The Pharos Objective (10 page)

Waxman was grinning like Caleb had never seen anyone grin. “
The Villa of the Papyri!
Found in the 1750s as workers tunneled under Herculaneum. A team of archaeologists have been trying to open and restore the scrolls recovered from the volcanic rock for years.”

Caleb triumphantly sat down and returned his mother’s glowing smile. A sinking feeling nagged at him, though, tugging at his victory.
How did Waxman know about Piso’s library?
From what Caleb understood of his background, Waxman was a mathematics teacher from Cleveland who had begun a project to document paranormal abilities after receiving visions of his dead mother. His published articles had caught the eye of an archaeological team pursuing sunken ships in the Caribbean, and he had formed a group of like-minded psychics, people like Helen, who had scored well on such tests. Despite all his worldly experience, book smarts never appeared to rank high on his resume, although somehow he had managed to come up with a fitting name for the team, as Morpheus was the lord of dreams, whose mother was the goddess of visions.

Now, at Waxman’s direction, the room burst into a frenzy of activity, of discussions and revelations. Helen and Waxman set about explaining to the others the nature of the real subject, filling them in on the Pharos Lighthouse and the supposedly hidden chamber below.

“We know now what the visions are showing us: there’s a sealed door with the sign of the caduceus on it, and there are seven symbols around the staff, which might represent seven keys or puzzles to solve before the door can be opened.”

The next phase, Waxman said, would be to see if there was anything at Herculaneum that could help them. “We know that a series of earthquakes destroyed the bulk of the Pharos, with the last great quake in 1349 toppling what was left.”

“And,” Helen added, “we can assume that the shifting earth, the collapsed structure and tons and tons of limestone blocks have made it impossible to tunnel down to wherever the original entrance may have been.”

“So isn’t this all just a moot point?” asked Dennis. “What do Caesar’s papers matter if we can’t get into the Pharos chamber?”

“We’ve been scuba diving,” Waxman said, nodding to Victor and Elliot, “but with limited success. We’ll need to focus our energies on that front, see if any of you can find a way in from the sea.”

“What about Qaitbey’s fortress?” Xavier Montross asked. He was in his thirties, with a thick head of orange-red hair. He was shaped like a soccer player, muscular and lean. He never smoked, drank, or consumed junk food, and always sat as far as possible from anyone else, as if he feared contamination. “Anyone check inside there? Snoop around down in the basement?”

Something about his eyes made Caleb anxious, as if of all the psychics assembled here Xavier had something, some speck of real power, the ability to shred Caleb’s own meager gifts. He had always given Caleb the creeps. But fortunately, Xavier was the most reclusive Morpheus member, rarely speaking his mind or voicing his visions.

Helen shook her head. “We have detailed surveys of the structure from the Alexandrian government. Looks like there’s nothing but bedrock accessible from any location. Unless there’s a hidden entrance or tunnel somewhere.”

Caleb coughed, and his voice cracked again. “We could try sonar and see if we could locate hollow chambers?”

“It may come to that,” Waxman said, “although getting permission to excavate the fortress or damage the foundation in any way would be extremely difficult, given the level of protection it enjoys as a Muslim historical site.”

“So we’re back to the sea route,” Helen said. “We know from early writings that the designer of the lighthouse, a brilliant architect named Sostratus, used all sorts of advanced building techniques, including hydraulics, winches, gears and pulleys. We also believe there had to be vents in the harbor where the seawater could funnel in and out to power the internal mechanisms.”

“Such as traps,” Caleb couldn’t help but say.

Waxman shot him a look of caution. “Yes, there are those rumors. And maybe Caesar’s papers reveal exactly how to bypass them. If you did have a true vision, maybe Caesar found the door to the lower chambers, but either couldn’t open it . . . or feared springing such traps if he didn’t open it in the right way.”

Helen stood up. “If we can find and decipher that ancient document, which miraculously may have been preserved in Vesuvius’s eruption, we might just have the key to the treasure.”

Dennis scratched his head. “What’s this treasure again? A ton of gold or something?”

“We don’t know, exactly,” Helen said. “It could be Alexander’s spoils from his conquests across Asia and India. Legends are vague. All we know is that whatever it is, it’s valuable enough that many have died trying to find it.”

And
, Caleb thought ruefully, recalling the father and son who had died before letting Caesar have the scroll,
to keep it hidden.

He took a deep, cleansing breath and looked down at his shoes. As the others talked and made plans for a visit to Herculaneum, he noticed a leather case resting by his feet.
Waxman’s bag
. It had several folding compartments, but one had been left open slightly, and inside was a folder of formal-looking typed pages. At the top right margin of one sheet was a stamped seal—
an eagle’s head in profile atop a banner with a radiant sun in the middle
.

Caleb’s blood went cold as ice water. The tiny hairs stood up on the back of his neck. He looked up at Waxman. Close to Helen, he was talking and waving his hands, flicking ash into the air as she returned his enthusiasm and pointed at various drawings, making connections.

The eagle . . . the sun and its rays . . .
He had seen that image, again and again, leaving bloody trails in the nightmares of his father. Seeing it here tied his stomach into barbed-wire knots.

Helen’s smile dropped when she saw Caleb’s face. But he had slipped out of the chair and was backing away from the table, from Waxman. He turned and stumbled out of the room, muttering that he needed to find a bathroom. Around the corner, he staggered into the men’s room, collapsed into the first stall that smelled as if it hadn’t been cleaned since Vesuvius blew its top, and his stomach heaved.

