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.“Don’t worry.This is Cambridge, Massachusetts,” said Natsumi.“I think there’s an Effete and Pretentious Menswear right on Harvard Square.”The occasion also called for an actual disguise, my least favorite thing, though necessity had made us both fairly proficient makeup artists.On the ride up from Connecticut I ordered what I needed from a theatrical supply company, which came the next day.I opted for a big ball of loosely curled hair and a droopy moustache.“You look like Kurt Vonnegut,” said Natsumi.“Or maybe Saddam Hussein.”We decided this would be a solo mission for me, acknowledging silently, for the hundredth time, that a Caucasian man with an Asian woman was the first thing hostile forces would be looking for.It was unseasonably warm, so I walked the mile or so to the university.MacPhail’s bit was scheduled to cap off the first day of the conference, right before a cocktail reception.So the timing was good.The only issue was crashing a room filled with the smartest people in the world.“Strictly book smart,” Natsumi had assured me.“Einstein couldn’t even find his socks.”The GPS in my smartphone got me to the right campus, but not the specific red brick building.For that I had the help of a chubby, but sprightly, coed who literally took me by the arm and brought me to the front door.She obviously shared Natsumi’s view of physicists’ practical skills.Inside was a gate-crasher’s dream—a long table with a number of unclaimed name badges.I picked up Israel Finestein’s and told the lady behind the table that they’d spelled it wrong.She handed me a Sharpie and an unmarked sticker on which I wrote “Glen Carlson” and stuck it on my new tweed jacket.I sat in the back as Ian MacPhail walked up to the podium.A striped shirt covered an ample gut shoved well past the opening of his blue blazer.A bow tie and worn Topsiders completed the look of a preppy yachtsman long gone to seed.I might have followed his talk if I hadn’t been shot in the head, since it was mostly a tour of long mathematical formulas that somehow described a strategy for tying a super computer into calculational knots.Though it was easy to glean his central premise, which he summarized often throughout the presentation: the weird probabilities underlying quantum physics are the key to unbreakable cryptography.You just have to get used to being less than 100 percent sure you’ve properly interpreted any given code.“It’s not called the Heisenberg Sure Thing Principle,” he said, his Scottish brogue thickening for added emphasis.“Yet only in approximation can we ever gain a true understanding of fundamental truths.”With that he rapped the top of the podium, sharpening the attention of any whose attention might have drifted, and stalked off the stage.The applause was generous, though probably less than hoped for.I followed him and the rest of the physicists out to the large hallway where the bar and obligatory cheese table were set up.First served, Ian found a corner to receive the few from the audience who wished to continue the discussion.I stood in the little pack and listened, waiting for the others to weary of Ian’s self-referential commentary and drift away, as they eventually did.I fixed him in place with another open-ended question regarding quantum code, occupying him until we were alone.Then I said, “And you still don’t see the relevance to small business?”“Small business?”“And I was wondering how the Pilates were going.”“Beg pardon?”“Pilates.Angela’s Pilates.”He cocked his head and squinted at me.“I don’t know any Angela.”“Might not be her name, but you know her, Angus.”A deeper red flooded his already florid face.“You’re not that guy.No way.” He snapped his fingers in the air.“The writer with the Japanese bird.”“I am that guy.I need a conversation,” I told him.“Bloody fucking hell.”“I just need some information.”“You’re one of ours?” he nearly whispered, not really a question.“I’m serious, if that’s what you mean.”“Don’t tell me Jersey gave me up.”“No.”“Can you tell me what you want?”“I told you.I want to talk,” I said.“And now would be a good time.”I touched his arm as if preparing to haul him physically from the room, which got him going.I followed him to the coat check, and stayed with him when he went to the restroom.I pissed in the next urinal.He told a guy at the front door that he had an urgent consult, with apologies for leaving early, though the guy didn’t seem to care.I guided him out of the campus and onto Cambridge Street, where I’d spied a tavern on the way in.I let him lead the way into the small, dark, beery place and also let him choose an uncomfortable wooden booth.He ordered a double Glenfiddich.I got club soda with a twist of lime.“So I take it you’re here to fuck up my life,” he said, after downing half the drink.“That’s up to you.”“I won’t betray my country,” he said, though not with the conviction you’d think the words warranted.“Which country is that?” I asked.“The UK,” he said, as if I were an idiot not to know that.“Okay.Who are you willing to betray?”He downed the rest of the drink and rocked back and forth in his seat.“Just give it to me,” he said.“Give me a chance to settle it in my mind.”“I need a name.An employee of The Société Commerciale Fontaine [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]