Gridlock, A Novel of Suspense

GRIDLOCK/Alvin Ziegler 1
A Novel of Suspense
By Alvin Ziegler
Alvin Ziegler
alvinziegler@gmail.com
© 2010 Alvin Ziegler
_____________________________________________
“The Grid is expected to be the next World Wide Web.”

—CERN, the Swiss research laboratory that pioneered both.
"The effort to decipher the human genome . . . will be the

scientifi c breakthrough of the century—perhaps of
all time.”
—President Bill Clinton, March 14, 2000
_____________________________________________
Facts
Wherever we go, we carry four billion years of information

on humanity—arguably the greatest discovery in scientific
history.
The United States Government spent over $2.7 billion on
decoding the hereditary information in our DNA, believing it
could extend our lives. But decoding our DNA proved far
simpler than interpreting the data that it produced so its
secrets remained locked.
Some liken the difference between decoding our DNA and
interpreting it to the difference between identifying every
part of the space shuttle and getting it to fly—two very
different tasks. Unmercifully, the sick and dying have been
given a promise that science hasn’t delivered—until now.
A lightening fast computer network called a grid is
interpreting our DNA. It can solve virtually any question that
can be calculated. Using grid technology, scientists are
creating custom drugs to treat diseases like cancer that are as
individual as a fingerprint. Such a medical revolution will not
only upend mainstream healthcare but reshape industry
worldwide.
This book was inspired by actual organizations, technologies,

and science.
Actual Timeline of the Genome

Four Billion Years Ago The beginning of DNA is thought to be created by
the aggregation of simple, self-replicating
molecules in the primordial swamp that existed on
earth at that time.
1850’s Gregor Mendel, “The father of modern genetics”

established the principles of genetic inheritance by
studying pea plants.
1900 Thomas Hunt Morgan, American Geneticist who

discovered the basics of dominant and recessive
traits and links on a chromosome. Awarded the
Nobel Prize.
1950 Barbara McClintock, the world’s most

distinguished cytogeneticist who discovered that
chromosomes exchange information by ‘jumping
genes’.
April 2003 The Human Genome Project, a full map of our

genetic code, is completed for $2.7 billion in
thirteen years.
December 2005 The Cancer Genome Atlas—a three-year, $100

million pilot project to explore the genetic
connections to cancer—is launched.
Mid-2006 The falling price of genotyping (being able to

determine an individual person’s genetic
variations) spurs a wave of research as per-test
costs inch closer to $1,000.
May 2007 James Watson's whole genome is sequenced at a

cost of less than $1 million dollars.
September 2007 Craig Venter publishes the results of his own

sequenced genome.
November 2007 23andMe opens for business offering retail

genotyping for $1,000.
one
Friday, October 28
Meyrin, Switzerland
Jurgen rushed from his apartment into mountain air at 9:45

A.M., tightening his watch strap.
Dutifully, the silver Mercedes limousine purred at the
curb. He climbed into the backseat as gracefully as a giant
man could and squeaked into leather upholstery.
“Let’s go,” Jurgen said through the limo window, lowering
the arm rest.
Like a slow-moving missile, the limo hummed through the
foothills of the jagged Jura Mountains toward its target
destination. Jurgen could see the cerulean blue of Lake
Geneva, surrounded by snow-capped peaks that extended to
the Savoy Alps in France. Cloud wisps swirled over the water
as if the earth was cooling after its creation. Through the
mylar glass, red hair shone beneath the driver’s cap.
“Where’s Adrian?” Jurgen asked through the limo
window.
“Out sick.”
Jurgen moaned. This was no day for bumbling around in
the twenty-six cantons of Switzerland.
“You do know the way to CERN?” Jurgen asked.”
Jurgen started to recite the organization’s address. The
driver cocked her head around.
“Yes, Director Hansen, I know CERN.”
Jurgen was pleasantly surprised to see that his driver was

a woman. At least the limo service had briefed her. The car
passed four schoolchildren playing tag at a bus stop. Behind
them, in the distance, snow-capped peaks surrounded Lake
Geneva.
Jurgen slid papers from his briefcase. He drummed
fingers, studying the talking notes he’d prepared. He could
picture the faces of executives of the medical community.
They had flown from around the world to visit CERN at
Meyrin—some would probably be disturbed to find that the
town was only a glorified agricultural village.
Jurgen wouldn’t let Dr. Onagi bore them today.
Thankfully, the show stopper would be the Grid network.
He checked the closeness of his shave.
When the Blackberry in his suit coat vibrated, he scanned
the latest missive from Tatiana: I’m wearing Escade perfume
—soon that will be all I’m wearing.
He adjusted the knot on his tie, and then gazed on the
road. The limo hugged mountain contours as it dropped in
elevation.
What awaited Jurgen after his pitch for dollars at CERN
was a petite redhead who travelled with silk handcuffs and a
riding crop. After a tense week of making political
documentaries for public television, she helped him unwind
with sexual role-play. Tonight they would hook up at a
chateau high in the Alps where he would star in her Russian
seductress game. He text messaged a reply: Meet me @
Zermatt airport, British Airways, Gate 14, term 2, 4 PM—
ready or not, J.
Jurgen had picked up Tatiana at a Geneva discotheque two
weeks back. He didn’t know yet how long he’d keep her—his
girlfriend shelf life ran five weeks tops; after that they become
clingy and he’s onto the next mattress actress.
Shrouded by tinted glass, he reclined against the headrest.

