him. He reaches for his friends — but they are gone. Naseer is left alone, holding fast to the one remaining pillar on a jagged section of the floor while an open space yawns before him and a stairway ends in the night air.
The fire is gone. Only darkness and smoke have taken its place. He perceives movement, an immense shadow sliding down and away. Screams rise from the precipice, but are cut off by a rumbling of masonry and the baleful whimpering of an old giant casting off its dead skin.
He blinked, and…
… it is now daylight. He is somewhere else. Someone else. Dazzling sunshine spreads over the metallic azure sky. The ships are gone, the harbor quiet but for a lone sail. The city’s beachfront looks different, with new domes and mosques, pillars and minarets dotting hills as far as he can see.
He sits astride his horse, a beautiful Arabian with a bejeweled purple saddle and harness. It paws at the ground and shakes its mane in the shadows cast by giant slabs of stone. To the east, the cracked monoliths and the enormous piles of granite and limestone lead a twisting trail to the ruined heap of the once-proud tower.
It still ascends nearly one hundred feet, and its foundation seems strong and defensible, buttressed on all sides by a low barrier, broken in places but repairable. Its lower levels breathe with potential. Many rooms are still intact despite the crushing weight of the collapsed superstructure. He hangs his head and can only imagine the way it once was. Forty years have passed since the last great quake finally brought down its magnificence. Forty years since a flame has burned at its top and led mariners to safety.
He listens to the wind and the crashing of the sea over the ancient blocks, and he imagines the wondrous fragments lying just ahead in the pounding surf-the great stones, blocks and statues that had so long enjoyed the breezes and the awed stares of countless visitors. He turns as a man approaches.
“Lord Qaitbey.” His lieutenant slows his horse and bows. “The men are ready. We have two hundred horses, enough rope and pulleys and carts. And stonecutting tools.”
Qaitbey nods, satisfied as he looks over the ruined structure. He notes the placement of the fallen stones, the edges worn by rain and wind. “Do what you can to build it up,” he orders. “We must defend Alexandria.”
“As you wish.”
Qaitbey turns again to the haunting, desolate ruins, and he gazes into the few remaining windows and a half-collapsed doorway. A chill runs down his spine as he prepares the next question. “What of the descending staircase and the chamber below?”
His man coughs. “We know no more, My Lord. It ends at that wall, the one with the devilish carvings. That snake and the staff… Your men, Lord, they…”
“They are afraid?”
“Yes. They know the legends. They fear what awaits below to defend the treasure. The hundred horsemen who were slaughtered.”
Qaitbey nods, lost in thought. Legends are of no concern. His purpose is to protect this city from the Turks and to avenge past evils not to trespass into vaults locked away for good reason. Without turning, he instructs his lieutenant, “Cover the stairway entrance with a false wall, a slab of granite controlled by a secret lever on the eastern wall of the second floor.”
“It shall be done.”
“Then,” Qaitbey adds, smoothing his horse’s mane, “kill the men who build it, and swear yourself to secrecy.”
After a moment of silence, he consents. “Understood, My Lord. I so swear.”
“Thank you.” Qaitbey makes his voice heard above the rising winds. “What is down there must not be found, not by the likes of unworthy ones such as us.”
“My Lord,” he bows.
“Others will find it, infidels to whom the symbols mean something. And may they be cursed by what lies within.”
The wind dies and the crumbled remains of the Pharos quiver in silence, anticipating the hammers and chisels that will come and shape the blocks and pillars into a new form, a dwarfish, stunted relic of its former glory.
When Caleb opened his eyes Nina was breathing heavily, staring back at him. Her breasts still tight against his chest. She exhaled and lifted herself slowly off of him.
With a sigh he fell backward onto the rug, the muscles in his arms like wet rags. “What did you see?”
“A man in black,” she whispered, hugging her knees to her chest, as if suddenly feeling exposed, “on a horse, watching while hundreds of men and animals worked at building that fort-that place we were at last week.”
“Qaitbey,” Caleb said. “What else? Did you see a door?”
She nodded, wide-eyed. “I saw the switch, I know where they put it.”
“It’s still there,” they both whispered at the same time.
“Why didn’t anyone else see it?” Nina wondered. “No one else on the team?”
“Not sure. I don’t think Waxman asked the right questions. He had them probing the harbor, not the fort.” Caleb looked up. “They’ve been looking in the wrong place.”
14
One hundred feet below the streets of Alexandria, beneath a dilapidated warehouse in the eastern section of the city and down a long corridor littered with construction materials, tools and concrete girders, with hallways that led into unfinished storerooms and antechambers, a polished set of steel doors parted slowly-too slowly for Nolan Gregory. He was late. The others were here already, impatient and, most likely, scared.
He squeezed into the dusty chamber lit by a succession of floodlights connected by yellow extension cords to a generator below the floor. Forty feet overhead, the domed ceiling caught the shadows of the occupants at the central table. Nolan eyed them as he strode into the room, and he imagined them taking on their celestial counterparts in the freshly painted cobalt blue dome, soon to hold a host of stars and zodiac imagery. He buttoned his gray sports coat and quickly took his place at the head of the long mahogany table. Fifteen others sat around it, drinking tea and whispering among themselves.
“Keepers.” Nolan’s voice was soft and controlled, as if humbled from recent setbacks. “Thank you all for coming.”
“Is this wise?” asked a gray-haired woman at the opposite end of the table. “All of us in one spot?”
“No,” Nolan said, looking over his dull-eyed counterparts, “it definitely is not. But we have no choice.”
“We heard,” said a younger man on his right, “about Ullman and Miles.”
“Horrible,” said the man to his left, who was perspiring despite the cool air filtering through ducts along the floor. His gray suit coat hung on the chair at his back.
Nolan hung his head. “Yes, we’ll mourn their loss. But now we must consider succession.”
“But their successors are not ready,” said the older woman, slapping her hand on the table. “It’s too soon, and they were too young, not prepared properly.”
A younger woman, with short hair and sad brown eyes, stared up at the unfinished ceiling. “Who else is ready?”
“Mine are,” said Nolan. “And if there are no objections-”
“Why does he get two?” asked the young woman.
“Because,” the older woman replied, making a face, “Nolan can’t decide which child he loves more.”
Nolan Gregory shrugged. “They each have valuable strengths. I’m only volunteering them because I see no alternatives. It was unfortunate that our fallen colleagues were not prepared, but I am.”
The first man who spoke leaned across the table and pointed to Nolan. “Then that will leave us one short if you are next to die.”
“I’m aware of the math,” Nolan said with an exasperated sigh. His attention roamed about the room, noting the alcoves built into the rounded walls and the hundreds of empty shelves; and for just a moment he set his imagination free, allowing it to fill them. He completed the vault, applied the finishing touches and imagined it full. Whole.
Soon, he thought. Soon.
“This is our most desperate moment,” he said. “This new enemy threatens everything. We can survive
