GRIDLOCK, First Four Chapters

GRIDLOCK/Alvin Ziegler
GRIDLOCK
A Novel of Suspense By Alvin Ziegler
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The Grid is expected to be the next World Wide Web. CERN, the Swiss research laboratory that pioneered both.
"The effort to decipher the human genome . . . will be the scientific breakthrough of the centuryperhaps of all time. President Bill Clinton, March 14, 2000
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Facts
Biotechnology is transforming the world in unimaginable wayspromising to extend our childrens 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 the genome 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 hasnt delivereduntil 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.
prologue
Friday, October 28 Meyrin, Switzerland
Jrgen rushed from his apartment at 9:05 a.m., tightening his watch strap. The Mercedes limousine waited at the curb. He climbed into the backseat. Leather upholstery squeaked under his long legs. Lets go. Im expected in twenty minutes, he said through the limo window. The limo hummed through the foothills of the jagged Jura Mountains. He peered at the silver shimmer of Lake Geneva, surrounded by snow-capped peaks that extended to the Savoy Alps in France. Cloud mist swirled over the water. Through the Mylar glass, he glimpsed platinum-blonde hair beneath the drivers cap. Wheres Adrian? Jrgen craned toward 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. At least the limo service had filled her in. Hugging mountain roads, the car passed schoolchildren playing tag at a bus stop. Jrgen slid papers from his briefcase to occupy himself. Drumming his fingers, he studied notes. He pictured the faces of executives of the medical community whod flown from around the world to visit CERN. When the BlackBerry in his suit coat pocket vibrated, he scanned Tatianas missive: Im wearing Escada perfumesoon that will be all Im wearing. 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. Tatiana helped him unwind with sexual role-play. He text messaged a reply, giving her the address of their chateau. Tonight they would meet high in the Alps where he would star in her Russian seductress game. He adjusted the knot on his tie. Jrgen had picked up Tatiana at a Geneva club two weeks back. He didnt know yet how long hed keep hergirlfriend shelf life ran five weeks tops. Shrouded by tinted glass, he reclined against the headrest. Jrgen envisioned Tatianas lips working his chest while the limo cut along the highway, dropping in elevationuntil the tires grumbled over rocks. The noise pulled him back to reality.
The driver veered the limo off the highway. Jrgens hands went clammy. What are you doing? Theyd turned onto a side road where the road narrowed. Giving way to clover and dirt, the lane settled into a partially paved cow trail. He hammered on the glass divide. Driver. Without answering, the driver pressed a button in the glove compartment. Looking through the rear window again, his eye caught the Bernese Alpine Valley. Where are you going? There is construction, Sir, the chauffeur said sternly. Were making a detour. Listen to me. The driver rolled up her sleeves. We are close. The woman hunched at the wheel. Holding his BlackBerry, Jrgen 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 Jrgens car door. Out. Jrgen gripped the edge of his seat. What do you want?
The hard-faced woman leveled a handgun at Jrgens forehead. Whoa! He raised his hands high. The clearing had the calm of a cemetery. Jrgen eased out of the back seat, his gaze trained on the woman. She had the shoulders of a competitive swimmer. Caked on makeup covered her face, doing nothing to improve her masculine features. She opened the limo trunk, revealing a coil of heavy gauge fishing line and a twenty-pound gym weight used for bench pressing. Remove the line, the woman ordered. The weight, too. Mouth stone dry, he lifted the weights. A buzz came from overhead. A twin-engine planea businessman on holiday, perhaps. If only Jrgen could radio for help. His eyes swept over the wooded lake. Not even a house within sight. So much for the land of neutrality. The plane noise passed. A breeze rustled crisp leaves past his feet. Tie the weight to your leg. Knot it tight. Would this save her the trouble of dragging his body into the lake? Cradling the weight against his chest, Jrgen begged, Ive got money. Save your breath. She kept the gun trained on his head. He bent and tied, tensing for his strike. Youre not going to stop the Grid.
