Invisible

by Andrew Grant

  I slowed down and took a look around. There was a spare X-ray machine, marooned in the middle of the floor. A ramp for wheelchair users. A long folded table leaning against the wall. Opposite that was a door. Its burgundy paintwork was worn and scuffed. A sign attached to it read Staff Only. And based on the layout of the corridor, it was the only place the people I’d heard could have come from.

  The guards’ conversation had moved on to basketball. It was becoming heated, so they were paying no attention to me at all. I moved over to the door and tried the handle. It turned easily. I pulled. I hadn’t heard any hinges squeak earlier, but I braced myself, anyway. Then relaxed. The door moved silently. I opened it just wide enough to slip through. Then eased it closed behind me and started cautiously along another corridor.

  The walls were painted cream, with a slight chalkiness showing on the surface. The wood on the skirting boards and doorframe was faded green. Chunky iron radiators were spaced out along the right-hand wall. Most were dented and rusty. The floor was covered with large, speckled beige tiles. At the far end of the corridor I could see a staircase, leading down. There was a sign on the wall above the top step. It had three joined yellow wedges in a black circle, very similar to the radiation warning symbol, but with an added circle at the six-o’clock position. This was labeled “Capacity,” but I couldn’t read the number. “Fallout Shelter” was written in yellow on black in a rectangle at the bottom. Below it, a downward arrow had been painted on the wall using a Cold War–style stencil.

  I followed the arrow down the stairs. There were two flights. They descended maybe thirty feet, and opened onto another corridor. This one was shorter. The colors gave it the same ’50s vibe, but there were no iron radiators on this level. And the far end was blocked by a metal door. Another, larger Fallout Shelter sign was attached to it, but this one had a red band stuck across at an angle that read Decommissioned. Do Not Enter.

  The door was held ajar by a concrete block wedged between it and its frame. The door itself was thick and solid, like a bank vault’s, only it was completely smooth on the outside. The design would allow it to flex in a blast and return to its original shape, and not jam or snag on fallen debris. I’d seen a film of one being tested, years ago, and wouldn’t want to be stuck on the wrong side. I moved closer, and when I was less than six feet away the door began to swing back. A woman appeared. She’d be in her late twenties, I guessed. She was wearing jeans, Nike sneakers, and a faded Yankees hoodie. Her hair was dark, and she had it tied up in a bun. She had large, blue-framed glasses pushed up onto her forehead, and was holding a Star Wars mug in her left hand. She dropped the mug when she saw me and it shattered, splashing her shoes with the final dregs of her coffee.

  “Frank!” The woman scowled, and planted her hands on her hips. “You better get out here.”

  A few seconds later Carrodus appeared in the doorway. He was holding a clipboard, which he clutched to his chest when he recognized me, and as he stared, deep lines spread across his forehead.

  “It’s OK, Jane.” Carrodus touched the woman’s elbow. “You head up. I’ll take care of this.”

  “My mug!” She turned and glared up at him.

  “Don’t worry about it.” He nudged her gently away from the mess on the floor. “I’ll clean it up. And I’ll get you another one. I promise. Now go.”

  The woman glared at him for another couple of seconds, then started to move. Carrodus and I stood and listened to her footsteps receding up the stairs.

  Carrodus crossed his arms and pressed the clipboard tighter against his chest to make sure I couldn’t read any of his papers. “You shouldn’t be down here, Paul. The best thing you can do is go back upstairs and forget you were ever here.”

  “I can’t do that, Frank.”

  “Why not? This is none of your business.”

  “It might be. It depends what you’ve got hidden behind that door.”

  “I’ve got nothing hidden.”

  “OK. Then it depends what you just smuggled out of here.”

  “I didn’t smuggle anything out.”

  “Oh come on, Frank. I saw you hand an envelope to the guard last night. Today, he screened off the exit. People went out. I heard multiple footsteps. Don’t tell me there’s nothing going on here.”

