David Sakmyster - The Pharos Objective

“You look like him,” she said, and brought her hand to Caleb’s chin. Her eyes held his, and her lips moved, just barely. “I miss your father,” she whispered so only Caleb could hear. “And I’m sorry.”

“What do you mean?” The room dimmed slightly, as if the lights flickered, and the air shimmered and everything seemed less tangible, less real.

“You know. I-” Suddenly she stopped and frowned, and her face took on the look of a hunted animal. Her eyes darted around and finally settled on a corner, near the television.

Caleb followed her gaze, and for just an instant Caleb saw him, the tall man in the green jacket, matted hair over his face. Just standing there, trembling in the shadows. And then, he was gone.

“Did you-?”

Helen snapped her head back and stared wide-eyed at Caleb.

Waxman moved in between them, pulling her aside. “Listen, kid. We need to show you something, something about your late wife. After that, if you still want to bail on us, that’s your call. Just see what we’ve discovered.”

Phoebe wheeled herself to one side of a rectangular oak table where Waxman sat in front of a black laptop. Helen leaned in over his shoulder and turned the screen in Caleb’s direction. On the monitor was a blurry black and white image, a photograph taken of a group of people standing between the forepaws of the Great Sphinx.

“This picture,” Waxman said, “came from an unpublished book called Keepers of Nothing. It was written by a man named Alex Prout, an author known for his paranoid, disjointed and unconvincing beliefs in all manner of nutty ideas.”

Phoebe cleared her throat. “His first book was titled George Bush and How America Collaborated in the Upcoming Alien Conquest.”

Helen smiled at Caleb. “Anyway, you get the drift. In this latest book, however, Prout seems to have hit on some actual facts.”

Waxman tapped the monitor. “After we learned of your incarceration and the charges against you, we started looking into the background of Lydia Jones.”

“How much did you know about her past,” Phoebe asked, “before you up and married her?”

“Not much,” Caleb admitted. “I didn’t want to share my history with her, so it somehow felt wrong probing into hers.”

Looking away, Helen said, “We found her credits as a publicist, and that got us started. One of the books she had marketed was written by a respected Egyptology professor from the American University at Cairo. When we took a chance and dug into his history, we came across some serious criticisms of his work, all coming from the website of Alex Prout.” She raised her eyebrows. “Seems this professor was a regular target of his.”

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.”