Covert One 5 - The Lazarus Vendetta (4 page)

Smith turned right into a wide corridor that ran the whole length of the
I-shaped building. Polished earth brown floor tiles blended comfortably with
off-white adobe walls. At regular intervals, nichos, small niches with
rounded tops, displayed paintings of famous scientists —Fermi, Newton, Feynman, Drexler, Einstein, and
others—commissioned from local artists. Between the nichos stood tall
ceramic vases filled with brilliant yellow chamisa and pale purple aster
wildflowers. If you ignored the sheer size of this place, Smith thought, it
looked just like the hall of a private Santa
Fe home.

He came to the locked door outside the Harcourt lab and swiped his ID card
through the adjacent security station. The light on top flashed from red to
green and the lock clicked open. His card was one of the relatively few coded
for access to all restricted areas. Rival scientists and technicians were not
permitted to stray into one another's territory. While trespassers were not
shot, they were issued immediate one-way tickets out of Santa Fe. The Institute took its obligation
to protect intellectual property rights very seriously.

Smith stepped through the door and immediately entered a very different
world. Here the polished wood and textured adobe of courtly old Santa Fe gave way to the
gleaming metal and tough composite materials of the twenty-first century. The
elegance of natural sunlight and recessed lighting surrendered to the glare of
overhead fluorescent strip lights. These lights had a very high ultraviolet
component—just to kill surface germs. A small breeze tugged at his shirt and
whispered through his dark hair. The nanotech laboratory suites were kept under
positive pressure to minimize the risk of any airborne contaminants from the
public areas of the building. Ultra-efficient particulate air—or
“ULPA” —filters fed in purified air at a constant temperature and
humidity.

The Harcourt lab suite was arranged as a series of “clean rooms”
of in-

creasing rigor. This outer rim was an office area,
crammed full of desks and workstations piled high with reference books,
chemical and equipment catalogs, and paper printouts. Along the east wall,
blinds were drawn across a floor-to-ceiling picture window, obscuring what
would otherwise be a spectacular view of the Sangre de
Cristo Mountains.

Farther inside the suite came a control and sample preparation area. Here
were black-topped lab benches, computer consoles, the awkward bulk of two
scanning tunneling electron microscopes, and the other equipment needed to
oversee nanotech design and production processes.

The true “holy of holies” was the inner core: visible only through
sealed observation windows on the far wall. This was a chamber full of
mirror-bright stainless steel tanks; mobile equipment skids loaded with pumps,
valves, and sensor devices; vertically mounted disk frames for osmotic filters;
and stacked Lucite cylinders packed with various grades of purification gels,
all connected with looping lengths of clear, silastic tubing.

Smith knew that the core could be reached only through a succession of air
locks and gowning roofhs. Anyone working inside the production chamber had to
wear fully sterile coveralls, gloves and boots, and an air-displacement
breather helmet. He smiled wryly. If the Lazarus Movement activists camped
outside ever saw anyone wearing that alien-looking getup, it would confirm all
their worst fears about mad scientists toying with deadly toxins.

In truth, of course, the real situation was exactly the reverse. In the
world of nanotechnology, humans were the source of danger and contamination. A
falling flake of skin, a hair follicle, the wafted particles of moisture
breathed out in casual conversation, and the shotgun blast of a sneeze all
could wreak havoc on the nanoscale, releasing oils, acids, alka-lines, and
enzymes that could poison the manufacturing process. Humans were also a rich
source of bacteria: fast-growing organisms that would consume production
broths, clog filters, and even attack the developing nanodevices themselves.

Fortunately, most of the necessary work could be done remotely from

outside the core and the control and sample
preparation chambers. Robotic manipulators, computer-controlled motorized
equipment skids, and other innovations greatly reduced the need for humans to
enter the “clean rooms.” The incredible level of automation in its
lab suites was one of the Teller Institute's most popular innovations, since it
gave scientists and technicians far more freedom of movement than at other
facilities.

Smith threaded through the maze of desks in the outer room, making his way
toward Dr. Philip Brinker, the senior scientist for Harcourt Bio-sciences. The
tall, pale, rail-thin researcher had his back to the entrance, so intently
studying the image relayed from a scanning electron microscope that he didn't
catch Jon's cat-quiet approach.

