validity of something we already know is real, but to locate only one thing.”
Waxman was silent.
Caleb inched closer, sliding along the wall until his face was in front of the glass, his eyes locked on Waxman’s. “You know the legends. You’ve studied the same stories I have, the same rumors my mom was always on about, the same stories my dad told me as a kid.” He swallowed, his mouth dry. “You want the treasure. You want the lost treasure of Alexander the Great.”
“I’d be lying,” Waxman said, “if I said that thought hadn’t crossed my mind.”
Caleb sat back down, holding his throbbing head. “Good, finally you’ve said something I can believe.”
“But Caleb, think about it. We can do it! We’re better suited than anyone else. Why? Because we can see, truly see. The other archaeologists, they’re blind, just going on old words, faded texts or ancient relics, some of them two thousand years old. While they’re struggling with government officials and museum curators, we’re seeing beyond it all, far into the past, hoping to glimpse exactly where and how to get to it.”
“If it exists.”
“Caleb, like you said, you’ve read the same texts I have. And you’ve read your father’s notes. I know you have.”
Caleb lifted his head. Yes, his father’s notes. For a moment, he had a flash to a night seventeen years ago, his father in a room surrounded by stacks of old books, newspapers and magazines. And drawings-hundreds of drawings. Some of them Helen’s, some his father’s…
… and there he stands in his military uniform a week before shipping off, looking over his shoulder at five- year-old Caleb standing in the doorway, holding up one sheet of paper-a drawing of the Pharos, at night, besieged by an armada of Roman ships.
Caleb blinked, and he was back in the recompression chamber, listening to Waxman drone on about his father’s research.
“… his obsession, which became your mother’s. I thought it quaint that your father, the son of a lighthouse keeper in Upstate New York, should adopt as his life’s passion the very first lighthouse, researching and learning everything about it.”
“Yeah,” Caleb said, “quaint. Like it was ‘quaint’ that his children should follow you around the world, risking their lives in the pursuit of whatever treasure you thought you could get your hands on.”
“Your mother-”
“-should have known better. We lost our father, and then, as if that wasn’t enough, we lost our childhood, tramping around through bug-infested jungles and submerged wrecks, all for your cause.”
“I won’t apologize for that. A better education you couldn’t have asked for.”
“I didn’t ask for this. Phoebe didn’t-”
“Caleb, enough. Listen. We’ll have to clear out of this area soon, so let’s get to the point. What did you see down there?”
Caleb hung his head.
“Draw it, if you like,” Waxman ordered, pointing to the paper and pencils.
“Don’t need to,” Caleb whispered.
“What?”
“I don’t need to draw it. And it’s nothing. It was nothing.”
“So, ‘nothing’ almost got you killed?”
Caleb looked up. “Nothing that will help you. All I saw was the lighthouse. The Pharos. The day before its dedication.” Waxman was silent-a breathless silence. “And…”
“And nothing. Sostratus, the architect, was there, and I was, I don’t know, somehow I was seeing through the eyes of Demetrius-”
“The librarian?”
“Yes, I suppose.”
“Fascinating.”
“Yeah, whatever. So Sostratus showed Demetrius around. It was.. beautiful, majestic, soaring. But, I saw no treasure. I-”
“But it was here, the lighthouse?”
Caleb nodded. There had been enough speculation through the ages, since the remnants of the tower, long- wracked by earthquakes and disuse, had at last been shaken loose and crashed into the sea, as to where exactly it had stood. But Caleb’s vision had made it clear. “Yes, the view I had from the top-the orientation of the coast, the landmarks-yes, it was here, at the tip of the peninsula.”
“Where Qaitbey’s fortress stands?”
Caleb nodded.
“Anything else?”
“No. Yes. I saw the inscription. Sostratus signed the monument, then plastered over it.”
“Ah,” Waxman grinned. “I read about that, one of the anecdotes in Heinrich Thielman’s study. So it’s true.”
“If you believe my visions.”
“Why should I doubt them?”
Caleb shrugged, thinking of his father, of countless drawings of a man, possibly still alive, held captive in the mountains of Iraq. “Others have.”
“Well, Caleb, consider me your number-one fan, then. I’m in your corner, I believe you. And I confess, now that I’ve got you here, locked in my vault for the next six hours. I don’t want to let you go, not without something in return.”
“How about a kick in nuts when I get out of here?”
“Really, is that all the thanks I get?”
“Thanks,” Caleb said, turning and limping back to the cot. He lay down. “I’m going to try to sleep it off, and when this is done, I’d like to get back to my hotel. I have a plane to catch in the morning.”
“No you don’t.” Waxman’s face disappeared. “I, uh, took the liberty of calling the university and explained the situation, explained your near-death experience-”
“You what?”
“-and the fact that you have nitrogen narcosis, a life-threatening condition. Air transportation is out of the question. Besides, you need rest. A minimum of two weeks. And your colleagues, they quite agreed.”
“No, no, no.”
“Yes, Caleb, it’s for your own good. And your mother, she’ll be here in a few hours to take care of you.”
“Great.” Caleb sat back, fuming, but he knew Waxman was right. He’d never be able to fly in this condition. He should, by rights, be in a hospital.
As if reading his mind, Waxman said, “The offer still stands, I can drop you off at the local infirmary and you can take your chances.”
“All right, what the hell do you want?”
“I want two weeks, Caleb, just two weeks.”
“Of what?”
“Your time.” His face at the window again, beaming. “Your talents. The paper, the pencil… your visions. That’s all. Join the Morpheus Initiative again, just on a temporary basis.”
Caleb shook his head. “I’d be a waste. This is the first vision I’ve had since… since Belize.”
“It’s like riding a bike, I hear.” Waxman grinned. “You never really lose it.”
“What makes you think I can help?”
“Call it a hunch. Come on, kid. Spend some time with your mom, live in luxury on my yacht or at the five-star hotel in the city, not that dump you’ve been staying at. Just come to the sessions, try to remote view the targets, and let’s see if together we can’t solve one of the greatest mysteries of the ancient world.”
Caleb held his head as the knocking sounds intensified and his temples throbbed in time to the pulsing of the boat’s engines. Again he thought of his father, surrounded by all those dusty texts; he thought of the two-story lighthouse above his childhood home, the long shadow it threw over the grass on summer days when he and Phoebe would chase each other on the hill over the bay.
“All right, I’ll help,” he whispered.
