NanoStrike

  “Terrific turnout, boss.” Nazar shook hands with his marketing VP. He was a handsome man: coiffed blond hair that didn’t move, even under the downdraft of the helicopter, clear blue eyes, and a baby-faced complexion. Projecting a look of casual confidence in neatly pressed slacks and an open-necked shirt, Martin was the same height as his boss—one of Nazar’s hiring criteria for any employee likely to stand close during photo opportunities. He handed Nazar an agenda.

  “Anything changed?” Nazar asked.

  “No, just as we agreed.”

  Nazar slipped the paper into his inside pocket. He had been anticipating this day for more than two years. He had burned cash until there was hardly any left. Now he would savor one of those special moments of triumph that only come to those who take enormous risk.

  Martin ran through the plan as he drove the cart. “We’re set up in the marquee. You’ll give the welcome. Then I’ll give a ten-minute technology overview.”

  “Not the professor?” Nazar asked.

  “I took him through it three times yesterday. He stutters. He flubs his lines. And he gets hung up in the details. I’ll make him available for questions, but it’s better if I do the pitch. I need it high-level. Most of the journalists are generalists, even the ones who think they aren’t.”

  In the marquee, two hundred guests were seated, theater-style. Nazar took his place in the front row next to the senator from Ohio who had been so helpful in the past; making him today’s VIP was something of a payback.

  Martin called them to order and introduced Nazar, who received a polite sprinkling of applause from staff and from local politicians who had enjoyed a significant boost to their tax base during the plant’s construction. As he scanned the press corps, Nazar thought of Abdul. He had been invited, but that was before the boy had disappeared.

  Nazar welcomed everyone before handing off to Martin. His VP gave a slick summary of the technology and fielded a few questions.

  Nazar tingled inside, remembering the first time he observed nanobots eating pizza boxes and car tires. These people were going to be blown away.

  The guests filed across a dusty strip of concrete into the prototype building. For two years, this building had headquartered the scientists and engineers who had perfected the nanobot technology. Nazar had always intended the building to double as a demonstration facility where he’d host car companies, electric utilities, garbage suppliers, government officials, and, most importantly, the Wall Street investment houses responsible for the Initial Public Offering that would rocket him to his rightful place at the top of the Forbes World’s Billionaires list.

  At the center of the building, a fifty-foot diameter circular conversion chamber was sunk thirty feet into the ground. The spectators shuffled into a viewing gallery separated from the chamber by ten-foot-high windows, cambered in, so the onlookers could stand on the other side of the glass in a comfortable air-conditioned environment and look down on twelve dump-truck loads of rotting garbage. Martin picked up the microphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, you could be excused for wondering why we’ve asked you here to stare at a pile of trash.” A murmur of chuckles and snide comments rippled around the viewing gallery. “Trust me, if we didn’t care about you, we wouldn’t have sealed you off from the smell.” This raised a laugh.

  At Martin’s nodded signal, additional trash tumbled from the loading bay above, past the viewing-windows, into the pit below. A few spectators jumped back in surprise.

  “You are looking at seventy tons of household waste, generously donated by the people of Dewsbury, our nearest town. Thank you, Mr. Mayor.”

  A gray-haired man in a blue suit waved, enjoying his moment in the limelight.

  Martin continued, “Most of this trash was created by energy from the sun. To illustrate, let me tell you the possible story of that plastic milk carton lying near the top of the pile.” All eyes focused on the familiar, yellow container.

  “Millions of years ago, a seed fell from a plant onto fertile ground. Watered by rain, the seed germinated, pushed its first leaves through the earth, and photosynthesized the sun’s energy to manufacture cellulosic material. The plant grew tall, flowered, made its own seeds, and then died. Along with billions of similar plants and the insects that fed on them, our plant decomposed. Over millions of years, the organic matter became buried deep below the surface of the Earth. Massive pressures transformed the rotted plants into sticky, black oil.

  “Humans drilled through the earth’s crust, tapped the oil, and brought it to the surface. Chemically modified and molded by a plastics manufacturer, it became the yellow milk container below you. Most of what’s in this conversion chamber was created using the sun’s energy, and that energy is still trapped inside.” Martin paused for a few beats to let the concept sink in.

