He was dressed in a gray suit. He had soft eyes and a head of thick gray hair, like snow, with straggly caterpillar-like eyebrows. His lips were moving, but Caleb didn’t hear any words—nothing but a sound like the rush of water.
The man raised a scolding finger, and for an instant the water gurgled away and the room quieted down. He leaned forward and whispered, “The Pharos protects itself.” Then he stood and made a curious bow.
Caleb blinked, and it was daytime. His arm was free, the IV gone. He sat up in bed, blinking again. His mouth felt like it was full of sand. Turning sideways, he slid out of the bed until a wave of nausea forced him back, and then he tried again. He stood up this time, made it to the window and looked down. Two stories below there was a small field with a soot-stained marble statue of some Egyptian patriot pointing toward the sea. Overhead, a lone dove circled, then landed on the statue’s head and stared up at Caleb’s window. Then Caleb noticed the man.
He stood in the field, looking down at a flat stone set in the grass. He was familiar, but not the one who had visited the previous night. This man wore a dirty green jacket and had long hair, stringy and unwashed, down to his shoulders. He knelt and set a single white flower upon the stone at his feet.
Caleb’s mouth opened. What had once been fear gave way to curiosity. But then the figure stood and turned around, looking up, right at Caleb. He raised a hand and pointed, first at Caleb, then down to the stone. Then he touched his chest.
Caleb rocked back, so startled that he didn’t even get a good look at his face, but he bumped into the bed, turned and saw his mother silhouetted in the doorway.
“What are you doing out of bed?”
Caleb pointed to the window, eyes wide, and speechless.
Helen limped past and set her good arm on the windowpane. She looked down. Caleb hesitantly peered over her shoulder, already sure of what he’d see.
The field was empty.
She turned, shrugging. “Phoebe’s on the phone, asking for you.”
Caleb had to sit again. “I can’t talk to her.”
“You’re her big brother. You saved her life back in Belize, no matter what else you think. Go, talk to her.”
“I’ll talk,” Caleb relented. “But then that’s it. This quest is over for me—once and for all. I’m done. Unless you enlist the help of a dozen military divisions and a thousand tons of TNT, I’m finished. I’m leaving.”
“You can’t—”
“I can. I have a job. Classes to teach. Books to publish.” Caleb stood and walked to the door. “It’s over, Mom. It’s over.”
“Dad wouldn’t have given up,” she whispered, and her words froze him to the spot.
Caleb hung his head. Out in the hall, the fresh air felt soothing on his skin. “Dad’s dead. Or don’t you remember?”
“Caleb—”
“He’s dead,” Caleb repeated. And now he finally believed it. He did, and he felt an utter vacancy in the place the hope of his father’s return used to occupy. It was always like Dad had been there waiting in the corner of Caleb’s mind. Waiting for me to find and rescue him.
But that chance had passed.
“Dead,” Caleb said again. “Like your obsession. Like the myth of this treasure. Like everyone who goes after it.”
He closed the door—on his mother, on the quest. On his lost youth. On hope. He put them all behind him and walked away, toward his future.
At dusk, as the other boats, schooners, trawlers and pleasure cruisers headed to the docks, and their passengers geared up for a night out at discos, bars and restaurants, George Waxman took the sleek four-seater speedboat in the opposite direction, to the center of the harbor and his waiting yacht.
Minutes later, he descended into the lower quarters, still fuming. “Get upstairs,” he barked to Victor, who he found standing before the recompression chamber window, peering inside. “Go up top and keep watch.”
Victor turned, a bruised cut on his forehead, still red and turning purplish around the stitches. “For who? Helen will be with her boy, right?”
“It’s not her I’m concerned about. How’s our patient?”
“Unresponsive. But alive.”
“Good.”
“She rose sixty feet in less than a minute, lungs half full of seawater, and . . . I don’t know, boss, shouldn’t we get her to a hospital?” Victor paused at the stairs, his voice cracking, betraying perhaps some newly kindled desire of his own.
