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 recentprojects, 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—
She suddenly realized that—thanks to her absorption in thesketch and the
Birth of the Cool
CD playing in the background—she hadn’t noticed the doorbell ringing. Straightening up, she left her office, went down the passage beyond, through the parlor of the rambling old house, and into the front hall. She opened the door only to look into the gray eyes of a tall man with light brown hair, who, judging by his face, was perhaps forty years old. It was a nice face, she thought: reflective, with
“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—
She suddenly realized that—thanks to her absorption in thesketch and the
Birth of the Cool
CD playing in the background—she hadn’t noticed the doorbell ringing. Straightening up, she left her office, went down the passage beyond, through the parlor of the rambling old house, and into the front hall. She opened the door only to look into the gray eyes of a tall man with light brown hair, who, judging by his face, was perhaps forty years old. It was a nice face, she thought: reflective, with
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