by Jack Bowie
“Wow. I feel like I’m in some kind of abstract art school.”
“I knew you’d agree with me. It is rather disorienting at first. The colors are just too garish. I’ve been trying to convince Hellie of that. Now I have a second opinion.”
“Hellie?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Helmut Plaeger is the Sector Director. Everyone calls him Hellie. This entry is his brainchild.”
“Good morning, Miss Marino.” The voice came from an attractive black woman behind the reception desk.
“Good morning, Naomi,” Marino replied. She completed the requisite introductions, and signed them both in. “I’m going down to check out the lab. We won’t be long.”
This floor was similar to the one above, offices on the periphery and closed laboratories on the inside. As they walked down the hall, Braxton noticed one name plate in particular.
“Ben Lawson,” he said. “Wasn’t he Megan’s friend?”
Marino stopped. When she turned back, her face had lost all its color. “Oh, yes. It was awful. I wonder why that plate is still there.”
“Did you know him?”
“Not very well. He was on a special project for Paul. Not even Hellie knew what he was doing.”
“Isn’t that kind of strange?”
“Not necessarily. It could have been some classified work that Paul was managing. I don’t get involved in those projects.”
“Who took over after Lawson died?”
Marino paused and a wrinkle came to her normally smooth forehead. “That’s interesting. I don’t know. I thought I knew what everyone was doing in the sector. And I haven’t seen any new faces. Maybe they had to drop the project.”
“Probably.”
“Enough of all that.” She feigned a shiver. “Let’s go find Hellie. He’ll show you some really cool stuff.”
What he really wanted to see was the inside of Lawson’s office. What had the scientist been working on? And what had made him so afraid?
* * *
The blue mass slowly approached the barrier, preparing for its attack. It quivered as it progressed, constantly changing shape in response to the unseen protective forces. As it approached, the barrier became more defined. Rather than a solid wall, it was a lattice—regularly-spaced dense pillars creating an uncompromising obstacle. The intruder faced the ends of the pillars, their latticework extending indefinitely in every direction. Between the pillars were voids, seemingly open hallways to the rich interior, but the spaces were much too narrow for the bulbous craft to pass. It could never breach the barrier directly.
The object continued on, suddenly opening, exposing new colors of red, green, and white. A probe, a brilliant green ball, shot from the mass and hovered over the surface of the barrier. Then it dove into an open channel, dragging a multicolored thread behind. The thread twisted to the right, then the left, avoiding dangerous outcroppings that appeared from the surfaces of the pillars. Ever so slowly the thread made its way down the long channel.
Then it broke free! It had navigated the gauntlet and lived. Much of the object’s mass was still on the outside, however, and it took several minutes more for the rest of the object to unravel and thread its way to the interior. Safely inside, the green ball curled its tail—or was the tail curling the ball—and recreated the compact, original mass.
“And that Mr. Braxton,” Plaeger said proudly, “is how the Carleton-Rastov virus breaches a cell wall. What you have just seen was unimaginable a few years ago. No other system can show this result. It is truly amazing, is it not?”
“Breathtaking, Dr. Plaeger,” replied Braxton, his eyes still transfixed on the HoloCube. “I’ve never seen a simulation like it.”
“Our researchers are the world’s finest. At first no one believed the virus could penetrate a cell wall without destroying it. It was simply too big. The secret was to understand the dynamics. In biotechnology, structure is everything.”
“I do remember that the shape of a molecule is just as important as its chemical formula.”
“Ah. Perhaps even more so. Molecules are not the one-dimensional structures their formula would suggest. In the real world, chains of atoms twist and turn into complex three-dimensional shapes. Why doesn’t levo-glucose provide nourishment like its more common dextro-glucose sibling? Because it is twisted the wrong way and thus cannot be acted on by the enzymes in the stomach. The fit isn’t right.
“Structure is critical everywhere in nature. The first level, primary structure, is just the chemical formula. The secondary structure is the next level of complexity. Think of the classic double helix of DNA. But few complex molecules stop here. If a cell’s DNA only had a secondary structure it would be over ten meters long. The higher-order structures are what allows the incredibly dense packing of molecules. DNA’s tertiary structure is another helix, its quaternary even more complex. The result is a mass of chromatin less than five nanometers in size.”
“As I remember,” Braxton replied, “these structures are driven by the electrical forces between the atoms. The resting structure of a molecule is that shape that minimizes the sum of all these forces. And that is what your program is displaying?”
“Exactly, Mr. Braxton! Just as it takes force to compress a car spring or to extend it, it takes energy to change the shape of a molecule from its resting structure. But when two molecules interact, their structures change. It is impossible to compare two resting structures and determine whether they fit. The analysis must consider the interactions between all the pieces of both molecules. It is only when we consider the interaction of the virus with that of the molecules in the cell wall that we see the result. Ah. But I see I lecture too much. Your friend is tapping her foot at me.”
“I’m sorry, Hellie,” Marino said impatiently. “But we do have to go. Mr. Braxton has another appointment.” She started toward the door.