Brinker's chief assistant, Dr. Ravi Parikh, was more alert. The shorter,
darker molecular biologist looked up suddenly. He opened his mouth to warn his
boss, then closed it with a shy smile when Smith
winked at him and motioned for silence.

Jon stopped just two feet behind the two researchers and stood at ease.

“Damn, that looks nice, Ravi,”
Brinker said, still peering at the image on the screen in front of him.
“Man, I bet our favorite DoD spook is gonna bow
down before us when he sees this.”

This time Smith did not bother hiding his grin. Brinker always called him a
spook—a spy. The Harcourt scientist meant it as a joke, a kind of running gag
about Smith's role as an observer for the Pentagon, but Brinker had no clue as
to just how close that was to the truth.

The fact was that Jon was more than just an Army officer and scientist. From
time to time he took on missions for Covert-One, a top-secret intelligence
outfit reporting directly to the president. Covert-One worked in the shadows,
so far back in the shadows that no one in Congress or the of-'
ficial military-intelligence bureaucracy even knew it existed. Fortunately,
Jon's work here at the Institute was purely scientific in nature.

Smith leaned forward, looking right over the senior Harcourt scientist's
shoulder. “So what is it exactly that's going to make me worship the
ground you walk on, Phil?”

Startled, Brinker jumped six inches in the air. “Jesus Christ!” He
spun round. “Colonel, you pull that ghost act on me just one more time and
I swear to God I'm gonna drop dead right in front of you! Then how would you
feel?”

Smith laughed. “Sorry, I guess.”

“Sure you would,” Brinker grumbled. Then he brightened. “But
since I'm not dead, despite your best efforts, you can take a look at what Ravi and I have cooked up today. Feast your eyes on the
not-yet-patented Mark Two Brinker-Parikh nanophage, guaranteed to zap cancer
cells, dangerous bacteria, and other internal nasties . . . most of the time,
anyway.”

Smith moved closer and studied the hugely magnified black-and-white image on
the monitor. It showed a spherical semiconductor shell packed with an
assortment of complex molecular structures. A scale indicator on one side of
the screen told him he was looking at an assembly that was just two hundred
nanometers in diameter.

Smith was already familiar with the Harcourt research team's general
concept. Brinker and Parikh and the others were focused on creating medical
nanodevices—their “nanophages” —that would hunt down and kill cancer
cells and disease-causing bacteria. The interior of the sphere he was examining
should be loaded with the biochemical substances — phosphatidylserine and other
costimulator molecules, for example — needed either to trick the target cells
into committing suicide or to mark them for elimination by the body's own
immune system.

Their Mark I design had failed in early animal testing because the
nanophages themselves were destroyed by the immune system before they could do
their work. Since then Jon knew the Harcourt scientists had been evaluating different
shell configurations and materials, trying hard to find a combination that
would be effectively invisible to the body's natural defenses. And for months
the magic formula had eluded them.

He glanced up at Brinker. “This looks almost identical to your Mark One
configuration. So what have you changed?”

“Take a closer look at the shell coating,” the blond-haired
Harcourt scientist suggested.

Smith nodded and took over the microscope controls. He tapped the keypad
gently, slowly zooming in on a section of the outer shell. “Okay,” he
said. “It's bumpy, not smooth. There's a thin molecular coating of some
kind.” He frowned. “The structure of that coating looks hauntinglv
familiar . . . but where have I seen it before?”

“The basic idea came to Ravi here in a
flash,” the tall, blond-haired researcher explained. “And like all
great ideas it's incredibly simple and freaking obvious ... at least after the
fact.” He shrugged. “Think about one particularly bad little mother
of a bacterium —resistant staphylococcus aureus. How does it hide from
the immune system?”

“It coats its cell membranes in polysaccharides,” Smith said
promptly. He looked at the screen again. “Oh, for Pete's sake . . .”

Parikh nodded complacently. “Our Mark Twos are essentially
sugar-coated. Just like all the best medicines.”