As the limo cut along the highway, Jurgen envisioned
Tatiana’s lips working his chest. He had made reservations at
the luxury mountain resort for their third date. He prided
himself on wowing even transient girls.
The blare of a truck horn startled him back to reality. With
cowbells dinging through a cracked window, he punched his
father’s number in Copenhagen on his Blackberry.
“Papa, today will mark the beginning of medical history.”
“Jurgen, don’t let the title of Life Science Director at CERN
give you a God complex.”
His father’s voice cut out while Jurgen lowered the
armrest, then the call dropped. Jurgen hit redial. No signal.
Looking through the rear window again, his eye caught
the the rural countryside of the Rhone Valley.
He hammered on the window divide. “Driver. This isn’t
right.”
“There is road construction, Sir,” the chauffeur said
sternly. “We’re making a detour.”
Jurgen’s watch read ten-thirty already. “I can’t be late.”
“I’m taking a shortcut.”
Jurgen’s claustrophobia surfaced.
The driver veered the limo off the highway. Jurgen felt a
nerve flutter. They’d turned onto a road that could’ve been a
long country driveway. Tires grumbled over rocks. The road
narrowed, giving way to clover and dirt over a canopied path
that was no more than a partially paved cow trail.
Jurgen’s mouth went dry. “Where are we going?”
Without answering, the driver pressed a button in the
glove compartment. Jurgen caught that she wore an earpiece.
“Hey.”
The driver rolled up her sleeves. “We are close.”
“Are you listening?”
The woman hunched at the wheel.
Holding his Blackberry, Jurgen hit the three-digit Swiss

code for emergencies. He saw no bars of cellular signal.
Communications were usually good here.
The limo halted meters from the edge of a lake ringed with
snowcapped peaks. Glacier water reflected finger clouds
moving across a pale blue sky, then the driver whipped open
Jurgen’s car door.
“Out,” the driver ordered.
Jurgen held the limo handle. “What is this?”
The woman leveled a handgun at Jurgen’s forehead.
Jurgen jerked his hands high, “Easy!”
Watching the unblinking woman, Jurgen dropped one foot
outside the car, then the other. She had the shoulders of a
competitive swimmer. What looked like a birth mark covered
the left side of her face.
The woman popped open the silver Mercedes trunk with
the car key. Jurgen dropped his gaze to a coil of fishing line
and a twenty-pound gym weight.
“Remove the line,” the woman ordered. “The weight, too.”
As Jurgen picked them up, he heard a buzz from
overhead. A twin-engine plane—a businessman on holiday,
perhaps. If only that plane could be Jurgen’s charter. But even
if he contacted help now, it would come too late. He swept a
gaze over the wooded lake, grasping at a way out. There were
no houses within sight, no vehicles. No help.
So much for being in the land of neutrality.
The plane noise quieted. The clearing had the stillness of a
cemetery. A breeze rustled dry leaves past his feet. The
woman said, “Tie that weight to your leg and knot it tight!”
Cradling the weights against his chest, Jurgen begged, “Do
you want money? Take my wallet, my watch.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Who do you work for?”
“Those who protect us all.” She had the gun trained on

Jurgen’s head.
“What about my protection?”
“Save your breath!”
Jurgen bent and tied, imagining the worst. It was time to
act. “Is this about the Grid?”
Jurgen jerked into a standing position, carrying the weight.
“Hey!” The woman shouted.
In a gliding motion, Jurgen lunged and hurled the weight
at the woman’s moving head. The weight struck her shoulder,
knocking her down. She dropped the gun and fell beside the
weight.
Jurgen leapt for the gun. With a crawl and grunt, the
woman beat him to it. On the ground, she pointed the gun
and fired.
Jurgen touched the red between his fingers.
Huffing, the woman awkwardly returned to her feet.
“What do you want?” Jurgen’s voice broke.
She lowered the gun. “Get that weight before you die right
here.”
Blood snaked down Jurgen’s arm. He shimmied to the
gym weight, pulled it and the fishing line toward him with
one hand. Aching, he bound it around his ankle.
The woman brushed dirt from her hat, glowering. “Get
up!”
Jurgen lumbered to his feet, checking his shoulder. “Does
this involve Jude Wagner? Killing me doesn’t end the medical
revolution.”
“Shut up.”
“It doesn’t change the FDA decision.”
The FDA had recently approved genomic drug trials for
diabetes patients.
The woman’s face hardened. She motioned with the gun
barrel tip for Jurgen to step into the lake. He hesitated then
moved into the water. Waist deep, he glanced at his college

