2
“Who did it?”
Tyler started over at the top. The beginning of the story. Once upon a time . Lit majors could tell Faulkner from Hemingway. Same for mathematicians. Math was abstract and eternal, unchanging, discovered not invented, but when human beings used it, they always left a fingerprint. Not exactly a voice, like literature. More like an X-ray, of the way someone’s mind worked. The cogs and the gears.
Tyler took a breath.
He said, “I think it’s Russian.”
Bailey asked, “Any Russian in particular?”
Tyler took a deeper breath.
A little mannered.
Slightly old fashioned.
He said, “I think it’s Arkady Suslov.”
“Excellent,” Bailey said, partly satisfied, partly triumphant.
Arkady Suslov was the Russian Oliver Bailey. Even more so, Tyler thought. Older, more mysterious, reputedly eccentric. The grand old man. A historic figure for sure.
“Congratulations, Professor,” President Ramsey said.
Tyler turned in his chair to face him, and realized Ramsey was talking to Bailey, not him. They were shaking hands. Bailey had a humble look on his face, like he performed miracles every day. No big deal.
But what miracle?
“Wait,” Tyler said.
What did he have that the White House wanted? His PhD thesis. Bailey’s absurdly wide range of interests. Above all, Suslov’s eccentricity. He turned back to the screen. Checked here, checked there, checked a third place.
The miracle was he had lived up to his advance billing. Bailey had recommended him, Ramsey had sent for him, and he was about to deliver, right on cue.
He said, “The password is a Kindansky number. This whole thing is built on Kindansky numbers. Suslov absolutely loves them.”
“Excellent,” Bailey said again. “This is why we called you. You, me, and Suslov are the only people in the world serious about Kindansky numbers.”
“Time out,” Ramsey said. “I’m a politician. I’m an hour into this. I need to understand it better.”
Bailey gestured to Tyler, yielding the floor.
Tyler said, “Kindansky was a leading number theorist in the nineteenth century. He proved there’s a category of numbers with unique properties. Not so much what they are, but what they can be used for. Those are the Kindansky numbers. They’re all prime numbers, but not all prime numbers are Kindanskys.”
“Why are they important?” Ramsey asked.
“They’re not important,” Bailey said. “They’re interesting, that’s all. Except that Suslov believes they make for strong security algorithms. Which is a respectable position. Internal calculations with Kindansky numbers tend to be fast and robust. Useful for high-stress situations where speed is critical. I can’t argue with him.”
Tyler said, “There are only about ninety thousand eight-figure Kindansky numbers. Is that enough for the password?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Bailey said. “You can’t see the design from the outside. You have no option but to try all the ninety-nine million possibilities. The external odds remain the same.”
Ramsey asked, “Then why go to the trouble?”
“It’s Suslov’s personality,” Bailey said. “He likes to be cute. He likes things to rhyme. We all like to put our signature on things.”
Tyler turned back to the screen, and scrolled through, slowly, listening to the music.
He said, “This is tough and plain and to the point.”
No one answered.
He said, “It’s military, isn’t it?”
No answer.
“You have a road map into the Russian military’s computer system.”
“Look again,” Oliver Bailey said. “You’re missing something.”
Tyler scrolled through again, this time listening for the bum note.
It was in the second side chain. The three-strikes-and-you’re-out section. There was an ambiguity. It would be possible to throw the whole section into an endless doom loop. For as long as you wanted. Not just three strikes. Not anymore. You could have as many strikes as you needed. Sooner or later you would hit it right.
You could have ninety thousand strikes.
Tyler said, “You’re already inside the Russian military’s computer system.”
“Welcome to the club,” President Ramsey said. “You’re the fifth member.”
“Show him what we found in there,” the national security advisor said. “Show him why we brought him here.”
What they had found in there was displayed on another screen. Another long sequence of equations. Like the next level in an ancient computer game. You battle through one scenario, and you’re rewarded with a new one. The same but different.
