Rosenblatt fought to steady his still racing pulse. He was terrified to a depth he had never before experienced. He studied his abductor, the only other inhabitant of the shed, from the corner of one heavily lidded eye as the man continued to wait patiently for him to become fully alert. The steel structure was illuminated by two tall patio lamps that had been set up inside. The man seated across the table had a calm but intense air about him, a head of short black hair, and a lean, athletic build. Rosenblatt estimated he was in his late thirties.
Rosenblatt guessed his chances were less than even money to live out the day. These men were too professional. And they had let him see their faces.
He took a deep breath and opened his eyes all the way for the first time. He shook his head as if to clear it. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded.
The driver tilted his head but did not respond.
“Look,” continued Rosenblatt anxiously, knowing he needed to pretend that he didn’t know what this was about. “You can have anything you want. I’ll give you my ATM code. Whatever you want,” he pleaded. “Just let me go and I promise to forget this ever happened.”
The slightest of smiles played out on the driver’s face. “That’s a very generous offer, Dr. Rosenblatt,” he said. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to pass.”
“How do you know my name?” demanded Rosenblatt, feigning surprise. “Who are you?”
The driver studied him dispassionately, as though he were an insect under a magnifying glass. “Call me Jake,” he replied at last. “I’m with the government—the military.” He shrugged. “Well, more like outside of the government. Congress and the president vaguely know of our existence, but they don’t want to know more. They can’t. Plausible deniability. I run a black-ops unit responsible for keeping our country safe from weapons of mass destruction. From threats so great I have a free hand to do whatever I have to do to stop them.”
“Weapons of mass destruction?” repeated Rosenblatt in disbelief. “Are you mad? You’re making a horrible mistake. Whoever you’re looking for, I’m not it.”
“I agree with you,” said the man who called himself Jake. “But you’re the key to finding who I’m looking for.” He paused. “Look, Dr. Rosenblatt, I’m a reasonable man. And I happen to think you’re an innocent caught up in something way over his head. So as long as you’re completely honest with me, we’re going to be good friends.” He spread his hands out in front of him, palms up. “But if you aren’t totally forthcoming, things can get uglier than I suspect you’re capable of even comprehending. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes. You’re threatening to torture me.”
Jake sighed. “Not at all. I wouldn’t think of using physical torture. What I have in mind is worse. Far worse. Trust me, if you don’t tell me what I want to know you’ll wish in every fiber of your being that I had tortured you.” He shook his head and looked sincerely troubled. “Please don’t give me any reason to elaborate further. There’s already more than enough unpleasantness in the world.”
“This is crazy. The reason we have laws is to prevent mistakes like this from happening. To prevent innocent people from being terrorized by their own governments. Groups like yours, not answerable to anyone, abuse their power every time. It’s inevitable.”
“Don’t believe everything you see in the movies, Dr. Rosenblatt. Military units like mine have become the go-to villain in Hollywood, but we are answerable, just like every other agency. Someone has to watch the watchers, after all.”
“Like who?”
“Other black-ops groups review our actions on a routine basis. In the heat of battle, soldiers have to be able to make life and death decisions. They have a license to kill, and tragically, sometimes innocents become collateral damage. But their actions are reviewed, and if they exceed the rules of engagement, abuse their power, they are brought up on charges. The same goes for us. If I go off the reservation, if I kill innocents who aren’t clearly collateral damage, I’ll be judged and put in a military prison—or even executed.”
“And what happens when— ”
“Enough!” said the black-ops agent in a clipped whisper that, while low in volume, was off the charts in intensity and so commanding it was impossible to ignore. “We’re not here to talk about me, or for me to justify my existence. I’ve told you more than I should have already.”
Jake reached down into his lap and revealed a sleek tablet computer. He used its outer case to prop it up on the table facing Rosenblatt. He slid his finger across the screen and a document appeared, the pages turning automatically every few seconds. Each page was crammed with exotic, multicolored geometric shapes that could only be generated by a computer and dense equations that to the layman looked like nothing more than Sanskrit written by pigeons.
The black-ops agent rubbed the back of his head absently as he studied his prisoner. “Recognize this?”
Rosenblatt shook his head.
“Really?” said Jake skeptically, raising his eyebrows. “Well, let me help you out. I’m told it’s a stunning advance in the mathematics and physics of the Calabi-Yau manifold. I had no idea what this was. But my science people tell me it’s a six-dimensional space that results when the ten dimensions of superstring theory are rolled up. This means nothing to me, of course, but I know it does to you. You sure you don’t recognize it?”
“Positive.”
“That’s interesting. Because we got this from your computer.”
Rosenblatt’s eyes widened in disbelief. “What?”
“You’re a far better physicist than you are actor,” said Jake, shaking his head in disappointment. “Now I wouldn’t know a Calabi-Yau manifold if one bit me in the ass. But the three world-renowned physicists we gave this to were salivating over it so much I’m surprised they didn’t collapse from dehydration. They’re stunned by it. They seem to believe this leapfrogs everything known about the mathematics and physics of this area. That it contains numerous breakthroughs—at least the stuff they’re capable of grasping, which is only the tip of the iceberg. I’m told they feel like primitives trying to grasp calculus.” He leaned closer to Rosenblatt. “What I’d really like to know, professor, is how you were able to do work this advanced.” He voice was soft but with a razor edge of intensity and menace. “I’m all ears.”
“You actually think I did this?” said Rosenblatt, an incredulous expression on his face. “Look, if you say you found this on my computer, I have no choice but to believe you. But I didn’t put in there. Yes, I’ve dabbled a bit in this area, but that’s it. You said yourself that this is far beyond even the top people in the field—and I’m not even one of these.”
“Okay. I’ll humor you for a moment. If you didn’t put this on your computer, then why don’t you tell me who did.”
“I have no idea,” responded Rosenblatt with a shrug. His eyes narrowed in thought. “The only possibility I can see is that it was done by a modern day Ramanujan.”
“Ramanujan?”
“Yes. Srinivasa Ramanujan. He was a math prodigy who grew up in India with virtually no formal training. Out of the blue he sent a sample of his work to a world class mathematician at Cambridge named Hardy. Hardy recognized his brilliance right away.” He paused. “You ever see the movie Good Will Hunting?”