The Pharos Objective (27 page)

Waxman lit up a cigarette. “We got a copy of this photo from Prout’s website. The manuscript for his new book was in his possession when he was mugged in Central Park late last year.”

“He was strangled to death,” Phoebe said. “His papers torn to shreds and scattered into the East River.”

“Fortunately,” Waxman added, “he was so paranoid that he backed up the whole thing to a secure website every time he worked on it.”

Caleb frowned. “Then how did you get them?” He leaned closer and stared at the picture. There was Lydia, dressed in a gray suit, head bowed reverently, leaning against the Sphinx’s left paw. Surrounding her were three other women and thirteen men. But Caleb zeroed in on one man. It was the same face. The same hair. She had been talking to him in St. Mark’s Square. He was the one from the hospital.

He pointed, and before Waxman could answer the earlier question, Caleb said, “I’ve seen that man!”

Waxman nodded. “Lydia’s father.”

“What?”

“Nolan Gregory. The Egyptology professor, the author. Sixty-two years old. Jones is an alias. Your wife’s name was Lydia Angeline Gregory, born in Alexandria.”

Caleb pulled out a chair and slumped into it. His head hurt. The two cups of coffee had only added to the throbbing. All his muscles were cramping, not yet having recovered fully from his confinement.

Waxman continued. “Prout investigated this man, Nolan Gregory, and bribed a few of his acquaintances into giving up this picture. He believed it was the only photograph of the current members of an ancient society known simply as The Keepers.”

“Guess what it is they’re keeping,” Phoebe challenged, before tossing a handful of airplane peanuts into her mouth.

Caleb stared at the photograph again, and Lydia’s eyes dreamily stared back at him. “The Pharos Treasure?”

Silence answered. Caleb could hear the ticking of the clock in the next room.

Helen stood up. “The rest of Prout’s book goes on to describe his discoveries about this group. He claims these Keepers are all descendents of high priests and scribes from the Ptolemaic Dynasty.”

Caleb looked up. “The legends of Thoth. The Books of Manetho and the Emerald Tablet . . .”

“Lost when your library burned,” Helen said. “We read your book too.”

“Nicely written, big brother,” Phoebe said, raising a can of Sprite. “Although I notice you didn’t give any credit to your sister in your dedication.”

“Sorry.” He stared at the screen again. “So . . .”

“So,” Helen continued, “Prout believed that the members of this group pass down their secret legacy to one family member each generation.”

“And this legacy?” Caleb asked. “What is it?”

Phoebe fidgeted in her chair. “The truth about a storehouse of wisdom that could change the world.”

“Crazy nonsense,” Waxman said. “Usual stuff about Atlantis and ancient technology. Radical power sources and miraculous medical techniques. That sort of crap.”

“It’s the truth,” Caleb said, “if you believe Plato. Or Herodotus. Both claimed that old priests in Egypt recounted the demise of a prior civilization, and that Thoth had brought the whole of their knowledge to Egypt and started again.” He took a breath. “Which is why you see such a high degree of civilization in Egypt right from the start, with their hieroglyphics, farming, astronomical lore, culture—”

“Whatever,” Waxman muttered. “The point is these guys know something. But Prout’s book never actually mentioned the lighthouse. He believed the Keepers moved this stuff to Giza and buried it long ago under the pyramids or the Sphinx.”

“He quoted the psychic Edgar Cayce,” Phoebe said, crunching on peanuts. “And his visions.”

Caleb held his head in his hands. Closed his eyes and felt it—felt what had been building behind a wall of denial every bit as secure as the one below the Pharos. A wall that now cracked, splintered and erupted into a flood of anguish. “Lydia . . .” he choked, “she was a Keeper. Using me all this time . . .”

“. . . to get inside the Pharos vault,” Helen finished. “Whatever they know, they don’t have the way in. Not anymore.”

“Although” Waxman added, “they’ve been trying to find it for years. Centuries, maybe.”

Caleb shook his head and bit his knuckles, thinking. “No, something’s not right. These people are supposed to
keep
the secrets, keep them safe. That’s their mission. My vision of Caesar in the lighthouse confirms it.”