ring, then stepped out of his loafers and dove under the
algae-covered surface. Underwater, he struggled to lose the
weight that was tied to his leg. The October sun had failed to
warm the icy lake. His legs were turning numb and his frozen
fingers fumbled with the fishing line. His head surfaced.
Shards of driftwood floated by as he tried to breathe.
Gasping, he heard a blast. In the first nanosecond he felt a
sharp tap. In shock, he felt no pain. But he could no longer fill
his lungs with air.
Another shot slammed into his forehead.
Ripples spread noiselessly, expanding in symmetry above
his sinking head.
two
Friday, October 28
San Francisco, CA
Aiming his car key button at his Mazda, Jude locked the MX6
on steep Hyde Street. He had found a spot without circling on
crammed Russian Hill. Just what he needed after bourbon
rounds.
He drifted by a family of five parading from an ice cream
parlor. The store manager followed them out, flipping a
closed sign on the glass door. Their trip for dessert looked like
a nine o’clock ritual. The kids goofed on their father when his
scoop landed on the pavement.
Jude’s footsteps slowed when a hazy childhood memory
circled from years back. Jude’s mother used to carpool him
and his friends from Little League baseball games to the
Baskin Robbins Ice Cream after the ninth inning. She would
buy a hot-fudge sundae for any batter who got on base. She
would’ve been proud of how Jude was working to improve
medicine at Stanford. It was his way of rewriting his
childhood history. He shook off the memories. Such brooding
snuck up on him while he lived alone.
Coming to his rented ground-floor flat, he picked up the
New York Times electric blue plastic bag. He carried it
through the front gate to the Mediterranean-styled three-story

house. Ruby bougainvillea covered the stucco exterior. Under
a trellis of hibiscus, he strode brick steps to his door.
He tumbled the key inside the lock; it cranked too easily.
No resistance. The Baldwin bolt had already been turned.
That had a sobering effect. The idea of calling the cops
crossed his mind, but he didn’t feel like waiting. He moved
inside his narrow, railroad-configured place. The ceiling
spotlights in the hallway had been switched on.
He remembered turning them off when he’d left that
morning. Crossing the living room, he made a fist. The
bookcase had been emptied. Mystery paperbacks, San
Francisco history books and rock concert ticket stubs
decorated the floor. Papers that had been stacked on the rice
chest-turned-coffee table were now strewn on the oriental
rug.
Maybe the intruder hadn’t left. He listened for creaks in
the floor.
Except for wind lashing at the windows, there was
nothing. Not even a fog horn.
Lightly, he stepped to the kitchen. Open cupboard drawers
showed rearranged boxes of pasta noodles and chips. In the
bedroom, his Chinese dresser doors were ajar. Shirts, suits
and a high school wrestling trophy had tumbled out on the
floor. He went to the mini-study to check on his desktop
computer. The drive bay was hollow and dark; the hard drive
— missing.
Cursing to himself, he heard a scuffling sound of hard-
soled shoes from the front hallway. Around the corner, he
glimpsed a man in a suit who kicked open the closet door,
then raced outside the flat.
Into draughty air howling off the Bay, Jude barreled down
the dizzying grade of Filbert Street. Across the gulch, Coit
Tower glowed, a beacon in the night.
The thick-bodied man bobbed in his flapping suit jacket.

Practiced at navigating the decline, Jude had an edge. He
tapped down the steps. As the street leveled, Jude locked on
his subject, advancing on his strides. Years of Grid
information was stored on that hard drive. While Jude
usually backed up everything daily, he had failed to do that
for a breakthrough he had made earlier today. He regretted
not grabbing his service weapon from under his bed on the
way out—a new agent blunder.
They plowed into North Beach. Jude clipped by
Washington Square Park and caught a faint roasted bean
aroma that emanated from a closed coffee store. Only ten feet
behind the man, Jude lunged and brought him to the
pavement before a pizzeria. While on the ground, the man
held the hard drive tight. With one knee on him, Jude pulled
the man’s arms behind him.
“Call the cops,” some voice from the restaurant shouted.
“I’m a Federal agent,” Jude said.
The man turned over, breaking free. A Range Rover
skidded to a stop. A spry woman in a brown jumpsuit
hopped out like a hockey player hitting ice. Next, her boot
pressed into the back of Jude’s neck, forcing him to asphalt.
With her mitt of a hand, she snatched the hard drive and
papers.
Jude snagged her leg, sending her to the sidewalk for a
time out. The hard drive dropped to the ground. Jude
intercepted it before he was slugged in the abdomen.
Elbows tucked, he held the hard drive close and fended off
one assailant while the other scrambled for his denim
pockets. But they were out of reach with Jude thrashing, so
they rammed him in the knees. He went palms and face down
onto pavement.
three
Friday, October 28
Meyrin, Switzerland
From the observation deck, Hideo looked down at the bottom

