Timeline. Part 3

"Well, thank you very much, Officer Wauneka," Gordon said into the cell phone. "We'll make all the arrangements. Yes. We'll do that immediately. Thank you again." Gordon flipped the phone shut, and turned to Doniger. "Traub's dead, and they've identified his body."

"Where?"

"Gallup. That was a cop calling from the ER."

"What do they think he died of?"

"They don't know. They think ma.s.sive cardiac arrest. But there was a problem with his fingers. A circulatory problem. They're going to do an autopsy. It's required by law."

Doniger waved his hand, a gesture of irritable dismissal. "Big f.u.c.king deal. The autopsy won't show anything. Traub had transcription errors. They'll never figure it out. Why are you wasting my time with this s.h.i.t?"

"One of your employees just died, Bob," Gordon said.

"That's true," Doniger said coldly. "And you know what? There's f.u.c.k all I can do about it. I feel sorry. Oh me oh my. Send some flowers. Just handle it, okay?"

At moments like this, Gordon would take a deep breath, and remind himself that Doniger was no different from most other aggressive young entrepreneurs. He would remind himself that behind the sarcasm, Doniger was nearly always right. And he would remind himself that in any case, Doniger had behaved this way all his life.

Robert Doniger had shown early signs of genius, taking up engineering textbooks while still in grade school. By the time he was nine, he could fix any electronic appliance-a radio, or a TV-fiddling with the vacuum tubes and wires until he got it working. When his mother expressed concern that he would electrocute himself, he told her, "Don't be an idiot." And when his favorite grandmother died, a dry-eyed Doniger informed his mother that the old lady still owed him twenty-seven dollars, and he expected her to make good on it.

After graduating summa c.u.m laude in physics from Stanford at the age of eighteen, Doniger had gone to Fermilab, near Chicago. He quit after six months, telling the director of the lab that "particle physics is for jerkoffs." He returned to Stanford, where he worked in what he regarded as a more promising area: superconducting magnetism.

This was a time when scientists of all sorts were leaving the university to start companies to exploit their discoveries. Doniger left after a year to found TechGate, a company that made the components for precision chip etching that Doniger had invented in pa.s.sing. When Stanford protested that he'd made these discoveries while working at the lab, Doniger said, "If you've got a problem, sue me. Otherwise shut up."

It was at TechGate that Doniger's harsh management style became famous. During meetings with his scientists, he'd sit in the corner, tipped precariously back in his chair, firing off questions. "What about this?" "Why aren't you doing that?" "What's the reason for this?" If the answer satisfied him, he'd say, "Maybe...." That was the highest praise anyone ever got from Doniger. But if he didn't like the answer-and he usually didn't-he'd snarl, "Are you brain-dead?" "Do you aspire aspire to be an idiot?" "Do you want to die stupid?" "You're not even a half-wit." When really annoyed, he threw pencils and notebooks, and screamed, "a.s.sholes! You're all f.u.c.king a.s.sholes!" to be an idiot?" "Do you want to die stupid?" "You're not even a half-wit." When really annoyed, he threw pencils and notebooks, and screamed, "a.s.sholes! You're all f.u.c.king a.s.sholes!"

TechGate employees put up with the tantrums of "Death March Doniger" because he was a brilliant physicist, better than they were; because he knew the problems his teams were facing; and because his criticisms were invariably on point. Unpleasant as it was, this stinging style worked; TechGate made remarkable advances in two years.

In 1984, he sold his company for a hundred million dollars. That same year, Time Time magazine listed him as one of fifty people under the age of twenty-five "who will shape the rest of the century." The list also included Bill Gates and Steve Jobs. magazine listed him as one of fifty people under the age of twenty-five "who will shape the rest of the century." The list also included Bill Gates and Steve Jobs.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n it," Doniger said, turning to Gordon. "Do I have to do everything myself? Jesus. Where did they find Traub?"

"In the desert. On the Navajo reservation."

"Where, exactly exactly?"

