbled, “Homicide requires
motive, means and opportunity.”
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Requiring both premeditation and deliberation,” She

said mockingly.
“I know you’re knocking yourself out, thinking about
possible suspects, but this isn’t a computer problem.”
“Thanks Nathalie. I’m wondering what motive the
Bishops
Association could have for shutting down a medical Grid.
Could it be the threat of genomic medicine going main
stream. Could it be that it’s predictive and
deterministic?”
“We don’t know. Without forensic evidence, all we
have is behavioral profiling and there’s little to look at.
Perhaps drug manufacturers might want to see Hideo
and Jűrgen fall, but that doesn’t lead us to an individual
who would actually kill to slow down the Grid.”
“And even if we had a list of individual suspects, few
would have the means and opportunity to actually pull
off that dog attack in Tokyo after taking aim at Jűrgen in
Switzerland the day before.”
“Whether it’s one attacker or two, it’s all tightly
coordinated by hitmen, frenzied fundamentalists or
both.”
As they rolled into the federal building’s garage, they
glimpsed a blue Cadillac exiting.
“It’s Hackman,” Nathalie said.
Jude noticed something. “There’s a fish symbol on the
back of his car bumper, stuck there like an
advertisement.”
Impulses kicked in to follow Hackman but Jude was
torn over what to do. A part of him wanted to go directly
to see Kate. He chewed on a nail, debating with himself
then said, “We’re following him.”
He cranked a U-turn at the bottom of the garage ramp
and followed Hackman out onto Van Ness.
15 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Why are you turning?”

“You’re not curious to know more about Hackman?”
“I am, but how far do you intend to follow him?”
Nathalie asked, sounding fearful of Hackman’s invective.
“As far as it takes. Only problem is I’ve got to visit
Kate.”
“Tell me your life isn’t always this out of control.”
“If I did, would you believe me?”
She shook her head. “If we get burned for this, you
will not like it.”
Jude crossed Market Street anyway and drove onto
the 101 freeway.
He supported his actions by relaying to Nathalie how
oddly Hackman had behaved at the award ceremony,
cautioning that those who ran the Grid had better not
“play God.” Hackman and Ferguson had talked to one
another throughout the evening as if they were old
colleagues—something about it annoyed Jude.
“Hackman and Ferguson do know one another
through Dyncorp,” she said.
“Dyncorp?”
“Yes,” Nathalie replied. “Dyncorp is a security
company. I know the name because they do contract
work for our field office. Four days ago there was a Crisis
Meeting held at the office about how Dyncorp employees
had operated as rogue agents in some capacity . . .
that’s it. - - - UR - - Y, on the pen, stands for SECURITY.
SECURITY COMPANY. And DYN must be Dyncorp.”
“Okay, that’s interesting,” Jude said, sounding unsure.
“The man who broke into my place was from the private
security company, Dyncorp, which has some connection
to the FBI.”
“You said the intruder seemed to know what he was
doing, no? Describe him.”
 GRIDLOCK
16

“He had short hair and the body of a lumberjack. He

drove a white SUV.”
“Okay, so maybe this has something to do with the
Dyncorp staff that’s working in our office. We need to
narrow that down.”
“How do you propose we do that?” He asked.
“Let’s think. There are a lot of Dyncorp employees,
even if we could get a bead on their activities in San
Francisco.”
“I say we look at Hackman, somehow. He’s paying
their bills in this city, calling the shots.”
She pursed her lips. “But why would Hackman be
involved, and why the religious quotes?”
The question hung as Jude concentrated on trailing
Hackman’s Cadillac from the 101 onto Highway 280
south. Going back in the direction from where they
came, Jude drove several car lengths behind, through a
cluster of traffic. Some thirty minutes south of San
Francisco, the Cadillac turned off at the Woodside exit,
heading into rural suburbia.
Jude knew Woodside. He had run its pristine nature
paths with Kate. Like Niles’s sailboat, the Tipsea,
Woodside was a private oasis from civilization for Jude.
Now, the quest was intruding upon a personal
destination.
Jude and Nathalie exited off the freeway, then sped up
to get closer to Hackman. Jude rolled up the hill until the
narrow two-lane road turned to gravel, then turned to
the shoulder for fear of being spotted. The car idled
beside a wood slat fence that marked the boundary of
an estate with a terracotta-roofed house and a stable.
17 ALVIN ZIEGLER

He saw Hackman’s car climb King’s Mountain, out of

sight. Jude followed. After a moment Hackman’s car
appeared again, winding up the serpentine country road.
“Why is he in Woodside?” Nathalie asked.
He saw her looking overhead at the circling birds of
prey.
“Nothing here but horses and hawks.”
“And miles of park trails,” Jude said.
“And rich people.”
“Them too.”
More livestock than residents populated Woodside. Its
ranch-style homes belonged on the cover of Sunset
Magazine, contrasting the nouveau riche in the
surrounding area.
“Look,” Nathalie said, pointing. “He’s stopping.”
Hackman had reached the summit. They watched him
park the Cadillac in a patch of dirt behind several other
cars, including a dozen Volkswagen Beetles. Jude saw a
small house nearby and a portable building of the kind
found at construction sites.
He pulled over, well downhill, and watched as
Hackman worked his way out of his car and moseyed
into the portable. He and Nathalie unfastened their
seatbelts, opened their doors and got out.
A woman on horseback came up from behind their car
then pulled on reins when she reached the driver’s side.
“What do you think?” she asked.
The horse forced her to do a tight circle. She pulled on
the reins to regain control. “Secret society?”
The horsewoman wore a wide brim straw hat that
coordinated with her honey-colored mare. She fixed her
sights on the nearby hilltop. Her face darkened with a
grimace.
“Ma’am. What’s happening up there?” Jude asked.
 GRIDLOCK
18

“The old man who lived there for sixty years died. His
children just sold the entire sixteen acres to a church
group called Holy Blood. They’ve found a zoning
loophole to build a church. I think they’re a cult.”
“Really,” Jude said.
“Some parish member bought the land and twelve
Volkswagen bugs, one for each deacon.” She removed
the oversized hat, revealing a short tower of gray hair,
and used the hat to fan herself.
Nathalie sneezed, probably from the pollen and ranch
dust in the air.
The lady continued, “Old nature-lovin’ guy’s rolling
over in his grave. Woodside’s fuming, but we’re hog-
tied.”
“When did this start?”
Her mouth tightened. “The church just broke ground
for their building. Ninety-five hundred square feet. Can
you imagine such a thing up here? They’re already
saying mass in the portable. I’d sooner see down-and-
out high school kids put in a marijuana crop than have
this abomination.” She removed a water bottle from a
saddle pack, sipped on it and glared at the hilltop again.
“My husband heads our homeowners association. He
drives up there once a week and gives ‘em hell, but so
far zippo—no progress. I wish someone could stop this
damned monstrosity.”
“Thanks for the info,” Jude said. “It’s helpful.”
The woman nudged the reigns and the horse trotted
off.
Jude and Nathalie climbed back into the car. “I’m
going to go up there,” he told Nathalie. “Do you want to
come?”
19 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“This time I don’t mind sitting in the car like a poodle.

I’ll stay and be lookout.”
He handed her the keys, got out and gingerly picked
his way up the incline, moving as quietly as possible.
Chants or song—he wasn’t sure which—came from
within the portable building. He spotted a window in the
rear wall, but it was too high to let him look inside.
Scanning the area for an object to stand on, he
located a construction sawhorse. He lugged it behind the
portable and set it parallel to the wall. Putting one foot
on it, then another, he grabbed hold of the window
frame, clasping onto the aluminum to steady himself.
A horse whinnied in the distance.
He peered inside and saw three dozen stiffly postured
people, seated as if for a church service. Several wore
heavy brown robes, though Hackman was still dressed in
his muted plaid business suit. One of the cloaked men
faced the group. He lifted a baby over his head as others
bowed their heads solemnly, then lowered it into a font
filled with water. It appeared to be a baptism, which the
leader performed entirely in Latin.
Three cloth banners hung proudly on the wall: one
had an image of Jesus and Mary. The second said, the
last five popes have been anti-popes, heretics and
imposters. The third banner featured a symbol Jude
didn’t recognize: two crossed skeleton keys over a
parasol handle that was topped with a cross.
21 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Hackman turned his head, glancing toward the

window, directly at Jude. For a millisecond, Jude froze.
His mouth gummy.
He lost his footing on the sawhorse. Scrabbling, he
toppled with it to the ground. Forearms banged into the
portable wall. The priest at the front of the room stopped
speaking. Jude knew the sound of his collision must have
carried, bringing the service to a halt.
He scurried to get to his feet, his back slick with
sweat. As he came around the corner of the portable, he
heard someone inside bark instructions. The portable
door banged open as he charged faster around the
building.
Glancing back, he saw four men in robes bound out of
the portable. They gave chase as he blazed down the
hill. They took a straight short cut off the trail instead of
following him down the curving driveway. He was floored
by how quickly two of the monks caught up with him—as
if they had taken flight down the embankment.
He felt his gun knocking his side. He couldn’t wave it
at these religious men with Hackman behind.
23 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Slipping on loose gravel rocks in haste, Jude went to

the ground. Looking back, he saw Hackman coming out
of the building and one of the two monks hitting the
gravel also. Jude got back on his feet.
Maybe Hackman won’t recognize me from this
distance, surrounded by a wall of robed men.
Suddenly, from behind, someone hooked Jude’s arm
and pulled. He wrestled himself away. As he found his
feet, another, taller monk yanked his pant leg with an
iron clasp, tripping him flat again.
The others drew closer.
Jude kicked his captor’s bony fingers, drawing a groan
from the recess of the hood. The man’s eyes burned
onto Jude’s. Gasping, Jude kicked the hand again and
again with the sole of his wingtip. Finally, the man’s grip
loosened.
Jude jumped to his feet and sprinted to the Mazda.
Wide-eyed, Nathalie leaned to open the driver’s door.
Jude climbed in and grabbed the door handle.
Before he could, the car door opened.
A hand grabbed his arm and yanked it. He fought to
release himself and close the door, but the tall monk had
already pulled him halfway out—a fire of hatred burned
in his eyes.
By now, five robed men had surrounded the car and
were banging on windows. Their fists and palms showed
pink and white on the glass. Jude heard a hand rattling
Nathalie’s locked door handle.
“Start it,” Jude shouted to Nathalie, hoping she’d find
a way to get into the driver’s seat and work the ignition.
Fighting to free himself, he heard her fumble with keys
and felt her scramble to reach the ignition. The front
seat divide was too high for her to swing a leg onto the
gas pedal—he would have to do it.
 GRIDLOCK
24

The monk pulled hard, trying to yank Jude from his

driver’s seat. “You’re not leaving.”
Jude had one foot in the Mazda and one arm gripping
the steering wheel and one being pulled by the monk.
Stuck.
“Hurry.” Nathalie exclaimed.
Fists thundered against the car from both sides.
Nathalie clasped Jude’s wrist, adding leverage to the tug
of war. In one heave, the tall monk lost footing and
slipped to one knee. He still gripped Jude’s arm.
Jude seized the moment. Freeing his right arm from
Nathalie, he grabbed the handle to his open door and
swung it hard. The door knocked the man’s lowered
head with a thwumping sound, and the man toppled to
the ground.
Jude put his left leg in the car, slammed his door
closed and flipped the door locks.
He turned the key in the ignition. The engine turned
over with a vroom of gas. Wheels spun in place, spraying
dirt and dust at the enraged faces. The men shielded
their eyes and scattered. The rubber took hold, and the
car lurched into motion.
As the Mazda sped downhill, away from the angry
crowd, Jude’s chest heaved. Nathalie sat with her arms
on the hand rests, pushing back into her seat.
5 ALVIN ZIEGLER

twenty

Tuesday, November 1
Emeryville, CA

Ramsey couldn’t let the Grid be given away without

showing Stanford what he was made of. Someone had to
stop Stanford—that idiot Ferguson couldn’t be counted
on.
Doing what he typically did when ideas failed him, he
sought out a bookstore.
Emeryville’s Borders would serve nicely because it
was big. Ramsey knew the chain and figured it probably
held a sizeable collection of computer manuals and
possibly leads on hackers. Unlike most Border’s
customers, he didn’t care that the store had an indoor
and outdoor café, and connected to a food court with
international cuisine. That attracted those who browsed
bookstores for pleasure, roaming directionless for an
hour. Not Ramsey. A bookstore to him was no more than
a tool for fixing a problem.
He browsed the aisles and stopped in front of the
large wooden magazine rack. A journal caught his eye,
Hacker Quarterly: 2600. Leafing through it, he found
advertisements for computer programmers for hire in
the back pages. He read one that said, special projects,
 GRIDLOCK
6

irc.darknet.ru. This might be what he was looking for.

Energized, he paid cash for the journal and left.
Returning to his Claremont Hotel room, he fastened
the brass chain on his door.
He booted his notebook computer and Googled
www.darknet, www.darknet.ru. Failing to produce hits,
he searched IRC. The first page that popped up defined
Internet Relay Chat:
The Internet’s CB radio, a chat frequency where the
Internet comes alive. Not only are lasting friendships
formed over IRC, but also marriages.
Pfft, Ramsey scoffed. How out of date is this? Besides,
he wanted a virus writer, a hired gun. Not Internet
dating.
Following the instructions, he downloaded and
installed the IRC software. He clicked the program icon
on his desktop. A window appeared. After creating a
username and password, he clicked a line reading
twenty-one chat. Another window opened showing lines
of dialog scrolling beside usernames. He had found the
chatroom.
Ramsey sat ramrod straight. He observed the
participants then pecked out, “HOW DO I FIND
IRC.DARKNET.RU?” Instructions appeared, directing him
to leave a message for irc.darknet.ru. Moments later a
new window popped onto his screen with the name
darknet.ru in the right column. A rush of adrenaline
coursed through him.
“I’ve got money to spend,” Ramsey punched,
broadcasting to the virtual room. He wondered if anyone
would answer.
A message flashed on the screen from a person
whose nickname read Cez@r.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“What RU looking to do?”

“I HAVE A JOB,” he pecked.
“We all have jobs, man,” came from the other side.
“I NEED A JOB DONE.”
“U want a contractor?”
“YES, I NEED SOMEONE WHO CAN CRASH A GRID
NETWORK.”
“U need a top shelf hacker. Which grid?”
“STANFORD’S GRID.”
“U want to stall that??” appeared on Ramsey’s
display.
“CAN YOU?” Ramsey typed, excited over his play for
time.
No response. Ramsey began to worry that Cez@r had
gone away. Then, the stranger typed, “Impossible.”
“I’LL PAY TOP DOLLAR.” Ramsey typed.
“First, Udon’t crash it. You’d have to bring down the
millions of machines that contribute work units. Even
then, there’s no taking it offline, short of dropping a
bomb.”
“WHAT COULD YOU DO FOR ME?”
“U can compromise that Grid by uploading something
harmful to it. Hurt its credibility.”
“OK.”
“Volunteers link up to the network and share their
computer processing power.”
“RIGHT.” Ramsey typed.
“We could stall the Grid if we do it right. But there are
no guarantees. Even brilliant viruses can have very
temporary effects. Grids are too decentralized—the
system does too much self checking.”
“CAN YOU EXPLAIN?”
“It goes like this. On a grid, a single work unit cannot
be trusted—results are computed outside of the grid’s
 GRIDLOCK
8

control. The grid sends the same work unit to many

machines, maybe even a thousand. Results are
compared for accuracy. If the answers match, that
answer is accepted by the grid and it goes onto the next
problem. If the answers aren’t in synch, then that work
unit must be re-computed, slowing overall progress.
What I can do is instruct a few thousand or tens of
thousands of botnets to upload erroneous information to
the Stanford Grid. If successful, the accuracy checking
resources in the Grid will get so tied up trying to validate
results against other computers that the entire Grid
service will lock up.”
“THINK I GET IT.”
“The good news is even if we don’t do lasting damage
to the grid, we could create a lasting scare. It could
cause volunteers to quit donating their computer
processing time. Security is critical to grid systems.”
“TELL ME. CAN YOU DO THIS?”
“Yes. I’d need upfront payment. $1.5 million.”
Ramsey groaned. “ONE MILLION TOTAL.”
There was delay.
“If U send a retainer check for $500,000, I’ll do it.”
“HOW CAN I BE ASSURED YOU CAN?”
“Dude, my online reputation is worth more than half a
million. Do U need time?”
“I WANT TO MEET YOU FIRST.”
“No deal. U could b a cyber cop.”
Ramsey thought for a moment when another line
came.
“This is just as much a leap of faith for me as it is
you.”
All of this was reckless, but Ramsey had put his
money on J&Q and resented that the Stanford team had
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

left them cold. Under other circumstances, he’d do a

background check on who he was doing business with.
But he couldn’t think of how he’d background check a
hacker. “OKAY.”
“Then, deposit the half million into my Cayman
Islands bank account from another offshore account—
not from the U.S. The other half is due when I tell you.”
“DONE. HOW DO WE PROCEED?”
“Leave that to me.”
“WHAT?”
“U don’t call me.”
“WHAT’S YOUR EMAIL ADDRESS?”
“I phone U with a bank routing number.”
“AGAIN, HOW DO I KNOW YOU WON’T RUN WITH THE
MONEY?”
“Because I want the other half million. To get that, I
can’t stiff U. I’ll have to earn it.”
“PROVE WHAT YOU CAN DO.”
“Go to www.squawvalleyusa.com.”
Ramsey opened a new browser window. Visited the
website. Saw the homepage with a skier attacking in
powder snow and clicked back into the chat. “I PULLED
IT UP. NOW WHAT?”
“Check that same website in exactly ten minutes and
then come back to our chat.”
Ramsey made himself a gin and tonic with the hotel
room bottles. Drinking, he surfed current events on his
computer until ten minutes had passed when he logged
back onto www.squawvalleyusa.com. The browser
flashed to a white page that only showed a text
message: “This Page cannot be displayed.”
His heart rate quickened. Clicking back into the chat
session, Ramsey typed, “ARE YOU THERE? THE WEB SITE
APPEARS TO BE DOWN. IMPRESSIVE.”
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“That’s right. It’s frozen. Do you believe I’m for real

now?”
“YES.”
“I’ll look for the first payment tomorrow. Nothing
happens ‘till then.” The words “Cez@r has left the room”
appeared on the screen.
“BUT YOU DON’T HAVE MY DETAILS?”
Cez@r’s name vanished from the chat room name list.
Ramsey closed the computer window. He hungered for
more time with Cez@r. He’d have to wait.

***

Jude was still gasping audibly from his sprint down the
hill as his car sped onto Highway 280, leaving Woodside.
Nathalie twisted in her seat to look behind them.
“What on earth happened back there?”
“It faintly resembled a Catholic service, but in a very
old style.”
“What do you mean by old style?” She asked.
“In Latin. They had a banner with two keys beneath
an umbrella topped by a cross.”
“That sounds unusual,” she said. “How typical is it to
hold Mass on Tuesday afternoon?”
“You tell me.”
“Wait. It is All Saint’s Day.”
Jude sat quietly, thinking.
Nodding, he glanced at Nathalie. He shifted in his seat
to pull his mini-pad of paper from his back pocket and
handed it to her.
She quickly took Jude’s pen and sketched the religious
banner he described. When he looked again, she was
checking the Internet on her little computer. A quizzical
look came over her.
 GRIDLOCK
6

“That symbol. It’s Sedevacantism.”

“Sedevacantism?” he said. “What? Don’t tell me. It’s a
demonic cult that practices ritual human sacrifice.”
“Not exactly. But be careful what you wish for.”
“Yeah, fairy tales can come true, they can happen to
you,” he said, “if you’re young-at-heart.”
She gave a quizzical look. “Apparently the
Sedevacantists are a minority Catholic group.”
“I was right.”
She continued, “They’ve adopted the position that the
papal office has been vacant since the death of Pope
Pius XII in 1958, and the five subsequent popes are
illegitimate. The word Sedevacantism is actually two
Latin words combined, which mean the Chair is vacant,
referring to the chair of Peter.”
“This is too much. Is there anything else?”
She read from her screen. “Evidently, they’ve got
branches all over the world, even in Tokyo and Geneva.”
“I’ve never heard of them,” Jude said.
“They have about 100,000 members in the United
States. Sedevacantivists zealously guard their privacy.”
“Obviously.”
“Says here Sedevacantists claim the church is defined
by its unity, holiness and apostolicity. The refusal of all
Popes since Pope Paul VI to wear the papal tiara is most
objectionable to Sedevacantists who deem it a papal
requirement.” She stopped and turned to Jude. “Ah,
there’s more. It’s Mel Gibson’s church.”
“Okay, so could Mel Gibson’s Sedevacantivist church
in some way be tied to Hideo and Jűrgens’ deaths? And
could this Church have anything to do with Dyncorp?
One doesn’t have to relate to the other, but the religious
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

nuts hate me for my genomics work. And from what I

can tell, Hackman does too.”
“Right, this is weird, but it really doesn’t implicate
Hackman in murder.”
“No, but it could tie in with Hackman wanting to reel
me in.”
Could Hackman have a hand in these murders? It
seemed highly unlikely that a respected member of the
Justice Department could’ve fallen from grace—Jude’s
new boss no less—but his other suspects were just as
improbable. Who would believe that anyone from the
medical community would be knocking off the
competition? Unanswered questions piled up.
Nathalie said, “You could have chosen an easier
person to investigate. It would be nice for us to keep our
jobs.”
“Right. You could always teach mathematics with that
Ph.D. of yours. I’d be your first student.”
“Everything would be the same—I’d be saying, don’t
stand too close to me.”
“What do you mean—you’ve seen I’m a gentleman in
a co-ed dorm.”
“We’re not living in a dormitory now, though.”
He got her drift—she still didn’t want to test her job
with his come-ons. He knew she had her eye on going up
the ladder.
“Changing the subject—.”
“Good, yes.” she said. “Wait a minute. I remember
seeing correspondence in the office with the name
United Bishops Association.”
“Really?”
“Yes, but I can’t place where,” she said.
“Could you be imagining it?”
“Possibly. The name sounds very familiar to me now.”
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

They drove in silence for ten minutes until Jude

started again.
“I’m going to get going to California Pacific Medical
Center to see my sister.”
He dropped Nathalie off at the federal building. As he
pulled away from 450 Golden Gate, he checked his
rearview mirror and caught her watching him drive
away. He felt a tingle of reassurance that they still had
some kind of connection.
5 ALVIN ZIEGLER

twenty-one

Tuesday, November 1
California Pacific Medical Center, San Francisco,
CA

Jude lingered outside Kate’s hospital room holding a

bologna sandwich he bought in the cafeteria and a bag
of cherry-flavored Gummi bears. He banished thoughts
of his mother dying before entering. He told himself that
Kate was going to be fine. Though, standing around in a
hospital made him self-conscious, as if eyes were on
him. Roaming down long corridors with strangers did it.
It ruined the privacy a visitor wanted with a loved one.
He wished Kate had asked him to bring anything but
her favorite childhood candy. It came across as a dying
wish.
He rolled his shoulders before entering, shifting gears
mentally. Being chased by monks hadn’t alleviated his
tension.
He moved around the flimsy, beige plastic curtain that
divided her cubicle-of-a-room. Sitting up in bed, she
thumb-clicked a remote control to a ceiling-mounted
television, angled down like a security camera. She
looked well enough from a distance, especially after she
looked up and waved him in.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Did you just wake up?” Jude asked cheerfully as he

entered.
“No, haven’t felt like sleeping. Just been waiting for
doctors.”
They put arms around one another.
“Thanks for coming,” she said in his ear.
He shrugged to say of course and shut off his cell
phone.
“So, what happened?”
“One minute I was teaching and the next I was out
cold on the floor,” she said dryly. Stalling for a few
seconds, she asked him if he liked her suite.
He did a two-second bathroom tour and returned to
her bedside. “It’s okay. I wouldn’t exactly give it the
white-glove seal of approval.”
Her laptop was plugged in. What looked like student
papers sat beside the computer. As always, teaching
assignments appeared to have followed Kate. The
screensaver displayed DNA in swirling multicolored
double helix strands on a black background. Wherever
Jude turned something reminded him of his work and the
promise of what the Grid should accomplish. The
computer rested beside a book on the Dali Lama and a
charging cell phone.
“It’s Air Force One in here.”
“Yeah, but the meals are canned torture.” She pointed
to an untouched bowl of what smelled like chicken broth.
“What do you have?” Jude asked.
Kate srugged. “I’m feverish, but they don’t know if it’s
the cause or… She fidgeted in her bed. “The truth is
Jude, I had a mammogram in Kentucky that came back
atypical.”
She stared at him. He could see she was pleading with
him to understand why she didn’t tell him sooner.
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Jude stiffened, “What do they know so far?”

A slim lab-coated woman in her early thirties came
clicking into the room with unusually loud heels,
interrupting them. Her nameplate said Dr. Metcalf. Kate
crossed her arms. The doctor traced her lower lip with
her finger. “May I ask who your visitor is?”
“My brother, Jude.”
Turning to Jude, “I’m Doctor Metcalf. I need to speak
with your sister prively. Would you mind giving us a
minute?”
“I want him to stay,” Kate interjected.
The doctor shook her head disapprovingly. “H’mm.
I’m very sorry. The news is not good at all.”
Kate sat up.
“Okay, Ms. Wagner. We’ve examined you thoroughly,
including the cyst under your arm that you showed me.
You have a flu infection. It clearly has sapped your
strength and caused your fainting spell.
“Okay. And?”
“And we called the number you gave us for your
Kentucky doctor. Your biopsy results are in.”
“Biopsy results?” Jude asked.
Kate said, “They took that after my mammogram.”
“Right.” Jude cleared his throat.
Dr. Metcalf continued, more serious. “You have a flu
that caused your fainting but that’s not what I’m
concerned about. Your doctor says you show clear signs
of metastatic breast cancer.”
Kate did a slow head shake. Her cheeks went red. She
ripped off the bed sheet in one motion.
Jude stared at Dr. Metcalf with incredulity.
The doctor stepped back. Kate moved from the bed.
She paced the room and ended standing near the
window; she looked outside. Then she turned to the
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

doctor, cross-examining her. “Maybe the lab made a

mistake—could there be a mistake?”
Jude moved toward Kate and reached for her, but she
moved away.
The doctor dropped her folded arms, shook her head.
“I hate to be the one who’s telling you this. Your doctor
sounded quite certain. I’m sorry.”
Kate returned to the bed and pulled her knees to her
chest.
Jude realized he was staring down the doctor, who
turned away uncomfortably. He moved closer to Kate.
This time she allowed him to hug her. Kate looked him in
the eye. He tried not to show his devastation, but his
throat constricted.
“How advanced is it?” Kate asked.
“All that I was told was that your tumor is over two
inches across,” the doctor said.
An ugh sound came from Kate. She insisted on calling
her doctor herself. She picked up the bedside table
phone. Dr. Metcalf excused herself, leaving the room.
After holding, Kate’s doctor came on the line and
verified what Dr. Metcalf had reported. Jude listened to
one side of the conversation. “If it’s spreading to my
auxiliary lymph glands then it’s systemic?”
Kate nodded slowly. The look in Kate’s eyes shifted
from bitter to hurt. “What are my options? Surgery?”
Ten minutes later, Kate made an appointment to see
her Kentucky doctor on her return and put the hospital
phone down. She reported to Jude that it was serious—
her cancer was spreading to her bones. Next it would go
to her lungs, liver, skin and brain. Unless we stop it now,
the doctor added.
Jude felt his stomach rise into his chest, imagining
mastectomy.
 GRIDLOCK
12

“Apparently, breast cancer is a much more aggressive

disease in younger women. Implacably she added, “He
said radiation and chemo could work.”
“What else did your doctor say?”
“He’s calling back tomorrow with more information
from tests.”
Kate’s face looked flushed with anxiety. “You’re taking
this well.”
Now Jude paced the length of her room and looked
outside. In the distance he saw an asbestos truck leave
the hospital parking lot. Great, he thought. Carcinogens
are in the air even at the hospital.
Finally, he said, “Kate—I’m in shock.” Jude’s mind
worked to keep his emotions in check for Kate’s welfare.
He was crushed and now had see the Grid through, no
matter the opposition. The fight is for her now.
Kate filled in the dead air. “Don’t worry. I’ll be okay.”
With a weak grin she added, “Did you know that in 1900,
the average human lived 43 years. Heard it on the
Nightly News. By year 2000 life expectancy had jumped
to 78. At that rate, kids born in the year 2100 will live on
average to be 141. I have a lot of years to go.”
As he searched for something to say, he stared again
at the animated screen saver. The DNA image usually
stirred excitement in him. The twisted pairs signified
wondrous possibilities for a new science, the ultimate
key to fighting disease. But he couldn’t help but see the
double helix as Kate might: not as a necessary element
to creating and sustaining life…but as a hereditary death
sentence.
He dropped into the one seat in the corner of the
room. The pressure weighed on him. “Why didn’t you tell
me you had a bad mammogram?” Jude said.
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“What, right before your award?”

The doctor returned with cancer literature and a
paper cup of water then left Kate’s room again.
Kate drank the water, rubbed her eyes and changed
the subject. “Ya know how we used to sneak into Dad’s
den … play Mom’s recordings?” she said. “I wish I could
do that right now. Listen like she was right here.”
Picking up his whole sandwich, Jude examined it. “Tell
me, what do you think your doctor is going to do for
you?”
“Since my mammogram I’ve been thinking about
breast cancer. From what I’ve read online, they could
put me on Herceptin.” She pointed at a handout. “I’ll
have to look at that.”
They reached for the Gummi Bears at the same time,
laughing when their fingers collided.
Removing candy from his molars, Jude wrestled with
how cancer had preyed on his family.
Kate was massaging her midsection. Jude asked,
“Does your stomach hurt?”
“No. I’m just dazed.”
Jude scanned the literature, shook his head and set I
down.
“I know how you’re going to tell me how your genomic
Grid applies to me,” Kate said.
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You’re going to recommend genomic therapy—I
appreciate that. But I’m not in a frame of mind to make
decisions.”
“I’m not asking you to Kate. When the time is right,
though, and soon, we should talk.”
“I want to hear you out, Jude. And I know you’re not
trying to make me your Grid shill, but seriously, what’s
come of it?”
15 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Kate’s far-off look just motivated Jude more. “Simply

because genomic medicine is still a new science, you
shouldn’t discount it.” He pulled his chair up close to her.
“Please keep an open mind.”
“Tell me. Who’s been cured of cancer through your
illustrious Grid? When will it go beyond testing? I admire
the energy you’ve put into your work—I really do. I’m
proud of you for it, but let’s be pragmatic.”
Jude touched her shoulder. “Okay, the project is new,
but it’s operational—we’re giving a diabetes control
group custom compounds, and we’re getting
phenomenal results. And after going through this with
Mom, we know your doctors only have a short list of
treatment options.”
Kate covered her mouth. He hadn’t seen that
vulnerability in years; he wished he didn’t see it now.
Whatever strength had supported his self-reliant twin
sister had collapsed beneath her, leaving her weak. Jude
remained motionless, wanting to be more than a brother
to her because they no longer had a mother.
“Goddamned cancer,” Jude exclaimed in frustration.
“Kate. No one knows what your long-term prognosis is;
no traditional doctor will know either. But if we run your
genome on the Grid, we’ll not only get your prognosis
but also a customized prescription.”
“And I would be your first test patient on your vast
computer network?” The incredulity in her voice made
his suggestion sound absurd.
“Well, for breast cancer, yes. But you know that your
cancer differs from anyone else’s. There’s no reason why
a therapy targeted to your DNA wouldn’t be more
effective. Look at it this way, it’s an alternative to some
oncologist here nuking you to kingdom come. You know
how they work—it’s like trying to kill a deadly wasp with
17 ALVIN ZIEGLER

a shotgun. If your breast cells are dividing out of control,

you need an individualized protein inhibitor drug to stop
it—tailored to you.”
“And you seriously want me to consider that?” she
asked.
“Yes. Inheritability doesn’t have to translate to
inevitability.”
“Go on.”
Think of your cancer as a tennis ball. Now, imagine
throwing a tennis ball into the sea. No one could predict
where that ball will land. But what if you could factor in
every dynamic—tides, current, wind, rain, the weight,
shape and buoyancy of that ball—everything affecting
its path. Then you could pinpoint where the ball would
beach to within an inch.
Her eyes were still fixed on him so he pulled up a
chair. “Now, consider your situation. Your doctor
diagnosed you with Stage IV colon cancer, the most
common cancer in the United States after skin and
breast cancer. You’d probably have surgery, radiation,
chemotherapy and immunotherapy—all with side
effects. But suppose beforehand you learned you could
be treated with the same degree of precision that was
used in tracking that tennis ball, stopping cancer cold,
greatly reducing the chance of side effects and freeing
you from unnecessary procedures.”
She smiled. “I gotta admit, you certainly can do one
hell of a sales job. But all of this peered, online medicine
is just emerging.”
“Yes and no, Kate. We already have a lot of databases
working seamlessly with pooled patient information.”
“It all sounds slick.” She stretched, looking away
noncommittally.
19 ALVIN ZIEGLER

He gave his argument a rest, knowing he wouldn’t

change Kate’s mind by pleading with her—she
rationalized everything, every bit the child of Benjamin
that Jude was. She’d weigh the cost-benefits of the
information Jude had presented in private, then draw a
conclusion that she’d live by and act on.
He wanted to go on about the Grid, but she knew far
more about genomics than Jude. What she doubted
wasn’t the theory but the practice of personalized cures.
Kate chewed on another Gummi bear, twisting the
cellophane packaging. He knew she rewarded her best
students with the candies. She read the back label
aloud, “’Gummi bears were invented in the 1920s, but
the history of gelatin traced back to the Egyptian
pharaohs.’” Maybe eating the Pharaoh food would
channel the immortality of Egyptian gods, a society
whose culture survived for 5,000 years.
“Now you’re going to have to stop telling me to get
real,” Jude said.
Her blonde hair splayed on the pillow reminded him of
how his mother’s hair protruded from under his father’s
sailing jacket that day they sailed her body back to the
dock. Jude lost himself for a moment, staring at the gray
vinyl floor squares that led to a wall of non-opening
windows.

From her hospital bed, Kate saw Jude walking around

her room with arms crossed. She could guess the
questions that rattled through his mind and didn’t doubt
that he would take her place if given the chance.
He pivoted around with an unconvincing smile. “Let’s
get you out of this Petri dish of a room today,” he said.
“You can rest at my place for a few days. By the way,
you don’t look sick.”
21 ALVIN ZIEGLER

With two blinks, she said, “thank you.” Jude bound the
deal with a conciliatory hug. He folded his arms stoically
and added, “Want to gather your things while I have a
little talk with the nurse at the nursing station?”
She agreed.
As soon as Jude left, she let down her guard. Her mind
splintered in different directions, even to trivial
questions. She worried about how much longer she
might spend in San Francisco than she’d previously
planned. She hoped her roommate in Kentucky would
see the reminder note she’d left on the counter about
feeding her tropical fish.
She cried uncontrollably, but then stopped sobbing
when she heard noise coming from the nursing station
down the hall. The nurses’ laughter reminded her of her
students. She missed them already. Picking up a biology
book from her bedside table, she stared at its table of
contents. The field she knew and trusted had betrayed
her.
Of all the things that had been taken from her--her
mother, her marriage, her chance to have kids with her
former husband--she never thought her health would go.
It was no easier to conceive how people lived with the
knowledge that they had cancer then returned to work,
business as usual. She felt envy for those like her
mother who had religious faith, belief in God. If only she
had inherited her mother’s faith instead of her breast
cancer. Spirituality, for Kate, only involved dabbling in
Buddhism. That didn’t render comfort in salvation
through the hereafter. What shepherd would lead her to
quiet waters as she walked through the valley of the
shadow of death?
Kate had always been her own rod and staff anyway.
This illness wasn’t her first life test.
 GRIDLOCK
22

When Jude returned to Kate’s hospital room, she was

dressed and ready to go. After handling the paperwork
for her discharge, Jude drove her to his apartment to
rest. Kate insisted that Jude go about his business. After
going back and forth on the subject, Jude acquiesced
and made an evening trip back to the bureau.

* * *

Cracking knuckles at his office coffee room, Jude

consciously forced himself to stop thinking about Kate.
Her chances of surviving could be diminishing daily.
Ideas were already flying in his head.
For now, though, he had to turn that restless energy
toward working out the threat from Onagi’s laboratory. It
was time to follow up on what Nathalie had started
researching on Sedevacantism.
Nearing his desk, he found a Post-it note stuck to his
monitor.
Tried reaching you. Call me. —Nathalie
Getting a simple message from her instantly buoyed
his spirits. Whether she had something personal or
professional to say, he couldn’t wait. He picked up the
phone right away.
After two rings, she answered without a hello,
expecting his call. “Come to my place.”
Straight away, he left what he was doing and drove to
Noe Valley.
He couldn’t see how anything could develop with
Nathalie unless one of them quit the FBI. She was a
career agent. Moreover, the bureau needed both of
them. The bureau relied on him to know how an intruder
might exploit the faults of the FBI computer network—
23 ALVIN ZIEGLER

even if the hack only did it to test their abilities.

Conversely, Jude needed the bureau to learn how to
better protect the Grid; and Nathalie supported Tactical
Intelligence and Electronic Surveillance.
No. Quitting wasn’t an option for either Jude or
Nathalie.
How could he even consider the idea of Nathalie and
him getting together after the deaths of Jűrgen and
Hideo—his mind should be on his sister who could be
dying.
Jude saw how much easier things would be
professionally if he hadn’t fallen for Nathalie at Quantico.
Pursuing her must have been a crazy rebellion against
the controlled surroundings of the place. The training
facility in Virginia felt like prison lockdown after working
at Stanford University. The comparison had hit him the
moment he arrived. An armed security checkpoint
controlled a long driveway entrance to the 386-acre
facility.
Jude and Nathalie’s paths had crossed before he
joined. They met when she was investigating another
mystery at Stanford which led to her recommending Jude
as a new hire.
But it wasn’t until he saw her again in Quantico where
she was taking refresher courses when he realized that
he wanted her.
On that first day of training, an agent ushered Jude
and Nathalie and some fifty other trainees down a main
street called Hogan’s Alley. Little did they know that that
afternoon would mark their beginning.
Like a Hollywood set, Hogan’s Alley was a replica town
used to simulate investigations of crime scenes and
searches for new agents. The three-story building
facades included a post office, laundromat, bank, barber
25 ALVIN ZIEGLER

shop, pool hall, shops, and a hotel called Dogwood Inn.

The group stopped to watch trainers fire paintball guns
at actors who played terrorists and drug dealers. After
an explanation of the exercise, the guide led the tour to
the dining room. Jude sat with Nathalie and became
attracted to her. Love or lust couldn’t have struck at a
less convenient place than at the FBI academy
Jude began sneaking into Nathalie’s room, right under
the noses of the FBI’s top brass. But the sleepovers
ended abruptly when they got word that they’d be
Electronic Surveillance partners in San Francisco. It was
a bittersweet shock. Sweet to know they’d be working
together, and bitter because their affair would never
survive scrutiny. If their secret had leaked, one of them
would get transferred or fired.
If only they had talked through what happened at
Quantico. They simply began daily cyber intrusion duties
across a double-desk as rank-and-file partners, as if they
had never hooked up. Now they were getting
reacquainted with their clothes on, as if the all-night sex
escapades at Quantico had never happened. This
charade gnawed at Jude as much as the sex deprivation
did.
Jude rolled by the Castro Theater. Its Spanish colonial
design was brightly lighted. Men mingled outside
restaurants. The festive atmosphere clashed with Jude’s
mental state.
He continued up the hill. Moments after angling his
tires into the curb at Diamond and 24th, he knocked on
her door. With thumbs on the top of her snug white
denim pants, she nodded for him to come in. The sight
of her put him off balance. He hadn’t seen her dressed
casually for a while.
27 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“I’m glad you got my note,” she said, beguiling him

with a smile in her eyes.
He hadn’t seen that sly, I-have-a-secret, look for a
long time. Moving to her living room, he took in her
sheer silver camisole. It revealed the curve of her
breasts and nipples. He wanted her now more than ever.
She picked up two wide-mouth glasses of red wine
from the coffee table and offered him one. Hers was half
empty. “You have some catching up to do,” she said.
Her lips formed in the shape of a kiss at the end of
that sentence. Her French accent turned simple phrases
into come-ons.
Jude accepted the glass of wine and sipped. “What’s
going on with you?”
She picked up a piece of hardware that resembled a
garage door opener in size. “Before I forget, take this.
It’s an audio jammer. It knocks out recording devices in
a thirty foot radius. Keep it at home in case someone
gets in again and plants a bug.”
Jude thanked her and put it his jacket pocket.
“I have big news,” she said calmly. “But tell me how
your sister is.”
Jude sat down slowly on her sofa. He had only seen
the place twice before. With her chic furnishings in their
place, he was impressed by her sense of retro design.
Under the coffee table sat a 1960’s-style shag throw rug
that ideally matched the giant corner fig tree with floor
lighting and the Eames lounge chair with ottoman.
“I just heard she has breast cancer,” he said.
“Oh. That’s awful. How advanced is it?”
“Very.”
“Really? Jude. Can I do anything?”
“Not right now. I’m still in shock about it. I’m going to
do what I can with the Grid to help her.”
29 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“You think it can cure her?”

