"That's good, then. I'm a.s.suming no one knows what's there, including members of your staff. I suggest we keep it that way for a while." He stood. "Daria, why don't we start by showing me the vault?"

"Yes, I'd like you to see the museum." Daria stood as well. "And I want to show you the inventory. I've entered everything onto my computer-crate by crate, item by item. We can stop at the house and I'll run a copy off for you."

"I have it, Daria," Louise told her as she rose. "I'll make a copy for Agent Shields."

Louise left the room.

"Thanks again for coming, Connor," Daria said. "I didn't know what else to do."

"Well, you know, this isn't really something I'd normally handle. The FBI has a dedicated team of experts in this field-art theft, cultural theft, that sort of thing."

"That's what Agent Mancini told me, but I was so uncertain what to do. I thought you...well, you said to call you, anytime."

"And I'm glad you did. I really am. I'm just saying that if there has been a major theft, it's in your best interests to have the best in the field working on the case. Our people specialize in this type of thing."

"And what do you specialize in, Connor?" she asked.

He appeared to welcome Louise's return to the room, as if Daria's question was one he hadn't really wanted to answer.

"Here you go, Agent Shields." Louise handed over a thick stack of paper in a brown folder. "The inventory Daria made and we both doubled-checked."

"Thank you." He glanced at it briefly before tucking it under his arm. To Daria, he said, "Ready when you are."

"Then let's get started." Daria gathered her bag and headed for the door. "I have my phone, if you need me, Louise. And you know where to find us."

"Let's take the shortcut," Daria said when they'd stepped outside into the oppressive heat of the afternoon. Overhead the sky was hazy, the sun a blur behind the clouds, the air heavy with humidity. "At least there will be some shade."

"I'm all for shade," he agreed. "But I'd think you'd be used to the heat, feel right at home, all the time you spend in the desert."

"Desert heat is one thing, this humidity is something else." She pulled dark gla.s.ses from her bag and slipped them on.

"Right, dry heat, and all that. Though frankly, when it gets to be a hundred or more degrees, it's just plain hot."

"True."

She rounded the side of the building and he followed her.

"We'll stop at McGowan House and pick up a few bottles of water," she said. "We'll need them."

"McGowan House, eh?" He smiled. "You've been here less than a week, and already they've named a building after you?"

Daria laughed. "The university uses the house my great-grandparents lived in as a guesthouse. Louise very kindly offered to let me stay there while I'm at Howe." She took a key from the pocket of her shorts. "It's the white building straight ahead."

They followed a crumbling brick path to the back of the house.

"This will just take me a second. Come on in."

"I'll wait."

She jogged up the back steps and unlocked the door. "Want anything besides water? I might have some pretzels."

"Just the water, thanks." He stood with his hands on his hips overlooking the gardens behind the house, where hydrangeas top-heavy with blooms fought a wild tangle of roses for s.p.a.ce.

True to her word, Daria was back in a flash, the water bottles held against her body. She handed two to Connor.

"Great. They're cold. Thanks," he said.

"So," he said after taking a long drink from one of the bottles and replacing the cap. "Tell me about Shandihar. I have to admit I'd never heard of it. All I know is what you've told me, that it was a city in southern Turkey and was found by Alistair McGowan in 1908."

"What exactly would you like to know?" She began to walk.

"Who were its people? What was its culture?" He followed along the path.

"At first, it was little more than a crossroads on the Silk Road, populated by merchants from all over the region. Greeks, Turks, Mesopotamians, nomads. Shandihar was quite the melting pot, with religions and superst.i.tions and cultures blending over time. As the years pa.s.sed, the society became matriarchal, with the import of the G.o.ddess Ereshkigal from Mesopotamia, who somehow came to prominence. My great-grandfather's journals mention several temples dedicated to her, and writings that indicated that the priestesses who served her pretty much ran the city. Travelers pa.s.sing through had to pay tribute-essentially, a toll-to come into the city."

"They couldn't have gone around it?"

"The walls of the city offered safety after dark," she explained. "Beyond the walls, at night, anything could happen. There were tales of wild animals that hunted at night and that were most fond of human flesh and blood. And of course, there were bandits."

"So, in other words, it was worth paying the toll to be able to sleep safely."

"I'm sure that was the idea. In addition to the tolls, the merchants who did business in the marketplace had to bring tribute to the temples twice each year. If you wanted to spend the next life in heaven, you paid up. The more you gave, the better your chances of a happy afterlife."

"What did the priestesses do to keep everyone in line? Surely there were some who didn't want to cough up their share."

"These ladies were pretty shrewd. Here's the thing about Ereshkigal. She was the G.o.ddess of the underworld. The place where you do not want to spend your afterlife." Daria smiled, pleased by his interest. "When you died, you had to face the G.o.ddess at the junction between heaven and h.e.l.l. If you wanted to get into heaven, you had to bring offerings to the G.o.ddess."

