Turning to his computer, he brought up his encrypted spreadsheet on “the others” and reviewed it one more time, just to be sure. But there had been no mistake in his deduction.

He paused, looking at the screen, for several minutes. Then he turned off the computer. It was time.

Picking up the printed phone directory for Lux, he turned pages until he found the number he wanted: Dr. Olafson’s private quarters. Picking up the phone, he dialed.

It was answered on the third ring. “Olafson.”

“Gregory? It’s Jeremy Logan.”

“Jeremy. I penciled a note on my calendar to call you tomorrow morning, discuss your progress.”

“That’s why I’m calling. I wondered if I could drop in for a few minutes.”

There was a pause. “Now?”

“If you’re not otherwise occupied.”

The sound of shuffling papers came over the line. “Of course. I’ll be expecting you.”

“Thanks.” Logan hung up the phone and, without bothering to grab his satchel, quickly exited the room.

Olafson lived in a large suite of rooms at the far eastern end of the Lady’s Walk. He answered the door, not in his usual dark suit but in a V-necked cashmere sweater over khakis. A tumbler of whiskey, poured neat, was in one hand. “Ah, Jeremy,” he said, shaking hands. “Come in.”

“Sorry for the short notice,” Logan said. “But I didn’t see why this should wait.”

Olafson led the way down a corridor and into the living room. In stark contrast to the mansion’s Edwardian appointments, the director’s rooms — as the abstract expressionist paintings in his office could have hinted at — were furnished in Bauhaus style. Chrome and leather chairs of smoothly curved and polished tubular metal were offset by glass-topped tables and strange, ziggurat-styled bookcases straight from the Marcel Breuer school. Large windows set into both the east and south walls offered dramatic views of the storm.

“Scotch?” Olafson said, heading toward a wet bar.

“A couple of fingers, thanks.”

Olafson picked up another tumbler, splashed some Lagavulin into it, then brought it over to Logan and ushered him to a chair. He took a sip of his scotch, waiting for Logan to begin.

“The first stage of my work is complete,” Logan told the director. “I’ve reviewed all the reports and dossiers, watched the surveillance videos, done a thorough background investigation on Strachey, reviewed his work, spoken with everyone who interacted with him during the last seventy-two hours of his life. I’ve done everything, followed every avenue, a standard investigation would encompass.”

“And?”

“And I agree with what you told me when I first arrived five days ago. Willard Strachey was a man who had everything to live for. He’d had a highly rewarding career and was looking forward to an equally rewarding retirement. This was not a man who would commit suicide — and, as you said, he was a man whose temperament would be utterly opposed to such an act.” He sipped his drink. “Something happened to Strachey in the last few weeks of his life. Something that changed him utterly, that forced him to kill himself, and to do so immediately. And I’ve become convinced that something has to do with his work in the West Wing.”

“The West Wing,” Olafson repeated.

“Specifically, with the secret room. There’s a connection — I know there is. But in order to learn what it is, if I’m going to learn what happened to Strachey…I need to know the purpose of that room.”

There was a sudden crack of thunder; a moment later, the room glowed with the livid glare of lightning.

Olafson frowned. “I don’t know, Jeremy. That seems a bit of a stretch to me. What could his work on the renovation have to do with his suicide?”

“Strachey had the keys to the wing. He’d been working for months on its redesign and restoration. He knew it better than anyone else. And don’t you remember that small, hammer-sized hole in the wall of the room? It had been plastered over. You said it yourself: that means he might already have discovered it.”

Slowly, Olafson put his drink down on a nearby table. “That’s right. I did say that.”

“I told you I’ve done everything a standard investigation would cover. Now, it’s time for me to undertake a nonstandard investigation.”

“And what does that entail?”

“Learning the riddle of the forgotten room.”

“Riddle,” Olafson said. “Interesting word.”

“But that room is nothing but riddles. What was its purpose? Why doesn’t it appear on the architectural plans? Why was it secret in the first place? And why did Strachey happen to kill himself when he learned — or was about to learn — of its existence?”

Olafson didn’t answer.

“There’s something else. ‘The others’ Carbon spoke of — the Lux residents who had been seen, in recent weeks, acting in an uncharacteristic or unusual manner — they told me of seeing, hearing, or smelling things that weren’t actually there. They spoke of strange compulsions — in one case, a suicidal compulsion. But the most interesting fact is that the four individuals all either lived, or worked, in the shadow of the West Wing.”

“Are you sure of that?” Olafson asked.

“I’ve double-checked my observations. I’m sure.”

Olafson reached for his drink.

“If I’m going to solve this mystery, I need your permission to shift my focus: to the West Wing and, in particular, the forgotten room.”

Olafson took a long sip from his drink. He sighed. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“I’m also going to need an assistant.”

Olafson frowned. “What?”

“I’m a historian, an enigmalogist — I’m not a mechanical engineer. I need somebody who possesses skills I don’t have if I’m to stand any chance of unlocking this riddle.”

“But we agreed the existence of the room was to be kept secret.”

“I know. But the more I’ve thought about it, the clearer it’s become that I can’t solve this alone.”

This was followed by a brief silence.

“I don’t know, Jeremy,” the director said at last. “Strachey’s death was bad enough, but that room…it must have been sealed for a good reason. We can’t afford any stain on Lux’s escutcheon.”

“I’ve heard that speech before. And I’m aware of how delicate the situation here is. But this is the only chance you have of learning what happened to Strachey.”

Logan watched as the director went silent, thinking. “It would have to be somebody on whose discretion we can utterly rely.”

“I’ll vouch for her utmost discretion.”

“Her?” Olafson said in surprise. “You’ve got somebody in mind already?”

“Kim Mykolos. Strachey’s assistant.”

“Why Mykolos? I mean, she’s not even a Fellow, for heaven’s sake.”

“She’s the perfect choice. She knows Strachey’s work better than anyone — and, with all the workmen scattered to the four winds, that goes for his work on the West Wing as well. She’s up to date on the people and politics of Lux — and she’s honest enough to give me straight answers. But most important, one of her specialties is reverse engineering. And I need someone who can help me ‘reverse engineer’ that room.”

“Jeremy, I’m not sure I can sanction that,” Olafson said. “I doubt if the board would approve.”

“Does the board know about the forgotten room?”

“No, of course not.”

“Well, they don’t need to know about this, either.”

“But we’re such a private, insular organization…involving Mykolos would go against all our principles of compartmentalization and secrecy.”

“Doesn’t suicide go against Lux’s principles, as well?”

Olafson didn’t answer.

“As I said — it’s the only way you’re going to get the answers you seek. And don’t forget: I’m here because you don’t know what happened to Strachey, or why. Look at those other four, and what happened to them. Can you afford to just wall up the West Wing and look the other way? Who knows what else might happen in the future? You’d be turning your back on a ticking bomb.”