  “But trash can’t fill a gas tank. We need the energy in a more convenient form. Technology developed by Eudon Alternative Energy will take this pile of garbage and transform it into ethanol, ready for use in vehicles and power stations. Today you will witness that transformation. Ladies and gentlemen, the demonstration takes twenty minutes. Please hold your questions until the end. Thank you.” Martin gave another signal.

  A metal cherry picker pivoted from the wall and dropped a white canister the size of an oil drum into the center of the tank. On landing, the canister split apart and spilled white powder onto the top of the trash.

  The spectators’ focus was drawn upward as screens rolled back and uncovered the building’s dome, focusing a shaft of sunlight on the trash below.

  By the time the guests looked down again, the white canister had melted and sunk into the pile. Vibrations were felt underfoot as the garbage shifted and bumped. The gallery of watchers was strangely silent, captivated by the sight of seventy tons of garbage moving and settling in a huge cauldron. People pointed out specific pieces of debris, following a tire or a sofa as they were consumed. Orange liquid seeped into spaces in the lowering pile. After fifteen minutes, except for a few floating Styrofoam boxes, most solids had disappeared. Finally, even the white foam melted.

  As the activity subsided and the liquid cleared, Martin spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen, before today, fewer than two hundred people had seen what you just witnessed. The liquid in the tank below you is a thirty-percent solution of ethanol, ready to be fed into a fractionating vessel and distilled into fuel suitable for use in automobiles, or power plants: a clean-burning alternative to oil.”

  Martin fed them the tag line, the sound bite for the news agencies as they led with the story of the miracle in the desert. “We’re making gas from garbage, ladies and gentlemen, gas from garbage.”

  Martin stopped the questions after twenty minutes. He didn’t give a damn whether they understood the process as long as they understood the importance of what they had seen. Over lunch, the crowd was animated. Journalists crammed food into their mouths while working their smart phones. Martin had recorded the demonstration and packaged it on DVDs to slip into the care package each guest would take home.

  After lunch, four sleek buses pulled up outside the building. Nazar and the guests piled in. They drove down a dirt road to the Interstate, turned east, and in two miles took the turnoff to the main facility. Martin wanted them to grasp the scale of what Nazar had created. The first step came on the newly-built highway.

  Martin’s audio broadcasted to all four buses. “We anticipate two thousand truck trips each day on this road once the plant is fully operational.” He paused to let the number sink in.

  “The garbage trucks ahead are loaded with the detritus of home and industry: rotting food, animal waste, plastic and paper. All built with energy from the sun.” He tapped his driver on the shoulder and made a slowdown signal with his hand. They reduced speed to twenty miles an hour. When they had passed thirty of the idling trucks, Martin spoke again.

  “The trucks in this line constitute less than one full payload of feedstock for just one of the industrial-scale c
onversion chambers. Three chambers are complete and ready to begin ethanol production today. Construction will continue for another twelve months. Once finished, there will be six conversion chambers, capable of producing sixty-thousand barrels of ethanol every day. Gas from garbage, ladies and gentlemen. Gas from garbage.”

  The buses pulled into a coned-off area. The luminaries and press corps followed a path painted on the concrete to where a green-and-gold ribbon was strung between two four-foot poles.

  Martin spoke through a bullhorn. “It is deemed unsafe for you to approach the conversion chamber. Beyond the feed station is a two-hundred-foot dead drop to the bottom of the tank. However, the package you will receive before leaving will contain video footage of the interior, identical to the prototype, except one thousand times larger. It is now my pleasure to invite Senator Isley, of Ohio’s second district, to carry out the ribbon cutting.”

  The gray-haired politician wobbled forward. One hundred pounds overweight, even in dry desert heat sweat beaded his brow. Nazar walked alongside, and Martin ushered the press photographers to their places. The senator held the ceremonial ribbon, scissors poised over the tape. Nazar Eudon held the ribbon to the senator’s right.

