SANDSTORM sf-1

by James Rollins

  Painter took the moment to check his own guns, a pair of Heckler amp; Koch pistols. In the dark, he slipped out and checked the 9mm magazines, seven rounds apiece. He had two additional magazines loaded and ready in his belt. Satisfied, he holstered the weapons, one at the shoulder, one at the waist.

  Omaha and Coral approached him as he cinched the small ditty bag to his belly. He didn’t check its contents, having inventoried it all back in Salalah.

  “When does the ten-minute clock start running?” Omaha asked, exposing his wristwatch as he stopped, pushing a button to illuminate its face.

  Painter coordinated his own watch with Coral’s Breitlinger. “Now.”

  Coral caught his gaze, concern in her blue eyes. “Stay cold, Commander.”

  “As ice,” he whispered.

  Omaha blocked him as he turned to the road leading up to the hilltop tomb. “Don’t come back without her.” This was as much a plea as a threat.

  Painter nodded, acknowledging both, and headed out.

  Ten minutes.

  8:05 P.M.

  WORKING UNDERthe glow of a pair of floodlights, Safia used a pick and brush to loosen the artifact from the sandstone’s embrace. The winds had kicked up, stirring the sand and dust, trapped by the four walls of the roofless prayer room. Safia felt caked in it, a living statue of sandstone.

  With the fall of night, the temperature dropped precipitously. Heat lightning flickered to the south, getting closer, accompanied by the occasional bass rumble, a clear promise of rain.

  Wearing gloves, Safia brushed grit from the artifact, afraid of scratching it. The life-size iron bust of a woman shone in the sharp lights, eyes open, staring back at her. Safia feared that gaze and concentrated on the work at hand.

  Cassandra and Kane whispered behind her. Cassandra had wanted to use her laser gun to finish freeing the iron artifact, but Safia had urged caution, lest it be damaged. She feared the laser might etch the metal, erasing details.

  Safia picked away the last of the stone. She attempted not to stare at the features, but found herself glancing at it from the corner of her eye. The face was remarkably similar to her own. It could have been a younger version of herself. Perhaps at eighteen. But this was impossible. It had to be just a racial coincidence. It merely depicted a southern Arabian woman, and as a native of the region, Safia would, of course, bear some resemblance, even with her mixed-blood heritage.

  Still, it did unnerve her. It was like staring at her own funereal mask.

  Especially as the bust was impaled atop an iron spear, four feet long.

  Safia leaned back. The artifact occupied the center of the chalked rectangle on the wall of the prayer niche. The red iron spear stood upright, the bust impaled atop it. All one object. Though the sight disturbed her, Safia was not totally surprised. It made a certain historical sense.

  “If this takes any longer,” Cassandra interrupted her thoughts, “I’m going to pull out the goddamn ULS laser again.”

  Safia reached forward and tested the rock’s hold on the iron object. It wobbled with her touch. “Another minute.” She set to work.

  Kane shifted, his shadow dancing on the wall. “Do we need to remove it? Maybe it’s facing the right direction already.”

  “It’s facing southeast,” Safia answered him. “Back to the coast. That can’t be the way. There’s another riddle to solve.”

  With her words, the top-heavy artifact broke free of the rock and fell face forward. Safia caught it on her shoulder.

  “About time,” Cassandra mumbled.

  Safia stood, cradling the bust. She held the spear haft in both of her gloved hands. It was heavy. With the iron head resting near her ear, she heard the slight sloshing sound coming from inside. Like the heart. A molten heaviness lay at its core.

  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.

  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

  DECEMBER 3, 8:07 P.M.

  JEBAL EITTEEN

  PAINTER CHECKEDhis 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.

  Satisfied, he checked the lot. The guards remained focused on the approaching band of camels and men.

  Swinging around, he darted toward the low wall that enclosed the tomb complex. He kept the line of SUVs between him and the guards. Behind, he heard shouts rising from below…in Arabic…jovial arguing. The singing had ceased. A pair of camels bleated forlornly, accompanied by the jingle of harness bells. The bedouin were halfway up the hill.

  He had to hurry.

  Painter vaulted the low wall. It was only four feet high. He had chosen an isolated spot, behind the mosque. He landed with more of a thud than he intended, but the rain covered the noise with a grumble of thunder.

  He paused. Light flowed down either side of the mosque, coming from the courtyard in front of the building. It shone blindingly bright through his night-vision goggles. He heard mumbled voices, but the rain drummed away any distinction. He had no clue how many were out there.

  Crouching to keep his silhouette below the wall, he fled along the back of the mosque, keeping to the shadows. He came to a back door, checked the knob. Locked. He could force the door, but it would make too much noise. He continued on, looking for a window or another way inside. He would be too exposed if he attempted to reach the central courtyard directly from either side of the building. There was no shelter and too much light. He needed a way through the mosque, a way to get closer. To abduct Safia from under Cassandra’s nose, he would need to be close to the action.

  He reached the far corner of the mosque. Still no windows. Who built a place with no windows in back? He stood in a small weedy vegetable garden. Two date palms guarded over it.