It was the same in that it was another security algorithm. The same mind behind it. Clean, robust, logical. Nothing fancy. Plain and to the point. It controlled access to a separate and isolated quadrant of the network. Some kind of large and important subgroup.
It was different in two ways. The passcode was nine digits long, not eight. And there was no second side chain. You didn’t get three attempts. You got one try only, and if you got it wrong, the whole operating system would shut itself down and replace itself with new code, which the NSA didn’t have and couldn’t get.
Tyler pushed back from the screen. The first algorithm was like the front door of a house, solid and sturdy, locked and bolted. But you broke through it and walked down the hallway and found the second algorithm, which was like a safe bolted to the floor in the corner of the kitchen. With a nine-digit keypad and an enter button that would either click it open or blow it up, and you with it.
Tyler said, “The nine figures make no sense.”
“Why not?” Ramsey asked. “Exponentially more choices than eight figures.”
“No, sir,” Tyler said. “There are only eleven nine-figure Kindansky numbers.”
“Eleven? How is that possible?”
“Math is weird.”
“Maybe this time Mr. Suslov isn’t using a Kindansky number for the passcode.”
“My first thought,” Oliver Bailey said. “But no. Suslov gets fixated on things. He wants it neat and tidy. The bag must match the shoes. If the passcode wasn’t a Kindansky, none of it would be, and it is, all the way through.”
“Then how do you explain the security implications of just eleven passcode options?”
“I believe Mr. McGinn has that answer.”
Ramsey looked at McGinn. His national security advisor. Who said, “The eight-figure algorithm is general-issue field equipment. The nine-figure algorithm is private. Our intelligence suggests it’s inside a device in a secure room somewhere underneath the Kremlin. Locked door, guards outside. It doesn’t really need security. The passcode is ceremonial. And cute, I guess. There are eleven time zones in Russia. There are eleven people on the inner committee. Or whatever. It’s Suslov’s private joke.”
The room went quiet. Just the hum of electricity and the hiss of air. In the silence Tyler asked, “Why underneath the Kremlin? What is this algorithm guarding?”
At first no one answered. As if words didn’t work anymore.
Then Ramsey said, “Control of the Russian nuclear arsenal.”
The strategic considerations were obvious, but the president ran through them anyway. Maybe to emphasize the size of the prize. The US wasn’t worried about Russian tanks or artillery or infantry. Poor quality, badly led, and most of all thousands of miles away. It was the missiles they worried about. Like every nuclear power the Russians restricted access to a tiny cadre of authorized personnel. What if they all logged in and hit the button and nothing happened? Error messages, blank screens, invalid command alerts. The Russians would be off the board and out of the game. Forever. Reduced to nothing.
Tyler found paper and a pen and wrote out the eleven nine-figure Kindansky numbers from memory. One of them was right and ten of them were wrong. One chance only. No rain check. He passed the paper to Bailey. Peer review, of a sort. Bailey sat down at a keyboard and typed out the list. He clicked a button and the list appeared on a screen on the wall.
It started with a strange little cluster of five, coming immediately after the hundred million mark. First came 100,000,007, which was followed by 100,000,037, and 39, and 49, and finally 100,000,073. A tight little span, five numbers just sixty-six apart, out of a hundred million.
The other six were more evenly spaced. Next came 188,888,881, followed by 213,161,503, and 310,248,241, and 383,838,383, and 696,729,579, and finally 999,999,937.
Ramsey said, “Two of them read the same forward and backward.”
“Palindromes,” Tyler said. “We should probably keep an eye on those.”
“The one with all the nines is dramatic.”
“But nothing special,” Bailey said. “Equally the first five, with all the zeroes. Weird, ugly numbers. The 213 is boring. As is the 310 and the 696. I agree with Professor Tyler. It’s one of the palindromes.”
“Which one?”
“They’re both musical,” Tyler said. “If one is the root note, then eight is the octave, and three is the major third. They’re like trumpet fanfares, or calls to battle on a bugle.”