  The senator said, “I now pronounce Eudon Alternative Energy’s ethanol conversion facility open for business.” The tape parted and fluttered to the ground to a weak ripple of applause. Nazar shook hands with the senator, and both men grinned for the cameras.

  Martin waved a large green-and-gold flag, and, with a roar of engines, eight trucks rolled from the waiting line. Each backed up to a feed station. The rear of the trucks lifted, and garbage slid out. The trucks pulled away, almost in unison, their bodies tilting back to horizontal as they drove off. The next trucks in line took their place.

  After three truckloads, eight huge bulldozers roared into life and used their front blades to push the trash into the feed station, and it crashed into the conversion vessel below. The noise and dust and stench were impressive. The guests were quick to respond when Martin suggested they returned to the air-conditioned buses.

  After their guests had departed, Nazar, Martin and the professor sat drinking cold beer in the marquee. Nazar raised his can. “Well done, Martin. And you, Professor, your nanobots performed splendidly.” A few remaining Eudon staff bustled about, packing equipment. “Professor, I expected to see David. Where is he?”

  “He has t . . . t . . . taken a short break to visit his family. But not to worry, the nanobot technology is fully automated. Now if you’ll excuse me, I am tired and s . . . still have a few things I must attend to.” Without waiting for a reply, the professor left his beer and hurried away. Nazar stared after him. His abrupt departure seemed odd, even for him.

  Martin tipped his drink toward the departing academic. “I swear, he gets more eccentric every time I meet him.”

  Nazar nodded.

  “I’m tired too,” Martin said. “For a people person, you know, sometimes I hate people.” They both laughed. Nazar understood. “The woman from the LA Times,” Martin rolled his eyes. “I still don’t think she gets it.”

  “Do you know anyone else there?” Nazar asked. “It’s a key publication.”

  “Oh, they have good people. She’s just not one of them. Don’t worry, I’ll follow up tomorrow. They’ll be focused on us like a laser beam after tonight’s TV buzz. Get this! Next Sunday, CBS is planning a one-hour Sixty Minutes special entitled Gas from Garbage.”

  “Excellent,” Nazar said. He was exhausted. The senator had been very needy, bitching about the heat at every opportunity. He’d loved the ribbon cutting, though, great ego-salve. “I’m flying back to town, want a lift?”

  “Thanks, but I have to finish with my people here. I’ll talk with you tomorrow. Have a good night. You deserve it.” Martin stood and shook his boss’s hand. “Nazar, I take my hat off to you, sir. You’ve got the biggest cojones in the world to pull this off.”

  Nazar accepted the compliment. He’d gone all in, everyone had called, and he’d shown top hand and taken the pot.

  At the airport, before he climbed from the helicopter, the pilot shook his hand. “Sir, if you don’t mind me talkin’ out of turn, you’ve done wonders for this area. You’ve brought a lot of jobs, and man, we needed them.”

  “Thank you, Sam.” Nazar reveled in the power. Once the conversion chambers started delivering ethanol, he planned to become as influential in America as he was in Jordan.

  Keisha awaited him at the top of the airplane’s steps. “Welcome back, Mr. Eudon. We’re cleared for takeoff whenever you are ready. It’s a six-hour flight to New York.”

  “Thank you, Keisha; let’s get going, shall we? I’ll freshen up once we’re at cruising altitude.”

  “Yes, sir. A cocktail?” Nazar nodded and walked back to his air-conditioned private quarters. Keisha brought his drink. He sipped the martini and stared through the window as the plane rose through clear skies. He was about to become the wealthiest man in history. From rags to riches: the income from the ethanol produced in the three completed conversion tanks would be his first unallocated cash flow for two years.

  But the stock offering was where the real money was. Nazar had self-funded the project. He who took the risk, reaped the rewards.

  As Phoenix dwindled behind him, he finished his drink and moved to the bathroom. He allowed the shower’s water jets to envelop him. With the flat of his hand, he stroked droplets from the head of the tiled snake. He had seen one in the wild once, in Australia—a sea serpent less than two feet long. One drop of its venom was sufficient to kill a thousand people. Certain death in fewer than two minutes, not even time for an antidote. Yet, despite its deadly weapon, the snake rarely used its poison, mostly choosing to hold back the fatal dose. He felt strong affinity with the small reptile and its selective attack regime. The snake could kill at will, but only did so at its whim.