Smith whistled softly. “That is brilliant, guys. Absolutely
brilliant!”

“With all due modesty, you are right about that,” Brinker
admitted. He laid one hand on the monitor. “That beautiful Mark Two you
see here should do the trick. In theory, anyway.”

“And in practice?” Smith asked.

Ravi Parikh pointed toward another high-resolution display—this one the size
of a wide-screen television. It showed a double-walled glass box secured to a
lab table in an adjoining clean room. “That is just what we are about to
find out, Colonel. We have been working almost nonstop for the past thirty-six
hours to produce enough of the new design nanophages for this test.”

Smith nodded. Nanodevices were not built one at a time with microscopic
tweezers and drops of subatomic glue. Instead, they were manufactured by the
tens of millions or hundreds of millions or even billions, using biochemical
and enzymatic processes precisely controlled by

means of pH, temperature, and pressure. Different
elements grew in different chemical solutions under different conditions. You
started in one tank, formed the basic structure, washed away the excess, and
then moved your materials to a new chemical bath to grow the next part of the
assembly. It required constant monitoring and absolutely precise timing.

The three men moved closer to the monitor. A dozen white mice occupied the
clear double-walled container. Half of the mice were lethargic, riddled with
lab-induced tumors and cancers. The other six, a healthy control group,
scampered here and there, looking for a way out. Numbered and color-coded tags
identified each mouse. Video cameras and a variety of other sensors surrounded
the box, ready to record every event once the experiment began.

Brinker pointed to a small metal canister attached to one end of the test
chamber. “There they are, Jon. Fifty million Mark Two nanophages all set
to go, plus or minus five million either way.” He turned to one of the lab
techs hovering close by. “Have our little furry friends had their shots,
Mike?”

The technician nodded. “Sure thing, Dr. Brinker.
I did it myself just ten minutes ago. One good jab for each
of them.”

“The nanophages go in inert,” Brinker explained. “Their
internal ATP power cell only lasts so long, so we surround that section with a
protective sheath.”

Smith understood the reason for that. ATP, adenosine triphosphate, was a
molecule that provided energy for most metabolic processes. But ATP would begin
releasing its energy as soon at it came in contact with liquid. And all living
creatures were mostly liquid. “So the injection is a kick start?” he
asked.

“That's right,” Brinker confirmed. “We inject a unique
chemical signal into each test subject. Once a passive sensor on the nanophage
detects that signal, the sheath opens, and the surrounding liquid activates the
ATP. Our little machines light up and off they go on the hunt.”

“Then your sheath also acts as a fail-safe,” Smith realized. “Just in case any of the Mark Twos wind up where they aren't
supposed to be—say inside one of you, for example.”

“Exactly,” Brinker agreed. “No unique
chemical signature ... no nanophage activation.”

Parikh was less certain about that.

“There is a small risk,” the shorter molecular biologist warned.
“There is always a certain error rate in the nanophage build
process.”

“Which means sometimes the sheath doesn't form properly? Or the sensor
is missing or set to receive the wrong signal? Or maybe you wind up with the
wrong biochemical substances stored inside the phage shell?”

“Stuff like that,” Brinker said. “But the error percentage is
very small. Ridiculously tiny. Heck,
almost nil.” He shrugged. “Besides, these things are
programmed to kill cancer cells and nasty bacteria. Who really cares if a few
strays go wandering around inside the wrong target for a couple of
minutes?”

Smith raised a skeptical eyebrow. Was Brinker serious? Low risk or not, the
senior Harcourt scientist's attitude seemed just a bit too cavalier. Good
science was the art of taking infinite pains. It did not mean writing off
potential safety hazards, no matter how small.

The other man saw his expression and laughed. “Don't sweat it, Jon. I'm
not crazy. Well, not completely, anyway. We keep our nanophages on a damned
tight leash. They're well and truly contained. Besides, I've got Ravi here to keep me on the straight and narrow.
Okay?”

Smith nodded. “Just checking, Phil. Chalk it up to my suspicious
spook-like nature.”

Brinker shot him a quick, wry smile. Then he glanced at the technicians
standing by at various consoles and monitors. “Everybody set?”