NanoStrike (6 page)

Ghazi nodded, and David noted with pride the look of approval on Ali’s face.

Ali poured dark, aromatic tea from a silver pot while Ghazi spoke. “Many years ago, I took my Hajj alongside my good friend, Ali. We were young, twenty-two. We returned changed men and dedicated ourselves to the study of Islam. Those were wonderful days, filled with the joy of doing God’s bidding.” Ghazi paused to sip his tea, the cup was a toy in his hand.

Ali smiled along with his friend’s reminiscence. David felt honored to be accepted in such exalted company.

“In my early thirties, Allah called me to help my Muslim brothers at the place of their greatest need. I parted from Ali and traveled to Jerusalem.” Ghazi’s face grew solemn.

“Israel is the front line in a war on Islam. I tried to help. I talked to representatives from the UN, and to Western Peace Commissions. I pleaded with rabbis, ministers, and priests. Islam is the one true path for all mankind, yet in Jerusalem, each day, its followers are crushed.” Ghazi’s raised voice filled the room, strong with passion. Here was a true soldier of Allah.

“The Western powers and the Arab puppets they use to control the Muslim people want one thing; to drive Islam from the face of the Earth. They fear Islam because the words of the Koran expose them as charlatans and thieves.” When he picked up his tea again, his hand shook, the spoon rattling in the saucer.

“In Allah’s name, I took up arms against the Crusaders, but our weapons are weak, homemade, cheap, and old. We combat the infidel’s rockets with sticks and rocks. Earlier this year I was forlorn, ready to give up the fight. I sought council from my wise friend, Ali, and in his words I found clarity.”

Ghazi turned to Ali who took over the story. “Ghazi spoke of his frustrations. He cried to think of Allah’s servants strapping explosives to their bodies, sacrificing everything yet gaining so little. I said to my friend: ‘You cannot beat an enemy that doesn’t fear you.’ I asked, ‘Do they fear the suicide bombers?’”

“No,” Ghazi replied.

“Do they fear Hamas’s rockets?”

“No again,” said Ghazi.

“Did they crumble and accept Islam when the towers fell in New York?”

This time David responded. “No. They fear only weapons of mass destruction.”

“Yes . . . yes, Dawud,” Ghazi said, “because they know the threat of these weapons cannot be hidden from their people. Israeli, American, and British citizens do not despise Islam. Their leaders do. Their leaders fear what all leaders fear—losing power. Only when the Islamic warriors’ weapons strike fear into the Crusaders will the people of the West understand that they are led by agents of Shaitan who keep them from the one true faith.”

Ghazi’s eyes were bright fires, and David’s mind whirled with the purity of his logic. The Western powers could never allow the spread of Islam. If their citizens accepted Allah and lived according to the teachings of the Koran, there would be no need for godless capitalism and corrupt religions. He had seen the low morals of the West. Not just in Christians and Jews, but in Muslims like Nazar Eudon, with his private plane, liquor cabinet, and executive slut.

“You are right to speak of these things, Imam Ghazi,” David said. ”I share your devotion, and I understand your need for a weapon powerful enough to correct the balance of power.” David smiled; his nanobots could become the weapon they sought. He looked into their eyes, each in turn. “It is for this that Allah has brought me to Jeddah. I can help in your quest.”

“
Allahu Akbar
,” the Imams said together. “Come, let us give thanks to Him.” Ali led them to the prayer space. They set their mats in a line beneath the splendid dome. David knelt between the two holy men and they prayed with one voice. In David’s mind, at that moment, they sealed a covenant in front of Allah.

For the rest of the day they discussed David’s requirements for a laboratory. Ghazi spoke of his resistance group, which he called, Allah’s Revenge. David thought the title fitting and just.

After David left, the Imams sat in Ali’s office, taking tea.

“The Saudi connection has funded two attacks,” Ali said.

“If Dawud speaks correctly about his weapon, obtaining further funds should not be an impediment.”

