Page 2 of Eleven Numbers

“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?”

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