The Paris Option - Страница 9

"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.