“Truthfully, I don’t know. You had something to tell
me.”
“You know what I’m going to say.” She sipped her
wine.
“No, I’m not telepathic.”
“I think things would be easier if you were.”
He wondered why women wanted men to understand
what they had in mind without speaking. “You’ve teased
me long enough.”
“I have?”
“Nathalie.”
“Okay, okay. I think I’m getting a promotion.”
So much for the idea of their hooking up one day. Jude
wondered if he was failing to hide his disappointment.
“How’d you hear that?”
“Speer told me.” She sat down next to him.
“Speer? That needle-neck asshole? He’s a complete
automaton.”
“I understand how you feel, but listen.”
“Wait. Did you have a boyfriend who dumped you
hard before our Quantico hookup?”
“Did Speer say that about me?”
“Yes.”
Nathalie grinned. “It’s not true. He’s playing inside
your head. Did you tell him about us?”
“No.”
“Then just hear what I’ve got to say. After you
dropped me off at the office today, I was going over
everything that had happened with those robed men
chasing you and those Bible quotes in Hideo’s lab, when
I bumped into Speer. He said that if I joined him for a
glass of bubbly down the street, he’d enlighten me
about some company news that would, quote-unquote,
31 ALVIN ZIEGLER

put a skip in my walk. You know how he calls the bureau

the company?”
“Yeah.” Jude rubbed his brow and put his glass down.
“Anyway, I told him I didn’t have the time, but he
pushed and pushed for a tête-à-tête.”
“What’s that?”
“You know. A private moment.”
“So you went.”
“Unenthusiastically, I did. We went to the Redwood
Room in the Clift Hotel and he tried to kiss me.”
“What?”
“But I didn’t let him. And don’t take everything he
says or does so personal, okay?”
“Give me a break, Nathalie. Everything’s personal and
everything’s political, especially in an office like ours.”
Her gaze wandered. “To tell you the truth, I forgot all
about his little move after what he told me. Apparently
Hackman’s slated me for a transfer to the Los Angeles
unit where they are short on resources in Cyber.”
Jude’s insides shifted. He wasn’t prepared to hear this.
He didn’t want to lose Nathalie—she made the new job
tolerable, even though they had backed off romantically.
He took her glass from her hand and set it down on
the coffee table beside his. He leaned over and placed
his hand on the crook of her jaw beneath her ear. It had
the slope of a desert dune. She touched the fingers that
stroked her face.
Before she had a chance to pull his hand off her face,
he wrapped his arms around her small waist. Desire for
her had built up for days. He stared into her large brown
irises. When her lips curled at the corners, he kissed her.
The smell of her filled him. But at first, her lips didn’t
reciprocate; he wondered if she’d give him a swift
whack.
33 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Then her lips opened.

It was the Nathalie he knew. Suppressed feelings
surged.
Her tongue followed his. They fell into her red leather
sofa, then rolled to the carpet. Her camisole came
undone. He slowly pulled it over her head and slender
arms, tossed it on the floor, yanked the bedspread down.
He lifted her in his arms. With her legs straddling his
torso, he marched to her bedroom. Holding her with one
arm, he yanked the bedspread down. He set her on the
bed as if she were fine china. Lying motionless on her
back, she watched him gradually stalk her on hands and
knees.
He kissed the instep of her foot, then flicked the top
button on her pants and steadily removed them. After he
had kissed his way up her calf and thigh, she writhed,
then groaned and whispered, “Don’t stop.”
And he didn’t. The sexual energy between them
hypnotically mounted from a slow and tender staccato of
tongues to a savage movement of their entire bodies.
Twenty minutes or an hour later—Jude couldn’t say how
long their tango had lasted—he collapsed at her side.
The cathartic release misted them in sweat.
She let out a giggle. “My legs feel like they’re floating.
By the way, you don’t smell like an agent.”
“What does an agent smell like?” He asked.
“Ambition and nerves. You know, that American
Mennen deodorant and coffee. The job draws that type.”
“What do I smell like, sex?”
She traced his Adam’s apple with her pointy nose,
then tilted her head back and locked eyes with him.
“Youth.”
“What do you mean?”
 GRIDLOCK
34

She rested her head in her hand. “Men or boys I dated

at Goddard in Columbia—they had your scent. Their
heads were still their own. They weren’t molded for
anyone else’s purpose. The field office hasn’t spoiled
your beliefs yet either. Anyway, you should come with
me to L.A.”
He didn’t answer. The rumblings of his mind receded
into background noise. He didn’t want to think about her
relocating or anything outside of that bedroom.
Their relationship was moving in reverse. The first
thing about Nathalie he got to know was her body, then
her mind and now her heart.
He touched her half-open lips with the tip of his finger.
Her breathing slowed. They lazily gazed at one another,
drinking each other in until she rolled her eyes at the
ceiling. “This doesn’t make any sense does it?”
He frowned. “What do you mean? It makes perfect
sense—we like each other.”
Adoringly, she wiped sweat off his forehead with two
fingers. “What I mean is that it doesn’t make sense that
we held off being together when we were partners. And
now I’m leaving San Francisco—”
“—and get together.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s backward. I suppose the good news is that if
Hackman gets onto us now, we don’t have to worry
about him separating us as disciplinary action.”
She laughed, taking his hand and tightening her
interlocked fingers in his. Then she climbed on top of his
naked belly, traced his lips with her finger and kissed his
face from above. “Yeah, but we still might get a pious
lecture from him about the mortal sin of premarital sex.”
35 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Well then, maybe we should stop what we’re doing,

just for him.”
Her face hardened. “No, if they’re transferring me, I’m
going to live a little before I go to LA, singing, I left my
heart…in San Francisco.”
“Don’t sing yet. Speer could’ve been smooth-talking
you just to warm you up.”
“You mean to get me naked and in bed?”
“Yeah, lucky for him it failed.”
“Why? Would you fight him for me?”
Jude held a fist. “There’s a chivalrous side to me you
haven’t seen and a possessive one too.”
Nathalie looked away, then back at him, irritated. “We
still have to be careful. I’m going to be—”
“Still with the bureau and soon all the way down in
L.A.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Nothing in life is easy, is it? You’ve gotta go to the
mat for every little thing. Take me for instance. I’m
judged for being from Louisville. I can see it in their eyes
—Californians think I’ve having horseshoes and manure
in my blood but if I let the cynics deter me I’d never get
anywhere.”
She touched her lower lip. “I never saw you in such a
romantic light before.”
“Funny. But you’re avoiding the question,” he said.
“If you are asking if I want to make something
between us, I’ll think about it.”
“Think hard,” he said.
“You’ll still have to prove your worthiness as my
knight.”
“If I didn’t do that already, I’ll be happy to prove
myself to you again in ten minutes.”
37 ALVIN ZIEGLER

twenty-two

Tuesday, November 1
San Francisco, CA

Hackman’s lower lip protruded into a frown as he

plodded along the wood bureau corridor. He returned to
his office in the dead of night to go over what to do with
this boot, Wagner, who had overstepped boundaries.
Hackman passed unmanned computers at empty
cubicles and eight-foot-tall bookcases. To the head of
the FBI field office in San Francisco, those stacks of
leather bound volumes represented a more reliable and
true source of information than anything in electronic
form. They would have been donated years ago had he
not ordered that they stay put.
His skepticism of computers ran contrary to the
expectations of an FBI bureau chief. Cyber intrusion had
become increasingly central to federal law enforcement.
The Justice Department, especially since the Patriot Act
had become law, coveted its computer network. But not
Hackman.
He suspected that his staff whispered, “luddite,”
behind his back, but his distrust of computers persisted.
A web-enabled bureau translated into added exposure to
 GRIDLOCK
6

outsiders. Anyone with the sophistication to break the

bureau’s network security had access.
Before coming to his office, he walked by the night
agent’s desk. The daytime student quickly put away his
school book and got back to his paperwork.
Once in his corner office, Hackman glowered through
his window at the lifeless avenue below. An ambulance
siren whined in the distance. Streetlights beamed yellow
cones on the pavement. Otherwise, this section of Civic
Center was cloaked in black. Lumps of humanity slept
under blankets in stairway corners or building entrances.
Hackman hated passing their blankets and sleeping bags
on those occasional nights he returned to the bureau.
The stench of urine and excrement rose through grates
from a long outdated sewer system. Potholes and cracks
pockmarked the streets. San Francisco had long suffered
budget deficits. He wished he hadn’t been reassigned
from Houston. Of fifty-six field offices, why did he end up
in liberal San Francisco? He liked the water views but not
much else.
The only other occupants of the federal building at
this hour were 24-hour security guards, pulling
graveyard on ground level. Hackman parked his two
hundred and fifty pounds in his burgundy chair and
cleared a backlog of file folders stuffed with newspapers
clippings, memoranda and stapled agent reports—he
preferred certain items to be printed.
The FM jazz station that droned by day from a radio
on his credenza remained off and so did most lights
outside of Hackman’s office. Still in his coat, he poked at
his keyboard with a thick index finger and electronically
scrolled through folders stuffed with reports that Special
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Agents had filed. Shaking his head, he grumbled about

Wagner.
Hackman maintained distance from staff, but he
wasn’t oblivious to his agents, especially new recruits;
he knew their habits, down to the model of car that they
drove. When Hackman had exited the freeway at
Woodside Road, he’d recognized Wagner’s car in his
rearview mirror, following. He could see that someone
else was with Wagner but couldn’t make out that face.
When Wagner was bird-dogging him, Hackman
wanted to see just how far Wagner would press his luck.
After the skirmish at the church service, Hackman had
tromped on the gas pedal in his hurry to reach his office.
Now it was time to find out why his new surveillance hire
was on him.
Leaning over his keyboard, he clicked open Jude
Wagner’s personnel file. Hackman’s computer screen
showed pages of information on Wagner that fell under
the category of special skills. Hackman looked over
Jude’s theoretical computer study at Berkeley, all of
which Hackman had previously read. Wagner had some
ambition if he thought he could improve medicine. He
and his Stanford Grid colleagues were tampering with
things they shouldn’t. Maybe Wagner didn’t know what
he had started with his mathematical formula.
Hackman threw off his overcoat. He thought about the
huge access that Wagner had to the FBI computer
system and reached a decision.
With a few mouse clicks, he activated a tap on
Wagner’s personal cell phone. But there was no telling
how long that would track him. Wagner could toss his
phone after shadowing him.
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

But why were Wagner and whoever he was with

following him? He couldn’t be sure. Hackman needed to
keep tabs on Wagner.
He phoned Supervisor Speer. Errol Speer’s dedication
to his work and all of its rules bordered on obsession, but
it earned him Hackman’s trust. Hackman heard the
phone receiver knock off the cradle on the fourth ring.
“It’s Hackman.”
A groggy voice answered. “Yeah, what happened?”
“I need you to track Agent Wagner.”
Yawn. “Can you tell me about this in the morning?”
“No. It’s a priority. You got it? Follow him.”
“Yes, track Wagner.”
“And from a distance.”
“Understood. What should I be looking for?”
“Just forward to me what you find—on paper. Don’t
leave a computer trail.”

* * *

Propped up in his queen-sized bed at The Claremont

Hotel in Berkeley, Ramsey endured a late night phone
call with his boss, Nicolette. Gravel voice said she
couldn’t sleep and had been trying to get hold of
Ramsey for some time. Pinsky told him that Stanford’s
Grid program chief Hideo Onagi had been killed in Tokyo
by a fluke dog attack. Ramsey felt a tinge of pity for
Stanford, but a larger part of him felt relief, some
pressure had been lifted.
Stanford would be in a frenzy to reorganize with their
program director absent. This scored points for Pinsky
Investments, but he didn’t use those words. Ramsey
feared the Grid itself was still live and believed it could
go on without Hideo Onagi. Before hanging up, Ramsey
 GRIDLOCK
10

reassured Pinsky that he had matters under control. Now

he had to convince himself of that. He had built his
reputation on bringing venture capital for big
pharmaceutical companies—a lot was riding on the
survival of traditional drug companies.
Ramsey’s BlackBerry vibrated with notification of an
email that read:
I cracked into the Grid. But corrupting the client and
then uploading the agent again past the firewall will be
hell. Far tougher than I thought.
-Cez@ar.

Ramsey bit his lip and opened his drapes. The Bay
Bridge shone under yellow lights. The city, surrounded
by bridges, seemed to protect its own with its moats.
Using his BlackBerry again, he called Ferguson. No
answer. Ramsey wanted to call the Stanford Grid lab but
knew no one would be there. He needed all hands on
deck, but couldn’t locate a soul.
He doubted that his virus writer would produce as
promised and had to consider another option. The Grid
was live.
Normally a headline junky, Ramsey picked up his
hotel-delivered newspaper to see what he had been
missing. A story in the back stated that the Stanford Grid
team was “carving out a new niche in medicine with
computational biology while swimming against a sea of
detractors.”
And they’re about to sink miserably to the ocean floor,
Ramsey thought. He slapped down the newspaper. I’m
going to show just how hackable Grid computers are.

***
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

While she’d killed seven people in her career on

missions across the globe, she’d never done an
operation on American soil. Until tonight, when she’d
break new ground. If she were following usual
procedure, she would have no knowledge about her
target, except name and appearance. The psychology
was to prevent emotion from cluttering a calculated hit.
Briefings on the matter were succinct. For this task, she
briefed herself.
The blonde woman quietly closed the door to her SUV,
zippered her jumpsuit to shield herself from the cold bay
air and pulled a hood over her head to partially conceal
her face. She had waited outside the Marina to watch
park security drive by. In thirty minutes there could be
another pass. She had to hurry.
Under a nearly full moon, she moved through the
Berkeley Marina parking lot to the gated dock. Hunching
on the wooden plank deck, she shined a miniature silver
maglite to see what type of lock she needed to pick the
dock door. She was in luck. A cylinder lock, just as she
had hoped.
She had been trained by the world’s elite, a covert
U.S. government fighting squad. Dyncorp, one of
America’s largest corporations, hired her on a renewable
contract as an overseas operative.
She set her bag down, readjusted a rubber band
around her hair so she could see clearly and put on thin
black gloves; then, after making sure she was alone, she
removed a long steel shank and a flathead screwdriver
from a zipper pouch. She controlled the beam of the
maglite and did not allow the tools to reflect moonlight.
Adjusting the beam, she inserted the screwdriver in
the keyhole and turned it clockwise. The cylinder lock
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

had a moveable bolt extending from door to metal

frame.
Her screwdriver served as a tension wrench to expose
the pins. She inserted the pick into the keyhole and lifted
the pairs of pins to their fullest height, two by two. She
nimbly pushed the pins until she heard the bolt retract
and click, opening the gate.
To the sound of lapping water, she walked along the
docks, panning the flashlight beam across each berth,
searching boats until the name Tipsea glimmered in gold
across a stern. Stepping on board, she unlatched a small
briefcase and removed three sticks of dynamite, bound
by electrical tape. Dynamite was an inelegant explosive,
but it was good for that very reason—the more people
who could readily get hold of it, the more suspects police
would have to interrogate.
Once satisfied with her handiwork, she closed her
briefcase and tiptoed away. No time was wasted
returning home where she reassessed her Pharma stock
portfolio.
5 ALVIN ZIEGLER

twenty-three

Wednesday, November 2
Berkeley, CA

The narrow road to the Berkeley Marina skirted the

heavily travelled freeway to San Francisco. Jude felt tire
vibrations through the steering wheel. Road construction
caused fine dirt to blow across the windshield. He had
travelled this route for years; today though, it appeared
emptier than ever. He sipped his coffee from a paper
cup, keeping one hand on the wheel.
He tried to talk Kate into joining them for an afternoon
sail. He told her the salt air would do her good and
promised they wouldn’t go far. Still she insisted she was
woozy enough without being on the Tipsea, so he left
her to rest at his place.
Jude wanted to hang behind with Kate, but he needed
to discuss her treatment options with Niles. He
understood that she’d be overcome by shock and
indecision; he still wanted her to trust the Stanford Grid.
That, he knew, was akin to asking for her to jump before
looking.
He arrived late to meet Niles. Was he too late for Kate
also? Jude didn’t dare raise doubts with Kate; and he
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

couldn’t stop wondering how far her condition had

deteriorated.
He jimmied his cup into the black plastic cup holder,
fighting déjà vu. He must not see Kate’s predicament as
a replay of their mother’s death. If she had lived another
fifteen years, genomic medicine could have identified
her breast cancer before onset. It would have granted
her another thirty years.
The doctors should have diagnosed her cancer earlier.
It could’ve been stopped.
Had he sugarcoated reality with Kate—oversold what
he and the Grid could accomplish? His eyes twitched. He
took more coffee, but the pseudo-therapeutic properties
of caffeine had its limitations. It slightly reversed the
effects of that red wine he’d had the night before, but it
didn’t change the facts. Jude couldn’t toe all of these
lines alone. He needed help, even if the best he could
get would be Niles’s advice.
Jude swallowed the last of the coffee, crushed the cup,
and cranked up the volume to the comedy opera, Noces
de Figaro, on his car stereo. He didn’t get a word of
Italian, but the ethereal melody soothed his mind.
Art heals, his mother said.
If only, he thought.
Niles had insisted that they put sails to the wind no
later than 8:45 A.M. so he’d have time to pack. It was
9:30 when Jude pulled the Mazda into the parking lot. He
saw the Tipsea’s mast already rigged and raised.
Niles opened the security gate on the dock to let him
in. “Punctuality is a hallmark of good character.”
“Fuck good character.” Jude said, briskly stepping
aboard the boat.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Niles shrugged. “Nice attitude.” He had assumed the

role of project task master since Jude had shifted from
Stanford to the FBI.
“Hey, I brought CDs to break in the new on-board
stereo. That swagger rock stuff you like: Johnny Cash,
Chris Isaac, Roy Orbison, Tom Petty. We have to keep
our chins up.” Niles waved the CDs, doubled a rubber
band around them and went below to stow them in the
galley.
Jude unfastened a weathered tie to release a blue
bumper from the sailboat railing, then yanked it up for
push-off.
“Is something else wrong?” Niles asked, coming up to
the deck.
“I’ll tell you all about it once we’re moving,” Jude said.
Niles slapped sunscreen on his face and stowed the
tube in his nylon bag. “Let’s go toward Treasure Island
today, Sherlock.”
“Give it a rest.”
“Why are Americans so uptight, huh? Everyone’s got a
moniker they hate. You know Bruce Springsteen hates
being called the Boss, but he copes. I think you were
born to run.”
“You know, Niles, if I’m on the run, that makes two of
us. Your name is connected with the Grid as much as
mine. Whoever is pulling strings here has scribbled both
our names on a knock-off list.”
“Some piece of work, you are.”
“Shut up. I found something else too. A watermark on
that threat letter that was left for you.”
“What watermark?”
“It said United Bishops Association. So, we’ve gotta
take a look at a religious backlash. Maybe there’s some
 GRIDLOCK
8

Catholic extremist group that’s out there committing

homicide.”
“They do bomb abortion clinics.”
“Right. Though I’m not sure what to do with that.”
“Let’s go now.” Niles stowed a boat bumper, then
took the tiller so they could float out of the marina. He
fished through the cooler and lifted out a bottle of
Tequila. “I’ve had this stored to celebrate how we were
going to be more famous than Darwin. I guess we can
kiss that goodbye.” Jude unscrewed the bottle and filled
two plastic cups.
Jude gulped his drink, set his cup down and
halfheartedly raised the jib. Sails burst open with a loud
flap. The wind changed, pitching the boat into sideways
motion. Jude cranked the winch, leaning into the high
side of the deck, pulling in the main.
“Sideways we go.” Niles cried.
Niles shouted louder, “So, genius, what do we do
now?”
“For starters, we can’t be intimidated.”
Jude pulled the line. The Tipsea thrust them farther
into the mouth of the bay. Treasure Island appeared
behind the mainsail. A tourist-filled ferry steamed to the
right of it.
Jude’s mind wouldn’t rest. “We have to power ahead,”
Jude said, “and line up test patients. You ready for all
that?”
“I’m always ready.” Niles shouted unconvincingly. He
downed his glass of Tequila. “I just want to board this
plane later, get this Google deal inked in Switzerland,
finish our testing, and get on with our dream.”
Jude asked, knocking back more, “Will you have a
chance to see your son?”
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Yes,” Niles said, manning the tiller. “Can’t wait to see

my little scallywag. We’ll have dinner at his favorite
restaurant, the Notting Grill, and hopefully go to the
movies the next day. He loves movies. Seeing him is
incentive to travel.”
Jude fidgeted with the boat winch. He knew he wasn’t
being a good listener, but he couldn’t help himself.
“So, what do we go over first?” Niles asked.
“Bad news,” Jude said.
“I have had plenty of bad news, great computer
laureate, why not surprise me with some good?”
“My sister Kate has breast cancer.”
Niles went wide-eyed. “Oh, God. Never a break in the
shit storm . . . My condolences.”
“She was in the hospital. I took her to my place last
night to get her mind off of things, but on top of
everything she’s got the flu. I’m torn up over it—”
The wind picked up. Jude stifled his emotions for a
second, let out the sail, and then said, “We’ve gotta be
able to help her.”
“You’re not suggesting using the Grid, are you? I don’t
want to sound uncaring but we don’t have the breast
cancer databases lined up to—”
“I’ll find the databases we need,” Jude said flatly.
“I don’t know how. Big Pharma’s treating us like we’re
a couple of Dr. Kervorkians on the loose.”
Jude reiterated for Niles all the steps they’d planned
for the first test case. He assured Niles that taking Kate
on as a patient didn’t blaze new paths and that Stanford
was ready. All the wheels were in motion. They’d
sequence the test patient’s genome and compare it
against one of the largest database partners, NCBI—
National Cancer Biotechnology Information. Then they
would match the diseased patient’s results against
 GRIDLOCK
10

similar gene types that had responded favorably to

targeted drug therapies. With those results, they could
produce the most precise treatment possible through
Insilico—molecular modeling that was performed only by
computers.
“But there’s a hitch,” Niles said.
“What now?” Jude asked.
“Onagi was coordinating NCBI. We’re not online with
that yet, and even with it we could fall short.”
“Of course, I need your help with a work-around to
access a breast cancer database.”
The wind died down.
“Good luck. There’s not a single privately owned
breast cancer database that’s not protected like the
Hope Diamond.”
Jude knew accessing such a database would be near
impossible; he’d need a key code and a Star Trek
invisibility cloak to avoid getting caught accessing Pfizer
or Johnston & Quib’s cancer catalogue databases.
“It’s looking tough,” he agreed.
“Tough? I want to help, but you’ve had one too many
bourbons if you think you can just say open sesame.
Shazam. And then you’re in. Seriously. Do you have
some FBI, mission-impossible angle you’ve cooked up on
the new job?”
“No.”
Jude and Niles adjusted their positions under a
swinging boom.
“I know you need the clinical data,” Niles said. “But
you realize medical databases aren’t my expertise. Have
you run this by Knowlan?”
“I will, but—.”
“You’re not sure if he’ll go for it.”
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“I’m going to call Alfonso.”

Alfonso was a friend of Jude’s and Niles’s from
Berkeley days who now toiled in Johnston & Quib’s
Information Technology Department. In college, he was
known for throwing parties so big that students had
likened them to Mardi Gras.
“Maybe he can help,” Niles said, “but I’d catch him
before he’s falling down drunk.”
Jude looked at the shimering horizon, gazing into the
sublime force of the water, the unwavering rise and fall
of the water line. Bay winds billowed across their faces.
When the boat swayed, the jingle of his mother’s
Egyptian bracelet played in his ear. Jude couldn’t dwell
on negatives. Hell, it got him into trouble to dwell on the
fact that two-thirds of the earth was covered in water.
Finally, Jude dropped the squeaking boat winch
handle that he was turning. A fog plume hid the Golden
Gate Bridge’s tower tips over the port side as he and
Niles bantered and sailed. The majestic Marin Headlands
appeared to be painted behind the bridge’s north tower,
with Angel Island dabbed in on the right. Two dozen
pelicans made formation ahead. Their prehistoric necks
and beaks stretched as they flapped their way south
from San Francisco to bluer skies.
The Tipsea came about sharply, tacking toward the
dock, tilting at 30 degrees to the breeze.
“Let’s have music,” Niles said as if he were giving the
go-ahead to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade to do
its march down Fifth Avenue. He hobbled down the
ladder, disappearing into the cabin. Wind sprinkled the
deck with sea spray.
Jude’s thoughts drifted to Hideo and Jűrgen again.
Good friendships and so much intellectual capital, gone.
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Niles returned to the deck, holding the railing and

waving a CD in hand. “I spend a thousand dollars on this
stereo and it doesn’t play.” He walked to the bow, then
frisbeed the CD over the white caps.
“Let me look at that stereo,” Jude said. “Maybe
something’s knocked loose.”
“I’m telling you, that new thing is a piece of rubbish—
kaput, fini.”
Jude stepped below, then kneeled over cushions to
get a close look at the metal-fronted Pioneer stereo. It
resembled the one in his car—a piece of electronics he’d
fiddled with before. He could see that a custom cabinet
had been built for it, but Niles or someone had yanked
the receiver out of its original position to repair it. Red
and blue wires behind the component sprang in two
directions. They looked tampered with. As Jude
inspected the electronics he noticed black wires that
didn’t appear original running from the stereo to another
cabinet that didn’t house a speaker. As he rummaged
through the cabinet with the black wires, he heard a
muted TIC, TIC, TIC from behind a rain poncho.
“Niles, jump.” Jude shouted. He bolted to the
hatchway and scrambled up the cabin steps to the deck.
“What?” Niles asked.
“Bomb!”
Jude dove into the bay.
Kaboom.
Flames and smoke shot skyward, emitting shards of
fiberglass. Jude landed sideways in the swells.
Smoldering embers of teak, plastic and canvas rained
down and sizzled as they hit water around him.
Jude tumbled underwater in slow motion. His ears
filled with a ring. His eyes opened. Surrounded by soot-
 GRIDLOCK
6

filled water, he sank through moving boat debris and

swaying kelp.
Air. Jude needed air. He fought through cold water,
heaving his arms toward the swaying surface. If only he
could reach air and leave the deep.
One of Jude’s nightmares had returned, but this time
it was stark reality.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

twenty-four

Wednesday, November 2
Berkeley Marina, CA

Jude treaded water on a surface covered with charred

boat pieces. Salt water burned his eyes.
Where was Niles? Frantically, Jude blinked and wiped
water from his eyes. The explosion had littered the water
as far as he could see.
Jude shouted for Niles. No answer.
Jude breathed through his mouth, avoiding the
nauseating sulfuric odor in the air. Swells pitched and
yawed, swaying him to and fro beneath clouds that
swept east over the bay.
He watched the Tipsea’s mast angle and then
surrender to the surface, leaving nothing but scattered
deck cushions and teak slivers. A shiver of fear ran
through Jude. With the salt water in his eyes, swells and
wood remnants all around, Jude didn’t see Niles. Had he
gone down with the Tipsea?
Jude cupped one hand to his mouth for more volume
and hollered Niles’s name three more times. He cleared
his eyes again above the rising water.
“Jude.” Niles’s voice came from behind.
Jude exhaled in relief. He turned and saw Niles wave.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Jude’s tension eased more. Jude shouted to Niles

again, “You okay?”
“I’m sore.” Niles appeared to be treading all right.
“Well, hang in there.” Jude swam to a floating seat
cushion nearby but when he slung his arms over it, the
water-logged thing sank like most everything else did.
“Good try,” Niles yelled, swimming up to within ten
feet of Jude.
They both kicked to a long piece of floating wood and
hung onto it gingerly so it wouldn’t go under too.
Niles said, “God, I wonder how long we can tread
water before freezing?”
“I don’t know. But if this wood sinks, I’m going to try
floating on my back.”
Niles groaned. “I got a gash on my arm, I think.”
“Are you bleeding?”
Niles raised his arm to the water level and looked at
it. “It’s not a big cut, but blood’s oozing.”
“I hope that’ll stop soon in this salt water.” Jude said.
“Don’t think I’m going to bleed to death.”
“I’m not worried about that.”
“What are you worried about?”
“Sharks.”
Niles’s eyes widened. “Holy God.” He tried pressing
his hand to his arm to stop the bleeding.”
Jude said. “Try not to kick. It’s probably rare for sharks
to come this far into the bay. But just outside the Golden
Gate, there are great whites. Plenty of ‘em, coming for
seals.”
“Shut up, Jude or I’ll swim over there and shut you up
myself.”
“Be quiet. Did you hear that?”
A buzzing motor knifed the air in the distance
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

They both cocked their heads north. “Yes.” Niles said.

“Something’s coming.”
Jude saw a small, rugged fishing boat skipping and
smacking on whitecaps. Neck-deep in water, Jude and
Niles waved broadly at the three men in uniform. Jude
then realized it wasn’t a fishing boat that was
approaching but the Coast Guard. The engine noise grew
louder. Such commotion never sounded sweeter.
“Let’s not talk a lot to the Coast Guard,” Jude said.
“Right.” Niles responded while he staring, transfixed
on the submerging main sail of his Tipsea.
The silvery vessel slowed as it approached.
Cutting the motor, the captain flung life jackets to
them. Two crewmen dressed in blue short-sleeved shirts
helped them up a chrome drop ladder against buffeting
wind. Jude and Niles hunched over with crossed arms,
shivering.
Quick on their feet, the crew flung towels for them to
dry off as best they could, then directed them to the
fiberglass seats on the deck.
Sitting, Jude breathed deeply, checking himself over
to find tenderness on the back of his head. Niles nursed
his upper arm. Jude stood up to survey the Tipsea’s
remains when a crewman firmly pulled him down.
The captain nodded to the crew. With a tilt of the
wrist, he hit the throttle. Jude and Niles hunkered down
in their deck seats. The small boat knocked over the
swells, wind on their faces. Jude could hardly contain his
anger and frustration over this planted bomb explosion.
He wanted to ask the Coast Guard if they’d spotted any
bomb fragments, wires, batteries or plastics when they
whisked by, but there was no use. Almost no one could
make sense of this crime scene. Most of the evidence
had probably already sunk to the ocean floor.
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

A Coast Guard crew member asked Jude if he knew

why his sailboat exploded and Jude shrugged.
Something registered on the officer’s face. “Of course
we will make a full report, but first we’re getting you to
shore.”
Jude rubbed the back of his head where flying wood
from boat had struck him.
What Jude got from this explosion clearly differed
from what the Coast Guard crew perceived. The crew all
moved about and in a very routine manner. Jude, on the
other hand, felt more vulnerable to a personal attack
than ever, and he still lacked anything substantial to go
on.
The Coast Guard handed them more towels.
Pale and nursing a cut on his arm, Niles was even less
communicative than the stone-faced Coast Guard
officer. Niles’s hair sprang in every direction. Seeing
Niles beaten up by the blast reminded Jude of Niles’s
loyalty and what a staunch ally he’d been. They’d beat
tough odds in the past but today’s incident could’ve
been fatal.
“Can you believe I have a flight later?” Niles
mumbled.
“You’re in no condition to fly.”
“I’ve gotta see Edward. I can’t not go.”
Jude shook his head, “Are you crazy? You’re thinking
about travel. I wanna kill whoever did this.”
Niles continued, “Yeah.” Niles sounded tired. “The
meeting to sign the Google deal isn’t until Friday. I could
postpone.”
Jude agreed. Though what Niles said was right. They
had to find a way to get this project into operation soon
or it might never happen.
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

The Coast Guard stopped at the dock. The captain

shut down the motor and his crew escorted Jude and
Niles off the little vessel, down the plank and to a grassy
clearing at the Berkeley Marina. They were told to wait
on a bench until paramedics arrived.
Wet and cold, Jude rubbed his face again to clear
away the salt water stickiness. In a matter of five or six
minutes, a medical response team arrived by
ambulance. The EMT’s came out of their vehicle carrying
boxes and immediately started examining Jude and
Niles. On bent knee, a young male paramedic took
Jude’s blood pressure and heart rate.
The older one treating Niles was a talker. “Sounds like
that sailboat motor of yours had just had enough.”
Without question, the explosion had nothing to do
with a worn-out motor.
“You own a boat?” Niles asked his medic.
“No,” he said.
“Then don’t even try to speculate.”
The paramedics continued working. Stunned with all
that had happened, Jude knew how lucky they’d been.
Had he not heard the ticking from deep inside the
cabinet, and had they not jumped overboard in that
instant, pieces of them would have washed to shore to
be hauled off in body bags to the county morgue.
Someone or some group had taken out Jűrgen and
Hideo, and now they wanted Niles. Jude believed it was
an attempt to carry out the threat in the letter Niles
found at the Mark Hopkins.
Someone would stop at nothing to put an end to the
Grid. Instead of saving lives, Jude’s algorithm was killing
people. He could view this as a sign to quit trying to be a
hero, but he felt more emboldened than ever to see this
project through to completion.
15 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Are you almost done?” Niles asked, irritated.

One ambulance worker advised Jude and Niles to ride
with them to the ER. They insisted they could drive just
fine. Finally, the paramedics had Jude and Niles each
sign a waiver attesting that they refused a ride to the
hospital. The emergency team then packed their
supplies and took off without them.
As Jude and Niles headed to their cars, a Berkeley
police cruiser pulled up.
“Uh-oh. Now what?” Niles said.
Two officers stepped out of a cruiser, then Speer. He
threw a glance Jude’s way.
“Not Speer,” Jude said impatiently.
“You know one of them?” Niles asked.
“Unfortunately, I do. He thrives on petty, tyrant-
bullshit games.”
Special Agent Speer had his badge pinned to his
jacket. The brigade of three wore shiny aviator
sunglasses. They marched toward Jude.
“Look who it is,” Speer started with a gloating
expression on his face. “The divining rod for disaster.”
Jude saluted Speer mockingly and mouthed, fuck off.
“Nice, Wagner. Classy. Just what I’d expect from the
geek with the gun.”
“What do you want?” Jude asked.
“You’re hell-bent on giving up that new badge, aren’t
you?” Speer said.
Jude took an aggressive step toward Speer.
Niles said, “Hey everybody. Let’s get through this.”
Jude didn’t want Niles to give in to the asshole, so he
took the lead. “How’d you find out about this?”
“Okay. I’ll answer that, then you answer my
questions. A: I’m here because I know something
 GRIDLOCK
16

exploded and, B: you show up in the middle of things.

What happened?”
“Our boat motor blew. You know, as in spontaneously
combusted. And here we are catching up the way friends
do.”
“Look, smart-ass. Don’t you find this suspicious? Did
you see any warning signs?”
“No.” Jude wondered if Hackman somehow had Speer
keeping an eye on him. Jude was a new hire, meaning an
agent on probation for two years, who already had a
connection to two dead men.
“Did you see anyone we should know about?”
“Listen, Speer, if I think of anything I’ll call or send
you an Instant Message on AOL if that’s what you use in
the middle of the night when you’re trolling for a date.
Right now we’re going home.”
“Shit face. You can avoid explaining things, but soon
Hackman‘ll want answers—not your fuckwit bullshit. Now
give these officers some kind of report so we don’t go
back holding our dicks in our hands.”
One officer got a thermos from the cruiser, poured
himself something hot into a styrofoam cup, finished the
cup and then rejoined the group. After some fifteen
minutes of questioning wherein Jude gave stock answers
to the cops and Speer, Niles complained that ringing in
his ears was getting to him.
The cop asking the questions looked at Speer, then
turned back to Jude and said, “That’s all we need.”
“Now for a bigger question,” Speer said. “When was
the last time you had contact with your former CERN
colleague, Jűrgen Hansen?”
17 ALVIN ZIEGLER

The question caught Jude off guard. He thought a

second before responding. “It’s been months unless
you’re talking about email.”
“How often did you email him?”
Annoyed, Jude said, “I’m on an email distribution that
goes to the Stanford Grid Project team. Messages would
come to me almost daily.”
Speer scratched his jaw. “You must have something
better to tell us.”
Jude raised his hand to signal, stop. “Look, I’m aware
Hansen was murdered. Believe me, it’s a much bigger
concern to those who knew him than it is to you. I’m
trying to find out for myself who’s behind it. Why don’t
we go over this another time.”
Niles rubbed his eyes. “Jude, are your ears ringing?”
“Yes.”
“I’m almost done here,” Speer said turning to Niles.
“How about you?”
“What?” Niles asked.
“When was the last time you had contact with Jűrgen
Hansen? And I want to know the same for Hideo Onagi.”
Niles said, “You must know I worked with Hideo Onagi.
I saw him almost every day before he left on his last trip
a week ago. Jude here is busy with other things.”
“Can you imagine any threat they would pose to
anyone?”
“No,” Jude and Niles said in unison.
“Can we do this some other time?” Jude asked.
Speer looked them over, arms crossed.
Jude added, “Honestly, we’d probably have better
answers for you if we went over this another day.”
“Looks like we’ll have to. In the meantime, you two
should watch your backs.” Speer half-waved the air to
say, with some reservation, that he was done for now.
19 ALVIN ZIEGLER

The officers dismissed them. Speer tipped his

sunglasses to give them a parting stare-down
reprimand. They got in their cruiser and left.
“Well, that was a hell of a lot of fun,” Niles said.
Jude rested his hands on his sore ribs with an arm that
throbbed as he lumbered along. As they reached their
cars, a young man approached them wearing a blue
blazer over a tan sweater, pressed khakis and
Timberland shoes. Clipped to his blazer was a press pass
laminated in plastic.
“Jude Wagner, right? The award ceremony recipient?
Mike Finlaw, San Francisco Chronicle.”
“And Niles Tully,” Niles interjected.
“Yes,” Jude said.
“I didn’t know that newspaper was still around. I
thought it had shrunk to nothing.” Niles said annoyed.
“Readers like the smaller format.”
By this time, Jude couldn’t wait to leave. Niles clicked
open his doors. Jude went for his Mazda. The reporter
followed Jude. Niles and Jude got inside their cars.
“Can I have one more moment? I want to ask you
about the explosion on this sailboat?” The reporter
snapped his ballpoint pen, out and in.
“No.” Jude said.
“Please, I’d like to ask if you think this was accidental
or foul—“
“Deliberate? Ha. Why would someone go after me?”
Jude said, dismissively.
“It’s your friend’s boat, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You know, maybe someone has it in for him.” The
reporter glanced at Niles. “He’s part of the Stanford Grid
Project, right?”
21 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Jude didn’t have the patience to go through the story

again. Niles started the engine and revved it.
Jude said, “No comment.”
In his car Jude checked messages on his cell phone.
He had one from Roger Knowlan. Finlaw was banging on
Jude’s window. Jude started up the Mazda and drove out
of the Marina as a couple of TV news vans were driving
in.
Jude listened to Knowlan’s message while driving.
Knowlan explained that a lanky FBI Special Agent named
Speer had visited him and asked him a lot of questions
about Hansen and Onagi. At the end of the message,
Knowlan warned Jude that he’d be surprised if his own
office didn’t come at him with the same interrogation.
Jude said under his breath, “Too late.”
23 ALVIN ZIEGLER

twenty-five

Wednesday, November 3
Berkeley and Emeryville, CA

Ramsey hunted floor fifteen of J&Q for Ferguson and

finally cornered him in the executive lunch room, raiding
a vending machine of another granola bar.
“I’m worried more than ever that the Grid is going to
decimate J&Q,” Ramsey said. “We’ve gotta do more.
Bring in the infantry, call reinforcements, come up with
more strategies of defense. We’ve gotta put emergency
measures into motion.”
Ferguson stared, skeptically. “You don’t get how much
I’m already doing to keep this company from
floundering. Not a moment passes when I’m not
worrying about stock price and positioning. I’m steering
this ship from the rocks. Not you.”
Ferguson crossed his arms. Monogrammed cuffs
underscored his presidential rank. To Ramsey this was
nothing more than show and posturing, a guise when
things were bottoming out.
“We agree there are big rocks out there. What I don’t
get is how you think we’re not headed for them.”
Ramsey said, shrugging incredulously.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Ramsey had had it with Ferguson’s resistance to

listen. Instead of trying to spur a crusty and feckless CEO
into action, he angled into the conference room—his
makeshift office—by himself.
Inside, he swung the door shut. Motion-sensor lights
flicked on. Looking out the floor-to-ceiling bay view, he
saw smoke. In the distance, boats had circled around
what appeared to be the result of a sailing explosion. He
pondered the capriciousness of life. Uncertainty
bothered him, especially the possibility of earthquakes in
California. He disliked traveling to San Francisco, fearing
the area could start shaking without warning. A segment
of that damn Bay Bridge had collapsed during the last
major quake. Engineers would be working for twenty-
four years to construct a new one beside the old. Great—
a monument to man’s frailty.
He wondered if the J&Q building was built on landfill.
With a press of a button, Ramsey shut the drapes.
He longed for an inside look at how the Grid was
developing. How nice it would be if he could traipse
plainly through the halls of Stanford’s Bioengineering
Department, making inquiries himself. But these days
everyone was vigilant about corporate snooping. One
couldn’t be too careful.
Taking a conference room chair, he snagged the
phone across the long table, and tapped a five-digit
extension to call the executive assistant. “Heather?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Olivier. Please come by the conference room.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ferguson had told Ramsey that Heather had worn
many hats: won the Miss Virginia pageant, worked as a
reporter for The Alexandria Times, and then landed a job
with Johnston & Quib. Ramsey had another scheme in
 GRIDLOCK
8

mind for the former beauty queen who was known

around J&Q for being the crafty EA.
Hearing a rap on his door, Ramsey said, “come in.”
She softly closed the door behind her. “So, my guess
is you’d like an update.” She whispered. “On Jude
Wagner.”
She had a curvaceous figure and breathy carnality.
Ramsey tugged on his tie. “Yes. Why don’t you sit
down.”
He hoped she had come with good information,
although she appeared tense gripping her notepad.
Ramsey hadn’t missed her the first time he came to
the J&Q office. No man who worked on the top floor did.
Her strawberry hair belonged in a Corvette at an exotic
car trade show. Her body would make spending big
money easy. She more than fulfilled his fantasies of an
executive assistant. He adopted her as a resource
whenever he visited Johnston & Quib.
He was pleased by how readily she had agreed to his
previous request and how pliable she had become. He
knew she’d been instructed to cater to his business
needs. Still, corporate espionage was more than he
could’ve hoped from an admin. Ramsey relished when
he succeeded in getting cooperation from people,
especially relative strangers. If Cez@r failed, he still
might get something from Heather, picking up
breadcrumbs of information along the way.
“What did you find out from Jude Wagner, and how did
you go about it?”
“Like you suggested, I followed him after the award
ceremony.” She took a nervous breath. “I figured he
might be inclined to chat after the event. I managed to
get a seat beside him at a bar called the Hyde Out.”
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“And?”
She fidgeted sheepishly. “He started to tell me
something big and just stopped himself.”
Ramsey hissed. “Damn it, Heather. Did he mention
anything about a deal Stanford was doing?”
“I’m afraid not. He was under a lot of stress and that
really threw me off.”
Ramsey dropped his pen on a pad in front of him and
looked closely at her, barely controlling his temper.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Maybe I’ll have more luck if I
try again.”
He looked around the room in frustration.
“If I could find him, I think I could get him talking
again. But I’d need to know exactly what it is you want
to find out.”
Ramsey mulled things over. “I’ve got a different idea.”
“For getting information?”
“Yes, but this won’t involve Wagner. I don’t want him
getting onto you.”
She pushed strawberry-blonde hair over one ear.
“I’ll need you to work this into your schedule right
away. Same as before, you’ll need to conceal your
affiliation with Johnston & Quib for what I’m asking of
you.”
That shouldn’t be too difficult, he thought. She’s built
for tempting a man into trouble.
“And what is that you need now?”
“Didn’t you work as a reporter for a time?”
She nodded, appearing surprised at his knowledge of
her background.
“You’ve chased down a story or two, right?” He
leaned closer.
“For two years.”
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“I’d like to call on your experience and give you

another story assignment.”
She looked puzzled. “Now you’ve really lost me.”
He anxiously touched his slicked-back hair. “Just hear
this out. See if you can arrange an interview with
Stanford’s Grid program director, Roger Knowlan.”
Ramsey jotted a phone number, tore the sheet off of a
company letterhead pad, and put it into her delicate
hand.
“Get to him ASAP. I want to know exactly how
formidable this Grid technology is and what its readiness
is for fighting disease. See what the Stanford team is
doing locally.”
“I think I can do that, sir.” She pursed her lips, deep in
thought.
“Just concoct some cover story, and leave my name
and Johnston & Quib’s out of it,” Ramsey said.
“Can you tell me why all of this needs to remain such
a secret?” she said, more boldly than he had expected.
“Yes and no. What I can tell you is that a divisive
competitor is about to wage an attack on your
company.”
“What kind of attack?”
“What I’m saying is that the Stanford project could
dangerously undermine the healthcare industry. We
need whatever information we can get to defend
ourselves.”
“I see,” she said.
“Good.” Ramsey said to his femme fatale, watching
her girlish sway as she swished out. Briefly, he
considered what it meant to lure this malleable
employee into corporate espionage—implicating her in a
plan to hobble Stanford’s ingenious health project. But
he quickly justified his actions in his mind He trusted
 GRIDLOCK
12

that Heather was hungry for advancement, this would be

good for her career and he let go of all second thoughts.
Besides, collecting information was the currency of his
craft. He couldn’t be without it. Being on the outside of
this situation was tying his hands, assuring the demise
of Johnston & Quib.
From Ramsey’s point of view, J&Q’s future appeared
dim. The company stock value relied too much on the
success of Ferguson’s next two blockbuster drugs.
Moving a drug into mainstream use generated billions of
revenue, yet failing at a single venture could ruin a
company.
Realizing that he was inordinately late, Ramsey
punched in Pinsky’s phone number to update his boss on
the latest machinations.
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

twenty-six

Wednesday, November 3
San Francisco at Jude’s Apartment

Alone in the quiet of Jude’s apartment, Kate took the

opportunity to research breast cancer treatment, hoping
she’d stumble onto some genomic medicine insight. She
powered up her notebook computer and busily clicked at
web pages. She stopped at a cancer article and read:
Every three minutes another woman is diagnosed with
breast cancer. It affected two million women in North
America in the 1990s and one quarter of them died.
She dabbed her forehead with water from her glass
and continued:
Two years ago, Johnston & Quib found a breast cancer
treatment that was 90 percent effective, but only 5
percent of breast cancer patients suffered from this rare
strain. The company shelved it. Another drug went into
widespread manufacturing in its place that could only
claim a 50 percent effective rate in 80 percent of the
population.

