Page 6 of Eleven Numbers

“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 commandalerts. 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.”

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