by Layton Green
Something about the library bothered her, and not just the insipid design. A vague feeling of uneasiness had lingered ever since Dean Varen had directed her to the Reading Room at Duke.
Maybe uneasiness was the wrong word. Andie couldn’t categorize the feeling as good or bad. It was more a sensation of being watched.
She didn’t think the feeling was particular to her. More that someone, or multiple people, were watching the library. As if the public institution itself, and maybe others, were pieces on some unseen board, part of a very serious game with rules all its own.
A ridiculous sentiment, she knew. The sort of reaction that belonged to paranoia and superstition. Yet she couldn’t shake it.
Did she really need to go inside? At Stanfords earlier in the day, she had taken the time to peruse a couple of guidebooks on Egypt, each of which provided a cursory overview of the history of the Library of Alexandria.
Established around 300 BCE by King Ptolemy I at the suggestion of Demetrius, a disciple of Aristotle, the lofty goal of the Great Library was to possess a copy of every book in the world. Ptolemy pursued an aggressive acquisition strategy: searching every ship that came into harbor, confiscating scrolls from travelers, and sending out agents around the world—the world’s first literary scouts—to search for written knowledge in everything from bazaars to royal libraries. At its height, the library was reported to hold a million titles or more.
Most of the priceless collection consisted of scrolls, chiefly papyrus or leather, kept in pigeonholes with titles inscribed on wooden tags. Contrary to popular conception, the library was not destroyed in one great conflagration, but by a series of fires and thefts during the Roman period, which gradually depleted the collection. Despite the loss, the library had established Alexandria as the intellectual capital of the ancient world, providing an example for similar institutions to follow.
All the books said the same things. So did the internet, after Andie had taken a risk and hunkered down in the café at Stanfords to conduct more research. She did find conflicting theories concerning the dates and motives behind the library’s demise, and there was plenty of dispute as to the contents of the collection. But everyone agreed the Great Library had been utterly destroyed.
She wondered how much more there was, if anything, to uncover in the British Library. Oh, she was sure to find more details about the dismantling, and all sorts of scholarly speculation on the collection itself.
But would she find anything useful? Was it worth the risk of exposure? If the people pursuing her knew about the Star Phone, might they not be watching the entrance to England’s largest storehouse of public information?
She believed the message on the Star Phone was clear. In some way, she was supposed to visit the Library of Alexandria. Whether that meant a physical visit to the rebuilt library, or a location within the geohash boundary box displayed on the Star Phone, or some other type of visit, she didn’t know. But she felt sure the next part of the puzzle lay in Egypt and not England. Alexandria had libraries and museums too—and she was betting they held more information on the city’s past.
She turned on her heel, having made her decision. It was the smarter and safer choice—if she could get to Egypt unseen.
And for that, she knew she needed help.
So she made another decision, one that had marinated in her mind ever since her exchange with DocWoodburn.
The British Library put out a strong Wi-Fi signal, but just to be safe, she chose a random Costa and purchased another coffee. After logging in to Twitch, she sent a message to DocWoodburn’s other handle, Rhodies4ever351!.
While she awaited a response, she browsed an online travel guide to start familiarizing herself with modern Alexandria. An hour later, she received a reply.
Hi Mercuri. Sorry, I needed my beauty sleep. What time zone are u in?
Probably a very different one from you.
You don’t trust me. That’s smart. I don’t trust you either.
Why not?
I was just tricked by Atlantis into meeting an anonymous source. It almost got me killed.
Really?
Really.
Andie took a deep breath. So it wasn’t just her. Why take the chance now?
I’ve had a security upgrade.
Are you really a former investigative journalist?
I am.
I need to trust someone.
Me too.
How do we get there?
Good question. Any ideas?
You said it wasn’t safe to talk here.
It’s not.
Where is?
Still working on that.
Andie bit down on a nail. I need to leave the city I’m in.
That makes two of us.
I’m not sure how.
Maybe I can help with that.
How?
There was a long pause before his response. What about a pa**port?
Andie felt a tingle of hope, then admonished herself to be cautious. Why would you do that?
I need allies. And information.
That would be helpful.
To establish trust?
Yes but I would have to trust you in the first place.
Yeah. I suppose so. Are my good looks and charm not enough?
At least I know you’re not a bot. Or are you? Atlantis seems handy with technology.
Trust me—I’m the anti-bot. I looked into the Italian physicist. Did you know him?
Andie didn’t reply, though after a few moments, she realized her silence was a reply. She had probably made a mistake by giving out that reference. You should check out Quasar Labs too.
I’ll do that. I have a feeling you’re scared, Mercuri, and on the run. So am I. Maybe I can help.
Why do you want to?
When we trust each other, I’ll tell you.
OK.
I do need a location for the pa**port.
Of course he does. Andie went back and forth with herself, trying to decide what to do. After another long pause, she was stunned by his next message.
My real name is Cal Miller. Look me up.
Why did you tell me that?
