The Miracle Strain (8 page)

She addressed the receiver on her computer. "I need you to start a trace. Activate Predator."

A small help icon opened on the top right of the screen containing her computer-generated head, still wearing the cop helmet.

The head asked, "Stealth mode or alarm mode?"

"Stealth. Don't want to frighten our visitor off yet."

Another small icon opened up on the top left of her screen. Above it was a clock ticking down from sixty seconds, the time it took to effect a complete trace. At the bottom of the icon was a row of nine flashing numbers. The numbers were changing at a frantic speed, searching for the right combination. Suddenly the left number locked in place, leaving only eight flashing. Then the second locked. Once all nine were locked Jasmine would be able to trace the intruder's origin.

25...24...23 ticked the icon on the top left of the screen.

The sixth number locked into place. Only three to go.

Then the intruder suddenly logged off; his cyber trail vaporized.

Gone.

"Shit," she muttered to herself, just as one of her staff walked into her office.

Jasmine checked the six numbers on screen, to see if they gave any clue to the origin of the intruder. But all she could be sure of from the codes was that it came from outside the United States, between southeast Europe and India. The Middle East or North Africa would be her best guess. But who from that part of the world would bother to hack into the superficially boring IGOR?

The tall blond woman held up a bulb from the new holoprojector. "Morning, Jazz, you okay?"

She looked up and smiled at her technical manager. "Yeah, Debbie, thanks."

"Can I show you something?"

"Sure. Will it take long?"

"About half an hour. I just need to talk you through the final mods to Gene Genie. We think we've cracked the holo-image."

"Including face definition?"

Debbie grinned. "Come and judge for yourself."

"Great! Just give me five minutes and I'll be with you."

Despite her worries Jasmine was excited about the new GeneImaging software. As for IGOR, she reassured herself that at least the actual database hadn't been breached, only its general purpose discovered. She was convinced that the final defenses were secure, but she would still tell Tom. He would want to know that for the first time since its creation someone was showing an unhealthy interest in the anonymous IGOR.

Chapter Six.

Later

GENIUS Animal Laboratory

Boston

"So, Nora, how's it going?" asked Tom, opening the swinging doors from the corridor linking the main laboratories of the Mendel Suite with the animal laboratory--or "Mouse House," as it was known. Immediately after Hank Polanski had received his first infusion of genes with no initial side effects, Tom had hurried here, desperate to know the results of the experiment that could determine Holly's future.

Nora Lutz looked up from inputting data into her laptop, her natural frown softening in greeting. In her forties, Nora was small and round, with brown hair cut into a short bob. Large tortoiseshell glasses gave her the appearance of an owl. She was a dedicated lab technician and Tom knew that despite her grumpy demeanor she loved her job here--if only because it got her out of the house. A spinster, she lived in Charlestown with her demanding invalid mother and five cats. Leaning back in her chair, Nora pulled up the sleeves of her white coat and gestured to the eight empty cages behind her.

"Just finished," she said. "All forty-eight mice have now been dissected and their met count checked."

Tom nodded. He didn't like using animals for experiments, and many of the in vitro experimental protocols he'd developed had done away with the need. But at times, particularly in the field of gene therapy, it was unavoidable.

In this experiment all the mice had been infected with astrocytoma cancer cells. Half had then been injected with a genetically engineered retrovirus designed to kill brain cancer cells, whereas the other half had been treated with nothing more than a simple saline solution. Their brains had then been dissected to count the amount and size of tumors or metastases. If the mice treated with the retrovirus had fewer tumors than the control group injected with saltwater, then the experiment had worked. And it was vital that it did work. Otherwise the already tissue-thin chances of finding a cure for Holly in time would dissolve into nothing.

"Any feel for the results yet?"

Nora gave him a "you should know better" look and shook her head. "Can't tell you that until Bob comes back with the envelope." Bob Cooke was Nora's boss.