Jerking into a standing position, he lunged, hurling the weight at the womans head. She moved. The weight struck her shoulder, knocking her down. The gun dropped from her hands and she went to the ground. Jrgen leapt for the gun but the woman got to it first. She pointed the weapon and fired. With a yowl of an injured animal, he went to his knees. He touched the burning wound on his shoulder, gasping at the blood oozing between his fingers. The woman got up. What is it you want? Jrgens voice broke. She lowered the gun. Get the weight. Blood snaked down his arm. He crawled over dirt and pebbles on his knees until he could pull the gym weight and fishing line close with one hand. Moaning, he bound the line around his ankle. The woman brushed dust from her hat and gestured for him to get up. Jrgen staggered to his feet, holding his shoulder. Killing me or even Jude Wagner doesnt end the medical revolution. Her expression darkened, and she motioned with the gun muzzle for him 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.
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one
Friday, October 28 San Francisco, CA
The dinged-up Mazda MX6 slotted into a space along crammed Russian Hill. Lucky snag for Special Agent Jude Wagner, just one block from home. Still getting a feel for his vehicle, Wagner noticed how snugly his broad shoulders fit in the bucket seat then climbed out. He snapped his door locks closed with his keychain. Seized in a drug raid, this Mazda bore the scars of its street-gang pastpelted with dents from its fenders to rear bumper. More seasoned FBI agents got a clean Crown Vic. But Wagners supervisory agent issued rundown cars to freshmen, screening out potential complainers. A foghorn groaned, bassy and long. Wind whipped Wagners thick brown hair against his fair forehead. Across the gulch, Coit Tower glowed, a beacon in the dark. Wagner 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
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sign on the glass door. The dads scoop of ice cream hit the pavement and the kids shrieked with laughter. Head throbbing from straight bourbon, Wagner realized he hadnt heard the infectious laughter of kids in very long timea circumstance of city living. At the entrance of his ground-floor flat, he kicked an electric blue plastic bag. He picked up the bag containing his New York Timesa reminder hed fallen behind on world eventsand carried it through the front gate to the Mediterranean-styled threestory complex. Under a trellis of ruby bougainvillea, he strode brick steps to his door. He shoved the key inside the lock. It cranked too easily, without resistance. The Baldwin bolt had already been turned. The idea of reporting a break-in crossed his mind, but he decided to look into the matter 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 hed left that morning? His gut tensed. Quieting his steps, he crossed the living room. Now he regretted not grabbing his service weapon from under his bed on the way out. But he was following procedure, preventing an ARIalcohol-related incident. The place had been ransacked. His bookcase had been emptied. Mystery paperbacks, San Francisco history books and rock concert ticket stubs blanketed the floor. Papers he
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kept stacked on the steamer-trunk-turned-coffee table were now strewn on the fauxoriental rug. The odor of another mans sweat hung faintly in the air. Wagners pulse quickened. Maybe the intruder hadnt left. He listened for creaks in the floor. Except for gusts lashing at the windows, he heard nothing. Lightly, he stepped to the kitchen. Open cupboard drawers showed rearranged boxes of pasta noodles and chips. In the bedroom, his Chinese dresser doors were ajar. Shirts, suits and a high school wrestling trophy lay on the floor. In the mini-study, he checked his desktop computer. The drive bay gaped hollow and darkthe 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. He heard something scratching the floor, like hard-soled shoes. The noise sent a shiver down his spine. He braced himself. A man in a suit raced from the closet and outside the flat. Wagner rushed through the hallway and barreled into the cold night, wind buffeting off the bay. The wide intruder in boots started down the treacherous grade of the Filbert Street steps. He bobbed along in his flapping suit jacket. Practiced at navigating the decline, Wagner clacked down the steps, pursuing the lumbering figure. Reaching the bottom,
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he pushed to catch up. Each stride brought him closer to his UNSUBunknown subject. They plowed past stucco apartments and into North Beach. Wagner clipped by Washington Square Park and a closed coffee store. Five feet behind the man, Wagner lunged with arms extended and snagged an ankle. Together, they crashed to the ground outside a neon-signed pizzeria. Cement grated one side of Wagners face. The sting burned through his cheek. The man gruntedgripping the hard drive beneath him. Wagner pressed his knee between the man's shoulder blades to pin him down and worked to control his arms while he thrashed. Help! Police, a girl shouted from the restaurant. I am, Wagner huffed. A federal agent. With heaving force, he got the perpetrators left arm behind him as a dark Chevrolet Blazer screeched to the curb. The man turned over and broke free. He thrust a karate punch at Wagners neck. On reflex, Wagner raised his arm. He blocked the darting fist. The hard drive dropped to the ground. Wagner scrambled and grasped it with one hand as a blow came from behindpunching him in the kidney. The thud connected
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like a sack of flour falling from a top shelf. Air whooshed out of him. Wincing and winded, Wagner held the hard drive close with a tucked arm. Clumsily, he rolled to his hands and knees, preparing to charge like a bull. In a blur, Wagner saw a swift soccer kick comingthe boot hurled into his abdomen. He gagged, curling. Knees pulled to his chest. A shrill whine rang in his head. Then everything dimmed, even the neon lights on Columbus Street.
