Crime Zero (aka the Crime Code) (1999)

by Cordy, Michael

  "Let's focus on the main things we've got to do," said Kathy. She turned to the two USAMRIID scientists working on the laptop. One was a large, quiet man with a thick red beard named Floyd Harte. The other, Rose Patterson, was a slim black woman with huge eyes and an intellect to match. "For the base vaccine we've got to concentrate on developing antisense oligonucleotides to block Crime Zero's genetic instructions. And yes, that's going to take time. But I still say Alice may have developed one already. She usually did. Once the IT boys have got Gold clearance for TITANIA we can look for the code there. We might find a shortcut."

  Kathy looked at Jim Balke. "And when we think of how to distribute this vaccine to the world, we shouldn't assume it has to be via a syringe injected individually into every person. What we need to do is fight fire with fire. We need to develop a viral vector that spreads the vaccine for us."

  "Yes, that might work," said Al Schlossberg suddenly, turning to his twin, Mel. Johns Hopkins-educated virologists, both were six feet four inches tall with dark, curly hair, round steel-rimmed glasses, and prominent Adam's apples. Out of their more usual greens they wore matching bow ties. They were rarely seen apart and were brilliant enough to prove the maxim that two heads were better than one.

  Mel seemed to muse on what Al was saying. "Yes, it could, but we'd need to..."

  Al nodded. "Of course, but if we . . ."

  "Yes, that might do it," replied Mel. Both spoke in deadpan voices and assumed that everyone else was privy to their seemingly telepathic mutterings.

  "What might work?" Bibb muttered in frustration.

  "Well," said Al, as if talking about the weather, "we know that Crime Zero Phase Three uses a toughened influenza orthomyxoviridae virus, genera A, subtype H2N28, carrying the H2 and N28 antigens on its spikes."

  "It's a good choice for a vector"--his twin seamlessly continued--"because this genus is most often associated with serious epidemics and killer pandemics. Its drop nuclei are less than four microns in diameter and will remain suspended in the air for hours after being expelled."

  Al resumed. "Its viral resistance to drying has been improved, so it will keep moist in aerosolized droplets for longer even than the robust measles virus." He paused. "So what we need to do is find or develop a vector with even better infectious properties, in order to spread our vaccine through the population as fast as possible. Then in the same way as Crime Zero spreads disease, we can get people to spread the vaccine."

  "But I still don't see how we're going to be able to make enough of it," moaned Jim Balke. He was clearly worried how his two large but by no means infinite production facilities at the north of the ViroVector campus were going to produce what was needed.

  "But, Jim, that's the whole point," said Kathy. "What we must do is create an infectious vector that distributes itself, a contagious cure if you like. Crime Zero is spreading via the population. To have any chance of combating it, we must make the cure do the same. So the absolute amount we produce won't need to be vast so long as the vector is both extremely fast and extremely efficient. If the Crime Zero flu vector is a family car, then our vaccine will need to be a Ferrari."

  Kathy paused then and checked the notes on the table in front of her. She had to quell a surge of panic when she saw the number of stages they had to cover in order to reach a so-lution--if they could even develop an antidote in the first place. But she forced herself to sound positive. "Once we have a vaccine and a vector, we'll have to splice them together to form a viable vaccine. Once we have that and Jim's ensured we can scale up production, we need to get it out there."

  Kathy turned to Tom Allardyce. "Obviously your people will be helping with the early stages, but your expertise is vital for the weaponization part of the process."

  "Understood," Allardyce said. "We are already selecting a cohort of infected volunteers for testing the mass-produced cure. And in conjunction with the British, Israelis, and Russians we're working on the logistics of spreading the vaccine once we have the go-ahead. It will obviously be dependent on what you guys come up with, but we are already exploring everything from bomblet and warhead design and production to aircraft availability and weather patterns. But rest assured of one thing: If you can come up with the vaccine, we'll get it out there."

