by Mark Alpert
David shook his head. “And people are taking this seriously?”
“It’s a fringe idea, I admit. Only a few people are working on it. But this is a classical field theory, something that Einstein could’ve come up with. And it has the potential for explaining the uncertainties of quantum mechanics.”
“How?”
“The CTCs are the key. On the smallest scales of spacetime, causation becomes skewed. The particle is influenced by events in the future as well as the past. But an outside observer can’t measure events that haven’t happened yet, so he can never fully know the state of the particle. The best he can do is calculate probabilities.”
David tried to picture it, a particle that somehow knew its own future. It sounded absurd, but he began to see the benefits of the idea. “So the future events are Einstein’s hidden variables, right? A complete description of the universe exists, but it’s unreachable at any one moment in time?”
She nodded. “God doesn’t play dice with the universe after all. But humans have to, because we can’t see the future.”
What struck David the most was how excited Monique seemed. She shifted her weight from foot to foot as she talked about the theory, practically bouncing with enthusiasm. Theoretical physicists are an inherently conservative bunch; although their job is to build new models of reality with arcane equations and sometimes fanciful geometries, they also subject those models to intense scrutiny. David suspected that Monique had already analyzed possible objections to the geon theory and seen no fatal flaws. “What about particle interactions?” he asked. “What would they look like in this model?”
“Any interaction would have to involve a change in the topology of the local spacetime. Imagine two loops coming together and forming—”
She was interrupted by the sound of Gupta’s hand smacking the table. The professor shouted, “Damn!” and glared at the computer screen.
Monique rushed over to him. “What is it? What did you find?”
Gupta clenched his fists in frustration. “First I searched the files for the equals sign. No results. Then I searched for the integral sign. Again, no results. Then it occurred to me that maybe Hans inserted the information into the computer’s operating system instead of the documents folder. But I just ran a line-by-line comparison and found no alterations to the software.” He turned to David, frowning. “I’m afraid you were mistaken. We’ve come all this way for nothing.”
He sounded almost sick with disappointment. It was clear that the old man also yearned for a glimpse of the unified theory, maybe even more strongly than David or Monique did. But Gupta was giving up too easily, David thought. The answer was near. He was sure of it. “Maybe it’s hidden somewhere else in the cabin,” David suggested. “Maybe Dr. Kleinman put the theory on paper and hid it in a drawer or a cabinet. We should start looking.”
Monique immediately began to survey the room, her eyes fixing on potential hiding places. But Gupta stayed in his chair and shook his head. “Hans wouldn’t have done that. He knew that other professors from Carnegie Mellon came here for their vacations. He wouldn’t have wanted one of them to stumble on the theory while searching the cabinets for some sugar.”
“Maybe he hid the papers very carefully,” David countered. “In a chink in the walls maybe. Or under the floorboards.”
The professor kept shaking his head. “If that’s the case, then the theory is gone. This cabin is infested with mice. They would’ve chewed up the entire Einheitliche Feldtheorie by now. Herr Doktor’s equations would be scattered among their droppings.”
“Well, maybe Kleinman put the papers in a strongbox before hiding them. Or a biscuit tin, a Tupperware container. My point is, it couldn’t hurt to look.”
Gupta tilted his head back and sighed. His eyes were glassy with fatigue. “It might be wiser to rethink our assumptions. Why are you so convinced that Hans hid the theory here?”
“We went over this already. Kleinman wouldn’t have hidden anything in your office or home, those places are too obvious. The theory would’ve fallen right into the government’s hands if they came—”
“Slow down, please. We have to reexamine each step in your argument.” He turned his chair around so that he was facing David. “Let’s start with the code Kleinman gave you. Twelve of the numbers were the geographic coordinates of the Robotics Institute, correct?”
“Yes, latitude and longitude.” David closed his eyes for a moment and saw the numbers again, floating across the backs of his eyelids. The sequence was permanently imprinted in his cortex. He’d probably remember it until the day he died. “And the last four digits were your phone extension.”