“Agreed.” Ali replaced his cup on the table. “Was he what you expected?”

“Not at all, but the longer I spoke with him the more impressed I became. He has an extraordinary mind. Do you believe he will follow through? Once he returns to America this . . .” Ghazi made a broad sweep with his arm, “. . . may appear too difficult and dangerous.”

“Dawud had an epiphany at Mecca,” Ali said, “I have guided him in the direction Allah wishes, but to be sure I have asked my brother to speak of our hopes for him as a captain in Allah’s Revenge. Dawud feels obligated to his father, as a good son should.”

Ghazi raised his eyebrows. “He does not know you are his uncle?”

“My older brother was ever the wisest in our family. He decided long ago, when the Israelis killed our parents, that we would be a more potent force if we developed individual identities.”

“In this, it seems he was correct,” Ghazi said.

Ali nodded his agreement.

Chapter 7

Back home in his parents’ doublewide, David’s father treated him as a returning hero. For a week, they prayed and reflected on his experience in Mecca. The Zamzam water took pride of place on the mantelpiece. His
baba
encouraged David to aid Imam Ghazi in his fight.

In November, he returned to Nazar’s Phoenix laboratory and began his preparations.

By January, he was ready.

Last to leave the lab, David crossed to the safe where the “virginbots” were secured: the pure, un-imprinted nanobots from which all other bots were grown. He swiped his access card. Air hissed as it vented into the safe’s vacuum. Once the pressures equalized, he opened the thick metal door. The lab’s twenty-four-hour video surveillance system recorded his every move.

The virginbots were housed in ten glass vials packed in foam inside a stainless-steel cylinder the size of a soda can. He donned an oven-glove modeled after Mickey Mouse’s hand, a running joke among the lab technicians and scientists. He would miss working with his colleagues, but he had a higher purpose to fulfill.

David carried the cylinder across the lab to the programming chamber—a four-foot-square, carbon-free-glass glove box. The apparatus allowed an operator to manipulate items inside without coming into direct contact with them. He placed the virginbots into an induction chamber at the center of the cube.

After closing the glove box door, David slipped his hands into two metal-coated sleeves that extended into the cube. He unscrewed the cap of the containment cylinder and removed one of the glass vials containing virginbots, and placed it to one side.

After withdrawing his hands, he clicked the
Program
icon on the induction chamber’s computer. Four heat strips, positioned in the vertical angles of the box, lit, and spread a red glow throughout the cube.
When the temperature gauge reached seventy degrees Fahrenheit, parameters popped up on the computer monitor:

Target –          C2H5OH (Ethanol)

Inhibitor –      C2H5OH*30% (Ethanol)

Feedstock –    Bio

Catalyst –       Photon

                        ss:mm:hh:dd:mm

Activate –       00:00:00:00:00

Terminate –    00:00:00:00:00

This simple interface programmed the virginbots in the induction chamber. Nazar’s ‘bots produced ethanol, although any carbon-based compound could be specified. Routinely, one tube of cells was programmed and then replicated into the larger quantities required for industrial-scale ethanol production.

The start and stop times were vestiges of the prototyping days when nanobots were given only a few seconds of life to protect against a catastrophic error if a batch of ’bots went rogue.

For Nazar’s purposes, thirty percent ethanol was the optimum inhibitor. But any chemical compound could be specified; the nanobots terminated on contact with that compound. In future, David would program a different compound to make the weaponized ‘bots safe to handle.

For security, the computer logged every keystroke during programming. However, when David first wrote the imprinting program, he’d incorporated a ‘backdoor’. He made his desired changes to Nazar’s nanobots. Then he held down the
Ctrl
key and punched in a series of sixteen characters.

The sixteen keystrokes were not logged, and only David knew the sequence.

He clicked,
End
Programming
, and the lights went dark. Mickey Mouse helped him carry the container of imprinted virginbots to the safe-deposit box.