of a cavernous, two-story room, staring glassy-eyed at the
most expensive scientific experiment in history. Alone, three
hundred feet underground, in the all-white chamber, Hideo
could almost see his breath and hear his heart beat. He
nervously tapped his shoe. The whiteness and the
uninterrupted stillness of this laboratory conspired to attack
Hideo’s composure. His stomach gurgled. Family turmoil and
the immense significance of the imminent presentation had
set off his ulcer. He had arranged to fly to his estranged wife
as soon as this was over, but he could not worry about that
now.
The time had come for Hideo to illustrate the scientific
breakthrough; a product of decades of effort by hundreds of
the world’s most distinguished scientists.
Above him were enormous girders and struts supporting a
high-ceilinged space. Below, a sort of subway platform served
as a maintenance station to the monorail that traveled along a
twenty-seven-kilometer circumference. Here, beneath the
Franco-Swiss border, in this subterranean complex, is where
the famous collider experiments happened.
Hideo’s attendees gradually arrived, two dozen board

members and financial officers from the world’s largest
hospitals and universities had jetted from around the world
to this vast lab in secluded Meyrin. They looked about, stone-
faced, at the elaborate consoles that were connected by
colored wires that lined the walls.
Hideo knew that the history of science had been strewn
with discoveries of immense importance that were first met
with cold indifference before acceptance.
The world couldn’t afford that mistake to be made today.
Delay of action on this Stanford genome project could cost
tens of thousands of lives.
Jurgen, CERN’s Life Science Director, should be here
already. These were his contacts. Jurgen said he’d handle the
walking-tour part of the presentation. Hideo’s stomach
churned again.
He was going to have to fill in for Jurgen. But Hideo
represented Stanford. His area of molecular biology involved
computer science, artificial intelligence and biochemistry—
not physics. Hideo felt like an out-of-town lawyer who stood
alone before a restless jury. It was the trial of his life, but he
was minus the expert witness. These strangers would render
a pass-fail verdict on work that had consumed him for years.
This presentation for funding could draw vital donations.
Hideo flushed with embarrassment when the consortium
—huddled together as a mini United Nations—looked at him.
He could almost hear their thoughts. They wanted some
scholarly revelation about how this would save lives. That
would come. First, they had to see what CERN’s Grid
computer did. To kill a few minutes, he flipped through 3x5
note cards, reviewing his talking points.
Returning the cards to his pocket, he felt something else
there and took it out a photo of his daughter, Yomiko—age
nine and the joy of his life. He gazed at it briefly, then pushed
it to the bottom of his pocket. He gestured toward the huge

bright blue metal pipe overhead.
After introducing himself, Hideo said “this pipe runs
through a cement-lined tunnel that extends in a seventeen-
mile subterranean circle. The metal used here could build
another Eiffel Tower.” On the wall beneath the pipe, exotic
instruments flashed.
The audience started to chatter.
“As you may know, the Large Hadron Collider is the most
powerful accelerator in the world, operating at minus two
hundred and seventy-one Centigrade or minus four hundred
and fifty-six degrees Fahrenheit—colder than deep space.”
Hideo thought to himself then said. “This nine-billion-dollar
underground linear accelerator was designed to smash
protons to analyze the big questions of physics, cosmology,
the big bang—oh—and unified theory. Superconducting
magnets are used to guide protons into a massive collision for
observation.”
A fat man interrupted, looking at the tube above, “Okay,
but how does that relate—”
“Please bear with me—scientists wouldn’t have gotten
anywhere without a big enough computer to analyze all of
the data. CERN employed a computer system called a grid to
study results.”
Attendees murmured, rubbing their arms. He was losing
them.
Fat man said, “Like an electrical power grid?”
“Not exactly. Computer grids link thousands of computers
to work as a single virtual machine. This Grid analyzes the
equivalent of thirteen million DVDs worth of information that
the particle collision produces.”
A hawk-faced lady dressed in black: “What does this do
for healthcare?”
Hideo spoke rapidly. “We’re repurposing this world

computer to analyze the human genome—the total hereditary
content of an individual. It holds four billion years of
information on humanity, the ultimate human recipe book.
That’s why you’re here, to see how your dollars can make
practical use of the genome, the greatest discovery in
scientific history. Interpreting the genome enables us to
diagnose every disease. You see, the Grid will change society
as the Internet did; it will not only crunch diagnoses, but will
answer anything that can be calculated.”
He paused to let the message sink in and was gratified to
see he had eye contact.
The hawk lady pointed skeptically at the flashing
instruments. “This is how you’ll change medicine?”
“Let me explain. CERN’s physicists built the Grid to
handle questions that are exponentially more complex than
any computer systems could handle before. Conveniently, the
Grid runs over the World Wide Web—which CERN also
invented to analyze atom-smashing results.”
A technician entered the room below and started electrical
equipment.
Hideo raised his voice to speak over the burring noise,
“The Grid also powers Stanford University’s research. It’s all
about distributed processing power, connecting computers
everywhere to work as one.”
A Persian man in a finely-tailored, double-breasted suit
said, “How will this help the general public?”
“I’m getting to that.”
The hawk-faced lady said, “So Jude Wagner isn’t speaking
today?”
“He’s not.” Hideo wrung his hands. He and Jurgen had
invited Jude to be present for this important meeting, but
these days, Jude was overbooked. He now worked for the
FBI. The bureau desperately needed computer experts of