“Of course. Excuse me, Mr. Braxton. I am still too much of an academic. But you must come back so we can continue. I have to tell you how certain benign viruses could be used as cipher keys in molecular-coded encryption systems. It would be a breakthrough!”
“A very interesting proposition, Dr. Plaeger. I will make sure that we talk again.”
“Adam!” Marino called from the hallway.
“Yes, Sydney. I’m coming.” Braxton turned back to the scientist. “Thank you, Dr. Plaeger.”
Marino waved her way past the reception desk and out to the elevators.
“I’m sorry, Adam. I thought Hellie would never stop talking. He can be pretty eccentric sometimes.”
“No. I really enjoyed it. You were right. This is an amazing place.”
“I had hoped you’d think so. I’m not a scientist, but I think it’s pretty exciting just working around here. Everyone is so passionate about what they do. Thanks for letting me show you around.”
She gave him a hug and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Braxton tried to take it in stride, but the lady was definitely having an effect on him.
As they arrived at the ground floor, Braxton noticed a man waiting in front of the service elevator that Marino had pointed out earlier. Far from looking like maintenance staff, he wore a long white lab coat over a starched shirt and tie. He slipped a card into the slot, the door opened, and he disappeared.
“Adam! What are you doing?”
He turned back and saw Marino standing at the guard’s desk.
“Sorry, I got turned around.”
Braxton waited until they had left the building before he posed the question.
“Did you see that man at the elevator?” he finally asked.
“What man?”
“He looked like a researcher. He went into the service elevator.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. That’s the point. Have you ever seen anybody go into that elevator?”
“Well, now that you mention it, no. When I came, someone just told me it was for the cleaning crews. Maybe it’s for our classified wo
rk. We must need to have secure locations.”
Braxton considered her response. They would need somewhere to conduct classified research. Could that be where Lawson had done his work?
“That’s possible,” he replied. “It sure would be interesting to find out where he went.”
She turned and those huge eyes glared at him. “You must be joking! If you want to go snooping around there, you’re going to have to do it yourself.”
If that’s what it takes, then that’s exactly what I’ll do.
Chapter 32
Amsterdam, The Netherlands
Wednesday, 1:50 p.m.
Wispy clouds filled the Amsterdam sky and Braxton shivered against the damp salty breeze. After another white-knuckled ride back to Amsterdam, Marino had dropped him off at the hotel entrance just in time for his luncheon appointment. He had met Yang at the reception area and the scientist had insisted in sitting outside at a café along the Oudezijds Voorburgwal where he could watch the traffic on the canal. The luncheon crowds had returned to their offices, leaving the pair to complete their conversation in relative privacy. Only an occasional noisy tourist canal boat broke the quiet.
“Then you agree that international control of the technology is unlikely?” Braxton asked.
“Of course,” Yang replied. “No sovereign state is going to relinquish what little power it already has over cryptography to an international body. We cannot agree on basic trade and tariff issues. Your own GATT is a farce.”
“It is not our GATT, Dr. Yang.”
“Of course. But to your original question, no. I see the future to continue to be driven by political and nationalistic forces.”
“Surely the availability of cryptographic technology on the Internet will have the effect of leveling the playing field? Even without true controls.”
“Perhaps in some locations. But not all countries subscribe to the unruly openness of your Internet. Some of us believe there are valid reasons for state supervision of certain types of information. Society needs rules, a certain structure. For the betterment of our citizens.”
Braxton tried to read the Chinese scientist. His jet-black hair was carefully slicked back over his head, and the thick lenses of his glasses magnified his eyes until they overwhelmed his face. Was he the controlled bureaucrat-scientist he appeared to be, or was he simply being cautious with a stranger?
Could Yang believe Braxton had been sent there to check on him? In fact, hadn’t he been?
“But enough of this. I must thank you for an excellent lunch, Mr. Braxton. It does wonders for an old man to get out in the fresh air.”
“It was my pleasure, Dr. Yang. As I said, many of my clients do business around the world. I have a lot to learn about international issues.”
“You underestimate yourself. Did you think I would not eventually recognize your name? The consultant who uncovered the Century Mole is known throughout the world. Even in my humble country.”
Braxton blinked at the reference to his prior escapade. He still was amazed by the reaction to his brief moment of celebrity.
“The story is much grander than the facts, Dr. Yang. I assure you. I stumbled on something quite by accident and was lucky enough to see it through. That’s all.”
“I believe you call that fate? We actually have very little control over our lives, Mr. Braxton. Some, however, try to change their destiny. They meet with disaster.” His eyes drifted to the canal, then out toward the dikes, the massive earth-works that protect this small country from the eternal sea. Was this what Yang had meant?
The mood of the conversation had suddenly changed. Braxton decided it was time.
“I must admit I am envious of your mastery of English, Dr. Yang. I can barely say hello in another language.”
The scientist seemed to ignore the comment for a minute, preferring to stay within himself, but then slowly turned back to his companion.