two
Friday, October 28 Meyrin, Switzerland
Alone on the second floor observation deck of the laboratory, Hideo Onagi heard his heart thump. The hum of high voltage electricity vibrated through the floors of this cavernous building. Noise travelled easily in this all-white chamber, three hundred feet underground, beneath the Franco-Swiss border. This was where the famous Large Hadron Collider operatedthe most expensive scientific experiment in history. Looking below, he saw maintenance staff working on a platform that opened into a tunnel. He marveled at the underground passageway. It housed a giant tube of
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superconducting magnets. Those magnets cooled particle beams, speeding them through a seventeen-mile subterranean circle. Running in opposite directions, the beams were guided to collide in an explosion that scientists used to study the fundamental particles of the universe. No lab in the world matched CERN in terms of the number of physicists it employed and the extent of its international presence. Twenty member countries ran it and many more participated. Hideos stomach churned. Family turmoil and the gravity of this fund-raising presentation for genomic medicine set off his ulcer. Once this ended, he'd fly to meet his estranged wife. After spending months jetting from city to city to find sponsors for the Grid, Hideo realized that work 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. 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. His daughter beamed in her fourth-grade school picture. He gazed at it briefly, then pushed it back into his pocket. The attendees arrived, gawking at the girders and struts supporting the high ceilings.
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Two dozen board members and financial officers from the worlds largest hospitals and universities jetted from around the globe to this vast lab in secluded Meyrin. They came to the glorified agricultural village to see the scientific breakthrough which took decades to build. Just one problem: Hideos speech partner, Jrgen Hansen, 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. Hed given up his private practice to join Stanford and change medical history. Jrgens absence could wreck his chance for vital donations. In all his years of practice, hed never seen a technology so perfectly poised to change medicine. These were Jrgens contacts. Delay of action on this genome project could cost tens of thousands of lives. As CERNs Life Science Director, Jrgen said hed 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 consortiumhuddled together like a mini United Nationsstared at him. Theyd come to hear a scholarly revelation about how CERN would change medicine. But his area of molecular biology involved computer
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science, artificial intelligence and chemistrynot physics. Jrgen represented the CERN side of this partnership. Hideo would have to wing this by himself. He introduced himself and gestured toward the huge bright blue metal pipe overhead. The Large Hadron Collider, he explained, was the most powerful accelerator in the world, operating at minus two hundred and seventy-one Centigradecolder 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, cosmologyohand unified theory. A murmur rippled through the audience. He continued. The metal used in this pipe ring could build another Eiffel Tower. On the wall beside at the mouth of the tunnel, exotic instruments flashed. The group was fidgety. He needed to speed past Jrgens 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.
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Hideo continued, Scientists wouldnt have gotten anywhere without an enormous computer to analyze all of the data. CERN employed a grid computer system to study results. They started to chatter. One man rubbed his arms. He was losing them. A fat man said, Like an electrical power grid? Not exactly. Computer grids link thousands of computers to work as a single virtual machine. Particle collision produces vast amounts of data. Ultimately, the Grid analyzes the equivalent of thirteen million DVDs worth of information annually. Taking the Internet to 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 thats grid-based medicine? Exactly. Hideo spread his hands broadly. CERNs physicists built the Grid to handle questions that are far more complex than what any computer systems could handle before. Conveniently, the Grid runs over the World Wide Webwhich CERN also invented to analyze atom-smashing results. A technician entered the room below and checked dials attached to electrical equipment.
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Hideo raised his voice to speak over a new burring noise, The Grid also powers Stanford Universitys research. Through distributed processing, computers everywhere work as one. A Persian man in a finely tailored, double-breasted suit cleaned his glasses with a cloth, his expression skeptical. Lets go to Building Six, Hideo said. Ill explain how Stanford will diagnose every disease. Mercifully, many of Hideos attendees smiled, lightening up. With a flick of his CERN tour guide flag, he directed them forward. He stole a look at his watch. Jrgen was over an hour late. Good god. Could he be hung oversick from a night of carousing? After an elevator ride to the ground level, they filed to Building Six. While the group exchanged hotel stories and restaurant recommendations, Hideo checked his phone. No messages. He led the way to a conference room. Once there the 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.