  “What are you?” Carrodus frowned. “Some kind of narc?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “My interest is purely personal.”

  “Are you undercover? Who are you working for? The INS? The DEA? Because there’s nothing here for you. Please, Paul. Trust me. Walk away.”

  “I can’t do that. And I’m not undercover. I’m just a janitor. The same as you.”

  “Then why do you care what’s behind this door?”

  “OK.” I paused. “I’ll level with you. I told you I came back to reconcile with my father. Well, I can’t do that. Because he’s dead. He had a fight with a guy, then collapsed. The guy was ripping him off, big-time. He was most likely responsible for my father’s death. And he walked away from a trial in this courthouse because some critical documents went missing.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Paul.”

  “If those documents went missing because you’re running some kind of operation here, smuggling files out to order, then you’re going to be more than sorry.”

  “You think…?” Carrodus shook his head. “OK. Fair enough. I can see why you might come to that conclusion. But you’re wrong. So this is what I suggest. I’ll show you what we’re doing here. And when you’ve seen it, I’m going to ask you to keep it to yourself.”

  Carrodus turned, pushed the door, and gestured for me to go in. I knew that would be a stupid thing to do, given that I’d just shown him all my cards. It was crazier than going into that carpet store in Istanbul. But there was more at stake this time, at least for me personally. And I didn’t have to justify my decisions to anyone but myself anymore. So I went in.

  I found myself in another long, narrow corridor. Plumes of concrete dust rose from the floor as I walked. There was peeling beige paint on the walls, and wide ventilation pipes hung from the ceiling. I couldn’t tell if they still worked. A line of water barrels along the left-hand side formed a kind of inner wall. “Office of Civil Defense” was stenciled on their sides, along with instructions for filling and storing them. As well as reusing them as commodes when empty, by adding a plastic seat.

  “Seventeen and a half gallons per drum.” Carrodus brushed his fingers against their metal sides as he walked. “Five people to each one. That gives you an idea how many could shelter down here.”

  I turned back and looked at the door. There were three tempered-steel bars evenly spaced across the inside, operated by a central lever. I imagined the scenes on the stairs and in the outer corridor if the bomb sirens ever had gone off. People would have been fighting to get inside, whether they were on the list of authorized personnel or not. Eventually someone would have had to make a decision. They’d have had to close the door. It would have taken several people, probably, to force back all those left outside. I wondered how soundproof the door was. Would you have been able to hear people banging and scraping, desperate to get in? Knowing you’d have to step over their dead, irradiated bodies, if you were ever in a position to leave? I suddenly felt even better about the Istanbul mission. I couldn’t believe the human race was stupid enough to stampede toward the nuclear abyss once again, but at least I’d played a small part in trying to turn the tide. I’d rather push the idiotic multitude back from the brink than a few desperate souls from a bunker, given the bigger picture. But the only issue right then and there was, what was Carrodus doing with the place?

  “Paul?” Carrodus had kept walking and was now waiting for me at the end of the corridor. “Through here. Come on.”

  I followed him into a rectangular space. It was large. Maybe fifty feet by eighty. Our footsteps echo
ed as we moved toward the center. Pools of light came from round lamps in eighteen-inch shades that hung at regular intervals from the pale concrete ceiling. About half the floor was covered in rugs and a bright patchwork of carpet offcuts. The walls were painted with vivid murals. One was a jungle. One, outer space. Another, the ocean. The last, a city. Four armchairs were lined up at the far end of the room. They had wooden frames, low backs, and pea green vinyl upholstery. They looked like original government issue. And they were solid. Built to withstand any outbreaks of cabin fever that occurred while the surface of the planet was busy getting devastated. To the side, there was a portable coatrack with one small jacket hanging on it. And in the center, toys. A motley collection of Barbies and G.I. Joes, plus heaps of metal tins. There were two sizes, and some were stacked up into towers and forts.

  “So you see: No hiding. No smuggling.” Carrodus held his arms out wide. “Instead, welcome to Doomsday Daycare, as we like to call it.”

