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Khaled al-Asaad, the head archaeologist at Palmyra—a UNESCO World Heritage Site in Syria—had been beheaded in 2015 by ISIS for refusing to disclose the location of valuable relics. His murder had sent shock waves through the community and world. While working for FMV was dangerous, there was a strict protocol that excluded entering Syria in their efforts to stop trafficking.
It was heartbreaking knowing sites were being lost to looting in Syria. And even more devastating that the Islamic State and its offshoots practiced malicious destruction of features too big to transport and sell. Even knowing all this, Syria’s archaeological resources were off-limits for protection by the Valkyries. It was just too dangerous.
“You worked in Syria, before the war?”
Fahd nodded, his eyes taking on the sad look of someone who’d lived a dream only to witness its annihilation. He’d probably known al-Asaad. They might even have been friends.
She didn’t ask. Didn’t want to open that wound.
Fahd pointed to the map. “I spent six weeks on a dig here, postdoc. The site was incredible. I was just a field grunt, helping out a fellow grad student. It was the kind of site a person could work for a decade and still not know the extent of it. This was before advancements in satellite technology to really see beneath the surface without the destructive process of digging, mind you, but we were careful—we knew the technology was coming and we didn’t want to be like Schliemann and dynamite our way through the historic layers we were interested in to get to the goodies, so the site went largely unexcavated.”
“It’s still intact?” Diana asked.
“As far as I know. My friend—the archaeologist who’d been studying the site for over a decade at that point—disappeared in early 2014.”
Disappeared. Probably dead. A casualty of the civil war, or a target because of his work? Too much time had passed for clear answers, and Diana’s own heart ached at Fahd’s loss of friend and colleague.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“Over the years, I’ve wondered if Rabi died keeping the secret of the location of the dig. I make it a regular practice to monitor satellite images of the area, and it remains intact.”
Given that Fahd Yousef’s specialty was using satellite imagery to find sites in the desert, this wasn’t surprising. The man had special access to satellites, granted by his government, so taking a peek just over the border wasn’t much of a stretch.
Fahd’s eyes took on that wistful look, and he tapped at his keyboard, and next thing Diana knew, she was looking at the satellite images database, and he was typing in the coordinates. His finger hovered over an area of the screen pointing to the eastern edge of Syria where it bordered Jordan. “There is an underground Roman aqueduct not far from here. Hidden for more than fifteen centuries until it was found by an archaeologist twenty years ago. It’s a tunnel that runs under the border. Another similar tunnel was found more than a hundred years ago by T. E. Lawrence, but the discovery was forgotten when World War I broke out. A half dozen years or so ago, it was found again and the Kurds were able to use it as an entry point into Syria from Turkey before the Syrian military caught on and blew up all the known entry and exit points, destroying an aqueduct that had survived nearly two millennia.
“The Jordan-Syrian aqueduct is over a hundred miles long, and some sections have been destroyed, but overall, it remains intact, and the site my friend worked was associated with that complex. A town that benefited from the water supplied by the aqueduct. Not as grand as Petra, but a permanent settlement in the desert with underground aqueducts providing precious water.”
His finger traced what she assumed was the route of the aqueduct, then paused. He zoomed in and in and in until they had a pristine view that offered crystal clarity enough to identify vehicles on the few roads that crisscrossed the desert landscape.
“No signs of illicit digging,” he said with satisfaction.
“How often do you check?” Diana asked.
He cleared his throat and said, “Once a week since I first learned Rabi was missing. At first…I was hoping to find him. Later…well, it was all I could do for him. For his legacy. Monitor his life’s work. A few colleagues and I have shared this task, but I’m afraid they can’t continue.” He held Diana’s gaze. “If something happens to me, I need someone I trust to watch over this site and several others.”
And then she knew what this meeting was really about.
“I’m sure you have a grad student in mind for this. Faridah or Hana?”
“Both would be good choices, but neither of them are currently working for Friday Morning Valkyries.”
Diana’s stomach dropped. “You know?”
“It was the reason I agreed to work with you.”
His words sent her mind spinning. Of course Freya hadn’t told her. She was former CIA and had no qualms lying or omitting and twisting the truth. But Morgan? Diana didn’t think the woman knew how to lie.
How wrong she’d been.
Did it change anything beyond lessening her fondness for her secret employers? Not really.
She was nothing better or worse than a spy and a liar herself. She could hardly judge others, especially those involved with putting her in this situation.
“You trust me with this information?” she asked.
“I do. The first weeks…those were a test. You passed.”
Her throat clogged. That might be the highest praise she’d ever received. He’d probably seen her background check—she’d expect nothing less given what he was trusting her with.