Jude’s caliber to improve their electronic surveillance unit.
The public recognized Jude for his computer discovery.
And to international acclaim, he would soon receive the
Touring Award from Intel Corporation.
Hideo was sorry that he’d miss the award ceremony, but
right now his trip to Tokyo took priority.
“Let’s go to Building Six,” Hideo said, “I’ll explain as we
have refreshments.”
Mercifully, Hideo sensed his audience lightening up. With
a flick of a CERN tour guide flag, he directed them.
He stole a look at his watch. Jurgen was over an hour late.
Good god. Could he be hung over sick from a night of
carousing and forgotten about this presentation?
After an elevator ride to the ground level, they filed to
Building Six. While the group exchanged hotel stories and
restaurant recommendations, Hideo used his phone to fire off
a text message to Jurgen.
WHERE ARE YOU?
Hideo led the way to a conference room. Trays of salmon,
mini-bagels with cream cheese, capers, pears, grapes, quiche
squares, tarts waited on the side cabinet.
“I’m afraid we’re running late. Please kindly bring a plate
to the conference table after you’ve served yourself.”
The audience members crowded over to the hors
d'oeuvres. Hideo motioned for guests to get comfortable at
the rosewood table. The servers entered and disappeared
with empty platters. Bottles of Evian water and folders were
set on the table at precise intervals for each person.
The orderly area reminded Hideo of his fastidious wife
and their soul-searing divorce. His daughter’s face flashed
before him. He moved across the conference room to get back
to his performance. Jurgen’s absence had thrown him off.
“Okay. The question from earlier was how this Grid

partnership with Stanford was going to help the public.”
“Yes,” came from the Persian man, sipping Evian.
“The goal is to improve everyday medicine using our
genomes. The genome is our roadmap to understanding
disease. All disease has a hereditary basis. We’re tapping into
that with huge processing power. The U.S. government got us
part of the way there by sequencing the human genome in
2003, but that was just a start and that took 13 years and two-
point-seven billion dollars.”
Perspiration soaked his shirt. Hideo fiddled with his
wedding ring, distracted by thoughts of his wife and
daughter. He wondered if his Yomiko missed him.
“What does genomic medicine do that traditional medicine
can’t?” The fat man asked.
“Traditional medicine is failing. It treats everyone who has
cancer with a short list of drugs like we’re all the same. But in
reality, cancer is as individual as a fingerprint. We’re talking
about one-point-four million people being diagnosed with
cancer annually in the U.S. alone who are being lumped
together with treatment that ignores their DNA. It’s time we
match individual treatment to individuals. Side effects from
mis-prescription kills over 100,000 Americans a year.” he said.
“Genomic medicine will change this.”
“How?” Hawk Lady asked.
“Once we identify an individual’s genome, a world of
information becomes available to us: a person’s body
chemistry, his predispositions, his susceptibilities, his
strengths and weaknesses on a molecular level.”
Hideo took a deep breath.
“By the way, feel free to turn to your brochures. The
Stanford Project works like this: a patient has his genome
sequenced by a company like 23andMe based in the San
Francisco Bay Area—this costs around one thousand dollars.
The results would come back on two DVDs to the patient and
his doctor. That doctor could then log onto Stanford’s secured
website to access the Grid. The Grid would compare the
genomic data from those DVDs against millions of other
online medical records, isolating tissue samples from patients
with similar symptoms or disease. The result: a customized
treatment for your individual illness.
When you combine the Grid that crunches massive
amounts of data with the U.S. Government’s National Cancer
Institute grid which is called caBIG—the cancer Biomedical
Informatics Grid, well, you end up with a very powerful
thing.”
The audience had gone dead silent.
“Can you back up? Where do those patient records come
from?” asked a man with a Scottish accent.
“Good question. For years, medical researchers struggled
with doing statistical analysis. Hospitals, doctor’s offices and
pharmacies used disparate computer systems. Thus,
networks couldn’t communicate, making medical records
inaccessible. Vital information that could save lives was
wasted.
Finally, research hospitals teamed up with everyone
possible to get the data online. The solution started with
creating systems of security that topped that of the ATM
business. Of course, even putting anonymous medical
information online was controversial. Everyone feared the
upshot of a privacy breach. But the need to save lives won the
war over privacy fears. Computer standards were created and
information pooled. Mind you, all names, social security
numbers and hospital account numbers remained
anonymous. While this was happening, the search engines of
the world connected that pooled information to create an
even larger dataset.”
“So, what’s next?” The question came from a man seated at

