The Librarians and the Lost Lamp (11 page)

“Charity?” Ezekiel cast a longing look at her sizable collection of chips. “You know you're killing me here, right?”

“Sorry,” she said. “It just wouldn't feel right to keep the money, considering.”

Ezekiel shook his head. “Sometimes I just don't understand you people.…”

“Give it time,” Baird said.

The team reconvened out in the courtyard, beneath the shade of a leafy palm tree. “Okay,” Baird said. “Somebody needs to run this penny back to the Annex so Jenkins can check it out.”

“I can do that,” Cassandra volunteered. “To be honest, I could use a break from this casino.”

“Works for me,” Baird said. “In the meantime, the rest of us should probably keep an eye on Dunphy, just in case this isn't over yet.”

“Speak for yourself,” Ezekiel said. “I've done my part. You and Stone can babysit Dunphy now that we've stolen his mojo. Me, I can find better ways to amuse myself in Vegas.”

“Such as?” Stone asked.

“I don't know. Gambling, partying, maybe a harmless little heist or two,” Ezekiel said breezily. “As a reward for my valuable services, as it were. If you need me, you know how to reach me.”

“Fine,” Baird said, sounding unreasonably exasperated. “Take five. I'm sure we can manage without you for the moment. Just try to act like a Librarian, please.”

Ezekiel took that as a green light to break rules and look for treasure. His grin broadened.

What was the point of visiting Vegas if you couldn't let loose a little?

 

9

2006

Flynn pinched himself to make sure he wasn't still dreaming.

Unless his memory was deceiving him, the bookshop before them was identical to the one in his “dream,” right down to the miniature gold lions in the window. That couldn't be a coincidence.

Could it?

Lacking any better ideas, he dragged Shirin inside the shop. A musty atmosphere, universal to used bookstores the world over, made Flynn feel strangely at home. Sagging bookshelves, crammed with everything from dog-eared paperbacks to leather-bound collector's editions, lined the walls, while more books were piled high on a rickety wooden table in the center of the cramped little shop. Rarer volumes were kept under glass at the back of the store, where an older woman, who looked to be in her eighties at least, sat behind a counter. The store was sparsely populated, with only a handful of prospective customers browsing the shelves. They cast suspicious glances at Flynn and Shirin as the pair hurried into the store, looking sweaty and disheveled, before turning their collective gazes back toward the shop's inventory.

“Can I help you?” the bookseller asked.

Despite her advanced years, her eyes appeared sharp and discerning. Silver hair peeked out from beneath a cotton headdress. A shawl was draped over her bony shoulders. A pair of reading glasses dangled on a chain around her neck. She looked the newcomers over thoughtfully. Flynn got the distinct impression that she missed very little.

“Just looking.” He kept one eye on the street outside the window while trying to act casual. Ordinarily, he would have liked nothing better than to kill time in a cool old bookshop, but not when a gang of irate thieves was out to kill him. He pretended to scan the shelves, while wondering if there was a back room or exit they could resort to if necessary. “We're not looking for anything in particular … Wait a second, is this actually the 1909 translation of Omar Khayyam?” He flicked through the pages excitedly, no longer feigning interest in the shop's inventory. “It is, with the original illustrations by Pogany!”

Not for the first time, Shirin eyed him as though he had lost his mind. “That's nice,” she said, her voice strained, “but maybe you can curb your bibliophile tendencies for the moment? It's not like we don't have other … priorities … at present.”

“Nonsense,” the bookseller said. “There's always time to appreciate a good book.” She nodded at Flynn with a knowing expression on her face and pulled a hardcover book out from under the counter. “Can I interest you in a deluxe edition of
A Midsummer Night's Dream
?” A smirk lifted her lips. “‘If we shadows have offended…'”

“‘… think but this, and all is mended,'” Flynn said, completing the quote. Judson had tested him with the very same passage on the day Flynn first became the Librarian. He stared at the old woman in wonder and confusion, momentarily at a loss for words. “Who … how…?”

“Everyone out,” she said, raising her voice. “We're closed for the night.” Emerging from behind the counter, she shooed the other customers toward the door. “Thank you for your patronage. Please come back tomorrow.”

Shirin hesitantly moved to join the exodus, looking understandably reluctant to step outdoors again, where the Forty were presumably still searching for them. “All right. We're going.…”

“Not so fast. You two stay right where you are.” Scooting the last of the other customers out of the shop, she locked the door and drew old-fashioned reed blinds down over the front window, concealing the interior of the store from view. “There, that's more like it,” she muttered before turning back toward her bewildered visitors. “So, now that we have a little more privacy, you mind telling me who exactly is chasing you?”

Flynn remained flabbergasted by this unexpected turn of events. He suddenly understood how utterly baffled Shirin had to be feeling. “I don't understand. How do you know that?”

