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.”
“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.”
