Until then, the tablet would wait inside.
And of course, there was the problem of its translation. What exactly was recorded? Instructions for incomparable power or eternal youth? Or a recipe for something much worse?
Caleb struggled against the ice, but it was no use. The cold was penetrating, painfully seeping through his layers, and as the darkness pressed in, he had no choice but to stop fighting.
He tried to relax, pull away from the cold and pain, from the stiffness and pressure. To draw his mind away, set it free. He had done this once before, in an Alexandrian jail where his body had all but deteriorated and wasted away until his spirit had been released, exposed to a new realm of sight, revealing what he needed to see.
So now he let go, released his hold on the flesh, and hoped that once set free, his mind—and his abilities—would discover something worth seeing.
#
Leaping from the chopper onto the deck of the ice-rigger, Nina Osseni pulled back her hood and lifted the satellite phone to her ear. She paused for a moment to watch the station burn along the ridge. And she smiled.
Goodbye, Phoebe.
Colonel Hiltmeyer and his team left the helicopter as the blades slowed, and they rushed past her into the cabin. Nina could feel the engines revving up, the rigger turning, heading north. She waited, feeling the snowflakes slowing, the wind then blasting them away along with the clouds. The night sky, revealed in its sparkling glory, turned the ice shoals below a crystalline blue.
She pressed the redial button on her satellite phone. After one ring, a man’s voice answered. “Is it done?”
“Yes, they’re dead. Phoebe and Caleb and the other members of the Morpheus Initiative.”
“I somehow doubt that,” returned the voice.
“What do you mean?”
“It doesn’t matter. Just a vision I had a short time ago.”
“I had no such vision.”
“Maybe, as your old boyfriend liked to point out repeatedly, you weren’t asking the right questions. In any case, they’ll be delayed long enough for me to get what we came for.”
Nina frowned, still scanning the ice cliffs and plateaus. “Any resistance?”
“None so far, but I wasn’t expecting any. Not until we approach the vault.”
“You’ve got your drawings?”
“I do, but I don’t need them.”
Nina eyed the flickering wreckage on the shore, then glanced back to the helicopter. “If there’s a chance Caleb survived, I could go back and wait for him to show.”
Silence for a moment. “No, I don’t think it would do any good. I’ve had other visions—stronger ones—of meeting him again. It was worth a shot, but in this case I don’t think we can change fate. Go back to the rendezvous point, meet me at Saint Peter’s Castle, and I’ll join you once I have the prize.”
“Very well.” She shut off the phone, still gazing at the shore, considering her options.
How did they survive? she wondered.
But another part of her secretly tingled at the thought of another encounter, far more personal and direct, with Caleb.
Revenge just might be better the second time.
#
The visions flew at him like a desperate flock of ravens, plucking at his mind’s eye, showing him . . .
. . . the lighthouse on the cliff, and the main home, where Robert and the red-haired man approached the front entrance . . . the icy landscape above, sprinkled with stardust on the fresh snow, where the research station burned, churning fiery smoke into the sky . . . a Sno-Cat, racing from the wreckage on huge rolling treads . . . Phoebe’s face, behind the Plexiglass. Orlando Natch, unconscious in the back. . . .
In the dark, using the only muscles he could still control, he smiled. Come on sis, don’t be too long. He saw her . . .
. . . on the CB, making a distress call to Fort Erickson . . . a research installation bursting with activity, men racing to Sno-Cats and snowmobiles, hooking up digging equipment and ice-breakers. . . .
And then, as if satisfied with what they had shown him so far, the visionary black birds pecked away with renewed vigor, excited at having undivided access to his exposed senses. Look this way, they cried, and he saw his son, Alexander . . .
. . . standing outside the silver vault door, hands pressed against the reflective surface, while in the square window that mane of curly red hair, those familiar blue eyes, trapped inside, yet exuding triumph. . . .
