Vivian made a mental note to ask Dirk to look into it. “Were Professor Egger and Professor Tesla close?”
“Professor Egger had once been the graduate student of Professor Tesla. They often played chess even after Professor Tesla was…confined.”
A polite term for locked up in an institution. “Did Professor Tesla have other friends?”
Patel looked past her shoulder and out the window for a second before replying. “His ex-wife. They spoke on the phone often.”
So, maybe Tesla Senior had given something to Tatiana, and his good friend Egger had known about it. Maybe that something was in the suitcase that was almost stolen from Tesla.
“Were you close with Professor Tesla?”
Patel flinched ever so slightly. “What is close for mathematicians? We taught some of the same students, we played chess, we had lunch.”
“Yet you went to his funeral.” There was more to their relationship than he was suggesting.
“Close for mathematicians is not the same as close for others, but that does not mean we do not mark it when one of our friends dies.”
“Will you go to Professor Egger’s funeral, then?” She shifted in the hard desk.
“I do not believe that he will have one. He donated his body to science, so there is nothing to bury, and he hated ritual. With his wife gone, he will not want his passing to be formally acknowledged.”
She thought she might have liked this Egger. They had the same idea about funerals, anyway. “If you hear of a funeral—”
“You would attend? Yet you do not like funerals. You were jumpy and angry at George Tesla’s. You came to that out of a sense of duty, not sentiment. But why would you have a duty to Professor Egger?”
This guy saw more than he let on. “Did Professor Tesla have any enemies?”
“Enemies? Friends? He was not beset by either.” Patel tapped his finger on the desk again. “Demons of his own, he had those.”
“Do you know if he was in possession of any important papers?”
“He would have said that all his papers were important.”
“He left his son a box that someone tried to steal yesterday.”
“What was in it?”
“What do you think?”
He shrugged. “Professor Tesla was a mathematician, not a spy. I doubt that he had anything worth worrying about. He was a very paranoid man, but I never saw any indication that he needed to be.”
“How was he paranoid?”
Patel smiled wryly. “He once said space aliens were sending him messages through his teeth because he was special. I did not give his paranoia much credence.”
Had Tesla Senior been like that Joe’s entire life? Joe had never told her anything about his father. But just because his father was crazy didn’t change the fact that someone had tried to steal that suitcase. She questioned Patel for a few more minutes without gleaning any new information, extracted a promise that he would notify her if Egger did have a funeral, and then left him alone in the classroom, staring across the empty desks.
She called Dirk from the elevator, telling him to be on high alert. If Egger’s death wasn’t an accident, the threat level had kicked up a notch, and something didn’t feel right about it.
After she hung up, she tried Tesla again. He didn’t answer, so she left a message summarizing the results of the interview, stressing Egger’s mysterious death, and telling Tesla to stay put in his house. She had no idea where he was, but she did know where Tatiana Tesla was, so that was her next stop.
Both Teslas might be in more danger than she’d thought.
Chapter 29
Joe stopped in front of another door at the end of the tunnel. This door was more modern, painted blue, and also bore the Con Edison logo, a letter C surrounding the letter E. He had the master key for this one, too. He remembered to oil the hinges and the lock before unlocking the door. No point in making unnecessary noise and tipping off anyone who might be on the other side.
Slowly, he opened the door and peered inside at a room full of dusty beds piled nearly to the ceiling, chairs stacked atop each other and covered with sheets. The room smelled so strongly of mothballs his eyes watered. It must be even worse for Edison’s finely tuned nose.
He put on his Con Edison vest. If he were stopped, he would say he worked for the company’s still-active Steam Operations division, and Edison was specially trained to be able to smell leaky steam pipes. It might work. He knew from his time in the circus that people cut you a lot of slack if you had a convincing costume and story.
His heart raced as he stepped into the basement of the New Yorker Hotel. He was somewhere new to him, something that didn’t happen often. He wanted to walk upstairs to the main lobby, take an elevator to the thirty-third (red, red) floor, and check out the room where his non-ancestor had died. He could eat at one of the hotel’s restaurants and have something unexpected. He could look out the windows from a distance and see new sights. He could do all those things, but first he was going to scour the south basement to find the clues Nikola Tesla had left.
This room wasn’t the south basement, so he hurried through it and into an empty corridor, shining his flashlight ahead. The lights were off, and he didn’t dare switch them on. Based on the dust on the floor, it didn’t look as if anyone had come this way in a long time, but he wasn’t taking any chances of being caught.
He found the south basement undetected, but the door was locked. He didn’t have the key for it—this was private property and not in any way related to the tunnel system. He had no access, no right to be here at all.
For a fleeting second, he regretted not being able to pick locks. Marty from the circus had tried to teach him, but he had never been able to get the hang of it. A shame Marty wasn’t here right now. The lock didn’t look complicated, and Marty would probably have opened it in a couple of minutes.
Joe peered through the dusty window set into the door. Inside the room various unidentifiable lumps looked like furniture covered with dusty sheets. A row of steel columns ran along the side. It looked as if no one had been in here in years.