"All I know is, ten miles north of Corazon. Apparently there's not much out there."

"All right," Doniger said. "Then get Baretto from security to drive Traub's car out to Corazon, and leave it in the desert. Puncture a tire and walk away."

Diane Kramer cleared her throat. She was dark-haired, in her early thirties, dressed in a black suit. "I don't know about that, Bob," she said, in her best lawyerly tone. "You're tampering with evidence-"

"Of course I'm tampering with evidence! That's the whole point! Somebody's going to ask how Traub got out there. So leave his car for them to find."

"But we don't know exactly where-"

"It doesn't matter exactly where. Just do it."

"That means Baretto plus somebody else knows about this...."

"And who gives a d.a.m.n? n.o.body. Just do it, Diane."

There was a short silence. Kramer stared at the floor, frowning, clearly still unhappy.

"Look," Doniger said, turning to Gordon. "You remember when Garman was going to get the contract and my old company wasn't? You remember the press leak?"

"I remember," Gordon said.

"You were so worried about it," Doniger said, smirking. He explained to Kramer: "Garman was a fat pig. Then he lost a lot of weight because his wife put him on a diet. We leaked that Garman had inoperable cancer and his company was going to fold. He denied it, but n.o.body believed him, because of the way he looked. We got the contract. I sent a big basket of fruit to his wife." He laughed. "But the point is, n.o.body ever traced the leak to us. All's fair, Diane. Business is business. Get the G.o.dd.a.m.n car out in the desert."

She nodded, but she was still looking at the floor.

"And then," Doniger said, "I want to know how the h.e.l.l Traub got into the transit room in the first place. Because he'd already made too many trips, and he had acc.u.mulated too many transcription defects. He was past his limit. He wasn't supposed to make any more trips. He wasn't cleared for transit. We have a lot of security around that room. So how'd he get in?"

"We think he had a maintenance clearance, to work on the machines," Kramer said. "He waited until evening, between shifts, and took a machine. But we're checking all that now."

"I don't want you to check check it," Doniger said sarcastically. "I want you to it," Doniger said sarcastically. "I want you to fix fix it, Diane." it, Diane."

"We'll fix it, Bob."

"You better, G.o.dd.a.m.n it," Doniger said. "Because this company now faces three significant problems. And Traub is the least of them. The other two are major. Ultra, ultra, major."

Doniger had always had a gift for the long view. Back in 1984, he had sold TechGate because he foresaw that computer chips were going to "hit the wall." At the time, this seemed nonsensical. Computer chips were doubling in power every eighteen months, while the cost was halved. But Doniger recognized that these advances were made by cramming components closer and closer together on the chip. It couldn't go on forever. Eventually, circuits would be so densely packed that the chips would melt from the heat. This implied an upper limit on computer power. Doniger knew that society would demand ever more raw computational power, but he didn't see any way to accomplish it.

Frustrated, he returned to an earlier interest, superconducting magnetism. He started a second company, Advanced Magnetics, which owned several patents essential for the new Magnetic Resonance Imaging machines that were starting to revolutionize medicine. Advanced Magnetics was paid a quarter of a million dollars in royalties for every MRI machine made. It was "a cash cow," Doniger once said, "and about as interesting as milking a cow." Bored and seeking new challenges, he sold out in 1988. He was then twenty-eight years old, and worth a billion dollars. But in his view, he had yet to make his mark.

The following year, 1989, he started ITC.

One of Doniger's heroes was the physicist Richard Feynman. In the early eighties, Feynman had speculated that it might be possible to build a computer using the quantum attributes of atoms. Theoretically, such a "quantum computer" would be billions and billions of times more powerful than any computer ever made. But Feynman's idea implied a genuinely new technology-a technology that had to be built from scratch, a technology that changed all the rules. Because n.o.body could see a practical way to build a quantum computer, Feynman's idea was soon forgotten.

But not by Doniger.

In 1989, Doniger set out to build the first quantum computer. The idea was so radical-and so risky-that he never publicly announced his intention. He blandly named his new company ITC, for International Technology Corporation. He set up his main offices in Geneva, drawing from the pool of physicists working at CERN.