None of the three teams working on the new brain cancer project had been told about Holly yet. Tom had done this for a number of reasons. The more people who knew of Holly's predicament, the greater the risk she might learn of it herself. He couldn't allow that to happen. When and if it was appropriate to tell the teams he would, but for now all they needed to know was that the project was top priority.

So far only this team of Nora Lutz and Bob Cooke had come close to developing the complex retroviral vector required to get past the blood-brain barrier protecting the brain. Their progress in a little over five weeks had been exceptional, but as Tom glanced at the spreadsheet on Nora's laptop screen he felt more nervous than excited about the results. The spreadsheet showed the tag numbers of each mouse in the left-hand column, the number of their tumors--alarmingly high as far as Tom could make out--in the column next to it, and the size of these tumors alongside that. One column remained blank--the one which indicated which treatment each mouse had received. Only Bob Cooke had this information.

Years ago Tom had learned the importance of not allow ing personal bias to influence results, and had made it obligatory that all GENIUS experiments were conducted "blind." He knew how tempting it was for even the most scrupulous scientist to "find" the results he was hoping for. So Bob Cooke had administered the original injections to the mice, recording on computer disk which coded mice had received the genetically engineered virus treatment and which had received the saltwater. Bob had then kept this information sealed in a brown envelope and been excluded from counting the metastases.

"Where is Bob now?" asked Tom.

"In the Mendel. Shall I get him?"

"No, I'll go. You finish up the figures."

Tom walked out of the Mouse House, down the small corridor, and through the sliding glass doors of the main laboratory suite. He scanned the expanse of white, glass, and chrome and saw Bob Cooke immediately. The man's whole appearance and body language set him apart from almost everyone else in the laboratory. The other scientists were stooped over their lab benches, but the loose-limbed Californian with his blond hair and tan was lying back in his chair, holding a microscope slide up to the light. He looked more like a surfer checking out the next wave than a scientist. His broad smile and easy manner made some people underestimate him. In many ways the young man's irreverence reminded Tom of himself.

He could already see the brown envelope on Bob's desk and had to quell the sudden impulse to run and grab it.

Bob saw him and smiled. In one fluid movement he seemed to simultaneously put down the slide, pick up the brown envelope, and stand up. "Looking for this?"

Back in the animal laboratory, Carter found himself searching Nora's face for any more clues, now that she'd had more time to look over the data. If the results were clear-cut, then the disk wasn't necessary. If all the mice had the same number of large tumors, then the experiment had obviously failed, and if half the mice were completely clear of tumors then it had almost certainly worked. But Nora's owlish face gave nothing away.

Bob knitted his eyebrows in a mock frown, saying, "The nominations for best picture are..." before ripping the envelope open and handing her the disk.

Nora gave her California boss a weary smile, inserted the disk in her computer, and ran the software program. The spreadsheet immediately began importing the information. Tom could see the blank slots in the right-hand column filling up with "yes" or "no" to denote whether each particular mouse had received the retrovirus treatment.

Come on, he thought, let there be a difference between the groups. But before Tom could even finish his silent plea the screen shifted to conclusions, and Nora's disappointed voice told him the worst.

"There's nothing between them," said the lab technician abruptly. "Nothing statistically significant anyway."

"Shit!" He couldn't believe it. The results were even worse than he'd feared. The gene therapy had had no effect at all.

"What went wrong?" asked Nora.

Tom frowned and crossed his arms, drumming the fingers of his right hand on his left arm. "Perhaps the virus didn't get to the tumor cells? Perhaps the blood-brain barrier stopped it?"

"But the virus was modified to get around that," said Bob, his voice unusually flat.

"Yeah, well, perhaps it didn't work. Or the virus may have got to its target, but the genes either didn't express themselves properly in the cells, or didn't produce enough proteins to make a difference. Either way we'll have to analyze the tumor cells to be sure. But the bottom line is that this time the bastard hasn't worked."

The door opened to his right, and Jasmine walked in. Her usually sunny face was pensive.

She said, "Tom, can I have a word? It's pretty important."

What she wanted to say was obviously not for general broadcast, so he excused himself to Bob and Nora and followed Jasmine out into the small corridor.