Helen nodded. “That’s what I said. I remembered your dream of the father and son. They had the scroll and died to save it, to protect the secret.”

Caleb scratched his head. “But since then, that scroll was lost.” He stood up and started pacing. “Which means the other Keepers have lost the way in. They may not even know what it is they are guarding anymore.”

“There could be other copies of the scroll,” Waxman suggested.

“Doubtful,” Caleb countered. “The way those two were defending it, I’d bet that was the only one.”

“Caleb,” Phoebe said, “we haven’t heard what you did under Qaitbey. How far did you get?”

“Not far enough.” He told them about the symbols on the floor, their meanings and how he had made it past the first two.

“Yeah,” Waxman said, “we found those symbols too. Three years ago, we went back and mapped out the whole chamber, took photos from every angle. But those symbols . . . never could figure out their importance.”

“Did you see the rings?”

“Yep,” said Phoebe. “But didn’t imagine what they were for. Not like you. Maybe you’ve turned out to be the better psychic?”

“Not really,” he said. “It’s still nothing I have control over.” He took a deep breath. Thoughts were flying about in his mind. He remembered Lydia’s last words, spoke them under his breath,
“We can’t wait for you.”

“What?” Helen asked.

“It’s what Lydia told me before she died.”

Waxman closed the computer. “Well, it sounds like the current generation of Keepers feels it’s kept the secret long enough; they want the treasure for themselves. They’ve tried with Caleb, and failed. We need to be on our guard. They may try again to break through.”

“Let them,” Caleb said, and those words came back to him, words Nolan Gregory himself said:
“The Pharos protects itself.”

Waxman shook his head. “These clowns might screw it up and make it so no one else can get to it.”

“Do they know you might have found the scroll?” Caleb asked.

“Not unless they have us bugged.”

“Isn’t that possible? Not to sound like Prout with his paranoia, but—”

“No,” Waxman said. “I checked.”

“How?”

He shrugged. “There are ways. Trust me, they don’t know what we know. That’s what frustrates them.”

“And it might be why they’re stepping up their activities,” Caleb said. “They can’t very well protect anything if there’s a bunch of psychics running around, seeing their way past the defenses.”

“We’re cheating,” Phoebe said, grinning.

“Or maybe,” Caleb said, again thinking of Lydia’s words, “maybe we’re only fulfilling the prophecy, achieving what the original designer had anticipated.”

“What do you mean?” Helen asked.

He shrugged. “Just a thought, but in alchemy the goal is to achieve your own personal contact with the One, the infinite.”

“God.”

“Yes, but not necessarily the Judaeo-Christian version of a meddling, demanding, all-powerful figure. The early Hermetic beliefs conceived of an omnipresent energy which infused everything, quickened every atom, every star and scrap of matter as well as thought. As Above, so Below. Everything’s connected. It’s all spiritual and divine. Unfortunately, our material bodies and the temporality of this world somehow interfere with that connection, distracting us. Alchemy, including the Emerald Tablet and the sacred texts, is a way to restore the lost connection. And if you succeed and regain that contact with the divine, if you’re freed of the impurities of this false world, you perceive all truth and can do and experience things that seem miraculous or supernatural.”

Phoebe thought for a minute. “Like what we can do?”

Caleb nodded. “Think about it. This is the only thing that explains the existence of our abilities. How can we see things in distant lands or times, just with our minds?”

“Because reality isn’t what it seems,” Helen said, nodding. “It’s all connected.”

“Exactly.” He looked out the window again. “Many religions carried on the Hermetic message, transforming it slightly here and there and incorporating its beliefs into their own. Buddha maintained the world was an illusion, a veil pulled over our eyes to blind us to our inward spirituality. Early Gnostics and Copts taught that we lived in a material prison created by an evil god, and only through meditation and purification could we pull our spirits free.”

“Excuse me, but how did we get off track?” Waxman threw his hands up. “Why are we in the Twilight Zone? This is about treasure, not religion.”