She knew that pharmaceutical companies often

gambled their total savings to discover one drug. She sat
back, pondering it: J&Q had effective drugs that they had
 GRIDLOCK
6

withheld from production. Par for the course. What a

shame it is that saving lives is inextricably tied to the
business of healthcare. Who could believe that a divine
power would’ve pre-ordained a world filled with such
contradiction? She was in no mood to dwell on questions
of faith. Ultimately, it wasn’t something she ever felt she
had any control over anyhow.

***

Jude scraped his shoes clean on the mat outside his

apartment. The shirt the Coast Guard had given him
clung around his chest. The pants rode up his ankles,
exposing socks caked with dried mud.
Kate must have heard him. She opened the door
before he did.
“What the hell happened to you?” She looked him up
and down. Her eyes, weary and red.
“Bad day.” Jude changed clothes and returned the
sofa to explain the boat ordeal.
“Are you okay? I tried calling you an hour ago.”
“Got knocked in the head pretty good, but I think I’ll
live.”
She went still.
The last thing Jude wanted was to worry her. “Kate,
I’m going to be perfectly okay. How are you?”
“Feeling better, actually.”
He moved to the kitchen to get a glass of water.
She followed. “But someone is after you, trying to—?”
Jude poured a glass of water. “I know. I know. I
probably need to remove myself from circulation for a
day or two—” Making an ice pack with a pot holder, he
applied it to the back of his head.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“I can’t believe what’s happening.” Kate paced the

kitchen while he ordered pizza from around the corner.
When he hung up she said, “You’ve been getting calls
from news offices.”
Jude played the first message and hit delete.
“Please,” she said, “just lie down.”
Jude couldn’t be talked into resting. After rehydrating,
he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and looked at
its blank screen. The phone was damp but after
removing the battery and inserting it again, the device
surprisingly turned on.
As Kate left to pick up the pizza, Jude quickly checked
email and ruminated over the conversation he needed to
have with Roger Knowlan. He felt more bruised now than
he did an hour ago. Trying to reclaim control of his life,
he decided to make that call to Knowlan.
Jude heard the rumble of the cable car wheels
outside. By the sound of the honking and hollering, it
sounded as if a wedding party was passing outside his
window. He let the noise completely pass before dialing.
He knew that the conversation could be a frustrating
one. Changing the mind of a person like Knowlan
seemed as tough as curing cancer. But he seemed to
like Kate.
“Roger, it’s Jude.”
“Yes.”
“I need to speak with you about something serious,”
Jude said.
“We have a lot to go to over with Hideo’s absence.”
“Right. I hope we can…work things out. My sister was
just diagnosed with breast cancer.”
“Uh. I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“I’m wondering … well, if we could use her as our first
test patient.”
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“H’mm.” Knowlan said, “That’s clever, use your sister

as leverage. Jude, what do you propose we do for her
without genetic data to reference against?”
“I have an idea to get more.”
“For getting hold of a DNA repository?”
“Uh-huh, and it will deliver all the records we need.”
“Where is Kate, by the way?”
“She’s staying with me. I could have her come down
and see you. Sooner rather than later. Before you say
no, hear me out. If we can treat Kate we’ll have the
world on a string, Roger. Trust me. I know you want to
commercialize the Grid. But imagine the ad dollars we
could generate if we give the Grid away. Let Kate be our
example of free medicine at work–Google’s not-for-profit
model can drive this.”
It was hard to make it out over the phone, but Jude
detected a cough on Roger’s side that sounded like a
coming compromise.
Jude added, “I know you’ve felt like we’ve been
unwavering on a not-for-profit drug program, but . . .”
“Jude. You’ve made your case. And with the University
surrendering copyright protection, I don’t think we’ll get
a red cent from privatizing this, not anytime soon. So, I
agree. Part of something, as they say, is better than part
of nothing.”
Jude’s spirits buoyed.
Knowlan continued, “And I know if I say no, you’ll
double-team me with Niles again. I don’t like being told
what to do, but we need to move beyond testing
diabetes.”
“So what does this mean?” Jude asked.
“I’d like to help Kate. Have her call me. She’ll have my
full attention down here.”
“Thank you,” Jude said eagerly.
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Just don’t manipulate me into doing things for you

next time. Just ask.”
“Fine. One more thing.”
“Yes.”
“You should know that I was sailing with Niles and our
boat exploded. It didn’t look like an accident, so—“
“Really. You’re both okay?”
Jude summarized the events for him and hung up in
utter amazement that he had won Knowlan’s help.
Fifteen minutes later Kate returned and put the
combo pizza on plates. They ate in front of the living
room TV.
“We just got amazing news,” Jude said.
“What now?”
“Roger Knowlan at Stanford has agreed to give you an
evaluation. He’ll do an initial consultation to get
information he would need from you to proceed with
genomic cancer treatment.”
Kate didn’t answer right away. “So, what would he do
exactly?”
“He’d take a saliva sample and sequence your
genome. He’d need to do that to get things started.”
Jude put his finger in his ear and made a face.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“My ears are ringing.”
Standing very still and looking at Jude, Kate said, “You
might be surprised to hear me say this.”
“You’ll do it?” Jude said.
“Yes.” Kate smiled.
“This is a good thing we’re doing, Kate.”
In his bedroom, Jude saw that Kate had folded his
clothes and filed her suitcase in the corner. He changed
out of the shirt and pants that the Coast Guard had
handed out and showered.
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Jude lay awake in the living room that evening,

replaying events. It wasn’t easy to rest with what had
happened and Kate’s questions. She wouldn’t stop
prodding him on how the boat incident fit in with
Stanford. Jude wondered if Hideo were alive and knew
about all that had happened if he’d postpone the Grid
project indefinitely. He probably would, but that didn’t
matter now. Jude may not be a Stanford employee any
longer, but the Grid project needed him now more than
ever. He refused to let the thought of defeat invade his
consciousness.

Unfortunately, pressing on meant that he and Niles

would continue to put their safety at risk. Come to think
of that, he hoped that he hadn’t put Kate in some sort of
jeopardy by bringing her to his apartment.
5 ALVIN ZIEGLER

twenty-seven

Thursday, November 3
San Francisco, CA

The Russian Hill flat sweltered with dry heat. Unable to

sleep, Kate turned on Jude’s bedside table light at 1:30
A.M. She suspected that staying with Jude for long would

cramp his bachelor lifestyle. But it was obvious that

staying with Jude wasn’t what was really keeping her
awake and haunting her.
While Jude camped on the living room sofa, she
propped herself upright on his bed with throw pillows.
Concerned for the shivers Kate’s fever still caused,
he’d cranked the thermostat dial to sauna temperatures,
then crashed on the couch. Unable to find the
thermostat, she opened his heavy wooden bedroom
window to admit a cool breeze. Framed photos on the
wall distracted her for a moment—they were
photographs Jude had taken from trips to see glaciers
calving in Alaska. Then she snatched the TV remote from
inside his Chinese dresser. After dabbing her sweaty
forehead, she climbed back into his sleigh bed. She
flipped TV channels, then settled on late-night news. An
 GRIDLOCK
6

in-depth story featured a familiar person, Johnston &

Quib’s CEO, Marc Ferguson.
She knew the face, that hard jaw and those piercing
eyes. He resembled an older Daniel Craig, the blond
James Bond. Seconds passed and it came to her. She
had met him at Jude’s award ceremony. She pressed
VOLUME UP on the TV remote.

The reporter with the stiff combed-back hair opened

with, “Mr. Ferguson, you’ve said the sale of drugs over
the Internet compromises intellectual property rights,
hurting inventors and entrepreneurs.”
“I have.”
“The genome mapping of 2003, using the Grid,
generated as much praise as if Americans had landed on
Mars. What do you think of the new Grid project at
Stanford?”
Ferguson’s blue eyes narrowed. “Genomic research is
exciting, that’s why Johnson & Quib supported Stanford’s
Grid initiative. But frankly, the way the government is
involved undermines private enterprise.”
“Please elaborate.”
Ferguson leaned into the news camera lens. “Many
popular, branded blockbuster drugs are reaching the end
of their patent-protected lives. When patents expire,
manufacturers will lose 30 to 40 percent market share
as generic alternatives come out. Also, we’re facing
patent infringement from Canadian companies, who are
making copies of patented drugs. We’ve seen how
musicians and movie makers are being bankrupted by
the rampant Internet pirating of music and film. The
same phenomenon is undermining legitimate drugs.”
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

The reporter cut in, “Okay, but doesn’t Stanford’s Grid

have the right to give people what’s theirs—knowledge
of their body chemistry?”
“Private citizens don’t know what to do with their
mapped genome any more than I know how to build a
sport utility vehicle.”
“But how does the new Grid science threaten drug
manufacturers?” the reporter asked.
“Nobody gets this. It’s an attack on intellectual
property in the name of medical treatment. It’s
nonsense. Please. How will a government-run network
replace private research? Such socialistic, free science
deters investors, undermines capitalism and is
dangerous. Even Bill Gates implied that free software
developers were communists. You’ll see, first this, then
drug patents will go on the chopping block—just wait.”
The interviewer looked down at his notes, grasping for
control of the interview. Ferguson continued, “We’re
being seduced by the Grid and its no-fee, gene-based
diagnosis. It’s haphazard. This is why the pharmaceutical
industry exists, so drugs are researched and
manufactured according to standardized practices.”
Kate half-dismissed this industry ranting. He wasn’t
the first to argue against the Grid. Yet she didn’t expect
Ferguson—the drug company leader—to rail against it on
CNN.
Ferguson added, “Where’s our American heritage of
discovery going? Internet-driven research. Global
outsourcing pollutes our way of life.”
Ferguson was riling himself up so much that his face
had turned a rosy shade and he spit in his agitation to
get the words out.
“We should keep an eye on Stanford’s not-for-profit
Grid,” Ferguson continued. “Computers speak to each
 GRIDLOCK
8

other, and many databases can communicate, and more

are coming together all the time. Soon, some search
engine company will offer a source of universal
knowledge. Now, if that’s not absolute power, nothing is.
Will this power be used for good—to cure? I’m
skeptical.’’
The interviewer finished, “They once called him
Golden Throat—whenever Marc Ferguson spoke,
investors opened checkbooks.”
She clicked off the tube and turned over to rest.
Three-fifteen, she slammed a pillow against the wall.
Insomnia. Only a few short hours of sleep and she awoke
to the ticking of Jude’s alarm clock. Pictures of disease
stalking her body, destroying her white blood cells,
rolled through her mind. She couldn’t escape textbook
images. Virulent slide samples. Teaching Biology made
them far too familiar.
Feeling queasy, she fanned herself and suddenly
threw up on his floor. At least she avoided hitting his
throw rug. She ran to the bathroom to clean up and
brush her teeth. Her throat still burned from stomach
acid as she wiped up the mess on the wood floor boards.
It didn’t help matters that clothing in Jude’s room held
the faint aroma of bourbon and hot sauce.
Completely awake now, she stumbled around the
bedroom.
While organizing her suitcase, she reached into a pocket
to find something she had left from a previous trip: her
mother’s favorite silver bracelet. It jingled as she lifted it
from the suitcase. Their home life had dissolved quickly
after her mother died. Their dad, Benjamin, taped photos
of mom on the fridge then buried himself in work at the
family engineering business.
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

From birth, Kate had been the cautious one. And it

was Jude who surprised the family when his computer
hacking sent him to Juvenile Hall. She tucked the
bracelet back into the suitcase then fished through the
medical publications Jude had collected on genomics. It
staggered the imagination that one of every eight
women in the world developed breast cancer. Worse
still, it was the primary cause of death for one woman
out of every twenty-eight who contracted it.
She trod softly into the kitchen so as not to wake Jude.
Returning to his bedroom, she downed a glass of ice
water, ate half a piece of wheat toast and booted her
laptop.
She thought about the television interview and
searched for MARC FERGUSON, J&Q CEO. She read a
Business Times profile:
“Marc Ferguson craved validation as a youth, a
byproduct of strict parents and an austere childhood in a
Pennsylvania steel working family. Excelling in science
at college and “B” school thereafter, he earned his
highest marks in the school of charm. A social magnet
at fund-raisers, he jests at his talent for making a silk
purse from a sow’s ear.”
What an operator. Clicking on another website, she
found a homepage with a calendar of public speakers at
the San Jose Silicon Valley Chamber of Commerce.
Ferguson was scheduled for a speaking engagement
today at 11:30 A.M.
Nervous energy spun through her veins and nerves.
Time to go on the offensive. Setting down the computer,
she jotted a to-do list on paper at Jude’s bedside: she’d
borrow his car to go to San Jose and absorb everything
she could about what Johnston & Quib was doing with
breast cancer treatment. She needed to find who or
 GRIDLOCK
10

what therapy would rescue her. She believed in herself.

Intelligence had got her to where she was today. If
anyone could outsmart this malady she could.
She checked her face in the mirror, touching faint
lines around her mouth and eyes. She vowed to not let
stress eat at her.
After hopping into olive slacks and pulling on a fine-
gauge crew-neck sweater, she froze. Could all of this
effort be in vain? She turned to Jude’s full-length
bedroom mirror to look again at the person who had
been diagnosed with cancer.
She noticed how much her blonde hair and distraught
face resembled her mother’s, especially after she had
lost weight. She didn’t want to give the appearance of
being on death’s doorstep. Eyes, bloodshot from stress,
gazed back at her. She brushed her hair and put on
makeup with a shaking hand.
She stood tall, then turned from the mirror. After
pulling on tennis shoes, she located a valet key beside
the fruit bowl in the kitchen. The apartment door
slammed behind her as she breezed out.

***

In the early evening, Ramsey checked local news on

his computer in the J&Q conference room. A report on a
boat explosion made him squint at the screen with keen
interest.
The story described how the explosion almost killed
two highly praised members of the Stanford Grid Project,
Niles Tully and Jude Wagner. It went onto to note that
this occurred shortly after Stanford announced how it
would compete head-on with traditional drug companies.
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

The article all but publicly insinuated that someone high

up in a pharmaceutical company could have had a hand
in this boat exploding.
Astonished, Ramsey turned his attention to a
voicemail message that had been taken down for him.
He had no doubts who had rung. Ramsey didn’t know
how Cez@r had found him at J&Q. The message didn’t
leave a name or note—it simply said, Olivier Ramsey,
call, then gave the number. Ramsey raced out of the
building, found a pay phone, dialed and heard a
recorded message:
“The Cayman Bank name is Axis International,
address is 5 Bowe Street, Grand Cayman KY1-1102, the
routing code is 1127671021, include your corresponding
bank name and account number—must be non-US, the
name you are sending to is Harold Billingworth, the
amount is $500,000. Don’t leave a message. If you do,
we’re finished. First payment must be received within 24
hours. You’ll get updates.”
With Cez@r’s Cayman Island bank account number
handy, Ramsey woke a Pinsky Investment colleague in
New York, who oversaw budgeting.

***

The virus writer pulled microwaved egg rolls from the

oven, dribbled a red sauce on them and ate. Chewing
away, he considered how his code would be a work of
art.
He’d disrupt the Stanford Grid with a self-propagating
worm virus. It would delve deep into the Grid, invoking a
computational/maintenance function that would put the
Grid into a nonresponsive test mode, or stand-by state.
Stealth.
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

An amateur could cause the Grid to fail, but that sort

of thing would be detected and would automatically
cause a system reboot. Cez@r’s ploy would slow down
the Grid and disable access to it from within Stanford,
corrupting it in a way that resembled blocking a tunnel
so that data could not flow through it for analysis. When
the Grid was functional, it would work smoothly, but
when a portion of it was compromised, the entire system
would suffer.
This would silence those who doubted if he was
worthy of his nickname. He licked sweet-and-sour sauce
from his fingers to begin keying in operations.
5 ALVIN ZIEGLER

twenty-eight

Thursday, November 4
San Jose, CA

Driving through sprawling Silicon Valley traffic made

Kate tense. After parking, she headed into the
conference center, relishing the warm San Jose sun on
her forehead. It did nothing for cancer, but even in her
short walk, she enjoyed knowing ultraviolet light was
germicidal.
With no empty chairs in the conference room, Kate
stood by the door. Ferguson spoke with the verve of a
Baptist preacher to the assembled eighty plus people.
They listened while sipping coffee and eating pastries. If
anyone was going to enlighten her on the latest breast
cancer therapies, he would. She couldn’t take her eyes
off Ferguson’s familiar face.
He continued, “We are in for a devastating defeat in
the world drug market. The world is copying products
without bearing the expense of R&D. Copying
intellectual property is economic terrorism, pure and
simple. Sure, corporate America can save money by
farming jobs out to India. And we do. But this is slippery
too.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Johnston & Quib will not give up the fight against

global outsourcing. We’re going to keep bringing the
best drugs to market.”
Applause followed the close of his talk and the room
emptied. She wanted a private moment with Ferguson
and didn’t approach the podium to speak until the place
had cleared out. For the first time in her adult life, she
realized there was no obligation more important than
this to fulfill: no place that she needed to go next, no
college lecture to plan, or papers to grade or teacher-
student appointments to consider. None of the
professional duties that mattered before she became
terminally did now. The only appointment in life now was
with herself, to find a cure. Every duty, from Lexington
to San Francisco, came second, except for Mac
Ferguson.
But would he speak to her, knowing she was Jude’s
sister, knowing her allegiances? She flushed with
anxiety.
The CEO looked weaker than the Marc Ferguson she
saw at the award ceremony and on TV. In this light, his
skin hung around his mouth and jaws, softening the gruff
image she had formed of him. He folded his coat over his
arm and grabbed his folder. She waited while he finished
a chat with someone, then approached him.
“Mr. Ferguson, I’m Kate Wagner. We met at the—”
“Computing award banquet, I remember.” He walked
closer. “You’re Jude Wagner’s sister.”
“You got me.” She wondered if that was going to be
the end of the conversation.
“There’s resemblance,” he said flatly.
“Right. I’m a biology professor and that was one
thought-provoking talk.”
“Thank you for indulging me in the histrionics.”
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Theatrics, I’d say. I wonder if I could trouble you with

specifics around the delivery of your newest drugs.”
His eyebrows lifted defensively. “Because?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. You probably think I’m here to see you
on behalf of my brother. Believe me. That’s not the case
at all. Honestly, I’m here because, um. I’m sick, seriously
ill actually, and looking for options, and I’m hoping you
can point me in the right direction?”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” He said with eyes blinking
erratically. He appeared sharp as ever but rundown.
He looked off for an instant, pausing as if he was
about to brush her off, then said, “I’m sympathetic to
your plight. Someone very close to me has a terminal
illness. When I say there’s promise for drugs that are
coming out, I’m hoping it will help him and, of course,
many others.” She suspected that someone could be he.
“Do you think your latest breast cancer drug is the
best option going for those patients?”
He moved out of the conference room, not letting him
get out of her sight. She held the elevator door for him.
They walked out of the building. “Yes, you’re referring to
our new drug called Remedacil. It’s helped relieve
symptoms and in some cases even put the cancer into
remission. I can’t promise it’s a cure. It depends on what
stage your cancer is.”
“Got it.” Kate stood tall, remaining optimistic that she
wasn’t too far along for help.
.She spontaneously asked if he’d speak to her further
over lunch. He mulled it over and finally agreed,
provided they keep the lunch meeting quick.
She followed him in her car. Driving, she passed a
high school girl walking a German shepherd on the
shoulder of the road. She eased up on the accelerator.
The dog’s hips slumped. The girl moved at a slow pace
 GRIDLOCK
10

to accommodate the pet. Kate stared and then snapped

her gaze back to the road.
He waited for her in front of the place called Bella Mia
Italian which specialized in pasta and seafood. The
restaurant comprised two floors with two indoor rooms
and a patio. A small sign on the wall at the front door
advertised jazz nights. The main room had white
tablecloth dining.
They chose the less formal area with antique sconces
that hung on walls with green Victorian wallpaper. With
the restaurant half-empty, they had no trouble being
seated at a quiet corner table in the front, looking onto
First Street.
Kate ordered lasagna. Ferguson, ravioli. Organizing
questions in her head, she couldn’t believe she was
chatting with Ferguson one-on-one.
He smiled politely at her. “By now, you’ve heard my
thoughts on Stanford’s work. I was obviously a big
supporter and I still believe that Grid-based genomic
testing is ground-breaking but it shouldn’t be free. In
fact, it’s still premature. No offense to your brother but
talk of his world Grid being a panacea is science fiction.”
“That’s what I used to think,” she said.
He gave her a curious look.
“But as my brother said in his speech, the post-
genomic era is here.”
“Your brother’s quite the cancer crusader,” he said
flatly. “But I’m afraid the path he’s on is fraught with
complications now that he’s lost our backing.”
“How so?”
“Stanford’s genomic science is still in research mode
—it was going to be nothing but R&D for us. They made
strides with their diabetes tests, that’s all.
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“We always expect things are ready before they really

are. After the sequencing of the human genome in 2003,
scientists reported that soon they’d be tweaking our
DNA, remedying our flawed chromosomes and stopping
inherited disease. Has that happened? They said gene
therapy would be like taking an antibiotic—simple and
certain. But years later we’re still waiting.”
“True,” she said, “and I know it’ll be many, many
years before we fully interpret the genome. But the point
is we’ve started and that, I believe, marks the greatest
leap of human medical science. And you can’t dispute
the fact that most human health and disease has a
genetic basis.”
He scratched his nose, visibly not expecting a debate.
It amused her that she sounded like Jude—defending
the new science. It was one of those moments where
she felt as one with her twin.
“And what about the whole privacy issue?” asked
Ferguson.
“What about it?” she asked.
Their conversation was interrupted by a family leaving
with a crying baby. When the front door closed, the
place went quiet again.
“You were saying?” Kate asked.
“Your brother’s Stanford Grid is bringing genome
sequencing to the masses. I’ve got to tell you, I think it’s
dangerous business.”
“Why?”
“You can’t let the public decode their own genetic
data. It would be crazy. Genetic information needs
protecting, safeguarding. If not, freelancers will spring
up, promising to tell you whether or not you’ll have a
heart attack before you turn fifty. The chance is huge
 GRIDLOCK
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that genomic information will be exploited by the wrong

parties.”
“But maybe genomic data should be protected by the
patient and physician,” Kate said. “Corruption can
happen on either side, right? Who’s to say a medical
insurer couldn’t buy off doctor records for some business
advantage? I really think what Jude’s team is doing is
necessary—they are speeding up disease discovery. You
just don’t like the way they’re going about it—that
Google partnership in the works upsets the
mainstream.”
“What do you know about that stunt?” Ferguson
asked.
“Oh, nothing.” Kate realized that she was talking too
much. “Nothing specific. There’s something I heard
about George Clooney becoming a celebrity sponsor.
Imagine that.”
He gave a steely stare. “I read about that deal—it’s a
spinoff from something called Google Compute…another
tech bandwagon for Silicon Valley cognoscenti. Your
brother’s work has caused a frenzy,” Ferguson said.
“A good frenzy. I could even be his first guinea pig,”
she said, half-surprised at her own words.
“Seriously?” he leaned toward her.
“I’m somewhat skeptical, being a scientist myself, but
the Grid is moving along. I’d still like to consider your
new breast cancer drug.”
“It’s been well received.”
She felt stabbing join pain in her knees and tolerated
it. “I’m, I’m glad to know about it. Would that be used in
conjunction with chemotherapy?”
“Yes.”
“But you say it’s not labeled as a cure?”
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“It’s known for being effective treatment when

doctors add it to a traditional regimen.”
Kate dropped the subject while the waiter set their
plates down. Letting his ravioli cool, Ferguson asked
what else she knew about the Stanford project.
Kate wasn’t expecting to be fielding his questions. He
was moving in all different directions at once.
They talked for another fifteen minutes when she
handed him a business card. “I’d like to keep in touch.
For now, I’m working with Stanford. I’ll be going there
Monday for Grid testing.”
Taking his last forkful, Ferguson’s face turned serious.
“Keep me in the loop,” he said with a raspy voice.
After eating, Ferguson had to be on his way. Kate had
her computer on the table before he had even left the
restaurant. She considered something Jude once told
her: “An algorithm is like a recipe—a logical set of
instructions like a recipe you’d use to bake a cake.
That’s a static algorithm. Mine is adaptive. It learns from
every failed search it runs and keeps trying until it finds
the result.”
Kate’s stomach muscles clenched as she debated her
treatment options. Which course held the most promise:
Jude’s Grid or traditional chemotherapy?
Ultimately, she decided it would be foolish to rule out
traditional treatment and drugs from the leading breast
cancer drug supplier: Johnston & Quib.
She resolved to hedge her bets; combine traditional
medicine with Stanford’s. This decision gave her a
temporary relief—a quieting of the mind she desperately
needed. Either way, though, nobody guaranteed she’d
get better.
15 ALVIN ZIEGLER

On the toilet at Stanford’s Department of Medicine,

Kate noticed blood in her urine—a typical breast cancer
symptom. Kate had excruciating joint pain in her knees
and ankles. As she left the bathroom, she caught a hint
of cigarette odor. Probably no one else noticed. Her
heightened sense of smell caught the faintest scents.
With a shiver of anticipation and a notepad in hand,
she caught the attention of an officious-looking
laboratory aide in a lab coat and glasses.
“Got an appointment?” The aide asked.
“Yes, with Roger Knowlan in the Cancer and
Bioengineering Departments.”
The aide scrupulously checked her ID and asked her
to come with him to his admin desk where he called
Roger Knowlan and asked if he was expecting a Kate
Wagner.
A moment later, he said, “He’s waiting for you, but
visitors must wear badges.” The laconic aide made out a
guest pass sticker. Kate stuck it on.
She then followed him down the fluorescent-lighted
hallway, growing more anxious.
How ironic, she thought: she practically lived in a
classroom firing questions at students about biology,
and now, she became the pupil.
Standing in a sky blue lab coat with arms crossed,
Knowlan said, “Kate Wagner. You’re right on time. We
met briefly at the award dinner.”
He had tightly wound brown-gray hair that topped his
studious, disciplined face.
She acknowledged who she was while the lab aide
walked off. With a piercing stare, Roger Knowlan smiled
warmly, introduced himself and started the tour.
17 ALVIN ZIEGLER

As they walked, he said, “I understand you teach

Biology in Lexington. You won’t be a stranger to what
we’re doing here—not entirely, at least.”
His small mouth, framed by a soft jaw and slim body
made him appear more at home in academia than
anywhere else. She imagined him to be a social hermit,
but his
V-neck sweater over a French blue shirt and Italian blue
jeans
reached for something trendier. The middle-aged
professor could’ve been dressed by the style editors of
Esquire Magazine.
His stab at academic élan left her feeling like a lab rat
preparing for vivisection.
“How are you faring?” he asked.
“I’ve been better. My mother died from breast
cancer.”
“I see. Well, I assure you that you’re going to be
treated very differently from her. I want to get one thing
out of the way though. Your brother and I don’t see the
future of this Grid entirely the same way.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I don’t believe this project should be made free to
the public. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want it to
succeed beyond our wildest dreams. I do.” He patted her
shoulder.
“Glad to hear it.” She nodded somewhat dismissively
to discourage more conversation.
He escorted her down the hall and opened a large
door to reveal an enormous workspace. He made a
sweeping gesture like he was welcoming her to Oz.
Before entering, he pulled two pairs of booties from his
lab coat pocket and handed a pair to her. They snapped
the paper shoes over their own shoes.
19 ALVIN ZIEGLER

The sterile room had been divided into half lecture

hall and half research space. It looked singularly
efficient. The lecture hall side had rows of stadium
seating. The seats angled toward a huge whiteboard on
a sliding partition, which opened to reveal the lab. Kate
had envisioned a laboratory with long counters of pedal-
operated, stainless steel sinks, like the ones she’d
worked with in graduate school. This lab bore no
resemblance to that.
Outfitted for computational biology, the room
contained four upright freezers that probably held blood
samples, but most of the floor space was dedicated to
computer work stations and high tech instruments. From
what she could tell, the department used state-of-the-art
equipment.
Knowlan directed Kate to an office chair with wheels,
next to a flat screen. He swept around her to turn on
lights. She tapped a foot anxiously on the brushed
cement floor.
“Your brother and Dr. Onagi substantially advanced
Stanford’s Grid, Professor Wagner.”
“I go by Kate.”
“Kate, call me Roger.” He radiated a mischievous look
of excitement that showed his passion to test the Grid’s
capabilities. It didn’t exactly put her at ease. She held
tightness in her shoulders.
He took out his phone when it vibrated, looked at the
caller I.D., and let the call go to voicemail. He had a self-
satisfied way about him that annoyed her. Then she
wondered why she cared. She’d put up with a whole hell
of a lot more if she knew he’d successfully treat her
disease.
“I want you to relax,” he said with a smile.
“It’s not easy.”
21 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Why?”
“As a college biology professor, I usually feel right at
home at a University, especially in a science building.
But her I am a bundle of nerves about my own body
chemistry.”
“It would be nice if we had more control. I say we get
started.”
“Okay.” Kate looked around again, considering the
unfamiliar analytical equipment.
“First we’ll explore which breast cancer medicine
matches your gene type. But Jude has to obtain the
database. Data is always the lynchpin.”
Kate braced herself expecting to be doused with
details. “What database?”
“I’m not sure exactly what he’s going for. There’s only
one premier medical center with databases out there
that would open doors for us. And once we pinpoint your
cancer condition we may not even need to create a
custom drug for you. If Jude obtains what I think he will,
that database could have details of drugs that worked
for similar cancer patients fitting your profile. This
includes drugs that never went to market. We could
duplicate those drugs. Then again we may turn to a
custom-tailored drug for you.”
“How do you get around FDA approval?”
“The FDA has new allowances for genomic science.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that we’ve been given a go-ahead for
customized medicine.”
“Ah,” she said guardedly.
“And the Grid has reduced the time required to make
an exact diagnosis.” He fidgeted with excitement. “We’ll
first sequence your genome and check it against known
breast cancer drugs. If we find a hit we’ll begin
 GRIDLOCK
22

personalizing your treatment. You told me earlier that

you’re excited about Marc Ferguson’s new drugs.
They’re inexact— plain and simple. He lacks the
precision that can only be realized through genomics.”
“But mainstream medicine is still good, right?”
He shook his head. “There’s no comparison here.
We’ll be doing years of research in days.” His gaze
intensified. “We’re charging ahead in the battle against
life-threatening diseases. Our Grid is about a thousand
times more powerful than the computer which beat
world chess champion Garry Kasparov in 1997.”
“Deep Blue.”
“That’s right.”
Roger continued, “We’ll split the problem of analyzing
your proteome into millions of smaller problems. We’ll
analyze it with unprecedented speed, ripping problems
at twelve hundred teraflops per second, the equivalent
of twelve hundred trillion calculations per second. The
Grid’s latest trial run on diabetes looked good.”
Kate noticed she was fiddling with her watch and set
her hand at her side.
He slid a small box out of a tight pocket, took a breath
mint and put the box away. “I’d offer you one but I want
your saliva to be as it is.”
“So,” she said, “we check my protein folds against
those that are known to be cancerous in a database and
identify a targeted drug therapy based on pools of data
and genomic matching?”
Knowlan’s eyes brightened as if she’d hit a hole in
one.
“Right, we’ll be running the Grid program again to find
the most suitable treatment for you, based on your
23 ALVIN ZIEGLER

biology, and match it as closely as possible to an

existing drug.
“So, tell everyone you know to volunteer their
computers to do the crunching. All they’ve gotta do is
download the small program which contacts the server
to get work units.”
Roger anxiously picked at a fingernail. “One’s
inclination is to imagine that the best way to conquer
scientific problems would be to follow traditional
methods, but that’s not the case here. Let’s hope Jude
gets hold of that database.”
He directed Kate to the monitor by her chair. A glint in
his eye made him look more like a Silicon Valley
entrepreneur than a science academic.
“Your brother’s data-mining algorithm rewrote
traditional Grid processing methods. It made mining the
data orders of magnitude more efficient.”
“So I hear.”
“But there’s something else. Your brother dreamed up
a unique concept.”
“He’s not as unique as you might think.”
“Why do you say that?”
“We’re twins you know. I tell him he’s a copy of me
and not the other way around.”
“Ha. You do look alike. Anyway, in addition to
motivating hundreds of thousands of volunteers around
the world to lend their PC to the cause and effectively
become part of the Grid, Jude has proposed something
more.”
“What now?”
“In exchange for donating your idle processor and
your anonymous, secured genome to the data pool,
you’ll be awarded special Grid access privileges for
analysis of your own genome.”
 GRIDLOCK
24

Kate sat up. “Like a resource trade?”

“Precisely—this enhances our dataset by orders of
magnitude.”
Kate rubbed her chin. She felt guilty for not giving
Jude more credit and being so dismissive of him. If she
was going to have faith in anything, she should have in
her twin.
Knowlan yanked the keyboard toward him and
pecked.
Enthralled, Kate watched the large screen animate
with dancing, 3-D DNA objects—linked, multicolored,
three-dimensional orbs, spiraling and changing colors
like cartoon geometric figures in space.
“We can handle a million user requests a day.”
“I see.” Kate was spellbound.
Hitting the space bar, Knowlan cleared the display. A
slide show now glowed on the projector screen. He
snatched up a remote control.
“Soon, when we visit our physician and get saliva
analysis, he will identify what ails us and instantly
prescribe a medicine specific to our genetics.’”
“If only we were there today.”
“The better the data algorithms and data processing
power, the closer we come.”
Kate was only half convinced as Knowlan talked
faster, but she wanted to believe. She wanted to act.
She bit her lip and said, “I’m ready.”
5 ALVIN ZIEGLER

twenty-nine

Friday, November 4
Geneva, Switzerland

Niles wanted to sprint for the train, but he didn’t feel so

spry after the Tipsea exploded—he wore bruises from
the ordeal. In the glass-ceilinged arrival hall, he paused
to catch his breath. He checked the dressing on his
bandaged arm. The sling had slipped off the shoulder of
his double-breasted suit. He couldn’t be late to meet his
son in London. He clacked up a ramp of steps at the
Gare Cornavin train station.
Dressed in polished Ferragamo shoes, Niles lugged a
notebook computer and his carry-on bag. The departure
board showed he would just make it. He hadn’t seen
Edward’s bright grin for weeks. After so much had fallen
apart, he wanted to be cheered by that smile.
Charlene, Edward’s mother, was bringing him to a
gastro-pub where he and Niles could enjoy a father-son
dinner. It was logistical hell to co-parent a kid with a
friend who lived overseas—5,300 miles away—but he
and Charlene were pulling it off somehow with air travel
and weekly telephone calls. Both gay, they had a
partnership through Edward only—their cherub. Edward
had an insatiable curiosity for knowing the mechanics of
 GRIDLOCK
6

cars, boats and planes—a trait inherited from his gadget-

loving father.
The terminal smelled of cigarettes and baked bread.
Niles passed three German college students with
oversized backpacks and buzz haircuts. They stepped
aside on the escalator, allowing him to pass. He envied
their freedom and asked himself how he got into this
complex mess of trying to improve medicine. Nothing
had been easy. How did their well-meaning work go so
awry? Emotionally exhausted, he longed for a holiday.
He’d be happy anywhere warm, provided no sailboats
were in sight.
Up ahead he saw a sign that read CONCOURSE PASSENGER
BOARDING AREA.
The ticket agent checked Niles’s ticket for Waterloo
Station, London. The agent punched it and handed it
back to Niles, who headed to customs. He’d crossed the
English Channel by underground train often to attend
Grid meetings with CERN, but the TGV never got old—
much more posh than the Tube he commuted on years
ago from Heathrow to Paddington station. We lost the
Jaguar to the Yanks, he thought, but Europeans still get
some things right.
He exchanged Euros for pounds at the Bureau de
Change.
Niles rang Jude. “Finally good news, console cowboy.”
“Niles.”
“CERN is over-the-moon about our Google deal. They
love the concept that Stanford’s Grid is going to be
downloadable from the Google toolbar. They’ve picked
up right where Jűrgen left off. It’s sensational, mate. We
did it. Am I waking you?”
“You are. It’s 5 A.M.”
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

The announcement system blasted, “Der Zug wird in

zwei Minuten abweichen …”
English followed. “The train’s leaving,” Niles told Jude.
“Have a safe trip, Niles.” Jude sounded downcast. Still
in a tailspin from all of these events, Niles realized he’d
forgotten to ask about Kate’s condition.
“We’ll talk more about Kate soon.” Niles said. Clicking
off, he hurried to the train.
Niles got off a quick text message to Roger Knowlan
to relay that the Stanford Grid Project had sealed the
huge agreement with Google to advance the high-tech
healthcare project. Niles wished he could’ve told Jűrgen
and Hideo the news.

