Final Theory

by Mark Alpert

  “Beautiful western Pennsylvania. We’re less than an hour from Pittsburgh.”

  He saw the readout on the dashboard clock: 8:47. “You’re making good time.”

  “Are you crazy?” she scoffed. “If I were driving like usual we’d be there already. I’m staying below seventy just in case there’s any state troopers around.”

  David nodded. “Good idea. They probably have my picture by now.” He pulled two more cookies out of the SnackWell’s box. Then he looked at Monique again and belatedly noticed the bags under her eyes. “Hey, you must be exhausted. You want me to drive for a while?”

  “No, I’m fine,” she said quickly. “I’m not tired.”

  She gripped the steering wheel with both hands now, as if to solidify her claim on it. She clearly didn’t like the idea of him driving her car. Well, it was understandable, he thought. Her Corvette was a real beauty. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay. I like long drives. I do some of my best thinking when I’m on the road. You know my latest paper in Physical Review? ‘Gravitational Effects of Noncompact Extra Dimensions’? I came up with the idea while I was driving down to D.C. one weekend.”

  That’s where she’s from, he remembered, the Anacostia section of Washington, D.C. Where her father was murdered and her mother became a heroin addict. David wanted to ask Monique whether she still had family there, but he didn’t. “So what were you thinking about just now?” he asked instead. “Before I woke up, I mean?”

  “Hidden variables. Something you’re probably familiar with.”

  David stopped eating and put down the SnackWell’s box. Hidden variables were an important part of Einstein’s quest to find a unified theory. In the 1930s, he became convinced that there was an underlying order to the strange quantum behavior of subatomic particles. The microscopic world looked chaotic, but that was only because no one could see the hidden variables, the detailed blueprints of the universe. “So you’re trying to figure out how Einstein did it?”

  She frowned. “I still can’t picture it. Quantum theory just won’t fit into a classical framework. It’s like trying to shove a square peg into a round hole. The mathematics of the two systems are totally different.”

  David tried to recall what he’d written about hidden variables in On the Shoulders of Giants. “Well, I can’t help you with the mathematics. But Einstein felt strongly that quantum mechanics was incomplete. In all his letters and lectures, he always compared it to a game of dice. The theory couldn’t tell you exactly when a radioactive atom would decay, or exactly where the ejected particles would end up. Quantum mechanics could only give you probabilities, and Einstein found that unacceptable.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. ‘God doesn’t play dice with the universe.’” She rolled her eyes. “It’s a pretty arrogant statement, if you ask me. What made Einstein think he could tell God what to do?”

  “But the analogy goes deeper than that.” David had just remembered a paragraph from his book. “When you throw a pair of dice, the numbers look random, but they really aren’t. If you had perfect control over all the hidden variables—how hard you throw the dice, the angle of their trajectory, the air pressure in the room—you could throw sevens every single time. There are no surprises if you understand the system perfectly. And Einstein thought the same was true of elementary particles. You could understand them perfectly if you found the hidden variables connecting quantum mechanics to a classical theory.”

  Monique shook her head. “It sounds good in principle, but believe me, it’s not so simple.” She took one hand off the steering wheel and pointed at the countryside in front of them. “You see all this nice scenery here? That’s a good picture of a classical field theory like relativity. Beautifully smooth hills and valleys outlining the curvature of spacetime. If you spot a cow walking across the field, you can calculate precisely where he’ll be in half an hour. But quantum theory? That’s like the nastiest, funkiest part of the South Bronx. All kinds of weird, unpredictable things are popping out of thin air and tunneling through the walls.” She moved her hand in rapid zigzags to convey a sense of quantum craziness. “That’s the problem in a nutshell. You can’t make the South Bronx magically appear out of a cornfield.”

  Monique reached for the box of SnackWell’s and pulled out another cookie. She stared at the road ahead as she bit into the thing, and even though she’d just declared that the whole endeavor was futile, David could tell she was still thinking over the problem. It occurred to him that she might have more than one reason for going to Pittsburgh. Until that moment he’d assumed that her chief motivation was anger, her visceral hatred of the FBI agents who’d invaded her home, but now he began to suspect that something else was driving her. She wanted to know the Theory of Everything. Even if she couldn’t publish it, even if she couldn’t tell another living soul about the theory, she wanted to know.