“Which one?” Ramsey asked again.
“The 383,” Bailey said. “Suslov might worry about the string of eights in the first one. You can lose track. Whereas 383,838,383 bounces along very naturally. Like a nursery rhyme. Familiar, comforting, helpful under stress.”
“I agree,” Tyler said.
“Enough to lay a bet?” Ramsey asked. “The biggest prize in history, win or go home?”
Tyler didn’t answer right away. Ramsey looked at the others, one by one, wordlessly asking the same question. Would you bet on it? McGinn said no. Cash said no. Bailey said no.
Then Tyler said yes. “Absent more information, it is what it is. If picking the lock is the aim, then not laying a bet guarantees failure. Whereas laying a bet gives a small but finite chance of success. Therefore laying a bet is the rational course of action.”
President Ramsey nodded.
“I believe that’s the correct answer, technically,” he said. “But the odds are too long. We need to bend them in our favor. By obtaining more information. We need to talk about why we brought you here, Professor.”
The Secret Service bustled them through back corridors to a nicer room. There was daylight from a window, and a credenza with coffee and pastries, and four sofas grouped in an intimate square. They hovered a moment until Ramsey sat down. Then McGinn sat next to him, and Cash and Bailey and Tyler took a sofa each.
Oliver Bailey led the discussion.
“Eleven numbers,” he said. “Arkady Suslov chose one of them, due to practical utility, personal affection, and unconscious bias all mixed together. All eleven have characteristics. I think some are ugly and some are boring, but who knows if Suslov would agree with me? Personally I agree with Professor Tyler about the musicality. The 383 sounds like a bugle or a piper. Or the tolling of an iron bell. Mi do mi, do mi do, mi do mi. Like a funeral lament. Subliminally appropriate for its task. But who knows if Suslov hears it the same way? The best solution would be for me to go talk with him. In Russia, on his own turf, like I was just passing through. Purely social. Two old men. Math gossip. But really aimed at teasing out his feelings. Very obliquely, of course. Very subtly aimed at understanding his choices. Which of the eleven numbers would he be drawn to, emotionally? A free pick is a decision from the heart, not the head.”
Bailey stopped and looked at Tyler, who nodded. A sound plan. Math could be surprisingly emotional, because most of the time it wasn’t. A rare moment of personal indulgence was to be savored. And celebrated. Suslov might let something slip in conversation. At least a signpost toward a preference.
Bailey said, “But I can’t go talk with him. I wouldn’t get near him. They wouldn’t allow it. They know who I am, in Russia.”
Ramsey sat forward. He looked Tyler in the eye. He said, “We would like you to take Professor Bailey’s place.”
“Me?” Tyler said. “Go to Russia? I couldn’t engage Arkady Suslov in personal conversation. I mean, I love his work, but there’s etiquette involved. He would have to speak to me first. And I don’t speak Russian.”
“He speaks English,” Bailey said.
“He speaks math,” Ramsey said.
“I wouldn’t know how to approach him.”
“We’ll help,” Ramsey said. “We’ll find a way of putting you next to each other, same time, same place. Then it’s over to you. You’ll get a feel for the man. Which number would such a man pick? Subjective, I get it. Outside your comfort zone. But you’re a smart guy in real life too. Not just math. I feel I can trust you on this. You’ll figure it out.”
“It’ll be easy,” Bailey said. “He must have read your thesis. It was excellent work on his favorite subject. People will have sent it to him. He’ll be delighted to meet you. He’ll talk all day.”
“Then you’ll come back here and tell us all about it,” Ramsey said. “You’ll lay it out, everything he told you, everything you picked up on, and we’ll discuss it. You don’t have to make the decision yourself. This is a team effort.”
“I’m not sure,” Tyler said.
Ramsey nodded, understanding.