  Kathy nodded, trying to look as confident as he did. That was the damned problem. They had to come up with the cure. She opened the laptop in front of her and began to type in the main action points. "OK, if the USAMRIID team of Rose and Floyd focus with me on the antisense vaccine, Sharon and Al and Mel can focus on finding a vector. The production issues are with Jim, and Tom has responsibility for the weaponization logistics." She looked around the room, and everyone nodded. "OK, I propose that we remeet every six hours to discuss progress and share problems. Anything else?"

  "One thing," said Allardyce, "what are we going to call this?"

  Floyd Harte, the quiet USAMRIID scientist, raised a hesitant arm like a child in class. "The way I see it, men all over the world are now effectively on death row. Some have got an earlier execution date than others, but they're all going to be dead in three years. What we're trying to do here is get them a reprieve."

  Everyone nodded.

  "Well then," said Kathy, typing her notes of the meeting into her laptop, "that's what we'll call it: Project Reprieve."

  Chapter 40.

  The Fairview Hotel, Fisherman's Wharf, SanFrancisco.Monday, November 10, 9:18 A.M.

  Billy Caruso watched the woman open the swinging doors, enter the gloomy hotel lobby, and walk across the faded, threadbare carpet toward him. Already he was checking her out. Billy was one of life's spectators and proud of it. In his forty-two years, boy and man, Billy had seen all of life pass through his family's small hotel, the underbelly of life anyway. Nothing shocked him anymore, and he prided himself on knowing a person's story just by looking at him.

  He divided his clientele into two: those who paid for rooms by the hour--mostly hookers and their johns--and those who stayed longer, often much longer. One guy--said his name was Frank Smith, not that Billy cared--stayed almost a month in room 11. Then early last Tuesday morning Billy had woken to the screeching of tires, followed by three gunshots. Billy knew when to stay out of sight and hadn't called the police or anything. The next morning he'd shown no surprise when he'd found a large wiseguy waiting at the checkout with a bundle of dollars. "Mr. Smith's checked out," the guy said, handing over the wad. "His room needs a cleaning."

  The thing is Billy had known from first looking at "Mr. Smith" that he was on the lam from the mob. Everything about him cried it: the bulging sports bag, the dark glasses, the smell of booze, and the shaking hands. But it was when the glasses came off and Billy saw the man's eyes that he'd known the man was living on borrowed time. They were scared eyes, and they looked half dead already.

  Watching the woman approach, Billy took another Chiclet from the package on the scratched check-in desk and began chewing the gum. Billy rarely drank, never took drugs, and only took a hooker when his wife was out of town, which was rarer than hearing the pope fart. Billy got his kicks from watching life, not living it. It was safer.

  "So, how can I help you?" he asked with a smile. Like his mama always said, manners don't cost nothing.

  "I need a room."

  He studied her closely. She'd dyed her hair a kind of copper color, but her dark roots showed through underneath. She was tall and skinny, and that helped disguise her age. Could be anything from forty to sixty. She wore a lightweight cardigan over a long floral dress. She carried a fully packed green tote bag in her right hand. She wore an obligatory pair of dark glasses. Billy reckoned that at least 80 percent of his clientele wore dark glasses. Which was kind of weird, considering how gloomy his lobby was.

  "Staying long?" he asked, already guessing the noncommittal answer.

  "Just a few days." Her voice sounded shaky.

  "Name?"

  "Simone Gibson."

  Yeah, right, thought Bi
lly, and he was Martin Luther King.

  "How you paying?" Again he knew she'd say cash. And as he guessed she would, she reached into her bag and immediately pulled out some bills to give to him. Her hands trembled as she handed over the money. She seemed desperate to get to the room. He guessed that if he rolled up one of those cardigan sleeves, he would find a network of needle holes. A strung-out junkie, probably an old pro on the run from her pimp.

  Now that he had guessed her story Billy lost interest, idly wondering how soon it would take her pimp to find her. Or whether she was too old for him to bother.