  Keisha’s singsong voice outside the bathroom door interrupted his thoughts.

  “I have laid out some comfortable clothes, Mr. Eudon, perhaps a massage?”

  “That sounds wonderful.”

  He stepped from the shower as she entered, dressed in a colorful kimono. He stood, naked, dripping on the tiled floor, eyes focused over her head, tracing the overlapping scales of the snake mural. After patting his face and neck and toweled his hair, Keisha traversed his shoulders and back, pressing and caressing with the soft towel. He spread his legs, and she patted between his cheeks. Dropping to her knees, she supported him against her shoulder and lifted each foot in turn to dry between his toes. Still kneeling, she turned him and repeated the process in reverse.

  “Dry now,” she said and took his hand as she would a child’s and led him to the bed. He lay face down on the fresh towels she had spread. New Age music played as she kneaded the muscles of his neck and shoulders, drawing out the tension. She tapped his back, and he flipped over, admiring her features as she focused, with Zen-like intensity, on the massage.

  Twenty minutes later, relaxed, Nazar said, “Thank you, Keisha. That was wonderful.”

  She stood, placed her hands together in front of her breasts, and bowed deeply. The neck of her kimono gaped. Her nipples were hard, aroused by the contact. She left him, closing the door with a click.

  He propped a pillow behind his head, picked up the remote, pointed, and gave life to the sixty-inch flat-screen on the wall at the foot of his bed. He scanned the five icons at the top of the display’s desktop: Omar, Marwan, Edward (ah, yes, Edward, the young American boy who had wandered from his parents while on holiday; he smiled an inner smile of remembrance), Lufti, and Lana.

  Of course, he would choose Lana—the latest, the freshest. Even after multiple viewings, the experience held sufficient enchantment for him. Soon, he knew, it would fail to promote the same vigorous arousal and he would need to add another icon.

  But, for now, Lana was perfect.

  The screen flickered to life, and Nazar saw himself, disguised as a doct
or. Let the games begin.

  Chapter 21

  After an hour of watching CNN in his Eilat hotel, the information started looping. Quinn washed up and headed for the hotel’s lounge. Two whiskies in, he felt less stressed. He was the only patron at the bar.

  Quinn interrupted the bartender, polishing glasses at the far end. “You Israelis aren’t much for drinking, are you?”

  “Not like Europeans. Suits me, though.” He waved his hand along the shiny, clean bar.

  Quinn smiled. “What d’you make of this G20 stuff?” Quinn nodded toward the muted TV on the back wall, which showed the same footage he’d seen in his room.

  The bartender glanced at the screen. “Hard to say; Israel isn’t invited to the meeting, so—”

  “Think the Saudis did it?”

  He shrugged. “Who knew they were that smart?”

  Quinn laughed. “I’m Quinn.”

  “Yacob.”

  “Pleasure.” Quinn pushed his glass across the bar. “How about one more for the European?” Yacob poured the Black Label freehand this time, neglecting the metal measure he’d used on the previous two drinks.

  Quinn checked his watch: 7:10 p.m. “Thanks. The hotel’s awfully quiet. Is this normal?”

  “There’s a convention in this week, but they went on the sunset desert tour, won’t be back till late.” Yacob leaned on the bar, no longer feigning work.

  “Desert tour, eh? Worth seeing?” Quinn asked.

  “Beautiful, and at the same time strange, better in winter, though—too hot this time of year, even at night. Last week they found a young girl out there almost dead from the heat.”

  “How’d she get into the desert?”

  “No one knows, but she was fortunate. Never would have lasted until morning. She’d have died of thirst.”

  Quinn made a face. “Who found her?”

  “My friend, Tsvi. He’s a lead driver. The wind had buried most of her under the sand. He thinks that saved her. Strange thing, she had on school clothes. Badly burned, though, so he took her straight to Yoseftal hospital.”