More trust. Atlantis already knows who I am.
In the end, she decided to tell him her location for the same reason he had given her his name: the people after her already knew where she was.
London.
Thank you. That helps. I have a contact there.
Andie took a deep breath. She wanted very much to trust someone. Especially someone who understood this madness she had entered, and could maybe even help her. But she was going to need more. Much more. I want fast answers. What was the first article you published?
As a beat reporter?
Investigative.
Corruption in Los Angeles County prisons.
His replies were coming as soon as she posed the questions. Name of your pet?
Leon. Rhodesian Ridgeback. He’s as old as Moses.
She grinned at the connection to his Twitch handle. Any distinguishing marks you or the vet would know?
Leon broke his leg two years ago.
I’m sorry.
Hit by a car right in front of me. Audi convertible. Bastards took off.
She regarded his responses. They were specific, verifiable. He added more.
My favorite ice cream is Breyers with real strawberry chunks. Coffee with two creams. Pepperoni and onion pizza. Mole on my left shoulder blade.
That’s pretty personal.
Condensed story: Atlantis got me fired and ruined my reputation. I want my life back. They want the opposite.
So you trust me already?
I think we’re both desperate. I’ve given you nothing besides info you can verify. Once you trust me, and if I’m convinced you’re legit, then maybe we can help each other.
I know I’m legit. Not sure I can give you more.
One step at a time. Check out my info while I work on the document. Stay tuned.
&n
bsp; How long?
Very soon. Today I hope.
OK.
Verifying Cal’s answers to her questions would go a long way toward establishing trust. But she would have to make phone calls, enter personal information into databases, and who knew what else. It would expose her too much.
While stopping for a green curry at a hole-in-the-wall Laotian restaurant in Soho, scrunched into a red booth with sticky seats, she thought of a potential middle ground. After Googling nearby private investigators, she finished eating and walked to the office of the first investigator who had time for her that day. City Investigators, on Southampton Row.
In a cramped office full of metal shelving jammed with file folders, Andie hired Adelaide Warfield, registered member of the Association of British Investigators, to conduct research on Cal Miller.
A muscular auburn-haired woman with a brusque manner, Adelaide claimed she had just finished a big case and was having a light week. She brushed off the request as an easy one. Andie paid for three hours of work up front, gave away nothing of herself, and said she would call back at the end of the day. Adelaide took the money, unperturbed by the clandestine nature of the request.
After leaving the PI’s office, as shadows from the declining sun crept down the buildings of Central London, Andie checked the time and thought about where to sleep. She saw little choice but to stay in London for another night. That made her nervous, as did walking around in the open. No doubt the dark-haired man and Zawadi were scouring the city for her.
With no decision on where to board for the night, she fingered the business card the girl at the occult fair had given her, and couldn’t help herself from taking a short walk to visit the expert on mysticism. She found the bookstore just off busy Leicester Square, on a narrow lane lined with Victorian townhomes.
Evocative of a London from another era, the pedestrian-only byway was made of worn paving stones, and a row of wrought-iron lampposts in the center of the street had just begun to glow in the mauve twilight. The gently lit interiors of the shops on the ground floor, nestled behind glass windows outlined in handsome green trim, added to the ambience.
She caught the store just before closing time. To her surprise, there were no displays of healing crystals or incense candles in the windows, no exotic herbs or animal skulls or tarot cards. Just a discreet sign jutting over the street that read FRANKLIN’S BOOKS, and a bronze placard declaring it THE OLDEST OCCULT BOOKSHOP IN THE WORLD. Situated between an art gallery and a print shop, and across the street from a pair of high-end antique stores, the very location lent credibility in Andie’s eyes.
A bell tinkled as she entered. The crowded bookshelves, dour carpeting, and dusty hardbacks with gilt lettering resembled a typical antiquarian bookstore. Behind the counter was a sinewy older man, perhaps sixty-five, with a hawkish nose and a crown of white hair clinging on for dear life. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled to the elbows. Faint ink stains on the pockets.
As he reached for a sport coat hanging behind him, Andie set the business card on the counter. He peered down at it.
“I know you’re closing,” she said, “but I’m trying to reach the owner. Is he still in?”
“He is.”
“Could I speak to him?”
He leveled a kind but piercing gaze at her. “You already are. I’m Harold Franklin.”
“I . . . was wondering if you could take a look at something for me.”
“What sort of something might that be?”
“A drawing of a place I’m trying to identify. It should just take a moment.”
“Do you have it with you?”
She set down her backpack, took out the collection of ink drawings, and spread them on the counter. He shrugged on his jacket, picked up one of the drawings, and examined it with his full attention.
When he at last looked up, he said, “Do you mind if I lock up first?”
Her hands clenched at her sides. “You recognize it?”
“I’d like to show you a few things.”
She hesitated, her eyes flicking out the window and then back at the proprietor. “Sure.”
He gave a quick nod, walked over to set the dead bolt on the front door, and switched the sign to CLOSED.
