The Pharos Objective (33 page)

“Was there a man with her?”

“Yes, yes. Man with her. He is OK. He must be very powerful man. He survives accident and calls police.”

Caleb shot Phoebe a look.

She leaned forward. “Just drive to the hospital, please. Fast.”

As they turned around, Caleb stared at the old sandstone turrets of Fortress Qaitbey, and he saw the red and blue lights flickering off its massive walls. For an instant, he could see a marble stairway ascending between two immense royal statues looking solemn and compassionate.

Helen was on
the second floor. And as Phoebe wheeled into the room and rolled beside her bed, Caleb glanced around for Waxman. His hands were tight fists, and he found himself grinding his teeth, fuming.

“Where is he?” he asked the first doctor entering his mother’s room. “The man who brought my mother here, where did he go?”

The doctor, a dark-skinned bald man, shrugged. “Your father checked her in—”

“He’s not my father.”

“—and . . . eh . . . he left immediately. Said you would be along to care for her.”

Son of a bitch.

Caleb went to his mother’s side. His arm around Phoebe, he sat in a chair and they both held her hands. She was so cold. Her head was wrapped in bandages, and a tube had been inserted into her nose. An IV fed fluids through her right arm.

“What about a decompression chamber?” he asked. “Shouldn’t she be in one?”

Phoebe shook her head. “The nurse told me she’s too bad off. She needs the IV, morphine and rest. They chose to save her life.” Her voice cracked and she could barely finish the sentences. “They say she won’t wake up again, and if she does, she’ll be a vegetable. The damage to her brain, a severe stroke from the pressure . . .” Phoebe blew her nose and rubbed away her tears. “She won’t—”

“It’s okay,” Caleb whispered, even though he knew it wasn’t. “Mom’s alive,” he said. “And as long as she is, there’s hope.”

“What did he do to her?”

“We’re going to find out.”

Phoebe lifted her head. Her eyes were like steel ball bearings, cold and fierce. “Let’s do it now. Let’s
view
the bastard.”

He took his hand away from his mother’s and held Phoebe’s. They had seen similar visions before, but never this direct, never such a match, detail for detail.

It started with the caduceus. The door parting, the seventh symbol unlocked. This vision tunneled through Caleb’s consciousness like a sonic drill. He saw the great door ease open, and Helen and Waxman gave a shout of joy. Their skin glittered with a golden dust. They picked up their lanterns and a flashlight, and bounded forward. Caleb’s mind’s eye followed . . .

. . . Waxman down another staircase. He  shines the lantern’s brilliant light around. “Eight sides to this room.” They stand together in an immense, cavern-like chamber with high vaulted ceilings and what looks like two circular portals above, vents for bringing in the water used for the second trap.

“We’re in the octagon section.” Helen pans the walls with her flashlight. “Caleb was right. ‘As Above, so Below.’”

“Yeah, all credit and glory to your son, Amen!”

“Stop being so cynical. He’s the reason we’re here.”

“No, you are. It was your dedication, your focus, your drive that kept this dream alive long after he deserted you.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Whatever. We’re almost there. The treasure awaits.”

They circle around and around on smooth stairs, through thin layers of dust shaken free in the quakes. Here and there a crumbled stone lies on the stairs, and pieces of the wall have fallen in places; but soon the steps end and they walk onto a flat floor that leads to another door, this one with a single image drawn on its surface.

“That again! What is this?” Waxman shines his light up and down. It’s a modest door, about half as large as the previous one, and otherwise non-descript. The room itself is bare, with no artwork on the walls. Nothing inscribed on the floor. No rings, no pits. Nothing but red granite blocks.

Helen shifts her weight, looking over her shoulder. “I don’t know, but I think we may have it all wrong.”

“Nonsense. Here’s a handle on the door. Probably just pull on it and—”

“Don’t touch anything!” She shouts and grabs his hand.

“Are you serious?”

“Do you even have to ask?” She takes a step back, almost to the stairs. “Did you forget what we just went through up there? Any one of those traps could have killed us, and when we find another door you think it’s going to be as simple as pulling it open?”

Waxman exhales roughly, exasperated. “Fine, then RV this one. Let’s do it now!”

“No. Let’s leave, and think about this. Come back later, once we have all the information. We can analyze the scroll some more. We can probe our psychics, we—”

“—can’t wait any longer! It has to be now.”

“Why?”

Standing at the door, he wraps his fingers around the handle. “Because.”

“Why? Nothing’s as important as our lives. We can wait!”

“No, we can’t.”

“What are you talking about? What about the thrill of the hunt, the research, the quest into psychic talents? I thought that was what made this all worth it, whether or not we succeed in getting beyond that door.”

“No.” Waxman glowers at her, then turns to the door, his hands in tight fists. “There’s more, much more. I have to make it stop!”

“What are you talking about?” Helen takes one step up the stair, back the way they have come.

“She never stops,” he whispers, brushing the handle free of dust. “Every minute, every day.”

“Who are you talking about, George? Have you lost your mind?”

“Yes, a long time ago.” He looks back, and his eyes are glowing fiercely in the lantern’s brilliance. “But it ends now.”

He grunts and pulls back on the handle.

“Wait!” Helen yells. “I think I see something—a hole above your hand. Maybe there’s a key.”

But it is too late. The room shakes.

