Chapter Five
Washington, D.C.
It was early morning, and a spring breeze blew the scent of cherry blossoms across the Tidal Basin and in through the open French doors of the Oval Office, but President Samuel Adams Castilla was too distracted to notice or care. He stood up behind the heavy pine table he used as a desk and glared at the three people who sat waiting for him to continue. He was just a year into his second term, and the last thing Castilla needed was a military crisis. Now was the time to solidify his accomplishments, get the rest of his programs through a fractious Congress, and build his historical image.
"So this is the situation," he rumbled. "We haven't got enough evidence yet to determine whether a molecular computer actually exists, and if it does, who has it. What we do know is that it's not in our hands, dammit." He was a big man with thick shoulders and a waist that had spread as wide as Albuquerque. Usually genial, he glared through his titanium glasses and worked at controlling his frustration. "The air force and my computer experts tell me they have no other explanation for what happened on Diego Garcia. My science adviser says he's consulted top people in the field, and they claim there could be many reasons for the blip in communications out there, starting with some rare atmospheric anomaly. I hope the science folks are right."
"So do I," Admiral Stevens Brose agreed promptly.
"So do all of us," added National Security Adviser Emily Powell-Hill.
"Amen," said Chief of Staff Charles Ouray from where he leaned against the wall near the fireplace.
Admiral Brose and National Security Adviser Powell-Hill were sitting in leather chairs facing the president's desk, which he had brought with him from Santa Fe. Like all presidents, he had chosen his own decor. The current furnishings reflected his rural Southwestern taste, now modified by five years of the cosmopolitan sophistication he had unexpectedly found he enjoyed in this loftiest seat of federal government, plus all the official trips to capitals, museums, and banquets around the planet. The ranch furniture from the New Mexico governor's residence had been thinned and joined with elegant French side tables and a comfortable British club chair before the fireplace. The red-and-yellow Navajo drapes and the Amerindian vases, baskets, and headdresses now blended with Senegalese masks, Nigerian mud prints, and Zulu shields.
Restless, the president walked around the desk. He leaned back against it, crossed his arms, and continued, "We all know terrorist attacks tend to be by people whose main goal is to get attention for their cause and expose what they consider evil. But this situation has at least two kinks so far: This bomb wasn't against the usual symbolic target an embassy, a government building, a military installation, a famous landmark and it wasn't some lone suicide bomber taking out a crowded bus or busy nightclub. Instead, the target was a research and teaching facility. A place that helps humanity. But specifically, the building where a molecular computer was being built."
Emily Powell-Hill, a former U.S. Army brigadier general, raised her perfect eyebrows. In her fifties, she was slender, long-legged, and highly intelligent. "With all due respect, Mr. President, the information you have about a DNA computer's being completed appears to be largely speculation, projection from insufficient data, and plain old guesswork. It's all based on a rumor about what might easily have been a random bombing with random victims. Is it possible your source's disaster scenario comes from paranoia?" She paused. "In an attempt to put it delicately everyone knows the counterintelligence mentality tends to jump at the smallest shadow. This sounds like one of their knee-jerk ideas."
The president sighed. "I suspect you've got something else you'd like to say on the subject."
"As a matter of fact, Mr. President, I do. My science people assure me DNA computer technology is stuck in the early developmental stages and treading water. A functional unit isn't expected for at least a decade. Maybe two decades. Which is just one more reason to cast a very suspicious eye on what may be an overreaction."
"You could be right," the president said. "But I suspect you'll find your scientists also agree that if anyone could make such a leap, Chambord would be at the top of the list."
Charles Ouray, the president's chief of staff, was frowning. "Can anyone explain in words an old political warhorse like me can understand exactly what makes a DNA machine so special and such a big threat?"
The president nodded at Emily Powell-Hill, and she focused on Ouray. "It's all about switching from silicon, the foundation of computers, to carbon, the foundation of life," she told him. "Machines are slavishly fast and precise, while life's ever-changing and subtle. DNA computers will integrate the most powerful lessons from both worlds in a technology that's far superior to anything most people can imagine today. And in large part, it'll be because we've figured out how to use DNA molecules in place of microchips."
