The iron maintenance cage of the service elevator rattled to a gentle stop on the basement level.
The bronze floor indicator chimed once: DING.
Julian pushed the heavy accordion gate open, stepping out into the reinforced concrete corridor leading to Studio B.
The thirty-five-pound vulcanized rubber Admiralty Dispatch Case rested heavy against his chest, held tight by the webbed canvas straps.
His boots left wet, soot-stained tracks along the grey linoleum floor.
Through the heavy fabric of his coat, the case felt unnervingly cold.
It did not feel like an ordinary steel strongbox. It carried the dense, dead chill of deep ocean water.
Whenever he shifted his weight, he could feel a thick, sluggish liquid shifting inside the lead-sheathed lining.