“No,” Waxman snapped. “We need to leave soon, and I need to have her close. In case . . . in case her injuries, the blow to the head, made her forget her priorities. Or otherwise experience a lapse in judgment.”
“Understood.”
When the footsteps had retreated, and Waxman was alone with the sound of hissing gas and the vibrating echoes of the generator, he cupped his hands to the portal window and peered into the chamber.
“Sleep tight, Nina.”
BOOK TWO
—THE LIBRARY—
THEODOTUS. What is burning there is the memory of mankind.
CAESAR. A shameful memory. Let it burn.
— Shaw, Caesar and Cleopatra
1
Columbia University–December
Three years later
Caleb Crowe hadn’t seen his sister in more than five years. It was Christmas, and he had just finished grading midterms. Now he was off to the Museum of Natural History to wrap up his research into the vanished Alexandrian library; and then he was looking forward to finally sitting down to the book that had been impatiently waiting for him to write.
He had his coat on and he was reaching for the door when Phoebe called. She was at the entrance to his apartment. His heart pounding, a thousand questions in his mind, he rushed out of his room and ran down four flights of stairs, out of breath with excitement, recalling that awful day, that tragic descent around a much longer—and older—staircase three years ago.
He stepped out of the stairwell and there she was in the lobby, two upperclassmen holding the door for her before heading out to a football game in the quad. Phoebe wheeled herself inside, gave Caleb a smile, and then spun her wheelchair in a full circle. “Like the new model?” She adjusted the chair’s controls and sped over to him. She wore a heavy fleece turtleneck and faded khakis, with a plaid blanket over her legs. Her dark hair had grown longer and had been recently colored, with streaks of auburn highlights offsetting her eyes, soft and shining, without a hint of recrimination.
“It suits you.” He looked her over, shaking his head in dismay. She was radiant, excited, just like he remembered her before the fall. “Where’s Mom?”
“Merry Christmas to you too,” she said. “She’s out in the car.”
Caleb glanced out the window to see the silver Lexus at the end of the path. Two shapes inside, the windows open a crack and cigarette smoke filtering out into the air.
“We were in the city, so I made them bring me to see you.” She rolled closer and pulled out a red gift-wrapped package from under her blanket. “I didn’t want another Christmas to pass without seeing my big brother.”
Caleb felt a pang of guilt and had to lower his eyes as he took the gift. “I don’t deserve this.”
“You do.”
“I didn’t get you anything.”
“Hey, I surprised you by showing up. What can I expect?”
She reached up and touched his hand. “I don’t have long,” she said. “We’re on our way to Philadelphia. George—Mr. Waxman—has some contacts he wants Mom to meet. Some friends in occult studies who might shed light on the symbols you found on that door under Qaitbey’s fortress.”
Waxman.
Caleb’s blood boiled. He thought about Nina and the others—those unfortunate pawns Waxman had brought down into that place to drown. “Still trying to figure out the Pharos code . . .” he said. “Have they made any progress?”
“Do you care?” Phoebe didn’t wait for Caleb to answer. “Actually, we’ve interviewed two dozen different psych
ics. Still trying to repopulate the Morpheus Initiative. And George wasted a lot of time trying to locate that other guy who went missing in Alexandria. Xavier-something.”
“Montross?” His skin broke out in a surprising chill. “With all of Waxman’s influence, he can’t find one guy?”
“Yeah, weird. It’s like Xavier just vanished off the face of the planet.”
Caleb thought for a moment, remembering the red hair and the haunted eyes peering at him through the crack in a hotel-room door. “Or, he really doesn’t want to be found.”
“Well, anyway, the search goes on. Some of the candidates are good, some not so much. We brought them in, set them to work, but they’ve found nothing, nothing but unrelated gibberish. Their drawings make no sense, they don’t correlate with anything we know.”
“Maybe you’re not asking them the right questions.”
“Or they’re just bad psychics.”