Caleb struggled to the sink, washed his face, then looked into the mirror. Standing behind him, against the wall, was a man with long stringy hair over his face, his head down, arms at his side. He wore a faded-green khaki jacket, dirty pants and muddy boots.

His hands were trembling, his whole body shaking. A mumbling, throaty ramble came from his mouth. Caleb turned, a scream forming—

—and saw no one. Unable to look in the mirror again, to face either that haunting intruder or the prospect of his own insanity, Caleb crept out of the bathroom, staggered up to his room, collapsed on his bed and descended at once into a gratefully dreamless sleep.

11

Naples, Italy

They arrived at the Bay of Naples on an afternoon favored by sun, warmth and the ever-present scent of olives wafting over the calm waters. The Royal Palace, its immense southern facade of red and gray, with hanging trellises and countless windows, could be seen a mile away as they stood on the front deck of the tourist-laden ferry.

After docking, they walked down the ramp and passed through a small plaza. Waxman efficiently handled the customs procedures, then strode ahead with Helen, who only glanced back once to make sure Caleb and Nina were following. Helen’s urgency showed in the way her arms swung forward and back and the strides she took bounding up the plaza stairs.

Her enthusiasm was catching, Caleb thought. Despite the nagging fear that Waxman had tricked him, that this was all part of a setup to get him back into the group, and despite the stationary in the briefcase—and the certainty that Waxman was more than he seemed—this
was
exciting. He couldn’t help but feel that unavoidable thrill, that rush of adventure scholars only fantasize about while locked away in their libraries or rectangular classrooms in front of bleary-eyed students.

He and Nina tried to keep up, but soon decided on keeping their own pace. The other members of the team had stayed in Alexandria with instructions to continue remote viewing, focusing on the harbor and a way into the chambers under the lighthouse.

Caleb felt more than a little awkward being around Nina; he hadn’t had a girlfriend in two years, nothing more recent than a few passing crushes from infatuated students. But compared to those innocent and naïve flirtations, Nina was a lioness, a tempting and refined young woman with skin like molasses and eyes so green they blinded him to the very fact he was staring. He had been caught snatching glimpses at her more than twice during the ferry ride. She had merely smiled, amused by his fawning interest.

“Let’s keep up,” she said in a low voice, nudging him with her elbow as she pulled ahead. She wore a summer blouse, red and white, colors that reminded him of the billowing sails of a visionary boat, and shorts that showed off her golden legs ending in high-heeled sandals. Mirrored sunglasses nestled on the soft-gelled curls of her thick black hair.

Caleb picked up the pace, his pulse rising in time as he caught up, painfully tearing his eyes away from her body as she climbed up a marble staircase toward the palace.

Up ahead, Helen and Waxman were talking about how to document this part of the project. “If we find what we’re looking for, the discovery will be documentation enough of our success,” Helen argued.

They crossed the square as pigeons flew away, parting biblically before them, then resuming their settled positions after they had passed. Caleb held the door open for Nina, whose bright lips peeled back into a playful smile before she slipped through, and gave a lingering glance to the palace grounds, to the lush lawns, manicured rose bushes and polished statues on the terrace overlooking the shimmering harbor.

Once inside the palace, Waxman directed them away from the crowd of tourists and went to a side door where a dour-faced man in a blue suit waited impatiently. When Waxman introduced himself, the man looked quite relieved.

“Giuseppe Marcos,” he said. “Director for the Biblioteca Nazionale, the largest collection of books in Italy outside the Vatican archives, here in the Royal Palace.” Caleb took a look around, marveling at the architecture and contents of this first hall alone. Apart from its great collection of Renaissance artwork and sculptures spanning several centuries, the palace also contained the Officina dei Papiri, which analyzed and preserved the ancient scrolls recovered from nearby Herculaneum.

Despite his lack of personal charisma and his occasional stumbling over English vocabulary, Marcos had a fluid, beautiful voice; in another life he could have been a tenor in the Royal Opera. Nina seemed to adore hearing him speak, sticking close, making the man uncomfortable. Giuseppe briefly covered the palace’s construction in the early seventeenth century, begun as a suitable resort home for Spain’s King Philip III who, ironically, had promised to visit Naples but never quite got there.

Waxman, in his usual tactless manner, cut off the history lesson and the tour. “Can we move on? We’re short on time, and we came to see the laboratory.”

Apologizing, the guide led the way, glancing over his shoulder frequently. “This is very irregular, no? We do not get many visitors to see the papyri, or the library. They think it is, how do you Americans say . . .
lame.
”

“Others might,” Caleb protested, “but I’d like to see your library very much.” He was salivating at the chance to actually touch the leatherbound spines of books hundreds of years old. He pictured lonely monks working away in dusty monasteries, copying down the Classics while the world toiled in ignorance through the Dark Ages.

Giuseppe smiled. “Well, you will get a look, sir. But I must say, Mr. Waxman and Ms. . . .”

“Mrs.,” Helen said. “Mrs. Crowe.”

Caleb saw Waxman make a face Helen missed.

“Or just Helen,” she added. “Please, Signore Marcos. I realize what we’re asking is very unorthodox, but we have good reason to believe that a certain scroll in your Herculaneum collection is of great archaeological interest to Alexandria.”

“I respect that, Miss—eh, Helen, but I fear you may have come all this way for nothing.”

They passed from one marble-tiled corridor into the next, where large tapestries hung side by side, presenting dull-faced members of Bourbon royalty observing the humble approach of visitors through their ancestral home.

After stepping through a mahogany doorway, Caleb’s heart skipped a beat when he saw a wall-spanning series of bookshelves. He tried to peer around Waxman’s shoulder to see the rest of the library foyer.