What was he supposed to do now? Even if he could get inside, it didn’t seem likely that anything Nikola Tesla had left could still be around. Hundreds of people had probably tramped through this room, emptying it and filling it over the seventy years (slate, black) since Nikola Tesla’s death.
Joe pulled his phone out of its Faraday pouch and checked his GPS app.
40 45 10 73 59 38
He was in the right spot, and he was in front of the southernmost basement. He slipped his phone back into its pouch.
Nothing else for it—he had to get inside to look. He glanced up and down the empty hallway to be sure he and Edison were alone. He thought he saw a flash of movement behind them. He stared down the tunnel for several tense breaths, but nothing moved. It must have been a trick of the light.
“Back,” he told Edison. The dog moved back a few steps. “Farther.”
Edison gave him a dubious look, but he backed off. Whatever Joe was up to, he didn’t approve. Well, neither did Joe, but he didn’t see a way around it.
He broke the window with the butt of his flashlight. He carefully knocked the glass out of the frame, then reached his hand through the opening and unlocked the door from the inside. The bottom of the door scraped across broken glass as it opened.
“Stay,” he told Edison.
He swept the larger pieces of glass off to the side with his shoe, then took a dusty sheet off a nearby wardrobe. He folded the sheet into fourths and laid it on top of the smaller glass shards. That should keep Edison from cutting his paws. He swung the light back and forth, checking for pieces of glass on the floor. Not satisfied, he reached over and flicked the light switch.
Bluish fluorescent light flooded the room. A high-pitched whining accompanied it. Not everyone could hear faulty fluorescent light bulbs, but he could. Not really a good thing.
In the bright light, it wa
s clear that he’d covered up all the glass.
“All right, boy,” he called. “But watch your step.”
Edison walked gingerly, as if he had understood Joe’s words. They were so attuned that he never really knew whether the dog recognized his commands or read his body language.
Joe wandered between wardrobes, desks, and tables. The furniture had been lined up in rows. The pieces had probably been expensive once, but when he looked under the covers, he saw burn marks, water stains, and missing legs. One table held a dusty wooden tool caddy. The furniture had probably been sent down here to be repaired long ago, but no one had ever gotten around to it.
Had these pieces been down here since Nikola Tesla’s time? No way of knowing. Based on the style, it could have come from his era, but it was unlikely the inventor would have hidden anything in it. Furniture could be moved or sold at any time. Even if Nikola had assumed his pigeon keeper would build the little man and understand his clues, he had to have known it might take time, perhaps years.
So, that left the floors, walls, and ceiling. He traced the cobwebbed rafters, looked down at the concrete floor, and over at the dirty gray walls. A lot to search.
He also had the number three (red) to contend with. The automaton had written a three (red) after the words south basement. He still didn’t know what the three meant.
He shimmied between furniture as he slowly paced the length of the room, shining his light on the dusty floor. Everywhere he looked was solid concrete. Nikola Tesla would have had to cut a hole in it with a saw—not easy to do undetected and hard to hide after.
Edison sneezed.
“Sorry about all the dust,” Joe said.
He looked up. Nikola could have tucked something up in the steel beams that ran the length of the ceiling, but that was always risky—the ceiling might be enclosed one day, a lot of them were. If so, the object might have been found in the construction process. Still, he filed the ceiling away as a possible hiding place, but he couldn’t look there now without a ladder. That left the walls.
The number three (red) flashed through his head. It wouldn’t have been easy to design the automaton to write. Every stroke required gears and actuators to turn exactly so. Nikola Tesla had given him a location in New York (the New Yorker Hotel), the room in the hotel (south basement), and the number three (red). Each designation was more precise than the last. That number had to mean something, and it probably meant something specific in the context of this particular room.
Nikola Tesla had been obsessed with the number three (red). In Joe’s research, he had discovered that Nikola often walked around a block three times before entering a building, that he ate his meals in a number of bites divisible by three, that he had to have eighteen (cyan, purple—an ugly color combination) napkins, and that he liked to stay in rooms divisible by three. At the New Yorker Hotel his room was on the thirty-third floor (red, red) and the room number was twenty-seven (blue, slate): both divisible by three (red).
Nikola Tesla hadn’t chosen the first numbers the automaton had written—they were the location of the hotel. But the last number might have been his to choose.
Joe turned in a very slow circle, counting things. Colors flashed through his head. His eyes stopped on the metal columns near the wall. Those were load-bearing. No one would ever remove them, not while the building was standing. They were the perfect place to hide something.
He counted forward from the door to the third column, then hurried through the stacks of furniture to reach it. Excitement bubbled in him, and he laughed. The sound was loud in the empty room, and he stopped immediately. He was supposed to be in stealth mode, but he still couldn’t suppress his excitement. If he found whatever might be hidden here, he would have solved a decades-old puzzle built by one of the most famous scientists and inventors in the world.
The third column didn’t seem to have any secrets. Looking for something attached to it or near it, he pored over every inch of its surface, from the point where it sprouted out of the dusty floor to the point where it disappeared into the cobwebbed ceiling. Nothing.