***

Across the TGV platform, a woman stalked Niles

looking through Steiner 7x50mm police binoculars.
She had assumed the cover of a train official which
didn’t come as a stretch since she frequently traveled
and had acquired a good knowledge of train operations.
Day-to-day, she worked SWAT operations in places
like Afghanistan. She identified and neutralized terrorist
threats globally as part of homeland defense. Although
like the boat job, she called her own shots here, making
it no ordinary assignment. She liked that. Taking out a
man on a moving train posed a far greater challenge
than planting explosives on a boat. She had to keep all
the usual eyes and ears from learning about this hit.
This assignment didn’t come from a superior or the
usual chain of command—the DOD, the Pentagon and
the President of the United States—quite the opposite.
This job originated from somewhere deeper: her burning
need for retribution and profit.
 GRIDLOCK
8

Acting alone let her do as she wished and not rely on

instructions about how to complete the task.
She’d prove herself and win the admiration of the one
she desperately wanted to please.
She liked the idea that shutting down Niles Tully
would make a difference in the world.

thirty

Friday, November 4
San Francisco, CA

Jude stretched to test the soreness on his side from the

boat explosion and tiptoed into his bedroom to check on
Kate. She was sleeping peacefully.
Making himself coffee, he remembered his dream
from last night’s sleep. He awoke with vivid images of
cradling Nathalie in his arms on a plaid picnic blanket
spread on the lawn of some spectacular winery. Her hair
shone like black silk. His cheeks flushed under her gaze.
He moved closer and kissed her. The weight of his
body pressed onto hers as they embraced. “I’ve been
waiting for that,” she said as she kissed him again,
yanking him closer. He hoisted her into his arms and
6 ALVIN ZIEGLER

kissed her again. Setting her down, he found her bare

midsection with his open mouth.
The fragments of dream faded while he poured
himself a cup.
Am I in love with Nathalie?
Maybe it wasn’t so absurd. If he wanted her this
badly, then he could be cured of his fear of commitment.
Desire to have something lasting with Nathalie festered
inside him. He could need an intervention to clear her
from his thoughts.

***

The TGV glided along from Geneva to London while Niles

tested the movement of his arm. Sitting alone in his train
compartment, Niles considered how crazed Jude must be
managing the recent deaths, his FBI caseload and his
sister’s diagnosis. He put his arm back in its sling and
clicked open an old email from Hideo Onagi. The spectre
of his dog mauling made Niles tense.
To dispel the bad energy, Niles pulled out a book from
his suitcase and read Steve Jobs, The Greatest Second
Act to the breezy purr of the train. A chapter later, he
peeked through the dark window to see the streets of
Geneva fall away behind the train.
European trains served as Niles’s private office on
wheels: a more work-conducive environment for him
than any other.
The PA clicked on. “This is Conductor du Bord. The
driver has informed me we’re now traveling at our
maximum speed of 210 kilometers per hour.”
Three sharp raps struck his cabin door. He pressed an
ALT KEY combination on his notebook to activate a
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

password-protected screensaver, turning his Word

application to black.
A firm female voice outside Niles’s compartment door
said, “Excuse me, Mr. Tully?”
Niles hesitated before answering. “Here.”
The person continued in an official tone, “Room
ventilation system inspection. For your safety, sir.”
Niles set his computer down. As he heard a key
unlocking his cabin door from the outside, his fists
clenched. The door slowly opened. A tweed-coated
woman with a wide stance forced a grin. With curly
blonde hair, she wore pancake make-up. She could have
been in her mid-thirties.
“What is this?” Niles asked, looming over her.
“Inspection, sir.”
“Why now?”
She glided the cabin door closed behind her, clasping
the metal lock shut to secure them inside.
“Move aside.” Niles demanded.
The female intruder blocked the doorway.
“You’ve reached your destination.”
“Bloody hell I have. I’m going to King’s Cross.”
As she reached in her pocket, he moved to maneuver
past her; throw her aside if need be. She pressed
something into his hip.
Shtik-buzzz. Blue sparks crackled; shocks of heat
flushed through him. A lightning storm of current
radiated through his nervous system, sending stiletto
points of pain to his head. His arms convulsed from
radiating heat. He heard someone banging on the door,
asking if everything was all right when he fell
unconscious to the carpeted train floor.
 GRIDLOCK
6

Niles forced his eyes open—oblivious to how much

time had passed when he came to on the floor. The
woman, gone.
Who was that psychopath?
Light strobed before his eyes. Dizzily, he checked the
bandage on his arm, got to his feet and searched for his
laptop but it was gone. She had nabbed the laptop and
could’ve killed him while she was at it. She must want
access to the Grid computer.
As some of Niles’s light-headedness passed, he
noticed his mouth had gone dry and balance was
unsteady.
In the chaos, all of Jude’s and Niles’s altruistic visions
of helping society felt utterly frivolous. The way they
carried on, any reasonable person would think they had
a death wish. He had to move. Holding his sore side, he
dragged himself to the cafeteria car.
He walked through three cars, then spotted a
conductor and limped to him for help.
“Someone is trying to kill me. She’s Caucasian, with
broad shoulders, medium-length blond hair, butch face
and an American accent, I think.”
The conductor motioned with his hands. “Please stay
calm and explain.”
Niles started to explain but the conductor cut him off,
saying, “Bitte, I’ll be right back.”
Once he left, Niles’s nerves ratcheted, causing more
panic. He felt exposed waiting alone, so he moved cars
again.
Nearly empty of passengers, the dining car had tables
covered with tablecloths. It smelled of pot roast and
onions. The train hit a bumpy patch, and Niles grabbed
the handles hanging from the ceiling to steady himself.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Over his shoulder, he saw a teenage boy sitting in a

seat by the aisle.
He had to improvise. An idea came to him. He walked
over to the boy. Busy playing a game on a handheld
device, the kid had a partially eaten sandwich in front of
him on a table. The boy turned to look at Niles, wearing
mirrored sunglasses and a baseball cap that was a size
or two too large.
“Hey, where are your parents?” Niles asked.
“At their seats. Whadya want?”
“Look, I’ll give you forty Euros for your cap,” Niles
said.
“More, it’s the Yankees.”
Niles couldn’t believe the nerve this kid had. The boy
must have smelled desperation. He sat up, beaming.
“Seventy dollars,” Niles said louder. “Hurry.”
“Okay, one hundred Euros,” the kid insisted, “and
you’ve got a real bargain.”
Without time to waste, Niles handed the kid a
hundred-euro note and snatched the hat and sunglasses
from his blonde head. “Skip college, kid—you’ll be a
giant on Wall Street.”
“Hey, those glasses will be another hundred.” the kid
insisted, following Niles. Passengers in the car leered to
see who was causing the disturbance.
Niles announced. “The kid’s crazy.” Adjusting the
sunglasses and hat, he shot into the cafeteria car
bathroom and locked the bolt.
He had to remain level-headed.
A voice inside him said, “See, Jude. We should have
dropped this entire thing when we first saw signs of
danger.”
Niles quickly expanded the boy-size New York
Yankees baseball cap and pulled the brim low over the
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

mirrored sunglasses. As he strode from the restroom he

felt strangers glaring at him.
Niles still felt recognizable and needed help.
He spotted a small compartment with maps, routes
and schedules posted on the wall, and saw another
conductor inside. He knocked on the door. When that
conductor opened it, Niles pushed inside the confined
space. “You’ve got to help me.”
The man shook his head. Niles twisted his arm into
submission. “I have no intention of hurting you, but I’ll
break your arm if I have to.” The conductor struggled
against Niles’s grip.
“Stop!” he said.
Niles wheeled him around, looked square into his
eyes. “You have to listen. There’s a woman here who
wants me dead. This is no joke.”
“What woman?” He yanked Niles’s hand from his arm.
Niles described her. The man said, “Stay here and
keep away from other passengers.”
Niles feared the man took him for insane when he left
the compartment to find security. Niles waited, crouched
on the floor so he wouldn’t be seen through the room’s
window.
The conductor returned with a security man wearing a
railroad cap who sternly asked for a summary—not a
novel. After Niles explained that the woman used a stun
gun on him, the security guard radioed the police. Niles
felt relieved to hear him arrange to have cops meet the
train at the London station.
The two men stepped around Niles, leaving him in the
compartment. The conductor said, “Do not to move until
the trains stops at London.”

* * *
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Once the train grounded to a halt and the exit whistle

blew, Niles stood to look out the service car window. The
police boarded. He spied on passengers leaving the
train, trundling luggage but had no success finding his
assailant.
He slumped to the to the train floor, avoiding
detection. He wished his assailant would be
apprehended by the cops in the terminal before he had
to disembark, but he had no confidence the conductors
had relayed anything about his assailant. The next
throng of passengers boarded.
When the cops finally arrived the conductors looked
relieved to have Niles taken off their hands. Three
officers escorted Niles off the train, through the
turnstiles and downstairs.
They proceeded into a dank room in the terminal
subbasement where the policemen crowded around
Niles, questioning him. The fact that Niles, and not his
assailant, was the focus of their questions defied his
imagination. Once he seemed to satisfy them about the
nature of his business, he asked to leave—his son was
waiting. The officers mumbled to one another in debate
and asked where he would be staying.
After telling them Claridges, they said they’d drive
him there and keep a look out for him. Effectively, there
was nothing more they could do.
Niles considered that the police might not comply with
his need to be dropped off at the restaurant first, so he
told the officers he’d find transportation on his own.
Finally, the police gave him a business card, told him to
call if he saw anything unusual or had more to tell them
then they released him.
 GRIDLOCK
12

Pulling the baseball cap down low and putting the

sunglasses on again, he scrambled out to look for a
black taxi.
Glancing around for a cab, he questioned how was
going to meet Edward and not endanger him? He rang
Edward’s mother, Charlene, to cancel, but no answer. He
couldn’t avoid the arrangement that was set in motion to
meet his son for dinner and have him spend-the-night at
the hotel.
Niles couldn’t leave his son waiting. He had to go get
Edward and get to a police station.
When he saw a cab, he hailed it and got in. The driver
blathered for twenty-five minutes about how evening
traffic bollocksed the roads. Finally, the cab steered to
the curb, stopping in front of the Notting Grill.
“Wait here.” Niles told the driver. “I’m just going to be
a second to fetch my son and come back.”
Niles left his Yankees cap and sunglasses in the cab.
He dashed inside the loud restaurant and scanned the
urban professional crowd, trying to spot Edward and
Charlene. A pang of worry struck Niles.
Then Niles spotted them seated at a leather booth
near the open kitchen and went to the table. Edward
jabbered at the hostess with a soda in hand until he saw
his father and shouted, “Dad.” Tall for the age of ten, the
boy had Niles’s height and fair complexion.
Niles stooped to hug his boy tight, “Edward.”
The boy grinned. “Dad, why are you in a baseball
cap?”
“Your father’s had a long, confusing day. Charlene,
don’t ask any questions now, please.” Niles said with
shallow breaths, nursing his arm.
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Edward grabbed Niles by the hand to show his dad

what was in his backpack: his newest video game.
“Look, Dad, it’s Halo 5.”
“Very good, Edward.”
Charlene shook her head at Niles’s haggard
appearance. He knew he looked liked a condemned man
who’d escaped a runaway train. She stood to kiss him on
both cheeks. “Is your arm okay?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I’m sorry, I have to leave. Even on a Friday
night, the law office beckons. I do want to catch up. Are
you all right?”
“You’re leaving already?”
“I’m sorry, Niles. Yes. You two have a nice dinner,
wish I could stay.”
Niles pulled Charlene and whispered in her ear. “I
can’t take Edward tonight. Someone is after me. I was
attacked on the train coming here with a stun gun.”
“My god. Who?”
“I don’t know, but can you keep it down?” Niles
nodded toward Edward. “I obviously cannot talk about it
now, but can you take him for tonight?”
“He’s going to be heartbroken and I really have to go
into the office, so he’ll have to sit there while I work.”
“What’s wrong, dad. You’re not going to get out of
seeing me, are you?”
Niles couldn’t stand it, but he had to go. He hugged
Edward.
“Dad, what are you doing!”
“I’m sorry Edward. Charlene, please stay here and
wait while I leave. I’ll call you later.” He waved them off
as he darted out the restaurant, toward the waiting
black taxi. Niles looked back over his shoulder and saw
Edward running after him.
 GRIDLOCK
14

“Edward, be with your mother!” Niles turned around

to escort his son back into the restaurant when a
burgundy Peugeot pulled up. The Peugeot stopped in
front of Niles and Edward, just behind the taxi. Niles
recognized the woman who was driving the Peugeot as
his assailant from the train. Someone wearing a ski mask
sat beside her. Through the open car window, the driver
jabbed her arm into the air, yelling, “That’s him.”
A person with a brown ski mask jumped out of the
Peugeot, pulling a long gun from a jacket.
Niles said, “Edward, run inside!” Together, they
moving toward the front door when he heard that same
female voice shout, “Those who play God will be
sacrificed!”
A piercing pain crackled through Niles’s leg. He’d
been shot ten feet from the front door. And not with a
stun gun. Edward shrieked. Niles went to the ground. A
red blotch spread on his pant leg from a hole above his
knee cap. No time to think. The stinging sensation
stabbed his leg and charged through his body. He
gasped, trying to shout to Edward. Motioning with one
hand, Niles finally shouted at his son who stood at the
restaurant door in horror, “Edward, run.”
Edward cried, “Someone help!” then darted inside.
The shooter yanked the injured Niles into the Peugeot
backseat, behind the driver and got in beside him.
Ambushed again. The door slammed and they roared
off.

***
15 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Edward stood just inside the restaurant, looking through

the glass door. He saw the driver of what was his dad’s
black cab leap from his seat.
Distraught about what to do, Edward started for the
cab to ask him for help. Bystanders were on their
phones, presumably calling the police. “We have to
follow them,” Edward screamed.
The driver shouted, “Hurry, hurry.”
But when Edward saw his mother running out of the
restaurant, he panicked, froze in place and dropped to
his knees, weeping.

***

A musty burlap hood came down over Niles’s head.

The wool cloth felt hot against his face as he breathed
cigar smoke through the coarse weave. His
claustrophobia surfaced.
He resisted the hands on his arms by clenching his
fists to his chest, but it was no use. One of his captors
pried his hands to his sides, then tied them down with a
bungee cord.
His leg burned under the skin from the shot. “What
the hell do you want?” Niles fired. He didn’t get an
answer. “I said what the hell do you want?” He tried to
wrestle his wrists away, but couldn’t loosen the cord.
Someone pushed him over on his side in the back of
the Peugeot. He worried about Edward and his mother’s
safety. Did they get out of that restaurant and home
safely?
Shooting pain surged from his leg wound. His hands
went clammy.
17 ALVIN ZIEGLER

They had been travelling at a steady rate for at least

an hour when he heard the woman say, “You can drive
from here. I’ll take this cab to the airport.”
The car stopped. The driver apparently got out while
the one next to Niles took the wheel. Car doors slammed
shut.
At least one had left.
The car started moving again and the driver put the
news on the radio. The car made a series of turns at a
slower speed for half an hour.
Niles had heard stories about rape and abduction
cases. He knew that once the abductor got his victim to
a second location, that it would be where the victim was
usually killed.
Niles slid himself to the side of the car. He remained
motionless and then used the arm rest to push one end
of his belt under a belt loop. The need to be quiet
constrained his movements, but he had some freedom
with the car radio on. With hands tied, he used tiny
movement to unfasten his belt but failed. He wanted to
undo his belt to make a tourniquet for his bleeding leg.
Gradually, with discreet shimmying, he freed one end
of his belt from his belt loop. Over several minutes of the
car ride, he managed to work his belt out of two belt
loops of his pants. In the process, the bungee cord
around his wrists loosened.
He had to stop and start so his noises wouldn’t draw
attention.
He was starting to loosen the stretchy bungee knot
around his wrist when the driver looked into the rear
view mirror and yelled. “Raise your hands.”
Niles lifted his hands.
“Don’t fucking test me!”
Nile dropped his hands in his lap.
19 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Finally, the car wound up an incline and he heard a

garage door noise. The car braked hard and the motor
shut off. Niles was dragged from the back seat. The
growl of a garage door lowering echoed off the walls.
The man held him upright. Pain in Niles’s leg surged.
Niles smelled car oil. Something put his mind on the
Tower of London.
The male voice commented about what a clever boy
he had been with undoing his belt.
Niles heard what sounded like a folding chair opening.
Then metal slapped onto the floor. He was put into the
chair. His ankles and wrists were tied. His captor’s
movements were quick and practiced.
He groped to free himself. The man laughed.
“What do you want?” Niles pleaded through the
burlap bag.
“You know why you’re here.”
“Tell me.”
“I want your Grid credentials.”
“My passport? It’s in my pocket.”
“I don’t mean your passport. Do you want to live or
die?”
“Live.” Niles gasped.
“You work on the Stanford Grid.”
“Yes.” His heartbeat thumped furiously with the
throbbing pain. “I can get you whatever you want.”
“How do you access the Grid?”
“Ugh. I don’t have access privileges.”
An object that felt like a broom handle prodded Niles’s
wounded leg.
“Ah!” The white hot pain flared. Niles squirmed, going
into an altered state of half-consciousness.
Niles’s captor pulled him by the ear to wake him. The
throbbing banged in his head anew. Nerves twanged
 GRIDLOCK
20

from his foot and leg, spreading rods of fire through his
body and brain.
“There’s a numeric key. I don’t have it. It’s at the lab.”
The broomstick slammed onto the arch of his right
foot. He heard a small crack at the same moment
something in his foot popped and the pain splintered up
his leg.
“Uh!” He bit his lip, then his lips parted, releasing a
scream of agony. He shut his eyes tight. “Please, please
stop.”
“You must have the key.”
“I don’t.”
“I don’t believe you.”
The broom smashed his left foot. Pain climaxed again.
His scream quieted as his core strength sapped away.
Becoming delirious, Niles began to disassociate from his
agony and surroundings. Losing the ability to
concentrate, he sent a prayer to the universe for
Edward. In the solitary darkness of the hood, his head
dropped and consciousness faded.
“Total waste of time, this,” the man hollered to
himself.
Niles’s torturer lifted his chair from both sides and
unceremoniously heaved him—chair and all—into a
closet. He collided into the wall and the door slammed.
5 ALVIN ZIEGLER

thirty-one

Saturday, November 5
Berkeley, CA

The clock tower at the Cal Berkeley campus chimed

twice down the road from where Roger Knowlan worked.
Installing Grid overflow capacity servers for Stanford at
Berkeley was never something he imagined he’d do. But
with Hideo gone, Jude at the FBI and Niles abroad, Roger
had to jump in. Even with a corduroy coat on, he felt
cold here, inside this network operating center that Niles
called the steel igloo.
A wild mix of emotions ran through Knowlan.
Everything had been peaks and valleys. Losing Hideo
depressed him terribly. He was convinced that Hideo’s
death was caused by someone wanting to slow the
arrival of deeply discounted medicine. Added to that,
Hideo’s absence doubled the work load at Stanford.
But to Knowlan’s surprise, he actually enjoyed
working inside the 15x20 foot network operating center.
He felt safe here at the SETI@home Department—Jude’s
and Niles’s old office. The six-floor citadel had tinted
windows and enough cement to serve as a government
bomb shelter. It looked like a remnant from World War II
 GRIDLOCK
6

and it was. Situated among trees, the University of

California’s Mathematics Institute loomed on a hilltop
over Berkeley’s main campus and most of San Francisco
Bay.
Knowlan relished the legacy of these buildings that
made up the Ernest Orlando Lawrence National
Laboratory. The lab had hosted breakthroughs in
uranium research. It provided a home for what the
Department of Energy called Big Science—big machines,
budgets, staffs, laboratories and bombs. The human
genome had become the latest focus of Big Science. If it
weren’t for those deadly incidents, Knowlan’s stars
would be in alignment.
Surrounded by buzzing, temperature-sensitive
machinery, he tested the last bank of server racks. It ran
perfectly. Stanford now had backup to protect against
potential network failure.
He couldn’t stop thinking about the possibility of
curing Kate’s advanced breast cancer. The opportunity
boggled his mind, even while working on servers. A door
creaked over the steady whirring of the fans.
“Mr. Gary Knowlan?” asked a girlish voice, making
Knowlan jump. He turned toward the door.
“Yes. How’d you get in?” Knowlan said, sizing up the
young woman from her head to her pointy-toe boots.
She nervously curled her hair in her long fingers.
“Your Stanford department head directed me . . . said
you liked publicity.”
“Publicity?”
“I’m with a new scientific journal, BioMed Review. It’s
an L.A. publication. I’m visiting here for a few days, just
arrived this morning.” She offered her hand, as if to
demonstrate that she came in peace. “Maureen Kenner.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

I’m writing about the Stanford Grid . . . whether it poses

any threat to Big Pharma.”
She had an hourglass figure even in wool gabardine
trousers. Knowlan considered fishing around for a petit
syrah bottle that Jude said he used to stash in the cool
network operating center.
“You are, are you?”
“I realize I’m interrupting,” she said with a pouty
expression. “But I wonder if I could interview you about
the world’s fastest computer?”
She inched closer, a cultivated maneuver that
appeared to be a well-worn reporter ploy for information.
He figured that at the very least she needed his help.
He’d been approached by a number of reporters over
the years and recognized the gnawed nails and frantic
expression. He felt sorry for someone who didn’t appear
to enjoy being a journalist.
“On deadline?” Knowlan checked his watch, thinking
about his own schedule.
“How’d you know?” She removed a tube of lip gloss
from her purse and slowly rubbed the stick across her
lower lip, then put it away. She gave him a pearly grin,
picking up her purse and a pad with a pen secured in its
spirals.
“All right.” Knowlan closed his notebook PC.
“Quite a meat locker you got here.” She crossed her
arms for warmth and moved closer.
Knowlan offered his coat to her. She declined. She
adjusted the heavy bag over her shoulder. The bag’s
weight forced her to thrust one hip, revealing a
vulnerable schoolgirl beneath that diligent and
determined exterior. While dressing this morning, she
probably hadn’t anticipated spending time in the igloo.
“Let’s go to the cafeteria. It’s warmer there.”
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Good, I’m starving,” she said.

He guided her out of the NOC and down the staircase.
They proceeded to the building cafeteria. Along the way,
Knowlan explained how SETI@home became the Grid
that inspired grids, but how Google was the biggest Grid
now.
She rubbed her eyes. “I need food to think.”
A moment later they slid turkey sandwiches from a
cafeteria counter onto orange trays. They found a free
table and sat in white pod-shaped plastic chairs. She
swiveled. “Love these chairs.”
Knowlan watched her produce a digital recorder from
her bag.
“Glad I found you. I wandered into the wrong building
at first . . . aerosol something.”
“That’s the Berkeley Lab’s Indoor Environment
Department where they do Aerosol Testing. One of my
partners used to swap computer equipment with them—
sort of a recycling co-op he started. Equipment swapping
makes the University system go round.”
“Makes sense,” she said.
“The aerosol lab tests chemicals that become
weapons when airborne.”
“Leave it to me to stumble into the hazardous
chemical area,” she said. “You don’t mind if I record
this? Accuracy counts.”
Knowlan swigged his lemonade, then shook his head.
She pressed record.
“So the public can support Grid computing by
downloading software?” she asked.
“That’s how they can donate PC power. Every little
completed work unit is sent back to the Grid.”
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“And in the 1990s Big Science spread to genome

mapping and sort of catapulted Grid technology,”
Heather said.
“Who from Palo Alto sent you again?”
“Someone I spoke with at your department said you’d
be here—I forget the name. Tell me how the Grid will
threaten drug companies, I mean since it’s free.”
Knowlan reclined in his pod chair, interlocking fingers.
“You’re up to speed already.”
“Sort of. Seems to be a high stakes roulette between
the public and private sectors. I can’t predict what’s
gonna play out, but a national medical Grid flies in the
face of private medicine.”
Knowlan leaned in to smell her perfume, then
slouched back. It reminded him of how long it had been
since he had been with a woman and how he had
allowed work to consume him. “Look, Stanford’s Grid is
organizing our DNA. And our computer power became
exponentially greater by linking to CERN’s Grid. We’re
poised to save lives.”
“How?” she asked, playing with her hair again.
“Millions more people will be downloading the Grid
program onto their desktop so their PC becomes a
working part of the project.”
She nodded and pushed the tape recorder closer to
Knowlan. “So, why aren’t doctors using grid technology
already?”
“Some oppose the Grid for reasons of confidentiality,
others think it represents socialized medicine or Big
Brother. Truthfully, the jury is out on whether or not the
Grid should be free or not. I think it’ll evolve into a pay-
as-you go online system.”
“Very interesting. Do you feel the drug industry is
dangerously behind?”
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Absolutely. The whole system is outdated. So many

people die from misprescription—many hospitals still
aren’t bar-coding their inventory. The nation’s tied to an
antiquated business model, based on blockbuster drugs.
We’re stuck in mainframe healthcare when the world
needs personalized attention.”
“Okay.”
“One quarter of all U.S. senior citizens forgo their
prescribed medicine because pills cost too much.”
“Really,” she said, tapping her chin.
Knowlan went on, and she feverishly took notes.
“I think I’ve got a story.”
“Don’t misquote me now.”
“I won’t.”
They talked for a few more minutes and she thanked
him for his time.
“Thank you, Maureen.”
She dropped her recorder and pen into her oversized
purse. Strawberry blondee hair fell over her eye, and she
tucked it behind her ear.
“Hey,” Knowlan said, “care to join me for dinner
tonight? I’ll show you around Room 307 of Berkeley’s
Gilman Hall. It’s where Glenn Seaborg with his team is
said to have discovered plutonium isotope 94. A
historical landmark.”
“Sorry, I have a boyfriend. Now, how do I get off this
hill and find the freeway going south?” After getting
directions, she got up and slung her enormous bag over
her shoulder. A company I.D. badge poked out from her
purse pocket. Knowlan noticed the top of the badge
showed a familiar logo and the last name, “Styles.”
Heather departed as abruptly as she’d appeared. It
was too late when he realized that the logo represented
Johnston & Quib.
15 ALVIN ZIEGLER
5 ALVIN ZIEGLER

thirty-two

Saturday, November 5
San Francisco, CA

Half the day had passed and Jude still had not heard
from Niles. Jude opened an Orangina from his fridge to
soothe his headache and rang Virgin Atlantic. He
explained he was a federal agent tracking down a
passenger. According to the airlines, Niles didn’t take
the flight he said he’d be on. Then he tried Niles’s cell
phone but only got voice mail. Jude muttered to himself
discontentedly wondering if Niles had decided to stay
another day in Europe to spend more time with his son,
Edward, or if he too had gone MIA.
Jude desperately needed a DNA repository to
corroborate Kate’s cancer diagnosis. At least Knowlan
was hard at work, piecing together a Grid-based
database of mammograms. While Knowlan had run
sample images and indexed them electronically, they
lacked real data.
Jude’s pain had turned into a migraine, pulsing inside
his skull. He downed two antihistamine pills with a
swallow of orange drink. These alleviated pain faster
than his prescription medication, and he got 150 to a
bottle instead of just twelve with his costly prescription.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

The problem remained: a diagnosis accurate enough

to make custom drugs a viable treatment option would
require a large set of records with patients’ reactions to
drugs. Stanford needed this as a basis to compare
healthy breast tissue to unhealthy tissue while also
analyzing a patient’s reactions to drugs genomically.
Johnston & Quib had the largest breast cancer
database. There had to be a means of accessing it, but
Jude didn’t know what that would be. He certainly wasn’t
going to come by this information merely by asking for
it. The idea crept into his mind that he might have to
break-in to get it. Another dark maze to maneuver.
Jude took down notes in his notebook when an idea
struck. Back in his teenage hacker days, he had learned
that the quickest way into a data center didn’t involve
breaking in, but social pretexting—masquerading as
someone trustworthy to trick a legitimate user into
giving up a password to the network. He could exploit a
person’s natural tendency to help a co-worker or friend.
Users were the weak link in security. Companies spent
fortunes on firewalls and intrusion detection, but if
someone could persuade an employee to give up a
password, then all of that security meant nothing.
Jude called his old pal from university days at
Berkeley. Jude hoped Alfonso could be his connection.
But he’d have to act now. In two days, the Stanford Grid
team and J&Q would officially separate. Then it would be
impossible for Jude to get into the data center, even with
Alfonso. Alfonso, known as “Mr. Upbeat,” now ran the
Information Technology Department for Johnston & Quib.
He gladly agreed to meet Jude for a beer.

***
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Alfonso stood in the entrance to the Pyramid Brewing

Company waiting for Jude. Lofty and rustic, the brew pub
displayed the fun-loving atmosphere of an oversized ski
lodge. Studying black-and-white photographs on the wall
with the amazement of an adult who’s never seen a
history book, Alfonso was reading aloud the captions
beneath old images of Berkeley.
Jude snuck up on Alfonso. “Have you lost your way?”
After not seeing one another for a year, they said
their hellos. At a round picnic-styled table, Alfonso asked
Jude one question after another about the status of the
Google deal, projecting his voice over the noise in the
high-ceilinged room.
“Congratulations with your Turing Award. Things
going well at Stanford?”
Jude didn’t want to get into details. “All right.”
“I read there’s speculation that you’re partnering with
CERN and working on a search engine.”
Jude nodded.
“When will all of this happen?”
Jude rubbed his sore side again. He briefly explained
everything to Alfonso.
“You’re the algorithm man,” Alfonso told Jude.
“Combine that with Google’s reach and Stanford’s Grid—
wow! Some processing power.”
Jude had trouble sitting still. He had to get things
running—if the Stanford Grid works, Kate lives.
Jude bought a round of beer before his phone rang
twice and stopped. Checking the phone, he saw he had
missed an international call.
He excused himself from Alfonso, stepped away and
hit redial. After five rings, he heard a tearful voice say
hello. Jude held his mobile tightly to his ear.
“Charlene, it’s Jude here.”
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Jude. I’m glad I caught you.”

“Charlene, are you okay?”
“No. It’s Niles. I don’t know who did it, but he was
shot.” Her cry sounded tinny on the overseas line. Jude
thought he misheard her.
“What?”
“Niles is dead.”
Blood rushed to Jude’s face. His head went hot. His
best friend, gone. He wanted an explanation. But an
explanation wouldn’t bring Niles back. Jude couldn’t
think straight. He asked, “How?”
Jude took a drink—his senses numb.
“Edward was there to meet him. Two men shot Niles
and took him. “She spoke with robotic deliberateness.
“Took his body?”
“Yes.”
“But how do you know he’s definitely dead?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. Edward told me they shot
him. The police and the media all want to speak with
Edward, but he needs space.”
“Charlene—“
“Jude, I’m sorry. I’m beside myself. I don’t know how I
would’ve found Edward if the restaurant hadn’t called
my work.”
“Any idea where they took him?”
“No. I called the police.”
“And?”
“They wanted a report but truly have been no help.
Edward did say they drove a Peugeot. A dark red one.”
“Good. Did he get a license plate?”
“I, I don’t think so.”
“If you come up with more, Charlene, anything at all,
call me. As far as we know, there’s hope. Tell Edward
that.”
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Thank you, Jude. Oh, and—?” Charlene whispered.

“Yes.”
“Edward told me that the men who shot Niles said,
‘Those who play God will be sacrificed.’ What does that
mean?”
That same curse. The epithet he had found at Onagi’s
lab. Jude felt as if an invisible octopus with deadly
tentacles was strangling everyone around him.
“I don’t know. Did you get a name or contact anyone
from Scotland Yard?”
“No, but I have a telephone number.” She rattled it
off.
“Sorry, I’ll have to call you later. Take care of yourself
and Edward.” Jude said, then folded his mobile phone.
Jude’s heart pounded. He fought a meltdown.
Alfonso shot Jude a look.
Jude excused himself and stepped outside where he
called the phone number for Scotland Yard. An operator
connected him directly to an officer’s desk. After being
put on hold, Jude learned that an investigation was
underway on the man who was shot in the street, but
there was no other information at this time.
Jude hung up. He might never see Niles again. He
knew he wouldn’t get over this loss in a few months or a
year. He needed to speak to Nathalie about this and find
out who they could involve at the office. These acts had
to be a coordinated plot. Jude pictured Hackman coming
at him with that awkward walk and double-chin. Jude
needed to find out whether Hackman had instigated
these crimes.
Jude returned to the table.
“Are you all right?” Alfonso asked with concern.
15 ALVIN ZIEGLER

He wasn’t, but he gave a decent performance. He

opted not to involve Alfonso with all that had happened
—it was easier for the moment.
“Yes . . . I just learned that a relative died.”
“I’m sorry,” Alfonso answered.
Somehow, losing Niles made Jude more determined to
help Kate. He thought about what he might be able to do
with the pocket hard drive he had in his glove
compartment.
“Alfonso.”
“Yes.”
“Listen, I’m really not myself right now but—”
“We can do this another time.”
“It’s a strange problem, but it’s important.”
“Go ahead.”
“We’re having issues at Stanford. Our data center is
running hot. I’ve gotta find a workaround. I’m sure I
would get an idea of a new server layout if I saw your
office. Is there any way you give me a tour of your
facility and cooling system?”
“Could be arranged. How about after lunch next
week?”
“I hate to push, but I need that tour today, now.”
“Now? Why?“
“Because I’d like to get ideas for lowering
temperatures asap. Before something blows.”
“I suppose we could swing that.”
17 ALVIN ZIEGLER

thirty-three

Saturday, November 5
Berkeley, CA

Jude’s head pounded as he pressed the accelerator

pedal, overtaking cars. A scent of jasmine wafted
through his lowered car window. It oddly reminded him
of his mom’s funeral flowers and the possibility that
Niles was lying on a coroner’s gurney somewhere.
Jude passed more cars. Alfonso followed. He wanted
to tell Alfonso more but the matter was too layered to
get into. Jude pulled his Mazda into the J&Q parking lot—
sweating. Everything depended on his ability to get the
Insilico molecular modeling program working and that
depended on his obtaining the Johnston & Quib
database. But Kate’s custom treatment was still nowhere
in sight—she was only getting closer to death. He
thought over the punishment he’d face for a corporate
Internet Protocol theft. Ten years in prison; maybe more.
Weighing consequences didn’t help.
He shut off the ignition as Alfonso drove into the
parking lot after him and transferred the pocket hard
drive from his glove box into his front pocket. Time to
think like a hacker. He worked for the FBI to apprehend
cyber hackers, yet today he would become one—quite a
 GRIDLOCK
6

twist. It’s even more ironic that his algorithm never

would’ve happened if he didn’t test his wits against
governmental security systems at age sixteen. The
delinquent teenage hacker of his past had to pull one
more stunt.
He and Alfonso jogged across the nearly empty
parking lot through the glass door into the main J&Q
office building.
On the weekend shift, a young Hispanic receptionist
heavily applied face powder, using a compact mirror to
get desired results.
Jude swallowed, his throat dry.
“Excuse me. Do you have a badge?” She directed the
question to Jude alone.
“Jude Wagner is part of the Stanford Grid Project
alliance. He should be on your list there,” Alfonso said,
showing his I.D. “You must be new.”
“Yes. Sign in, please,” she said.
Jude signed, jotting the date.
“No cameras,” she said with a cavalier wave of sharp
red nails.
When Alfonso and Jude turned the corner into the hall,
Alfonso said, “Watch out for hot-blooded Latin ladies,
they’re scorpions.”
“I’ll relay that to my French-Canadian partner.”
“God be with you,” Alfonso said. “Now to the factory.
We’re behind on a project, so we’ll see some faces.”
Alfonso accompanied Jude down a wide corridor to the
IT department. He smelled popcorn as they approached
a metal door. “I see that they’ve tried to give the place a
homey touch. They don’t want the worker bees to
leave.”
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“You know how it is, Jude. I put out fires while the
higher-ups divine ideas to make IT more results-driven.
They think we’re dolts. But whatever rolls downhill,
these people are my family. In an emergency, I’d match
the wits of any of my guys with the whole exec team
upstairs.”
Alfonso proudly opened the door to the computer lab.
They entered a large open room that appeared to be a
hallowed home to creative engineers. Some three dozen
cubicles were organized into six clusters. Alfonso
pointed out the location of the assistant manager and
coworkers.
Jude made mental notes of the name, Luke Rubowski,
Alfonso’s assistant manager, and a co-worker, Seth
Lemmert. At the end of the cubicles they approached
two tables, large as barn doors, festooned in computer
parts: the lab bench, Jude knew, was for component
diagnostics and repair. The young denim-and-tee-shirt-
clad computer techs didn’t look up from their typing. A
row of brightly lit vending machines lined the back wall.
Alfonso led Jude past an empty corner office to a dark
glass door marked Data Center. He swiped his electronic
passcard, and the door lock clicked open. Jude and
Alfonso entered the windowless room. Its server cooling
fans buzzed loudly. Jude saw aisles of black racks, a far
more impressive data center than the FBI’s in San
Francisco. This gave him a shot of encouragement.
They proceeded down one of the aisles of mounted
computer servers, a dozen to a rack.
“The data center is all redesigned,” Alfonso said. “The
website runs on these.” He pointed to a rack that looked
no different from the others. “Our databases are
mounted on the far wall. It’s a SCIF—secure combination
infrastructure facility.” Alfonso described how they had
 GRIDLOCK
8

configured their server cooling system, pointing to the

recess in the room. “We run our protein database on
those two servers—backed up by the one beneath it. The
cancer server is there.” Alfonso pointed.
Jude checked to see if he still had his jump drive in
his pocket. “Got it.”
“Feel free . . . meander around.” Alfonso said he’d be
back after hitting the men’s room.
Jude had a funny feeling that Alfonso knew he needed
information and decided to lend a hand without asking a
lot of questions. He was wise that way. After the door
closed behind Alfonso, Jude looked around at the
servers. He moved to the one that Alfonso had pointed
to. Quickly, Jude sat at the keyboard to further
familiarize himself with the database structure. At first
he didn’t recognize the file system layout to the cancer
database. He navigated through it and several
keystrokes later, he had a basic mental picture of the
setup.
He searched and found the cancer data he needed
from the breast cancer subsections of the database. He
opened two files and looked them over. They were
incorrect. The third file type he clicked open, though,
contained distinguishing markers for Kate’s disease.
Bingo. Jude pulled his pocket hard drive from his front
pocket, inserted it into the server’s USB port and pulled
those files that bore the name BREAST_CANCER_TRANSCRIPTIONS.
There were six folders and each contained a few
hundred files and each file held a hundreds of breast
cancer patient transcriptions—a substantial trove of
cancer data.
Lastly, he copied the network routing information to
the drive so he could navigate the system later. He
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

hoped Knowlan would get what he needed from this

database. Jude removed the drive for the USB and
shoved it back into his pocket.
Alfonso returned. Jude asked a few more questions
about the air conditioning system. Alfonso talked to him
about their cooling configuration as they walked outside
the building complex.
“Thanks, Alfonso.”
Once Alfonso returned inside, Jude pulled out his cell,
rang the company’s main telephone number and asked
to be transferred to Seth Lemmert. After a wait to soft
rock music, he heard a click and hello.
Jude said, “Yes, this is agent Williams with the IRS.
I’ve been working with your IT managers, there, Luke
Rubowski and Alfonso Sanchez. They told me that you
could provide the Johnston and Quib virtual private
network access codes and the server login credentials to
the cancer database to verify tax information.”
“Tax information?” Lemmert sounded confused.
“Yes, so your department may avoid being audited.”
“H’mm, shouldn’t I have seen something in written
regarding this?”
“We did send a notice. Didn’t you get it?”
“No. We’ve been underwater here. So all you need are
the login credentials to access the network?”
“Yes, simply part of a basic office admin assessment.
If you like, I could speak with your supervisor.”
“He’s not in.”
“When does he get back?”
“Look, how long will this take?”
“Just a few minutes,” Jude assured him.
“Okay. I only have time to go through this once, so
please take it down. The login credentials can be
accessed from the home page, forward slash vpn, which
 GRIDLOCK
10

pops up a sign-in. Use traveler2016 for the username

and aries9009 for the password.”
Jude scrawled it on the back of Alfonso’s business
card. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Lemmert.”
The assistant IT manager hung up.
Jude stuffed the card into his pocket and returned to
his car.