“I get it,” he said. “This is a big step. Going operational is a big commitment. Actually it’s two commitments. One from us to you, and one from you to us. We guarantee you’ll have the entire might of the United States government at your back every step of the way and every hour of the day. In return you acknowledge the complexity of an operation like this. It can’t be stopped. If you’re in, you stay in. That’s your commitment.”
Tyler said, “Can I think about it?”
McGinn shook his head.
“No,” he said. “We have no time. The Global Math Congress is in Moscow this year and it opens in six days. That’s our perfect opportunity. Nothing could be more natural or organic. Everyone goes, from all around the world, including lots of first-timers. You won’t stand out.”
“Isn’t Moscow dangerous for Americans right now?”
“The math conference will be safe. It will be a little island of common sense in a sea of bullshit. We can get you in as a late delegate, but we have to start right now. We should fly you in from London, probably. Less scrutiny than direct from the States. Maybe a couple days in New York too. Like you’re dropping in on colleagues along the way. A plausible paper trail, if they check. Which they won’t, because of the math thing. They’ll wave you through. They like hosting academics. It makes them look good.”
Ramsey asked, “Are you in?”
Tyler breathed in. Breathed out. And again.
Then he said yes, he was.
There were six days left, so two days in New York and two in London gave just two to prepare. They passed in a blur. McGinn’s staffers handled everything. One created a phantom journey from Tyler’s home to New York City, coach class air, even taxis each end. It was a trip Tyler would never take, because he was already on the East Coast, but it had to show up on the airline’s system and Tyler’s credit card records, just in case. A second staffer booked the real travel and lodging, under the university’s name, and consistent with its budget. A third staffer went out and bought a suitcase and toiletries, and clothes, Tyler’s size and style.
McGinn dropped by from time to time, for private briefings and rehearsals. He had three areas of concern. First was worry from colleagues at home, because Moscow was dangerous. McGinn suggested a number of reassurances. He repeated his earlier line about a little island of common sense amid all the bullshit. Tyler suggested a line about a nobody from nowhere, who no one would notice. McGinn approved it, very tactfully. Then he said the main message should always be the math. A hotel full of rational people. What could go wrong?
The second concern was the Moscow airport. The guys who flipped through your passport and opened your suitcase. They were intimidating. Stone-faced and silent. Guaranteed to put a shiver down any American spine. But not to worry. Tyler’s travel documents would be 100 percent correct. The airport would feel like a scary movie, but the overall experience would be friction-free.
The third concern was the talk with Arkady Suslov. Getting relaxed one-on-one time would be hard enough. Steering the subsequent conversation would be unbelievably delicate. Like pitching a perfect game. McGinn said it was vital to stay away from security or passwords. If the talk started heading in that direction, pull back someplace else. It could be Suslov getting suspicious. He could be dangling bait. Maybe find a different subject. A different kind of math, but one that allowed the same kind of preference or emotion.
Tyler said he would do his best.
Then McGinn issued a warning. Other than Suslov, Tyler was to talk to no one. Ever, anywhere. Not his seatmate on the plane, not the guy at the next table at breakfast. Nobody. Definitely no hookers or bar staff. Too easy to go a step too far with what you said. Everyone was liable. It was human nature to want to drop a hint that really you’re a hell of a guy. So avoid the temptation. Talk to no one. Plus remember the laws and regulations.
Tyler said he would do his best.
McGinn wished him luck.
Which is how Tyler came to be in his London hotel room on the morning of his departure, warned twice by the State Department and once by Professor Ferguson back home. You must be crazy. Tyler had ended the call and stood up off the bed and wheeled his new suitcase out through the door. Ahead lay a car to the London airport, a four-hour British Airways flight, and a rental waiting for him at the counter in Moscow. Probably a Mercedes, McGinn had said, but he couldn’t promise.