  And David wanted to know it, too. A memory from the night before came back to him. “Professor Kleinman mentioned something else last night. The relativity paper I did in graduate school.”

  “The one you cowrote with Kleinman?”

  “Yeah. ‘General Relativity in a Two-Dimensional Spacetime.’ He brought it up just before he gave me the sequence of numbers. He said I’d come close to the truth.”

  Monique raised an eyebrow. “But that paper didn’t present any realistic models of the universe, did it?”

  “No, we were looking at Flatland, a universe with just two spatial dimensions. The mathematics is a lot easier when you don’t have to deal with three of them.”

  “What were your results? It’s been so long since I read the thing.”

  “We found that two-dimensional masses don’t exert a gravitational pull on each other, but they do change the shape of the space around themselves. And we formulated a model for a two-dimensional black hole.”

  She gave him a puzzled look. “How the hell did you manage that?”

  David understood her confusion. In three dimensions, black holes were born when giant stars collapsed under their own weight. But in two dimensions there would be no gravitational attraction to trigger the collapse. “We created a scenario where two particles collided with each other to form the hole. It was pretty complicated, so I don’t remember all the details. But there’s a copy of the paper on the Web.”

  Monique thought about it for a moment, tapping one of her fingernails on the steering wheel. “Interesting. You know what I said before about classical theory being so beautiful and smooth? Well, black holes are the big exception. Their physics is funky as hell.”

  She lapsed into silence as they barreled down the Pennsylvania Turnpike. David saw a sign on the side of the road: PITTSBURGH, 37 MILES. He felt a spike of anxiety as he realized how close they were. Instead of pondering the possible outlines of Einstein’s unified theory, they should be figuring out a way to reach Amil Gupta. The FBI agents probably had the Robotics Institute under surveillance, watching everyone who approached Newell-Simon Hall. And even if David and Monique managed to slip through the cordon, what could they do next? Warn Gupta of the danger and persuade him to leave the country? Somehow sneak him across the border to Canada or Mexico, someplace where he’d be safe from both the FBI and the terrorists? The task was so enormous that David could hardly begin to contemplate it.

  After a while Monique paused her mental calculations and turned to him. David thought she was going to ask another question about his Flatland paper, but instead she said, “So you’re married now, right?”

  She’d aimed at a matter-of-fact tone but hadn’t quite pulled it off. David heard a slight hesitation in her voice. “What gave you that idea?”

  She shrugged. “When I read your book I saw it was dedicated to someone named Karen. I figured that must be your wife.”

  Her face was blank, determinedly uninterested, but David saw through it. It was pretty damn unusual to remember the name on a dedication page. Monique had obviously retained a healthy curiosity about h
im since the night they’d spent together twenty years ago. She’d probably Googled him just as many times as he’d Googled her. “We’re not married anymore. Karen and I got divorced two years ago.”

  She nodded, still expressionless. “Does she know anything about this? About what happened to you last night, I mean?”

  “No, I haven’t talked to her since I saw Kleinman at the hospital. And I can’t call her now because the FBI will trace it.” His anxiety spiked again as he thought of Karen and Jonah. “I just hope those goddamn agents don’t start harassing them.”

  “Them?”

  “We have a seven-year-old son. His name is Jonah.”

  Monique smiled. Seemingly against her will, the smile broke through her studied indifference, and once again David was struck by how lovely it was. “That’s wonderful,” she said. “What’s he like?”

  “Well, he loves science, that’s no surprise. He’s already working on a spaceship that can go faster than the speed of light. But he also loves baseball and Pokémon and generally raising hell. You should’ve seen him in the park yesterday with that Super—” David stopped himself as he recalled what had happened to the Super Soaker.

  Monique waited a few seconds, looking at the road ahead, obviously expecting to hear more. Then she glanced at him and the smile died on her face. “What’s wrong?”

  He took a deep breath. His chest felt as tight as a drum. “Jesus,” he whispered. “How the hell are we gonna get through this?”

