The Pharos Objective (19 page)

“So she just gave up on Dad. Went with this loser.”

“Caleb.” Phoebe sighed. “Don’t bring up Dad again. You know he’s gone. You said so yourself.”

He turned his back, walked around the four remaining copies of his book and slumped in the chair. The smell of espresso, jasmine and cinnamon hung in the air, blown about by the door opening briefly.

“Caleb,”—she leaned forward on her elbows—“listen to me. They bought advance copies and found in your book some stuff they think might help with the Pharos.”

“I don’t care,” he whispered.

“You do care,” Phoebe insisted, holding up his book. “You still see it. It’s stuck in your mind, if only in your subconscious. And you’ve seen things the rest of us haven’t. Gone places we never thought to go.”

Caleb shrugged. “It was for a different purpose. The library is what matters to me.”

“Just like the lighthouse mattered for Dad.”

He shook his head. “What could be more important than the search for lost knowledge?” Caleb placed his hand on the cover of his book, feeling the smooth, velvety texture around a picture of a magnificently arched building atop a hill. “The entirety of human knowledge was contained at one point in Alexandria, and . . . and I’ve seen glimpses of it. That should be—should’ve been our focus. That’s all I care about.”

Phoebe straightened and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. She spoke through pursed lips. “Earth, fire, air, water. The four elements, each represented by a planet—Venus, Saturn, Mars, Jupiter.” She spoke slowly, carefully, watching Caleb’s reaction. “Then, Mercury, the Moon, the Sun. Those are the seven symbols around the caduceus. They’re set in grooves that allow you to turn each symbol.”

“Phoebe—”

“Mom thinks maybe if you spin them in the correct order, the seal will open.”

Caleb laughed out loud. “Really? She thinks it’s that easy? That the grand tower designed to last forever and guarded by ingeniously deadly traps would have only a simple combination lock on the door?” Caleb started to laugh again, but then noticed that woman at the counter looking down her glasses at him. Patiently waiting, it seemed, for him to finish.

Phoebe sighed. “Anyway, we don’t know what the symbols really represent. So there’s no way we’ll get in.”

“And that’s why Mom and ‘Dad’ want my help.”

Phoebe nodded.

“I suppose you’ve tried more trances, remote viewing?” He took a sip of water.

“No luck,” she said. “Couldn’t see anything else about that door, besides another glimpse of Caesar, as you had seen him. We’re stumped. We tried focusing on that scroll again, over and over. And, once we got a hit on something strange; I saw a castle atop a sheer cliff, and a man in a red cloak being led up to it in shackles. But we couldn’t make sense of that.”

Caleb frowned. “You never saw Naples or the Herculaneum library again?”

Phoebe shook her head. “I told you, we’re stuck. But you know Mom, she’ll never let this rest. And now, with Waxman around full time, it’s like there are two of her.”

“Sorry to hear that. Hopefully they aren’t always asking you for help. Do they still have the Morpheus Initiative?”

“No. Disbanded earlier in the year. Although, that Victor guy still hangs around.” Phoebe tried to smile. “It’s hard to attract new volunteers once they’ve learned what happened in Alexandria. The prospect of violent death kind of dampens the volunteer spirit.”

“Yeah. So, what about you?”

Phoebe nodded. “Keeping busy. Still translating a steady supply of museum pieces—tablets and medieval parchments, that sort of thing.” She gave Caleb a weary look. “Most of the time I go to bed with a raging headache.”

“And how’s the . . .”

“Disability? I get by. I’m used to it.” She raised her arms and pretended to flex. “Getting huge biceps. Handicapped bathrooms have always been a real treat, and it’s just a blast taking an hour to get my pants on in the morning.” She shrugged. “Same ol’ same ol’.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop it,” she scolded. “Listen, if you’re not going to come back with me and help us out, can you at least sign my book?”

Caleb reached for it, opened the inside cover, thought for a second, then wrote something he imagined he might regret. In the end, he felt he had to reward her effort, at least in some little way. He wrote:
To my little sister. To my Sun and my Moon. The other elements—the other planets—are mere shadows, diminishing before your light.”
It was just a guess on his part, but if the seal
was
a combination lock, the order should have some relationship to the orientation of the planets, maybe their distance from the Sun.

After a kiss on the cheek, Caleb walked Phoebe to the door, opened her umbrella, and hailed a cab. He helped get her inside and then packed her chair into the trunk. He leaned in before he closed the door. “My email address is on the back cover,” he said. “Write me more often, and we’ll talk. I promise. And I do miss you.”

She blinked and chewed her lower lip. “Miss you too, big brother.”

Caleb walked back
into the café, smiled at a few lingering patrons, and made a beeline to the counter where the woman was still sitting, smiling. As he came closer she set down her cup and extended her hand.

“Great job,” she said. Her eyes glittered like jade stones. Sharp bangs fell over her face and tickled her lips, which were a shade of crimson that seemed too striking for her smooth face.

“Thanks.” Caleb took her hand, and she gently moved her fingers against his, surprising—and intriguing—him by this sudden seductiveness. She wouldn’t let go.

“Sorry I was late,” she said. “Doubleday has a habit of telling its publicists last minute where they’re supposed to be. But now that we’ve met, you and I can work out the schedule, and I won’t leave you hanging again.”

“Excuse me. You’re . . .”

“Oh, I thought you knew. I’m Lydia Jones.” She squeezed his hand a little tighter. Caleb felt his eyes drawn to the flash of skin just above the open buttons on her blouse. Instead of looking lower into the tempting shadows, he focused on the glittering charm—an Egyptian ankh, a cross with a loop over its arms.

“Again,” she said, pulling her hand away at last, “sorry I was late, but I’m glad to see you handled yourself brilliantly. Great reading style, although we may want to shorten your intro in the future. Some people walked out early.”