the far end of the table.
“Well, already at Stanford, we’re diagnosing volunteers’
illnesses through a system of comparison, using their DNA.
The Grid matches bits of molecular information from tumors
with exactly the right drug to suppress that tumor. To treat
each cancer patient individually means a boat load of
analysis. The computer power of the Grid makes it possible.
In the case of cancer, we fight mutations with custom-made
proteins that conform to that person’s body chemistry.”
Some heads nodded subtly.
A Persian man asked, “Is there someone from CERN who
is assigned to this Stanford Project?”
“I should’ve mentioned, Jurgen Hansen, CERN’s Director
of Life Sciences, is the liaison between this lab and Stanford’s.
He’s setting up the physical Internet connection to link the
grids.”
The Scottish man said, “Personalized medicine is a
pipedream until we make it affordable.”
Hideo stood tall to elongate his short stature. “Exactly.
That’s the point here. We’re also in the business of
democratizing medicine; making the costly part—research
and diagnosis—free.”
“How?” the same man interrupted.
“We’re leveraging shared computer resources here. Not
only does the Grid run over the Internet, which is free, but it
gets power from volunteers’ idle computers. In the packet
you’ll see how the Grid here at CERN relies on distributed
processing power from volunteers.
“I can see doubt out there. Believe me, all we need are the
resources. Isn’t fighting cancer as worthy a mission as landing
spacecraft on Mars? If we don’t push medicine forward 1500
Americans will go on dying from cancer every day. And
thirty-nine million people will still have AIDS in Africa

because old expensive drugs are failing.
“Why not invest the smallest fraction of that and get a leg
up on the fight against diseases like cancer? You can see what
a marvel CERN’s Grid is if we’re already using it to make
sense of the Big Bang. “
Audience members turned to one another. Hideo had
scored a point.
Looking at his watch, he checked on the time leading to his
departing flight.
“I know this is a lot to swallow, but we can all agree that
healthcare in the West is disappointing. The Stanford/CERN
partnership is testing a non-profit alternative to our existing
universal healthcare, and we need your support.”
The place was silent until a man entered the room.
“Excuse me for being late.” He said.
While the room was silent the new man took the
opportunity to speak. “I apologize if you’ve already covered
this, but what exactly would our endowment money
accomplish?”
To Hideo’s relief, eyes tracked him as he circled the table.
The late arrival found a seat.
“Your investment will pay employee salaries to build
Stanford’s online service. Your dollars guarantee we have
processing power from places like CERN. It also extends our
Grid to every home PC—running like a worldwide database
—bringing supercomputing power to desktops, virtually.
We’ll have one enormous “virtual” super computer—the
same way researchers from 25 countries analyzed the
collision of particles here through a Grid of institutions and
universities around the world. And yes, we’ll need trained
physicians to mix the customized drugs.”
The room went quiet. Hideo’s mind strayed to his
daughter; he winced with stomach pain.
He ended with an impassioned plea for investment,

answered twenty minutes of questions, then checked text
messages again. Nothing from Jurgen! Something had to be
wrong.
Still, his absence hadn’t been as detrimental as Hideo had
thought. His pitch seemed to have done the trick.
His plane was leaving in an hour. Barely enough time to
get to the airport. “Excuse me, everyone,” Hideo announced.
“I have a flight to catch.”
four
Friday, October 28
San Francisco, CA
A patrol car’s P.A. chirp signaled cars to move out of the way.
The attackers let go of Jude as the black-and-white whipped
around the corner and stopped. In seconds, the man and
woman ran to the Rover and screeched away.
“On your feet,” came from a voice above.
Flat on his back, Jude thought he was on an operating
table. That vision changed when his eyes rolled open to a
bystander and two cops. Three heads silhouetted against the
night sky. One cop gave a repulsed expression at Jude’s
alcohol breath. One strike against him.
“I’m with the FBI,” Jude choked to the mustached officer.
No response. Two cardboard cutouts of men would’ve
been more animated. After Jude got on his feet, he showed
the officer his wallet and badge. The bystander vanished into
the dark.
“Stand back,” the officer said. Jude understood that many
cops had been treated dismissively by a feeb at some point on
duty. That could’ve been the case here. Also, feds were
famous for padding their arrest reports with busts made by
beat officers. It didn’t help matters. They collaborated like
political rivals.
“What happened here?” The younger cop with the flat

nose hooked a thumb on his belt. Headlights from passing
cars reflected in his brass name badge.
“Did you see them?” Jude asked, flicking sidewalk dirt
from the hard drive; he touched a blood droplet that rolled
down his cheek.
“No. What’s your story?” The older officer with the bushy
mustache picked his teeth while he spoke.
“They broke into my place.”
“And they were after that . . . computer part?” The cop
pointed at the hard drive that Jude held in his hands.
The other cop muttered, “That’s why you’re playing tackle
here on Columbus?”
Jude filled them in on the break-in at his apartment and
the subsequent chase. The uniforms looked to be weighing his
tale as one version of the story. The younger cop flipped open
a leather-bound notepad and scratched down notes. While
the officer wrote, Jude removed his cell phone and speed-
dialed his friend and colleague, Niles Tully.
The older officer turned to Jude, “And that’s your
profession . . . information technology at the bureau?”
Jude nodded. He watched the cop holding his wallet check
his Stanford magnetic clearance card.
“Why do you carry a Stanford access card?” the cop asked,
stroking his mustache.
“I consult for them.”
“And you work at the FBI?”
“I’m on call at Stanford—a few hours a week—for a special
project.”
The two cops exchanged glances. “Doing?”
“Grid computing.” Jude avoided elaborating on his role in
the genomics initiative.
Looking distracted, the officers held up the questioning.
“What?” Jude asked. “Don’t I look like a workaholic?”

