Page 1 of Eleven Numbers

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 protocolsrequired 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.”

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