Caleb smiled. “What about you? What have you seen, assuming you’re helping them?”
“I am. But mostly . . . I don’t know, I guess I haven’t known what to look for, or what questions to ask, either.”
“How’s college?” he asked, changing the subject.
Her face lit up. “Great. U of R has a nice handicapped-friendly facility. I stay on campus and all my classes are in one building connected to my dorm. I’ve got a head start on my thesis already, and I’m interning with Professor Gillis, helping him translate a collection of cuneiform tablets from Babylon.”
“Sounds wonderful,” Caleb said. He hadn’t realized she had developed such similar interests. Suddenly he regretted the years they’d been apart.
“It’s not bad,” she said. “Except for when Mom basically kidnaps me and makes me help out with her research.” A couple underclassmen walked by, hand in hand with their girlfriends, and Phoebe wistfully watched them go.
“I’d hoped she’d give you a break,” Caleb said, looking out the window again at the figure in the passenger seat.
“She has, mostly, but I’ve asked to be kept in it.”
Caleb opened his mouth to ask a question, but when he saw her eyes, the hard lines around the edges, the lost years in her smile, he knew why she couldn’t let it rest. He urged her toward a seating area, where he pulled up a chair and leaned forward to be at her level. “I’m sorry, Phoebe. I really am. I think about you all the time.”
“Even though you never call?”
“Or write.”
“Or write,” she said. “You’ve read my letters?”
“Of course.” And it was true, he couldn’t set them aside. Even though she was the link to his past, the sole connection to his mother and to a life he desperately wanted to forget, he just couldn’t close himself off to her completely. And she wrote so well, so full of enthusiasm about everything, as if despite her disability she was thrilled to just be alive. She experienced life with the zeal of a heaven-bound spirit sent back to Earth for one last romp.
“So maybe you’ll write back sometime?” she asked hopefully, looking over her shoulder as a horn sounded. “Or visit?”
“I will,” Caleb promised.
She nodded and then backed up, first wrapping her scarf around her neck. Caleb followed her to the door. Outside in the cool wind Waxman stood, wearing a black trench coat. He opened the trunk for Phoebe’s wheelchair.
“Has he moved in?” Caleb asked.
“More or less,” Phoebe said. “I ask Mom about it every once in a while. She seems to really like him.”
“Did you ever . . .?” Caleb paused, unsure how to phrase the question.
“Remote view him?” She gave a little laugh. “Nah, too creepy. You?”
“Haven’t done it at all in a long time.”
“Too bad. But it’s not one of those ‘use it or lose it’ things. If you want to get back to it, I’m sure it’s waiting for you.”
“No thanks.”
“You sure? I bet you and I could figure this thing out in no time.”
Caleb opened the door for her and felt the suddenly bitter wind whip at his face. “Thanks for the present.”
With a speed that surprised him, Phoebe reached up, took him by the wrists and pulled him down for a big hug. “Take care of yourself, big brother.” She started to wheel away, then stopped. “One more thing, are you dating someone?”
Caleb blushed despite the cold. “Nope. No time. Studies and all.”
“Geek.”
“Why’d you ask?”
“Just curious. I thought of you once, and I went into a quick trance and saw you with a girl, someone with long blond hair and green eyes.”
“Blond? No, no one I know,” Caleb said, truthfully. He hadn’t thought too much about girls since he’d been back to the States. And he only had a few other teachers he could even call friends. He steered clear of parties, and Columbia was such a big campus one could easily escape notice. And he preferred it that way. “But I’ll keep an eye out for this mystery girl.”
“Do that,” Phoebe said. “Because I felt she was bad news. Some kind of threat to you. That’s all.” She rode down the walkway as frosted leaves blew across her path and great elm trees swayed toward her. The morning clouds hung pregnant and low, dark but complacent.