Jude tapped the hard drive.
“You want a description of the thief, right?”
The cop with the pad jotted away.
After a quick ride up the hill in the cruiser, the three of

them trod through Jude’s hallway. The mustached cop
gathered loose paper from the floor, leafed through them.
“Aren’t you going to have a team dust for latents?” Jude
asked.
“You’ve got your computer equipment now, right. Can
you prove they got anything else?” He punched the word
prove.
Jude’s folded arms dropped to his sides.
“Then it’s only breaking and entering isn’t it?”
Not seeing anything else missing and holding the
recovered hard drive in his hot hands, Jude knew he’d have
to check prints for himself. When one said to the other, time
for a code seven Jude got that they were signaling to eat and
their short-lived inspection was done. Fearing a lecture on the
risks of vigilantism in North Beach, Jude led the officers to the
door.
After locking the door behind the cops, Jude blew debris
from the hard drive with a can of compressed air and slid it
into the drive bay. Then he navigated to drive F to check for
damage. With relief, he saw the files. The pounding in his
chest slowed, but he couldn’t forget that whoever instigated
this had dangerous ideas and an elaborate plan of operation.
He went to the kitchen, pulled a bag out of the freezer and
rubbed Birds Eye frozen corn on his still raw, throbbing
cheek. Moving to the bathroom mirror, he stared at scrapes
from road burn that textured one side of his face.
Jude straightened things to calm down. While collecting

his concert tickets, Wired magazines, auto insurance papers
and bank statements off his living room floor, he realized
something: a folder of business documents that had been
resting on his desk were gone—the documents that pertained
to the Google deal. His nerves shot up again. It took months
of negotiations to strike the Google deal. He considered
calling in a stolen property claim. But the Stanford team had
taken an oath of secrecy about the Google deal, so he didn’t.
Jude’s team was proving they could genetically diagnose
disease over the Internet, using the Grid. If successful, they
would forever change drug treatment; the public knew this.
What Stanford hadn’t made public was how their
impending deal with Google would connect the Grid to
Google’s world databases. This would extend Stanford’s
reach to millions of new electronic patient records for free in
exchange for online advertising.
This was big news. It meant that patients could realize
precision diagnosis over the Internet for pennies. With
research being the most costly part of making drugs, soon the
Grid could be used to find custom-tailored drugs, using a
patient’s genome.
The Google deal had been shrouded in secrecy since the
initial negotiations because it threatened conventional
medicine, the biggest industry in the world. Such medicine
relied on blockbuster drugs—one-size-fits all treatments.
Blockbusters earned the pharmaceutical industry $234 billion
annually. This new partnership would change the
pharmaceutical landscape overnight—custom-tailored drugs
could now be made very cheaply. Well aware that this
relationship would cause a ripple effect across industries, the
P.R. teams at Google and Stanford had recommended a big
bang announcement that depended on no leaks that give
lobbyists forewarning.
The Stanford team wanted to be tactful about how they

announce that custom-tailored drugs could be made very
cheaply. The plan was for Jude to delicately break the news at
his award ceremony without mentioning Google.
The days where corporations had total control over
healthcare could be coming to an end. The Grid even created
hope to curing cancer, but the work was still vulnerable.
The company heads of Googleplex were ready. Not only
had they organized the world’s printed information, but they
could query medical records on the fly; and not just view-
only records but live data.
Jude got off a quick text message to his twin sister, Kate, in
Kentucky telling her what had happened. Setting down his
phone, he opened the fridge door and transferred chicken
leftovers onto a stoneware plate.
With a chicken leg in hand, Jude heard a knock. After
peering through the peep hole in the door, he unlocked it.
Niles charged in, smelling of cigarette smoke. In a navy pea
coat, dress white pants and white bucks, he looked as if the
British Navy had left port without him.
“What’s up?” Niles slammed the door. Jude locked it
behind him.
“Your face doesn’t look too good.”
Niles moved into the living room and saw the papers
strewn.
“You’re more scattered than a Jackson Pollack painting.”
Niles said with his Oxford English accent, snatching paper
from the floor. “What happened?” Niles took the corner club
chair, removed a mint in foil from his pea-coat pocket,
unwrapped it and popped it in his mouth.
Jude moved to the leather sofa. “They were after my hard
drive.”
“Blimey.” Niles looked around again. “Did you see the
tosser?”
“I saw them all right, but not clearly.”