  She bit her lower lip. Keeping one eye on the traffic, she reached over to his seat and rested her hand on his knee. “It’s all right, David. Let’s take it one step at a time. The first thing we need to do is talk to Gupta. Then we can work out a plan.”

  Her long fingers patted his kneecap. She gave him a reassuring squeeze, then turned her attention back to the highway. And even though her gesture hadn’t eased David’s fears one bit, he was still grateful.

  A minute later Monique pointed at another road sign. This one said NEW STANTON SERVICE AREA, TWO MILES AHEAD.

  “We better stop here,” she said. “We’re almost out of gas.”

  David kept his eye out for state troopers as they coasted into the service area. No patrol cars in front of the Shell station, thank God. Monique pulled up in front of the self-service pumps and filled the Corvette’s tank with Shell Ultra Premium while David slunk low in the passenger seat. Then she got back in the car and drove toward the service area’s parking lot. They passed a large concrete building containing a Burger King, a Nathan’s, and a Starbucks.

  “I hate to make things difficult, but I need to pee,” she said. “What about you?”

  David scanned the parking lot and saw no police cars. But what if a trooper was stationed inside the building, standing just outside the men’s room? The chances were remote, but it was still a risk. “I’ll stay in the car. I can pee into a cup or something.”

  She gave him a warning look. “Just watch what you’re doing. You better not get pee on the car seat.”

  She parked in a vacant corner of the lot, about thirty feet away from the nearest vehicle. David handed her a couple of twenty-dollar bills. “Could you pick up a few things while you’re in there? Maybe some sandwiches, some water, some chips?”

  “You mean you’re getting tired of SnackWell’s?” She smiled again as she opened the driver’s-side door and headed for the restrooms.

  Once she was gone, David realized that he did need to urinate pretty badly. He searched the Corvette for a container of some sort, groping under the seats for an empty water bottle or a discarded coffee cup, but he had no luck—the car was immaculate. No junk anywhere, not even in the glove compartment. He supposed he could wait for Monique to return with the newly purchased water bottles and empty one of those, but he didn’t like the idea of peeing into the thing while she stood nearby. At a loss, he gazed across the parking lot and noticed a grassy picnic area under a stand of trees about fifty feet away. A family was eating Burger King breakfast sandwiches at one of the picnic tables, but it looked like they were about to leave. The young mother was screaming at the kids to pick up their trash while the father stood by impatiently, the car keys already in his hand.

  After a few minutes the family departed for their minivan and David stepped out of the Corvette. He walked toward the picnic area, looking first over one shoulder, then the other. The only person in sight was an old man walking his dachshund along the edge of the parking lot. David strode past the picnic tables, positioned himself behind the biggest tree, and unzipped his fly. When he was finished he headed back to the Corvette, much relieved. But as he stepped from the grass to the asphalt, the elderly dog walker came rushing toward him. “Hey you!” he shouted.

  David froze. For a second he imagined it was an undercover cop in disguise. But as the man came closer, David saw that he was genuinely ancient. His lips were flecked with spittle and his pink face was as wrinkled as a raisin. He thrust a rolled-up newspaper at David’s chest. “I saw what you did!” he scolded. “Don’t you know they have bathrooms here?”

  Amused, David gave the old gent a smile. “Look, I’m sorry. It was an emergency.”

  “It’s disgusting, that’s what it is! You should be—”

  The old man abruptly stopped berating him. He stared at David, squinting, then glanced at the newspaper in his hand. Some of the color drained out of his face. He stood there for a second with his mouth hanging open, exposing a row of skewed, yellow teeth. Then he spun around and started running away, pulling frantically on the dachshund’s leash.

  At that same moment David heard Monique yell, “Get back here!” She stood beside the Corvette, holding a bulky plastic bag. As he jogged toward her, she tossed the bag into the car, got in the driver’s seat, and started the engine. “Come on, come on, get in!”

  As soon as David slipped into the passenger seat, the Corvette took off. Monique gunned the engine and within seconds they were out of the service area and on the entrance ramp to the turnpike. “Jesus Christ!” she yelled. “Why’d you have to start talking to that geezer?”

  David was shaking. The old man had recognized him.