“So we know that Hans wanted you to contact me. But that doesn’t necessarily mean he hid the theory on one of my computers, or under the floorboards of some cabin where we went on vacation four years ago.”
Gupta leaned back in his chair, stroking his chin. He’d reverted to his professorial role, grilling David as if this were a seminar in Boolean logic. Monique was listening intently, her eyes locked on the old physicist, but David was still thinking about the sixteen numbers that Dr. Kleinman had whispered into his ear. The digits were still floating across his field of view, gliding past Gupta’s brown face and the computer screen behind him. And on that screen, quite coincidentally, David saw another sequence of numbers arranged in a neat column at the left side of the documents folder. They were the names of the telephone directories that Gupta had downloaded for his grandson: 322, 512, 845, 641, 870, and 733.
David stepped forward and pointed at the screen. “Are these file names supposed to be area codes? One for each of the phone directories?”
The professor looked annoyed. David had broken his train of thought. “Yes, yes. But I told you, those files have no equations in them.”
David moved a bit closer to the screen and tapped his finger on the file name at the top of the column, the number 322. “This can’t be an area code,” he said. Then he tapped 733. “And neither can this.”
Gupta turned around in his chair. “What are you talking about?”
“My son asked me the other day how many area codes there were. I did a little research and found out that there couldn’t be more than 720. An area code can’t start with a zero or a one, and the last two digits can’t be the same. The telephone companies reserve those numbers for special uses. Like 911, 411, that kind of thing.”
Gupta squinted at the numbers on the screen. He seemed un-impressed. “I probably mistyped them.”
“But Dr. Kleinman could have also changed the file names. That would explain why the numbers don’t make sense. He could’ve changed all six file names in just a few seconds.”
“But why would he do that? You think that Hans boiled down the unified field theory to half a dozen three-digit numbers?”
“No, it’s another key. Just like the one he gave me in the hospital.”
Now Monique stepped forward. She leaned over Gupta and stared at the screen. “But there’s a total of eighteen digits here, not sixteen.”
“Let’s concentrate on the first twelve,” David replied. “Can you get on the Web site that maps latitude and longitude?”
Stepping around Gupta’s chair, Monique grasped the mouse and clicked on Internet Explorer. She found the mapping Web site and bent over the keyboard. “Okay, read the numbers to me.”
David didn’t even have to look at the screen. He’d already memorized the sequence. “Three, two, two, five, one, two, eight, four, five, six, four, one.”
Several seconds passed as the Web server retrieved the information from its database. Then a map of western Georgia appeared on the screen, with the Chattahoochee River on the left. “The address closest to the location is 3617 Victory Drive,” Monique reported. “In Columbus, Georgia.”
Professor Gupta jumped to his feet, elbowing David and Monique aside. He gazed angrily at the screen, as if the computer had just insulted his manhood. “That’s Elizabeth’s address!”
David didn’t remember the name at first. “Elizabeth?”
“My daughter!” Gupta shouted. “That little—”
But before he could finish the sentence, the cabin’s front door burst open.
LUCILLE WAS IN THE PASSENGER seat of one of the Bureau’s SUVs, racing down Route 52 with the blue lights flashing. While Agent Crawford steered around the slower traffic, she spoke by satellite phone with Agents Brock and Santullo, who were crouched in the woods outside a cabin in Jolo. The connection was poor, probably due to the terrain where the agents were operating. Brock’s gravelly voice rose and fell in volume, and occasional gusts of static obliterated it completely.
“Brock, this is Parker,” Lucille shouted into the phone. “I didn’t copy your last transmission. Say again. Over.”
“Roger, we’ve sighted four suspects in the house. Gupta, Swift, Reynolds, and the unidentified teenage male. We’re now moving to a new position so we can get a better view inside. There’s a window on the other…” A surge of static buried his last words.
