Various black-ops projects were given space down here in these well-protected and anonymous bunkers, and this one’s budget was modest compared to some. Not concerned with regime change, terrorist tracking or domestic surveillance, this one had simply existed for the purpose of monitoring certain sites of archaeological and cultural significance.
But eight years ago, after the incident at the Pharos site, its mandate had changed from passive observation to direct participation, and preparation for an event more than five thousand years in the waiting.
A new leader had assumed control, a man that was particularly motivated, a high initiate in the true organization behind this project.
As soon as the door whisked shut behind him, Senator Calderon set his briefcase on the table and ignored, for the moment, the man sitting at the far end, in the shadows, visible only by the dim glow of his cigarette.
Something smelled foul, not entirely masked by the smoke.
Calderon stared at the eight flat screens mounted on the side walls. Four screens displayed only text and numerical data, coordinates of various teams in the field. The other four showed satellite images of several sites: a familiar blue-domed structure; a downward-facing view of the desert plain, three pyramids and a reclining stone sphinx; and then moving views of two sets of vehicles speeding across barren terrain.
“How close are they?” Calderon asked.
A throat cleared in a raspy, agonized cough. “Which team? The Morpheus Initiative or Agent Wagner’s?” Calderon could barely make out the words. The voice, ravaged, grating as though speaking through a mouthful of hot ash. He could only imagine the pain the man must be enduring, and to have refused drugs and treatment. True, it was a miracle he survived, and clearly he was favored, but maybe this was his punishment for failure.
Calderon looked at the screens. “Where’s Renée?”
“On her way. She’ll catch them soon.” His voice tapered and faded in a shrill hiss. “But, you should be more concerned about our third party.” A scarred and bandaged hand emerged into the cone of light, a hand with two fingers free of wrappings, revealing a single large black ring on the ring finger. A ring with a familiar design. The hand pressed a button on the table-top remote and the scene with the mausoleum switched to another view, zooming down in increments until focusing on a gap in a pine forest where four jeeps were parked, the occupants outside.
“Rest stop for Montross?” Calderon asked.
“Probably the boy,” said the voice. “They’ll be on the move again soon. Intel from Agent Wagner seems reliable. Confirmed by the Montross team as well, after their initial mistake.”
“Xanadu,” said Calderon. “Amazing. So, now we take them out?”
“No.” The shadows deepened as the cigarette went out. “Finding Genghis’s mausoleum was the easy part. Getting inside, through the surprises he’s got waiting for us, will be hell. So no, we need them. Caleb and Phoebe, and their talents. See that Agent Wagner doesn’t start shooting right away.”
Calderon’s hands clenched into fists. “It was too risky putting her in the middle of their group when they were still so paranoid after Waxman. Just one probe and that kid got pretty close to us. Lucky he was too preoccupied and distracted to focus his abilities. But we don’t know. What if they’ve figured out who we are?”
“Doesn’t matter what they know. Caleb’s preoccupied with saving his son. He’ll get those keys.”
“Or Montross will. And who knows what he’ll do with them?”
“He’ll do exactly what we fear he’ll do,” said the voice. A raspy sigh. “So he dies first. Tell Renée. Remove him as soon as he’s no longer of use.”
“What about Hiltmeyer? Do they suspect him?”
The bandaged hand waved in the air, scattering the lingering smoke. “I would think Nina suspects everyone, but Hiltmeyer’s ready. He’ll keep up his guard.”
“This is a dangerous game, playing with people who can see your best-kept secrets as if you’ve stapled them to your forehead. I don’t like it.”
“We have no choice.”
Calderon stared at his feet. “Don’t we? The tablet is there, with Montross and our man. We can get it any time. We could work at our own method of translation.”
“The thought has crossed my mind. But no, I don’t think even the NSA computers would succeed with this. We need the sacred box.”
“And your scrolls, the ones you Keepers recovered from the Pharos? They can’t tell us anything?”
A spark and another cigarette was lit, briefly highlighting a gruesome face burnt and blackened, oozing with pus, one eye scarred shut, the other fiercely blue.
“I have learned all I can from them. Found further verification, focusing the time now, here at the end of the Age of Pisces. One of Three Brothers will open the great sealed box of Thoth.”
“Yes. We know two, but who is the third?”
The man stood, easing himself out of the shadows. His scorched face and bandaged neck emerged into the dim light.
Robert Gregory offered a lipless smile. “If we depend on a loose reading of the prophecy, I believe it’s me.”
8
“Fifty miles to go,” Orlando said, noting the mileage on the GPS.
Caleb relaxed his hold on the gun. Qara seemed to be playing along, at least for now, following the route and keeping quiet. He could only imagine what she was thinking.
“Plenty of time to do a little recon.”
“What are you thinking, big brother?” Phoebe asked, stretching in the seat beside him.
“Thinking about our brush with death, about how I hate surprises and have had enough double-crosses for my life. I want to know about Renée.”
“Like who the hell she really is?”
“I can tell you what I saw,” Orlando said, glancing back. “What set her off.”
“Oh,” Phoebe said, “now I see. This was all your fault?”
He grinned. “Yep. I think she would have just been content to have us lead her to it, until I blew it by asking her about a necklace I saw in my vision.”
“Start from the beginning, please,” Caleb said. He might not be able to help with first-hand psychic visions, but his knowledge of history and the arcane facets of myth might just provide the help they needed.
“Okay, so I saw Renée. A bit younger, at an initiation-kind of ceremony. One of those things where there’s lots of people in black robes, and she, well…” He blushed and looked away from Phoebe. “Well, she wasn’t really wearing much. Some old dude gave her a necklace with a charm that looked like the one on his ring, and then some other guy took her on an altar while the others watched.”
“Sure this wasn’t just one of your sick fantasies?” Phoebe asked.
“Close, but no. I saw it, and when I asked her about the necklace, she unleashed hell on me and went after you guys.”
“Cover blown,” Caleb thought out loud. “Okay, so what was the image on the charm?”
“A dragon, run through with a spear.”
“Not a sword?”
“No, not really St. George-like. I looked at some images of him online, but it wasn’t a match. It’s different, it’s—”
“More ancient,” Caleb said, catching Qara’s eyes darting to his in the mirror. “It could be a number of symbols, but I have a theory.”
“Of course you do,” Phoebe said with a smile. “Let’s hear it.”
“Tiamat,” he said. “An ancient Sumerian goddess. She took the shape of a dragon or sea serpent. She represented the primeval chaos before creation, and she and her consort Apsu were credited with creating all the deities. In the Babylonian epic of creation, the Enuma Elish, the world, including humanity, is created around her remains after she is destroyed by the storm god, Marduk, whose symbol is the lance.”