The Forgotten Room

38

Early morning light streamed through the windows of Gregory Olafson’s spacious office, illuminating the dust motes that hung in the air. Olafson was bent over his desk, scratching out a note with an expensive fountain pen on cream laid paper. While he was quite comfortable with computers, he still preferred to send personal memorandums by hand; he found more attention was paid to them that way.

As he was writing, he heard the door to his office open and somebody step in. Without looking up, he said, “Ian, I would appreciate it if, when my secretary isn’t yet in, you would knock before entering.”

A voice replied: “Ian?”

Olafson glanced up quickly. Jeremy Logan stood in the shadows just inside his office, one hand still on the doorknob.

“Ian Albright,” he said. “Maintenance chief. He’s due here for a meeting about the approaching storm. It’s strengthened into a hurricane, Hurricane Barbara, and we have to take precautions against—”

Logan held up a hand to interrupt. “You need to open that safe,” he said.

Olafson blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“You heard me, Gregory. We have to see what’s inside.”

“I thought I was quite clear about that,” Olafson said. “Opening that safe prematurely would be breaking my promise to the Lux charter. Going against seventy years of compliance.”

“And I think I was quite clear. If you refused, more lives would be lost.” And Logan approached Olafson’s desk.

Now Olafson saw Logan clearly for the first time. The enigmalogist’s clothes and face were streaked with what appeared to be soot, and his eyes looked red and raw, as though he hadn’t slept at all. Though he appeared exhausted, his mouth was set in a firm, determined line. Olafson quickly connected the dots. “Good God. You aren’t implying that last night’s disaster — that the fire at the Flood residence…” He fell silent as the soot on Logan’s clothes suddenly made sense.

“Do you think it’s a coincidence, Gregory? Strachey, the calmest of men, abruptly going psychotic and killing himself. The general contractor for the West Wing job, retiring suddenly immediately afterward, current whereabouts unknown. And Pamela. Pamela told me she’d been harassed months ago by somebody trying to get their hands on the Lux blueprints. Now, she helps us discover how to access the room…and the very next evening, she’s killed.”

“In a tragic accident.”

Logan waved a hand as if to brush off a pesky insect. “I don’t believe that. And neither should you.”

Olafson took a deep, even breath. “Jeremy, you’re talking about a conspiracy.”

Logan nodded slowly.

“I’m sorry, but I find that absurd. I know you were fond of Pamela Flood, that much was obvious, and I feel truly awful about what’s happened, but you can’t simply transfer—”

Logan quickly approached the desk, leaned over it. “It’s your moral duty to open that safe.”

Olafson looked at him without replying.

“First Strachey, then Wilcox, and now Pam Flood. How many lives are going to be ruined, or cut short, before we get to the bottom of this?”

“Jeremy, I think that’s rather—”

“I might be the next to die. I’m the logical choice, after all. It’s quite possible one attempt has already been made on my life. How would you feel if the next one was successful?”

“There’s no reason to think that what’s in the safe will—”

Logan leaned in still closer. “Pam’s blood is on your hands. Your hands. You brought me in, Gregory. You asked for my help. And now we’re going to see this goddamned thing through. I’m going to learn what’s in that safe if I have to dynamite it myself.”

A silence descended over the office. For a long moment, neither man moved. Then, with a quiet sigh, Olafson picked up the phone, dialed an internal number, waited for the south London accent of the answering party. “Ian? Dr. Olafson here. Can we push that meeting back an hour? Right. Thanks.” Then he hung up the phone and his eyes swiveled back toward Logan’s.

Reaching into a pocket for his key ring, he selected a small brass key and fitted it to the lower left drawer of his desk. He unlocked the drawer, then opened it, revealing a dozen hanging files. He let his fingertips drift over them until he reached the last. Inside was a single tabbed folder, unlabeled and brown with age. He removed it, placed it on his desk, and let it fall open.

Within was an envelope, also unlabeled. It was closed with dark red wax that had been impressed with the Lux seal.

Olafson picked up the envelope. Then he glanced at Logan once again. The man looked back at him, his expression now blank and unreadable. Finally, taking a deep breath, Olafson slid one finger along the back of the envelope, breaking the seal.

Within was a single piece of light blue paper containing three numbers: 42, 17, and 54.

Now Olafson swiveled his chair around so that he faced the back wall of the office. Below the abstract expressionist paintings, a smaller, framed photograph hung on the dark wood: a formal portrait of the first director and all the Fellows, dating from 1892 — the year Lux was formally named. Olafson grasped the right edge of the frame and pulled gently. It swung away from the wall, hinged along the left side rather than hung from a wire.

Behind lay the combination dial of a small Group 2–style safe.

Holding the piece of blue paper in his left hand, Olafson grasped the dial with his right. He gave it several spins to the left, then slowed, making sure to stop when the crow’s foot was precisely at 42. Next, he turned the dial to the right, making two complete revolutions before stopping at 17. Then, turning the dial to the left once again, he made another complete revolution before stopping at 54. Finally, he turned the dial gently to the right until he felt the bolt retract. Releasing the dial and grasping the adjoining lever, he opened the safe.

Inside the small cavity beyond lay a thin dossier, one envelope placed atop it. Olafson lifted them gingerly out and placed them on his desk. Both were sealed in the same red wax.

Silently, Logan came around the desk until he was hovering at Olafson’s shoulder.

Now Olafson picked up the dossier, broke the seal, and looked inside. He saw a list of names; a few diagrams and photographs; a memorandum of some kind. Placing it back on the desk, he reached for the envelope, on which was written, in a bold hand: HIGHLY SECRET AND CONFIDENTIAL — TO BE OPENED ONLY BY THE DIRECTOR OF LUX IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 2035.

He broke the seal and removed the single sheet within, then held it up so that Logan could read it as well.