At first the Moscow airport felt exactly like a scary movie. International arrivals meant the jet bridge let out directly into a long gray corridor that zigged and zagged, dim and featureless, burrowing ever deeper into the building. Then it opened into a brightly lit hall with eight booths, each manned by one of the promised stone-faced and silent figures. But the guy Tyler got was fine. He asked the purpose of Tyler’s visit, and Tyler said the math conference, and the guy got relaxed and friendly and waved him through. Tyler found the rental counter, one international brand among many, and they gave him a car key, and walked him to a shuttle bus, which let him out in the middle of a vast parking lot, where something about the endless sky told him the lot was in fact tiny in the landscape.
The car was a Mercedes, like McGinn had hoped. A sedan, painted black, waxed to a shine. It smelled of cigars inside. Tyler set the GPS to English and tapped in the address. The algorithm found a solution. A thick blue line, through the messy outskirts on a main radial route, which became what looked like a long, wide boulevard running through the city proper, toward its distant center.
Tyler backed out of the slot and headed for an exit sign about halfway to the horizon. Beyond it came a series of wide new roads through old pitted land. There were gaudy billboards everywhere, for products Tyler couldn’t decipher, at prices he didn’t understand. There were traffic lights at every major intersection. The usual red, yellow, green. Every pole had a sign saying CTON . Caution, Tyler guessed. There were distant sirens everywhere, ahead, behind, to the left, to the right.
The hinterlands stopped and the city started, all within a couple of blocks. The road ran straight and formal, with a wide planter down the center and respectable buildings either side. Some of them were elegant. Like Paris. There were still traffic lights every three or four blocks. Wherever the cross street was wider than normal. Tyler looked ahead, trying to time red or green, slowing down or speeding up to meet either one.
He got a green at a classic urban crossroads, with tall stone buildings at all points of the compass. He was aware of a siren on his left, somewhere on the cross street. The canyon echoes made it hard to tell how far away. He drove through the green. He didn’t make it. The siren was a lit-up police car that barreled through its own red and smashed into the side of Tyler’s Mercedes, driver’s-side rear. The cop car pitched up on its side and rolled on its roof and slid away with a shriek of metal and a shower of sparks and Tyler’s Mercedes was spun around like a top, with violent force, and when it bounced and lurched to a random stop it ran on forward again, still in gear, some kind of momentum, diagonally across two lanes, until it crashed hard against a pole and the pole fell down and pinned it.
Tyler sat for a long moment, battered by the airbags, bruised by the seat belt, deafened by the impact, sickened by the violent motion. He took a breath. And another. He made a list. Of things he should do. First, unclip his belt. Second, open his door. Then swivel. Then stand.
He accomplished the first item, after some thought. He accomplished the second, after a long struggle. He didn’t attempt the third or the fourth. He didn’t need to. The police did both things for him. They grabbed him and dragged him out. Two patrol cops, passing by. They stood him up and held him straight by the elbows. Other cops came and gathered around. They parked their cars and left the lights flashing and wandered over. Then an ambulance arrived, flashing red, with a deep barking siren.
“Thanks, but I think I’m OK,” Tyler said.
No reaction.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Russian.”
No reaction.
“Do you speak English?”
No reaction.
“I’m here for the Global Mathematics Congress.”
No reaction. The ambulance headed for the tipped-over police car. People were crouched near it, looking in, looking nervous. A cop with stripes on his epaulets walked over. A higher rank. The cops around Tyler stood to attention. Tyler was jerked an extra inch upright by the men holding his elbows.
The captain or lieutenant or whatever he was asked a short question in Russian. The oldest of the other cops answered, with what sounded like a summary, dry, detailed, nothing emphasized, no conclusions drawn. Just the facts. The guy with the stripes turned to Tyler and asked another short question.
Tyler said, “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Russian.”
The guy looked back at the cop who had submitted the report and issued what sounded like an order. Then he walked away. Tyler was levered forward by the elbows. He stumbled and hustled to keep up. They were headed for a police car. For a mad second Tyler wondered if he was being offered a courtesy ride to the conference hotel.
But no. His arms were forced behind his back and handcuffs were clicked in place and he realized he was being arrested.