“It
is
about a treasure,” Caleb said. “But not what you and Mom have been thinking you would find. It is knowledge of man’s inner divinity. The power of life over death, of spiritual freedom.

“Alexander the Great went into the Egyptian desert and found the tomb of Hermes, of Thoth, and took the ancient tablets he found there. When he emerged, the oracle proclaimed him king of all the world. Alexander studied these tablets, and the teachings clearly went to his head; eventually some of his own generals began to fear him and moved against him. But he and his followers had hidden the treasure, maybe under the Great Pyramid at first, as Cayce claims, then according to Herodotus and Plato, in the temple of Isis at Sais, and then ultimately moved to Alexandria.

“And,” he continued, “at a pivotal moment in man’s history, when we had a choice between two paths, we chose darkness and subjugation over light and freedom. Copies of these books were rounded up and destroyed. The practitioners were demonized, tortured and killed by the thousands. Yet all through history these secrets have been preserved, hidden away, surfacing only in veiled disguises—in Renaissance art, in symbolic literature like the Grail legends and chivalric poetry. In short, they were hidden in plain view.”

“What?” Helen asked.

“In plain view,” Caleb repeated. “It’s one of the other tenets of Alchemy. ‘
Conceal in plain view what is secret.
’” He closed his eyes and thought again about the sealed doorway, and for a moment he thought he had it. The answers were right there. Or very close. Then the opening revelation faded.

“Throughout history,” he continued, “the lessons of the Emerald Tablet and the philosophical practices continued, working their way into art, into culture.”

“The Tarot,” Phoebe said, smiling. “See, I did read your book.”

“Thanks, at least someone did. But you’re right, the Tarot represented in image form all the elements of Hermetic ascension, depicting the path to divinity veiled as a game. It’s why the Church banned it in 1403, seeing it as a threat to their spiritual dominion. But like many pagan belief systems, it was found to be easier to co-opt and assimilate such an attractive ritual. The Church reintroduced the deck, but excluded the Major Arcana, the representations of the steps in the realm of the Above. Those were the cards which represented spirituality and communion with the divine. And they also removed the Knights, in opposition to the Knights Templar, most likely, and left us with a deck of just fifty-two cards. Four suits signifying the four elements in the Below stages of transformation, with the Joker, or the Fool, who represented the initiate before beginning on the path to enlightenment.”

Phoebe nodded. “Loved that connection you made. Spades are swords, symbolizing separation and representing Air; Diamonds are the coins of the Tarot, reflecting Earthly desires; Clubs came from the Greek symbol for Fire; and Hearts were the Water of emotion.”

“Now we’re talking about cards?” Waxman was becoming exasperated. “Caleb, I swear I liked you better when you were in prison.”

“George . . .” Helen scowled at him, then turned back to Caleb. “How does this help us?”

“I don’t know if it does,” Caleb said. “I learned everything I could about the Tarot, about alchemy and the study of the tablet, but I still couldn’t get past the third step before the door. I don’t know what it wants. Unless . . . maybe the vault was designed in such a way that only those who sought enlightenment, only the purest, could enter.”

“You, pure?” Helen said. “You’re a good boy, Caleb, but—”

“They had pinned their hopes on me,” he said. “Lydia sacrificed herself for their cause—or at least her version of it. She thought only such a trauma would accelerate my spiritual advance toward enlightenment, or purity, in a sense, expecting that I could then fine-tune my talents and open the vault.”

“Why couldn’t they figure it out for themselves?” Waxman asked. “If this tablet thing was translated into Arabic, transmitted around the world after they saved some early books from the Christian fanatics, surely others have had access to the spells or whatever?”

“Apparently something’s missing,” Caleb said. “The Philosopher’s Stone. The Holy Grail. They can’t find it, although they’ve come close. No alchemist has ever been able to truly perfect the process and obtain it. Maybe that’s because the actual physical copies of the books are not available. The early legends maintain that the material the Emerald Tablet was written on had something to do with the powers it could grant. Or else, maybe there were translation errors.”