Caleb pushed his memory, recalling a hotel room years ago, in Alexandria, and those eyes peering at him from a crack in the door. Who . . .?
And then he saw new visions of . . .
. . . sprawling scenes of an arid landscape, with ruined pillars over an archaeological dig site on a hill; and then a scene of a medieval castle basking in the sun, before . . . again, the view of a giant green-hued metal head, a crown of spiked rays, those regal eyes . . . a huge underground cavern lit by sickly yellow light, and a host of cold, dead eye sockets set below helmets . . . an army waiting patiently in the darkness, brandishing spears, swords, bows, protecting something beyond immeasurable walls . . .
Caleb moaned—a sound he barely heard, his spirit soaring now, glimpsing simultaneously . . .
. . . Phoebe’s Sno-Cat, followed by the armada of rescue vehicles, arriving at the collapsed site . . . the Sodus Lighthouse, hurtling now down the basement stairs, through the underground passage to the vault door, over Alexander’s shoulder, through the door, inside, where that man, that familiar man kneels cross-legged, holding the artifact, the greenish-blue aura dancing from the Emerald Tablet.
His face is bathed in its kaleidoscopic hues, and he suddenly looks up, cocks his head, and his eyes lock on, staring straight into the vision’s point of view. He smiles . . .
. . . and Caleb rocked back into his body, screaming. That face! It was the person he had seen through the door in Alexandria. The Morpheus Initiative member who’d had a premonition of disaster under the Pharos and had stayed behind, had warned Caleb.
“Xavier!” he shouted, his lungs burning. “Xavier Montross!”
4.
Lydia Gregory-Crowe didn’t see them coming.
One minute she had been sipping her cup of steaming Armenian coffee, the next, two armed men in black ski masks had guns to her head. She tried to call out to warn Alexander, but remembered he was back at the lighthouse, most likely prowling in its basement, playing make-believe or whatever he did down there.
Seconds later, she was led out onto the front lawn to meet the last two people coming out of a black jeep. A red-haired man with brilliant blue eyes stood first, glanced at her, smiled, then looked down to the lighthouse. Lydia started to pull herself free, struggling until she saw the next person emerge from the passenger side of the jeep, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
“Hello, Lydia. Sorry to drop in like this.”
Her expression went from anger and fright to outright shock.
“Robert!”
“Can we not point guns at her?”
The man beside him sighed. “In a minute. Lydia, where’s Alexander? Where’s your son?”
“I’m not telling you—you, who the hell are you? What do you people want? Robert, did they abduct you?”
“Settle down, Lydia. I know this might look a bit like overkill, but Xavier didn’t want to take any chances. Not with something of this magnitude.” He sighed. “We’ve come for the tablet.”
Lydia’s bright green eyes sparkled. “The Emerald Tablet? What—? Wait, you think it’s here?”
Xavier Montross brushed past her, heading to the lighthouse entrance as the rising sun glinted off the mist-shrouded bay. He turned his attention to the tower. “Oh, it’s definitely here. Your husband, it appears, never quite trusted you.” He gave her a sympathetic look. “Maybe it had something to do with your not being entirely honest with him from the beginning about who you were.”
“The fact that I was a Keeper had nothing to do wit
h my feelings for Caleb.” She held up fists, wrists still cuffed. “And you. I remember you. Skipped out on the team in Alexandria.”
“Saved myself, more like it, from their stupidity. Saved myself for more important things.”
Lydia released a long breath. “Well, I don’t believe you. Caleb didn’t take the Emerald Tablet. He couldn’t.”
“He could,” Montross said, heading to the entrance, “and he did. It’s been right under your nose, all these years.”
Robert followed, helping Lydia along after dropping his cigarette in the snow. “Your son knows too.”
“Impossible. I would know if Alex were keeping such a secret.”
Robert smiled. “A mother doesn’t know everything, not in this case, Lydia. He’s more his father’s son.”
“How can you be sure?”