"Sorry," said Jasmine, "but I've got some bad news."

He had to laugh. "Great! Well, you've come to the right place. Let's see if your bad news can beat ours."

"I caught someone trying to get into IGOR."

Tom groaned. This was all he needed. "Did they get in?"

"No, but I think they know what it contains--in principle."

"Who was it? Do you know where they came from?"

Jasmine shook her head. "Nope. That's the weird thing. It wasn't one of the key Triad regions. The signal didn't come from either Europe, the Far East, or the United States."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

"Can you find out any more?"

"Not really, no. I've told Jack but he can't understand it either. All the big insurance companies and rival bio-tech companies that might want to sniff around our databases are in the Triad. It doesn't make sense."

Tom rubbed his temples. He didn't even want to think of the implications of this data getting into the hands of insurance companies, or the press, or..."How about the authorities?"

Jasmine shook her head. "No. This was three hours ago. If it was them, then they'd already be breathing down our necks."

"So who do you think it might be?"

"Don't know. Might just be a lone hacker fooling around. But it doesn't feel like that. I got the distinct impression that whoever it was knew exactly what they were looking for. Anyway, I've battened down the hatches, and I'll keep a closer watch on it."

"What happens if they try again?"

"They won't get in. That isn't the issue. The issue is whatever else they might do now they know what we have. Anyway, there is some good news. The Gene Genie software is looking great."

Tom smiled at that. "Excellent. Well done. The moment you're happy it's glitch-free let Karen Tanner at the Bureau know."

"What about your bad news? The experiment didn't work out?"

He led Jasmine back to the animal lab and gestured to Nora's laptop. "Have a look for yourself."

Nora made way as Jasmine moved to the screen.

"It bombed," said Bob Cooke.

Tom watched silently, as Jasmine scrolled down the screen, studying the base data.

"What's this?" she said suddenly, pointing to a zero in the tumor count column.

He bent to take a closer look.

Nora peered at where Jasmine's fingertip met the screen. "Mouse C370 had no mets. It was completely clear." The lab technician sounded puzzled.

"Is that significant?" asked Jasmine.

Bob Cooke shrugged. "Perhaps the original cancer cells didn't take."

Nora's frown deepened further. "No, I remember C370, because it definitely had metastases, but they were necrotic." She looked at Jasmine. "Dead."

"A fluke?" asked Bob, turning to Tom.

"Some fluke," said Jasmine, pointing at the "No" in the righthand column. "This mouse was in the control group. It only received a syringe of saltwater. Yet it managed to cure itself."

Nora flashed Tom a quizzical look. "Spontaneous remission?"

A flicker of excitement cut through Tom's gloom. He'd never experienced complete spontaneous remission firsthand before, either in the laboratory or on the ward. It was extremely rare, well documented but rare. No one understood or had ever satisfactorily explained how for no apparent reason some people's immune system suddenly decided to rid itself of cancer. Medical literature abounded with these untreated cures, but no medical explanation.

He turned to Bob Cooke. "Did you by any chance take a DNA reading before the experiment?"

"'Fraid not. It's not part of the protocol. Why do you ask?"

Tom wasn't exactly sure, but he felt an idea begin to form in his head. "Perhaps we can find a clue why this particular mouse got well. If we could compare its precan cer cells with its cancer cells and its 'cured' postcancer cells we might be able to identify the sequence of genetic code that was responsible for the natural remission. So far we've spent all our time trying to impose a theoretical 'test tube' solution. Why don't we instead look at the rare solution that already exists in nature, and try to replicate it?" He looked for feedback from the team and could see Bob and Nora nodding thoughtfully.

Jasmine looked at Tom for a moment, a small frown creasing her smooth forehead. "But how can you be sure the answer's even scientific?"

"What else could explain it? Faith? Mind over matter? Come on, Jazz."

"Why not?" said Jasmine. "Many unexplained cures are attributed to faith. When I was a kid, the only holiday my parents ever took to Europe was to Lourdes with my sick aunt Angela."