“Merry Christmas!” Caleb called out, and just then his mother’s head appeared from the other side of the car. He saw her face, her lips moving, mouthing an apology or an accusation, Caleb wasn’t sure. But suddenly he saw something he hadn’t seen in three years—a huddled figure, a man trembling in a tattered green coat, long stringy hair over his face. He was standing across the street, by the corner of the brick building. The shadows seemed deeper around him, as if he had enlisted them to his side. He stared at Caleb. With the door open, shivering against a renewed blast of cold air, Caleb stood motionless. He smelled gunpowder, or fireworks, and imagined hearing a band playing a somber dirge on the field. The figure in the green coat raised its hand. At first Caleb thought it was pointing to him, but then he realized the finger was directed toward the car.
Toward Waxman.
Caleb heard mumbled words and realized it was Phoebe saying goodbye. He blinked, opened the door all the way and was about to come out when the light shifted, the shadows scattered, and the man was gone, as if he had been inhaled into the earth.
Caleb retreated into the lobby and stared at the gift in his hands. When he looked up, the car had driven off, and only the swaying trees and the courtyard lawn and the eight guys playing touch football remained.
Back in his room, he peeled open the wrapping paper. He stared inside the box for a long time. Then he cursed them—cursed his mother, cursed Waxman, and even Phoebe, although he didn’t really mean it. She had framed the three photographs he had taken down there. The inside of the Pharos chamber—three panels of the great seal, cropped and edited so the entire wall appeared seamless, along with the symbols and the images that had stymied their advance and killed most of the team.
If Caleb had ever wanted to get back into the hunt, Phoebe had just given him the means to take the first step.
2
Alexandria—March
Nolan Gregory sat in a wicker chair on his son’s seventh-floor balcony. The apartment, while somewhat light on luxury, had a strategic view from its western side, at least for certain interested people. Nolan had observed this very scene every night for almost two decades, beginning with every move the bulldozers had made below, every truck carrying away the ruined pieces of old warehouses, apartments and abandoned shacks. Now, he gazed with pride at the glass domed rooftop of the massive library, marveling at the crowds, the tourists, the scholars.
“It’s been five hours,” his son said from inside the screen. “Can I at least get you another drink?”
Nolan shook his head as he continued to watch. “No, Robert. I’m fine. I should be going.” In his mind he visualized the layout below the dome, remembering the excavation of the sub-levels, the laying of the foundations, the st
eel girders. He thought of the precision needed to connect to their sub-level, already in place one hundred feet below. So much to think about, so much to supervise. All from behind the scenes of course. A dozen firms had been brought in, capital from so many organizations, interested benefactors, governments and private donors. Consultants, architects, linguists, sociologists.
Such a project. It had easily consumed the last twenty years of his life. Two decades that had seen his children grow from precocious teenagers to successful adults, each with their own lives—his son here, his daughter overseas.
But each of them Keepers. Valued colleagues.
The screen opened and Robert came out, leaned on the ledge and looked down. His blond hair rippled in the soft breezes. His piercing blue eyes followed his father’s gaze, looking down at the structure with something more like jealousy and impatience. “I’m uncomfortable with your plans for the Key’s retrieval,” he said.
“I know,” Nolan replied, “I know. But it’s the only way. We’ve been lucky so far. Lucky the son has turned his back on his talents, and lucky he’s distanced himself from his family. He’s given us time.”
“Must we move now?” Robert asked. “Waxman is getting nowhere. He’s given up.”
“Wishful thinking. He’s only biding his time, still hoping the other psychics can help him. Fortunately, Helen and Phoebe Crowe haven’t succeeded, but it’s only a matter of time at this point. One of them will find the Key if we don’t get it first.”
Robert lowered his head as the smell of curry and raisins filtered out from the kitchen, where his mother was busy making their evening meal. “So it has to be this way.”
“Yes.”
“And she has agreed?”
Nolan sighed, again gazing at the shimmering reflection of the sun’s setting light off the glass dome, and he told himself that whatever the personal risks, it was worth it. “She’s ready.”
3
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