Eleven Numbers

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Nathan Tyler was warned three times on the morning of his departure. The first time was by email. He read the message on his phone, before he got out of bed. It was from the airline. The words were boxed inside the same cheerful graphic as the meal selection and the Wi-Fi options the day before. But now the tone was dour. The State Department has determined that due to escalating international tensions, travel to your destination may not be safe and is not advised. Then, as if concerned, or pretending to be, the airline had added: Passengers wishing to change, delay or cancel their plans may do so at no additional cost.

The second warning was the exact same thing, from the airline again, but this time by text message, thirty minutes later, with Tyler already showered and on his second cup of coffee. The State Department. The same words. But no graphic glamour this time. Just black letters on a gray block. May not be safe and is not advised.

The third warning was a live phone call, not from the government, but from Tyler’s head of department at the university. Once a mentor, now a friend, but still his boss. His name was Ferguson, and he said, “You must be crazy.”

Tyler said, “It’s a math conference.”

“In Moscow.”

“Well, that’s where it is this year.”

“So go next year. You never went before. Why make this your first time?”

“Because they’re doing good work there. And some of them won’t travel. You know how it is. Where else will I get the chance to meet them?”

“It’s dangerous.”

“You went to a conference in Moscow. You wrote a paper about it.”

“It was safe back then.”

“Russians respect math,” Tyler said. “They value it. They revere it, deep down. That was your conclusion. So it doesn’t matter what else is going on. The conference will be a little island of common sense, amid all the bullshit. Plus I’m a nobody from nowhere. No one will notice me. I bet they don’t even bug my room. They’ll save that for the guys from Stanford and MIT.”

“This is not a joke.”

Tyler paused a beat.

“I know,” he said. “I watch the news. The timing is not ideal, I agree. But this is math. It’s a hotel full of rational people. Nothing bad will happen.”

“You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself,” Ferguson said.

In fact Tyler had been trying to convince himself for a whole week, more or less exactly to the minute. Seven days before, he was out of the shower, on his second cup of coffee, when his phone rang. On the line was the chief of public safety at the university. Their own police department. Bigger than the neighboring town’s. The top dog on the phone. She asked, “Is that Professor Tyler?”

He confirmed it was, and she told him she had a caller on the line. Someone who wanted to speak with him urgently. She said she had followed all the verification protocols required by the university, and she was satisfied the caller was genuine.

Tyler asked, “Who is it?”

He got no answer. Just a click on the line, then a buzz, then a hum, then a voice, which asked, “Is that Professor Tyler?”

He said it was.

The voice said, “This is the chief of staff’s office, at the White House.”

“What?” Tyler said.

“Washington, DC,” the voice said. “The White House. The chief of staff’s office.”

“OK.”

“I am required to inform you that you must regard this conversation, and any subsequent conversations we may have, as classified at the very highest level. These conversations must not be repeated, revealed, divulged, described, or even alluded to in any way at all. These conversations never existed. They never happened. Do you understand, sir?”

“I guess,” Tyler said.

“Sir, was that a yes or a no?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“I am further required to inform you there are federal laws and regulations that impose severe penalties for betrayal of classified information, up to and including life imprisonment.”

“I understand,” Tyler said again. “But what is this? Have I done something wrong?”

“No sir,” the voice said. “Quite the opposite. We’d like your help with something.”

“My help? Seriously? What have I got that the White House wants? Are you sure you’re talking to the right guy?”

“Yes, sir, we’re sure.”

“So what is this about?”

The voice said a black car would arrive at his door in thirty minutes, and he was to get in the back.

The black car arrived dead on time, driven by a silent woman in a dark suit. She drove Tyler forty comfortable miles to the private aviation terminal at the county’s regional airport. Behind a chain-link fence was a gaggle of propeller-driven hobby planes, and behind them was a business jet with its engines running. Its door was open and its stairs were down. The car drove in through a sliding gate and stopped ten feet from the plane.

“Is this for me?” Tyler asked.

“Yes, sir,” the woman said. The first words she had spoken. “They’re expecting you.”