The San Francisco bay appeared dishwater gray as

Jude cruised through the FasTrak lane at the Bay Bridge
toll plaza. His mind fired in every direction. Copying the
breast cancer database from J&Q had left him keyed up.
He was relieved to have made headway on Kate’s
behalf. He flipped down his visor, blocking the blinding
sun that hung over the western sky.
The Bay Bridge advisory sign read HIGH WINDS ON BRIDGE.
He ignored warnings as he tried to weave around cars on
the upper deck of the bridge. Traffic was heavy even
though it was before rush hour. The wind forced him to
keep his eyes on the road. He touched a car stereo
button and pushed in an opera CD, Maria Callas’s Tosca,
one of Jude’s mom’s favorites.
Hang in there, Kate. With this database there’s hope.
Something shiny reflected in Jude’s rearview mirror.
He adjusted it. That damn Range Rover had come from
nowhere and was gaining like a rocket-propelled
grenade from hell. He changed lanes, and the Rover
changed lanes behind him.
He couldn’t conceive how Johnston & Quib had given
chase so quickly. Jude’s stomach dropped. Had he been
busted by Johnston & Quib Security? Or was he in for
something worse?
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Driving through the Treasure Island tunnel, Jude saw he

was nearing downtown San Francisco. The Ferry Building
and the tops of large buildings grew. He pinned the
accelerator to the floor of his Mazda MX6. The
speedometer climbed to 89. Threading five lanes of cars,
he felt his vehicle wobble from the gale.
The Range Rover behind blasted too, cutting left and
right. The bull bar on its front bumper came closer and
closer as Jude tried to see the woman in the cab. Then
he got a glimpse of a gun when the Rover struck from
behind.
The contact knocked the MX6 into the left lane. Jude
nearly struck a Volvo and corrected. He held the steering
wheel tighter and maneuvered past slower cars, veering
across three lines of cars to the far right lane. He
suddenly came to the Fremont Street exit and prepared
to quickly navigate the labyrinth of streets ahead.
When Jude downshifted, the engine roared with higher
pitch. The orange needle sprang across his tachometer.
He curved sharply down the off-ramp, feeding through
the Financial District.
The Rover swerved right, recklessly, to exit late.
Wheels shrieked. The Range Rover slew off track as it
took the curve, grazed the off-ramp wall, but it
continued to trail Jude’s car.
He drove through the first traffic light, but the next
one was red. He pegged the brake pedal, studying his
rearview mirror. The SUV sat two cars behind him. He
found a hole in the flow of cross traffic then blew
through the red light. Leaving the SUV behind, he
started for his apartment when he saw that the light had
changed behind him and the SUV was tailing him again.
Driving to his apartment was out now. Secluded
Filbert Street allowed no hope for escape. And he’d had
 GRIDLOCK
12

enough trouble there already with the break-in. He’d

been foolish to leave Kate there alone.
The light changed. Pulling away from the pack, Jude
crossed Market Street, and hooked left onto Pine Street
—a one-way thoroughfare that traveled west through the
heart of town. At Grant, a narrow avenue that ran north,
he leaned the steering wheel to the right, hard, and flew
onto the sidewalk. Oversteering, he bumped onto the
curb and came head on toward three kids crossing the
road. He pulled the wheel left and just missed them. One
of them flipped him the finger as he passed.
He’d entered the densest district of the city:
Chinatown. Pedestrians thronged the narrow streets.
Vendors’ merchandise hung beneath low-slung shop
awnings.
It was easy to disappear in Chinatown. The illegal
alien, sweatshop and gang found refuge in its everyday
chaos. Jude knew the neighborhood better than the
average round-eye, having often walked downhill from
his apartment for acupuncture treatment for his
migraines.
Turning right on California Street, Jude stopped in a
red zone. Pulse racing, he yanked the emergency brake,
jumped from the car and ran north on Grant Avenue.
Orange and red plastic lanterns hung across the
battered street, as if the neighborhood were
permanently set for a Chinese New Year’s celebration.
Disoriented, he almost slammed his knee onto the rear
end of a car that was stopped at a red light.
He got around it and kept running past a gilded
pagoda. For a nano-second, he caught sight of ducks
hanging in the windows of a dim sum restaurant and
caught the aroma of steamed pork dumplings. Checking
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

over his shoulder for the Rover, he collided into a

clothing rack outside a crowded market. Red, black and
gold Chinese robes sailed.
“Slow down,” a young woman shouted from a painted
balcony.
Hearing a honk, he turned and saw the Rover, driving
on the sidewalk getting around traffic. Gotta move. His
feet couldn’t keep up with his adrenaline. He narrowly
avoided running into a clump of bricks that some
Chinese residents had stacked in front of their stores.
The bricks had been left over from the time before the
cross street, Commercial, was paved over. Some
believed that they promoted good feng shui. Luckily they
didn’t send him airborne.
Next, he came upon a pearl and jewelry business. The
owners were talking amongst themselves as they leaned
against glass counter cases. He passed an open
storefront emitting pungent smells. Squid, shrimp,
halibut and catfish were arranged over cubes of ice. He
slipped on a fillet of something and fell onto it. Its
essence ground into his denim. Picking himself up, he
barreled on, wearing half of the putrid catch on his thigh
and rear.
Jude neared a business with a poster-sized cardboard
sign taped to the door. The sign showed a stylized eye
on an oversized hand. Jude darted into the dark room,
which emanated red light. He slipped behind a purple
velvet curtain that acted as a doorway to the small
room. Cardboard letters spelling TAROT READER were
push-pinned into the wall above a round table with a
beaded tablecloth. Incense had burned to ash on the
table. He could hear a TV droning in a back room. An
irate woman wearing an apron and holding a Louisville
slugger poked her head around a screen.
15 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“We are closed.” she shouted.

Jude apologized, but the lady kept shouting. He
ducked through a side door that connected the shop to
an adjoining acupuncture business. He had visited Dr.
Wong’s office for headache therapy so regularly that she
sent him Christmas gifts of frozen organic salmon.
The boxy space reeked of incense, root and spice,
ginseng and ginger. The lights were out, but a streetlight
outside shone through the window. A moment later, Dr.
Wong came in and flipped on the overhead lights. A
quizzical look on her face turned to amusement when
she saw Jude. She wore a white medical coat with large
front pockets. Apparently having just returned from
shopping, she was lugging bags.
“Can you hide me?” Jude said.
Dr. Wong set the bags down. “Don’t worry.”
“No, someone is chasing me.”
She hit the wall switch, dousing the lights again and
obscuring her face. “You will be safe.”
In the faint light from the window, she pointed at the
desk as a place for cover. A silk shawl was draped over
it, making the desk a place where he won’t be
immediately seen. Through the window, Jude saw the
Range Rover pull to the curb in front of the store,
blocking traffic. Car horns beeped. Jude moved toward
Dr. Wong’s desk. He watched the blonde-haired woman
he’d skirmished with on Columbus Avenue jump from
the car holding a handgun. He now noticed her chalky
white face. Jude bumped into the table, and wormed into
the kneehole.
A moment later, he heard footsteps stomping into the
Tarot shop, then into the acupuncture office. The lights
went on.
“Where is he?” the woman shouted.
17 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Who?” Dr. Wong said.

The gray-haired Tarot woman screamed from the
room next door. “Who you looking for?”
Range Rover woman didn’t answer. From under the
desk, Jude watched. She moved in a choppy way that
reminded him of a hockey player.
The woman searched about in the office, Jude’s cell
phone chirped. The attacker wheeled around to the desk
that hid Jude. Jude saw the woman’s empty pancake
holster strapped to her ankle. He braced himself against
the desk, preparing to kick the woman who would put a
gun in his face.
The attacker bent to look under the desktop. Before
Jude could kick, Dr. Wong raised her arm behind the
attacker in one arching motion, stabbing her. The
woman let out a shrill cry and tripped to the floor with a
fistful of long, Chinese needles jutting from top of her
back.
The attacker clawed at the needles until she collapsed
to the floor. Thinking quickly, Dr. Wong stepped in front
of Jude, and bent down to grab the woman’s gun when
she moaned and startled Dr. Wong.
She was coming to already when Jude picked up an
empty tea mug from the desk; he pressed the woman’s
thumb and index finger onto it. The injured woman
muttered, “My partner is right behind, coming for you.”
Jude got up with the mug and blurted, “Call 911 and
tell them to send the police because there’s a robbery in
progress.”
Dr. Wong picked up her phone while Jude swung open
the door and a passerby bumped into him. The mug he
was carrying dropped and shattered.
Jude leapt over the broken mug and got to his car
ahead.
19 ALVIN ZIEGLER

A parking ticket was tucked under his wiperblade. He

ignored it, got in and sped toward the marina still
reeking of fish.
21 ALVIN ZIEGLER

thirty-four

Saturday, November 5
Stanford University, CA

From the lab chair, Kate massaged her temples. Her

illness might have been the source of her fatigue, but
she banished the thought. She was just feeling nervous
excitement, she told herself. She had just recovered
from the flu. “Let’s get started.”
Knowlan removed a cotton swab from a sterile bag,
wiped the inside of her cheek, and sealed it in a sample
container.
“Where does that go?”
“Half of this sample will be used to perform one
normal genetic sequence. The rest goes to specific
cancer detection on another machine. Shall we?”
Adjusting his lab coat, he directed her to the back of
the room. He rested a hand on the largest instrument in
the room. It resembled a hybrid of a refrigerator and an
oversized Apple Computer. The name HeliScope
gleamed across its front panel. “This machine cost half a
million dollars, but it pays for itself—it’ll do the priceless
task of sequencing your genome.”
“This I have to see.”
23 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Knowlan inserted the cotton swab with her saliva

sample into the DNA genetic analyzer, pressed an amber
light and motioned for Kate to come to his computer.
Knowlan clicked his mouse through a PowerPoint
presentation and showed her a replica of what was
happening. A long row of lights under a glass platen
glided from left to right. With a faint whir, the lights
picked up speed, making a subtle vibrating noise.
Knowlan narrated the process with the pride of a
teenager launching a homemade model rocket. “The
machine loads a tiny sample of your saliva into
thousands of wells so the DNA can be decoded. A beam
shines light onto the DNA and then records the reflection
—like a photograph, capturing detailed measurements.
This photographic process takes six hours. We collect
these digital data of your DNA fragments and run those
shapes through the computer to analyze and convert
them into binary logic that generates your personal
genome.”
Staring at the equipment before her, Kate said, “I’d
guess this machine identifies my mutation somehow.”
“Sort of. With microscopic photography, it produces
data on your disease. But we won’t be mapping your
entire genome.”
“Why?”
“Because we’ve already narrowed down one hundred
regions of the genome that are predictors for cancer.
Only two genes—”
“BRACA ONE and BRACA TWO cause breast cancer.”
“That’s right. The test will reveal just how aggressive
or benign your tumor is. That’s the easy part. The tough
part is interpreting your genome against databases and
analyzing it using the Grid. This data will tell us whether
 GRIDLOCK
24

or not you truly need chemotherapy and what targeted

drug treatment will inhibit your cancer.”
“How long will this take?”
“Ordinarily, a couple of weeks, but since we’re zeroing
in on breast cancer alone, we’ll have it in twenty-four
hours. Your brother still has to provide us with another
database—one more robust. Now, tell me: do you have
any relatives who’ve been diagnosed with cancer at fifty
or younger?”
“My mother was diagnosed at fifty-one.”
“Right. Jude mentioned that once. I do have to be
thorough with covering these genetic counseling
questions. Have you done genetic counseling before,
Kate?”
“Only in my nightmares. You should know that I had
bleeding from my urinary tract and I have joint pain.”
Knowlan frowned sympathetically. He went back to
the sequencer and pressed SUBMIT to complete her
genomic DNA. Returning to his workstation, he launched
the Grid application. The Grid, he explained, would
analyze her sequenced genome and the white cells
which he had extracted from her blood. “The Grid cluster
command will instantly deliver your processing job to at
least 90,000 processors.”
“Genomic science has come a long way.”
“No one thought the genome would be sequenced by
2003, either.”
She sat up. “I think the whole world is playing catch
up to this stuff like I am. Over my whole life, I’ve never
been the early adopter. Until today.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Jude told me you were an old
school skeptic. Hopefully, sequencing your genome will
mark change for you in more ways than one.”
5 ALVIN ZIEGLER

thirty-five

Saturday, November 5
San Francisco, CA

Winds blustered outside Jude’s apartment causing a

branch from a maple tree to claw at the kitchen window.
Jude spread peanut butter and honey on pita bread in his
kitchen, wondering where Kate might be. He had called
her number and reached voicemail.
Next, he called Nathalie to tell her about his chase
through Chinatown.
“What did your assailant look like?” Nathalie asked.
“She was Caucasian, had brassy blonde, shoulder
length hair, caked on makeup, stood around 5’, 6” and
wore black boots and pants with a short brown jacket.”
“What did she want from you?”
“I’ve gotta think she was after me for the Grid security
token.”
“You still keep one?”
“We thought it would be a good security precaution
that I keep one off campus since Roger Knowlan carried
his on campus.”
They tried to profile the attacker again, factoring in
this recent incident in Chinatown.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Nathalie said that considering how much had

happened in such a short amount of time they should
presume that this assailant and the male who broke into
Jude’s apartment are involved with the homicides. They
then ran through the profiles of killers.
When homicides were thoughtfully planned it
indicated that the perp was organized, educated and
intelligent. Next, Jude had fought off both a man and a
woman, suggesting that the killer had a power of
persuasion to get someone to join his or her cause.
He and Nathalie mulled over the nine classic types of
assailants, remembering their forensic psychology: she
eliminated the insane killer because this perp proved too
organized to be deranged. Moving down the list
mentally, he reconsidered the circumstances involving
Hideo, Jűrgen, his break-in, and this chase through
Chinatown.
Then he remembered a profile that worked as a team
and was retaliatory in nature. It usually involved a male
and female with the female being in charge. Nathalie
recalled how this female killer type struck with a more
spaced out frequency than that of a male-only serial
killer. Also, this female type did not know their victims
personally. Jude didn’t recognize either the man or the
woman so this seemed to fit.
Then Nathalie interrupted. “You’re thinking is too
profile-based. You’re looking at this like we know we’ve
got a serial killer on our hands which I highly doubt is the
case.”
“Why?”
“Because serial killers follow patterns like a crimes of
passion and they don’t operate internationally.”
“So then, what do we have?”
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Look at the motive. If these homicides impede the

Stanford Grid, this has to involve business. And if it’s
about business then we have professional hit men and
women to consider who’ll defy profiles. I can only think
of one thing.”
“What?”
“This may all be a wild guess,” she said, “but do you
know of anyone who has cause for revenge?”
“Maybe someone from J&Q. Our Stanford team’s
sudden pull out could’ve provoked violence. I wonder if
there’s a female at J&Q capable of this? I do recall from
training that the revenge killer was almost always
female and motivated by jealously or a need to
retaliate.”
“Okay.”
“Okay? What do we do next?” He said.
“First, we cannot carry on the way we have. I’m
thinking about you and sex and, I, I think that what we
did was a mistake. We can’t start something right now.
It’s hard to tell you that because I want it. I want it more
than you know. But for right now, I have to quit jumping
into bed with you like you’re my sex buddee.”
“That’s not the expression.”
“Whateveur.”
“I’m not going to argue with you, Nathalie. We can put
what we have in a box and store it on a shelf for later if
you want. But people change. Things go stale.”
“Enough about that.”
Jude said, “You got it. No detours.”
“Good. As usual, the answers we want to the mystery
of this perpetrator are going to take work. Work and
vigilance to cross off every potential suspect from our
list until we’ve got that one.” She wished him a good
night and hung up.
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Jude could hardly sit still after that conversation. What

sounded like a big gust came from the direction of the
door. He kicked himself for not moving Kate to a hotel,
where she’d be safer. He still couldn’t comprehend that
some calculating hit man had shot Niles. Then he
remembered he’d left a notebook in the trunk that held
notes on the Grid work he was doing the day his papers
were stolen. Setting down the pita, he went to his
bedroom, grabbed his Smith & Wesson and holster, and
strapped it on.
Before leaving, he threw on his suede jacket, zipped it
up over the gun and headed out into darkness to
retrieve his notebook. At his Mazda, he unlocked the
trunk and picked up the spiral notebook when the threat
letter fell out. He snatched it and was putting it into his
pocket when a hand from behind him grabbed his arm.
Acting on reflex from high school wrestling, Jude gripped
the wrist, pivoted, ducked and whipped it behind the
man’s back, heaving him against the car.
The man roiled. “Hey, it’s Agent Speer you
bonehead.”
Jude loosened his grip.
“Wagner. It’s the FBI,” the man squawked. Jude
recognized that reedy voice. He dropped the man’s arm,
realizing too late he’d screwed up, acting in haste.
Jude swallowed as the gangly agent with the baggy
gray suit did a slow turn, adjusting his shoulder holster.
“What are you doing? We tried your mobile and I
knocked on your door.”
“What am I doing? With your sneaking up on me, I
should’ve broken your nose.”
“Watch yourself. Hackman wants you. Right away.”
“Why now?”
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“I’m not expecting trouble, but if you’re gonna drag

your feet—”
“What does he want?” Jude asked.
“He wants to borrow a pie recipe from you.” Speer
gave a shitty grin. “He’s got business to go over.”
“If I’m going to be treated like a felon, I want to know
why.” This had to do with the incident at Woodside, but
Jude wanted to be sure.
“Swiss authorities have contacted us about a death
that’s linked to your project at Stanford—you may not be
the perpetrator but if it were up to me, I’d grill your ass.”
“Keep it coming and next time you won’t get that arm
free so easily.” The supervisory agent removed his keys
from his front pocket and jingled them contemptuously
in Jude’s face. He was close to Jude’s age, but Speer had
a smug entitlement that came with his being a
supervisor. Speer had a receding chin and deeply set,
distrustful eyes. Gripping Jude’s left bicep, Speer
marched him to his brown Crown Victoria.
At least it wasn’t a white Range Rover. Speer opened
the door.
“Don’t sit on the hat,” he said, as he watched Jude get
in.
Speer turned over the engine and hit the gas,
thrusting Wagner’s head into the vinyl headrest.
Jude leaned forward. “What else do you know about
this threat?”
“I know enough,” Speer said.
Jude remained silent, thinking about Hackman.
Obviously Speer’s intention was to intimidate him. Feds
used intimidation as indiscriminately as beat cops did.
Speer looked into the rearview mirror. “Jude, that’s
the patron saint of lost causes, isn’t it?”
Jude looked away.
15 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Speer continued, “Go figure, you’re your own lost

cause.”
“You should be ashamed of the carbon footprint
you’re leaving on the earth,” Jude said.
“Why is that?”
“Because you’re a waste of space, the very fact that
you’re breathing.”
“It’s all coming right back at you, Wagner. I heard
from Geneva that no one was closer to Niles Tully, Hideo
Onagi and Jűrgen Hansen than you. Where does that put
you? In a dubious position—and you deserted their
Stanford project by signing up with us. My guess is you
had a falling out with them because your ego is so
inflated.”
“You pegged me. You should quit and become a
psychic.”
“I’ve heard talk about your genius discovery—sounds
like bullshit to me. And now it’s your torment.” Speer
smirked as if he’d convinced himself that he was on to
something. “I think you know about those murders.”
A caged animal feeling crept up on Jude. “You’ve got
rocks for brains.”
Speer said, “I thought geeks were smart. But guys at
the office say it’s easier to turn a twat into a penis and
balls than make a computer guy a competent field
agent.”
“Listen to your jealousy. You’re humiliating yourself.”
Speer gave him the eye.
“You’re jealous that I work with Nathalie Noiret.”
“What’s right is that I think you’re a fraud, Wagner.
Hackman’s gotta think it too.”
Jude ignored him. It was hopeless to argue with an
android. If Hackman agreed, he’d soon find out. In the
artificially pine-air freshened sedan, Jude tried to figure
 GRIDLOCK
16

out what the hell was really going on. He didn’t like what
Speer had said previously: there was a pattern to the
murders. Who knows how Hackman, the gulag chief,
might use that against Jude? He stared out his window at
the passing buildings, considering everything.
Any struggle right now would simply make
circumstances worse for Jude later.
Jude felt acutely aware of being a newbie. Nathalie
had warned Jude to stay out of Hackman’s way. Maintain
a distance and follow protocol were her exact words. The
advice was taking hold now. He’d poked his nose where
he shouldn’t have and was about to feel the
repercussions.
5 ALVIN ZIEGLER

thirty-six

Saturday, November 5
San Francisco, CA

After parking in the garage of the federal building, Speer

escorted Jude to the elevator and up to the thirteenth
floor. The semi-dark hallways cast an uncertain aura.
Jude walked rigidly. Milliseconds passed like minutes
before the faceoff.
Hackman was waiting for them in the library, leaning
against a bookcase and leafing through a leatherbound
reference book.
He motioned them to follow him to the polygrapher’s
room.
The windowless space had an oppressive air of
discipline—three chairs around a dull metal table. On
one end of the table rested the polygraph equipment. On
the other, a stack of brown files, a lamp and a plastic
bucket. The place was designed for one task: extracting
information. Half the overhead lights flicked on, leaving
shadows in the corners. Speer pushed the door closed. It
snapped shut securely like a rat trap.
Speer sat beside Hackman. Jude took the angular
armchair across from them. Avoiding a defensive
posture, he kept his arms at his sides. Sheepishness
 GRIDLOCK
6

might imply admission of wrongdoing. Surely that would

bring harsher punishment.
If the FBI wanted something from you, they’d do what
every law enforcement team did—search for your
emotional trigger while double-teaming you. Jude
wondered what stress button they would go after on
him.
Hackman held the stoic posture of a prison warden
then cleared his throat. “Set down your firearm.”
Jude removed it and set it in the bucket.
“Empty your pockets.”
Jude pulled out Jude’s keys, his Stanford cards,
computer fob, cell phone and wallet and put them on the
table.”
“Did Speer tell you why I’ve brought you here?”
“Not really, no.”
Speer watched him, gloating. “We thought you were
prescient.”
Hackman rubbed his jaw. “I have this feeling you’re a
bad penny.” Hackman’s jowly face had gone blank with
seriousness. “The other day I was driving along and I
notice something familiar in my rearview mirror. The bad
penny in his red car. I wonder, what interest would a bad
penny have in a religious service?”
Jude remained still.
Hackman slid his hands from his paunch to the table.
“You’ve crossed the line, Wagner. You think I’m some
fanatic. That you’ve made some discovery. You could
paper the walls with the rumors I’ve heard. And rumors
don’t go away on their own. You have to deal with
them.” Hackman’s fat chest heaved as he breathed.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“It’s dangerous to invent stories and reckless to act

on them. Insubordination is a punishable offense and I
could put you on the bricks for this.
“Frisk him. Make sure we got everything.”
Speer runs his hands over Jude, top to bottom, then
goes through his pockets and pulls out a piece of paper
—the threat letter sent to Niles.
“Look at this.” Speer proudly handed the note to
Hackman.
Hackman looked it over and turned to Jude. “Why
didn’t you tell us about this?”
Jude considered his answer while Hackman held the
letter to the light in order to examine the white space
Jude had circled. Hackman quickly ascertained the
watermark and read it aloud, “United Bishops
Association.”
He leaned toward Jude, palming the tabletop.
“You think I had Jűrgen Hansen killed. Maybe you
think I arranged to have your friend Hideo Onagi
attacked in Tokyo too.”
Jude said, “I’m not sure who did it. But, yes, that’s
what I’m after.”
He also wanted to know who had shot Niles but he
remained quiet on that.
Hackman said, “Follow me.”
Speer put Jude’s things into the plastic bucket.
Hackman plied both arms to get out of his chair and they
went.
In Hackman’s office, he took his high-back chair and
gestured for Jude to sit and he did. Speer put the bucket
on Hackman’s desk.
Speer leaned against the door, resting a foot against
it. He looked like someone eager to supervise an
execution. Speer was tall and had the posture of a
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

flagpole. But after their tussles at his car, Jude thought

he could take him.
A pair of raft oars from the Titanic hung ominously on
the wall behind Hackman. A fedora hung on the end of
one of the oars.
“Listen,” Hackman said, with a glare. “I want to make
something clear. I’m a member of a family-based
organization, a devout group of long-established
Catholics. We’re founding a new chapter—there’s no
self-flagellating albinos or Roseline leading to Mary
Magdalene. Okay?”
Jude remained silent.
“This marks the ends of your shadowing me. If there’s
a next time, you’re fired.”
“I would still like to know—”
“Know what?” Hackman snapped.
“What is Sedevacantivism?”
Hackman leaned to a drawer. The big man pulled out
a leaflet and pushed it at Jude. “You might find this
edifying.”
Jude glanced over the trifold sheet that explained this
branch of Sedevacantivists.
Sedevacantivists cited that the first Pope John XXIII
was convicted of various sins and impeachable offenses
and deposed. Moreover, he read, they maintained that
procedural aspects of Vatican II violated the foundational
tenets of the One True Church. The handling of Vatican II
supported conclusions that John and his successors were
interlopers with no papal authority. For these reasons,
Sedevacantivists practiced ritualized traditions in Latin
that others might find strange and anachronistic. But
this reflected their understanding that the papal office is
still empty.
 GRIDLOCK
10

The leaflet gave some rationale for Hackman’s old

world religious ways, but that’s all it did. In Jude’s mind,
Hackman still could’ve been involved in the homicides.
No one was getting crossed off his suspect list yet.
“There’s something else.” Hackman said.
Awkwardly, he reached across his desk to hand a
manila case file to Jude. Jude opened the folder labeled
174A-INT-56125. INT for international matters—and
scanned the contents.
It was an investigative chronology, listing dates and
times and accounting for agents’ phone calls,
movements and media inquiries. All of this concerned
two homicides that seemed to “bear relation to one
another.”
A later report stated that the crimes, according to the
Threat Analysis Group, had been escalated to the Watch
Group of the Bureau of Intelligence and Research. As a
priority case, the matter was relayed to Hackman; he
made Special Agent Nathalie Noiret the lead.
Jude came to the headline: EVIDENCE NOW THAT
HIDEO ONAGI AND JŰRGEN HANSEN WERE BOTH
MURDERED.
Reading those names in print hit him like bullets.
Hideo and Jűrgen had been reduced to numbered case
files: crime scenes with routine photographs and
autopsies that needed investigating. Eventually these
files would be relegated to a stack labeled solved or cold
case then go to archives.
Jude read more about how Jűrgen died and how
Onagi’s double-dog attack looked deliberate. But that
conclusion was based only on Onagi’s daughter’s report.
“Thought I’d spare you the photos. As you can see,
these aren’t blitz-style attacks. Some might argue that
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

the dog-mauling is, but I wouldn’t. These are

methodically planned MO’s, organized killings, not to
mention your sailboat blowing up. Lacking behavioral
evidence, we’re really behind.” Hackman sounded
irritated.
“I hear Speer found you at the marina when you had
your sailboat incident. He should’ve followed up with you
in detail about the state of the Stanford Grid. I don’t care
what kind of shape you were in.”
Jude scowled. Speer took his hands out of his pockets.
Hackman said, “Why don’t you tell me if there are any
new developments at Stanford?”
“Stanford signed a deal with Google and CERN that
extends the reach and power of the Grid.”
“We read about that, so Stanford will have new power
to fight disease.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you know what group or individual would want to
stop the Grid?”
“I don’t know for sure. Maybe Johnston & Quib, the
pharma company.”
“Sounds tenuous. I’d question you further myself if I
felt better.” Hackman pointed his finger at Jude. “We’re
keeping you out of play.”
Speer folded his arms.
“What do you mean?”
“Sidelined. Out of sight. Something new has come to
light. Our suspects are plotting terrorism over the `net.”
“What terrorism?” Jude asked.
“We heard chatter about a possible strike to the
Stanford campus. It sounds like a bomb threat. One of
your colleagues picked up on it while you were busy
running around. I’ve green lighted Agent Noiret as the
lead on this assignment.”
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Nothing made sense.

Hackman added, “A helicopter team just arrived on
the roof. They’re going to clear the Stanford campus.
Noiret should be boarding now.”
“But I helped build out that Grid,” Jude exclaimed.
Hackman stood up, loosened his belt one notch and
walked around the table. His eyes narrowed and he
leaned close, pointing at Jude’s chest to drive the point
home.
“Wagner, we’re going at this surgically. You’ve got too
many associations with Stanford to be on this. Even if
you’re not complicit in anything, I doubt you can
contribute. This is bigger than you. You may have
facilitated a chain reaction by kicking the Grid up a
notch, but you can’t—”
“But who on the helicopter knows the campus and
how are they going to anticipate an attack? I worked in
that bioengineering department.” Jude insisted.
Hackman said, “Forget it. You’re part of that team,
making you a marked man, Wagner. You and Roger
Knowlan are the last Grid project heads standing. It
seems Hideo Onagi’s and Jűrgen Hansen’s deaths are
connected to this threat of crashing the Grid. And Niles
Tully’s too. I’ve been informed that he is missing.”
Jude resisted seeing things their way. “Noiret needs
help—”
Hackman stopped walking and put his hands on the
top of his chair. “You worked with these people, right?”
Jude nodded reluctantly with numb acquiescence.
“I am not releasing you on a national security-level
field assignment where you’re emotionally invested and
a target. There’s a thing called common sense, Wagner.”
Speer scoffed. “Whatever happens, Noiret doesn’t
need you.”
15 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Speer’s got your back,” Hackman stated. “End of

story. Take your things and go home.” Jude picked up
everything from the bucket, stood, opened Hackman’s
door and walked down the hall to his own desk.
Speer followed. “You heard him. Go home, put a log
on the fire. Rent Pulp Fiction or something.”
“Keep it up, asshole.”
“You’re a one-trick pony with your Grid work,
Wagner.”
“Push me, dickhead, and tomorrow you’ll mysteriously
find every web search you’ve done at the bureau on
Hackman’s desk.”
“Try it.” Speer elbowed him in the abdomen as he
went by.
Jude gripped Speer’s wrist, pressed a forearm across
his chest and boxed him into a bookcase.
“Hey.” Speer tried to tear free. His face turned red.
Jude fixed a stare into Speer’s eyes. “There’s a law in
physics, Newton’s Third Law, that states that ‘for every
reaction there’s an equal and opposite reaction.’ You
wanna test that?”
As Jude dropped his hands, Speer took a swipe at him
but only got air.
Jude backed off when Hackman called for Speer.
“You’ve done it now,” Speer gasped before turning.
Jude sat down at his desk. He didn’t worry about this
little altercation. What was Speer going to do anyway?
Cry to Hackman that the new guy he was assigned to
cover manhandled him? Speer had too much pride. He’d
want to teach Jude a lesson on his own.
No time to worry about Speer. He wasn’t about to cab
home and rest when so much was developing. He knew
for certain that someone wanted to corrupt the Grid.
Kate and Knowlan were in danger, and he was too. Jude
 GRIDLOCK
16

could kiss his new FBI job goodbye if he ignored

Hackman’s order to stay put, but he couldn’t do that. His
gut tightened again. He had to get on that helicopter
and protect the Grid for Kate’s sake.
Yet it wouldn’t be easy to elude Speer, who would
relish his new post as bodyguard. He’d use it to limit
Jude’s freedom of movement.
Jude tried calling Kate and Roger Knowlan but got no
answer. He pulled up his email and sent a message to
Knowlan, warning him about the threat on the Stanford
campus then relayed the VPN access codes to Johnston
& Quib’s cancer database. With this, Knowlan could run
comparisons of Kate’s tissue against thousands of
patient records to check reactions to various drug
treatments. Jude knew that the bureau would see the
email through the Internet security system, but it would
probably pass through the outgoing firewall because it
wasn’t overtly violent or inflammatory. He had to get the
message out—jump start efforts for Kate.
Jude got up and looked to verify that Speer stood out
of his line of sight. As Speer hung up his coat, Jude
rushed down the hall, pulled the heavy latch of the exit
door and stepped into the passage that led to the roof.
The narrow double-backing staircase flickered under
fluorescent light tubes, smelling of mildew. Jude could
barely make out the landing as the tube above the first
runner had blown.
He bolted up the concrete steps to echoes of his own
footfalls. But something didn’t sound right. He didn’t
hear the self-closing door snap shut behind him.
Jude froze in the darkness to hush his own movement
and listened. With his back to a cinderblock wall, he
looked down toward flickering light.
17 ALVIN ZIEGLER

A shoe scraped.
The cement staircase obstructed his view of the door.
Jude eyed the rooftop door, marked by a green exit
sign. He needed to round the corner and run up two
flights of stairs, a greater distance than he’d expected.
Jude continued up the staircase.
A hand clawed Jude’s ankle, and he fell onto the dusty
steps. A concrete corner met his jawbone, splitting a
tooth. Someone dragged him by one leg down steps, and
then Jude’s heel gained traction. He turned.
Speer stood over him, short-winded.
Jude heaved to his feet. He hooked the back of
Speer’s right knee and brought him down. They wrestled
on the steps. Jude got behind Speer, flung an arm under
his shoulder and tried to hold him.
Speer hammered an elbow into Jude’s ribcage and
doubled over to squirm free. Jude gagged, laboring for
air, but he didn’t let go. He trapped Speer in a head and
arm lock. Speer stomped at Jude’s left foot, trying to
crush his arch, but he missed. Jude tightened the police
hold on Speer’s neck and shoulder, constricting his
breathing.
Speer tried to windmill a punch into Jude with his free
arm, but after several slow seconds Speer’s legs went
limp. His body dropped slack in Jude’s wiry arms like a
marionette with its strings cut.
Jude set him down, then caught his breath, touching
bruised ribs. He traced his tongue over the newly jagged
tooth with a stomach-churning taste of calcium.
Jude remembered something an instructor repeated
at Quantico. No matter how much we train you—in a real
take-down, every move is improvisation, unrehearsed.
Dragging himself to the building roof, Jude knocked
open the door and saw helicopter idling in the last
 GRIDLOCK
18

minutes of daylight. He ducked beneath the wind of

whirling overhead rotor blades. Pounding air flattened
his shirt against his chest. He was taken aback when he
got a better look at what was running on the helipad: no
standard-sized bird, it was a MH-60 PaveHawk
Helicopter.
Jude had seen pictures of Black Hawk helicopters at
Quantico. They were used to conduct day or night
operations in hostile environments. This one had
additional radar and dual weapons pylons attached to
both sides of the fuselage. Instead of FBI markings, it
had civilian markings and undoubtedly had fake civilian
numbers.
Through the open aluminum door, he saw two pilots in
front of two crew chiefs. Behind the crew chiefs Nathalie
sat with an empty seat beside her. At the rear were
three operatives who held M4 rifles. Everyone, even
agent Noiret, wore helmets and full-weather garb.
Heads turned as Jude climbed inside.
“One more for the maneuver. Hackman’s orders,”
Jude said. To his surprise, no one questioned him.
Jude slammed the sliding door. Jet fuel odor
dissipated. He took the empty seat. Nathalie’s eyes
shone as large disks through the helmet.
“Why are you here?” she shouted over the chet-chet
of the engine and blades. Her hands clutched the edge
of her seat.
Even under the dim red overhead light, he fixed on
her pointy nose and Camay skin. She could not have
appeared more out of place.
“I knew meeting you here would be a surprise,” he
said with a grin.
“My god,” she said, slack-jawed.
19 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“You’ll need me down there.”

Nathalie said, “Hackman told you about the coded
bomb threat on Stanford’s Grid team?”
“Not really.”
“They picked it up over the Internet. That’s all I
know.”
“Here ya go,” interrupted one man, handing Jude a
helmet with night vision goggles attached but flipped up.
The operative plugged Jude’s helmet lead into a ceiling
jack.
Jude buckled a waist harness as the turbine noise
increased. The rotors went from fwop-fwop to a high-
pitched whir as the aircraft lifted vertically from the
helipad.
“I know you’re experienced,” Jude shouted to
Nathalie, “but I helped build the Grid.”
“Didn’t Hackman take you off this? Isn’t this—”
“Yes, it’s a violation. I’ll take the blowback.”
“And you’re a target also,” she yelled loudly over the
high-pitched whine of the engine.
“Moving target,” Jude said.
“Without hazardous duty pay.”
“Nathalie, someone’s gotta break my losing streak—
might as well be me. I need your help with something
else.”
She gave a knowing look. “I’m so sorry about Niles,
Jude.”
“How did you…?” Jude asked softly.
“I’m so sorry.” She put a hand on his arm. “You
should’ve been put on the Onagi investigation—maybe
we could have prevented it—”
Nathalie stopped at the sound of the landing gear
retracting. The helicopter tilted, pointing its nose into
forward flight.
21 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Finally, she asked, “What happened?” She pointed at

his tooth.
“Nothing,” Jude said, and gazed out his helicopter
window. The dense urban high-rises gave way to a view
of the freeway and South San Francisco hills. At first he
saw the matchbook-like homes of Daly City, then the
familiar Crystal Springs reservoir to southwest. Fingers
of fog spread over the hills. The helicopter cabin
darkened.
Jude closed his eyes to concentrate energy on saving
Kate. She was his only cause now. Not the Grid.
“I hear Niles’s son was involved. Where is he?”
Nathalie said.
“With his mother.”
Her voice went soft. “Remember the pen you found
with the name Dyncorp.”
He wondered how he could have forgotten that. They
looked around suspiciously. Jude noticed that one of the
operatives pulled what appeared to be an adapter from
his jacket pocket and used it to plug his helmet lead into
his own radio. He wondered what the guy would be
monitoring when all other helmets had leads to the roof
that connected to an aircraft intercom system.
5 ALVIN ZIEGLER

thirty-seven

Saturday, November 5
San Francisco, CA

The pilot pulled back on the cyclic stick. The aircraft

surged, climbing in altitude. Jude and Nathalie gripped
the stretched mesh on their seats as the G-force
increased. The fwap of the rotors changed in pitch and
grew louder.
Jude felt smug about springing himself from Speer. As
long as he lay undiscovered in the stairwell, Jude
wouldn’t be found out.
Yet Jude didn’t entirely trust this team on the
helicopter. He knew he was paranoid about someone
turning him in, but their high lace-up black boots and
equipment belts looked more like that of hired militia
than FBI. The boots resembled the type worn by the thief
who had stomped on Jude’s head outside the Steps of
Rome restaurant on the night his apartment was broken
into.
“What’s your role here?” Jude asked a man seated in
front of him.
The man made a gesture to say he couldn’t hear.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“They’re Dyncorp,” Nathalie said. “A private security

company—hired guns for protecting field ops like me.”
She rolled her eyes so that only Jude could see.
“Protection for what?” Jude asked.
“For when we land—whatever might happen on the
ground.”
“I’ve heard of Dyncorp,” Jude said. “But what have
they got to do with the FBI?”
“I understand they’re filling in while the bureau is
reorganizing. It is political controversé.” Nathalie’s
accent sounded stronger. “Some believe that utilizing
PSCs is inadéquat for government work. What some call
mercenaries others call paid soldiers. That’s probably
why we did not hear about their complicity with the
bureau.”
The crew chief took a grab handle to steady himself
as the helo hit a pocket of turbulence.
Jude listened intently.
The crew chief jumped into the conversation.
“Dyncorp started out doing cookie cutter work, helping
the postal service. Now defense work for the DOD is its
forte.”
“But how is Hackman involved here?” Jude asked.
Nathalie said, “The Pentagon keeps it confidential, but
Dyncorp has worked with Hackman for years—they’re
backing up field operations while Hackman is giving the
bureau an overhaul. Hiring you is probably part of the
upgrade.”
The crew chief said, “Private security companies are
big wartime business. The Department of Defense has
spent one hundred billion on us since we invaded
Afghanistan.”
“Quite a cottage industry,” Jude said.
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Jude knew private military companies were the

government’s end run around Congressional oversight.
They weren’t beholden to codes of conduct that US
soldiers had to respect. They were called on to break the
rules, sidestep the Geneva convention.
“I do not trust Hackman,” said Nathalie, shoving fists
deeper into her jacket.
The helo dipped. Someone shouted, “Air pocket.”
Jude leaned so he could put his mouth to her helmet.
“What the hell are we doing with Dyncorp piloting us
around when I found that Dyncorp pen in my place after
the break-in?”
“It’s not good,” she said. “It hit me just as I boarded.”
At once, Jude saw the significance of their flying to
Stanford. The attackers might have targeted Knowlan,
aware that he worked late on campus. Even if he wasn’t
working late, he was listed as the primary contact for
police for lab emergencies.
Jude covered his lips with his hand. “When we touch
down, I’ll check the master node, that’s where Knowlan
may be. The bomb threat could be a diversion by
someone who wants to kill him.”
She said, “I will keep the Dyncorp team occupied.”
“Be careful. After ten minutes, ditch them and find
me,” Jude said.
One of the Dyncorp operatives shouted, “It’s Hackman
on the line for Wagner.”
He handed Jude a radio.
Jude breathed deep, disconnected his helmet lead
from the helicopter jack, and plugged it into the radio.
“Running rogue, Wagner?” Hackman barked. ”I could
have you arrested. I’d turn that bird around if I had time
to waste.”
Jude didn’t reply.
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“We’ve verified the authenticity of the coded threat.

