Sandstorm

Kane took the artifact from her, lifting it like it was a stalk of corn. “So what do we do with it?”

Cassandra pointed a flashlight. “Back to the tomb, like in Salalah.”

“No,” Safia said. “Not this time.”

She slipped past Cassandra and led the way. She thought about delaying the search, dragging it out. But she had heard the jingle of camel bells, echoing up from the valley. There was an encampment of bedouin nearby. If any of them should wander up here…

Safia hurried forward and crossed to the covered pit near the entrance to the tomb. She knelt down and hauled it open. Cassandra shone her light down into the hole, illuminating the pair of footprints. Safia remembered the story that had made her follow those footsteps: the tale of the brass horseman who had borne a spear in his hand, a spear impaled with a head.

Safia glanced past Cassandra’s shoulder to Kane and the artifact. After untold centuries, she had found that spear.

“What now?” Cassandra asked.

There was only one other feature in the pit, one that had yet to yield a clue: the hole in the center of the pit.

According to the Bible and the Koran, through this hole, a magical spring had gushed forth, one that led to miracles. Safia prayed for her own miracle.

She pointed to the hole. “Plant it there.”

Kane straddled the pit, positioned the haft end of the spear, and settled it into the hole. “Tight fit.”

He stood back. The spear remained standing, firmly rooted. The bust atop it stared out over the valley.

Safia walked around the impaled spear. As she inspected it, rain spattered out of the dark skies, tapping the packed dirt and stone with a sullen beat.

Kane grumbled. “Bloody brilliant.” He pulled out a ball cap and tugged it over his shaved head.

In moments, the rain began to fall more heavily.

Safia circled the spear a second time, frowning now.

Cassandra shared her concern. “Nothing’s happening.”

“We’re simply missing something. Pass me the torch.” Safia took off her dirty work gloves and held out a palm for the flashlight. Cassandra relinquished it with clear reluctance.

Safia shone it over the length of the spear. Its shaft was striated at regular intervals. Was it decoration or something significant? With no idea, Safia straightened from a crouch and stood behind the bust. Kane had planted the spear with the face still pointing south, toward the sea. Clearly the wrong way.

Her eyes drifted to the bust. Staring at the back of the head, she spotted tiny writing on the base of the neck, shadowed by the hairline. She brought the flashlight closer. The lettering must have been partially obscured by the residual dust, but the rain was washing it clean. Four letters became clear.

Sandstorm

Cassandra noted her attention and the script. “What does it mean?” Safia translated, her frown deepening. “A woman’s name. Biliqis.” “Is it the woman sculpted here?”

Safia didn’t answer, too astounded. Could it be? She stepped around and studied the woman’s face. “If true, then this is a find of phenomenal significance. Biliqis was a woman revered across all faiths. A woman lost in mystery and myth. Said to be half human, half spirit of the desert.” “I never heard of her.”

Safia cleared her throat, still stunned by the discovery. “Biliqis is better known by her title: the Queen of Sheba.” “As in the story of King Solomon?” “Among countless other tales.”

As rain pattered down and ran in rivulets over the iron face, the statue appeared to be crying.

Safia reached and wiped the tears from the queen’s cheek.

With her touch, the bust moved as if pivoting on slippery ice, swinging from her fingertips. It spun once fully around, then slowed and wavered to a stop, staring in the opposite direction.

To the northeast.

Safia glanced back to Cassandra.

“The map,” Cassandra ordered Kane. “Get the map.”

14 Tomb Raider

Sandstorm

DECEMBER 3, 8:07 P.M.

JEBAL EITTEEN

P AINTER CHECKED his watch. One more minute.

He lay flat on his belly at the base of a fig tree, sheltered behind an acacia bush. Rain pitter-pattered against the canopy of leaves overhead. He had positioned himself far to the right of the road, carefully picking his way up a nearly sheer cliff face to reach this spot. He had a clear view of the parking lot.

With the night-vision goggles fixed to his face, the guards were easy to spot in the darkness, all in their blue windbreakers, now with hoods pulled up against the rain. Most were posted near the road leading here, but a few others slowly circled wider. It had taken precious minutes to creep into position, moving forward as the guards shifted past.

Painter took slow steady breaths, preparing himself. It was a thirty-yard dash to the nearest SUV. He fixed the plan, visualizing it, refining it. Once things began to roll, he would have no time to think, only react.

He glanced at his watch. Time was up.

He slowly raised himself into a crouched position, staying small, compact. He strained to listen, tuning out the rain. Nothing. He glanced at his watch again. Ten minutes had passed. Where were—

Then he heard it. A song, being sung by a handful of voices, rose from the valley behind him. He glanced over a shoulder. Through his night-vision lenses, the world was cast in shades of green, but sharp shards of brilliance bloomed below. Torches and flashlights. He watched the Bait Kathir begin a slow, steady climb up the road, singing as they proceeded.

Painter swung his attention back to the tomb complex.

The guards had noted the stirring of the tribesmen and had slowly shifted positions to concentrate on the road. Two men fled into the brush flanking the road and continued down the switchback.

With the forces pulled away from the parked SUVs, Painter made his move. He swept from his hiding place, staying low, and raced across the thirty yards to the nearest truck. He held his breath as he ran, avoiding the noisy splash of puddles. No alarm was raised.

Reaching the first SUV, he ducked behind it while pulling open the oiled zipper of his ditty bag. He removed the prewired C4 packages, each wrapped in cellophane, and tucked one into the truck’s wheel well, near the gas tank.

Painter silently thanked Cassandra for the gift of the explosives. It was only fitting that he return what was hers.

Staying low, he hurried forward to the next SUV and planted the second package. He left the third truck untouched, only checked to make sure the keys had been left in the ignition. Such a precaution was a common practice in an ops situation. When the shit hit the fan, you didn’t want to have to hunt down the driver with the keys.