“Are you in residence at Lux, Dr. Logan?” Pamela asked guardedly.
“Just temporarily.”
“And what is it you want, exactly?”
Logan cleared his throat. “Since your great-grandfather was the architect of the mansion, and since this house was his office and residence — as, I believe, it is now yours — I was curious as to whether the original plans for the structure were still at hand.”
So that was it. She looked at the man with sudden suspicion. “And what would your interest in the plans be?”
“I’d like to examine them.”
“Why?”
“I’m afraid I can’t go into specifics, but I can assure you that—”
Pamela stood up so suddenly that the man stopped in midsentence.
“I’m sorry, but the plans aren’t available.”
“Is there some way in which they could be secured? I’d be happy to wait—”
“No, there is no way. And now, I’d appreciate it if you would leave.”
Dr. Logan looked at her curiously. He stood up slowly. “Ms. Flood, I know you were involved in—”
“I’m very busy, Dr. Logan. Leave. Please.”
The man continued to look at her for a moment. Then he nodded his thanks, turned, and walked through the front hall and out the door without another word.
18
It was just past four in the afternoon as Logan walked along the long fourth-floor corridor of the Lux mansion. Midway down, he turned toward two glass-paned doors that opened onto a lavishly appointed parlor. He stepped inside and glanced around. An elaborate tea service had been set out on a linen-covered table: rows of china cups, a tray of wheatmeal biscuits, a large stainless-steel urn full of tea. The tea was invariably Darjeeling, and the parlor was invariably empty; at this point in the afternoon, all the denizens of Lux were fully absorbed in their respective scholarly pursuits, or at least pretending to be, and too busy to stop for tea. And yet it was still laid out, day after day, year after year, too ingrained a tradition to be changed.
Logan slid a few sheets of folded paper from his jacket pocket — the list Olafson had provided for him — and reviewed it briefly. Currently, Lux had eighty-two scholars in residence; seventy assistants to support them; an administrative staff of fifty-four; and an additional thirty cooks, guards, groundskeepers, dogsbodies, and assorted others who kept the place running. Out of this roughly two hundred and forty people, Olafson’s list numbered five.
Logan reread the single-paragraph dossier of person number three: Dr. Terence McCarty. Then, replacing the list in his pocket, he looked around the room. The wall opposite the double doors was covered by a series of richly brocaded curtains. He approached the curtains, then followed them to the far corner of the room. A door was set into the wall here, small and almost hidden behind the last curtain. Opening the door revealed a narrow, dark passageway. Logan walked down this to a second door, which he opened in turn.
It led to a revelation: a sprawling rooftop terrace ending in a balustrade of worn marble. Beyond were magnificent views of Lux’s lawns and gardens, and, beyond that, the perpetually furious sea, hurling itself endlessly against the rocky beach. The mansion fell away on both sides, leading at last to the long, dependent wings, east and west, that pointed toward the coast.
A series of round glass tables and wrought-iron deck chairs were arrayed across the faded brick. Only one of the chairs was occupied: a man in a brown suit, with a shock of black hair and piercing blue eyes, sat in it, staring back at Logan, a wary expression on his face.
Logan took another moment to admire the view. Then he walked over and took a seat beside the man.
“You’re Dr. McCarty?” he asked.
“Call me Terence.”
“I had no idea this place existed.”
“No one does. That’s why I suggested it.” The man frowned briefly. “I know who you are, Dr. Logan. As you might guess, I’m not especially keen on this meeting. But Gregory pressed me to agree. He said it was for the good of Lux. When he put it like that, what was I to say?” And he shrugged.
“Let me set you at ease, then,” Logan replied. “I’m looking into the details of Will Strachey’s death. Before it took place, a few other residents of Lux reported — shall we say — some anomalous occurrences. I’m not going to tell you who they were, or what they experienced, just as I wouldn’t tell any of them about you. What you tell me will be kept in strictest confidence. It won’t be published, it won’t be repeated. If, as you say, you know who I am, then you can appreciate that my job entails a great deal of discretion. The details of what you tell me won’t go beyond these rather beautiful surroundings.”
As Logan spoke, the man named McCarty continued to eye him closely, the look of wariness slowly easing. When Logan fell silent, McCarty nodded. “Very well. Ask what you want.”
“First, I’d like to know a little more about what you’re doing here at Lux.”
“I’m a linguist.”
“I’m told it’s an interesting profession.”
When McCarty added nothing more, Logan said: “Can you be more specific?”
“What does my work have to do with our conversation?”
“It may be useful.”
McCarty shifted in his chair. “You said you would be discreet.”
“Completely.”
“Because I’ve heard horror stories of cleaning ladies, bribed to collect trash from offices and labs and deliver it off campus. Not here at Lux, you understand, but at other think tanks and institutes. There’s a lot of competition out there — too many researchers, not enough ideas.”
“I understand.”
McCarty sighed. “Basically, I’m studying whether or not code talking — the use of little-known languages or dialects to transmit secret information — can be applied to digital cryptography.”
Logan nodded.
“Specifically, I’m comparing relatively well-known languages such as Navajo and the Philippine dialect of Maranao to truly obscure languages like Akurio and Tuscarora, each spoken by only a handful of people. I’m trying to determine whether the grammars, syntactical qualities, and other factors of such languages can be efficiently rendered into an encryption system that doesn’t rely on prime numbers, substitution, or the other digital schemes common in today’s cryptography.”
“Sounds fascinating. But I’m surprised Lux doesn’t object.”
“Why?”
“Because it seems to me that such research, if successful, could be used by the military. Such a coding system could potentially be weaponized.”
McCarty smiled thinly. “Anything can be weaponized, Dr. Logan, and it’s naïve to think otherwise. But the fact is, if my work is successful, the algorithms would form the basis of proprietary microchips — proprietary, to be patented jointly by Lux and myself — for use in such things as routers and cellular phones. Forget the military; forget conventional warfare. The Web is the real danger. It’s notoriously porous. Identities are stolen, bank accounts emptied, credit cards maxed out — and that’s just for individuals. Power companies, the core routers on the Internet backbone, air traffic control — not to mention the kind of classified government protocols that keep our nation safe: none of these are nearly as secure as they ought to be. That’s a huge problem for me. And for the Lux board of directors, as well.”
Logan nodded again. It truly did sound like fascinating work. To be patented jointly by Lux and myself. Fascinating — and potentially highly remunerative.
McCarty waved a hand. “But surely that’s enough about me. Let’s get on with it.”
“Very well. Why don’t you tell me about the, ah, event in your own words.”