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The orderly area reminded Hideo of his fastidious wife and their heart-wrenching probability of divorce. His daughters face flashed before him. He moved across the conference room to get back to his performance. Okay. You are probably all wondering how this Grid partnership with Stanford is 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. Were 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 cant? the fat man asked. Traditional medicine is failing. It treats everyone who has cancer with a short list of drugs like were all the same. In reality cancer is as individual as a fingerprint. Its time we matched individual treatment to individuals. Side effects and misprescription kill over one hundred thousand people a year, he said. Hideo took a deep breath. As youll find in your brochure, the Stanford Project works like this: a patient has his genome sequenced by a company like 23andMe based in the San Francisco Bay Areathis costs around one thousand dollars. The results
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come back on two DVDs to the patient and his doctor. That doctor then logs onto Stanfords 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 persons 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 with electronic records from hospitals for instance, well, you end up with amazing power. The room went quiet. Then a man with a 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, doctors offices and pharmacies used isolated computer networks, blocking access to medical records for broad comparison. Vital information couldnt be cross-referenced to gain a deeper understanding of disease. As research hospitals acquired data, online security systems became commonplacesecurity systems which topped those of the ATM business. Of course,
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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 pooled. Mind you, all names were scrubbed. While this happened, the search engines of the world connected that pooled information to create a great dataset. So, whats next? someone asked. Already, at Stanford, were diagnosing volunteers illnesses through comparison, using their DNA. With cancer, well fight mutations with custom-made proteins that conform to that persons body chemistry. Several heads nodded. The Persian man asked, Will someone from CERN be speaking today? Yes, a CERN representative will be answering questions later. And Jrgen Hansen, who couldnt be here today, is the liaison between this lab and Stanfords. He maintains the Internet connection that 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. Thats the point here. Were democratizing medicine, making the costly partresearch and diagnosisfree. How? the same man interrupted.
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Were 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 youll see how this Grid at CERN relies on processing power from volunteers. Chatter interrupted him again. I see doubt. Believe me, all we need is more funding. Isnt fighting cancer as worthy a mission as landing spacecraft on Mars? If we dont 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? Audience members turned to one another. Hideo scored a point. The Stanford/CERN partnership needs your support to bring a non-profit alternative to universal healthcare. As the group opened brochures an elderly man in the front raised his hand. What exactly would our endowment money accomplish? To Hideos relief, eyes tracked him as he circled the table. First, your dollars will guarantee processing power from places like CERN. Second, theyll extend our Grid to every home PC. The system will run like a worldwide database, bringing supercomputing power to desktops, virtually. Well have one enormous virtual super computerthe same way researchers from 25 countries analyzed the collision of
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particles here through a Grid of institutions and universities around the world. And, yes, well need specially trained pharmacists to formulate the customized drugs. Hideos mind strayed to his flight. There was barely enough time for him to get to the airport. After delivering his final plea for investment, he beckoned for Jrgens earnest assistant. A young man wearing a tie and short sleeves entered the room with a remote control in hand. Glancing at the wall clock, Hideo announced that the CERN representative would answer any follow up questions about the physics laboratory. Hideo excused himself, checking his pocket to make sure that his plane ticket was there. His pitch had to have won some new backers. But no word back from Jrgen. Something had to be wrong. His absence couldve blown this event. Fortunately, Hideo was quick on his feet. Any money raised today could help save countless lives and level another blow against the traditional healthcare. But Hideo guarded against hubris. Mainstream medicine enjoyed an iron grip on the American public and any alternative such as the Stanford Grid would face powerful opposition.
three
Friday, October 28
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San Francisco, CA
Cars idled in traffic outside the pizzeria where Jude Wagner had lay on the ground. Red and blue emergency lights beamed across retail buildings on Columbus Avenue. A patrol cars P.A. chirp signaled for traffic to move. The action drew curious looks from the late crowd. Wagner was released by the UNSUB who ran to a waiting Chevrolet Blazer that roared off. A cruiser rounded the corner. Lying on the sidewalk, Wagner had drifted to high school wrestling practicea time when grappling was sport. Then a voice from above circled in Wagners head. Hey, time to get up. His eyes cracked open to three heads silhouetted against the night sky. Two cops and a bystander. The older officer with a bushy mustache stared coldly. Wagner cradled his midsection. The smell of corn meal crust pumping from the pizzeria told him where he was, but it didnt help his wrenching gut. Did you get him? Wagner asked. One of the officers shook his head. Wagner unsteadily got up and took a step. Im FBI. Slow down, the older officer with the mustache said. Show me your ID.
