Mytro

Chapter 30: The Conductor's Key

asked Agata.

"Floor 1 on the elevator," said the doorman. "But the basement

is just the offices and cleaning supplies. Don't go down there," he called back, already occupied with a woman leading a tiny poodle

through the revolving door. He ran over to help the woman when the little dog yelped and was nearly snatched up in the door.

"Easy as pie. Nobody cares about people in a hotel," she said. "I've been in a lot of them."

"I've seriously never been to any," said Turtle.

Turtle and Agata rushed into the brightly lit hotel lobby. The hotel was beautiful, the marble floors polished to a high shine and the furniture all rich, dark, and modern. A woman at the front desk smiled at them and picked up a phone, ignoring them a moment later.

"Elevators," said Agata, grabbing Turtle's hand. Another chill rose up the back of his spine. They came to the elevators and jammed the down button. The doors opened immediately with a curt ding and they were inside. A moment later, the doors opened.

"This is P. This isn't –1," said Turtle.

"Maybe we can go farther down," said Agata.

This floor was mostly empty with piles of sheets and pillows

dumped into big cloth bins and something that sounded like a kitchen a few feet away from the elevator entrance. It looked like one large room, with a few smaller rooms that looked like break areas for the staff at the far end.

Next to the elevator was a darker elevator door that was much wider and much older than the elevator they had ridden.

"That has to be a staff elevator," said Agata. She walked over to it. Her finger pinned down something scratched into the paint. The number 13.

"Bingo," she said. "Is that the right word? My mom says it when she spots something she lost."

"Bingo is right," said Turtle, smiling. They were inside the elevator before anyone noticed.

The quiet was immense in the sub-basement. The upper basement had looked relatively new, with a fine tile floor and a clean, astringent quality to the air. Here, in the lower storage area— unused by all accounts—it felt cramped and dirty.

To the left of the elevator was a door marked WC, and another room, its door ajar, was lined with lockers. It appeared to be the men's changing room. Someone inside was rustling about with a bag, and Agata and Turtle quietly moved past the door deeper into

the cellar. This floor was much bigger than the one above it, which suggested it was the older of the two. It was dimly lit with light bulbs where the upper basement was awash in fluorescent light. If there was a place to hide something in the hotel, this was it.

They went all the way down to the end of the hall to a large, wooden double door. It was locked. Then Agata noticed something.

"Look at the room numbers," she said.

"There are none," said Turtle.

"Except that one," she said, pointing to a room on the right side

of the hall. It was labeled, in black marker, with the number 13. They tried the door and it opened, the hinges quiet.

The musty smell told them this area hadn't been disturbed in

a while. There were old leather chairs stacked up in a jumble and a set of tablecloths that looked as if they had seen a bit too much tomato sauce. They heard the boiler farther away, in the darkness at the far end of the room. Somewhere above, a toilet flushed and the rush of water roared through some pipes above them.

Agata took out her cell phone and tapped a button that turned on the built-in flash. She used it as a flashlight, sweeping the area in front of them.

"So it's in this room, I guess. Unless there's another Mytro station, right?" asked Turtle.

Agata raised the flashlight, aiming it at the walls. There was no sign or mark, just a uniform wall made of large, carefully cut stone bricks. They walked gingerly along the walls, stepping over broken furniture and a couch that looked like it had seen better days. Near the back corner, someone had cleared the debris into orderly stacks.

They trailed their hands slowly along the wall, feeling for changes in the surface. Turtle thought of the rock wall in Central Park that fell in with a soft push.

Under the harsh light of the phone's LED, all the stones looked the same. Agata flashed the light across the wall again and turned around to look at the organized furniture.

"My dad did this, I think," she said. "He was always cleaning. His attic, before it was trashed, was so tidy."

The flashlight rolled over the dark wood and caught the wall again.

"Pull back a little. Aim the light right here," Turtle said, tapping

a point on the wall.

Agata moved back and aimed where Turtle was pushing. In the

brick wall, clearly delineated, was a set of bricks that was lighter than the others, as if they had been cleaned. They were shaped like the letter A.

Turtle pressed one then another, completing the A. They all clicked back a bit with his touch. There were eight in all—three for either side of the A, one for the top, and one for the crossbar. Turtle pressed all eight.

Slowly, the wall rolled inwards and then back. It was a station, bright and new, made of blindingly polished steel—long sheets of it, riveted together.

The ceiling was gently sloped to the edge of the tracks, which were new as well and set into dark concrete studded here and there with some sort of glowing mineral. The tunnel disappeared into darkness on either side.

It was a unique station, to be sure. Above the door, which was now closing after them, a name was etched into the metal: "Agata Station, Prague."

"What the heck?" asked Turtle. "Did your dad do this?"

"I have no idea," she said. "I don't know how he could. Turtle— look," said Agata. She pointed and then ran to a box near a far wall they hadn't noticed. It was metal, specially designed with a close- fitting lid. It was locked tight and a dial beckoned.

"The numbers," said Turtle. "We didn't write them down."

"I remember them. 12 28 08 21. My birthday, then my mom's," said Agata.

She turned the dial clockwise then counterclockwise, hitting the numbers. Two more turns and she tugged the lid softly. It lifted up on hidden hinges.

There, settled in a soft silk pillow, was a large, ornate key. The fob looked like a pocket watch and a set of dials and buttons studded the length of it. The tip of the key was ornately carved, curlicues twisting into geometric shapes. It was so brightly polished that it seemed to glow. As she lifted it out of the box, it jingled slightly, like wind chimes. It was still alive, still wound. A bright button on the top could activate it, but Agata didn't want to touch it.

This was the Conductor's Key. She lifted it from the box and

held it, staring amazed at its complexity.

"Look," said Turtle. "There's one more!"

Under the shiny key was another darker key, one that looked

older and less polished. It was the original.

Behind them the door started to open and they both turned.

Agata grabbed the old key from the box and stuffed it into a front pocket as a tall man dressed in a dark coat and beret pushed into the bright station.