Robert pointed. “Ask him. He drew it.”
Montross grinned, moving quickly now to the steel door, blazing in the rising sun. “I’ll show you my sketches later. Over a hundred of them, some drawn during the past decade, but most over twenty years ago, when I was a boy.” He blinked at her, then reached for the door. “Even then, my destiny was clear. Even then, this day was in my sights.”
Lydia shot out her bound hands, caught her brother’s collar with both hands. “Robert, you can’t allow this! If the tablet is down there, you can’t let this man—anyone other than a Keeper—get his hands on something so powerful!”
Robert held his sister’s cuffed wrists, and looked into her eyes. “Don’t worry, he’s going to give it to us. And then it will finally be where it belongs. He only needs to read a portion of it, something his visions have shown him. Don’t ask me to explain it all.”
“If you don’t know his true motivations, why would you take this risk? Our father taught us better than that.”
“Don’t bring him into this. The Emerald Tablet, and all its ancient knowledge, is our birthright. Bad enough our ancestors had to wait over two thousand years for its release, keeping the damn secret, but then to have an outsider steal it away?”
“Caleb’s not an outsider.”
“Not anymore, true, but—”
“He was a Keeper, truer to the cause than we ever were.”
“You’re softening, Lydia. Too much in his shadow, I think.”
Lydia glared at him. “You should have just come to me, I would have talked to Caleb.” She pounded his chest.
“Enough,” Montross said, then turned to his men. “You two stay up here. Keep an eye on them.”
Robert’s head snapped around. “‘Them?’ But—”
“Don’t worry, Robert. I will still give you what you want, but first, I must do this alone.” He reached into his suit coat pocket and pulled out a sheaf of pages. Unfolding them, he looked at the first page of a schematic-type drawing of the steps below the ground floor of the lighthouse, to the basement sub-cellar and storage area that decades ago had been used to store fuel for the lighthouse.
He flipped through the pages, nodded, opened the door, then closed it behind him.
#
At the top of the stairs, Xavier cocked his head. He glanced through his drawings again. Nothing on the pictures, except the last one—one showing his own face looking through a glass-like porthole—and what looked like the reflection of a boy’s face in the glass. He held the pages and looked down the granite staircase, the steeply withering descent, thirty-six stairs to the first bend, then around another thirty-six to the sub-cellar itself. Two lamps burning dimly, set on the walls.
He walked calmly, descending with his eyes closed as if he’d walked these stairs a thousand times before, if only in his mind. To the bend, and then around and down. On the second stairwell he stopped and flipped through the pages again, twenty of them now, and he paused at each page. He stopped at one showing a room with a door and three ledge-like shelves on either wall. Above the door were three large, emboldened Greek letters, and on the six shelves were round peg-like objects. On the shining metal door itself was a single porthole-like window.
Montross continued. At the bottom, the air was dank, musty, the floor cobbled and uneven. Reaching out along the wall, he found the light switch he knew to be there. Flicked it and said, “Hello, Alexander.”
In the light that blasted through the darkness like a sunburst, the small boy with curly dark hair kneeling before the door shielded his eyes, and then stood up.
In a cracking voice, he said, “You’re not getting inside.”
#
Eight thousand miles away, Caleb was being airlifted to the Fort Erickson research station to a waiting team of medics. In the helicopter, Phoebe and Orlando were by his side, Phoebe holding his weak hand while Caleb muttered about the visions still roiling in his head.
“Montross is in the vault, our vault . . . with Alexander.”
#
Alexander balled his fists, squinting, getting used to the light again after running below and then shutting off the lights, hoping to hide. Bad idea, he thought. Obviously a group of armed men showing up could only be after one thing—the artifact in the vault behind him.
Trying to sound as brave and confident as his favorite hero Dash, the boy with super speed from his favorite movie The Incredibles, he said again, “You’re not getting inside.”