For several years afterward, nothing was heard from Doniger, or his company. People a.s.sumed he had retired, if they thought of him at all. It was, after all, common for prominent high-tech entrepreneurs to drop from view, after they had made their fortunes.

In 1994, Time Time magazine made a list of twenty-five people under the age of forty who were shaping our world. Robert Doniger was not among them. No one cared; no one remembered. magazine made a list of twenty-five people under the age of forty who were shaping our world. Robert Doniger was not among them. No one cared; no one remembered.

That same year he moved ITC back to the United States, establishing a laboratory facility in Black Rock, New Mexico, one hour north of Albuquerque. A thoughtful observer might have noticed that he had again moved to a location with a pool of available physicists. But there were no observers, thoughtful or otherwise.

So no one noticed when during the 1990s, ITC grew steadily in size. More labs were built on the New Mexico site; more physicists were hired. Doniger's board of directors grew from six to twelve. All were CEOs of companies that had invested in ITC, or venture capitalists. All had signed draconian nondisclosure agreements requiring them to post a significant personal bond in escrow, to submit to a polygraph test on request, and to allow ITC to tap their phones without notice. In addition, Doniger demanded a minimum investment of $300 million. That was, he explained arrogantly, the cost of a seat on the board. "You want to know what I'm up to, you want to be a part of what we're doing here, it's a third of a billion dollars. Take it or leave it. I don't give a d.a.m.n either way."

But of course he did. ITC had a fearsome burn rate: they had gone through more than $3 billion in the last nine years. And Doniger knew he was going to need more.

"Problem number one," Doniger said. "Our capitalization. We'll need another billion before we see daylight." He nodded toward the boardroom. "They won't come up with it. I have to get them to approve three new board members."

Gordon said, "That's a tough sell, in that room."

"I know it is," Doniger said. "They see the burn rate, and they want to know when it ends. They want to see concrete results. And that's what I am going to give them today."

"What concrete results?"

" A victory," Doniger said. "These dips.h.i.ts are going to need a victory. Some exciting news about one of the projects."

Kramer sucked in her breath. Gordon said, "Bob, the projects are all long-term."

"One of them must be nearing completion. Say, the Dordogne?"

"It's not. I don't advise this approach."

"And I need a victory," Doniger said. "Professor Johnston has been out there in France with his Yalies for three years on our nickel. We ought to have something to show for it."

"Not yet, Bob. Anyway, we don't have all the land."

"We have enough of the land."

"Bob ..."

"Diane will go. She can pressure them nicely."

"Professor Johnston won't like it."

"I'm sure Diane can handle Johnston."

One of the a.s.sistants opened the door to the conference room and looked into the hall. Doniger said, "In a G.o.dd.a.m.n minute!" But he immediately began walking toward the door.

He looked back at them over his shoulder and said, "Just do it!" And then he went into the room and closed the door.

Gordon walked with Kramer down the corridor. Her high heels clicked on the floor. Gordon glanced down and saw that beneath the very correct and corporate black Jil Sander suit, she was wearing black slingback heels. It was the cla.s.sic Kramer look: seductive and unattainable at the same time.

Gordon said, "Did you know about this before?"

She nodded. "But not for long. He told me an hour ago."

Gordon said nothing. He suppressed his irritation. Gordon had been with Doniger for twelve years now, since Advanced Magnetics days. At ITC, he had run a major industrial research operation on two continents, employing dozens of physicists, chemists, computer scientists. He'd had to teach himself about superconducting metals, fractal compression, quantum qubits, and high-flow ion exchange. He'd been up to his neck in theoretical physicists-the very worst kind-and yet milestones were reached; development was on schedule; cost overruns were manageable. But despite his success, Doniger still never really confided in him.