He counted columns from the back of the room and went to the third one. If that didn’t work, he was going to have to rethink his strategy. He started at the top and slowly worked his way down the steel, examining every fleck of peeling paint, every rivet. Maybe there was nothing there.
Joe had no particular reason to think that Nikola Tesla had hidden anything here at all. Except that his father had told him the automaton would lead him somewhere, and someone else seemed to think those papers held secrets that he had yet to uncover.
His gaze stopped at the base of the column. A second piece of steel had been welded to it. The steel column was an I shape, and someone had welded a box in the corner facing away from the door. The object was painted the same color as the other steel—an industrial gray—and it would have been easy to overlook. His heart beat faster as he stared at it.
He hurried back to fetch the old toolbox, then stood in front of the beam. These weren’t a carpenter’s tools—they were for fixing furniture. He unpacked the tools, setting each carefully on the concrete floor: a plane, a chisel, a sharpening stone, a pocket square, a file, and a small hammer. He left tiny nails, a metal container of brown stain, and a stained cloth in the box.
None of the items were that useful. Maybe he should get an acetylene torch and come back. He had one at his house.
But what if someone noticed the broken window by then and boarded it up or brought down additional security? He might never get back into this room.
With a sigh, he bent over the object. When his father had returned the device here, he hadn’t welded it quite flush on one corner. Joe thought he could work the file into the edge and file off the old solder. Once he got through a few of the soldered spots, he could maybe use the file like a lever and pry the device loose. Maybe.
Good enough for him.
“Edison.” He pointed to a spot a few feet away, far enough that the dog wouldn’t get any metal dust in his eyes. “Lay down over there.”
Edison walked over and lay down with his head on his front paws, watching.
“Good boy.” He pitched the dog a treat.
He went back to the column and knelt next to it. The concrete was hard and cold under his knees, and that would get worse the longer he was here. Wishing it weren’t so loud, he began to file. Black dust and the occasional spark fell to the floor. He settled into a rhythm.
Soon he would get this box free, and he would know what had scared his father.
Chapter 30
Quantum stood in front of the New Yorker Hotel, a forty-story monument to Art Deco. It took up half a block. The place probably had over a thousand guest rooms, plus lobby, conference rooms, and who knew what else. Impressive.
The giant lobby was decorated with fashionable people, a lot of gold, and an Art Deco chandelier big enough to be buried in. But no Joe Tesla. Not that he’d expected to find him here. This place had probably gone through a lot of remodeling since Nikola Tesla’s day. Not a good place to hide anything long term.
He plunked himself into a yellow leather chair as if he belonged at the hotel, took out his secure phone, and went to the chat room to see if Ash had more suggestions. Careful not to type in anything that might get him in trouble later, he sent a message from the burner phone he used to communicate with Ash: @ hotel lobby. directions?
He did the math in his head while he waited for a reply. The hotel must have about a million square feet. He researched the place on the burner phone while he waited to hear from Ash. The hotel had a strong Tesla connection—Nikola Tesla had died in this hotel seventy-one years before. Seemed like his old room would be a good place to start. Maybe he’d hidden something in the walls or the floor. But Quantum would never find it if he had to search all million square feet.
He checked the chat room before standing up to go see if Nikola had made it easy for everyone and left it in his room.
a
sh: start in south basement. GO!
The basement made sense, since Joe couldn’t go outside, but how did Ash know he was in the south one? He must be tracking Joe’s phone. Quantum was glad he was using a burner. He didn’t want Ash tracking him.
ash: GO!
Quantum’s temper flared at the command in those capital letters. Nobody told him what to do. Nobody. But he tamped down his irritation. He needed to get the device, get the Bitcoins, and get the hell out of Dodge. In that order.
He walked over to the elevators and pressed B. Nobody questioned his actions. It seemed too easy. The elevator stopped with a bump, and the doors opened onto the basement level.
No money was spent on the décor down here. The walls were a dingy white, and the smell of laundry hung in moist air. The faraway thump of dryers reminded him of childhood trips to the Laundromat.
“Hey!” An overweight guy in a security guard outfit waddled up. “Guests aren’t allowed down here.”
Guess he wasn’t going to get lucky after all. He’d have to deal with—Quantum checked the man’s name badge—Mr. Francis Ferguson personally, which probably wouldn’t be that hard.
“I’m not a guest.” Quantum plastered an irritated look on his face, the kind every IT employee perpetually wore. “My name is Mathison Turing.”
Francis looked him over suspiciously.
Quantum glared back. He looked nerdy enough to pass as an IT consultant, and Mathison Turing was the best nerd name ever—having belonged to early computer genius Alan Mathison Turing, the guy who had practically invented modern computer science. “I’m here to fix the Wi-Fi. Someone in Reception called us.”
The guard’s eye twitched when Quantum said Reception. Apparently, that was a sore subject.
“The Wi-Fi is upstairs.” Francis put one pudgy hand on a nightstick. He didn’t rate a gun, which was a good thing.
“I know where the hub is, thank you.” Quantum sped up his voice and injected some peevishness. “I’ve fixed it up there, for now, but this is a chronic problem. It keeps going out. Or haven’t you heard?”
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