Helen screams and turns. Waxman slips and falls. As he topples, a foot-wide block rips free from the side of the door right where his head was. It shoots out across the room and glances off Helen’s skull, spinning her around, and she crumples onto the stairs without a sound. Just as quickly, the deadly trap withdraws and returns to its sealed position.

Waxman lunges for Helen. He lifts her and races up the stairs, gasping for air. This time, as he makes it back up through the octagon section, the great door slams shut in front of him. A grinding sound arises from the left, up high in the chamber. Then another echoes the first, from the other side.

The walls rattle.

Waxman shines his light up and directs it toward one, then the other portal. The great circular doors have been opened, moved by some major contraption of gears and levers.

“Oh no.” For a moment he feels blood soaking his arms and his chest, flowing from Helen’s head. She shakes and mutters something. A name. “Philip . . .”

The water bursts through the twin vents above, monstrous jets flooding the chamber. Waxman drops Helen and starts to run back toward the stairs when his feet are swept from the floor. He flies back into the wall, spins around before being yanked to one side, where another door rolls open at the floor level. In a rush of bubbles and churning water he blasts out the door into a circular, tube-like hallway. Rolling, spinning, gagging and choking. Another body bangs against him and gets tangled in his legs, then a powerful slam and they are punched through into a wall of water. He grabs hold of Helen out of reflex, holds his breath, and they rise together, propelled by the exiting currents.

He opens his eyes and his mouth to utter a bubbly, agonized scream as the sudden pressure overwhelms his head. But he remembers his training and exhales slowly, kicking furiously all the time.

Somehow, he surfaces alive, just as his lungs are about to burst. He emerges into the bright sun, surrounded by a sea of multicolored boats. Men and women scream and point and dive in to help.

Caleb fought to free himself from the vision, but he failed . . .

. . .  and finds himself in a helicopter. This time, leaving the hospital landing pad.

“Your jet is waiting at the airport, sir,” says a man in uniform. He has a crew cut, and is wearing a starched blue suit.

Then Caleb flashed to different place, much later, and saw . . .

. . . Waxman exiting a small black jet. He turns up the collar on his long coat and jogs across a runway toward a waiting black limousine. The night is cold, brisk. To the east, a faint glow announces the rising sun. Inside the limo, the driver rolls down the back window.

“Good to have you back, sir.”

Another flash
.

Waxman steps out of the limo and strides across the long walkway toward one of many white-walled concrete buildings in a vast complex. Over a low hill and beyond a line of trees, he can hear the rushing of icy water in a river. He passes through two glass doors and a metal detector, where an armed guard welcomes him by name.

He walks across a gray-and-black marble floor, past an early morning janitor using a waxer to polish the smooth surface of a huge seal, and for an instant the vision pans out, allowing a whole view of the entire emblem—

—the profile of an eagle’s head, perched atop a sun with multiple rays bearing out in all directions, with familiar words written around its circumference. Then the vision zooms back in on Waxman as he uses a thumbprint scanner to gain access to a long, white hallway. Inside, he pauses and looks over his shoulder, as if convinced he has just heard someone following. Shaking his head, he continues walking, and stops at an unmarked door halfway down. Again he uses the thumbprint, then swipes a card to gain access.

Lights spring on, and a great war room is illuminated. Dozens of screens and monitors line three walls. The fourth wall is occupied by file cabinets. There is a map in the center of the long table, with a red dot over northern Egypt.

Waxman slumps into a chair and lowers his head. “Shut up, mother,” he hisses. “I’ll still win. I’ll find it.”

Then he begins to sob, of all things. He pounds the table. Again and again. And with each slam of his hand, Caleb’s vision crumbles, tiny pieces falling away like leaves from a great branch, swirling around before his eyes, until . . .

It was gone. Caleb was sitting in front of Phoebe.

They opened their eyes at the same time. “Caleb . . .” she whispered.

How could he have not realized it before now? That letterhead in Waxman’s case, the images in those dreams of his father. Remote viewing. Together they had received the sights they’d needed, and found the answers they’d sought. Caleb had drawn so many pictures of this same emblem, never putting it all together.

But it added up now. Waxman’s ability to hack Phoebe’s computer. His connections with local governments. The money to bribe officials. But what did it mean?
Why has he been using us? Why?

They continued to stare at each other until Phoebe said what they were both thinking. “We never asked the right questions.”

Then they both whispered it at once, as if fearing that to voice it any louder would give it power.

“CIA.”

BOOK THREE

—THE KEEPERS—

For the malice of Ignorance surroundeth all the Earth, and corrupteth the Soul, shut up in the Body, not suffering it to arrive at the Havens of Salvation.

—
Book of Pymander

1

Sodus Bay
—
December 15

In the four weeks following the revelation about Waxman, Caleb and Phoebe had very little time to think about what it all meant. Every minute was spent caring for their mother and arranging plans to get her safely back home. Working out the finances, transferring money, setting up home care.

While still in Alexandria, they slept in shifts in Helen’s room at first, until Caleb finally convinced Phoebe to get a room at a nearby hotel. She was exhausted, weaker than he’d ever seen her. Every day she seemed on the verge of a total collapse.

“I know what you’re feeling,” Caleb told her at last, after he recognized the look in her eyes. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“What do you mean?” They were at their usual table in the hospital café, subsisting on a diet of lamb gyros and falafel. Relatives of patients came in and out, some glassy-eyed after being up all night crying.