  “You bring kids down here?” I sniffed the stuffy air. “Is the ventilation working? What if there was a fire? Where’s the—”

  “Is it perfect?” Carrodus took a step toward me. “No. But can you give me a better alternative? Where else are the kids supposed to go? No one who works here can afford to live in Manhattan, obviously. We all live in the boroughs. Or Jersey. And even so, both partners still need to work to put food on the table and keep a roof over their heads. Assuming you’re not raising your kid alone. Then it’s even harder. Trust me on that.”

  I realized I was out of my element. This hadn’t been a common problem in my old unit. Although I had seen fancy child care facilities at some of the companies I’d been sent to infiltrate. “What about the employers? Can’t they help with this kind of thing?”

  “Oh yeah.” Carrodus rolled his eyes. “Employers can help. And they’re happy to if you’re a lawyer. Or a banker. Or a senator. Which is stupid, because if you were any of those things then you could afford regular daycare, anyway. Which we can’t.”

  “Have you asked?”

  “A hundred times.” Carrodus flung his clipboard onto one of the armchairs and jammed his hands into his pockets. “And we always get the same answer. A flat-out refusal. No one’s going to help us, Paul. So we do it ourselves.”

  “This is what the ten percent kickback is for?”

  “Basically.” Carrodus nodded. “Some goes to the guards, to help get the kids in and out unnoticed. Some goes for supplies. Although we reuse everything we can.” He picked up a piece of paper from a pile by a pair of easels near the “space” wall. It was olive green, and about eight feet by five. “Like this. Do you know what it is? Or was? A bedsheet. One of the originals from down here. Somehow they left a lot of stuff behind when they decommissioned the place at the start of the seventies.”

  “These, too?” I picked up a pair of tins from the top of a precarious tower. The larger one had a label saying “Office of Civil Defense. All Purpose Survival Biscuits. Packed: Dec ’69.” It rattled as I moved it. The smaller one was “Carbohydrate Supplement #2. Flavor—fruit. Packed: May ’68.” It was lighter, and made no sound.

  “We had to empty the fruity ones.” Carrodus took the tins and set them down, one on top of the other. “We couldn’t risk the kids eating the contents. They looked like candies, but it turned out the food dye they used back then gave you cancer. Imagine that. You survive Armageddon, only to get killed by the food they gave you to last through the nuclear winter.”

  “That’s crazy.” I pointed at the tins. “There’s still something in that larger one. Want me to grab it?”

  “No need.” Carrodus held up his hands as if surrendering. “The biscuits are harmless. They’re made out of bulgur wheat. It’s the same as what the archaeologists found stored in the pyramids. That stuff was still good, so the government scientists figured if it could last from Egyptian times, it was a safe enough bet for down here. They don’t taste too good, though.”

  “You’ve tried them?”

  “Maybe once.” Carrodus shrugged. “And if some of the kids aren’t getting enough at home…”

  “Who was that woman?” I turned back toward the doorway. “The one who left when I arrived?”

  “That was Jane. Our teacher. Or room mom. Call her what you like.”

  “You pay her?”

  “No. She’s a janitor, like us. That’s why we ask people to do extra shifts. To cover for her while she’s down here with the kids.”

  I stopped and took another look around the place. If I had kids, I wouldn’t want them cooped up in a windowless, subterranean chamber like this. But as Carrodus said, it was better than nothing. And at least they were doing something to help themselves.

  “Frank?” I hurried to catch up with him. “I’m sorry I jumped to the wrong conclusion before. You’re doing great work here. I’m happy to chip in with the cash and cover Jane’s shifts. And if there’s anything else I can do to help, just ask. Within reason. I’m not changing any diapers. Or teaching anyone to paint. No one would be happy with the way that would turn out.”