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Wagner was handling things too cavalierly, forgetting what hed learned in training. Many on-duty cops resented the bureau. Feds had a reputation for a lot of things, including padding arrest reports with busts made by beat officers. He showed his creds and handed over his wallet. The older cop checked his badge. Inside the wallet, he came across a Stanford magnetic clearance card. Why the Stanford ID, Agent Wagner? the cop asked, stroking his mustache. I do some special work for them. Wagner avoided elaborating on his role in the genomics initiative at Stanford. Beat cops couldnt be bothered with how he used to work for Stanford and still looked out for the Universitys computer security. And you work at the FBI? Jude blinked dirt from his eyes. Im a field agent. Doing? Electronic surveillance for the bureaus grid computer. Jude tapped the hard drive. A biting wind rushed down the street. The bystander slipped into the pedestrian traffic. Headlights from passing cars reflected on the younger cops brass nameplate above his midnight blue shirt pocket. The name Flanagan showed.
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What happened? Flanagan asked, hooking a thumb on his belt. He had the glare of a baseball umpire. Did you see him? Wagner wiped sidewalk dirt from the hard drive, then touched blood droplets on his cheek. See who? Did you at least see the dark Blazer? Cool down. The older officer said, lips creased tight. Shitthe guy was even more trained in hand-to-hand combat than me. He was after that . . . computer part? The younger cop pointed at the hard drive that Wagner held in his hands. The older cop muttered, Thats why youre playing tackle here on Columbus? Wagner explained the break-in at his apartment and his subsequent chase. Flanagan opened a leather-bound notepad and scratched notes, weighing the account. The older officer asked, So thats what you do professionally, Cyber work at the bureau? There was a skeptical tone in his voice. Wagner said, Dont I look like a workaholic? You want a description of the thief, right? Earnestly holding the pad, Flanagan filled his page.
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After a quick ride up the hill in the squad car, the three of them trod through Wagners hallway. The older cop gathered loose paper from the floor, and leafed through them. Wagner swiped the papers out of his hand. Hey. The older cop said. Are you gonna have a team dust for latents? Wagner asked. The older cop said, Youve got your computer equipment now, right? Did they get anything else? No, I dont think so. Wagner cursed under his breath to the ineffectiveness of the procedure. The older officers eyes narrowed. He turned to his partner. Get a load of this guy, Flannie. Wagner shoved a hand in his pocket, reassured to feel his Grid access key wasnt lost. 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, Wagner knew hed 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 Wagner heard
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the wordstime for a code sevenhe was relieved they were signaling to eat. The officers left without being shown to the door. Wagner bolted his door lock behind the police and took stock of things. The cost of losing Grid information was incalculable. He turned his attention back to his hard drive and messed up 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 checked the back of his bottom desk drawer for his flash thumb drive. It was gonedocuments pertaining to the Google deal were saved on it. His nerves jangled again. It had taken months of negotiations to strike this confidential agreement that would impact healthcare overnight. The impending partnership would connect the Grid to Googles world databases, ones that held most of the worlds printed information, enabling users to query medical data on the fly. The Grid would extend Stanfords reach to millions of pages of medical data for free in exchange for online advertising.
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Wagner text messaged his twin sister Kate in Kentucky to tell her what had happened. Hed fill her in on the details tomorrow once her plane got in and her visit started. Setting down his phone, he warmed up leftover chicken. He needed to tell his Grid partner, Niles, about the break-in but opted to brief him in person tomorrow on their planned sailing trip. Wagner walked around his living room rug, chewing on a chicken drumstick. The evenings event left him stewing. It seemed like a lifelong journey to get Stanfords medical project to this point. His obsession with genomics never wouldve started if his mother hadnt died the way she didthat was Judes catalyst. Since then, Wagner moved from Kentucky to California to study theoretical computing at Berkeley. Those were obsessive daysJude and Niles buried in code writing, pushing possibilities with computers. He tore off another bite of chicken. Kate had predicted that living alone would lead to brooding. He couldnt put off the call to Stanfords genomic medicine honcho, Roger Knowlan, despite the late hour. Wagner prepared himself for a blunt and uncomfortable talk, then called the phone number. After the phone picked up, it sounded like a lamp knocked over.