“Roger, I copied most of that. Just make sure you stay behind cover until the backup units get there. Don’t confront the suspects unless they attempt to leave the house. You hear me, Brock?”
“Affirmative. We’ll hold at the new position. Over and out.”
Lucille felt a twinge of misgiving. It was unfortunate that Brock and Santullo were the first agents on the scene. Brock was her least favorite person on the task force—the guy was hotheaded and arrogant, almost to the point of insubordination. It would be just like him to start a firefight and kill one of the suspects. Or worse, get killed himself. That’s why she’d ordered him to sit still. She wasn’t going to lose any more agents.
Up ahead, a road sign emerged from the darkness: WELCH, 5 MILES. They were less than half an hour from Jolo, and three patrol cars from the West Virginia State Police were even closer. If everything worked as planned, they could all be off duty by midnight.
Then Brock’s voice erupted from the satellite phone. “Mayday, Mayday! Request permission to move in immediately! Repeat, request permission to move in!”
Lucille pressed the phone to her ear. “What is it? Are they trying to leave?”
“We’ve sighted them again and they’re crowded around the computer! Request permission to move in before they delete mission-critical information!”
She took a deep breath. It was a judgment call. Her primary task was to secure information that was vital to national security. And Brock could be right: the suspects might be trying to erase the data. But Lucille had great faith in the Bureau’s computer experts. She’d seen them retrieve deleted data from a hundred hard drives. “Permission denied. Your backup is less than twenty minutes away. Hold your position until they get there.”
“Roger, we’re moving in!”
Lucille thought he’d misheard her amid the welter of static. “No, I said hold your position! Do not move in! Repeat, do NOT move in!”
“Roger, we’re going radio dark until we capture the suspects. Over and out.”
A bolt of alarm ran through her. “GODDAMN IT, BROCK, I SAID HOLD YOUR POSITION! DO NOT—”
Then the phone went dead.
THERE WERE TWO OF THEM. Two muscle-bound assholes in dark blue jumpsuits with gold letters spelling out FBI. One was a tall blond bruiser and the other was a swarthy Mediterranean type with a handlebar mustache. Both held nine-millimeter Glocks that they leveled at Amil, David, and Monique.
Professor Gupta instinctively shielded his grandson. He stepped in front of Michael, who was kneeling on the floor next to the toy brontosaurus, oblivious to everything except his robotic pet. In response, the blond agent pointed his pistol at Gupta’s forehead. “MOVE AGAIN AND I’LL BLOW YOUR BRAINS OUT!” he yelled. “GET YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!”
The old man stared at the muzzle of the gun. His left cheek twitched and he let out a whimper. Slowly he raised his hands. Then he twisted around and looked down at his grandson. “Please…please stand up, Michael.” His voice was low and shaky. “And hold up your hands like this.”
The blond agent pivoted, pointing his gun at David now. The man’s nose was misshapen, probably broken many times over, and his cheeks were webbed with fine, red lines. He seemed too dissolute to be an FBI man; he looked more like a bar brawler. “You, too, fuckface,” he said. “Get your hands up.”
As David raised his hands he glanced at Monique, who stood on the other side of Gupta and Michael. He knew there was a revolver tucked in the back of her shorts. He also knew that if she reached for it, they were as good as dead. He shook his head ever so slightly: Don’t do it, don’t do it. After an awful second of uncertainty, she raised her hands, too.
The blond agent turned to his partner. “Cover ’em, Santullo. I’ll check for weapons.”
The man went to David first and roughly patted him down. When he was done, he jammed his gun into David’s ribs. “You’re one stupid fuck,” he said.
David stood absolutely still. No, he thought, the bastard won’t shoot me. The government wants me alive. And yet he couldn’t be sure. He pictured the bullet in its chamber, the hammer ready to strike.
But the agent didn’t pull the trigger. Instead he leaned forward until his lips almost touched David’s earlobe. “You should’ve stuck with your ex-wife,” he whispered. “She’s a lot better-looking than this nigger.”
