A Billion Ways to Die by Chris Knopf Page A

had, I stumbled over Angus the computer scientist. As it turned out, he was neither a computer scientist nor a guy named Angus, though he was a PhD in particle physics with credentials in a branch of mathematics favored by the makers and breakers of exotic code.
    I found him at a science fiction writers’ conference where he’d delivered a talk on the future of cryptography. He was dressed up like Ray Bradbury at an end-of-the-conference party. I only knew he was playing Ray Bradbury because a caption under the photo said he was. I knew it was Angus because it looked just like him, and his real name, according to the caption, was Ian MacPhail, and if that wasn’t Scottish, I didn’t know what the hell was.
    I was on the site looking around for Strider the Data Thief, who once told me she wrote science fiction and frequented writers conferences as her only social engagement. In the photo, MacPhail was chatting with a Jawa trader from the planet Tatooine, who for all I knew was Strider herself. Armed with the right search parameters, I also learned that MacPhail was a Harvard professor married to a woman named Joann, with a daughter and a son who’d contributed three grandchildren to the family. His prior work experience included consulting for the FBI in their New York City office and extensive work in private enterprise.
    Joann was Angela’s opposite. Round faced and pale, with short, light brown hair and glasses. And a ready smile, if the two images I found of her were any indication.
    “I would have rather been wrong,” said Natsumi, thoroughly sodden from the bubble bath and half-buzzed, now reading on the bed behind me. I’d held the computer up for her to see.
    “I know.”
    “So what do we do with him?”
    “He’s speaking again this Monday at another conference. This time at Harvard in front of the American Academy of Physicists. That gives us time to get up to Cambridge with a stop in Connecticut along the way. I can pack while you book the flight. Do you think you’ll need the bikini?” I added, already dropping clothes into our carry-ons.
    “It’s the end of March.”
    “Right. So we rent something with four-wheel drive. We can buy warm clothes at the airport.”
    “We could get a hotel with an indoor pool,” she said.
    “Excellent idea,” I said, stuffing the bikini into a one-inch-square space in the suitcase.
    “I’m still not sure what you want with Angus.”
    “Ian.”
    I brought the computer all the way over to where she lay on top of the bed. I tapped on his LinkedIn page and scrolled down to his experience and turned the computer around so she could see. It was there between the end of his FBI career in New York City and his appointment as associate professor at Harvard:
    Senior Project Director, Cybersecurity,
    The Société Commerciale Fontaine
    ■ Lead Task Force Charged with International Security Protocol Coordination
    ■ Oversee Enterprise-wide Digital Security Policies
    ■ Liaison with Appropriate Government Agencies
    ■ As Directed by The Société Commerciale Fontaine CEO
    “Oh,” said Natsumi, putting the computer on her lap and clicking on her favorite travel site.

C HAPTER 10
    A s we rode the shuttle bus from the arrival gates at JFK to the car rental area it felt like God had sapped all the warmth and color from the world and replaced it with a permanent cloak of chilly grey gauze. The bus smelled of wet wool and illicit cigarettes and our fellow passengers wore the hollow expressions of the already damned and long ago consigned to the rocking, lumbering box van for all eternity.
    The only sounds came from the tires cutting through mounded curbs of grit-encrusted slush and the occasional incoherent bark from the driver’s radio. Outside, jets taking off and landing in close proximity produced a rolling thunder both heard and felt through the exhausted nylon-upholstered seats.
    It wasn’t until we were in the cushioned embrace of a Jeep Cherokee, inhaling the