Hostiles are planning some strike on the Stanford data
center. Agent Noiret is in charge. You stay out of play,
Wagner.”
Jude pushed to talk. “Yes, sir.”
“Give me Noiret.”
Nathalie took the radio.
Hackman shouted loud enough for Jude to hear.
“University security sent images of a man studying the
campus electrical substations—we’re referencing the
photograph against the bureau’s NCIC database. Set up
an attack defense there. You’ve got every resource in
abundance, except for time. We’ve evacuated the
Department of Medicine and data center.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chirp.
Nathalie mumbled, “Il y a une couille dans le potage.”
“What’s that?” Jude asked.
“Everything is going wrong—literally it means there’s
a testicle in the soup.”
Jude stifled a laugh.
One of the men gave Jude a spare radio. “You’ll need
this on the ground.”
Jude peered through the acrylic oval window. The
helicopter approached a labyrinth of terracotta roofs and
neat paths that led to plazas and grassy spaces. Under
amber lights, the clusters of buildings resembled a
Spanish architect’s model. Jude marveled over how
orderly the Stanford campus looked from above.
The aircraft descended until it was only thirty feet
above the Stanford football field. The transmission whir
became louder.
Kaboom.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

A deafening blast thundered from the ground. Jude

saw a yellow-white nova light the cobalt sky.
The helicopter rattled. His feet vibrated on the
shaking mettle floor. He and Nathalie knuckled their
shoulder harnesses when the freefall started. Jude’s
stomach hopped to his chest.
The ground rushed up and the helicopter plummeted
like a hailstone to the grassy field.
The helicopter struck the ground with a deafening jolt.
The force of impact snapped the landing gear,
whipsawing everyone. The chopper tilted to its side like
a car missing one of its front wheels. Passengers hung
by their safety harnesses, bent in their seats. A Dyncorp
man let out a moan, holding his head. The engine made
a high-pitched whir until the pilot shut struggled to flip a
switch and shut it down.
“Nathalie, are you okay?” Jude asked.
Moving her head from side-to-side, she checked her
condition. “I think so.”
Together they crawled from the side of the aircraft
with the Dyncorp team following. One man stayed
behind to look after a strained back. He reassured
everyone that his condition wasn’t serious. Jude patted
his pancake holster to see that his weapon was still
there.
Some eighty yards off, smoke mushroomed into the
air from fires on campus. Jude smelled a sulphuric odor.
His ears rang as fire alarms blared in stereo from
multiple buildings. Under moonlight, the billowing smoke
clouds gave the campus an appearance of a city under
attack. There were no campus lights in view.
Jude and Nathalie had only seven soldiers to defend it.
Worse still, Jude and Nathalie trusted only each other.
The sky changed from deep blue to a murky charcoal.
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

One man said, “You know the smoke isn’t going to

help the night vision.”
Another man tried on his goggles. “They’re okay.
Smoke is partially blocking the moon. But there’s still
light.”
Jude knew that some amount of natural light was
needed for the night vision goggles to work.
Nathalie turned to Jude, “If campus lights come on,
don’t forget to flip up your goggles fast.”
“Got it,” Jude said.
The clock tower chimed the quarter hour—9:15 P.M.—
into the tarnished autumn air. Jude and Nathalie
reassessed their options now that an explosion had
happened.
“There could be more explosions,” Jude said.
“I will check around.” Nathalie said then quickly
covered her mouth. Building plaster dust lingered in the
air.
Jude watched her call the team together. He wanted
to watch her back.
He joined the Dyncorp team in a huddle around her.
She pulled a campus map from her jacket pocket and
they examined it under flashlight. He looked over her
shoulders as she opened her phone and saw a message
—one of the electrical power stations was down. She
pointed to a crease in the paper, coordinating where the
explosion must have occurred, then to where two
additional electrical power stations were located.
Nathalie radioed for backup. “We’ve witnessed a
major explosion on the Stanford campus and have a
downed aircraft. No major injuries but we are now in a
curtain of smoke.” Looking determined, she turned and
said, “There are three substations. A fire vehicle will
check on the one that’s down. In the meantime, we’ll
 GRIDLOCK
10

divide into two teams of three. Investigate and contain

the other substations.”
She got the nods she needed. Everyone flipped down
his goggles. As Jude lowered goggles over his eyes, his
surroundings flared a fuzzy blue until his eyes adjusted.
“Go.” Nathalie belted the order like a marine
sergeant. Jude stopped worrying about her.
The teams fanned out to survey the remaining
electrical power stations.
Jude attached the earpiece that came with his radio.
Silently, he shot off in the opposite direction, toward the
medical building. The depth perception in the goggles
had thrown him initially; he moved more slowly than he
would’ve liked. Smoke was interfering with his vision. He
inched closer to the white cloud to get into the lab. Tall
eucalyptus trees had caught fire and were blazing wildly.
Edging toward the structure, Jude coughed and covered
his mouth with his hand to screen the smoke. Campus
alarms blared.
Jude’s field radio wouldn’t quit chirping with talk. He
dialed up the volume and heard Hackman’s voice. “The
police and fire units you requested are coming.”
Jude heard Nathalie respond on her radio. “I’m just
meters from the spot where the explosion happened. As
incident commander, I assure you we’ll find out who’s
behind this.”
“What are your knowns?” Hackman asked.
“Nothing yet, over,” she replied.
“Every media outlet in the Bay Area, I’m informed, is
on its way there, Noiret.”
“I can handle it. If the other substations are clear, I’ll
establish a tight perimeter around the bioengineering
department, and a command post site for the forensic—”
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“I’ll be watching.”
Perchip. Hackman was gone.
Jude moved through darkness, using memory and
moonlight filtered through smoke to find his way—every
sense on alert. The power station explosion had
extinguished the lights on his side of the campus.
Drawing short breaths, Jude edged into the bushes to
peer into a laboratory window. From behind his goggles,
the inky dark room showed green. No one was inside. He
couldn’t hear anything.
Red and blue lights beamed on the building wall.
Sirens sang. The campus police were on the scene. Jude
pulled off his light sensitive gear and turned to see
squad cars headed to Nathalie’s side of campus.
He considered that one explosion, in and of itself,
wouldn’t accomplish much—it only took out one of three
power sources. The campus could be up and running
again in no time once emergency power supplies were
put into place. He was convinced of his theory, that the
explosion was part of a larger plan. It also occurred to
Jude that any threat to the Grid would’ve gone to the
building’s west wing, where the emergency generator
supplied power to the data center. This was also where
the main node resided—the true target of anyone
wishing to harm the Stanford Grid.
Jude crouched and ran around a corner to the west
wing. He could hear the generator humming and see a
computer utility room glow under a menacing backup
power light. Gingerly, he crept alongside the building to
the window, flipped up his goggles and peered inside.
What he saw took the wind out of him. An unfamiliar
man with a wide build had a gun trained on Knowlan’s
temple.
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Jude’s pulse quickened. Knowlan typed frantically at

the Grid terminal desk. The assailant had a bullet-
shaped head with closely cropped hair. He wore brown
denim jeans and a loose-fitting parka.
What Jude saw next made his entire body stiffen—his
twin, Kate, was constrained on the floor. Her face flushed
with color and tears. In the corner, she sat bent-kneed,
rigidly hunched—her wrists tied. Knowlan must have
been working with Kate on her genome when this
attacker appeared.
Jude remained still. His fingers tense. He took several
deep breaths, plotting his next move. Behind him, a
breeze rustled the trees and a twig snapped. He pulled
down the goggles and turned. Night goggles didn’t
reveal anything suspicious. He couldn’t be distracted by
ghosts in his mind. He waited and watched to see if any
of the green images he saw were moving—nothing.
Jude considered his shot on the man who held a gun
at Knowlan’s head. If the round strayed, it could hit
Knowlan or Kate. While positioning for a better angle,
Jude heard a fire engine blare in the distance. He turned
around to see what was happening. Looking back to peer
through the smudged glass again, he saw the man had
moved out of view.
He had to go for the outside door that opened directly
into the lab. Moving parallel to the wall, Jude put his
cheek to the building’s stucco exterior. Exhaling slowly,
he calmed his mind for confrontation when he heard the
gentle click of the door handle ahead.
Dropping to one knee, Jude pulled his pistol.
He shouted, “FBI. Lay down your firearm.” Jude
crouched, then watched and listened.
Silence.
15 ALVIN ZIEGLER

A man in boots and a dark jacket pulled behind the

doorway. Jude wanted to fire, but he wasn’t certain that
the dark figure was the same suspect who was inside.
Too many people were moving around in the dark. Jude
flipped the goggles down again and saw the man.
Judging by his stature, Jude believed it was his suspect.
A few breaths later, two more shots were fired at Jude.
He ducked, bracing himself. The reflex happened so
quickly it felt like hard-wired muscle memory.
The shooter leaned around the corner.
Spotting his target, Jude lined his sight on the man’s
legs and fired twice.
The man screamed and slumped like a bag of laundry.
Feeling a measure of relief, Jude rose slowly. First, he
watched the man clutch his thigh, then raced through
the entrance and into the data room. While Knowlan
awkwardly got up from the console desk, the injured
assailant was lying on his side moaning, incapacitated.
Jude asked. “Kate, are you okay?”
She cleared her throat and opened her mouth but no
words came out. At last she said, “I guess so.”
“It’s going to be a while before we’re really okay.”
Knowlan said, loosening his shirt. “But thanks. Thanks
for being here.”
As he hugged her, he felt her trembling. “Relax.”
She rubbed her knees, taking big breaths.
He seated her at one of the two rolling chairs. Part of
Jude wanted to send her to his apartment, but a bigger
part of him needed to be on the lookout for other
potential gunmen and keep her safe in his sight.
Knowlan’s button-down shirt was untucked and sweat
covered. He tugged at his collar. “That bastard . . .”
“Listen,” Jude said. “What did he do here?”
17 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“He forced me to delete dozens of directories and

stole my token.” Knowlan looked rattled.
Jude shook his head, looking at the suspect.
“It was awful.” Kate said.
Jude went to the man with the reek of a mountain
goat, tied his ankles and arms with the rope used on
Kate and searched his pockets. He found the token and
put it in his pocket.
“Any ID?” Knowlan asked.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Kate rubbed her wrists.
Jude’s mobile device vibrated on his hip. Unlatching it,
he checked the display.
GRID AUTO WARNING: DATA CHECKSUMS BELOW THRESHOLD
“This is serious.” Jude said.
They needed to repair damage done to the Stanford
access node. Jude nudged past Knowlan and typed
commands on the Grid server keyboard. He wheeled the
chair up to the Grid console. The status screen glowed
with red warning messages. His mobile device flashed
error messages. He ripped the device off his hip and
removed the battery.
Nathalie called Jude’s name.
“We’re inside,” Jude called back.
She entered and rushed to Jude, carrying her field
radio in one hand and a clear evidence bag in another.
She looked at the injured man on the floor.
“Are you with Dyncorp?” Jude asked the man sternly,
getting up.
The attacker wouldn’t answer.
Jude stepped closer to kick him and stopped himself.
Nathalie removed cuffs from her belt, fastened them
on the injured man and called for medical assistance.
 GRIDLOCK
6

She untied the rope around his hands now that he was
cuffed.
Nathalie set down the bag, which appeared to contain
exploded fragments. “What happened?” She snapped on
a plastic glove, presumably to check for ID.
“He fired a weapon,” Jude said. “But I haven’t
interrogated him.”
“Any ID?”
“No.”
Nathalie answered her radio and had a quick
exchange.
“What was that about?” Jude asked.
“The backup team has formed its perimeter around
this building.” She drew her weapon, pressed it to the
man’s head and got a name: Liborio Russo.
“I’m just a guy on the ground,” the suspect said. “The
person you want is a woman.”
“Who?” Jude demanded.
“She’s the boss. I don’t have a name.”
“You can do better.”
“You can threaten to kill me but that’s all I’ve got.”
“I’ve got a message for her.” Jude opened his phone.
“It’s no use. You don’t initiate contact with her. She
calls me.”
“What’s the number?” Jude said.
“It’s always private.”
Nathalie holstered her weapon.
“What are you doing?” Jude asked.
“Trying another approach.” Nathalie said. “I’m
running the name Liborio Russo through the FBI
database.” She worked her smartphone. She showed
Jude the photo that appeared. “No prior convictions. I’ll
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

cross-reference his social security number against any

financial transactions.”
“Good,” Jude said.
She clicked the mini-keypad. “I’ve got something.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve got activity involving a transfer of $500,000
abroad but I can’t tell which bank or payee it went to.”
“Wow.”
Nathalie continued to read her findings aloud, staring
at her miniature display. “It’s some Cayman Island
account. But nothing else is showing.”
Nathalie called her findings into Hackman. Hackman
called back five minutes later saying that the payment
made went into an account that was opened by a signee
named Heather Styles who resided in Berkeley,
California.
“How did you get that?” Nathalie asked Hackman.
“The Justice Department has ways of dealing with off-
shore security. I’ll let you know if we find more.”
Hackman clicked off the radio.
“Wait a minute—I know that name. I know her,”
Knowlan said.
“Who?” Jude asked.
“That woman, Styles. She interviewed me. Said she
worked for some journal as a reporter, but I saw she had
a Johnston & Quib I.D. She claimed to be Maureen
Kenner but I saw she had that I.D. with the last name
Styles. I may have seen an “ER” before that in the first
name.”
“I think I know her too,” Jude said.
“How?” Knowlan asked.
“She pumped me for information at a bar called The
Hyde Out.”
Knowlan stood perfectly still.
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Jude said, “We were used.”

“Pfft.” Knowlan rolled his eyes. “What a bunch of
patsies we are. So what now?”
“We’ll talk about Heather later. For now, we’ve gotta
collect what we can from this guy before the bureau
takes him away for interrogation.”
“Precisely. We have to keep moving. An investigation
is like a shark—once it stops, it dies.”
The campus alarms finally shut off. “Well, let’s get
swimming,” Jude said.
His radio beeped. Hackman’s voice came on.
“Wagner, I’m still mad as hell at you, but I’m putting you
on this case provisionally because you’re there with
inside knowledge. But the second you misstep, you’re
outta there and you’ll still be disciplined for
disobedience.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jude’s radio went quiet.
At the moment, the threat of discipline from Hackman
was that last thing that troubled Jude.
Jude set down his radio. “I just realized something.
The Grid came into the public eye before anyone
anticipated it would. And Hackman opposes
biotechnology. But that just made him a target to be
framed.”
Nathalie nodded, not overly surprised.
“I wouldn’t say that Hackman, specifically, was
framed. I’d say some group set up the religious right.
Whoever it is must be threatened by how damn effective
the Grid will be at fighting disease and how that could
undercut hundreds of billions of dollars.”
Nathalie asked. “So the religious right was just a
scapegoat.”
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Yes. I’d say that our San Francisco FBI chief just fell
into that profile.”
“Okay,” she said slowly, sounding half-convinced. “So
it’s not Hackman. What next?”
“We have to track down this Heather Styles.” Jude
pulled a folded page from his hip pocket. He had
transferred the printout he took from Onagi’s lab from
one set of pants to the next, thinking he’d eventually
make sense of it. He reexamined the page. Several
keystrokes matched procedures the attacker forced
Knowlan to perform.
“This explosion must’ve been an attempt to kill
power to the Grid. Or maybe it was an intimidation
tactic. Either way, it would occupy the police while the
attacker worked on getting Knowlan’s security token to
the Grid.”
“They must’ve been following Knowlan. What can they
do with access to the Grid?”
“Unleash a virus,” Jude said.
“Again?” Nathalie asked.
Jude explained his theory that this effort to stop the
Grid was being handled in a haphazard fashion. The
attackers who broke into his place had no clear idea
where the security token might be. They went for the
hard drive, but it wasn’t there. “That must be what they
were after when they killed Hideo. That, and to slow the
Grid project by eliminating him. Killing Jűrgen also
hampered the project.”
“But why didn’t they try to kill you?” Nathalie asked.
“They tried, on Niles’s boat and in Chinatown.”
Jude turned to look at Knowlan. “Also, these assailants
could be starting with those team members who are
farthest away so that it will be more difficult to link the
crimes to someone who lives here. Maybe they are
 GRIDLOCK
12

saving me for last because I could be traced to someone

I know, maybe someone I met at the award ceremony.
Or maybe they weren’t intending to kill me with the boat
explosion but just knock out Niles. It’s his boat after all
not mine. They could’ve been keeping me alive as a
backup in case they couldn’t get Grid access on their
own.”
“Maybe they’d finally figured out that without you,
they’d never access the Grid, so they kept one of you
alive for that reason.”
Jude said, “But they accessed it anyway when they
put a gun to Knowlan’s head.”
Nathalie said, “Right. That ultimately proved the most
direct means of duress to get what they were after.”
Knowlan shouted, “Stop talking about me like I’m not
here. Let’s get to work on repairing this Grid.”

thirty-eight

Sunday, November 6
Stanford University, CA

Power generators continued to light the smoke-filled

night for Jude, Kate and Roger Knowlan. The grinding
noise the generators made grated on their ears until
lunchtime the following day. Physically drained, Jude
stood at the Grid console—a break from sitting in the
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

flimsy chair on wheels. He didn’t let Kate out of his sight.

To make her more comfortable, he rounded up a
sleeping bag from a firefighter. He and Knowlan got
through the night in desk chairs.
Jude pulled his hard drive from his pocket and proudly
handed it to Knowlan.
“What’s this?” Knowlan asked.
“Snap it in and navigate to the cancer transcription
folder and you’ll see.”
“Okay.” Knowlan connected Jude’s drive to the tower
that was on the floor and opened the folder Jude
mentioned. Jude and Kate watched while he continued to
open files and then individual patient records.
Wide-eyed, Gary turned to Jude who smiled broadly.
“What is this?” Kate asked. “Did you just obtain more
cancer data?”
“That’s what I got,” Jude said, “but not just any
cancer data, but breast cancer markers, a few hundred
thousand individual records.”
“This is really going to help,” Gary said, riveted to his
keyboard, scrolling through the information. “The data is
in the format I need. I suppose J&Q had it in this format
in anticipation of our merger.”
“I considered that.” Jude said.
Knowlan pulled his chair right up close to the
computer. He started uploading the transcriptions into
the Grid server for processing consideration. “Now I just
need to recover the files that were deleted and get
started on Kate. Try and return the Grid node to its
original state.”
The gunman had forced Knowlan to delete files; an act
which corrupted even basic functions. He and Knowlan
had to reverse the sabotage quickly.
15 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Jude asked Knowlan, “How long did the attacker hold

you before I showed up?”
“Forty minutes, maybe less” Knowlan replied.
“Damn it,” Jude said. “Show me what procedures the
attacker forced you to do.” Knowlan demonstrated
everything to Jude.
Together, they worked to roll back the server clock to
the previous day. They were lucky in this regard. If the
terrorist had more time, surely he would’ve done more
permanent damage. They recalled all of the files the
terrorist had Knowlan delete. Knowlan tested the Grid
again, but it still wasn’t functioning properly. Jude stared
at the static Grid display, holding his side. Pain had
flared up from the Tipsea explosion.
He went over things methodically, considering
different causes for the Grid to be still locked up. The
trouble could be anything from destroyed cabling from
the explosion to power surges to dust particles on hard
drives. Jude quickly went through his process of
elimination, isolating variables: the hard drives were
working, the power was up. Signs pointed to an external
force as the culprit. He could be wrong but suspected
the source of this stoppage was a premeditated hack.
Jude cocked around to Knowlan. “When did you push
the last update to users’ PCs?”
“Last week,” Knowlan replied. “Why?”
He sat down and took over the keyboard. Some thirty
minutes passed when he identified that an
unrecognizable agent had been uploaded to the Grid
server.
Jude’s nightmare got darker. A search through the
server logs showed that some bastard had been
rummaging around in the Grid server.
17 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Knowlan pointed to the screen. “There. That’s a

foreign user agent admin.”
“You mean that letter, “C?”
“Yes.”
Discovering that simple out-of-place letter told Jude
and Knowlan everything—a hacker had infiltrated the
Stanford Grid node from the Internet. What Jude feared
had happened. The Grid was accessed and disrupted.
The Stanford attacker, Liborio Russo, must’ve
communicated the access permissions to Cez@r the
hacker. Since Grids depended upon volunteers to
download a software agent onto desktops, a security
breakdown at the volunteer level was a major user
worry.
“A virus writer combined a virus to a work unit,” Jude
exclaimed.
“My god,” Knowlan said, staring at the screen.
“Hey,” Kate said. “What’s going on?”
Jude typed more while everyone else looked on. He
shook his head.
“Somebody monkeyed with the Grid client—hacked
the Grid download agent—and did some kind of test
upload to the system two hours ago,” Jude said.
“All because they got access to the Grid through me.”
“Yeah.”
“It compromised the Stanford node. Apparently,
though, that was just a test for a much greater, more
damaging attack.”
“What is that, dare I ask?” Knowlan said
“Hang on.” Jude continued analyzing the logs. “This
can’t be true.” Jude said. He kicked the computer desk.
“The hacker didn’t just give bad agent information to
one computer but thousands of botnets.”
“No, no, no!” Knowlan said.
 GRIDLOCK
18

Jude said, “Yes, I’m afraid. I see what the hacker is

doing. He’s got botnets sending erroneous information
to the Grid. The Grid is now using all of its resources to
check the incongruous results that are filtering in.”
Knowlan’s face turned red.
“Ugh. I’m showing that hundreds of similar agents are
uploading similar work units with false information.”
Knowlan said, “So, that’s what’s knocking us offline?”
Jude rubbed his head and cursed. “Right. That’s
what’s hogging the system resources and jamming up
the network.”
“Jude, tell me what’s going on? What are botnets?”
Kate asked.
“A bot is a zombie computer agent—a discreet
program. It usually operates undetected on a computer
user’s hard drive and gets there through spyware. Here,
the hacker infected a set of bots to act as robot
computers. Combined, they reach out to more bots
forming a botnet. Botnets work in the background but
can be ordered around by a hacker like an electronic
army. Most computer owners are completely clueless
when their machine is being worked like a slave.”
“What the hell does all this mean to me?” Kate asked.
“How does this impact our genomic work on my
cancer?”
Jude took in a big inhale. “It means the hacker is
pushing bad work unit results to the Grid to confuse it.
Once a bot is given a processing job from the Grid
master, it downloads the faulty information or virus with
the work unit. The Grid is stalling out because it fact-
checks every work unit against a thousand others. When
the computer gets another error returned, the work unit
is passed to even more computers for validating.”
19 ALVIN ZIEGLER

The neon lights flickered under the backup power.

Jude looked up then continued. “I’m going to have to
work on defending these hits coming onto the Grid, but
it won’t be easy. We’ve recovered the deleted files but
the pressing problem now involves these corrupted
botnets hitting the Stanford Grid. This hacker is
spreading corrupted agents to thousands of bots. It’s like
he’s got his own Typhoid Mary, cooking away, spreading
her fever.”
Kate said, “Isn’t there any other way to protect the
system? Can’t you think of any other way to get it
running?”
Knowlan put his hands on his head. “I can’t believe
this is happening.”
“Jude, what can you do?” Kate asked.
Jude wanted to heave the hacker who did this into a
fire pit and strike a match, even though he had been one
himself years ago. Hacking could ruin the whole
initiative.
Things were bad. He was answering her streaming
questions while he tapped away at the keyboard. An
hour later, he looked at Kate. Awake half the night, she
wearily watched him and Knowlan work. Nathalie walked
back inside the lab, holding a fist full of health bars
wrapped in foil. “All of the fire trucks but one are gone.”
She handed a bar to everyone. and explained with her
mouth full that a Stanford Police officer had given them
to her after she said they had nothing to eat all night.
She added, “By the way, the Dyncorp team has left, but I
spoke with Hackman again.”
“And?” Jude said.
“The backup team is here and can escort us out of
here safely.”
21 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Okay,” Jude said, sounding distracted as he dwelled

on repairing the Grid. “That’s good, but I’m not going
anywhere.”
“Jude.” Kate added. “I’m really worried. Can’t we get
out of here?”
“Do you want Kate to be taken to a hospital?”
Nathalie asked.
Jude pointed out the window, in the distance. Half a
dozen Stanford Police officers were standing watch over
the building. “For now, I think we’re safe.”
Kate said, “Okay.”
Jude motioned for Nathalie to come close where he
whispered, “Ideally, yes. I’d like her to be resting, but I
can’t take any chances right now with letting her out of
my sight. She represents a potential success story of
Grid treatment and that could pose a serious threat to
many. She’s staying with me.”
Nathalie’s radio chirped again. She turned down the
volume.
Kate stood up as if she couldn’t take any more. She
went to the window and rested her arms on the sill
ledge, watching the officers on patrol and the final fire
truck leave the area.
Nervously, Knowlan crunched tortilla chips he’d
retrieved from the main lab after a dark adventure
through the building.
“Roger, would you stop rustling that bag?” Kate
shouted.
Jude began analyzing the corrupted agent.
“Jude, what does this mean for us?” Kate asked. “Is
the hacker spreading the virus throughout the Grid?”
“It would take more time to do that, but that’s
possible too and that would be catastrophic. If a
corrupted agent was being downloaded across the Grid
 GRIDLOCK
22

and word got out about it, in no time news would spread
that the Grid was infected and posed a hazard to donors’
PCs. That would trigger security hysteria—volunteers
would probably quit the Grid project by the thousands,
tumbling the system like an avalanche of snow on a
spring day.”
Jude let out a sigh of exhaustion from a night of trying
but failing to make the Grid operational again. “This guy
is really good,” Jude said.
Nathalie asked, “What’s wrong, Jude? You look
panicked.”
Jude explained the situation.
Nathalie said, “Why can’t you just cut off access by
firewalling the IP—Internet Protocol—that had
maliciously accessed the Grid?”
Knowlan said, “Yeah! Can’t the FBI track his hacking
and find him by his IP address?”
Jude shook his head. “It’s is a nice idea. But
identifying the hackers IP address only tells us where
he’s located at that moment when he’s online. A guy of
this level of sophistication is always changing locations.
And once the hacker discovered what we were doing,
he’d just switch Internet cafes.”
“Right,” Knowlan said, sounding slightly discouraged.
“What are our options then?”
Nathalie looked up from her smart phone, cynical as
ever, shaking her head.
“So, what do you propose?” Nathalie asked. “You’re
the only Grid expert here, Jude.”
“I’m thinking.”
Jude sat down at the computer again and spent
another fifty minutes analyzing why the Grid was
stalling. Finally, he looked up.
23 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Are we helpless here? What can we do? Isn’t there

some way we could wall off all of those bots?”
“Yeah, we could. In fact, that would be a good solution
but the hacker would eventually learn what we’ve done
and then he’d be tipped off to us. We don’t want that. If
he sees we’re onto him, it could entice another type of
attack. We want him to believe that he’s got us.”
“That sounds right. So, what are we doing exactly?”
Knowlan asked.
Jude smiled. “We use a classic jiu-jitsu—martial arts
strategy.”
Nathalie squinted a confused look.
“Turn your enemy’s strength against him,” Jude said.
“Pardon?”
“In the martial arts, that’s how you handle a bigger
rival in a fight.”
Nathalie went quiet.
“Look at 9-11. How did nineteen Muslim extremists,
armed with the most primitive of weapons, take down
the twin towers?”
“You tell me,” Nathalie said.
“They didn’t fly their own jets over here; they forced
our planes—full of fuel—into our towers in the sky and
into our own Pentagon. They used our strength against
us.”
“And your idea is?”
“We turn the hacker’s hack against himself.”
“What?”
“I create a download agent that will only go to the
hacker’s botnets. That agent will contain bad information
which I will have tagged so the Grid recognizes it and
filters it when it comes back as a completed work unit.”
25 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Knowlan bit his lower lip. “I follow. But how much time
will it take for you to tag an agent that just goes to the
hacker’s bots?”
“I don’t know.” Jude said and started working.
Nathalie shook her head. “You do that. I have another
idea.”
Kate looked away, tuning out.
Nathalie thumb clicked the buttons on her phone. “I’m
going to call human resources again at Johnston &
Quib.”
“Why?” Jude asked.
Jude knew that Nathalie had placed a number of
phone calls to the bureau over the last few hours but
hadn’t heard what she had uncovered.
“I got word that Heather Styles listed a dependent on
her W-2 form.”
“Okay, good.” Jude said.
“J&Q’s human resources didn’t give me any trouble. I
knew that she must be a mother. I then used a data
broker to pull up Heather’s home telephone records and
cross referenced them against San Francisco county
child pre-school centers. “Voila,” Nathalie said. “Heather
has her child in a San Francisco daycare.”
“A data broker?” Knowlan asked.
“That’s sketchy.” Kate said.
Nathalie said, “Au contraire, this one is a standard
workaround we use under the Homeland Security
privilege.”
“I’ll take it.” Jude could see a plan hatching behind her
almond eyes, a knowing glint. “What are you thinking?”
“A scheme that might give us negotiation power,”
Nathalie said, “before the hacker kills again. Blackmail,
sort of.”
“Good. I just hope we don’t ever have a falling out.”
27 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Avec ma bite et mon couteau.”

“What’s that?”
“An old expression.” Nathalie said. “You will be safe
around me if you don’t act stupid. Literally, it means,
‘Don’t confuse your cock with a knife.’”
Jude rolled his eyes.
Nathalie started to leave abruptly.
“Nice, Nathalie. Au revoir.”
Jude resumed his work on repairing the Grid, sighing
over Kate’s discomfort.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

thirty-nine

Sunday, November 6
Emeryville, CA

Marc Ferguson nervously leafed through phone

messages, checking to see if testing results had come in
on his Huntington’s disease drug.
A folder filled with papers on the Stanford Grid Project
sat on his desk. He cursed the day that he had gulled
Pinsky to invest in the Stanford Grid. What on earth had
he done?
If Kate Wagner became a big success story by way of
Stanford Grid treatment, her testimonial would pave the
way for the demise of blockbuster drugs.
Goddamn genomic medicine.
At least he had a plan of retreat. Ferguson grew sick
of the murmurs of the shady dealings of CEO’s in
America. Tobacco makers, real estate mortgage brokers,
and Wall Street financiers had become subjects for
public scrutiny. Ferguson’s rise to power from a
Pennsylvania steel-working family was the stuff found in
fables. Yet with constant talk on CNBC about market exit
strategies, he sensed that the time had come to sell his
stake in J&Q.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

While it took an army of foot soldiers to build

Ferguson’s J&Q realm, he only needed one man to dump
his stock. That man was Ferguson’s lawyer-turned
stockbroker, Julian Stark. Years ago Stark advised
Ferguson to put his vast position in J&Q stock into an
account under a fictitious business name that would be
owned by his daughter.
That advice proved prescient a month ago when
Roger Knowlan told Ferguson that the Stanford Grid
would be made free. The news infuriated him.
Knowlan hoped that Ferguson would persuade his
other Stanford team members to keep the Grid a money-
making project. But Ferguson had no luck.
Once the public got the full meaning of free access to
the Grid, J&Q stock would tank further. To protect his
wealth and Lori, his only heir, he ordered his stock
broker to put a careful sell-off program into action.
If he sold too much stock too fast, word of his sell-out
would create its own disaster with insider trading or
investor panic.
Ferguson gave instructions to Stark by phone. “I want
you to sell another ten million shares, Julian.” He was
damned if he was going to be remembered as the
talented Mr. Ferguson who fell like Kenneth Lay or
Bernard Madoff.
That was all the stock.
Ferguson had sold the first ten million a month ago.
Stark would sell these shares under Ferguson’s
daughter’s fictitious business name as he had done with
the first lot.
“You’re going to have to sell these shares more
gradually.” The stock broker said.”
“Fine. Just don’t let it be known that I’m dumping.”
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“I advise that you trade no more than a million shares

every two weeks through the three accounts in your
daughter’s name. In addition, you should buy a few call
options in your own name. This small bullish bet might
camouflage your larger strategy, and in the unlikely
event J&Q goes up, these calls will be a hedge.”
Ferguson quickly hung up the phone when Ramsey
barged into his office again.
“Ferguson, my eyes may fail me, but you look like
crap.”
Ramsey stood in front of the desk, glaring down at
Ferguson in his chair.
Not a gray hair moved. Ferguson would rather suffer
in isolation than reveal self-pity to a Wall Street whore
like Ramsey.
“You realize,” Ramsey said, “Stanford’s Grid is going
to be our demise. I’m taking emergency precautions.”
“What kind of emergency precautions?” Ferguson
asked. “We shouldn’t obliterate the Grid. We may need
it. Apply its innovation.”
“I take credit for finding a talented hacker. His name
is Cez@r and he’s locked up the Stanford Grid. He has a
plan to release a virus that will probably do lasting
damage.”
“You did what?” This was all getting insanely out of
control. Ferguson wished he hadn’t heard this.
“Advanced technology can seize up, right? If we’re
lucky the Grid might conveniently freeze.”
Ramsey walked up to a row of rosewood-framed
photographs on the wall.
One photo pictured Ferguson holding a Golden Gloves
trophy. Another got him at a beach house. The last one
pictured him on a giant yacht, standing at the helm and
gazing into the distance.
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“I hope you’re better at navigating that yacht than

you are J&Q,” Ramsey said.
5 ALVIN ZIEGLER

forty

Sunday, November 6
Berkeley, CA

Nathalie parked her Crown Vic in front of a two-story

Victorian building on Larkin Street. She had called
earlier, posing as Melissa’s aunt, saying she’d be picking
up the girl today and wanted to confirm what time would
be best to come by.
She double-checked the address she had taken down
against the numbers on the building. Nothing about the
non-descript place resembled a daycare center. From
the outside, it was just another apartment building. She
rang the doorbell. No answer. When a mother came out,
Nathalie went in.
A middle-aged woman stood in the living room,
holding a three-year-old in her arms and balancing a
telephone on her shoulder. She had a red jelly stain on
her trousers. The child tugged on her glasses. Children
on the once ivory-colored linoleum floor flung Hot Wheel
cars around a racetrack. Others drew pictures on a low
round table. The daycare worker hung up the phone and
plunked the child she was holding into one of the
miniature chairs at her feet. “Now, Max, try to share the
crayons.”
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Nathalie said, “A friend of mine, Heather Styles,

brings her child here. She’s said good things, so I
thought I’d check it out for my little boy.”
“We have a tour day at the end of the month.”
“Good, thank you. Is Melissa here today? I thought I’d
say hi while I was here.”
“Oh yeah, she’s right here, Melissa?”
The little girl walked in with a Barbie doll in her hand.
The day care center woman said, “This friend of you
mother’s wanted to say hello.”
Melissa said nothing.
“Thank you. I’ll come back on tour day.“ Nathalie said
and returned to her car where she waited until she saw
Melissa come out with her a woman who appeared to be
her mother.
Almost an hour later, she did. The mother had
strawberry-blonde hair and a low-cut sweater and was
holding the child’s hand.
Nathalie jumped out of the car and follow Heather to
hers with her little girl.
“Heather Styles?”
“Yes, who are you?”
Nathalie showed the woman her badge. “I’m Special
Agent Noiret. I have a few questions for you.”
“I’m sorry, but you can see I’m busy getting my
daughter home.”
“Yes, I see that.”
The little girl looked at Nathalie with suspicious blue
eyes. “Why don’t you get her in the car. I have
something to tell
you.”
“What?” Heather opened her car door and told
Melissa to get inside and buckler her seatbelt. Heather
 GRIDLOCK
8

closed the door and locked it from the outside with a

click of her keychain.”
The little girl continued to watch the conversation,
glued to the car window.
“I suggest we do this at your house,” Nathalie said. “I
don’t want to leave your daughter waiting in the car. We
need your help with an inquiry.”
“Do I have a choice?” Heather whispered, turning pale
beneath her makeup.
Nathalie shook her head.
Heather let out a big sigh. “Okay, follow me.”

At Heather’s apartment, Melissa watched television

while Nathalie and Heather sat on a wrought iron bench
in a downstairs garden courtyard.
“Why do you need to speak to me?” Heather asked
with a pinched voice.
“We believe you might have knowledge about efforts
to stop the Stanford Grid project. Why don’t you start by
telling me who you work for exactly?”
Heather pulled on her hair, looking away. “Aren’t you
supposed to read me my Miranda rights?”
“If I charge you with something, I will.”
“Marc Ferguson,” she said abruptly, “the CEO of
Johnston & Quib. I’m his executive assistant.”
“What do you know about a Cayman Islands bank
account?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Lives are at risk. If you cooperate, a judge should
look favorably upon it.”
Heather chewed on her finger nail.
“Consider this an opportunity to clear your record.”
“Record? You said I’m not being charged.”
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Not now, but you could be charged later. There’s

been a terrorist attack on the Stanford University
campus.”
“Wait. What does that have to do with me?” Heather
became jumpy.
Nathalie said. “You’re under suspicion for conspiring
in a felony. I suggest you cooperate. You saw how easily
I found your daycare. I can easily file a report on with
child protective services, tell them I chatted with the day
care worker, Bonnie, who told m that you’ve been late to
pick up Melissa, hung over on a occasion.”
“What! That’s not true.”
“Whether it’s fact or fiction, they’ll listen to a federal
agent—especially when I tell them that you’re suspected
of impersonating a journalist with the intent to gain
corporate information. That’s a felony. They’d assign a
counselor to you and you’ll have meetings with them to
determine if you’re overworked or need parental
assistance as a single, working mom. They’ll determine
if you’re an unfit other.”
Heather Styles tried to jump across the table at
Nathalie, but Nathalie caught her hands. Heather let out
a cry. Her stylishly curled hair tossed out of place.
Heather burst into tears. “I only did what Olivier
Ramsey asked. And if you ever touch my child, you’ll be
sorry.”
“So, you acted as a gofer on this attack?”
“Attack?” asked Heather.
“You’ve been identified as the one who set up this
bank account.”
“What does that mean?” Heather said.
“Tell me about Olivier Ramsey.”
“All I know is that Olivier Ramsey requested that I
open a Cayman Island bank account.”
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Who is Olivier Ramsey?”

“A venture capitalist. He’s crazy. Mr. Ferguson’s gotta
jump whenever Olivier Ramsey’s investment firm says
so. Those two have been arguing…for days now. They
were friends once but I don’t see how. And Mr.
Ferguson’s been acting strange, paranoid. I don’t think
he’s well at all. Company morale is tanking. I know
people who are going to quit.”
“But why did Ramsey open this bank account?”
“How would I know?”
“You can do better.”
She looked away, thinking. “I did hear about some
computer contractor payment.”
“What did he hire that computer contractor to do?”
“All I know is that the contractor insisted the money
be deposited ASAP.”
“How much did you deposit?”
“Five hundred thousand.”
“How can we find this contractor?”
“They refer to him as Cezar. Ask Olivier Ramsey.”
“I need you to find out more about who this Cezar is
and what he’s doing.”
“I have no idea. I want to see Melissa.”
“Think about it,” Nathalie said.
“But how am I—
“I’ll be calling nightly after 8 P.M. on your cell phone
for reports.”
Just like the old saying goes—law enforcement
depends on good intelligence, good intelligence depends
on good informants. Nathalie hoped Heather would
prove to be a reliable one.

***
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Nathalie rang Jude’s cell from downstairs at J&Q. “I’ve

got a big report from Heather Styles.”
“Go.”
“She deposited half a million dollars for Olivier
Ramsey in the Cayman Islands account for a computer
job.”
Jude processed this. “So Ramsey must have paid
hackers to crash the grid.”
“Yes, but I still don’t know how Onagi’s murder fits.
Remember your Dyncorp pen? That points to the FBI and
Hackman. And what about the FBI handgun that killed
Jűrgen Hansen?”
“My gut says it was all intended to frame the FBI,” he
said.
“That’s very possible. Do you think Ramsey did it?”
“I don’t know. I never trusted J&Q even when they
sponsored the Stanford Grid. For now, we have to block
this hacker. I’ve found an IP address that hacked into the
Grid. I sandboxed it, which should slow him down. It’ll
mean his PC can’t access the Grid network at all. He’ll
need a new Internet access which probably only gives us
a few minutes to figure out something else.”
“That’s the challenge.” She said.
“We can’t track him down by an IP alone if he’s
roaming with a notebook computer. The wounded
intruder from Stanford has clammed up. The virus writer
is going to update Ramsey. We’ve gotta get access to
Ramsey’s machine.”
“But then what?” Nathalie asked.
“Hopefully in one of his emails to Ramsey he’ll leave
some electronic trail. No one can walk in snow without
leaving a footprint.”
“At least one of us is an optimist,” Nathalie said.
15 ALVIN ZIEGLER
5 ALVIN ZIEGLER

forty-one

Sunday, November 6
Piedmont, CA

Marc Ferguson lay in bed distraught, frustrated and

unable to focus. He went the bathroom, picked up his
electric razor and shaved while watching the stock
market tape roll on his wall-mounted TV.
Johnston & Quib stock dropped from 92 to 71. While
some investors undoubtedly were buying J&Q stock to
hedge bets with traditional medicine, a greater number
were selling on reports that one of J&Q’s blockbuster
drugs caused side-effects. It was awful timing for J&Q to
have the Stanford Grid team sever its alliance.
When Ferguson heard that the Stanford Grid Project
had been terrorized with an explosion, he could only
think that Ramsey was responsible. The consequences of
a crashed Grid tumbled around in Ferguson’s head. He
wasn’t sure how to judge it.
Ultimately, whether the Stanford Grid flourished or
failed, he’d still be sunk. Kate Wagner was a human test
balloon, the cancer test case that would be cited by
every scientific journal.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Ferguson poured two fingers of Glenfiddich into his

bedside water glass, swallowed a Percocet and pet his
dog, Zeus.
Meanwhile J&Q stockholders were bleeding and so
was his daughter’s inheritance.
“No way,” he said aloud, slamming his glass on the
floor of his aqua-tiled bathroom, shattering it into a
thousand shards. Cussing, Ferguson stepped around
broken and came back to the bedroom.
He then pulled a business card from his wallet with
Kate Wagner’s cell phone number. The not-for-profit Grid
program might have stopped for now, but who knew
when Stanford’s network might be running again. He
couldn’t stand even a remote possibility that Kate would
become a Grid success story, leaving him and his
company to waste away.
He punched Kate’s number. “Kate, it’s Marc
Ferguson.”
“Yes.” She sounded surprised to hear from him.
“I think you should drop into our office for a visit to
review our new drug offerings,” Ferguson said.
“Um, well, I’m very busy. I’m in a meeting here at
Stanford.”
“Please, let me help you.” That sounded desperate, so
he changed his demeanor. “Why not be my special guest
at our Emeryville office? Meet our onsite medical
specialist. He’ll make a drug sample available to your
treating physician. It’s our latest and greatest offering.”
“I really appreciate the offer,” Kate said. “Can we
schedule another day?”
“I’ll call you tomorrow morning.” He hung up, torn
over what to do next. He dialed again.
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Nothing would make him accept the bitter truth that

he was dying and that the company he created—his
life’s work—was ailing too.
His dog, Zeus, barked beside his feet.
Shit, even Zeus knows I’m dying.
Ferguson made his crucial call of the hour. It went to
the one person he knew was capable of doing something
so extraordinary that it seemed impossible. “Lori, I need
your help and I know this will sound utterly crazy. I need
you to locate someone named Kate Wagner and bring
her to me even if she fights. I don’t know how you’re
going to find—.”
“Dad, you’re not going to believe this. But that’s no
problem. I know right where she is in Berkeley.”
Ferguson couldn’t make sense of this, how his
daughter could know where Kate Wagner was or even
who she was. He would get an explanation later. Most of
all, he was thankful for this luck.
“I don’t know how you know that, but—.”
“I’ll have her delivered to the house soon.”
Ferguson feared that something wasn’t right with his
daughter’s activities. He even dreaded a day would
come when he found out that she had acted out so
defiantly that it caused him eternal regret.
5 ALVIN ZIEGLER

forty-two

Sunday, November 6
Stanford University Data Center

Smoke from the early morning fire had given way to a

light breeze. Sun rays pushed through the haze over the
Stanford campus. The part of the campus where the
bomb exploded was scorched earth. The stench of
smoldering eucalyptus trees turned Jude’s empty
stomach.
He fastened the data center window closed and
returned to his seat beside Roger Knowlan.
He looked at Roger’s screen, then got back to
slogging code at the keyboard. They no longer worked
with the grating noise of the power generator, as the
electricity had come back up. The neon lights overhead
burned bright now. Yet Jude still hadn’t got the Stanford
Grid up and running again.
Precious minutes wasted ... minutes that should have
been spent pairing Kate’s genomic markers to produce
her custom drug.
Jude’s radio was still broadcasting reports about the
explosion. He turned it off.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

The gunman had been wheeled away, but blood

evidence of the shooting remained on the floor, a plain
reminder that danger lurked.
For hours, Jude and Knowlan had drawn all the reserve
energy they could muster to repair the Grid. To keep
them going, Knowlan searched the data center cabinets
and brewed up stale coffee with what he found. Kate
dipped a ginseng green tea bag and gnawed on string
cheese from his mini-fridge then napped uncomfortably
with her head down on a desk. The wall clock read 12:01
P.M. At last, Jude believed he had created an agent that

was tagged such that the Grid could filter it out once the
botnet took it and returned bad information.
The Stanford Grid looked operational, ready to resume
processing on Kate’s genome. Jude sent a test problem
to the online system. Results returned instantaneously.
He tested again. It worked a second time.
“That’s it.” Jude shouted, rising to his feet. Despite
everyone’s exhaustion, excitement filled the room.
“Success.” Knowlan shouted back, grabbing Jude’s
arm in elation.
Kate sat up. “Are we running?” She asked, half-asleep
and incredulous.
“We are.” Jude swept his sister into a hug, “We’re
going to make you better and finish what we started
yesterday.”
Jude and Knowlan swapped seats, putting Knowlan in
command. Knowlan snapped open two plastic DVD jewel
cases and popped in the first DVD. It contained Kate’s
sequenced genome results, which had been burned to
the DVDs the previous day. Knowlan keyed Kate’s data
into a program that used Jude’s data-mining algorithm to
analyze her mutated proteins and check them against
the J&Q breast cancer database. The Grid churned,
 GRIDLOCK
8

sorting the necessary compounds for a customized drug.