  The needle on the speedometer rose toward ninety. Monique floored the gas pedal and the Corvette rocketed down the highway. “The next exit better be close,” she said. “We have to get off this road before your friend calls the cops.”

  In his mind’s eye David saw the dog walker again. The rolled-up newspaper, he thought. That’s how he recognized me.

  As if sensing his thoughts, Monique reached into the plastic bag that sat between them and pulled out a copy of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. “I saw this in the newsstand next to Starbucks.” She handed him the paper.

  David found the story at the top of the front page. The headline read SIX AGENTS KILLED IN NEW YORK DRUG RAID and below, in smaller type, Police Seeking Columbia Professor. And next to the headline was the black-and-white photograph of David that had appeared on the back flap of On the Shoulders of Giants.

  SIMON GAZED AT THE TRANQUIL Delaware River from Washington Crossing State Park in New Jersey. He stood in a deserted parking lot overlooking the river, leaning against the side of a bright yellow Ferrari.

  He’d taken the car—a 575 Maranello coupé—from the garage of the Princeton Auto Shop. Keith, the car mechanic he’d found in Monique Reynolds’s house, had told him where to find the keys. This was a very helpful development, considering that Simon had been forced to abandon his Mercedes after his run-in with the officer from the Princeton Borough Police. It would’ve been even more helpful if Keith had revealed where David Swift and Monique Reynolds had gone, but the young mechanic insisted he didn’t know, even after Simon had cut off three of his fingers and sliced his bowels open.

  Simon shook his head. All he had to go on now was the handwritten note that Monique had left on the kitchen counter. He pulled the folded sheet of paper out of his pocket and studied it again, but it offered no clues.

  * * *
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  Keith: I’m so sorry about this, but David and I had to rush off. He has some important results that we need to evaluate. I’ll call you when I get back.

  P.S.: There’s orange juice in the fridge and bagels in the breadbasket. Don’t forget to lock the door.

  * * *

  The final lines were partly obscured by a bloody thumbprint that Simon had made when he’d picked up the note. Before he left the house, he took the bagels with him. Keith had already eaten his last meal.

  Simon put the note back into his pocket and checked his watch: 9:25. Nearly time for his daily chat with his client. Every morning at exactly nine-thirty Henry Cobb called him to get an update on the mission. “Henry Cobb” was almost certainly an alias. Simon had never met the man in person—they’d hammered out their contract over the phone, using various codes that Henry had devised—but judging from his accent, his real name was more likely Abdul or Muhammad. Although Simon hadn’t figured out the man’s nationality yet, his hometown was definitely somewhere between Cairo and Karachi. Given that Simon had spent so many years killing Muslim insurgents in Chechnya, he found it a bit surprising that an Islamic group would choose to hire him. But perhaps he wasn’t giving the jihadis enough credit. If they were truly committed to their cause, they wouldn’t care about anything except getting the best man for the job. And Simon, as the Chechens could attest, had an excellent track record.

  Whatever the nature and nationality of Henry’s organization, one thing was clear: they had significant resources. To prepare Simon for the mission, Henry had sent him a whole crate of text-books on particle physics and general relativity, as well as several dozen issues of Physical Review and the Astrophysical Journal. More important, Henry had wired $200,000 to cover Simon’s expenses and promised to pay another million when the job was finished.

  The ironic thing, though, was that Simon would’ve gladly done the work for free if he’d known from the start what it was all about. He hadn’t perceived the full extent of Henry’s ambitions until a week ago, when he’d visited the Provençal country home of Jacques Bouchet. Simon had confronted the French physicist while he was in the bathtub, and after a brief, watery struggle the old man started talking. Unfortunately, he knew only a few pieces of the Einheitliche Feldtheorie, but he told Simon quite a lot about the possible consequences of misusing the equations. Bouchet had obviously expected Simon to be horrified by this information, perhaps horrified enough to abandon the mission altogether, but instead Simon was exultant. As luck would have it, his client’s desires neatly dovetailed with his own. Feeling a surge of triumph, he kept interrogating Bouchet until the old man sat shivering in the tub. Then he slit the physicist’s wrists and watched the clouds of blood billow in the bathwater.