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Damn it. There was more fumbling on the other end of the line. I was asleep. What is it? Roger, its Jude. Bad news. Someone broke into my place and stole a thumb drive holding documents on the Google deal. Oh, God! The worlds watching us with a magnifying glass, Knowlan shouted, Investors, doctors, patients, lawyersand you lose files? I dont know why I called you. This thug couldve picked your lock just as easily as he did mine. But he didnt. Start praying this doesnt have catastrophic effects. Through the pause, Wagner almost heard Knowlan processing everything, half awake. Finally Knowlan added, Im just livid over this. Im not going to get any rest until we get that Google security in place. He hung up. The curt conversation left Wagner on edge. Knowlan was still raw that the Grid wasnt going to be commercialized, according to plans hed negotiated with Pharma company Johnston & Quib. This surprise call just gave him more to complain about. Pacing out of his fugue, Wagner reconsidered the break-in to his apartment play-byplay. What were they after? One of his biggest fears all along had been the possibility of the Grid being brought down by a concerted attack. No computer system was invulnerable, but the imminent, enhanced protection that Googles corporate security
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offered, gave him more peace of mind. Now someone else knew that Google was in play. The implications of an intruder corrupting the Grid were huge. The message to the world would be clear: if a hacker could compromise the Grid and its privacy controls, the public wouldnt donate their idle computer power to it. Nor would they trust uploading their genome to the Grid for analysis. If that happened, the entire medical dream would come to a grinding halt. With heightened resolve, Wagner took a flashlight to his hallway closet. It was the only part of his hall that wouldve been undisturbed by foot traffic from the police officer visit. He shined the flashlight low across the floor and saw a shoeprint that wasnt his own. Then he recalled that one of his Academy manuals on evidence collection contained inserts for exercises. He pulled the manual from his bedroom shelf and found a gelatin lifter inside a laminated pouch. Removing the gel lift sheet from its book pouch, he returned to the hallway closet floor and carefully placed the lift over the boot mark to get a good impression. He let the gel lift set while he walked outside with a flashlight to check his car for a slap-and-track. The Mazda underside was worn like a used stunt car, but it held no extra hardware. Little consolation. Whoever instigated this had an elaborate operation at work. Big money could be backing efforts to knock the Stanford Grid offline. Wind bellowed
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through his metal-lined chimney. More than ever, Wagner saw his long term project as a disaster waiting to come apart. The bioengineering department at Stanford didnt have the advanced security it needed. The Grid team was behind. A nervous rush of blood rose to Wagners face and ears. Hopefully, it wasnt too late to guard his precious Grid project from going to pieces. `
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four
Sunday, October 30 Tokyo, Japan
The Ferris wheel rotated with its latest passengers on board. Dr. Hideo Onagi held his nine-year-old daughters chilled shoulder and she clung to her vinyl seat. The ride paused again and the two-person car swung freely. From up here they had a mountaintop view of Rinkai Park and beyond, where city life crawled serenely. But it didnt help much to relieve Hideos mind from his marital predicament. His marriage was blowing away. His passive-aggressive wife steadily closed down lines of communication with him. The skyline didnt 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.
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Clear day for Tokyo, isnt it, Yomiko? Its beautiful, Daddy. Coveting family time, Hideo read manga comics to his daughter on weekends in Palo Alto. 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 wouldve struck a balance, listened to those who called him too dedicated for his own good. But his Grid team depended on him for everything at Stanford. Right now, Hideos wife, Asuka, dined with her parents, strategizing about her permanent relocation back to Tokyo with their daughter. Asuka couldnt 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 couldnt be Japanese anywhere else. That phrase haunted Hideo. He wondered if he was no longer Japanese. He couldnt remember the last time someone called him the Little Bullet, the nickname that the Japanese media had coined for him. But he couldnt 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. Hed even come to resent Japans outdated patriarchal systems of hierarchy and its hidden xenophobia.