Then the man stepped away from him and moved on to Professor Gupta. David lowered his arms, dizzy with rage, but the agent named Santullo immediately pointed his Glock at him. “GET THOSE HANDS UP!” he shouted. “I’m not gonna warn you again!”
While David complied, the blond agent patted down Professor Gupta. The old man forced a smile and looked at his grandson. “Michael, this man is going to touch you in a minute. But don’t worry, it won’t hurt. See, he’s doing it to me now and it doesn’t hurt at all.”
The agent leered. “What’s wrong with the kid? He retarded?”
Gupta kept his eyes on Michael. “You don’t have to scream, all right? He’ll touch you for a few seconds and then it’ll be over.”
The professor’s reassurances seemed to work: when the agent searched Michael, the teenager whined for a moment but didn’t scream. Then the agent turned to Monique and quickly discovered her revolver. He pulled it out of her shorts and held it up for all to see. “Well, look at this,” he crowed. “This girl’s got some black power in her underpants.”
Monique glared at him, obviously regretting her decision not to shoot it out. The agent holstered his own gun and opened the revolver’s cylinder to see if it was loaded. “This is a lucky break for me,” he said, “but very unlucky for you, Ms. Reynolds. I just found the murder weapon.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t kill anybody! What the hell are you talking about?”
He snapped the cylinder shut and returned to his partner’s side. “I’m talking about this.” He pointed the gun at Santullo’s head and fired.
It happened so fast that Santullo’s eyes were still focused on Amil, David, and Monique as the bullet sped through his skull. Blood and brains sprayed out of the exit wound. The impact knocked him sideways to the floor and his Glock fell out of his hand. The blond agent picked it up, and then he held Santullo’s gun in one hand and Monique’s in the other.
Michael started screaming as soon as he heard the gunshot. He dropped to the shag rug and clamped his hands over his ears. Professor Gupta bent over him, turning away from the dead man. But David was too stunned to look at anything else. Blood was fountaining from the entry wound just above the man’s temple.
The blond agent stepped around the body, not even giving it a second glance. “All right, enough fucking around,” he said. He flipped the safety on the Glock and tucked it into his pants, but kept the revolver trained on his captives. “We gotta get out of here before the troopers show up. We’re gonna take a little walk through the woods and meet a friend of mine on the other side of the
hill.”
David looked hard at the agent’s battered face. He realized with a chill that his initial suspicions had been correct: the man wasn’t really with the FBI. He was working with the terrorists.
In three quick strides, the agent marched over to Professor Gupta and his screaming grandson. First he pushed Gupta aside, sending him sprawling. Then he grabbed Michael by the collar of his polo shirt and pressed the barrel of the revolver against the boy’s head. “You’re all gonna walk in a single file ahead of me. If anyone tries to run, the kid’s dead. Got that?”
Monique was now on the agent’s left side and David was on his right. She gave David an urgent look and he understood: the man was in a vulnerable position. He couldn’t see both of them at once. If they were going to make a move, now was the time to do it.
Gupta slowly got to his feet. When he looked at the agent again, his face contorted into a fierce grimace. “Stop this right now, you imbecile!” he shouted. “Get your hands off my grandson!”
David gauged the distance between himself and the agent. He could spring on the bastard and maybe grab his shooting arm, but that wouldn’t stop him from firing the revolver. They had to get him to point the gun at something besides Michael.
The agent grinned at the professor, amused. “What did you call me? An imbecile?”
Monique flashed David another look: What are you waiting for? And then he noticed that the robot brontosaurus was waving its segmented tail just a few feet away from her. His eyes fixed on the machine’s spindly antenna.
“Yes, you’re an imbecile!” Gupta shouted. “Don’t you realize what you’re doing?”
David mouthed the word antenna and pointed at the thing. At first Monique just looked confused. Then David clenched his right hand into a fist and twisted it. That did the trick. Monique bent over the machine and snapped off its antenna.