Tyler climbed out of the car and walked to the stairs. Three paces. He stepped up. He held the thin chrome rail. His experience of flying was about the same as any other junior academic, which was to say fairly extensive, but all of it work related and coach class. Normally he boarded by group number, through a jet bridge jammed with shuffling people.

At the top of the stairs a man was waiting. Dark suit, standing by like a flight attendant.

Tyler stopped, and took a nervous breath.

He said, “I won’t get on board until I know where I’m going, and why.”

The man said, “Maryland.”

“Where in Maryland?”

“Joint Base Andrews.”

“Is that Andrews Air Force Base?”

“As was.”

“Why am I going there?”

“I have no information on that subject.”

“Not enough,” Tyler said. “I want to know why.”

“It’s called need-to-know. Basic security. This is a classified operation. We’re not even filing a flight plan. This trip doesn’t exist. They had to tell me where to take you, but they were never going to tell me why.”

“OK,” Tyler said. Which it was. Need-to-know. Logical and rational. He said, “But your orders can’t end with just dumping me on the apron and flying away again. Who are you handing me over to? You must know that.”

The man said, “You’ll be met by the Secret Service. I assume they know your next move. But I don’t. That’s how it works.”

Tyler took a seat, and the man who hadn’t really answered his questions hauled the stairs up and leaned on levers until the door sucked shut with a pressure Tyler felt in his ears. The man pointed out a small refrigerated drawer and said there were soft drinks in it. Snacks in the drawer below. Then he moved up front and Tyler saw him climb into the pilot’s seat. Not a flight attendant after all. Which made sense. Need-to-know. Why involve extra people?

Tyler’s seat was a plump version of what he imagined were installed in Italian sports cars. The leather was buttery. The carpet under his feet was thick. The plane was solid and stable and its engines were quiet. What have I got that the White House wants? That had been his first question, back when it was just a phone call. Now it was a private jet. So what did he have? Or more logically, what did he have that someone else didn’t? Otherwise that someone else would be on the plane, not the nobody from nowhere.

He wasn’t sure what he had. He wasn’t falsely modest. He was a very able mathematician. But there were fifty others in the world just as good. Maybe a hundred. His publication history was competitive. He had contributed to all the important journals. But so had fifty others. Maybe a hundred. His debut had been his PhD thesis. Groundbreaking, really, but in a field no one was interested in. Nothing about him stood out.

The landing was unannounced. No instructions about tray tables or seat backs or upright positions. Just a rapid descent and then wind roar as the wheels came down. The plane rocked and bucked, stiff and tight, like a dart. It touched down and braked hard and taxied fast, to a remote apron about a hundred yards from anywhere else. Waiting there was a shiny black Suburban. Two men in blue suits were standing next to it.

The pilot kept his engines running. He climbed out of his seat and dropped the stairs. Tyler wasn’t sure whether he should thank the guy for the ride. In the end he didn’t. He just ducked his head and stepped out without a word.

On the ground one of the men opened the Suburban’s rear door. Tyler asked him, “Where are we going?”

“Fort Meade, sir.”

“Oh,” Tyler said. He had been expecting the White House. He asked, “What’s at Fort Meade?”

“Many things,” the guy said. “It’s a multipurpose facility. Including a hundred acres to store the overspill from the Library of Congress.”

“Can you tell me specifically?”

“The west gate, specifically. We hand you off to a second team of agents.”

The same as the pilot. It’s called need-to-know. Basic security. This is a classified operation.

Tyler got in the car.

Fort Meade’s west gate had a wide blacktopped area in front of it. Waiting there was a black Suburban identical to the example Tyler was riding in. He got out of one and into the other. There were two men in the front of the new vehicle, wearing blue suits like the first pair, but with earpieces and curly wires running under their collars. They pulled up at the security booth and the driver showed a pass. A striped barrier rose up and they drove on through.

“Where are we going?” Tyler asked, not expecting an answer. But he got one. The driver pointed ahead. A huge black building stood alone in an endless parking lot.

“What’s that?” Tyler asked.

“NSA,” the driver said. “The National Security Agency.”

“They record people’s phone calls.”

“Among other things.”

“Is this about some call I made?”

“No, sir, we were briefed that you’re here to assist with a project.”