Ouray grimaced. "Integrating life and machinery? Sounds like something you'd read in a comic book."
"At one time, you probably did," the president agreed. "A lot of technologies we take for granted now appeared early on in science fiction and comic books. The truth is, researchers have been working for years to figure out how to take advantage of DNA's natural ability to reorganize and recombine quickly in complex, predictable patterns."
"You've lost me, Mr. President," Ouray said.
The president nodded. "Sorry, Chuck. Say you want to mow a lawn like out there on the Mall." He waved his big hand vaguely in that direction. "The electronic solution would be to use a few giant lawn mowers, and each would cut thousands of blades of grass every second. That's the way supercomputers operate. Now, the DNA solution's just the opposite. It'd use billions of tiny mowers that'd each cut just one blade. The trick is that all those little DNA mowers would cut their blades at the same time. That's the key nature's massive parallelism. Take it from me, a molecular computer's going to dwarf the power of today's biggest supercomputer."
"Plus, it'll use almost no energy and be a lot cheaper to operate," Emily Powell-Hill added. "When one's created. If one's created."
"Swell," growled Admiral Stevens Brose, chairman of the Joint Chiefs, from the second leather chair, where he had been listening quietly. lie was sitting awkwardly, his ankles crossed, his big chin jutting forward. Confidence and worry battled on his square face. "If that DNA thing really exists, and it's controlled by someone who doesn't like us, or maybe they want something we're not going to give, and that's the case with probably half the world right now I don't even want to think about the future. Our military moves, fights, lives, and breathes on electronics, command codes, and communications codes. Hell, computers run everything now, including ordering liquor supplies for the Joint Chiefs' cocktail parties. The way I see it, railroads were the key to the Civil War, aircraft to World War Two, and encrypted and protected electronics are going to be the big decider in future wars, God help us."
"Defense implications are your responsibility, Stevens," the president told him. "So of course that's what you think of first. Me, I've got to take into account other problems, too. Civilian situations."
"Like what?" Chuck Ouray asked.
"I'm told a DNA computer can shut down oil and gas pipelines, and there goes our fuel supply. It can cut off air traffic control operations at hubs across the continent, everywhere from New York City to Chicago and Los Angeles. The number of deaths we could expect from that is catastrophic. Of course, it can access funds-transfer networks at the Federal Reserve, which means our treasury could be emptied in a heartbeat. It can also open the gates to the Hoover Dam. With that, we can expect the drowning deaths of hundreds of thousands of people."
Chuck Ouray's complexion paled. "You're not serious. Tell me you're not serious. Even the Hoover Dam's floodgates are accessible?"
The president said simply, "Yes. They're computerized, and the computer's connected to the Western utilities power grid."
There was an appalled silence in the room.
The president adjusted his weight. His solemn gaze swept over
his three advisers. "Of course, as Emily said earlier, we still aren't certain there is a fully functioning DNA computer. We'll take it one step at a time. Chuck, see what the CIA and NSA can tell us. Contact the Brits and find out what they know, too. Emily and Stevens, get the latest from your people. We'll meet again later today."
As soon as the door closed behind the NSA director, the head of the Joint Chiefs, and the chief of staff, the side door that led into the president's private study opened. Fred Klein stepped into the Oval Office, wearing a rumpled gray suit and chewing on his empty pipe.
Klein took the pipe from his mouth and pronounced dryly, "I thought that went well."
The president sighed and returned to his big leather desk chair. "It could've been worse. Sit down, Fred. Don't you know something more than your intuition and Diego Garcia about this mess?"
Klein took the seat that Admiral Brose had vacated. He ran a hand over his receding hairline. "Not much," he admitted. "But I will."
"Has Jon Smith found out anything yet?"
Klein told the president about the attack on Martin Zellerbach that Smith interrupted. "When we hung up, Smith was going to the Pasteur to interview a colleague. After that, he'll see General Henze."