“Understood,” he said, still staring at her charm.

“Ahem.” She touched his chin and lifted his eyes to hers. “See something you like?”

“Sorry,” Caleb stammered, blushing fiercely. “Your charm, the ankh. It’s just, you know, Egyptian mythology . . .”

“Oh.” She touched it. “Yeah, I’m kind of the specialist on ancient history authors. I get stuck with all of you dusty guys. This thing was a present from an old client, a one-book-wonder on Egyptian culture and symbolism. Anyway, let’s grab something to eat and map out your next readings. Hope you’re hungry.”

“Famished,” he said, following her to a table.

From somewhere in the cramped storerooms of his memory, Phoebe’s warning came whispering back. A blond with green eyes. But Caleb felt drawn into destiny, and as he sat beside Lydia and breathed in her jasmine essence, exotic like a drifting evening breeze over the Nile, he couldn’t explain his reaction, feelings of desire, unlike anything he’d experienced since Nina.

They ate and talked, and Caleb stole glances at her whenever he could, thrilled at this new partnership.

4

Across the street from the Soho bookstore, the rain slammed against a three-story brownstone and fell in torrents around a green awning that covered the man in the long raincoat from all but the wind-driven sleet.

George Waxman tried again to light his cigarette and finally succeeded. He took a deep breath of the menthol-flavored smoke and waited for his associate to cross the street. Yellow cabs raced by, pounding into rainwater-filled potholes, and Waxman winced with each splash, imagining an old woman hurling insults at him and screaming:
Your fault! Yours . . .

Waxman clenched his teeth, nearly biting through the cigarette, and his tongue. “Go away, Mother.”

Listen to me, boy!

Across the street, the man with a folded newspaper over his head waited for another series of cars and buses to drive past.

“Shut up.”

Sorry, boy. I’m waiting for you.

“Leave me alone.”

Like you left me? In pieces? After you caused the accident? You, crying, always wailing in the back seat. Your no-good father took one look at you and ran off with some whore, left me with your shrieking and whining, every waking moment.

“Mother, not now—”

Yes, now. The intersection, the bus . . . I know you remember it, I know you do.

“Please. I have work to do.”

Oh yes, your precious work. You think it will ease your conscience?

“No, mother. It’s too late for that. I was only four years old the day you died—

The day you murdered me.

“But I can still save others.”

The rain hissed off the sidewalk and guzzled into the drains.

He put his hands to his temples, then covered his ears and pressed as hard as he could. The image burned into the back of his eyelids: his mother’s head, severed as a jagged piece of that bus tore through the driver’s-side window, her eyes locked on his, lips still moving,

Victor Kowalski ran across the street, dodging a silver Honda. His pants were soaked and his shirt sleeves drenched. He had a leather case strapped over his shoulder.

The rain continued to pound out words on the canvass awning:
You won’t be rid of me, Georgie. Even if you get past your precious lighthouse door. Even if you get the treasure.

Waxman froze. His mother had never talked about that before. For years her voice had haunted him, but she had never taken her comments beyond direct, guilt-provoking insults.

“What did you say?” He held out a hand to stop Victor from speaking.

A sound like laughter dripped from the brownstone walls and fell from the overflowing gutters.
I see your future Georgie. Oh yes. Soon, we’ll have something in common. What comes around goes around, boy. Oh yes
.

Again, the laughter.

“Mother!” Waxman hissed, then all at once the rain stopped, and the whispered voice with it.

“Sir?”

Waxman cursed, fuming at the dripping rainwater, the puddles, the filling drains. Then he glared at Victor. “What?”

 “It’s her. Lydia.”

Waxman looked over his associate’s shoulder, back to the bookstore, where Caleb Crowe sat with his publicist at the coffee counter. “You’re sure?”

“Yes. Using a different last name, but still her.” Victor’s eyes held that cold metallic glint common to people like him. Killers. Loyalists. As long as Nina was still out of commission, Victor was the best Waxman had to work with.

“Get me a report by eight p.m., and a transcript of what she said to him before you left.”

“Sure,” Victor said, wiping his dripping forehead. “Sorry I couldn’t stay longer. It looked like she was getting suspicious, and I didn’t want to risk Caleb recognizing me.”

Idiot.
Who couldn’t blend in at a bookstore?
“Fine,” Waxman said. “But begin surveillance; I want to know everything they say. Everywhere they go. Her, especially.”

As Victor walked away, Waxman lingered a moment, wishing he could trust him more, wishing he had confidence in the man’s abilities the way he had trusted Nina. She was sorely missed, in many ways.

He lingered on, until the rain came again and the whispers returned. They grew louder, more malicious, and Waxman felt a renewed chill down his spine that spread through his legs, numbing his feet and tingling his toes. He moved forward, stamping his feet. The whispers followed, and in every puddle he walked past he thought he saw his mother’s scowling face.

“Wait,” Waxman called, jogging after Victor. “We’ll share a cab.”

5

Sa el-Hagar, Egypt—March

Six months later, with Lydia now his research assistant as well as publicity agent, they began work on a sequel, a comparative study of libraries in the ancient world. The plan was to chronicle such storehouses of knowledge as King Ashurbanipal’s library at Nineveh and the Greek Pergamum, which Marc Antony had diminished to replenish Alexandria’s library for his queen. It was at the Temple of Isis in the ancient city of Sais that Herodotus and Plato had claimed the god Thoth had relocated the entirety of the world’s wisdom, all the ancient tablets and scrolls from before the flood. Some psychics, including Edgar Cayce and Madame Blavatsky, had even claimed that the refugees from sunken Atlantis had brought their advanced knowledge with them to civilize Egypt, and that Thoth had been one of their representatives, later revered as a god.