The director looked at it a moment before returning it. “Doesn’t ring even the remotest bell.”

“I wasn’t able to find anything about any such project in your archives, either — although my search was as exhaustive as possible. I did discover something, however. Something quite interesting.”

Olafson poured himself a glass of water from a decanter on his desk. “Let’s hear it.”

Logan sat forward. “I’ve discovered what I think is a gap in your records.”

“What kind of gap?”

“When I was investigating Lux’s archives earlier this afternoon, I found files relating to certain projects that were gathering steam in the late twenties and early thirties. Interesting but seemingly unrelated projects on such subjects as exotic qualities of electromagnetic radiation; on the classification of chemicals in the brain; and on the attempted isolation and analysis of ectenic force.”

“Ectenic force?” Olafson repeated.

“Yes. That’s especially interesting, isn’t it? ‘Ectenic force,’ otherwise known as ectoplasm, was the substance believed to be emitted by spiritual mediums during séances, for purposes such as telekinesis or communicating with the dead. It was studied rather intensively in the late nineteenth century, but interest waned after that.” He paused. “Why would scientists at Lux have revived such a study?”

“I can’t imagine,” Olafson said. “Surely the files themselves must have given you an indication.”

“Therein lies the problem. While the files gave clear indications that these projects, and a few others, were gaining traction over the course of several years, there was a remarkable paucity of hard data on any of them — the names of the scientists involved, specifics on the nature of the work, data from experiments or tests or observations. Other files in the archives, by comparison, were stuffed full of information.”

Logan sat back again. “The files in question share another commonality. They all cease abruptly around the same time — early in 1930.”

Olafson rubbed his chin. “Do you have a theory?”

“I have the beginnings of one. I’ll get to it in a minute. But let’s return to the gap in your records. I did a comparative analysis of the amount of data in the Lux archives between 1920 and 1940. It was a quick-and-dirty analysis, but it nevertheless seemed clear to me that the years between 1930 and 1935 have less archival material than the rest. Sometimes a little less; sometimes rather more.”

Olafson looked at him, saying nothing.

“So: my hypothesis. There were several projects under way at Lux in the late 1920s that, around 1930, merged into a single project. This project continued until 1935, when — for whatever reason — it was suddenly abandoned.”

“And you think this was the so-called Project Sin,” the director said.

“Made visible by its very absence,” Logan replied. “Because in 1935, Lux’s records resumed their normal volume. I believe that whoever removed those files also sealed the secret room.”

“Which — I assume — you believe was the location for that project’s research?”

“What other assumption can I make?”

For a moment, a strange look came over Olafson’s face. Instantly, Logan sensed what it was: the look of a man who had just fitted two pieces of a puzzle together.

“What is it?” he asked quickly.

Olafson did not answer immediately. Then he roused himself. “I’m sorry?”

“You’ve just thought of something. What is it?”

Olafson hesitated. “Oh, nothing. I’m just trying to absorb all these deductions of yours, that’s all, get them straight in my mind.”

“I see. Well, I’d like to ask you a favor. Could you get me a list of all the Fellows who were working here at Lux from, say, 1930 to 1935?”

“A list,” Olafson repeated.

“As I told you, all the names of the scientists had been redacted from the files. If I could learn who was involved, perhaps I could work backward and discover more about the actual project.”

“I’m afraid that would be quite impossible. We don’t keep any such list — never did. Some people have reasons to keep their work, and their time at Lux, to themselves. If somebody wants to add their period at Lux to their curriculum vitae, that’s their business…but we make it a point never to broadcast it.”

Logan looked speculatively at him for a moment. Throughout the conversation, the director had proven singularly unhelpful.

“In any case, I don’t see what any of this has to do with Strachey’s death,” Olafson went on. “And that, after all, is why I summoned you here.”

Logan took a new tack. “I wasn’t allowed into archive two,” he said. “I was told something about level-A access. What is that? I thought I had unrestricted access to Lux’s records.”

It took Olafson a moment to parse this sudden change in subject. Then a slightly chagrined look came over his face. “I’m sorry. You have access to ninety-five percent. But there are a few recent projects, still ongoing, that deal with extremely sensitive kinds of work.”

“Work so sensitive it requires a dedicated guard?” Logan asked. “I thought you told me you had a — what was the phrase? — skeletal security force.”

Olafson laughed a little uncomfortably. “Jeremy, just because we won’t work for the military doesn’t mean there aren’t projects at Lux that don’t have their…classified aspects. It’s something you had no experience with during your tenure here, and you have no reason to concern yourself with it now. The vast majority of Lux’s work, while of course proprietary, doesn’t fall under that rubric. Fellows working on current projects have the option of keeping their files in archive two. Will Strachey didn’t avail himself of that option — as you’ve seen, he was the most open of men, kept all his files in his office. Like almost everyone, yourself included, Strachey had level-B access. Level-A access is restricted to those few working on high-security projects.”

When Logan didn’t reply, Olafson continued. “Really, Jeremy, there’s no connection between any classified work going on here at Lux and Will’s death. None at all. And he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.”

For a long moment, Logan didn’t say anything. Then he nodded.

The director put his hands on his desk. “Well. Anything else?”

“Do you have that list I requested earlier? Of, ah, ‘affected personnel.’ ”

“Yes.” Olafson unlocked a drawer of his desk, reached in, and withdrew a sealed envelope, which he handed to Logan.

“Just one thing more. Did Lux ever do any radio research in the early part of the century?”

Olafson thought a moment. “I don’t think so. I’ve never heard of any. Why?”

“Because I found a vintage radio in Strachey’s rooms. Well, it looked like a radio from the outside, anyway. I thought maybe he’d picked it up around here from some abandoned project.”

Olafson chuckled. “Will was always collecting strange bits of antique technology and mechanical curiosa. You must have noticed examples of it in his rooms. He loved to haunt flea markets for the stuff.” He shook his head. “It’s funny, really, because as brilliant as he was with software, he was terrible with anything mechanical or electrical. It was all he could do to screw in a lightbulb or sail his beloved boat.” He stood up. “Well, despite everything, I’ve worked up an appetite. Shall we go down to dinner?”

“Why not?” And picking up his satchel, Logan let Olafson usher him out of the office.

17

Pamela Flood leaned over the drafting table in her office, both elbows resting on an overlapping assortment of plans and schematics, completely absorbed in the west elevation of a building she was sketching. Although, like almost all modern architects, she rendered her final drawings via software — her own choice was AutoCAD Architecture — Pamela preferred doing her initial sections for a project by hand, allowing ideas to flow naturally from the point of her pencil. And this was a very special project — the renovation, from footing to roofbeam, of an old cannery on Thames Street into a condominium complex. She had always wanted to do more commercial work, and this might well lead to a series of —