Jacob groaned. “Then what are we talking about? How are we going to—”
Alexander pointed now, around the edge of Nan Dawas, past the line of sight of the walled wreckage, at a straight line following the canals, to the next distant walled area and impressive inlet.
He had the guide’s map now in his hand and was tapping one area. “Dorang Island. It’s got an artificial lake in the center. Ceremonial and sacred to the Salenudeur people who supposedly built this city. But more importantly…”
He turned to Aria first, grinning and couldn’t help thinking that he sounded a hell of a lot like his father right now. “More importantly, they tracked an underwater tunnel that leads from the lake to the reef.”
He started off, fast, urging them on.
Nina followed, shaking her head and slinging the bag over her shoulder. “Best lead we’ve got, and I’d rather not be sitting ducks for airborne attack. Leave the boat and run!”
11
Caleb entered the Masonic Library and Museum on the 14th floor after reverently acknowledging the large painting on the left side of the double glass doors: a master-mason with his tools of trade; more symbols in the background, but Caleb didn’t have time to linger.
Inside, the somber lights sprang on with his presence and he had a moment of déjà vu: back in the Library Vault under the Pharos Lighthouse.
The torches lighting with the opening of the door, as if welcoming returning masters.
Book shelves lined the walls, and the upper level hinted at more mysteries and tomes to be explored. Glass cases held artifacts, letters, maps and drawings from the New York chapter as well as earlier, harkening to a history maybe no longer so secret.
Cases displayed early Masonic gear and symbols: an ancient-looking trowel and hammer, a weathered weave apron, badges and pins representing the stages of membership in the order. Gavels and gauges. Necklaces and robes…
A full-length tracing board depicted the symbols and emblems tracking the Masonic degrees. Caleb studied the lunar and solar images, the hammer and the stars, the three pillars and the symbols. Although not a full-fledged member, he bet his knowledge could at least rival that of all but the highest order members.
He paused at a framed facsimile of the Processus Contra Templarios, a depiction of trials against Templars in 1308, a sweeping roundup and subsequent violent persecution of dozens of high ranking members. The vehemence in the proceeding, captured in the artwork, made Caleb cringe to think of the similarity to recent events: the purge of his team and other psychics.
Around a corner, he passed a grandfather clock — the source of the rhythmic ticking he’d been hearing, and he recalled that this particular artifact had stood in the Masonic lodge in Yorktown, counting the same beats and presiding over the surrender of General Cornwallis in 1781.
Surrounded by all this history, Caleb let his mind free.
Let it wander and soak in the ambience. The soothing lights glinted off the glass, sparkling off the ceremonial pitchers used at banquet celebrations down through the ages, highlighting the spines of so many, many books packed together, waiting to disseminate their arcane knowledge.
Absently, he walked through the displays and past the exhibits, to a window overlooking the city streets and the river to the east. He had to prepare to speak to the world, with Edgerrin preparing the broadcast now, and working with the few techs that could still function, in order to get it the exposure it would need. Caleb hoped he knew the right methods and sites to use. Social media, for what it was worth, was so ingrained in the population that it alone, perhaps, had the power to cut through all this other noise in peoples’ heads.
As these thoughts were percolating, other influences were tugging at his attention. Fleeting images and hints of visionary experiences waiting in the wings:
An arctic wasteland.
A sharply-angled mountain of ice.
A cave entrance, with crimson light flickering from the shadows, behind the swirling snow.
An outline of a broad-shouldered man, all in red, with some kind of helmet, wielding a sword.
A production plant, high in the mountains, smokestacks kicking up clouds of thick smoke beside an impossibly wide and blue lake.
And a tree, glowing and dazzling, its branches and leaves too bright to see, with vines sweeping about, swaying hungrily like the eldritch tentacles of some Lovecraftian entity.
“Mr. Crowe!”
He blinked and spun, startled.
An agent, out of breath, holding his side. “They need you. The room… with the altar thing…”
“The Ceremony Chamber.” Caleb moved quickly. “What is it?”
“They’ve got the video feeds working, but first, they hooked up with the Stargate team in Georgetown. They have something urgent.”
He brushed by the agent and ran for the stairs, where he saw another man by the elevator holding it for him.
That’s service, he thought, but he had been looking forward to the easier descent, along the intricately-carved bannisters where he could observe the hidden designs and images on each floor.
Well, at least it saves me some exercise.
Back in the Ceremonial Room, the agents had set up more equipment. The indigo shades had darkened with the Sun’s descent outside, and there was a bustle of activity. Xavier was still on a couch, in the corner, in the shadows behind a large pillar that looked like it belonged in an Egyptian temple four thousand years ago. Diana seemed to have recovered slightly. She sat by his side holding his hand, but still looked shaken and pale.
In front of the 50-inch main terminal screen, stood Phoebe. Caleb saw she had put on her sweatshirt and had a duffel bag packed with supplies by her side. Must’ve seen something…
Caleb stumbled over some wires and quickly moved to her. On the screen he saw a woman he had never met but recognized her from her file — a recruit who had been duped by Boris Zeller a few weeks earlier. Orlando and Phoebe had sensed talent in Victoria Belarus, and now here she was, fulfilling their expectations, and more. She had already provided leadership and analysis that pinpointed the second Emerald Tablet’s location and had sent Nina, Alexander, Jacob and Aria to Nan Madol.
Bloodshot eyes and her hair pulled back in an irreverent, stringy pony tail, Victoria looked up at the camera at her end — a church in Georgetown — and noticed Caleb. She gave a slight bow of respect, then moved sideways so the camera could capture the room, and the table behind her, with some half-dozen or more psychics hard at work.
Caleb could tell the look, and he recognized the effort. The papers, the shredded pads and pencils worn down to nubs. Empty pizza boxes and crusts… But he didn’t have much time to acknowledge the work being done. Victoria was not only all business, but urgent business at that.
“What have you got?” Caleb asked, not wasting time. “And sorry if you have to repeat anything.”
“We just started,” Phoebe said. “I was on my way to fly out of here. I know where Orlando is… or actually, where he’s going.” She met his concerned look, full of questions — about his well-being, and the status of the twins — but she wasn’t going to elaborate just now.
Which told Caleb this was something big.
“The recruits… No longer recruits, got a hit on the pharmaceuticals.”