The Master's office was in near-darkness, lit only by two desk lamps whose amber light carved silhouettes out of piles of folders and telegrams. As Veronika crossed the threshold, he didn't lift his head: he turned pages with a tense gesture, brow furrowed, as if he wanted to pierce the paper with his gaze.
Anna closed the doors. The metallic bolt echoed like an initial verdict.
—Miss Kensington —the Master murmured without raising his eyes—, if you came to offer courtesies, this is the worst moment.
Anna cleared her throat with a diplomatic inclination.
—Apologies for the interruption, Master. I bring—
—Why is Eva locked up?! —Veronika burst out, stepping forward.
The Master set the papers down on the desk. He raised his gaze: his eyes looked like they hadn't blinked for hours, reddened from strain.
—In other circumstances —he replied in a low voice— I'd be impressed at this sudden interest in another human being besides yourself.
—Why did you lock her up?! —Veronika pressed, taking a step closer.
—She is accused of falsifying documents —he answered, propping his elbows and lacing his fingers—. Very simple.
—What kind of documents? —Veronika shot back.
—Clients —he said, shrugging—. Lists of bidders, prices per gallon…
—And for that you locked her up?
—I found out this morning —he growled—. When I returned from an inspection, I noticed that the list I had partly reviewed last night… was no longer the same. And Eva was the only one who brought the folders to my desk.
Veronika lifted her chin.
—That's impossible. She was with me all night; she had no chance to alter anything. And why would an assistant incriminate herself in such a way?
The Master's eyes narrowed, weighing her.
—That's what I intend to find out. Is that all, Kensington?
—No. I need to know what "forgery" you actually found.
The Master let out a rough sigh and, with visible irritation, slid the main file toward her.
—Our sales system is based on sealed bids —he explained, tapping the paper with his finger—. The fuel is divided into three or four lots. The highest bidder per gallon takes the biggest lot. I review the final lists, seal, and release the shipment. Well: last night I saw preliminary names and figures. This morning the amounts had been redistributed and one buyer —Vostok— had vanished. In its place appeared a certain ST at a lower price.
Veronika skimmed the sheet; the fresh ink still gave off an acrid scent.
—Where are the original bidding letters? —she asked, not lifting her eyes from the page.
The Master pressed his lips together. For an instant he seemed on the verge of refusing, but then he leaned back, exhausted.
—In the basement. The shredding room —he muttered, as if the mere thought drained him—. Drafts and provisional copies wait there until twenty-three hundred. After that… they become trash. Any other demands, Kensington?
—Just immediate access —she retorted.
He nodded reluctantly and pressed the bell. A guard appeared instantly.
—Escort the young lady to the provisional archive. Nothing leaves the room. At twenty-two thirty the gates close and the machine is fed. That's all —he ordered, sinking once more into his documents as if to drown his fatigue in ink.
Hall of Temporary Cells
Instead of heading straight for the basement, Veronika diverted her steps —to the guard's annoyance— toward the holding cells. The air smelled of cheap disinfectant and stale fear.
—Eva! —she exclaimed, stopping at the bars—. How many letters of intent were there?
—You know what those are? —Eva blinked, surprised.
—Obviously. My father's business ran the same way. Answer me: how many?
—One hundred forty-seven… why? —Eva asked, confused.
—The Master claims the top bidder he saw last night is gone —Veronika explained, leaning against the bars—.
—I don't understand —Eva muttered.
—There are only two ways that list could change: either the total number of participants dropped by one, or someone erased every trace of a buyer.
Veronika drew a deep breath.
—In either case, the evidence will be in the letters. That information is still in the shredding room; I have to get there before the machine devours them.
As she was about to leave, Eva called after her:
—Veronika! Are you sure about this? You'll get yourself into trouble —she whispered, clutching the empty violin case.
—I get into trouble every day —Veronika replied with a half-smile—, but this time it's not for me. One day you'll repay me for this.
At that moment Veronika straightened and signaled to the guard that she was ready.
She turned on her heel and, with the guard at her back, rushed down the spiral staircase leading to the basement. She had less than two hours and a steel monster sharpening its blades.