The president pursed his lips. "Smith's obviously good, but a few more people over there might be better. You know I'll authorize whatever or whoever you need."
Klein shook his head. "A terrorist cell is small and moves fast. It'll spot a large effort, which means that if the CIA and MI6 kick up any of their usual dust, their usefulness is over. We designed Covert-One for surgical situations just like this. Let's give Smith a chance to be the fly on the wall, a piece of the scenery no one notices. Meanwhile, as you know, I've got other Covert-One operatives on special leads and tasks. If Smith needs help, I'll let you know, and we'll act accordingly."
"We need something from him from someone soon, dammit." The president's brows knit together with worry. "Before we get a taste worse than Diego Garcia."
Paris, France
Private and nonprofit, L'Institut Pasteur was one of the great scientific centers of the world, with some twenty branches located on five continents. It had been at least five years since Smith had been to its headquarters here in Paris for a WHO conference on molecular biology, one of the Pasteur's prime areas of research. He was thinking about that and what he would find now as he stopped his taxi at 28 rue du Docteur Roux, named for one of the institute's earliest researchers. He paid the driver and walked toward the annex's kiosk.
Located in the eastern part of the Fifteenth Arrondissement, the Pasteur Institute stretched into the distance on both sides of the heavily trafficked street. In one of life's ironies, the grounds on the east were called simply the institute or the old campus, while the grounds on the west, although significantly larger, were known as the annex. The whole leafy place gave off the feel of a gracious college, and Smith could see many of its buildings everything from nineteenth-century ornate to twenty-first-century sleek rising among the trees on either side of the street. He could also see French soldiers on patrol on the institute's streets and sidewalks, an unusual sight but no doubt in response to the horrific bombing.
Smith showed his identification to the Pasteur security guard at the annex's kiosk, where one of the soldiers stood sentry, a 5.6mm FAMAS assault rifle in his arms. Behind the man, gray tendrils of smoke rose above the rooftops.
As Smith put away his ID, he nodded at the smoke and asked the Pasteur guard in French, "Is that where Dr. Chambord's lab was?"
"Oui. Little's left. A few exterior walls and heartbreak." The man gave a sad, Gallic shrug.
Smith felt like walking. There was much to sort through, and Marty's condition preyed on his mind. He looked up. As if echoing his thoughts, the day had grown somber, the sun lost behind a thick cloud cover that cast a monochromatic pall. He waited for a car to drive into the annex, then he crossed the street to the sidewalk, heading toward the smoke, which was the first physical sign of the disastrous attack. Soon he saw the second sign pewter-gray ash and soot that dusted vegetation and structures. An alkaline stink stung his nose. Finally there were the corpses of wild birds sparrows, hawks, jays which lay scattered on the lawns, broken dolls flung from the sky, killed by the blast or resulting fire.
The farther he went, the heavier the ash grew, a ghostly blanket over buildings, trees, bushes, signs everything and anything. Nothing was spared, left unsullied. At last he turned a corner and the site itself appeared large, haphazard mounds of blackened brick and debris, above which three exterior walls towered precariously, dismal skeletons against the gray sky. He shoved his hands deep into his trench-coat pockets and halted where he was to study the dispiriting scene.
The building must have been spacious, about the size of a warehouse. Dogs sniffed the ruins. Rescue workers and firemen dug grimly, and armed soldiers patrolled. The charred remains of two cars stood at the curb. Beside them, some kind of metal sign had been melted into a distorted fist of steel. Nearby, an ambulance waited, in case another survivor was found or one of the workers injured.
Heart heavy, Smith waited as a soldier with a careful face approached and demanded identification. As he handed it over, he asked, "Any sign of Dr. Chambord?"
"I can't talk about it, sir."
Smith nodded. He had other ways to find out, and now that he had seen the devastation, he knew there was nothing he could learn here. It was lucky anyone had survived. Lucky Marty had. As he left, he thought about the monsters who had done this. Anger built in his chest.