Kramer, on the other hand, had always enjoyed a special relationship with Doniger. She had begun as an attorney in an outside law firm, doing work for the company. Doniger thought she was smart and cla.s.sy, so he hired her. She was his girlfriend for the next year, and even though that was long over, he still listened to her. She'd been able to head off several potential disasters over the years.

"For ten years," Gordon said, "we've kept this technology quiet. When you think about it, it's a miracle. Traub was the first incident to get away from us. Fortunately, it ended up in the hands of some doofus cop, and it won't go any further. But if Doniger starts pushing in France, people might start to put things together. We've already got that reporter in Paris chasing us. Bob could blow this wide open."

"I know he's considered all that. That's the second big problem."

"Going public?"

"Yes. Having it all come out."

"He's not worried?"

"Yes, he's worried. But he seems to have a plan to deal with it."

"I hope so," Gordon said. "Because we can't always count on having a doofus cop sifting through our dirty laundry."

Officer James Wauneka came into McKinley Hospital the next morning, looking for Beverly Tsosie. He thought he would check the autopsy results on the old guy who had died. But they told him that Beverly had gone up to the third-floor Imaging Unit. So he went up there.

He found her in a small beige room adjacent to the white scanner. She was talking to Calvin Chee, the MRI technician. He was sitting at the computer console, flicking black-and-white images up, one after another. The images showed five round circles in a row. As Chee ran through the images, the circles got smaller and smaller.

"Calvin," she was saying. "It's impossible. It has to be an artifact."

"You ask me to review the data," he said, "and then you don't believe me? I'm telling you, Bev, it's not an artifact. It's real. Here, look at the other hand."

Chee tapped the keyboard, and now a horizontal oval appeared on the screen, with five pale circles inside it. "Okay? This is the palm of the left hand, seen in a midsection cut." He turned to Wauneka. "Pretty much what you'd see if you put your hand on a butcher block and chopped straight down through it."

"Very nice, Calvin."

"Well, I want everybody to be clear."

He turned back to the screen. "Okay, landmarks. Five round circles are the five palmar bones. These things here are tendons going to the fingers. Remember, the muscles that work the hand are mostly in the forearm. Okay. That little circle is the radial artery, which brings blood to the hand through the wrist. Okay. Now, we move outward from the wrist, in cut sections." The images changed. The oval grew narrower, and one by one, the bones pulled apart, like an amoeba dividing. Now there were four circles. "Okay. Now we're out past the palm, and we see only the fingers. Small arteries within each finger, dividing as we go out, getting smaller, but you can still see them. See, here and here? Okay. Now moving out toward the fingertips, the bones get larger, that's the proximal digit, the knuckle ... and now ... watch the arteries, see how they go ... section by section ... and now now."

Wauneka frowned. "It looks like a glitch. Like something jumped."

"Something did did jump," Chee said. "The arterioles are offset. They don't line up. I'll show you again." He went to the previous section, then the next. It was clear-the circles of the tiny arteries seemed to hop sideways. "That's why the guy had gangrene in his fingers. He had no circulation because his arterioles didn't line up. It's like a mismatch or something." jump," Chee said. "The arterioles are offset. They don't line up. I'll show you again." He went to the previous section, then the next. It was clear-the circles of the tiny arteries seemed to hop sideways. "That's why the guy had gangrene in his fingers. He had no circulation because his arterioles didn't line up. It's like a mismatch or something."

Beverly shook her head. "Calvin."

"I'm telling you. And not only that, it's other places in his body, too. Like in the heart. Guy died of ma.s.sive coronary? No surprise, because the ventricular walls don't line up, either."

"From old scar tissue," she said, shaking her head. "Calvin, come on. He was seventy-one years old. Whatever was wrong with his heart, it worked for more than seventy years. Same with his hands. If this arteriole offset was actually present, his fingers would have dropped off years ago. But they didn't. Anyway, this was a new injury; it got worse while he was in the hospital."

"So what are you going to tell me, the machine is wrong?"

"It has to be. Isn't it true that you can get registration errors from hardware? And there are sometimes bugs in scaling software?"

"I checked the machine, Bev. It's fine."