  "Room eleven," he said, handing over the key, guessing that she wouldn't notice the stain on the rug. If she complained, he'd just tell her it was ketchup. Picking another Chiclet and popping it in his mouth, he hoped the next guest would provide more of a challenge. Some people were too damn obvious.

  As soon as Madeline Naylor entered room 11, she locked the door behind her and wedged it shut with one of the chairs. Not bothering to unpack, she opened the tote bag and set up her laptop on the rickety desk by the window. She had stored the car and the black biological space suit she'd taken off the FBI ninja at the airport in a long-term garage.

  It took her two minutes to plug the matte black laptop into both the power and phone sockets, switch it on, and dial TI-TANIA's access number. She didn't bother to use her Gold clearance code in case it had been closed down or Mc-Cloud's people were monitoring. Instead she carefully tapped ten keys in the correct order, opening an electronic back door Alice often used to get into TITANIA, giving access to all files. It was doubtful the FBI IT people would ever find this, and even if they did, they couldn't use it to trace her.

  On the laptop screen a list of options suddenly appeared against a turquoise background. Ghosted into the background like a watermark was the ViroVector logo.

  Quickly she clicked the search icon at the top of the screen. She had to find the file quickly in case Kathy Kerr and the others had managed to get in. She still couldn't believe Alice had done this and not told her about it.

  She typed "Crime Zero Antidote" into the search box.

  Within seconds a response came back from TITANIA. One file found on secure X drive. Entitled "Crime Zero Phase 3 Modified Antisense Construct."

  Naylor smiled. She could see her face reflected in the turquoise screen. Fingers dancing on the keys and trackball, she answered the necessary queries and carried out her command. The urgent task had been done.

  Next she called up the ViroVector plans. A map of the site appeared on-screen, showing all above and below ground facilities, including access tunnels.

  After clicking the personnel icon, she saw a list itemizing everybody on-site. A large proportion had the prefix "visitor," and Naylor guessed that many were agents drafted in to secure the building. Later she could cross-reference some of the names with the FBI personnel database. It would be vital to identify exactly whom she was up against. Using the trackball, she selected two names on the list: Kathy Kerr and Luke Decker. Kerr flashed red, and Decker green. Then she clicked the location icon.

  There was a pause as TITANIA checked her door sensor records. Then a red dot flashed on the plan in the outer circle of the underground lab facility. While Naylor watched, the dot moved into the center of the rings as Kerr made her way through the doors toward the Womb. It gave Naylor a sense of power to follow the movements of her prey.

  The green dot flashed deep underground below the biolab complex. This dot wasn't moving. Decker was in the Level 4 BioSafety containment hospital. Watching those two flashing dots crystalized Naylor's mission and the reason why she couldn't flee and sit out the coming years of transition. To protect Crime Zero, she had to extinguish both those dots.

  But for now she must rest. She stood and moved across to the bed. It was uncomfortable, but she didn't care. Using the TV remote on the bedside table, she clicked on to CNN. Onscreen a man stood before a crowd of jubilant women waving placards. Most of the women wore T-shirts with slogans such as "Womankind ManUnkind" and "The Fairer Sex Is the Only Sex" printed on them.

  The male reporter was saying: "With concern growing that the so-called Peace Plague has spread beyond Iraq, some factions in the U.S. actually welcome the disease, hoping it spreads to our shores. So far all documented deaths have been male, and some women's groups now see this as a final reckoning for all the centuries of what they term 'male tyranny.' "

  Naylor shook her head. "Oh, Alice, why did you have to go do it?" she said. A wave of sadness flowed through her.

  As she thought of her friend, she watched the women begin to chant on-screen. When they put aside their petty allegiances to a particular lover or family member, every woman secretly agreed that men were expendable. Deep down they all knew that everything evil in the world came from men; they just didn't want to admit it. "Ali, everyone would have understood. You would have been a heroine."

  Naylor's eyelids were heavy, but she was at least resolved on a course of action. When she had rested and made the necessary preparations, she would destroy the only remaining threats to Crime Zero. Then the world could start using its energies to build a new future rather than fight to preserve its diseased past.

