Enigma Variations

was only one way to find out. As I climbed the stairs—slowly, one by one, resting often—I felt a charged hum in the air, like ozone after a thunderstorm, or the nervous excitement of concert goers before a performance. It could have been psychosomatic or a result of my concussion but it seemed like the air itself was buzzing with trepidation at Jutting’s plans. It was stupid really. Even though I didn’t believe in the supernatural, some atavistic impulse had me worried about it. I supposed it was a self-preservation instinct telling me to get away from the potentially dangerous unknown. I battled it down and kept climbing the stairs. My headache was subsiding and I was feeling less shaky but I forced myself to move slowly. I needed to get my backpack if I was going to have any chance of completing my mission. It almost had to be in the lobby where the security detail was headquartered. I stopped at the first floor landing, listened at the door for ten seconds, and, hearing nothing, inched it open.

The door creaked on its hinges, swinging open to reveal what seemed to be an employee break room. The lights were off but various LEDs illuminated the room enough for me to see that the floor was linoleum tile with a few tables scattered about. In the far, shadowy end of the space I could just make out a counter with a sink, a microwave, and a refrigerator humming away, no doubt full of frozen burritos, yoghurts, and, pushed to the back, half a forgotten Marmite sandwich. An exit sign glowed red above a door to my left. I hurried across and paused, listening again. I heard a distant blast of walkie static and a voice fading away. I waited another ten seconds, then eased the door open.

Outside I recognized the hallway that led back to the chapel. I remembered it from my visit. It was lit up now with votive candles and moonlight. I paused. Guests attending the ritual would be coming this way to get to the chapel if, as I had guessed, the chapel was to be the location. I stood there for a moment longer, indecisive. Just then, a susurration of soft footsteps and rustling fabric reached my ear, just a whisper at first but growing louder. I eased back into the breakroom, leaving the door open a crack, and watched as a group of five men in black hooded cloaks of rough cotton processed down the hall. They looked straight ahead, faces in shadow, not speaking. As soon as they were gone I hurried down the hall and turned into another doorway I remembered from my previous visit. It led into the warren of offices and cubicles off the lobby. Another group of ritual goers came down the hall while I crouched in the shadows just inside the door. I waited for them to pass then stood and carefully moved down a row of cubicles until I reached the door behind the lobby desk. I stopped and pictured the lobby in my mind, remembering Angela James emerging from the swinging door behind which I now stood. The security guards would probably be set up at the desk itself with a monitor to watch the camera feeds. I didn’t think there would be more than one guard in the lobby. The rest would be patrolling. I put an ear to the door and jumped back at a blast of static that seemed to come from only a couple of feet away.

“This is Presley. Sternwood, do you copy?” a voice said over the radio.

I heard a walkie clip snap and the guard in the lobby replied, “Sternwood here, over.”

“All clear on the east wing. It was just a fox.”

“Copy that.”

I hadn’t just heard Officer Presley’s end of the exchange from the guard at the desk’s walkie. The sound had been doubled, coming also from somewhere nearby. Curious, I prowled down a row of cubicles and found a desk with a laptop showing a four by four grid of security camera footage and four walkie talkies on charging stands. All were fully charged, their LEDs glowing green—probably extras for when the guards needed to swap theirs out. I separated two of them silently from their bases and eased back to the swinging door. I had a harebrained idea that just might work. The walkies were set to channel one. I changed both to channel two, then crouched down, leaning against the wall, and waited a minute, two minutes, five. I wasn’t sure what I was waiting for. I would need to make a move soon. The head wound was making me loopy. Carefully, with infinite patience, I eased the swinging door open and placed one of the walkies just inside, leaning it against the wall beside the door jamb. I could see the guard’s back. He was seated at the desk, watching soccer on his phone. I eased the door closed then crept into an empty cubicle. I steadied myself, took a deep breath, then raised the walkie and pressed the transmit button.

“Sternwood, Mr. Jutting needs you at the chapel. Now.” I heard my own voice crackle out of the radio I had planted on the other side of the door, then Sternwood’s walkie clip snapping again as he lifted the device from his belt.

“Copy that. On my way.”

I heard him stand, and scrambled into the shadows of a cubicle. The door banged open and he hurried past. When he was well away, I rose and strode into the lobby. My pack was easy to find on the floor under the desk. It had obviously been dumped out and everything stuffed back in but nothing seemed to be missing. My phone and watch were in a side pocket and my belt was stuffed inside the pack. I didn’t want to alert the guards that I had escaped. If I took the pack they would know for sure. Instead, I took