He returned to the rue du Docteur Roux and crossed the street to the old campus. Calming himself, he showed his identification at the kiosk there, where another Pasteur security guard and armed soldier controlled access. After a thorough check, they gave him directions to the office and lab of his old friend and colleague Michael Kerns.
As he headed off past the old building where Louis Pasteur had lived and worked and was now buried, he was struck by how good it was to be back in this cradle of pure science, despite the circumstances. After all, this was where Pasteur had conducted his brilliant nineteenth-century experiments in fermentation that had led not just to pioneering research in bacteriology but to the principle of sterilization, which had forever changed the world's understanding of bacteria and saved untold millions of lives.
After Dr. Pasteur, other researchers here had gone on to produce critical scientific breakthroughs that had led to the control of virulent diseases like diphtheria, influenza, the plague, polio, tetanus, TB, and even yellow fever. It was no wonder the institute boasted more Nobel Prize winners than most nations. With more than a hundred research units and labs, the complex housed some five hundred permanent scientists while another six hundred from all corners of the globe worked temporarily on special projects. Among those was Michael Kerns, Ph.D.
Mike's office was in the Jacques Monod Building, which housed the department of molecular biology. The door was open. When Smith stepped inside, Mike looked up from his desk, where a mass of papers covered with calculations were spread before him.
Kerns took one look at Smith and jumped up. "Jon! Good Lord, man. What are you doing here?" White lab coat flapping, Kerns came around the desk with the athletic grace of the Iowa Hawkeye running back he had once been. A few inches under six feet and sturdy, he pumped Smith's hand vigorously. "Damn, Jon, how long's it been?"
"Five years, at least," Smith reminded him with a smile. "How's the work going?"
"So near and yet so far." Kerns laughed. "As usual, right? What brings you to Paris? More viruses for USAMRIID to hunt down?"
Taking the opening, Smith shook his head. "It's my friend Marty Zellerbach. He was hurt in the bombing."
"The Dr. Zellerbach who they say was working with poor Chambord? I never met him. I'm so sorry, Jon. How is he?"
"In a coma."
"Damn. What's the prognosis?"
"We're hopeful. But he had a nasty cranial injury, and the coma's hanging
on. Still he's showing signs he may come out of it." Smith shook his head again, his expression glum. "Is there any news about Chambord? Have they found him yet?"
"They're still looking. The blast really shattered the building. It's going to take days for them to dig through it all. They've found some body parts that they're trying to identify. Very sad."
"Did you know Marty was working with Chambord?"
"Actually, no. Not until I read it in the paper." Kerns returned behind his desk and waved Smith to an aged armchair in the cluttered office. "Just chuck those files onto the floor."
Smith nodded, moved the pile of folders, and sat.
Kerns continued, "I said I never met Zellerbach, right? But it'd be more accurate to say I never even heard he was here. Fie had no official appointment to the staff, and I never saw his name listed as being on loan or visiting. I'd have known about that. It must've been some private arrangement with Chambord." Kerns paused. "I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but I was concerned about Emile. This last year, he was acting strange."
Smith came alert. "Chambord was acting strange? In what way?"
"Well" Kerns pondered, then leaned forward like a conspirator, his hands clasped in from of him, resting on his papers. "He used to be a happy guy, you know what I mean? Convivial, outgoing, one of the boys, if you like, for all his seniority and fame. A hard worker who didn't seem to take his work all that seriously, despite its importance. A very level head. Oh, eccentric enough, like most of us, but in a different way from last year. He had the right attitude his ego was never oversized. In fact, once when a dozen or so of us got together for drinks, he said, 'The universe will go on fine without us. There's always someone else to do the work.' "
"Self-effacing, and in many ways true. And it was after that he changed?"
"Yes. It was almost as if he vanished. In the corridors, at meetings, in the cafs, at bull sessions, staff parties, all that. And it happened just like that." He snapped his fingers. "He seemed to cut us all off, sharp as a slice with a knife. He'd disappeared, as far as most of us were concerned."
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