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With a steel clank, the Ferris wheel lurched them higher. He rubbed his daughters shoulders to warm them. Yomiko squinted into the 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, theyd abandoned. How could he steer the Grid project when he couldnt 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? Nothinglook, Yomiko, that outline is Mount Fuji, Hideo said, his arm still around her shoulders. His daughter pointed in another direction, at hazy spires. And theres Disneyworld.
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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, then took 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 thought about how long hed slogged away at the genomic medicine dream. His wifes words came to mind. Youre boiling the ocean, Hideo. Sadly, this was the only way Asuka could express her frustration with his work. But Hideo couldnt leave the Stanford Grid Project. Not after the holy grail of medicine was finally getting startedsuccessfully evaluating diabetes test patients with a million times greater accuracy than a physician could. Stanfords 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
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inside air-locked laboratories. Since then, attitudes had shifted as people came to better understand genetic science. Lets not leave, Daddy. I mustI 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. Lets go. She tugged him by his cuff. He dumped their paper lunch boxes and followed. Where are you going, Yomiko? She turned. You know, to our garden, without birds. She gave 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 Yomikos 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.
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This way, Daddy. She pointed to the bonsai-filled menagerie. Inside the garden, they crept along pebble paths with red maples skirting 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, aware that she may be moving back to Tokyo with her mother, but without him. Select a rock, Yomiko. Okaythat one beside the red tree. Now, adopt it. How? Name it. Remember it. And its yours. Yomiko threw her head back, closing her eyes. I named it Chihiro, from the movie Spirited Away. Fine. Well 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 vast yards of grass where families picnicked with wine bottlesized 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, along with the two viciouslooking dogs he saw sitting in the distance, behind cherry trees. His palms sweated.
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Yomiko, we must go. Daddy, Ill 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 galloping toward him from the distance. A chill rushed up his spine to his head. They rushed him with fur raised on their necks. Terror paralyzed his legs. Like hungry wolves, the weighty Akita Inu collided into him, knocking him backward. Hideo stumbled. The two predators circled, snapping at him. He swung his arms, covered in grass. Anything to keep them from turning on his daughtereven easier prey. One dog shredded the sleeve of his cotton shirt. His daughter fled 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 Hideos thigh. His extremities seared. He straight-armed one dogs muzzle. Its head snapped back and forward again. He kicked the other, gasping. The
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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. Kneeling, Hideo snagged one dogs ear and didnt let go. Furry tissue finally tore from its square head. A torrent of blood ran down the animals head, slowing it. Hideo had gained the upper hand until the other animal locked its jaws on his cheek. Hideo lost his grip. Teeth gnashed into his neck like ice picks. They pierced and crushed vertebrae. Hideos bladder released. He 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. Color strobed before his eyes. Shouting voices distorted into mumbling confusion. Sucking wind through his parted lips, he fell flat on the lawn.
Yomiko heard a high-pitched whistle blow. The dogs looked up, one after the other, turning their heads. They tore off in into the direction from which the sound came, leaving a crimson trail over grass. The canines sat on their haunches before a blonde-haired woman in a brown jumpsuit. She was crouched behind cherry trees near a parked van. Yomiko tried to
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catch her breath. She watched the woman reward her dogs with biscuits, then lean over to fasten their leashes. Her gold cross, dangling on her neck, glistened in the sunshine. Yomiko moved to her fathers lifeless body and dropped to her knees sobbing. She laid her hands on his head, but had to turn away. The brackish smell of blood turned her stomach. The woman behind the trees disappeared and so did the van. 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 Yomiko blanketed herself over her father. One of the medics examined puncture marks on the victims throat. He put one hand on top of another and tried to resuscitate the gravely injured man. The medic covered his nose with his forearm. He relayed, Theres no hope for this poor man. The other medic knelt to comfort the blood-stained child. What is that youve 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.
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The medic looked at the trees where she pointed but saw nothing. He read one of the note cards: Algorithms like Jude Wagners solve problems through computer instructions or code which greatly speed up the computational process of personalized medicine. How? Mathematically. Wagners code mines key bits of data. This way, the Grid at Stanford can sort the molecular information of a patients tumor and give us an individualized snapshot of the illness. Its step one in custom disease diagnosis. The medic had no idea what he was reading, but it looked important. He tucked the note cards into his pocket and eased the deceased on the stretcher.

GRIDLOCK, First Four Chapters

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