"They had to bribe their way into heaven?"

"Exactly. You were to appear at that gateway with something in each hand. Then you would tell the G.o.ddess all your good deeds, so she could judge your worthiness."

"So far, so good. You bring the bribe, you brag a little." Connor nodded. "Everyone can come up with something good that they did over the course of their lifetime. So where's the incentive to pay the tribute?"

"Those who refused to pay were brought before the priestesses, who would pa.s.s sentence on the offender."

"I have a feeling the punishment may not have fit the crime."

"One or both hands were cut off," she told him. "If you really p.i.s.sed them off, they'd have your tongue cut out as well."

"Ouch. Why not just kill them?"

"It made more of a statement. Everyone knew you were marked for the underworld, and no one would a.s.sist you because you were the walking dead. It was just a matter of time before you starved to death or died of thirst, since no one was permitted to help you. And once you died, you'd go straight to the underworld, because when you showed up at the gate, you'd have no gifts for the G.o.ddess and because you had no tongue, you couldn't tell her about all the good things you'd done. So off you went, right into the pit."

"I imagine that made quite the impression."

Daria nodded. "Enough that the tongueless head is a recurring theme in Shandihar art. I found several pieces in the collection that depict the G.o.ddess or one of her priestesses holding one in her hand. Remind me to show you."

"Great. Looking forward to that."

Daria laughed.

"Why haven't I heard more about this city?" he asked.

"A few years after the discovery-around 1914, I think-an earthquake buried it under tons and tons of sand, so it's lost once again. I don't know if the site could even be located, since the landmarks are all gone."

"Has anyone looked?"

"Not that I know of," she told him as they approached the museum from the side. "Here we are."

"That's it?" They rounded the corner and faced the courtyard. "That's the museum?"

Daria nodded.

He scanned the front of the building.

"You said on the phone there's security."

"There is." She nodded.

"Where?"

"I guess the guard's inside. Let's go see." She took the key from her pocket and walked across the courtyard to the door, which opened with a push.

"Stan?" She called out.

"Right here." His voice came from the stairwell.

The guard, a tall, thin, balding man in his mid-forties, came up the stairs from the office level.

"Sorry, Dr. McGowan. I had to use the facilities," he told her.

"You leave the door unlocked when you take a break?" Connor asked skeptically.

"No one's around." Stan shrugged. "No harm, no foul, right?"

"Next time you leave your post, lock the door behind you," Connor told him pointedly.

Stan glanced at Daria.

"Stan, this is Special Agent Shields, from the FBI."

"Oh." Stan stared at Connor with no small interest. "Here to see if anything's been pinched, huh?"

"Here to a.s.sess the situation."

"I thought there were two guards a.s.signed." Daria frowned.

"One of us takes the night shift, the other the day. This week I have day shift, next week we'll trade off."

"So at any given time there's only one guard," Connor noted.

"That's right."

"I guess if you'd noticed any activity around the building you'd have notified Dr. Burnette," Connor said.

"Sure. But there hasn't been any."

"Go on back to your post, Stan. But Agent Shields is right, the door should be locked at all times," Daria told him. "Starting now."

She locked the door with the key and slipped it back into her pocket.

"I'm going to be showing Agent Shields around for a while," Daria told the guard, "so you can go back to doing whatever it was you were doing." She gestured toward the folding beach chair inside the front door. A stack of paperback novels, several crossword puzzle magazines, and a large bottle of water sat nearby.

"Give a shout if you need me." He ambled over to the chair and sat down, and took the first book from the stack.

"That's your security?" Connor whispered to Daria.

"Don't knock it," she whispered back. "That's the most they've had here in almost fifty years."

"And Burnette wonders why things went walking out of the museum."

"Well, they did have the building completely boarded up for a while. It isn't likely anyone got in then."

Connor walked around the perimeter of the room, checking the wide, oversized windows that arched at the top.

"None of these open," he noted.

"They're really only designed to let in natural light for the exhibits. They're well placed, so only indirect light is allowed into the room, but no direct sunlight, which could have an adverse effect on the artifacts."

"Any windows on this floor that open?"

"I'm not sure. I didn't check them all."

"Let's do that now."

She led him from one room to the next. In each, he examined the windows, those that opened to the outside, and those that were fixed. When he finished, he said, "I don't see any sign that any of the windows were tampered with. No indication that anyone's tried to break in on this level."

They went back into the great hall, and Connor studied the door frame.

"I guess Dr. Burnette would know if this door or the frame had been replaced over the years?"

"I would think there'd be a record of the expenditure someplace or a copy of the work order. We can ask Louise to look into that."

"Let's check the windows downstairs," Connor suggested.

"There are none," she told him.

"No windows in the bas.e.m.e.nt?"