“Thank you. I was raised in Hong Kong. English was as much a part of our lives then as Chinese. But lately it has been a struggle to maintain some fluency.”
“You have been quite successful. Is the rest of your family in China?”
“Unfortunately not. No. My parents were diplomats of the past regime. They are no longer with us. My younger brother and I were separated after they died.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I have a brother also. Have you been able to locate yours?”
“He escaped to your country. He is a scientist also.”
“You must miss him a great deal now that he is gone.”
Damn! It was a stupid slip. He had tried to be so careful.
Yang’s eyes opened round and clear. Braxton couldn’t tell if the emotion was fear or only surprise. Then, just as quickly, his face returned to its previous opacity. He again looked out over the canal, but his eyes were different. They were now focused and alert. His head turned back, quickly scanning the surrounding tables and their occupants.
“You are indeed a surprising man, Mr. Braxton. This is not the place to discuss such things. If you know of my brother, we must talk. Tonight, at eight o’clock. La Cochina on the edge of the district.”
“The red light district?”
“Yes. Is that not what you call it?”
“Uh, of course.”
“Until tonight then. I must now return to the conference.”
* * *
“Where’s the crusade, Roger? The rhetoric? There’s something missing here.”
Slattery was updating Ikedo on the latest information from the advisory group meeting and his discussions with Flynn and Luckett. It was a “working lunch” in Slattery’s office.
“If this was a political play there would be lots of PR,” Ikedo continued between bites of his cheeseburger. “Letters to editors. Proclamations of independence. Have we received anything?”
“Nothing that I know of. But we do have these. Rachael just sent them over.”
Slattery threw a stack of printouts on Ikedo’s lap. They were copies of local newspaper articles on the recent attacks. One had a particularly ominous headline: “Revolution for Liberty Begins.”
The junior agent scanned the sheets. “Looks like overzealous reporting to me. Anything more behind the stories than the standard newswire reports?”
“Nope.”
“Then we ought to consider the alternative.”
“Which is?”
“That this is all a ruse.”
“A ruse? You think someone is organizing militia groups, plotting and executing military-style attacks just for fun?”
“I didn’t say for fun, Roger,” Ikedo said, correcting his colleague. “I said as a ruse. Everybody’s behaving as if this is some kind of militia conspiracy. But the militia movement is all about fighting federalism. It’s politics. It thrives on propaganda.”
“If these attacks aren’t politics, what are they?”
“They could be anything. Hate. Revenge. Or someone killing ten random people to hide the one real target. We don’t have a clue. And what scares me is that whoever is behind all this isn’t saying anything.”
Slattery set down his burrito. He had been right bringing Ikedo in on this assignment. The analyst was looking at the situation from an entirely different viewpoint. It was similar to what Carlson had been saying at the meeting. “You could be right. Why should we all be off chasing militia groups when in reality we don’t understand the motive? So what do we know?”
Ikedo ran through the points on his fingers. “Someone is organizing militia groups. These groups are executing small strikes against governmental targets. Large enough to require investigation but not serious enough to build significant public outcry. The intent seems to be an escalation of terror but there are no demands, no statements of responsibility. The objective seems to be confusion.”
“Confusion or focus,” Slattery replied.
“Focus?”
“Focusing our attention on the obvious. Like the magician who waves his right hand for us to foll
ow while his left hand pulls the missing card.”
Slattery’s phone rang. He nodded to Ikedo then reached for the handset.
“Slattery,” he answered.
“Afternoon, Roger. How’s the spook business?”
“Jesus. Sam Fowler. What happened? Run out of fish in that lake of yours?”
Ikedo got up to leave but Slattery waved to him to stay.
“No way. Still loaded with bass, Roger. And still trying to get you to come out and visit.”
“Absolutely. As soon as things slow down a bit around here.”
“Been hearing that for years. You know, you really need to take a break every once in a while. While Beth still recognizes you.”
The barb hit too close to home. Slattery had been a stranger again ever since Markovsky’s first call. He didn’t need this grief from the retired cop. “Okay, Sam. Enough of the prelims. What’s up?”
“I need a favor. A background check on someone.”
“Christ, Sam. You know I can’t do that. Call one of your friends in the department.”
“Bullshit, Roger. You owe me. And you know it. You never would have found the Cache without us.”
“Yeah, and you all almost got killed doing it. Why don’t you just stay retired?”
“Sydney Marino. With a wye. Works for a company called Vision One out in California.”
Slattery scrawled the name on a pad. “Braxton involved in this one too?”
“It’s personal, Roger. Isn’t that enough? Just a quick check, then I’m back to the dock.”
“I’ll see what I can do. No promises. Call me in a couple days.”
“Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”
Slattery put down the phone and leaned back in his chair. Odd time for his old friend to call.
“Anything important?” Ikedo asked.
“Not really. Just somebody trying to get me to take a vacation.”
“Sounds like good advice.”
“Yeah, well none of us get a vacation while this militia crap is still going on. Where were we?”