Page 8 of Eleven Numbers

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 itcrashed 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 copsanswered, 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.

He was driven a mile to an outer-neighborhood police station that felt closer to the ring road than Red Square. He was hauled out of the car, and in through a door, and he stood mute in front of a desk, where the guy behind it asked questions in Russian, and the guys who had brought him in answered on his behalf, back and forth, while a long computer entry was completed. His name and age were taken from his passport. The rest seemed to be compiled from what the guys who had brought him in were describing about the incident, all in rapid-fire Russian that was impenetrable to him.

Then they put him in a downstairs cell. The guys who had brought him in walked away. The guy from the desk locked the cell door, like a ceremony. Through the bars Tyler mimed a phone call, thumb and pinkie, the universal gesture. He said, “US Embassy.”

The desk guy said, “Yes, yes, already informed,” and walked away.

The cell had three walls made of concrete blocks thickly painted many times with a high-gloss khaki color. The front wall was bars. There was a concrete sleeping shelf and a steel toilet. Those items took up most of the floor space.

Tyler waited four fretful hours, doing nothing, sitting on the concrete ledge, hunched over to ease his back, then lying flat on the unyielding surface, pressing down like yoga, trying to ease it some more. He still felt bruised and battered.

Then the desk guy came down with dinner, which was a bowl of what looked like boiled turnips, with a grudging few strings of gray gristly meat among them, all daubed with a thick sauce the color of blood. The guy slid it under the gate, with a tin mug of water.

Tyler mimed the phone again. He said, “US Embassy.”

The guy said, “Yes, yes, already informed,” and walked away.

Tyler ate half the food but drank all the water. He was thirsty from the plane. Then he waited again. Two hours. Three. Midevening. Late evening. A different guy came down to collect the bowl and the mug. The night guy. The day guy had gone off duty. Tyler mimed the phone. Thumb and pinkie. He said, “US Embassy.”

The night guy shrugged and said, “Maybe come tomorrow,” and walked away.

Breakfast was weak coffee served in the tin mug, with some kind of savory patties in the bowl. Probably last night’sleftover turnips, mashed up, shaped, and fried. Tyler ate them all. He was hungry. He was sore and cold after a fitful sleep. No mattress, no blanket. No pillow. Just the hard concrete. There was a sink pressed into the top of the toilet tank, with a solitary tap. Cold only. He washed as well as he could. He combed his hair with his fingers.

He waited.

An hour.

Two hours.

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