  Painter stared up. One of the palms grew close to the mosque’s wall, shadowing the roof’s edge. The mosque’s roof was flat. If he could scale the palm…reach the roof…

  He stared at the clumps of dates hanging beneath the fronds.

  It would not be an easy climb, but he’d have to risk it.

  With a deep breath, he jumped as high as he could, straddling his arms around the trunk, hitching his feet up on it. The bark offered no purchase. He promptly slid down, landing on his backside in the mud.

  As he began to push back up, he spotted two things, both hidden behind a hedgerow flanking the back wall: an aluminum ladder…and a pale hand.

  Painter tensed.

  The hand did not move.

  He crawled forward, parting the bushes. A ladder leaned against the back wall, along with a pair of clipping shears. Of course, there had to be a way to reach those hanging dates. He should have known to search for a ladder.

  He moved to the figure stretched out on the ground.

  It was an older Arab man, in a dishdasha robe embroidered with gold thread. He was most likely a member of the tomb’s staff, a caretaker of some sort. He lay in the dirt, unmoving. Painter pressed fingers to the man’s throat. He was still warm. A slow pulse beat under Painter’s fingers. Alive. Unconscious.

  Painter straightened. Had Cassandra darted the man, as she had done to Clay? But why drag him back here and hide him? It made no sense, but he had no time to ponder the mystery.

  He hauled out the ladder, checked to make sure he was still hidden from the guards, and propped it against the back wall of the mosque. The ladder reached just shy of the roofline.

  Good enough.

  He quickly scaled the rungs. As he climbed, he glanced over his shoulder. He saw that the guards had moved to block the road completely. Downslope, he spotted the lights and torches of the Bait Kathir clan as they clustered a short way down. They had stopped and begun to make camp. He heard occasional snatches of loud voices, all in Arabic, as the men kept up the pretext of nomadic travelers bunking down for the night.

  Reaching the top of the ladder, Painter grabbed the edge of the roof and hauled himself up, hooking a leg over the lip and rolling out of sight.

  Staying low, he hurried across the roof, aiming for the minaret near the front. Just a few feet above the roofline, an open balcony encircled the tower, where the call to prayer would be sung for the local worshipers. It was easy to grab the railing and vault over the balustrade.

  Painter crouched and edged around the balcony. He had a bird’s-eye view of the courtyard. It was too bright for his night-vision gear, so he pushed the goggles up and studied the layout.

  Across the way, the small set of ruins blazed with light.

  A flashlight lay abandoned near the entrance to the neighboring tomb. Its shine illuminated a metal pole planted in the ground. It appeared to be surmounted by some sculpture, a bust by the looks of it.

  Voices rose from below…coming from the squat tomb. Its door to the courtyard lay open. Lights glowed from inside.

  He heard a familiar voice. “Show us on the map.”

  It was Cassandra. Painter’s gut clenched, fiery and determined.

  Then Safia answered her. “It makes no sense. It could be anywhere.”

  Painter crouched lower. Thank God she was still alive. A surge of relief and renewed concern swept through him. How many people were with her? He spent a few minutes studying the shadows across the frosted windows. It was hard to say, but it didn’t appear that more than four were in the room. He watched the courtyard for additional guards. It remained quiet. Everyone seemed to be in the one building, out of the rain.

  If he moved quickly…

  As he began to swing away, a figure stepped out of the tomb doorway, a t
all muscular man dressed in black. Painter froze, afraid of being spotted.

  The man tucked the brim of a ball cap farther over his eyes and shoved into the rain. He crossed and knelt beside the pole.

  Painter spied as the man reached to the bottom of the pole and ran his fingers slowly up its length. What the hell was he doing? Reaching the top of the shaft, the man stood and hurried back to the tomb, shaking out his ball cap.

  “Sixty-nine,” he said as he disappeared inside.

  “Are you sure?” Cassandra again.

  “Yes, I’m bloody damned sure.”

  Painter dared wait no longer. He ducked through the archway to reach the tower stairs that spiraled down into the mosque. He flipped his night-vision goggles in place and inspected the dark staircase.

  It seemed quiet.

  He pulled free his pistol and thumbed off the safety.

  Wary of guards, he proceeded with one shoulder near the wall, gun pointed forward. He continued down the short spiral, sweeping the mosque’s prayer room as he descended. Highlighted in green, the room was empty, prayer mats stacked in back. He stepped out and moved toward the entryway in front.

  The outer doors were open. He pushed the goggles back up and sidled to the entrance. He crouched to one side. A covered porch spread along the front. Directly ahead, three steps led down to the courtyard. To either side, a short stucco wall framed the porch, topped by arched openings.

  Painter waited and checked the immediate area.

  The courtyard remained empty. Voices murmured across the way.

  If he dashed across to the tomb, hid outside the doorway…

  Painter calculated in his head, unblinking. For this to work, speed was essential. He straightened, pistol held steady.

  A slight noise froze him in place. It came from behind.

  An electric thrill of terror lanced through him.

  He wasn’t alone.

  He swept around in a crouch, pistol pointing into the depths of the mosque. Out of the gloom, a pair of dark shadows stalked toward him, eyes glowing in the reflected light of the courtyard. Feral and hungry.