Olafson sighed. “If you put it that way, I guess I have to agree.”

“Thank you, Gregory.”

The director looked around the room a moment before settling his gaze again on Logan. “When do you plan to start?”

“First thing tomorrow.” And Logan drained his drink.

As Logan was returning to his own room on the third floor, another resident, in a small set of rooms in a far section of the second floor, was pacing restlessly. The lights were out, and the only illumination came from the flickering tongues of lightning beyond the mullioned windows.

After several minutes, the pacing stopped. The person, apparently coming to a decision, walked over to the phone, then dialed a number with a 401 area code.

The call was answered on the first ring by a gravelly baritone. “Operations. Abrams.”

“You know who this is, right?”

“Yes,” the man named Abrams said.

“You were responsible for what happened today, weren’t you? That run-in with Logan on the road.”

“How did you learn about that?”

“I heard him talk about it at dinner. Besides, it’s hard to keep anything private in a place like Lux. But that’s beside the point. Are you crazy, doing a thing like that?”

“But he knows about the room. You said it yourself. If he pokes around in there, it could ruin everything.”

“What would ruin everything is your killing him right in town. That’s not what we agreed. He’s too high profile. You’ll only raise suspicion. You might even wreck my cover.”

“Logan is an unknown variable in the equation. We can’t afford to let him remain at Lux.”

“He won’t learn anything. I’ve been too careful for that.”

“That’s a chance we can’t take,” said the man named Abrams. “The stakes have grown too high. If only he’d waited a few more days before—”

“Well, he didn’t. We have to play the hand we’ve been dealt. Look — no more going behind my back. No more making any rash decisions without consulting me. Otherwise…otherwise, I’ll back out. Take the item elsewhere.”

“You wouldn’t be that foolish. You’re in it too deep.”

“Then you listen. We’re going to do this my way. I believe Logan thinks what happened was an accident — and it’s a good thing for you that he does. If he gets suspicious, he’s going to become ten times as dangerous as he already is.”

“So what, exactly, is ‘your way’?”

“Logan is my problem — let me deal with him. I know just what to do.”

“You’re going to…?” The voice on the far end of the line trailed off.

“Precisely.”

“Don’t wait too long. The clock is running, and we don’t have much time.”

“That’s why I’m going to act fast.” And with a sharp click, the call was disconnected.

“This is weird,” said Kim Mykolos. “Seriously weird.” She was standing in the middle of the forgotten room, staring around in slack-jawed fascination.

When Logan had let her in on the secret — after securing the necessary promises of utter confidentiality — the young woman’s reactions had been first disbelief, then shock, and then consuming curiosity. Leaning against the worktable, Logan watched as she moved around, peering at this and that, reaching out to touch something, then quickly pulling back her hand as if afraid of being burned.

The tungsten lamp stood in a bare corner, providing a strong illumination but also splashing deep, jagged shadows against the far wall. Turning toward the worktable, Logan opened his duffel, pulled out a video camera, and then a portable music player, which he placed beside the unknown implements and turned on. The calmly syncopated rhythms of Jazz Samba wafted quietly over the room.

“And you say that whatever research was going on in here stopped abruptly in the midthirties?” she asked.

Logan nodded.

“And the room was sealed off and remained forgotten to this day?”

“So it seems. And all the notes and records of whatever went on here have apparently vanished from Lux’s files.”

“What about Dr. Strachey? Did he discover this room before…” Her voice trailed away.

“I don’t know for sure. But it’s quite possible.”

Mykolos pulled herself away from her examination and glanced over at Logan. “So why me, exactly? How can I help?”

“You were his assistant. You’re got a background in computer logic, in reverse engineering. I need a mind like yours if I’m going to solve this room.”

“Solve it?”

“Yes. I’m convinced that only by solving its puzzle will I learn why Strachey died. And besides, from a purely practical standpoint I need a second pair of hands.” He hefted the video camera. “I want you to use this to document everything we do here.”

Mykolos nodded slowly. “So how do we start, exactly?”

“I’ve given that a lot of thought. I think the most important thing is to understand the purpose of that.” And he pointed to the oversized, coffin-shaped device of polished wood that sat in the center of the room.

“I was wondering about that. It looks sort of like a mystery machine on steroids.”

“A what?”

“A mystery machine. Something from the old penny arcades. A big box of wood or metal, with question marks all over it but no obvious features — no handles, levers, knobs. You put in your penny and then kicked it, banged it, tried to figure out how to make it do whatever it did.”

“Well, don’t kick it, please.”

Mykolos nodded toward the bulky metal suits that hung from a metal bar on the far wall. “What do you make of those?”

“I can only assume they’re some sort of protective gear.”

She walked up to the closest, took it gently by one wrist, and moved the arm up and down, watching as the fanlike elbow joints telescoped to accommodate the movement. “Protection from what?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out.” He motioned her over to the central device, handed her the video camera. “You see those brass plaques screwed into the base, there and there? Those are manufacturers’ imprints.”

Mykolos turned on the camera and pointed it at the indicated plaques, filming both.

“I’ve looked into the names on those plaques. Elektrofabriken Kelle was a German electronics firm founded in Dresden in 1911. It has since merged with so many companies that its original purpose has become obscure. And in any case, all its records were destroyed in the firebombing of 1945. Rosewell Heavy Industries was an early manufacturer of sound and radio equipment. It went out of business in the fifties. I haven’t been able to learn much beyond the fact that it made highly specialized equipment for industrial use.”

Mykolos panned the camcorder slowly over the device. Then she thoughtfully caressed the appendages that sprouted irregularly here and there: gently curved panels of rosewood, carefully fitted and locked to the central mechanism, itself completely encased in wood. She walked over to the thick end of the device, looked at the roman numerals etched into the floor beyond. Next, she walked around to the narrow end and filmed the heavy wooden housing that was locked in place onto it. Lowering the camera, she pointed at the two words, BEAM and FIELD, etched into another brass plaque just beneath the cowling, raising her eyebrows at Logan as she did so.

“As good a place to start as any,” he said. Approaching, he examined a wooden keyhole set into the housing directly over the plaque. Plucking a flashlight from his duffel, he gave it an even closer examination. Then, pulling a set of lockpicks from his pocket and laying the flashlight on top of the housing, he started working on the lock.

“Odd skill for a professor of history,” Mykolos said as she filmed the process.

“Don’t forget, I’m an enigmalogist, too.”

A brief silence settled over the room, broken only by the low sounds of samba. “What’s with the Stan Getz?” she asked after a moment.