David Sakmyster - The Pharos Objective

They walked slowly, Waxman leading the way, toward the altar. Caleb could tell by the heaviness in his steps he was expecting to stop any second, hoping either mother or son would drop to their knees in the throes of some great vision. But nothing happened as they stood before each alcove, each chapel, and admired the intricate ornamentation, marveled at the consistency of the classical themes, and were humbled by the grace of the Roman architecture.

After a half hour they had circled the interior twice. Caleb left Helen and Waxman to whisper among themselves when an usher came by and told him that the church would be closing in fifteen minutes.

Caleb continued circling until he stood at a chapel dedicated to the Archangel Michael, which depicted the evil serpent’s death at his hands. Below a host of other angels, Isotta’s tomb, beautifully sculpted, was set back against the wall.

Lingering, Caleb stared at the marble coffin for a long, long time. It seemed the candlelight flickered steadily brighter and brighter, flashing against the walls. He was aware of a representation of Diana riding a chariot, holding a crescent moon above two horses on the wall to his left. She seemed to be driving him onward, urging haste.

When Caleb focused again on the tomb, he saw something that wasn’t there before… the shadow of a robed man kneeling and sliding the lid back upon Isotta’s resting place. A flash of red on his cloak was all Caleb caught before he blinked and the vision faded.

But it was enough.

“Come on, we have to leave,” Helen said, suddenly at his side. “I guess we’ll have to try again tomorrow.”

“No need,” Caleb whispered. “It’s here, in Isotta’s tomb.”

Waxman gasped. “You did it, kid? You saw it?”

Ignoring the desire to tell him he wasn’t a kid any longer, Caleb nodded and walked away under the watchful gaze of the dying serpent and the triumphant expression of the Archangel.

Caleb and Helen ate under hooded lanterns at an outdoor restaurant at the Piazza Cavour across from the gothic-styled and newly renovated town hall. A circular fountain built by Pope Pius III stood in the center of the Piazza before a beautiful neo-classical theater.

“Where’s your husband?” Caleb asked when she came down from the hotel to meet him. She wore a blue sundress with a black shawl thrown over her shoulders and secured it with a golden butterfly broach.

“He’s resting. He said to start dinner without him.”

Caleb took her hands. At first she resisted, with the shock of his abruptness. “I need to apologize-”

“Caleb-”

“-for the way I was. For the way I walked out on you and left you with Phoebe.”

“You didn’t walk out on us.”

“Yes, I did,” he whispered. “It was my fault. I was angry, confused and lost.”

“You were just coming to terms with losing your father.”

“I did lose my father. But I still had my mother, and my sister.” He pulled her close and hugged her, squeezed until she sobbed. “Dad never would have wanted me to desert you. I–I guess I understand that now.”

“But your visions…”

He shook his head. “I think Dad knew it was too late for him. He was sending a warning, that’s all. Not a cry for help.”

“A warning?”

Caleb nodded and sat back, looking into her eyes. “I don’t understand it all yet. I was close, in that prison. My consciousness opened, my spirit traveled to places I couldn’t imagine. I don’t really remember it all, but I saw my whole life differently.”

She gave Caleb a sideways look as she wiped her eyes. “Were you brainwashed by the Krishnas over there?”

“No.” He laughed. “But I feel like I underwent some kind of spiritual jump-start. And I saw the fool I’d been when we first set out on this quest.” He lowered his head, and the image of a Tarot card fluttered in his mind’s eye-a vagabond character, full of unwarranted confidence and illusionary dreams, cocky and selfish. “I’ve been many things since, only now I hope you’ll forgive me.”

Helen reached for him. “Thank you.”

It was a comfortable embrace, but all the same, Caleb had the unnerving certainty that it would be the last time he would hold her before another tragedy befell them. Before the Pharos would claim another victim from among the loves in his life.

“So what’s keeping George, anyway? Is he that tired?”

Helen looked down at the crumbs on her plate. “Caleb…”

Just then a cab wheeled around the piazza and came to a squealing stop. The front passenger door flew open. Waxman reached around and opened the back door. “Get in!”

Helen stood and dropped a handful of bills on the table. “Don’t say anything,” she warned when she saw Caleb’s eyes widen.

“He didn’t-”

“Don’t,” she repeated.

Waxman patted the breast pocket of his jacket, squeezing a lumpy-shaped item, and all Caleb could think of was a shattered work of art back in the church, a desecrated tomb.

“They won’t miss it,” he said after Caleb shut the door and slid in beside his mother.

“How did you get in?”

“Bribed the guard to take the night off,” he whispered so the driver wouldn’t hear. “I won’t tell you any more until we’re back in the States.”

“Assuming we get through Customs.”

“We’ll make it,” he said giddily, smiling as he fixed his hair in the mirror and then reached for a cigarette.

Caleb hung his head and slumped away from his mother as she tried to move closer. Closing his eyes, Caleb searched his feelings about his role in this theft and discovered that, surprisingly, his excitement for the discovery outweighed his sense of guilt.

They were closing in on the truth.

Alexandria

Nolan Gregory stood in the darkened vault, with just the running floor lights to see by. He preferred it this way. The stars were just visible, backlit in the deep blue of the dome, and he could almost believe he was outside, standing on a desolate beach without the dust and haze and noise of Alexandria.

Seven flights above the dome, the library was closing. They were turning off the lights on the inside while lighting up the exterior glass panes. He sighed and sat quietly, listening to the hum of the generators and the battery of IBM servers running below the floor.

I’m getting old. Too old for this international cloak and dagger shit.

Soon he would have to go to New York. His informant in Italy had indicated that the San Francesco church had been vandalized, and Nolan could only take that to mean that they had been successful.

They had found the scroll.

Caleb’s focus was returning. Lydia’s death and his incarceration must have triggered his abilities, just as she had believed it would. Gregory shook his head ruefully. For so long, the Keepers had thought the scroll was still in the collection at Naples, and needed to keep a man inside looking for it, when all that time, Cagliostro…

Interesting, but it didn’t change things. He bit his lip and turned away from the scornful sight of the constellations.

It won’t be long now.

He wondered which would come first-the scroll’s translation or Caleb’s revelation? Nolan wasn’t sure exactly what was on the scroll, other than that it at least explained the seven codes and how to pass them. But that much they already knew. Was there more? What did it say of the Key? The two-thousand-year-old question.

Right now, he had no choice. No other Keeper could be spared. He was the oldest, the most expendable. And God knows it’s going to be dangerous.

He would have to stay close, to be there the instant they had a translation or any other breakthrough. And then it would be a race against Waxman and his considerable resources. He had debated for months whether to reveal himself to Caleb, but in the end he had come back to the original premise that like an initiate of the Egyptian mystery school, Caleb would only achieve enlightenment through self-discovery and direct experience. Without that progression, the Key might be forever lost.