David returned to his desk with the single glass vial he had placed to one side. These cells had
not
been imprinted. They were the only remaining virginbots in the lab and, by implication, in the world.

From his bottom drawer, David retrieved the thermos flask he carried every day with his packed lunch. When he opened the lid, a few wisps of vapor escaped as the dry ice within evaporated. He bedded the test tube snugly in the center of the cold crystals, secured the cap, and placed his precious cargo in his backpack next to his laptop.

David slung the bag over his shoulder and, for the final time, left his Phoenix office.

Chapter 8

Two weeks before the Oxford Circus tube train attack, Abdul Ahmed weaved past dozens of work cubicles identical to the one he’d just vacated on the third floor of the
Times of London
headquarters. He skipped up the stairs to the fifth floor, nodded to the receptionist, and headed to his senior editor’s office.

He glanced at the letter in his hand and tapped on the door.

Rafiq looked up from his monitor. “What’s up, Abdul?”

“Sorry to interrupt. Can you take a look at this? I think it might be important.” Among his morning mail, Abdul had received a letter, hand-written in Arabic and postmarked from East Jerusalem. He had translated it and now handed a printout and the original to his boss.

Rafiq scanned the document then pointed to the single-word signature, a swirling Arabic rendition of the name Ghazi, which translated as
one-who-struggles
. “Do you know this man?”

“No, but my family may. I could call my uncle and check.”

“Let’s wait until we’ve spoken to the chief.” Rafiq pressed a speed dial on his desk phone, and the editor-in-chief’s secretary picked up. “Amy, is Scott available for ten minutes?”

“I’ll see.” A few seconds later, she came back on the line. ”Come on up, Rafiq.”

Abdul had met the editor-in-chief only once when, six months before and fresh out of college, he’d landed his first job as junior Middle-East correspondent for the newspaper.

Two walls of Scott’s sixth-floor office were lined with tables covered in papers and Post-it notes. Cleaners were forbidden to enter the room unless Scott was present, in case they disturbed anything. Scott Shearer, a small, wiry man, sat behind an oversized desk, also strewn with papers. White hair, the result, he often claimed, of twenty years spent answering stupid questions, topped a lined face. He looked all of his fifty-five years, plus maybe another ten.

Rafiq handed over the letter and the translation, which his editor began reading as he waved at two chairs on the other side of the desk.

“Whose translation?”

“Mine, sir,” Abdul said.

“I’ve checked, Scott. It’s perfect,” Rafiq said, and Abdul smiled.

“Can we verify the source?”

“Abdul suspects they got his contact information from his family in Jerusalem. He’s volunteered to call his uncle.”

Scott lifted his head and stared at Abdul with ferret eyes—gray, and hard. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” The intensity of Scott Shearer’s stare was the stuff of Fleet Street legend. Abdul felt its heat. “Have we heard of . . .” Scott released Abdul from his glare and glanced at the translation, “. . . Allah’s Revenge before today?”

“Seems to be a new group,” Abdul said. “I did a Google search. It’s a generic term for any disaster that happens in the West. The financial meltdown was Allah’s revenge, AIDS is Allah’s revenge, also the 2004 tsunami, 9/11 and so on.”

“The letter says they want to meet you, Abdul, to ‘instruct’ you about their mission and make you . . .” Scott faced Abdul as he emphasized the last few words, “. . . their messenger to the world.”

Scott stood, turned his back on them, and paced the length of the full-wall window, which was the only indication they were in the office of the most influential newspaper editor in London. “If Ghazi is a terrorist, you might not want him making house calls on your family. On the other hand . . .” Scott reached the end of the window, stopped, and gazed out at the dreary English rain. “. . . I’m not comfortable involving the police. If it’s a hoax, we’ll look stupid, and if not, by the time they’ve finished plodding about it’ll be worthless.”

“I could take the meeting.” The words tumbled from Abdul’s mouth and his heart rate tripled. Could this be a breakthrough story so early in his career?