“What project?”

“Clearly something important,” the driver said. “I was supposed to play golf today.”

They parked at an inconspicuous personnel entrance set in an otherwise blank wall. This time Tyler was not handed off like a courier package. The two agents got out with him and escorted him inside, where he was asked to step through a metal detector and submit to a pat-down search. He did the first and said yes to the second, and then the agents led him onward through a long white corridor, to a wide low space that hummed with complex equipment. The lighting was dim. The air was cold. AC on max. Like a server farm.

Dead ahead in the end wall was a set of double doors, with an agent on the left and another on the right, both standing easy, relaxed but still threatening. Guarding some kind of inner sanctum beyond them. Tyler was led in their direction. One of them said into his cuff, “Professor Tyler is here.”

The answer in their earpieces must have been send him right in , because the agent on the left opened the left-hand door and the agent on the right opened the right-hand door, as if choreographed, like a royal house in Europe. All four agents stayed outside. Tyler stepped inside. The doors closed behind him.

In the room were desks and cables and keyboards and flat-screen monitors. And four men. Tyler didn’t know two of them. Or maybe he did, a little. Maybe he had seen them in the background, while someone else made a statement on TV.

He knew the other two. That was for sure.

The third man was Oliver Bailey, the greatest living American mathematician. Certainly the most famous, the most prominent, the most visible. The go-to guy, not that anyone went to mathematicians very often. But if they did, Bailey was their man. Richly deserved, Tyler thought. Justified by a spectacular body of work across an absurdly wide range of interests. Really a historic figure.

The fourth man in the room was the president of the United States.

The president radiated charm and charisma and power. He stepped over to where Tyler was standing and said, “I’m Jacob Ramsey.” Which was unnecessary, because Tyler knew his name. The whole world knew. Ramsey said, “We appreciate you being here, Professor,” and held out his hand. Tyler shook it, numb. Then Ramsey made the introductions. He pointed and said, “John McGinn, my national security advisor. Matthew Cash, the NSA director. And I’m sure you already know Professor Bailey. He’s in the same line of work as you.”

Tyler said, “I know of him, of course. It’s a pleasure to meet face-to-face.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” Bailey said. A confident voice. Famous, prominent, visible. “I’m an admirer. I read your PhD thesis.”

“Really?” was all Tyler could say.

“I was impressed,” Bailey said. “I have my own copy. I like to dip into it from time to time.”

“Really?” Tyler said again.

President Ramsey said, “Let’s get down to business. Time is of the essence here. Last night these three people in this room knew a secret that no one else in the world knew. This morning I became the fourth person to know it. You would become the fifth, Professor. Is that OK with you?”

Tyler paused a beat. Are you sure you’re talking to the right guy? He said, “Honestly, sir, I’m not sure what I could contribute to a thing like that.”

From across the room Oliver Bailey said, “Come take a look at this.”

Tyler glanced at the president, as if for permission, and Ramsey nodded, as if granting it. They stepped over together. Tyler sat down in front of a monitor. The others gathered behind him in a tight semicircle. Tyler breathed in. The president of the United States, the national security advisor, the NSA director, all watching him. Plus Oliver goddamn Bailey.

On the screen was a long sequence of mathematical equations, one after the other, like sentences in a story. Simple declarative statements, each leading to the next. Clean, elegant, polished, logical. Tyler scrolled onward. Suddenly the math got complicated. There was an unknown eight-figure value, and two side chain thickets, one feeding the other, before looping back to the main flow and creating a binary choke point. One or zero, yes or no.

“It’s a computer security algorithm,” Tyler said. “The unknown eight figures are the password. The first side chain determines correct or incorrect. The second gives you three attempts. The choke point locks you in or locks you out.”

“Excellent,” Oliver Bailey said, from behind him. “How would you rate it? Marks out of ten?”

“It’s strong. It’s sturdy. No nonsense. A little mannered. Slightly old fashioned. It’s elegant, but within limits. Reliability comes first. The password is obviously all numbers. With three attempts permitted, random hacking gives a zero-point-five-zeroes percent chance of success. So it’s lean and effective. It’s a good piece of work.”