As CPU lights flickered, a green progress bar lengthened.
Jude put his arm around Kate, his eyes glued to the
monitor. It would be hours before results would be
returned, but he couldn’t bear to leave the station
unguarded. He waited with anticipation, watching the
Grid’s flat screen. None of them could sleep.
Almost four hours passed. Jude watched the progress
bar until it stopped. He quickly navigated to another
screen to see what results had returned.
Comparing her DNA to that of tens of thousands of
other breast cancer tissues produced inconclusive
results. They needed a precise match to determine the
proper drug treatment for Kate.
“Nothing?” Jude slumped. He mumbled to himself in
an effort not to disturb Kate, sitting just feet away. His
distress was excruciating.
Knowlan’s chair swiveled around toward Jude. He
looked exhausted. They had worked feverishly,
eliminating what could have gone wrong.
Kate moaned with bloodless lips and circles under her
eyes. “Jude, I feel lightheaded.”
“Why don’t you drink some water, Kate,” Jude said.
“I’m very sorry to tell you this, Kate, but the Grid
analysis didn’t work,” Knowlan said.
Jude’s eyebrows narrowed. After tugging the keyboard
closer, he typed “PERFMON” to monitor the Grid’s
performance.
Results showed the Grid was drawing processing
power only from inside Stanford’s campus—nothing from
the 90,000 computers it had access to yesterday. Jude
could no longer trust the results stored on the Stanford
Grid as long as the virus stalled the computation.
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“We’re down,” Jude said. “Gridlock.”

Knowlan exhaled in despair.
Jude went to the keyboard. Tap, tap, tap. Knowlan
looked on the server logs. Kate stood up from the desk,
rubbing her neck.
“Our Grid servers here are still completely tied up
with processing the bad data those zombie botnets are
sending.”

***

Cez@r slurped a venti café latte as he worked at a

Starbucks in San Francisco’s busy Laurel Village. He
preferred to do his laptop work in cafes, so the feds
couldn’t locate his home. Cez@r typed, directing more
infected bots to hit the Stanford Grid. Next, just to be
safe, he got up. He wasn’t going to have anyone track
his location based on the IP address. He wouldn’t be
duped so easily.
He stood up and nudged the next table, knocking
some chick’s coffee sideways. Half the beverage spilled
over the tabletop before she caught her drink.
“Watch it.”
“Sorry,” he said.
As she grabbed napkins, he slid her blue Nokia into
his pocket. Clutching his laptop, he ran outside and
pulled away in his Toyota before she could miss her
phone.
Two miles down the road, Cez@r parked on a side
street lined with boxy 1960s-style apartment buildings.
He connected his computer to the girl’s cell phone.
Online again, he quickly surfed under an anonymous
Internet Protocol. He snapped in his jump drive, called
 GRIDLOCK
10

up a file, clicked to the Stanford network and signed into

the Stanford Grid server.
Cez@r continued coding his attack. The botnet attack
was just round one. Round two would be to put a virus
into general circulation so other users would be infected.
The news of a compromised Grid would cause volunteers
to stop donating their processing power, effectively
shutting down the Grid.
The virus, he estimated, would be ready to post in 36
hours.
He worked until nightfall from his car recharging the
phone, using the car’s cigarette lighter. He then drove
ten blocks to an even quieter street. From the car
window, he chucked the Nokia into a juniper bush then
started back downtown.
He went directly to the XYZ bar at the W Hotel. He
caught his breath as he stepped up the wide staircase
and swaggered into the trendy bar. He found a chair and
table in the back corner of the semi-darkened room and
mused over his day’s deeds over a tall mojito.

***

At Stanford Jude pushed the keyboard to one side and

reeled back in his chair in disbelief. The screen
confirmed his worst suspicion. No matter what changes
he made to the download agent, the Stanford Grid’s
resources were completely occupied with fact-checking
tasks. The jobs monopolized the system, excluding any
other routine from running.
Desperate and humiliated, Jude wanted to slam the
expensive scientific machine into the wall. Kate’s
chances at survival weren’t improving.
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Neither Jude nor Knowlan had an answer. Frustrated,

Jude walked out into the smoky air. He had to think.
There was always a way to tweak a computer, it simply
demanded time—he lived by that motto at Berkeley,
years ago. Acknowledging that a solution existed was
half the battle of finding it.
Tormented by the breakdown, he trod around the
building. The anxiety he felt about Kate’s chances now
would only be a twinge of pain compared to what he
would face if she died. He searched the corners of his
mind for ideas.
After several minutes, Jude remembered something
that Knowlan had done—that might make give them the
power they needed. With a purposeful gait, he returned
to the room where Kate and Knowlan sat slouched,
looking despondent.
“I might have something.” Jude felt his adrenaline
rush. “What if we just let the botnets continue to feed
bad information here and tie up these resources. That
might not be a bad thing.”
“You’re dreaming,” Knowlan said, deflated. “We’ve
lost our chance.”
Jude put his hand on Knowlan’s shoulder. “Wait. You
implemented Grid overload servers at Berkeley, right?”
“Yes, just yesterday.” Knowlan did it while the regular
department people were away for a two-day astronomy
conference. “That’s right. That node would be up
because it’s working with a different set of agents.”
Jude didn’t need to tell Roger Knowlan the capabilities
of the redundancy servers and that the SETI@home
agents were scanning outer space radio waves, not
cancer markers. But SETI could be redirected. Knowlan
knew as well as Jude that what he installed at Berkeley
 GRIDLOCK
12

enabled them to use the SETI@home Grid to complete

Kate’s work unit.
“We’re going to Berkeley,” Jude hollered. “You do still
have the key to the Department, don’t you?”
Roger checked his jeans pocket. “Got the key.”
Knowlan and Kate jerked to attention. Jude could see
a palpable shift in mood from them—a remnant of hope
in their eyes.
Knowlan weighed what Jude was saying. Jude didn’t
wait for agreement. He grabbed Kate’s DVDs and
prodded Kate and Knowlan through the double door
entrance and into Knowlan’s Jaguar.
“What’s going on?” Kate asked.
“SETI@home and Stanford agreed to act as expanded
capacity nodes, so neither would be oversubscribed,”
Knowlan said. “It appears that someone has hacked into
our Stanford Grid and corrupted it, so we’re going to
harness the SETI Grid to continue your cure.”
From the front seat, Kate turned to look back at Jude.
“Like an emergency power generator?”
“Sort of—one helps the other temporarily.”
Knowlan accelerated the Jag along Page Mill Road to
the freeway.
“I must be dreaming,” Kate murmured.
“I’ve felt that way for several days myself,” Jude said.
5 ALVIN ZIEGLER

forty-three

Sunday, November 6
Between Stanford and Berkeley, CA

Clouds darkened to slate and rain began to fall as

Knowlan drove them up highway 101 from Palo Alto and
over the San Mateo Bridge. The weather report on the
radio said that hurricane Linda in the South Pacific had
triggered unusually big thunderstorms and lightning in
the area.
Windshield wipers whopped.
“Oh, god,” Kate said.
“What?” Jude asked.
“In addition to my head hurting, my fingers are
numb.”
“Try to rest, Kate.” Jude reached forward to place a
comforting hand on her shoulder. He then turned around
to look out the back window. The blue van was still there
and behind that a white Ranger Rover. It appeared to be
the same model that had followed him into Chinatown.
Jude had noticed the car and truck trailing behind them
from Page Mill Road and again miles later on the
freeway.
“Come on, Roger, faster. I think we’re being followed,”
Jude said.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Who?”
“Wish I knew.”
Jude checked behind him again. Both cars had
disappeared from view.

* * *

Mud spattered from the street as they travelled

around the back of the Berkeley football stadium. The
road climbed past the Berkeley Botanical Gardens and
side roads with fences marked FEDERAL GOVERNMENT,
NO TRESPASSING. The Berkeley hills were famous for
what Jude called “Uber-government projects,” from
primate laboratory testing to national defense research.
They drove past a wooden staircase that ran up the hill
from the Lawrence Hall of Science to the cluster of three
hulking cement slab structures that formed Berkeley’s
Space and Science Laboratory. SETI was located in the
middle building.
They passed a final sign that said SECURED
GOVERNMENT PROPERTY, and then Knowlan parked the
car at the foot of Jude’s old place of work and study.
Thunder boomed overhead from the leaden sky as they
climbed out of the car.
Jude and Knowlan ran through the rain with Kate
between them. Each of them supported her by one arm.
They were leading her up the stairs, toward the
SETI@home office, when she fell on the steps. She
complained of lightheadedness and breathed heavily.
Jude carried her the rest of the way to his former desk
and settled her into a chair.
Moving quickly, Knowlan booted up his laptop
computer and signed into the Berkeley grid access node.
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

He successfully connected to the SETI Grid and entered

Kate’s data, using the DVDs.
Jude paced anxiously while Knowlan typed. From the
hallway, Jude heard light shuffling noises—perhaps
rubber-soled shoes.
“Continue to set up and configure,” Jude told Knowlan.
“I’ll check this out.”
Jude left the office and stalked down the corridor. He
unholstered his service pistol and chambered a round.
He heard someone opening and closing a door ahead
and figured it could be a janitor or building security.
Then he saw a man in a jumpsuit marching up the stairs.
Bursting with energy, he bolted the other way.
Looking over his shoulder, he saw the military type with
the stubbled hair and wide build running at him—it was
the same attacker who had broken into his place.
Jude took the emergency stairs to the ground floor
emergency exit. He hoped to lure him out of the
building, away from Kate and Knowlan.
But where would he go on the outside? Jude ran down
the fire exit stairs three at a time and charged out of the
SETI@home building through the emergency exit into
billowing sheets of rain. He scrambled around the
building to the rustic wooden stairs. The well-trodden
staircase ran to a lower portion of the main road. The
idea hit him when he saw the building he used to visit
across the street.
Pounding rapidly down the slick, rickety steps, he
headed to that dusky concrete building across the way.
The same pounding noise followed behind him. He
turned. The man was gaining on him. Jude gripped his
cold .40 Smith and Wesson, his reflexes coiled.
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

He hit the last step and stumbled into a puddle of

watery dirt. A shot fired over his head and twanged as it
ricocheted off a street sign below.
He managed to get to his feet and continue down the
steps toward the road. Heart pounding, he felt no pain.
He wasn’t hit. The man was only forty feet behind him
and moving.
Jude quickly came to a stop. He turned, took aim for
center body, and, in quick succession, snapped the
trigger. Bang—bang—bang! The assailant fell to one
knee, put his hand to his chest, found his footing again
and got up. On the move again, he must’ve been
wearing Kevlar. One of Jude’s shots had to hit.
Jude reached the bottom of the stairs, but was also
slipping in the mud—each breath choppier than the last.
The blue van was parked at the foot of the stairs. Jude
thought about checking it for keys but figured they’d be
gone.
He rushed up to the aerosol testing building. The
laboratory staff assessed the chemical threat of indoor,
aerolized anthrax dispersal, attack, and contamination.
The low, two-story, concrete structure was set back from
the road. At the entrance, he punched the code into the
clear white key pad beside the steel door. He needed
these digits to be right, 9-2-8-0-7.
There was no click.
His stomach felt like it was in his chest. He’d
misentered a number. He brushed his wet fingers on his
pants and pounded the numbers out again, 9-2-8-0-7.
The lock clicked.
The door opened. He went inside and slammed it
shut, then darted to the closet beside the emergency
showers. Jude had known nothing about anthrax until he
read about what students were studying down the hill
 GRIDLOCK
12

from the SETI lab. Infection happened when microscopic

spores invaded the body, reverted to their bacterial
form, then multiplied. A high percentage of people
infected with anthrax died.
He fumbled through a metal cabinet and grabbed one
of several gas masks. As he closed the cabinet tight he
heard a banging noise against the door—crashing thuds,
followed by what sounded like the doorframe breaking.
Next, Jude heard loud creaking until the door burst open
and metal clanked to the ground.
The attacker was here.
Jude quitted his breathing. Expecting a shootout, he
found a fire alarm on the wall and pulled it. With a gas
mask in hand, he hid in the closet. Through a crevice in
the door, he watched workers exit the building.
After a few minutes, he flung open the door, went
through a doorway, and entered a testing room that was
dedicated to biodefense. He scanned the place. The
industrial-sized room contained several computer
workstations, microscopes, and what appeared as a
staged office. The space had been vacated, leaving him
alone with the smell of ammonia disinfectant. He yanked
the mask straps down over his head and waited. The
gyrating hum of what sounded like heavy air
conditioning machery echoed in the empty room. He
heard footsteps coming nearer, stepping tentatively.
“You’re cornered,” Jude heard.
Jude squeezed his sidearm, waiting behind a pillar.
“You’re trapped,” the voice called.

* * *
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

In the small Berkeley laboratory office, Kate sat with

Roger. Her head was spinning. She needed water.
Getting to her feet, she told Roger that she was going to
search for a restroom.
“Don’t be long,” he said, scratching his head.
Stepping out of the computer room, Kate turned the
first corner of the empty hallway. Without warning, a
hand went over her mouth and a blindfold over her eyes.
She had little strength to fight.

* * *

Jude sized up a dozen or more wine barrel-sized metal

canisters labeled, WARNING! ANTHRAX. Aware that one
deep inhalation could kill, Jude pressed his gas mask to
his face.
The canisters were strapped to the left wall, resting
on slick stainless steel shelves. He slipped around huge
cabinets that shelved measuring instruments and plastic
tubing and crouched behind the cabinet where the door
would swing open. He waited, hefting his pistol.
Jude’s pursuer burst into the room with his gun
waving. Jude closed the door with his right hand, took
aim at the second container and fired his weapon.
A hit! With an ear-shattering hiss, the canister spewed
powder through the entire room like a blizzard.
The attacker folded over, hands covering his mouth,
heaving for air, hacking through the miasma of airborne
toxin. The man fought for air, gasping and crawling for
help.
Holding the gas mask firmly, Jude ran for the
emergency showers. White flakes stuck to his plastic
mask and obscured his vision while he fled.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

forty-four

Sunday, November 6
Berkeley, CA

As he rushed from main room and into the smaller one

at the entrance, Jude found the emergency shower stall.
He yanked the hanging lever on. High-pressure water
gushed from the shower fixture, dousing him and rinsing
the toxic powder away. Catching his breath, he shut it
off, grabbed a long towel from the shelf, slung it around
him and crashed out of the shower area. He ran out of
the aerosol testing building.
Once the broken facility door creaked closed behind
him, he dropped the towel, and stripped off his
contaminated shirt from his back, leaving him in a wet
undershirt and slacks. He then ripped off the black
rubber mask and stood over a crowbar that must’ve
come from the van.
In the pouring rain, huddled under umbrellas, two
weekend employees looked at him in horror. One man
pointed and said, “That’s him!”
Jude knew by their expression that they thought he
was some lunatic who had just fired a gun on two people
who went into the building after him.
Without hesitating further, he darted across the road
and past the blue van that was still parked on the
 GRIDLOCK
8

shoulder of the road. Sweating, he ran up the muddy hill

and the wooden steps to the SETI@home lab.
At the top, he saw the white Range Rover that had
followed them, parked outside the building. The SUV had
no license plate inside the car. Jude looked through the
windshield trying to see a Vehicle Identification Number
on a metal plate on the dashboard. This one was
covered in duct tape.
The Range Rover’s doors were locked. He rapped the
window with the butt of his firearm, driver’s side. The
safety glass spider-cracked. He rapped through three
more times before he could break the window. He
reached inside, tore the duct tape off metal plate, and
called his office. He read the VIN off to the special agent
who answered the phone and reported the incident,
requesting that a biohazard containment crew come
right away, with a police unit and ambulance for the
perpetrator.
Jude’s pulse raced again when he placed two more
calls. He left an urgent message for Nathalie to check
the VIN number of the white Range Rover, then rang
Knowlan to open the side door to the building for him.
A moment later, Knowlan let him in, staring in shock.
“What the hell happened?”
“He’s contained. I’ll explain later. Police and
ambulance are coming.”
They stomped up the white stairwell into the
SETI@home office.
Knowlan would not stop asking questions. “What
happened exactly?”
Jude shook his head, more anxious than ever. “Tell
me. Is it working?”
“We’re connected to Rosetta.”
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Jude leaned over Roger’s shoulder, dripping wet. He

examined the monitor.
“It is working. It’s mining.” Jude shouted.
“It’s about time,” Knowlan said.
The world system was grinding away, feeding Kate’s
data into a massive simulation computer at Stanford
that would screen molecules that could be synthesized
to custom-make her unique cure.
“Where is she?” Jude asked.
“She went to find a bathroom,” Knowlan said.
“Jude.” The scream was unmistakably Kate’s.
Jude and Roger froze. Roger’s face showed a look of
alarm.
The sound of her voice carried from somewhere down
the hall.
Jude ran to the ladies room. “Empty,” Jude said. “You
go that way.” He pointed in the opposite direction from
where he was headed.”
Two minutes later, Jude ran back into the office and
snatched Roger’s keys.
He passed Roger in the hall again as he ran out of the
building. “I’m going to need to drive. Do you want to
come with me or wait? The police are coming.”
“I’ll wait for the police.”
When Jude got downstairs and outside the building
the Ranger Rover he had just broken into was gone.
5 ALVIN ZIEGLER

fifty-five

Sunday, November 6
Piedmont, CA

Red-faced and flustered, Ferguson’s daughter unclasped

the gold chain with the cross from her neck and put it in
her pocket so it wouldn’t dangle and distract her. She
dragged Kate out of her Range Rover with a bag over
head.
“Here she is,” Lori said with an irritated voice,
handing over Kate Wagner to her father. She then tore a
blonde wig off her head.
Ferguson didn’t know what to say about his
daughter’s wig and heavy make-up, but he was in no
position to judge. He grasped Kate’s tied arms. “How did
you know where she was?”
“That’s a long story for later.”
Marc Ferguson suspected he wasn’t going to like
hearing this now or later. “Why didn’t you leave her in
the car?”
Lori brushed rain water from her head. “Because I
need you to tie her up again. She’s loosened the rope.
And there’s a car coming up the driveway. Why do you
want her?”
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

He heard the approaching car. “Drive around back. I’ll

tell you later.”
Lori ran back to her SUV.

Ferguson wanted to confirm that the captive was

Kate. He yanked off the bag that covered her head and
saw it was she, stifling tears.
“Marc Ferguson?” Kate gasped.
“Sorry about this, Kate.”
“But why?”
“Without you, your brother would never listen to me.”
“Let me call him.”
Ferguson ignored her pleading and shut his front door.
Lori came through the house from a back door. She
pulled Kate down the hallway.

Kate struggled to free her arm. Lori Ferguson slapped

her face, knocking her to the marble floor. “Don’t try to
fight me.”
Kate got a good look at her female abductor. She had
broad shoulders, closely cropped brown hair and ruddy
complexion under bad make-up.
Moving like a man, the woman in the militant outfit
dragged Kate down a polished hardwood hallway. She
kicked to the master bedroom that had ornate toile
wallpaper and an enormous bed. After unplugging two
bedside table lights, Lori tied Kate to the French-country
bed post with the extension cords. Kate heard a dog
barking, then the whir of the car motor in the driveway.
Lori shouted, “Zeus, shut up!” Kate then heard someone
else walking outside, slushing in the rain.

Marc Ferguson looked at his hallway security camera

screen that showed his front driveway. He watched the
 GRIDLOCK
8

door to a Jeep Cherokee open. Then Heather Styles

climbed out of the car. Quickly opening an umbrella, the
attractive woman straightened her hair and put away
the unnecessary sunglasses that were perched on her
head. She picked up a manila folder, swollen with paper
from the passenger seat of the Jeep. Heather
approached the house looking at the ground.
Ferguson darted to the kitchen, grabbed a meat
cleaver, and rushed it to the back bedroom and handed
it to Lori. “Threaten her with this. She knows you won’t
fire a shot with a visitor here.”
Ferguson flicked on the bedroom television, cranked
up the volume on the remote, gave Kate a final look to
see that she couldn’t escape Lori’s handiwork, and then
closed the door as he left the room.

Lori took the cleaver and brandished it in Kate’s face.

“Any noise, I’ll cut you to little pieces.”
Kate shook her head. Her cheek still flushed from the
blow.

The doorbell rang.

Ferguson made his way to the front door to greet
Heather.
The voice could be heard through the door. “Mr.
Ferguson—hello—it’s Heather Styles.”
Ferguson tucked in his shirt. “Hold on a minute.”
“It’s urgent news,” Heather continued.
Ferguson cracked the door open.
“Please don’t shoot the messenger.” Heather pulled
papers from the file.
Ferguson grabbed the paper folder. His face twitched.
“What? What is it?”
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“It’s about the phase two clinical trials for your

experimental Huntington’s disease drug,” she said.
“Yes, what do you have?”
“Bad news. The trials proved to cause liver failure in
apes.”
Ferguson’s stomach jumped. He feared this might be
the case—what he had long hoped might save him had
failed. There was no traditional cure for Huntington’s
disease.
An awful truth came back to him. The Grid was his
only hope for survival. If it worked it could diagnose him
precisely and find a custom drug.
“Okay, please go now.” Ferguson suppressed how
shattered and mad at the world he felt. Heather had to
go.
“Sir, I need to know.”
“What!”
“Was Olivier Ramsey behind that explosion at
Stanford? The FBI questioned me…”
“Explosion?” Ferguson said. “The FBI questioned you?
I don’t know anything about this. Olivier is selfish and
ambitious, but no psycho—we know that much.”
Heather lowered her head, appearing unsure about
everything at J&Q.
“Goodbye, Heather.”
Ferguson closed the door, his shoulders slumped.
His mental framework shifted from viewing the Grid
as a thorn in his side to needing to utilize it. He
considered what he had in the bedroom. Having Kate
gave him power over Jude.
But had the Stanford explosion crashed the Grid
permanently? Could it be repaired? He had to phone
Ramsey.
“Olivier.”
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“What now?”
“I was wrong to sit by and let you corrupt Stanford’s
Grid. You have to call off the dogs.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know if you were behind that explosion and
hack job at Stanford, but tell that virus writer to stop
everything.”
“Even if I wanted to I couldn’t.”
“Why is that?”
“He’s put a worm virus in place that is going to take
care of this medical Grid forever, and it’s going to let rip
in 48 hours.”
Ferguson felt shattered. “Tell him you’ll pay him
double if he quits.”
“This train has already left the station. Those Stanford
Grid scientists are getting what they deserve. Accept it.”
“But what if your life was on the line one day? You’d
want the chances it offers.”
Ferguson thought quickly. “Jude Wagner can stop your
virus. He’s probably the only one who can.”
“Wagner? Have you fucking lost your mind? He’s the
one who’s caused this goddamn mess; he’s sure as hell
not going to help you.”
“Oh, he will.” Ferguson hung up.
He had to try to defend Stanford’s revolutionary
computer system. All the early trial reports on the Grid’s
efficacy came rushing back to him. He considered how
difficult it would be for anyone to stop a targeted virus
attack from being distributed across the Grid. He
wondered if Jude Wagner would listen to him if he told
him about this threat. And did Wagner have the skills to
thwart it?

***
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Kate couldn’t undo her hands or feet, but she had

wriggled herself free from the extension cord that had
her strung to the bedpost. She moved off the bed and
stood by the back bedroom. Peeking from behind the
shutter, she looked outside the rain-smudged window to
see if she could climb out. She saw a massive rosebush
covered half the wall on the other side and knew, rain or
shine, she’d never make it in her weakened condition.
She felt committed to the house of horrors when she
overheard a car leaving and Ferguson speaking sternly
to his daughter.
Kate moved away from the window and hid under the
bed. Moments passed. She heard nothing but the
beating of her own heart, then footsteps.
“Hey.” Lori Ferguson shouted, making her jump. Lori
was crouched on all fours, staring directly at Kate under
the bed.
Kate scooted away from her. Then the woman
grabbed Kate’s wrist.
“Got you,” said the woman.
Lori forced Kate through the house, out the front door
and through the rain to the woman’s SUV. Kate feared
for her life.
The woman climbed onto the backseat and wrapped
duct tape around Kate’s mouth. She then bound Kate’s
hands and feet with extension cords again.
Ferguson came out to the car. “What happened to
your driver’s side window?”
“Dad, never mind the glass,” Lori said. “I’ve gotta get
my backpack.”
Kate saw Lori job toward the house again. A minute
later Lori returned to the SUV with her backpack. Kate
overheard Ferguson say, “Go to the boat and wait. Make
 GRIDLOCK
14

sure you’re not being followed. And, Lori, don’t hurt her.
I need her brother’s cooperation.”
“Okay.”
Kate was lying down on the backseat, listening
closely.
Ferguson said, “Lori, you’re the only daughter I got.
Wait for me.”
Panic stricken, Kate had gone sweaty and achy again.
“Daddy.” The woman started the engine.
Ferguson continued to talk to her through the driver’s
side window. “No, listen. If the company falls to pieces,
what would that mean after I’m gone—what would I
have given you? Nothing but a divorce from your
mother!”
“Daddy,” Lori moaned.
Ferguson kissed his daughter’s cheek through the
open car window.
“I’ll see you there.” Lori put the SUV in reverse.
The SUV motored down the long driveway.
Kate was desperate. She struggled to untie herself,
but didn’t know what she would do if she did.
5 ALVIN ZIEGLER

forty-six

Sunday, November 6
Berkeley, CA

Forcing himself to take deep breaths, Jude sat in

Knowlan’s plush seats, parked at the SETI building,
secluded high in the Berkeley hills. He inserted the key,
pushed the ignition button and the Jaguar purred to life.
But where would he go to find Kate. From an empty
parking lot with a wide view of the Bay Area, he sat. His
own sister was a WAT—a person who’d vanished Without
a Trace. Though in this case, he had one lead: that VIN.
As if on cue, Jude’s mobile device rang. Nathalie’s
name appeared on the mini-LED. He answered the
phone before putting the car into gear.
“Nathalie. Kate’s gone, she’s been taken.”
“My god, Jude.”
“I think Ramsey took her.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why would you say that?” Jude asked.
“That VIN you gave me is registered in the name of
Marc Ferguson.”
“Marc Ferguson?”
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“It goes to a residence in Piedmont, on Sea View

Avenue, number 246. I see the property is also owned by
Ferguson.”
“I’ll drive there now.” He keyed the address into his
GPS. “I hope we’ve identified the same Marc Ferguson?”
“I think we have. I’m reading right now. There’s a lot
of information on the web about Marc Ferguson and
mention of him living in Piedmont. He’s unmarried but
has a daughter—her name is Lori. She has the same
mailing address.“
Jude could hear Nathalie click at her computer. She
stopped and said, “Jude, you’re not going to break into
his place if he’s not there, are you?”
Jude knew where she was going with that. If he forced
entry and it was found out, any evidence he found
against Ferguson would be dismissed for illegal entry.
“How long would it take for you to get me a warrant?”
“In the best case, the magistrate takes a few hours to
approve probable cause.”
“That’s no good.”
“Jude.”
“I can’t debate this with you, Nathalie. I can’t wait
around. Inside there could be a piece of information
about Ferguson or his daughter that might lead me to
Kate.”
“As your training agent, I told you not to do this.”
“Don’t worry, Nathalie. This will all be on me.”
Nathalie let out a big sigh. Jude heard more typing.
She said, “I’ve got more. I show that Marc Ferguson
not only served on Dyncorp’s board, but his
pharmaceutical company is its corporate parent. He
practically owns a private army.”
“Wow. Then Ferguson’s got motive. Not Ramsey.”
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“I’ll see if I can find his cell phone number so we can

triangulate his location. Oh, there’s something else, Jude
—I found that Ferguson’s daughter works for Dyncorp.”
“She does?”
“Yes.”
While driving and talking on his cell phone, Jude heard
tap of a computer keyboard on the other end of the line.
“Dyncorp is a subsidiary of Johnston & Quib and under
contract at our office.”
Jude checked his rearview mirror. No one was behind
him. “I wonder if Ferguson used his daughter somehow
to do his dirty work to stop the Grid and kill Jűrgen,
Onagi and possibly Niles.”
“I suppose it’s possible.” Nathalie said. “She had
access to trained gunmen, killer canines and non-
commercial plane flights . . . whatever a private military
company has.”
“And probably Ferguson’s money.” After a second, he
said, “Ferguson could be using Kate as some bargaining
chip.”
“Pourquoi?”
Jude heard Nathalie typing more.
“Kate told me he’s dying from Huntington’s disease.
That’s it.”
“What?”
“Kate told Ferguson that she’s going to be the Grid’s
first test patient. He must fear she might be our first
success story.”
“This is all hard to believe—no luck with tracking him
by his phone. He has some kind of encrypted phone—I’d
like to see if his car has crossed any bridges using
FasTrak but that’ll take a little time.”
“Ring me back if you get anything.” Jude said.
Click.
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

The rain had abated when Jude parked the Jaguar at

the gated entrance to Ferguson’s house.
Frustrated to find a wall surrounding the property, he
looked for a way to get over it. About thirty feet to the
left of the driveway, he spotted an oak tree with a large
branch that leaned against the wall. He drove his car off
the driveway and into the low shrubbery beneath the
tree.
Trying not to slip, Jude climbed on the hood of his car.
He then jumped and grabbed the limb of the oak tree,
shimmied over the wall and dropped to the other side.
He opened the gate from the inside with a button and
drove his car inside.
This had to be the place. The main house had pink
walls and a steep gray shingled roof, and it was flanked
by a turret, capped with a round top and spire. Wrought
iron lamps hung from vaulted doorways. The property
appeared to have time traveled from the world of horse
and carriage.
Jude tried the handle to Ferguson’s front door and
rang the bell. No answer. He knocked loudly and waited.
The noise only roused a barking dog. He stood back and
rushed the door, colliding into it with his shoulder. Thud.
The door didn’t open. He winced under the pain of a new
bruise and rubbed his arm.
Barking came nonstop now. The dog, as loyal sentry,
now stood directly behind the door. Jude wondered if
Ferguson was going to swing open the door with a gun
pointed at Kate’s head.
“Ferguson! You’re not getting away. Open up.”
Silence.
Jude climbed a side fence that partitioned a pool area
surrounded by large and small potted plants and one
side of the house. An alarm sounded. He spotted a
 GRIDLOCK
12

sliding glass kitchen door. Standing on the entrance mat,

he looked inside—the room was empty, but he noticed
open cabinets and drawers. Ice trays and empty
beverage containers cluttered the marble island. He was
surprised to see a large fishing net, a tackle box and
items for sailing strewn across the counter.
Jude tried the door. Locked.
He looked inside. The place was orderly, at least in
the huge kitchen, until Jude saw what looked like a
fishing net beside the tackle box on the kitchen island.
He picked up one of the medium-sized potted plants
and heaved it through the sliding door. Glass shattered.
Jude folded the thin entrance mat and used it as a giant
set of tongs to remove the remaining shards. He
hunched through the still somewhat jagged window and
crawled inside. A house alarm went off.
He pulled out his phone and called Nathalie back.
“Are you there?” she asked.
“I’m in the house.” Jude shouted over the alarm.
“Can you call the police and tell them it’s a false
alarm?”
“Okay.”
Even over the alarm, Jude heard the dog’s growl from
a nearby room. He took out his weapon. “Gotta go.”
He closed the phone when a Rottweiler turned the
corner into the kitchen and lunged onto him, knocking
him to the marble floor under the fishing net. Jude’s
phone dropped. The black and brown animal had the
muzzle of a bear, flashing fangs. As Jude tried to point
his weapon, the dog gnashed into his shoulder, drawing
blood that smeared over his shirt. Jude’s handgun
dropped onto the marble floor and slid away from him.
He and the animal rolled over broken glass to the edge
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

of the island. The dog got hold of Jude’s holster first and
held him by it, which happened to prevent him from
reaching his firearm. The holster ripped and the dog got
another hold on Jude’s leg.
He grimaced under the dog’s bite. Jude kicked at the
animal’s chest and face but its grip held tight. Pain burst
up and down his leg. He ripped free part of his already
torn shirt and pushed it snug against the dog’s muzzle
and closed jaws, forcing him to open his locked jaws for
air.
In a free moment when the dog unclasped its bite,
Jude freed his leg and kicked the animal in the mouth
again. He reached above for the net, snagged it and
slung it down over the dog. The dog fought and gnawed,
unsuccessfully, tethered by the net.
Rolling to his side, Jude pulled two ends of the net
around the dog’s body and tightened them to hold the
beast. Next, he grabbed his phone and gun, and pushed
himself to his feet. Still feeling the terrible sting of the
dog bite to his shoulder, he trod through the kitchen,
leaving the Rottweiler behind. He thought about
shooting the animal but couldn’t pull the trigger now
that it was contained.
In the foyer on the floor, Jude Kate’s K-Swiss tennis
shoe—about all she would wear with her sore joints. His
gut wrenched. At least he was getting closer.
He moved to the half bath off the foyer to try and
staunch blood dripping from his shoulder with a towel.
But the towels were either too small or too large to tie.
As the alarm continued to sound and the dog barked, he
looked around. In the dining room, he found fine white
linen napkins. He cinched one around his elbow, another
around his knee to slow bleeding.
15 ALVIN ZIEGLER

In the master bedroom, a tangled comforter and

pillows lay on the floor. Jude went into the master
bathroom and found an open toolbox on the counter and
sunscreen—items for a trip, maybe. In the toolbox, Jude
saw a stainless steel buck knife. It was slim and
lightweight, with a finger-grooved handle. He opened the
wide blade—handle and all, it was six inches long. Jude
closed it and pocketed it. He searched another bedroom
that turned up nothing.
Finally, that maddening dinging of the alarm stopped,
but the dog was still barking.
He returned to the hallway where a cleaver and
envelopes of mail sat on an antique table with flowers.
Startled at the sight of the cleaver, Jude looked it over
for signs of blood but found none. Partially relieved, he
set it down and saw a FasTrak beside the mail—
Ferguson had taken the precaution of leaving the
electronic bridge pass behind, realizing it would transmit
his travels if he took a bridge. Jude flipped through the
stack of mail on the table. On the bottom of the pile,
beneath a sailing magazine called Latitude 38, rested a
property management bill. Jude opened it. The property
management company had billed Ferguson for cleaning,
utilities and maintenance of an address in Aptos. Jude
knew Aptos to be a popular and exclusive beach
community. A message reported that the ice maker in
the house had broken and the company had ordered a
new one.
In the hallway again, he looked at the sparkling floor
and saw a shoe print. He looked closer. The track
resembled that of a topsider shoe. Jude returned to the
master bedroom closet and saw an open shoebox on the
floor of the closet. He opened it but it was empty. He
whiffed inside the box and got a familiar acrid odor.
 GRIDLOCK
16

Niles’s jacket smelled of it the last time they sailed—it

was some type of teak oil.
Walking clear of the dog, Jude moved back to the
kitchen and stepped into the garage.
No car. At once, he concluded that Ferguson had
packed up to go to his Aptos house or go sailing.
Jude decided to go out the garage to get into the
Jaguar instead of going through the house and face the
dog. He found the button on the wall, and opened the
garage door to find Olivier Ramsey staring at him from
behind the wheel of an idling Chrysler. After recognizing
Jude, Ramsey’s expression narrowed on him. In a
fraction of a second, the car was coming straight for
Jude, threatening to crush him against the back wall of
the garage.
Jude leapt to one side and dodged the hurtling
Chrysler that crashed into the rear wall, leaving a hole in
the garage that separated it from the kitchen. Some sort
of fluid container broke, spreading a dark substance onto
the garage floor.
Jude moved quickly over the spilled liquid to get to
Ramsey’s driver’s side door when his weapon dropped
from his torn holster.
Ramsey was fighting to get the car moving again but
the wheels were spinning in place on the slick garage
floor.
Jude heard the Rottweiler barking and jumping on the
other side of the closed garage door.
Suddenly, the car shot away from Jude, in reverse.
Jude realized late that once the car moved from its
bumper-sized hole in the dry wall that it could leave an
opening for the dog.
17 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Then, it happened. As the Chrysler was pulling away

from the crumbling garage dry wall, the angry beast
darted through the bumper-sized hole it left. Jude had no
time to reach for his gun. Ramsey had already put the
car into drive, aiming at him again. He could’ve run back
into the house, but the hound would’ve chased him
inside, and Ramsey could follow the dog with his own
gun. Jude couldn’t wait.
Just as Ramsey put the car into drive, Jude sprinted for
it, jumped and ran up the hood and onto the Chrysler’s
hard top while it screeched into the garage again,
blowing another hole into the dry wall. The passenger
door cracked open. Crumbling debris shot onto the floor.
Jude’s side twanged with pain after dropping belly first
on the roof. Still on top of the car, he waved flying
plaster particles from his eyes. Thick dust swirled. He
coughed sporadically.
With one arm, Jude reached down over the slick roof
and swung wide the damaged passenger door. The
Rottweiler flew into the passenger side and Jude, from
above, reached and hurled the car door shut. Slipping
down the top of the car on the driver’s side, Jude heard
the dog moving and growling inside.
He quickly grabbed his weapon off the garage floor
and jogged out of the garage to the Jaguar. Seeing blood
splatter on the Chrysler’s windows, Jude turned over the
Jag’s engine, did a tight circle in the driveway and
accelerated down the hill.
A moment later, he was checking his rearview mirror.
The calamity was still fresh in his mind but no one
followed. Still hacking and short of breath, he called 9-1-
1 to report a dog mauling at 246 Sea View Avenue in
Piedmont. He said paramedics better come quickly. The
dog was a fierce Rottweiler.
19 ALVIN ZIEGLER

He hit speed dial again. “Nathalie?”

“Jude, are you okay?”
His face hot with adrenalin. “Listen. I think Ferguson
took Kate to his beach house or maybe to a boat.”
“What do you want me to do?” she said.
“Check to see if he has a boat slip registered in the
Bay Area.”
Jude heard typing. Plaster dust flecked the hair on his
arms. “You’re right. He has a slip at the Oakland Yacht
Club.”
Jude figured he’d gone to his yacht—not his beach
house or anyplace where Jude could easily surround him
with FBI agents.
“That’s where I’m going.”
“The address is 1101 Pacific Marina and it happens to
be in Alameda.”
“Got it.”
Jude held the steering wheel tight, winding his way to
the freeway.
Jude wondered what had led Ferguson to this point?
What if Ferguson had no intentions of releasing Kate?
Would he remove her to preempt Kate’s Grid trial from
becoming a success that would sink his business?
Ferguson had nothing to lose. Jude had to take this
into account—he’d be negotiating with someone who
had little promise to live, and every cause to act
irrationally.
5 ALVIN ZIEGLER

forty-eight

Sunday, November 6
Alameda, CA

On her father’s glittering white yacht, in the marina

harbor, Lori held a gun inside her jacket pocket. The
night’s rain had passed. She used her other hand to help
her father untie Kate’s feet. Ferguson quickly wrapped
up the electrical cords, and put them into his travel bag.
“Okay, Lori, give me your gun.” He said flatly,
extending his hand to her.
“Daddy.”
He rolled up his dress shirt sleeves. “I’ll take it if I
have to.”
She huffed and handed it over. He discreetly tucked it
into the top of his trouser waistband. “Tell me this story
of yours. How did you know where Kate was?”
“You don’t think all of those Stanford Grid people
disappeared accidently did you? That would be a little
too much good fortune, even for you, daddy, wouldn’t
it?”
Ferguson bristled under crushing chagrin. His gaze
fixed on his daughter. “Don’t tell me you killed Jurgen
Hansen and Hideo Onagi.”
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“And we took care of Niles Tully, although he wasn’t

so easy to silence.”
“What do you mean took care of?”
“We took special effort to get him out of the picture.
His work with the Stanford Grid won’t pose a threat to us
any longer. The primary goal was to get hold of the Grid
access key from him, but stupid Tully didn’t cooperate.”
“This is awful,” Ferguson mumbled. “Why?”
“What?” Lori asked. “For J&Q. For us.”
Ferguson’s face went hot. “Just, just stand aside,
Lori.” He felt sick. Too appalled at his daughter’s
murderous acts to respond intelligently. “Go now.”
“No, Daddy.”
“Yes, Lori. I’m in charge now. If you’re caught here
with me, it will be a death sentence. But it doesn’t
matter what they charge me with now. I don’t have a lot
of time anyway.”
“I’m not leaving and don’t talk about dying.”
Ferguson groaned with frustration.
Lori said, “Tell me why you need Kate Wagner?”
“Just take Kate below. Make sure her feet are tied
again.” He handed Lori the cords from his bag. Lori
guided Kate downstairs. Seagulls squawked and
swooped through the salt air. Kate resisted. Lori yanked
Kate’s arm.
“Ow.”
Finally, Kate followed while Lori Ferguson shouted at
her, “Get below.”
Lori pulled Kate into one of the three cabins.
Next, Lori went above deck where her father turned
the key to crank up the diesel motor of his Oyster yacht.
Surely the feds would arrive eventually, but he counted
on Jude Wagner appearing first.
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Ferguson popped another Percoset pain pill with a

swig of bottled water. He wondered if somehow he could
cruise off safely with Jude on his boat, carve out a deal
and get his plan into motion.

forty-nine

Sunday, November 6
Alameda, CA

The rain let up yet gray skies cast a black and white light
on the wet roads of Highway 24. Pressing the
accelerator, Jude shut off the Jaguar’s windshield wipers.
He sped to the 12th Street exit in Oakland, and cranked
left onto 5th, water still dripping from his T-shirt. Wheels
skipped across the pavement. He followed highway signs
to Alameda and came to the east side of Alameda Island,
on the estuary. He cut the engine outside the two-story
shingled clubhouse. Muscles tensed, he scrambled down
to the dingy marina dock, passing a sign
commemorating Jack London’s boat slip.
Where was Ferguson’s yacht?
He could’ve called the bureau, requesting agent
backup to apprehend Ferguson. But he was too afraid
another agent would come bowling in against Ferguson’s
instructions, setting him off. Jude couldn’t chance a
mistake or losing minutes.
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

The familiar stench of barnacles accosted his nose.