Alexander’s focus cleared as the well-dressed red-haired man stepped into the light. The man had dazzling blue eyes, shamefully blue—so much that they seemed the color of a newborn’s eyes, brilliant and desperately hungry. Alexander saw something of himself reflected in them.
“Hello, Alexander. My name is Xavier Montross. I was a friend of your father’s years ago. I’ve seen this vault chamber”—he raised a sketchpad and waved it around the room—“saw it and saw you long before you were even born.”
Alexander swallowed and stepped away, his back now against the wall. Uh oh. “Great, so you’re psychic too.”
“One of the founding members of the Morpheus Initiative.”
Alexander shrugged. “Everyone else is dead. Being psychic makes people act stupid.”
Montross stifled a laugh. “But not you, right? You’re too humble.”
“I’m only nine.”
“Well, anyway, my very astute youngster, you’re definitely your father’s son. Probably reading at college levels already, right?”
He thought of his books, all those precious books lining the shelves in his room, and all those he could reach in his father’s study.
“Of course you do. Well, you should know this: I was the only one with enough sense not to go under the Pharos on that fateful trip. Because I knew.” Again he raised the sketchpad. “I saw what was going to happen.”
“Why didn’t you tell anybody?”
“I warned your dad. Might just have saved his ass so he could live long enough to father a son. Ask him about that, if he comes back.”
Alexander shivered, his eyes closed and suddenly, just for a moment, he had a jolting vision of crushing ice, of an enormous head with sad, regal eyes looking on protectively. He heard helicopter blades, and what sounded like his Aunt Phoebe’s voice.
“I saw this too.” Montross gazed at the walls to his left and right, nodding to himself as if in vindication of his drawings. Then he looked above Alexander’s head, over the door.
Blinking away the vision, and the certainty that his father and the others were in big trouble, Alexander stood up straight, spreading his feet to cover something on the ground, hoping—
“Don’t bother,” Montross said. “I know what’s there. Oh, your dad’s a clever guy, I give him that. Taking elements of the Pharos’s vault design and incorporating them here. Thinking he’s following in Sostratus’s footsteps, right? But I wonder, Alexander, have you figured it out yet?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Sure you do, kid. You’re the sole child, the son of two Keepers. No choice really, you’re their chosen replacement. You’re being groomed, just as Keepers have do
ne for over two thousand years. But your dad, being such an admirer of Sostratus and a stickler for the Egyptian mystery school’s technique of learning by experience, he would have you discover the truth first-hand. To prove yourself worthy and to fully understand the concepts, you must solve the puzzle and find the treasure on your own.” Montross stepped closer, carefully. “So, have you done it?”
Alexander slowly shook his head.
“Not lying to me, are you, boy? Worried that I’d threaten you, or your mom, to force you to let me in?”
“Not lying. I don’t know the way in, not yet.”
“I believe you.” Montross closed the sketchpad, tossed it aside casually, then pointed to the door. “Move aside, please.”
“No.”
“Just a step to your left, that’s all. I’m not stupid enough to try to open the door yet, but I need to confirm what letters lie under your feet.”
Alexander glared at him for another long moment, then shuffled sideways to let Montross lean in and look.
“Ah, as I thought.”
He studied the letters on the floor, and then again over the door. “So, in the Above we have the Greek letters: Theta, Omega, and Delta. And Below by your feet, reading again left to right, we have Omega, Delta, Theta.”
“You won’t figure it out,” Alexander said.
Montross only smiled, then walked to the shelves running the whole twenty-foot length of the left side of the room. He glanced over his shoulder at the opposite wall, and the three identical shelves. “I’ve already figured it out, kid.”
He touched the mahogany tracks, more like frames around a series of peg holes bored into the wall. “Three to a side. Each one with eleven peg holes. And there’s a rounded wooden pin inserted, randomly it appears, in one of the holes on each shelf.”
The Mongol Objective [Oct 2011] Page 3
