Safia suspected Omaha wanted to jump up and down, and truth be told, his excitement was contagious. She could not stand still herself. “We need to bring the keys down here.”

“What about the storm?” Painter cautioned.

“Screw the storm,” Omaha said. “You and the others can go and hide out in town. I’m staying here.” His eyes fell on Safia.

She nodded. “We’ve good shelter here. If someone could lower the iron artifacts, water, a few supplies, let Omaha and me figure out what to do with them. We might have the riddle solved by the time the worst of the storm blows itself out. Otherwise, we’ll lose a whole day.”

Painter sighed. “I should stay here, too.”

Omaha waved him off. “Crowe, you’re not much use to us. To use your own words from earlier, this is my area of expertise. Guns, military ops…that’s you. Here, you’re simply taking up space.”

Storm clouds built behind Painter’s blue eyes.

Safia placed a conciliatory hand on the man’s arm. “Omaha’s right. We’ve got radios if we need anything. Someone has to make sure everyone stays safe when the storm hits.”

With clear reluctance, Painter stepped to the ladder. His eyes lingered on her, glanced to Omaha, then away. He climbed up and called back. “Radio what you’ll need.” He then shooed everyone away, herding them back to the shelter of the cinder-block homes.

Safia suddenly became acutely aware of how alone she was with Omaha. What had seemed so natural a moment ago now seemed strange and uncomfortable, as if the air had suddenly soured in here. The chamber felt too cramped, claustrophobic. Maybe this wasn’t such a brilliant idea.

“Where do we start?” Omaha asked, his back to her.

Safia lifted her arm back into her sling. “We look for clues.”

She stepped away and shone her light up and down each wall. Each appeared to be the identical size and shape. The only mark was a small square hole cut halfway up one wall, perhaps a place to rest an oil lamp.

Omaha lifted a metal detector from the floor.

Safia waved him to put it down. “I doubt that’s going to-”

As soon as he flipped on its power, the detector pinged. Omaha’s eyebrows rose. “Talk about beginner’s luck.”

But as he swept the device over more of the floor, the detector continued its pinging, as if the metal lay everywhere. He lifted it to the sandstone walls. More pinging.

“Okay,” Omaha conceded, dropping the detector, getting nowhere. “I’m beginning to really hate that old queen.”

“She’s hidden a needle in a haystack.”

“All this must have been too deep for the surface detectors. Time to go low-tech.” Omaha pulled free a notepad and pencil. With compass in hand, he began mapping out the trilith. “So what about those keys?”

“What about them?”

“If they’re from the time of Ubar’s downfall, how did they end up in a statue from 200B.C? Or at Job’s tomb? Ubar fell inA.D 300.”

“Look around you,” Safia said. “They were skilled artisans in sandstone. They must have found those holy sites, balanced whatever energy source lies within these keys. Antimatter or whatever. And burrowed the artifacts into elements already at the tombs: the statue in Salalah, the prayer wall at Job’s tomb. Then they sealed them over again with sandstone with a skill that left their handiwork undetectable.”

Omaha nodded, continuing his sketching.

The bark of the radio startled them both. It was Painter. “Safia, I have the artifacts. I’ll be returning with water and a couple MRE rations. Anything else you need? The winds are becoming fierce.”

She considered, staring at the walls around her, then realized something that might come in handy. She told him.

“Roger that. I’ll bring it.”

As she signed off, she found Omaha’s eyes on her. He glanced too quickly to his notepad.

“Here’s the best I could sketch,” he mumbled, and showed her his diagram.

“Any thoughts?” she asked.

“Well, traditionally the three stones of the trilith represent the celestial trinity. Sada, Hird, and Haba. ”

“The moon, the sun, and the morning star,” Safia said, naming them as they were known today. “A trinity revered by the early religions of the region. Again the queen was showing no preferential treatment between the faiths.”

“But which stone slab represents which celestial body?” Omaha asked.

She nodded. “Where to begin?”

“In the morning, I’d say? The morning star appears at dawn in the southeast sky.” Omaha patted the appropriate wall. “So that seems obvious enough.”

“Which leaves us two other walls,” Safia said, taking over. “Now the northern wall is aligned along the east-west axis, straight as an arrow.”

“The path the sun takes across the sky.”

Safia brightened. “Even that little hollow square in the north wall could represent a window, to let sunlight inside.”

“Then that leaves this last wall to be the moon.” Omaha stepped to the southwest wall. “I don’t know why this one represents the moon, but Sada was the predominant deity to the desert tribes of Arabia. So it must be significant.”

Safia nodded. In most cultures, the sun was the major divinity, paramount, life-giving, warming. But in the searing deserts, it was deadly, merciless, unforgiving. So instead, the moon, Sada, was most worshiped for its cooling touch. The moon was the bringer of rain, represented by the bull with its crescent-shaped horns. Each quarter phase of the moon was named Il or Ilah, which over the years came to be known as a term for God. In Hebrew, El or Elohim. In Arabic, Allah.

The moon was paramount.

“Still, the wall appears blank,” Omaha said.

Safia neared him. “There must be something.” She joined the search. The surface was rough, pocked in places.

A crunch of sand announced Painter’s arrival.

Omaha climbed halfway up the ladder and passed supplies to Safia below.

“How’re things going in there?” Painter called as he lowered a plastic gallon of water.

“Slow,” Safia said.

“But we’re making progress,” Omaha interjected.

Painter leaned into the wind. Unburdened as he was, it looked like the next strong gust might kite him away. Omaha climbed back down. Skitters of windblown sand followed him.

“You’d better get back to the shelter,” Safia called up, worried for Painter’s safety.

He gave her a salute and pushed away into the sandy gale.

“Now where were we?” Omaha asked.

10:18 A.M.

OUT OFthe sinkhole, Painter fought through the storm. An eerie night had fallen. Dust covered the sun, casting the world in crimson. Visibility shut down to mere feet in front of his face. He had his night-vision goggles fixed in place, but even they gained only another yard of sightline. He barely saw the gates as he hunched through them.

Among the village buildings, sand flowed underfoot with the winds, as if he were walking along a streambed. His clothes spat with static electricity. He tasted it in the air. His mouth felt chalky, his lips brittle and dry.

Finally, he ducked around into the lee of their shelter. Out of the direct teeth of the storm, he felt capable of taking full breaths. Sand flumed in wild eddies, streaming over the roofline. He walked with one hand along the cinder-block wall.

Feet in front of him, a figure folded out of the swirls of darkness, a ghost taking form. A ghost with a rifle. It was one of the Rahim scouts, on guard. He hadn’t seen her until he was on top of her. He nodded to her as he passed. No acknowledgment. He marched by her to the doorway.

Stopping, he glanced back. She was gone again, vanished.

Was it just the storm, or was it a part of her ability to blend into the background, to cloud perception? Painter stood in front of the door. He had heard the story from Safia, but it seemed too wild to believe. As a demonstration of their mental abilities, the hodja had placed a pale green scorpion on the floor and made it do figure eights in the dust, over and over again, seeming to control it. Was it some trick? Like snake charming?