  Chapter 41.

  ViroVector Solutions, Palo Alto. Thursday, November 13, 2:06 P.M.

  Kathy Kerr stared at the blank screen, unable to believe her eyes. "What do you mean it's been deleted?"

  Louis Stransky, the tech agent working on TITANIA, gave a pained shrug. "Like I said, Kathy. We've got Gold clearance. TITANIA's ours now. But the file's gone. There was one there, though, because Alice Prince made a directory. Still, it's not there now."

  Kathy's shoulders slumped as she sat in front of the screen in the Level 1 conference room. She'd hardly slept for days, using the bunk provided in the dome upstairs to snatch only an hour or two. Since Monday she, Harte, and Patterson had been trying to sequence and understand the instructions carried by Crime Zero. Only once this was done could they define and build a safe vaccine. But the more they ran the complex iterations on the Genescope, the more Kathy realized that they would need more time, a lot more time.

  Secretly she had been banking on Alice Prince's vaccine. Knowing her methods, Kathy had thought it would only be a question of finding it. When Stransky had called her in the Womb to tell her he'd gained control of TITANIA's Gold clearance, she had been convinced the search was over. But it wasn't. The file had been deleted, and Kathy didn't know where else to look for a shortcut. The only approach left was to continue the painstaking processes required to build a safe antisense construct from scratch, all the time knowing that tens of millions of men would be dying as the time passed.

  "Do we know who deleted it? Or when?"

  Stransky shook his head. "Nope. It was a complete delete, no trace. But it had to have been recent, or the empty directory would have been automatically deleted too. If you're thinking about Madeline Naylor, I've canceled her Gold clearance, so she shouldn't be able to get in now."

  An urgent beeping suddenly sounded, but Kathy was so lost in her thoughts that she barely noticed it.

  Stransky said, "Aren't you going to check that?"

  "What?"

  "It's your pager."

  Blankly she reached down to her waistband and the pager attached there. She peered at the liquid crystal display and read the words typed there. For a moment her mood lifted.

  Decker was finally awake.

  Biosafety Level 4 Hospital, ViroVector Solutions.

  2:21 P.M.

  He had been buried alive. He was about to be reborn.

  In the gloom, through the translucent nightmarish walls, he could see white ghosts staring in at him. The rushing in his ears sounded like his own blood flowing in his veins. The smell of chemicals and disinfectant hung in the air.

  He was one of his father's embalmed victims, imprisoned in some transparent underground prison. That was why he felt so much pain, why his whole body ached.

  He tu
rned to his left but found it difficult to move. He was wired up to a series of beeping chrome instruments and monitors. The rushing sound came from an air pipe to the right of his head. He rolled over and was rewarded with excruciating shooting pains down his left side, which rose above the general ache enveloping his whole body. The pain in his chest took his breath away, leaving him gasping as if he'd been rescued from drowning.

  The pain helped clear his head, helped him focus. He was in a bed enclosed in a plastic bubble. To his left inserted in the plastic wall was a pair of reversible gloves, his sole contact with the outside world.

  The bed was the only one in a small, featureless room. The white ghost floated to his left, just out of his peripheral vision. Then it stepped closer to him and smiled through a glass faceplate. It told him in a strange distant voice that he was OK and that he should rest.

  But it wasn't a ghost at all. It was a woman in a white space suit. Why was she in a suit? Why was he in here?

  With a groan he compared this dark, surreal waking with all the times he used to wake in Matty's home. No bright sunlight crept in here. He wondered for a moment if he'd ever see the sun rise again. However hard he listened, he couldn't conjure up the sound of his grandfather's violin; he heard only the rasping rhythm of the bed's air pump and the dull beep of instruments.

  Despite this, he felt a strange sense of well-being. Like water settling in a pond, his disturbed mind became clearer. He slowly remembered fragments of what had happened: the airport, Alice Prince, the amulet around her neck, and the fall. But there was something else, something more important, that his fractured memory was edging toward.