“I’ve never seen an occult bookstore like this,” she said.
“You’ve been to many?”
“I have, actually.”
“Why?”
He posed it not in a challenging manner, but as a genuine question.
“For a long time, I was searching for something. I suppose I still am. I just grew disenchanted with the process.”
He held up one of the ink drawings. “Searching for this?”
She pursed her lips and nodded.
“Give me a minute.” He set the drawing down and headed into the stacks. “‘Occult’ has come to signify many things,” he called out, as she followed behind. “For the vast majority of people, the term brings to mind magic, the supernatural, Aleister Crowley and his ilk. I prefer the original meaning: ‘That which is mysterious, beyond the range of ordinary knowledge or understanding. Something hidden to the outside world.’”
“I prefer that definition too.”
“What’s your profession?”
“I’m an astrophysicist.”
“Then you understand me.”
She gave a small smile. “Yes.”
After pulling out a thin volume with a frayed green spine, he moved two rows over to pluck a larger book from the top shelf with the aid of a stepping stool. He rummaged around in a locked drawer for a leather-bound notebook that fit in the palm of his hand, so old the title had faded away, then returned to the front and set the manuscripts on the counter.
Harold opened the larger tome, a collection of translated verse from a twelfth-century Sufi mystic. He took some time to find the right page, then read a passage that so closely mirrored the experience of Andie’s visions that she gripped the edge of the wooden counter in disbelief. It was all there—the feeling of falling into a waking dream, drifting through an endless void that reflected reality through a distorted lens, the uneasy sensation of being watched, the bout of dizziness and nausea that followed.
“I’ve never heard of this book,” she said. “What was the—”
A raised finger from the bookseller cut her off. He turned to the leather-bound notebook, took a second to find the right page, and read a shorter passage in a far more prosaic style. Nevertheless, the description bore an unmistakable correlation to the first passage, and to Andie’s visions.
She was white-faced by the time he finished. “Who wrote that?”
“The notebook was compiled by a fourteenth-century Venetian nobleman, a contemporary of Marco Polo whose interests were more anthropological than commercial. That particular passage sets forth the nobleman’s description of his dreamwalking session with a Mongol shaman in central Asia. The shaman was Tungusic, I believe.”
“A dreamwalking session . . .”
“There are more. A passage in an obscure Ovid text describing a visit to Pythia, the Delphic oracle. A Gnostic gospel that never gained credibility. The Yamabushi of Japan. This place, or one very much like it, has been described by a wide array of mystics, visionaries, and seers. They all specifically speak of a ‘shadowy realm’ that is ‘like our world but isn’t.’”
Andie took a deep breath, trying to process what she was hearing. “If it’s so widespread, why isn’t it more well-known?”
He wagged a finger, thoughtful. “Yes, you’re right. ‘Wide array’ is the wrong terminology. In fact, it’s exceedingly rare. A multitude of sources were consulted over many years to collect these references. Perhaps a better word is ‘pancultural.’ A very rare thing in the occult world—and one which, quite frankly, gives the accounts the ring of truth.”
“What is your . . . What do you think of it?”
“Another peculiarity to these accounts is that they seem to bear no relation to popularized descriptions of
other such places: limbo, purgatory, dream worlds, after-death experiences, and the like. My opinion? Though I have no idea how or why, I believe the world has produced a handful of truly gifted seers, throughout history and across all cultures, and that the best way to find them is by matching the contents of their visions. Why bother with a mystic who cannot seem to escape the clichés of his own milieu? Think about it—would true scrying into a realm beyond our own not uncover a universal truth? A place described in similar fashion by seers from vastly different eras and geographies? A place like”—he looked down at the ink drawing—“this place?”
Working hard not to appear overly excited, she said, “But how do you know of it? Why search for it in the first place? What else do you know?”
He set his palms on the counter. “Those are the right questions. As for the last, I’m afraid my answer will disappoint you. I’ve no idea what this place is, what it signifies, or whether it even exists outside of the dream state and mental visions described in the literature. Perhaps it’s a mental glitch. The interior psychology of the true seer. A realm we don’t yet understand. As to how I came across it . . . I once knew a chap named, well, we’ll call him Jack. He was a regular customer of mine, and a very clever scientist. A physicist, like you.”
Andie swallowed.
“We lost touch for a few years, but about a decade back I ran into him again, in a pub in Charing Cross. He didn’t look too well. Unbalanced, slightly deranged. We caught up for a bit, and after one too many pints, or maybe five too many, he confided he was searching for a group of people he believed were in possession of secret knowledge.”
Her voice barely rose above a whisper. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t really know, except he described a place exactly like the one in your drawings.”
Andie rocked back on her heels, overcome by a wave of emotions.
I’m not insane. This place is real, and it exists. But what is it? Or maybe this Jack person, all these other people throughout history, maybe we’re all losing our minds. Maybe the shadow realm is the face of insanity.