Jude identified the flashy boat—a blue-water mega
yacht, with all her on board lights on. At around sixty
feet long—almost three times the length of the Tipsea,
she had aerodynamic lines with tinted mylar windows.
Spruce Goose adorned the stern in script, a tribute to
Howard Hughes’s aircraft.
Jude kept his distance behind another yacht. Visually,
he tried to assess where Kate was on board relative to
Ferguson and what weapons, if any, he’d be dealing
with.
But there was very little movement and he couldn’t
see Kate. He assumed she was below deck. Finally, he
saw Ferguson emerged from the cabin steps. He was
unobtrusively holding a gun in his hand when a woman
in her mid-thirties climbed onto the deck. Dressed in
combat garb with high boots, she would’ve fit right in
with the Dyncorp crew he flew with. She appeared
unarmed.
Ultimately, the woman went below again and Jude had
to let go of his plan of a surprise maneuver to rescue
Kate. It was just too risky a plan to carry out with two
other people on board and Kate so frail.
Jude slowly approached Ferguson’s yacht with his
weapon drawn and pointed it at him. “Where’s Kate?”
Jude asked, climbing on board the broad deck with his
weapon drawn.
Ferguson was holding his Colt automatic pistol in plain
view now.
“So, you found me, Wagner. I didn’t expect to see you
so soon. I wanted you to sweat this out for a while before
I contact you. I was going to have your sister supply your
phone number.”
“Kate.” Jude shouted into the air.
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Jude.” Kate’s cry carried. Her voice came from the

cabin.
Jude’s chest was in his throat. “If you hurt her in any
way, I’ll gut you. What do you want?”
“I want an exchange for you. No bluffs. No lies,” he
said with a throaty, hoarse voice.
The man sounded desperate, like a man who needed
a plan, but had none.
“Ferguson. You can live if you let her go.”
“What? And you let the rest of your FBI take me
down? Forget it. You got anyone with you?”
“No, I wanted to handle you myself.”
“That was a wise move, for your sister’s sake. Now,
toss the gun here,” Ferguson demanded.
“Hold up. How do I know you won’t kill us both?”
“Because I need you to help me.”
“Help you do what?”
“Cure my Huntington’s disease.”
“Is that what this is about? Hell, now you’re going to
die in prison instead of in a regular hospice.”
“Shut-the-fuck-up, Wagner. You’re double-teamed.
Toss it.”
“I know you don’t want Kate to be the first successful
genomic test case, but I won’t let you harm her.”
“I can’t.” Ferguson said.
“Why?”
“Because without your cooperation, I’m a dead man.”
“If you want my cooperation, then let’s all walk off
this vulgar monstrosity right now.”
“What? And you drive off with Kate and leave me to
rot? I don’t think so. Without Kate, you wouldn’t be here.
It’s all ironic really—this position we’re in. You want to
rescue yourself and your sister as much as I want to
save myself.”
15 ALVIN ZIEGLER

An expression of disgust fell over his face. “Now quit

stalling or else Kate gets the blunt end of this gun on the
back of her head.”
Reluctantly, Jude slid his .40 Smith & Wesson pistol
across the yacht deck. It banged against Ferguson’s
feet. Ferguson snatched it and put it in his waistband.
Jude fretted over how much control he had
relinquished—in a second he had handed over his fire
power.
With a shaking finger, Ferguson ordered Jude to untie
the yacht from its berth. Jude didn’t hesitate. He saw the
female come up the steps. She was unfamiliar at first
and then he saw she was his attacker who’d chased him
through Chinatown. She must’ve worn a wig because
she had short brunette hair now.
She stepped beside Ferguson. She must’ve been
wearing a wig. Apparently she no longer cared about
concealing her appearance—another worrisome thought.
Maybe Ferguson lied and was planning on killing both
of them and dumping their bodies overboard. Whether
that be true or not, Jude had more than one Ferguson to
get past. Jude threw the line on the boat.
Manning the helm, Lori turned the key while Marc
Ferguson held his firearm on Jude. The starters whined;
the engine chugged loudly. Moving systematically, he
turned from one switch to the next, flipping automatic
levers. A motor sounded and sails trimmed without a
single crank on a winch. Clutching the throttle, Ferguson
nudged the boat into motion. Jude saw Ferguson toggle
another switch on the control box. It steered the Spruce
Goose out of the marina.
Jude moved across the deck to a point where he could
look down below. What he could see looked lavish. A pair
of white sofas and a dining area. Jude lowered his head
 GRIDLOCK
16

to check on Kate and spotted her tied with extension

cords.
Ferguson shouted at Jude, “If you don’t sit down I’ll
hog tie you too.”
The daughter stood behind Jude silently.
Jude whipped around with muscles tensed.
Ferguson’s daughter didn’t blink.
“That’s right, Wagner. We’re not letting you out of our
sight.” Marc Ferguson said, keeping his eyes on Wagner.
“You know, when I first got the crazy idea to take your
sister it was just to slow things down, make sure she
didn’t become a poster child for the Grid’s success.
“Now she’s my key to the kingdom. You only have to
agree to stop this latest virus attack that’s coming and
help fight my disease—run my saliva and give me a
customized drug treatment. Do that and I’ll get us right
back to Berkeley so you can start work today. Soon
sister Kate will be free.”
Jude stared at the weapon Ferguson was pointing at
his head. “Drop the weapon, release Kate now and I’ll do
it.”
Ferguson took Jude’s stance as a threat. “Easy
Wagner.”
Jude couldn’t continue like this, but he couldn’t make
a wrong move either. They slowly glided farther from the
marina to the husky sound of the yacht engine.
Ferguson locked the wheel into position, steadying
their course out of the estuary. Holding the gun on Jude,
he told Lori what to do. She lumbered below and pulled
Kate up the stairs to the deck again. Kate’s hands were
still tied. Ferguson held his gun on Jude’s head. His
daughter gripped Kate’s arm with one hand—with the
17 ALVIN ZIEGLER

other, she pointed the gun at her head. Kate’s eyes were
redder than before. Her lips trembled.
Jude’s arms and legs tightened.
Ferguson’s daughter pulled Kate to the stern of the
boat just as the swells picked up and a fine wave of
water curled and splashed on the deck.
Jude followed close behind. He saw that she now had
what resembled a large pair of scissors hanging out of
her back pocket.
While Ferguson pointed a gun at Jude’s head, he
ordered Kate to sit down on the fabric-covered cushions
and stood beside her. Then Ferguson’s daughter
removed the scissors from her pocket and held them
behind Kate’s head.
“What do you intend to do?” Jude demanded.
With jerky movements of the wrist, Ferguson’s
daughter snipped the back of Kate’s blonde hair. The
yacht heaved and lowered in rougher tides when a
larger wave spilled on the deck.
“Hey.” Jude shouted.
As Kate flinched away from Ferguson’s daughter’s
hand, a chunk of her hair blew in the wind behind her.
“Keep your distance now,” Ferguson said. “Or she’ll
cut a lot more than just hair. Now that I have your
attention, you should know that I’m not a malicious
person. In fact, I have you here for your own good. I
want you to stop a virus. It’s scheduled to go off and
disrupt your Stanford Grid in less than 48 hours.
Jude didn’t trust him. He had never wanted to kill
anyone in hatred, until now. He figured all Ferguson
wanted was to prevent Kate from becoming the first test
case that was successfully treated for cancer. Jude drew
on what he learned at Quantico—eyes trained on
 GRIDLOCK
18

Ferguson’s. At any sudden movement, Jude would jump

him. But how could he do that and not endanger Kate?
“If that’s what you want, then release Kate,” Jude
said.
“Slow down. I want your solemn promise that you
won’t prosecute my daughter, Lori.”
“Because she’s been the killer all along?”
“She acted to disrupt a threat to medicine—what she
thought was right.” Ferguson said.
“No deal.”
“Don’t try to be a hero and make things end badly for
your sister.”
Jude could read in Ferguson’s bloodshot eyes that this
was no bluff. He appeared desperate enough to do
anything. Even if harming Kate would destroy whatever
chance Ferguson might have at getting Jude’s help.
A swell tipped the yacht, upsetting everyone’s
balance. Ferguson stutter-stepped to gain footing. Jude
ducked low and charged at him. He grabbed for the
hand that held the gun. When he did he felt a deep
stabbing pain in his side.
Jude wailed. The scissors sunk deep into his bruised
ribs. He pulled them out and threw them overboard.
Blood ran down his side. Since the woman had let go of
Kate to stab Jude, Kate slipped away and ran to the bow.
Bleeding with burning pain, Jude wrestled with Marc
Ferguson. Jude got hold of Ferguson’s hand that held the
gun, pointed it at his daughter and forced a shot. A
round went into her thigh. She fell to the deck groaning
and Jude exhaled.
Yet Ferguson smashed Jude against the yacht railing.
They huffed and fought. Ferguson’s hand jerked upward
19 ALVIN ZIEGLER

and Jude lost his grip on the man’s gun hand. The gun
slipped from Ferguson’s grip.
Jude watched the gun splash in the bay. Now he had
to cope with searing agony from his injured side and get
his own gun away from Ferguson.
Lori limped toward Jude, but he couldn’t go after both.
His adrenaline surged again and he collided into Marc
Ferguson with a body-block. The man’s legs gave way.
They wrestled flat on the deck, fighting for control of
Jude’s gun.
The boat heeled in the wind, leeward. The wind tossed
the boom across the rear half of the boat in an
uncontrolled jibe, jolting the yacht. The two men and Lori
skidded from port to starboard across the teak deck,
banging knees and arms. Jude’s side throbbed, but he
didn’t take his eyes off Ferguson who fell into the bench
seat area.
A stronger gust filled the main sail above them. The
boat’s speed increased.
They got to their feet. Jude swayed, holding his side
and wincing. “Why’d you do it, Lori? Why’d you kill those
good people?”
The yacht heeled farther on her keel. Jude heard pots
and pans sliding and clanging in the hull. The deck
slanted like a rock face.
Lori grimaced and yelled, “I did it because J&Q was
coming to me. You Grid people wanted to bring down
what my dad made.”
The boat pitched farther. Spray from oncoming swells
washed over them. Each wave sent water rushing over
the starboard side.
Jude asked, “No. You killed to protect your
inheritance.”
21 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Maybe. Maybe I did it because my whole life I felt like

a crab in a bucket—trapped by the people around me.”
Lori crawled to her dad and snagged Jude’s gun from
his waistband. Jude charged her and got hold of her gun
hand when the boat tilted sharply. At once she was on
top of him on the rail. She forced his head over the rail,
and held it until the water swelled so he would let go of
her gun hand. Jude coughed as salt water filled his lungs.
She shoved harder at Jude’s chest, pushing him
repeatedly into rising bay water but he held his grip.
The boat rocked, letting Jude come up for air. Lori was
struggling to get a better grip on Jude’s torn shirt when
the fabric pulled into two. Jude’s head came up from the
water again.
The sailboat flipped to its other side, righting them
away from the water. Jude gasped for air.
Ferguson and daughter slid across the slanting deck
and ended up against the benches on the far side. The
low side pitched high now. Jude started to slide too, but
found a way to brace himself, hugging a tied boat
bumper.
Raggedly, Ferguson staggered down the cabin steps.
Jude angled the soles of his shoes for solid footing.
Lori leveraged her leg beside the bench wall to regain
balance and aimed the gun at him.
The wind shifted. The boat leaned again. He lost his
footing and moved within six feet of her. The woman
pulled the trigger. A bullet ripped past Jude and missed,
then another. The gun clicked a third time—no bullet in
the chamber. Jude couldn’t believe his luck. She flung
the gun overboard in frustration.
Suddenly, the boom cranked around in a fast
sweeping motion. Jude and the woman ducked as it
 GRIDLOCK
22

crossed overhead. Sails flapped then ballooned when the

boat turned 20 degrees into the wind.
Jude climbed to the mast. He removed the buck knife
from his pocket that he took from the mansion and
opened the blade.
Mumbling inaudibly, Ferguson’s daughter flipped up
the seat of a long bench and dug for something in the
compartment underneath. From his angle, Jude couldn’t
see what. When the seat slammed shut, she turned
around, aiming a three-foot steel speargun at Jude.
He breathed heavily through the sharp ache he from
his side injury, then crouched low to make a small
target. He seized the mainsheet and began sawing
through it with the buck knife. As she stood up to take
aim, Jude cut the last thread of the mainsheet.
The boom shot from one side of the boat to the other,
crushing her head. Lori’s body dropped. Her head hit the
deck with a heavy thud.
The speargun crashed to the teak deck, setting off the
sling that was intended for Jude. The sling lodged in the
main sail above Jude’s head.
Jude didn’t need to check her body for a pulse. Seeing
the collapsed head, he knew she was dead. Jude clacked
downstairs to the cabin.
Ferguson held a knife on Kate’s throat.
“Ferguson, your daughter needs you on deck. Drop
the knife. She’s dying.”
“You’re lying. She’s shot in the leg but she’ll live.”
“No. She’s dying. The boom hit her.”
“Lori!” He shouted. “Lori, answer me!”
Ferguson gave Jude a threatening stare and held it on
him with the knife raised high. Keeping his eyes on Jude,
he started up the steps to the deck. Knife in hand.
23 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Jude waited for him to get to the deck when he

climbed the steps himself.
Ferguson examined Lori’s crushed skull, sobbing, but
he still held the knife.
“Drop the knife, Marc.”
“You killed her.”
He acted like he was going to drop the knife then
lunged at Jude. Jude wrestled him to the deck, putting
him on his stomach and got control of his wrist and took
the knife. He bound Ferguson’s hands and feet with line
on the deck and went below to untie Kate’s cords.
Jude hugged Kate.
“What about her?” she asked.
“She’s dead.”
Jude found a beach towel in the bathroom and
wrapped it around himself. He and Kate came above. At
first, Jude couldn’t take his eyes off of Ferguson’s
daughter’s mangled body. One side was severely
concaved from the jaw to the ear and top of the head,
with protruding bone and brain matter. Jude averted his
eyes, then Kate cried.
He saw her staring at the corpse.
“Kate, don’t look.”
Kate cried.
For a moment, Jude reviewed all that had happened at
a fast-forward rate. Time slowed to what felt normal
again. He felt a compulsion to pick up the gruesome
remains of the woman and heave her overboard into the
rolling swells, let her disappear into the deep, watery
abyss and never let anyone set eyes on her image again.
But Jude knew he couldn’t do that. He, of all people,
had to remember that he stood in the midst of a crime
scene and couldn’t tamper with evidence. Throwing the
body overboard could dash Jude’s career and future.
 GRIDLOCK
24

With enough cause, anyone could level the accusation of

murder against Jude Wagner. The situation was bad
enough already.
“Kate, are you all right?”
“I’ll be okay.”
Kate, at the helm of the yacht, looked over her
shoulder at him. “Oh, god. Jude.”
“Don’t look over here.”
Kate set her sights on the water ahead. The wind
died.
Jude searched under the deck seats for a first aid kit.
“You might find keys in the ignition. Maybe you can get
us going again.”
“Right.” Kate fumbled around, found the keys and
started the yacht motor. The yacht began to move.
“I’ll check on you in a second.” Jude knotted the towel
around his midsection.
Jude went below to use the yacht radio to call in the
on board death. He ignored Ferguson’s raging threats.
After answering the basic questions the operator asked
—cause, time and place of the incident—Jude realized
that for everyone’s benefit, especially Marc Ferguson’s,
he had to do something to cover the body.
Inside a seat bench, he found a sail cover. He draped
it over the woman’s battered body and weighted the
ends of the cover with seat cushions for the sail home.
Jude gave the lumpy mound a final glance before
returning to Kate. Strangely, the CEO who had helped
drive the medical business for decades had just
provoked his daughter’s untimely death—another dead
body for field techs to bag and tag.
25 ALVIN ZIEGLER

fifty

Sunday, November 6
Alameda, CA

Jude was still breathing deeply when he put in another 9-

1-1 call. He requested that an ambulance come to the
Oakland Yacht Club to pick up a body and check him out.
He also requested a police unit.
He sat, nursing his side, watching to see that Kate had
control of the yacht.
She turned again to look at him. “You’re still
bleeding.” she said.
“I’ll need stitches or something.”
“How serious is it?”
“Just keep ‘er straight and steady.” Jude grunted,
adjusting in his seat.
Kate looked around from the helm again at Jude.
“You’re sure she’s dead, covered there?” Kate
demanded.
“Positive.” Jude said, painfully from his seat.
Kate went back to being transfixed on the water. With
her hands on the wheel, she tilted her head as if to
thank the sky.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“I can’t believe that I had completely misread him.”

She touched the bald spot of her head. “I even thought
he might help me.”
“He had a lot of people fooled. But his daughter was
the real maniac.”
Kate stood rigidly. “As far as I’m concerned they were
both sociopaths.”
“Forget about them. We’re going to make you better,
Kate.”
Jude felt as if a great pressure on his brain had been
lifted. The cycle of violence had come to an end. He
couldn’t believe the ripple effect that interpreting the
human genome had had. Like global warming or
skyrocketing oil prices, it disrupted everything.
“You know how ironic this is,” Jude said. “Mom having
Stage 4 breast cancer and then nearly drowning. That
nearly replayed here.”
“On that sweltering day on Kentucky Lake,” she
added.
Jude slowly trudged to her side, gave her a hug. He
told her he’d take it from there and assumed control of
the helm.
She silently moved away from the wheel and sat.
Clutching his ribs with one hand, he pulled back the
chrome throttle handle, turning the engines. They let off
a husky grumble. Steadily, he steered the yacht back to
the Alameda marina.
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

fifty-one

Sunday, November 6
Alameda, CA

Together, Jude and Kate powered the Spruce Goose

slowly into the marina. A stabbing pain still drummed at
Jude’s lower ribs.
He could see Nathalie waiting anxiously on the dock,
arms crossed tightly, clutching a large yellow envelope.
When he had the yacht secured in its slip, she climbed
on board.
“Your side is bleeding. Are you okay, Jude?” Nathalie
moved toward him quickly. “Let me make an emergency
call for you.”
“An ambulance is on its way already.”
Wearily, Jude docked the yacht. Kate stepped off the
boat and onto the dock.
The police had arrived. Jude led them to where Marc
Ferguson was tied up in the cabin of his yacht and his
daughter’s body was covered. The police were asking
lots of questions when Jude spotted the ambulance
coming into the parking lot. He waved the paramedics
over; they parked nearby.
The police let Jude step away to see the emergency
medical techs. An EMT checked out Jude’s rib injury.
 GRIDLOCK
10

Kate sat on a bench and watched the officers manage

Marc Ferguson.
Two officers had Ferguson by his arms and escorted
him off the boat when he saw his daughter’s lifeless
body stretched out on the deck. Her head was
uncovered: one side of her face, crushed in. He
screamed and lunged toward Jude. “Wagner, I’ll kill you
and your family.”
Kate looked over from the bench.
The cops quickly intervened, handcuffed Ferguson. He
struggled and made more threats as they forced him off
the yacht and into a cruiser.
Minutes later, Jude managed to break away from the
paramedics and step off the yacht to see Nathalie. She
was holding a UPS Delivery.
“What happened?” Nathalie asked.
“We fought. She died and he’s apprehended. It’s over
and her body is in that seat bench.”
“I thought this would never end,” she said.
“He’s finished.” Jude gently took her hand and
squeezed it.
“I wonder how he could have lost his mind like that?”
“According to Kate, he was very sick.”
“Yes, but how does that explain his daughter?”
“Genetics,” he said.
“I thought you might say that.”
Knowlan arrived, waving one arm. He sat beside Kate.
He looked ragged with an untucked dress shirt. Jude
overheard him say, “Kate, I’m still working on you.”
Kate said, “Keep it up.”
“We will,” Jude said.
“What’s in the envelope?” Jude asked Nathalie.
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Nathalie read the postmark, looking slightly jealous. “I

don’t know. Do you have an overseas girlfriend named
Charlene?” She handed the envelope to him
“I think this is about Niles.” Jude tore into the letter.
He removed an A-4 sheet of paper, saw that it was dated
over a year ago and read it:
Dear Jude,
If you’re reading this, it means that some misfortune
has caused me to pop my socks before you. Wherever I
am, I’ll miss you, Edward, Charlene and the rest of the
Stanford Team. To get on with things, I contacted an
attorney to prepare for the unforeseen event of my
death.
Walter Stevens, in San Francisco, has arranged
documents for you to become Edward’s joint guardian,
with Charlene. You’ll think, what the hell has he done
now?
And you’re right. You don’t have any kids. But I know
you’ll make a fine dad. And as for Charlene—we’ve
discussed how Edward deserves a father figure no
matter what should happen to me.
Should you decide to accept this responsibility, I’ve
left you money to care for him. Walter will sort
everything.
Keep the Tipsea shipshape and seaworthy and teach
Edward how to sail her. Make his heart be his rudder,
faith be his compass, and when all else fails, use a
blanket for a sail!
Your Best Mate,
Niles

Jude was dumbstruck.

13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“A father.” Nathalie said, looking into Jude’s green

eyes. She took his other hand and laced her thin fingers
in his.
“He was besotted with that boy,” Jude said, heavily.
“I’ve got other news,” Nathalie said. “It confirms what
I had found earlier on Lori Ferguson.”
“Oh yeah.”
“I looked into Ferguson’s family life and found that his
red-haired daughter belonged to a body-building club
and drove, as we know, a white Range Rover.”
“She was one bad egg.”
Nathalie hugged Jude again.
He felt a strange peace from getting Kate to shore but
worried about what Ferguson had said about the
impending virus. If public trust was lost, it would cause
volunteers to remove their idle computers from the
project.
“Nathalie, will you help me with one last favor?”
She said okay, reluctantly.
“I’ll need your help to try and block one last possible
attack on the Stanford Grid Project.”
She looked at him with a certain trepidation,
anticipating that this too would test their wits to the
fullest.
15 ALVIN ZIEGLER

fifty-two

Sunday & Monday, November 6 & 7

San Francisco, CA

At his apartment, Jude nursed his sore ribs while

Nathalie hurried over with spaghetti dinner for everyone.
When she arrived Jude had already connected to the
bureau’s encrypted server and pulled down the machine
learning code that he had been refining.
Jude said, “I got some information on Ramsey. I just
called the hospital.”
“Were you feeling guilty about putting the dog on him
at Ferguson’s place?”
“Not exactly. I was curious about his status.”
Nathalie said, “I guess you heard he’d been moved
from the ICU.”
“Yes, but that’s all I got.”
“Here’s the rest. Ramsey was deemed stable enough
to be questioned and confessed to sabotaging Stanford.”
Jude asked, “What? You mean setting off explosives at
the power station and then trying to hack the Grid?”
She nodded. “He admitted to a lesser crime, so he
doesn’t get implicated in the murders. I think he is still
dangerous.”
“So he’s ruined. What about the Stanford gunman?”
17 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“He gave us scant info on the hacker. We are told the

hacker’s name was Cez@r. While Ramsey says that
Ferguson and this Cez@r were the ring leaders, Heather
Styles accuses Olivier Ramsey of everything. Ramsey
shifts everything on Cez@r. You know the routine,” she
said.
“The hacker’s keystrokes are all over this. We’ve
gotta find him. Keep the pressure on Ramsey, if you can
get to him at the hospital. Let me know what I can do.”
“You had better not do a thing. I will see that our unit
keeps on him. We confirmed who broke into your
apartment.”
Jude listened closely.
“A Dyncorp trainee Lori managed,” Nathalie said.
“So Lori did run the whole operation and her father
had nothing to do with it?”
“That’s how I see it. He tried to plead guilty for his
daughter, but we think he’s saying that because he’s
dying anyway.”
“He’s that sick?”
“He has advanced Huntington’s disease.”
Nathalie asked, “There’s no end to this story. How
does it feel to be on the bricks?”
Hackman had confiscated Jude’s gun and badge and
conveniently put him on administrative leave. Jude still
had a lot of explaining to do for the chemical mess he
made of UC Berkeley’s Anthrax Laboratory. But what
mattered now was having time away from the thirteenth
floor.
“It’s not all bad.” In fact, it was good for Jude to be
away from the office now as it gave him precious time
and space needed to combat the timed virus.
Hackman was preoccupied with questioning, tending
to the Dyncorp debacle. The bureau head must have
 GRIDLOCK
18

regretted hiring Dyncorp to handle the San Francisco

office re-org. Dyncorp had far too much security access
within the FBI. The private security company also had to
answer for how Lori Ferguson managed to fly to Tokyo
and arrange to have Hideo Onagi attacked without being
detected as going off the reservation. The FBI boss
would be stuck straightening out this ordeal for weeks.
Jude could hardly imagine the demands that the
Office of Professional Review would have put on
Hackman to unravel what had transpired with Lori
Ferguson using Dyncorp to frame the FBI. Minimally,
Hackman needed to discern how Lori Ferguson had
accessed an FBI-registered handgun.
All of this gave Jude and Nathalie the precious extra
day they needed to work on their anti-virus agent. Jude’s
nerves were frayed despite how Knowlan had already
made promising strides with Kate.
Fortunately for Jude, the FBI computer program he
repurposed could already intelligently detect
unauthorized executable code. This proved an enormous
head start on the virus crisis. Jude worked feverishly to
customize the program to operate on Stanford’s Grid.
Nathalie watched over his shoulder testing his work. The
code was already written as a computer agent and it
only needed polishing touches before Jude could
distribute it across a grid network and sandbox the
malware—the malicious software. He had to be sure,
though, that his code could detect the malware. Hackers
disguised their destructive programs so they could
invade a computer system without being easily
discovered. He also had to block the attack so it
wouldn’t spread from one executable file to another.
While most computer viruses only spread when the user
19 ALVIN ZIEGLER

ran his computer, worm viruses were self-activating.

Jude made sure his anti-virus program would protect
against both threats.
The following day Nathalie worked with Jude remotely
from her office. Meanwhile, Kate sped down to Stanford
to witness the work that Roger Knowlan was doing on
her breast cancer. On Monday at midnight, Jude
distributed his newly enhanced agent across Stanford’s
Grid network.

***

The first amateur hackers ran across Cez@r’s posting

that same morning. They copied his virus from the
website into their own autoexec.bat file. Then they
subscribed to the Grid, launching the virus through an
application called Rosetta. Some fifty minutes passed
before Rosetta attempted the process of infecting
desktops everywhere.

***

Throughout the night, Jude monitored the Stanford

Grid to see if the time-released virus was going off as
planned. Hairs bristled on his neck before final testing.
To his utter amazement, there were no signs that any
virus had penetrated the network. The program that he
had created with Nathalie had successfully contained the
virus.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

epilogue

Nineteen Days Later, Sunday, November 27

San Francisco, CA

Nathalie walked into Jude’s apartment, sauntered into

his living room and kicked off her heels beside the sofa.
Under her open jacket, she wore a sheer coffee-colored
top that matched her eyes. Her top two blouse buttons
were undone. She flipped her hair over her shoulder and
grinned. He came to her side, fixed on her. Her finger
traced an invisible line along his jaw and down his neck.
This was the Nathalie Jude missed. At first, he leaned
away, making her wait for him until she arched her neck,
exposing it. Then he reached over her shoulder, and
bolted the door behind her. He inched closer, pulling her
by the waist then met her small, open mouth with his
lips.
They kissed. Her hair brushed his face. The smelling of
her conditioner filled him. His breathe quickened. He led
their probing, wet touch. Heat rushed down his body. His
spirit soared.
After the steady kiss, they inhaled a long breath. She
wiped a smudge of her dark lipstick from his lower lip.
7 ALVIN ZIEGLER

He whispered in her ear, “I’ll be right back.” With a

quick trip to the kitchen he returned carrying two
glasses of red wine and a bottle.
“One of my better ones,” he said.
She took the glass and eased into the sofa. He sat
beside her while she perched her stocking feet on his
rice-chest coffee table.
She looked at his mouth. “I see you got that tooth
fixed.”
“I did. I’ve missed you,” he said.
“A votre santé. It’s been very odd not seeing you at
the office.”
“But it’s cleared my head to be on leave.”
“No signs of any virus threat?” She said.
“None. Roger Knowlan is pleased. He’s been busy with
Kate.”
“I hope she’s doing better.” She wriggled out of her
bolero jacket and flung it over the sofa. He undid the
third button on her top and kissed her down her neck to
the top of her shoulder, but her body remained tense in
his arms. He started to remove her blouse with devilish
eyes when she said, “Wait, I think we should talk first.”
Begrudgingly, Jude froze and pulled back. “What is
it?” They sat up. She adjusted her top, her chest heaving
with short breaths.
With panic in her face, she gazed at him intently. “I’m
worried.”
“Worried about what?”
“Honestly. I don’t know what this investigation might
produce.”
Jude shrugged. “I’m innocent.”
“No one’s ‘innocent’. The best you can be is not
guilty.”
“Whose side are you on?”
9 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Yours.” Nathalie said. “You were lucky that criminal

charges weren’t filed against you with the anthrax
incident and the break-in at Ferguson’s house.”
Jude glanced away, taking another sip of wine. “I
know.”
“But a determination was made that there was a long
struggle before Ferguson’s daughter died. Some are
saying that the body’s condition and Marc Ferguson’s
wounds arouse suspicion. Hasn’t there been anything
about this on the news?”
Jude tensed. “Not the news I’ve been watching.
They’re actually questioning if I acted in self-defense?”
“You didn’t call for backup, so you weren’t acting on
behalf of the FBI and you had been ordered not to get on
that Dyncorp helicopter.”
“They’re really saying that?”
“You had defensive wounds, yes. But they learned
Ferguson had Huntington’s disease. It has come out that
the disease has disorienting effects. Even though he had
a gun, he could make an insanity plea.”
“Who’s saying all this?”
“Not Hackman. But Speer and others.”
“You’re not allowed to say Speer’s name around me.”
“Okay.”
Jude shook his head at the thought of Marc Ferguson
and his daughter. “I heard that he was moved from the
hospital to holding.”
“Yes. He’s since been moved from holding to jail. He
kept calling you a murderer through questioning.”
Jude took a gulp of wine, set it down, then paced the
oriental rug. “Whoever is thinking of bringing charges
against me will have to take my word over his.”
11 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“True, but Ferguson will say anything for leniency.”

Nathalie tapped the top of her glass. “At least Dyncorp
has been cooperative.”
“I bet they have. Is there any evidence to support
their stealing the FBI-registered firearm that killed Jűrgen
Hansen? And what about Hideo Onagi?”
“Yes, it turns out that the field division armory book
shows the weapon was stolen from an FBI SUV lockbox
two months ago. For some reason, the incident was
attributed to a gang theft and wasn’t traced back to
Dyncorp until now. A number of Dyncorp officers are still
being interrogated.”
“H’mm. It must feel very safe there, with all of that
security.”
“Very funny. I overheard them defend the company to
Hackman and how they had no knowledge of Lori’s
actions. Apparently, they gave her too much latitude
because she was the daughter of a board member. They
also claim they had planned on terminating her because
she had gone AWOL. I’ve pleaded your case with the
chief inspector. Of course, I asked that they dismiss
charges against you.”
“They’d better dismiss charges.”
“It’s wait and see now.”
Jude said, “when news about Ferguson’s daughter’s
activities goes public Dyncorp is really going to suffer.”
Dyncorp had already lost the FBI as a client. CNN said
that their CEO has been asked by its board to take early
retirement.
“I think his daughter had a fixation with power and
acted out of a need to protect him after your Stanford
Grid team broke its alliance and posed a competitive
threat.”
13 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Jude nodded slightly, still amazed by it all. “Our profile

was on target—a female who acted out revenge for
J&Q.”
“I wish we could have done something with that
sooner. But she was a professional—even if she wasn’t
hired. C'est la vie.” Nathalie continued, “I think she was
impressed by her father’s status in the world. Some
children do anything to win their parents’ admiration.”
Jude sat beside Nathalie. “Right. Nothing says I love
you like a killing spree.”
Ignoring that, Nathalie went on. “She’s got some kind
of juvenile record but, of course, that’s sealed, so no
background info.”
“Ah, but I found something despite it being sealed.”
“How?”
“I did a periodical search on Lori Ferguson and
Piedmont. Fortunately, a newspaper reporter didn’t
respect the rights of the juvenile the way he should’ve.
My search turned up a neighborhood Piedmont
newspaper story that named Lori in charges for
dismembering a family cat and lighting fires in the
neighborhood.”
“That speaks volumes. Any history of sadism is always
bad.”
“Her psychological profile could be attributed to being
raised by one parent who was seldom around. And
maybe she experienced social rejection at an early age
for looking butch. What do you think? Was she born
violent is she a product of her upbringing?”
Nathalie gave him a look. “No one’s born evil. I’m
convinced she tried to compensate for feeling
inadequate. It is sad actually.”
“I’d say it ran in the family.” Jude leaned back and
rubbed his neck. “People and their compulsions.”
15 ALVIN ZIEGLER

She sipped her wine again. “Do you have any blue
cheese?”
“Not even cream cheese.”
“I’m going to have to arrive here with my own blue
cheese and smell of Roquefort when I walk in.”
“What happened to worrying about me?”
“The French can multi-task. Any report about
Stanford?” Nathalie asked.
“An investor who heard Hideo’s talk at CERN has
donated twelve million dollars to rebuild the
Bioengineering Department to further the Stanford
Grid.”
Nathalie’s eyebrows raised.
Jude continued, “Roger Knowlan is planning the
reconstruction and computer security. I may give him
pointers.”
A knock sounded on the door. Jude set down his wine
glass and answered it. Kate walked in wearing a cable-
knit sweater and a smirk.
“Jude told me you’d be here tonight,” Kate said to
Nathalie.
“So, your brother doesn’t give you your own set of
keys when you stay with him?”
“I’ve got them. I simply wanted to warn him in case
he had company, which I see he does.” Kate said,
smiling. “Glad to finally meet you properly.”
The women embraced cordially.
“You’re looking well,” Nathalie told Kate.
“It’s only been a week of treatment, but Roger
Knowlan informed me today that my chances for
recovery are solid. I feel like the first person to walk on
Mars, being Stanford’s first genomic cancer patient.”
“This is great, Kate. Wine?” Jude asked Kate.
17 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“No, thank you. Jude told me you two needed time to

catch up.”She grinned. “He’s smitten.”
“Okay, Kate.” Jude said in a droll way that implied,
we’d like to be alone.”
Looking at Jude and Nathalie, Kate asked, “One more
thing. Did you find out anything about Niles?”
“I got a written request off to Scotland Yard through
the Legal Attaches Office in London. But still nothing.”
“I’ve also put out a search through Interpol,” Nathalie
said.
Kate frowned, perplexed. “I still don’t get why Niles’s
partner in England sent that overnight letter to you
about caring for their son when she didn’t even know if
he was dead.”
Jude said, “Charlene called me days ago, explaining
that her personal gestalt was thrown and that she
shouldn’t have sent it without knowing if he was alive.
She’s the worrying type. I suppose when Niles gave her
that letter, it planted an idea that he could die—and then
when he was shot and abducted in front of Edward, and
not heard from since, that reinforced the notion.”
“What are you going to do?” Kate asked.
Jude said, “I’m not going to stop looking for him.”
Kate’s mouth tightened. “On that depressing note—I
can tell you two need some alone time. Excuse me.”
Kate left for Jude’s room.
Jude saw that Nathalie looked anxious. “What’s on
your mind?”
“I found someone to take over my lease. So my move
will happen as planned, Saturday.”
“Saturday?” Jude asked.
“Yes. I may rent a place in the Hollywood hills. That’s
when Hackman wants me to start. I will need help
moving. Why don’t you visit while you’re on leave?
19 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Jude thought about how fickle Nathalie had been

about their relationship. “You realize I had to make a
decision.”
“About us?”
“About my job.”
Nathalie sat up in the sofa.
“Hackman said if he keeps me, I can’t work weekends
at Stanford. He wants one hundred percent or nothing.”
Nathalie tugged on her ear, a sign showing she was
anxious about where he was going with this.
“I told Hackman I’ll do it. The Grid will survive without
me. And we’ll certainly know if it cures Kate.”
“So, you’re going to be a career agent?”
He nodded. “Which means we still can’t go public with
a relationship.”
A confused expression came over her. “But I’ll be in
LA. I think we can do it.” Her eyes fixed on his. “You’re
not going to see me?”
She moved an inch away from him but it felt like a
mile. It appeared as nature’s flight instinct—the same as
quail flushed from shrubbery after gunfire.
He hadn’t planned for this to be their last soiree. He
saw the seriousness in her dark eyes. “Yes, I’ll come
down to see you.”
“Good.” She moved closer again and took his hand.
He said, “You have you heard what they say about
moving to LA?”
She stared at her glass. “I’ve heard a lot of things, but
I am sure you have some sage advice.”
“They say that when people relocate there they get
this impulse to reinvent themselves. You know, try to
create more allure.”
21 ALVIN ZIEGLER

“Jude, stop. I’m not going to lose sight of myself. After

living like a nomad for six years, I don’t think southern
California will change me.”
“I hope not.”
She wiped a tear.
“What’s wrong?”
“I just want to make it work.” she said. “We’ve both
been avoiding commitment and bottling up feelings.”
His voice softened. “I agree with that.”
“Unfortunately, I can’t picture you apart from this city
for long.”
“I never thought about that. But San Francisco isn’t
the source of our problems. Separately, we’ve been
forcing things to be one way or another for years.
Looking back, I see how self-deluded I’ve been. I
pressured myself into attaining high ideals since my
mom died—and you’ve been burdened by your own
baggage.”
“You mean my adoption?”
He chewed on his thumbnail, weighing his words.
“Yes. Whether that’s true or wild speculation, it’s time
we opened our eyes and stop chasing mirages. Long
distance relationships are tough. Especially since we’d
still have to keep it quiet. And being together it’s not
going to change our past. It won’t necessarily make you
feel whole.”
Her tongue slowly traced her bottom teeth. “If you’re
looking for a way out of this tell me. I am not forcing you
to have a relationship with me.”
She examined him, blank-faced. Stark reality
appeared to have them both cornered without a
pathway for escape.
He squeezed her hand and gently led her to his bay
window, carrying his wine.
23 ALVIN ZIEGLER

He held a sip of wine in his mouth. With a catch in his

throat, he gazed out the living room window at white
and amber city lights. Swallowing the silky fruit, he saw
pinpricks of light flickering in the grainy night air. The
dots pulsed in the atmosphere like miniature heartbeats
until they disappeared into enveloping fog.
“I want to give this a try.”
25 ALVIN ZIEGLER

Acknowledgments
I owe a debt of gratitude to my wife for persevering with
me through the epic journey of this book. She made it
possible in many ways. Without her and the ongoing
guidance of my personal editor, Margaret Lucke, I never
would’ve seen the end. My chief technical advisor was
the generous Josh Bernstein. Aside from fact-checking
the story with me in a Peruvian cafe, he toured me
around Celera’s gene laboratory in Alameda, California.
Celera, of course, sequenced the human genome at a
fraction of the cost of the U.S. government project.
I never would’ve considered writing a book without
encouraging parents who always let me pursue what I
wanted. I’m also indebted to my friendly readers who
either flagged issues I overlooked or gave me ideas: Jean
Cartwright, Carole Taylor, Aimee Salter, Martha Jarocki,
Suzanne Stewart, Kent Marisa, David Booth, Mark
Solomon, John Houghton, Tom Parker, Nick Booth, Kris
Wilhelm, Anne Mahoney and Nancy Siegel. I received
invaluable procedural advice from FBI Gang Unit Chief,
George Q. Fong, FBI-trained hostage negotiator, Robin
Burcell, Cyber Supervisor Jack Bennett—San Francisco
Division, CERN Physicist, Simone Campana, author of
Police Procedure and Investigation, Lee Lofland, private
security company officer, SETI@home grid co-founder,
Dan Werthimer and helicopter pilot, Richard Threfall.
The skilled videographer who concocted my second book
trailer is Nick Mead.
The timeline, while not literally taken from Wired
Magazine, was based on an article in the November 17
issue from 2007. Some background information was
 GRIDLOCK
6

derived from The Truth about Drug Companies by Marcia

Angell and Planet Google by Randall Stross.
Lastly, I want to remember Jerry Tuttle for teaching
many San Franciscans and New Yorkers how to live life
to its fullest.