  Carrodus stopped and held out his hand. “Thanks, Paul. I’m sorry I wasn’t more open, but I didn’t know you. I can’t take any chances with this place. And I’m also sorry about the situation with your father’s trial. But listen. Usually when something gets screwed up around here it’s chaos that’s to blame, not conspiracy. Give me the names and dates, and I’ll keep an eye open for the file. I could ask a couple of the guys to do the same, if you like. Just the ones I trust. And I don’t have to go into detail about why.”

  * * *

  —

  I made my way back up from the shelter and went to the janitors’ room to collect my cart. I felt bad about mistrusting Carrodus, and knew what my father would have wanted me to do about it. Redeem myself through work. So I thought I’d head back to the fourth floor. I needed to develop a more effective system for eliminating rooms and chambers. That wasn’t easy, given the unpredictable timing of the trials and the preliminary work that went on inside them. But I knew I’d figure something out with a little effort.

  The elevator stopped on the first floor again. This time an old guy with a walking frame wanted to get in. A younger guy—his son?—held the door while he inched forward into the car. Behind them, I could see six people heading for the exit. They were moving together as a group, as if they were familiar with each other. I wondered if they were part of a jury, leaving for the day. And if so, which courtroom were they from? I watched as they approached the security station and saw one of the guys peel off. He crossed to the camera table. Pulled out a receipt. Retrieved a serious-looking SLR. Slung it around his neck. And hurried after the others.

  It took me a moment to realize the significance of what I’d seen.

  And that I would have something to give Atkinson tomorrow, after all.

  Chapter Eleven

  Atkinson had nominated the Green Zebra for breakfast. Again.

  It was a poor choice, I thought. Not because of the food, which I couldn’t comment on, as I’d only tried their coffee. Or the décor. Or the preponderance of hipsters. But because it went against every one of my instincts to go to the same place twice. Particularly at the same time of day. In my previous life that kind of behavior would have been unthinkable. I knew that now I was a civilian I’d have to let that mind-set go. I’d understood when I turned in my papers that I’d have some adjusting to do. I just hadn’t expected a guy like Atkinson to keep lobbing grenades in my path.

  Atkinson was late. I wasn’t happy about having to wait, but at least that meant I could pick a different table. I went for one at the rear of the section with the wooden floor so that I could sit with my back to the wall. The tabletop was covered with metal ceiling tiles that had been sprayed with metallic purple paint. My chair was a curvy 1960s creation in beige vinyl. It didn’t match—obviously, or they’d proba
bly have thrown it in the trash—but it was surprisingly comfortable. High on the wall behind me someone had hung a framed, six-foot-wide collage of Emily Dickinson poems juxtaposed with cuttings from a 1950s Sears catalog. It was for sale. The artist was asking for $7,000. I had no idea what he was trying to communicate, but he clearly wasn’t short of nerve.

  It took Atkinson a moment to spot me when he finally showed up. Then he weaved around a group of eight bearded guys who were taking an inordinate amount of time to strap their various infants into a selection of complicated slings and backpacks, and sat down opposite me. A server happened to be passing, so he ordered the Eggplant Benedict again without waiting to look at a menu. I ordered tea, more for the sake of change than because I wanted any.

  “What have you got for me, McGrath?” Atkinson seemed to be finding it harder than normal to sit still. “That lead you mentioned. Did it pan out?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “That was a dead end. There was nothing to it at all. But I did stumble on something else. And this, it could be huge.”

  “The location of the Pardew file? Who took it?”

  “No.” I felt a physical jolt at the mention of Pardew’s name. In the army each mission’s priorities were clearly defined at the start. Now my life felt like a game of Whac-A-Mole, with a flurry of shifting targets popping in and out of view. I wanted to catch the guy who’d ripped off my father, and maybe caused his death. Obviously. That had to be my main focus. But I couldn’t turn my back on the Masons. And neither could I ignore a possible threat to public safety. “No. This is something else. Something I uncovered at the courthouse. I’m worried about the security procedure. There could be a major breach.”

  “Which is how the Pardew documents went missing?”

  “I don’t know. There may be a connection. There may not be.”