“So, there was more than one. Don’t tell me they got
away.”
“There was only one person in my apartment, and
someone came along later who helped the thief get away. But
they didn’t get my drive.” Jude touched his temple. “What
they did get was the Google papers.”
“What?”
“I suppose they went for whatever they could get.”
Niles got up and walked slowly around the place, staring
at the floor.
“Damn it! So, now what? You’ll get your bureau on this,
right? Ply that job of yours.” Niles said.
Jude looked at his Grid partner.
He knew that Niles resented Jude’s leaving Stanford for
the FBI. Niles felt that he had abandoned the project. It looked
that way, but Niles should’ve known better. No one was more
indispensible to Stanford’s genomic project than Jude.
Officially Jude had changed jobs, yes. But Stanford held onto
him as their go-to man for algorithm fixes. They had no
choice. Jude’s code was embedded in the Grid.
Niles refused to accept that Jude’s bureau job benefitted
their old team at Stanford. But it did. Working at the bureau
let Jude study electronic surveillance so he could safeguard
the Grid against hackers.
Losing data about patients would destroy public trust—
torpedoing the entire medical effort. Jude had become a
white-hat hack—a hired coder who stopped black-hat attacks.
He recalled how the term hacker originated in the 1950s
when a boy called Joe Engressia, who was born blind,
developed perfect pitch as a result. Being able to precisely
match a tone of any frequency through singing or whistling,
he discovered at eight years of age that the U.S. long-distance
telephone exchanges responded to special frequency tones.
He quickly learned that the 2600Hz idle tone signaled a toll

free call. He mimicked that frequency by whistling which
connected his long-distance call at no charge.
Intruders could have wanted Jude’s hard drive to obtain
access to the Grid. But that wouldn’t have helped. Jude
carried his key fob in his right front pocket. It held the Grid
access key. The key displayed a number that changed every
thirty seconds—in sync with the Grid server—enabling Grid
access. He may have been cavalier about his clothes and car,
but not about cryptographic procedure.
“Maybe your secret agent business won’t be a waste, after
all,” Niles quipped.
“You could show some gratitude.”
“We’ll call Hideo in the morning. Tell him about the leak.
See what he can do to protect the Google deal.” Niles said.
“I doubt we’ll reach him. After Switzerland, he was flying
to Japan.”
“Right. Today he gave that funding speech at CERN with
Jurgen. Wonder how much money they raised? Regardless,
we’re going to find who nicked these papers.”
“I’m glad you’re confident,” Jude said.
“Listen, I’m knackered.”
“You’re calling it a night?”
“We’re not going to run through every angle on this thing
at a bar. Not at midnight. We go at this tomorrow or on
Monday, all right? After you get started, call me. And keep
that head clear. No bevies. You look like a caged animal.”
“You are giving a homily on abstinence? Where’s my
recorder?”
Jude’s face brightened with an idea. They shut down their
cell phones on Niles’s boat. It was one place free of
distractions. “Wait. You are working on the boat tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll meet you at the marina. We can get a sail in before

Kate arrives.”
Niles buttoned his coat, considering it. “Okay.”
Niles started for the door, and then turned. “Usual time.
And Jude, whoever these low lifes are, they’re not going to
shut us down.”
“Not over my dead body.”
“Like you say, lives are at stake. Healthcare’s in a
quagmire and we’ve got a duty to see this through. But I
might reconsider that if I don’t get seven hours of sleep.”
Niles closed the door.

Gridlock, A Novel of Suspense

Uploaded by

Document Information

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

Gridlock, A Novel of Suspense

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

GRIDLOCK/Alvin Ziegler 1

“The Grid is expected to be the next World Wide Web.”

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

Wherever we go, we carry four billion years of information

This book was inspired by actual organizations, technologies,

Actual Timeline of the Genome

1850’s Gregor Mendel, “The father of modern genetics”

1900 Thomas Hunt Morgan, American Geneticist who

1950 Barbara McClintock, the world’s most

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

December 2005 The Cancer Genome Atlas—a three-year, $100

Mid-2006 The falling price of genotyping (being able to

May 2007 James Watson's whole genome is sequenced at a

September 2007 Craig Venter publishes the results of his own

November 2007 23andMe opens for business offering retail

Jurgen rushed from his apartment into mountain air at 9:45

Jurgen was pleasantly surprised to see that his driver was

Shrouded by tinted glass, he reclined against the headrest.

Holding his Blackberry, Jurgen hit the three-digit Swiss

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

moved into the water. Waist deep, he glanced at his college

through the front gate to the Mediterranean-styled three-story

The thick-bodied man bobbed in his flapping suit jacket.

From the observation deck, Hideo looked down at the bottom

Hideo’s attendees gradually arrived, two dozen board

it to the bottom of his pocket. He gestured toward the huge

Hideo spoke rapidly. “We’re repurposing this world

FBI. The bureau desperately needed computer experts of

“Okay. The question from earlier was how this Grid

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

thirty-nine million people will still have AIDS in Africa

He ended with an impassioned plea for investment,

“What happened here?” The younger cop with the flat

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

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

Jude straightened things to calm down. While collecting

The Stanford team wanted to be tactful about how they

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

He quickly learned that the 2600Hz idle tone signaled a toll

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

You might also like