“Please.” The bookseller chuckled, clearly amused by Flynn's reaction. “You think you're the only Librarian to pass through Baghdad in the last sixty years or so? Don't make me laugh. This is the cradle of civilization, the heart of ancient Mesopotamia. The Sumerians, the Akkadians, the Babylonians and Assyrians … the history of Iraq is the history of mankind. There are treasures here that predate most of the scrolls and relics in that big fancy Library of yours in New York City … and you can tell Judson I said so.”

Flynn blinked in surprise. “Excuse me. Who are you exactly?”

“Leila Hamza at your service.” Her voice was raspy, but strong. “You wouldn't know it to look at me now, but I was quite the adventurer in my youth, and not a bad archaeologist if I do say so myself. I even took part in the ill-fated Nineveh expedition of forty-three, which was where I first crossed paths with one of your illustrious predecessors.” A wistful tone softened her raspy voice. “The times we had. I could tell you stories, not all of them suitable for children.…”

Her voice trailed off, and her gaze turned inward as she seemed to lose herself in her memories. Flynn thought of the portraits in the Hall of Fame back at the Library. Who was the Librarian during the '40s again?

“So you know about the Library,” he said, “and the Librarians?”

“Hard to forget,” she said, returning to the present. “After what we went through at the Temple of Ishtar … well, let's just say I'm going to remember that even after I've forgotten my own name. And now here you are, another Librarian on another quest, or so I assume.” She chuckled again. “Of all the bookstores in all of Baghdad, you had to wander into mine. What are the odds?”

Flynn doubted that mere random chance was involved. Judson could be cagey sometimes, and that had been a conveniently well-timed dream.

Not that he was complaining, mind you.

“Yeah,” he said. “Go figure.”

“Think of this as a safe house,” Leila said, “if you need it.”

“Thanks,” Flynn said. “As it happens, we could use a place to catch our breath and regroup. You should know, though, that that there are seriously bad people on our tail, so you might be placing yourself in danger.”

“I'm an eighty-seven-year-old woman living in modern-day Baghdad.” She shrugged. “This is the least I can do … for old time's sake.”

Flynn figured she was more than old enough to make her own decisions, and, honestly, he and Shirin could use all the help they could get. “Fair enough. And don't think we don't appreciate your hospitality. I wasn't looking forward to camping out in a bombed-out ruin tonight.”

Assuming we even manage to get away from the Forty,
he thought.

“My lodgings are above the shop,” Leila said. “They're not exactly as secure as the Library, but what is?” She put the copy of
Midsummer
back where it belonged. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Shirin, who had been taking in this entire conversation in perplexed silence, spoke up.

“Well, somebody could tell me what the devil is going on … if that's not too much trouble.”

*   *   *

“Aladdin's Lamp? The Forty Thieves?” Shirin rolled her eyes. “You can't seriously expect me to believe all this storybook nonsense.”

Flynn sighed, having anticipated this reaction. He and Shirin were sipping tea at the kitchen table in Leila Hamza's cozy second-floor apartment above the bookshop. A ceiling fan fought a losing battle against the heat, while Leila kept an eye on the street. He couldn't blame Shirin for being skeptical in this day and age. He recalled having a similar discussion with Emily Davenport in Morocco a few years back, before she saw for herself that magic was not confined to old myths and fairy tales, and before they ended up going their separate ways.

“Says the curator of the Baghdad archives,” he pointed out, “and an expert on
The Arabian Nights
.”

“So?” she shot back. “The
Alf Layla
is a classic work of literature, with deep roots in the history and folklore of the Middle East and India. That doesn't mean I believe it's literally true, any more than you believe in, say, the Tooth Fairy or Santa Claus.”

“Well, funny you should mention that. It turns out that—”

“No! I don't want to hear it.” Shirin clapped her hands over her ears. “This is insane!”

“Those kidnappers in the market didn't think so,” Flynn said. “They took this seriously enough to try to abduct you, after robbing the museum earlier—and killing that security guard.”

That gave her pause, but only for a moment. “Fine. You're all crazy, but you can't expect me to go off the deep end, too. Aladdin, Ali Baba … those are all just stories. Old stories, classic stories, but still just make-believe.”

He wondered if maybe she was protesting a bit too much.

“So you've
never
believed in the tales? Not even a little bit?”

She didn't answer right away, staring into the murky depths of her tea instead. Now that they weren't running madly for their lives, he couldn't help noticing again just how attractive she was.
Watch it,
he warned himself. He'd mixed romance with work before, and the relationships had never worked out. He was in no hurry to get his heart broken again.
Remember Emily, and Nicole.…

Shirin
was
gorgeous, though, and smart and resourceful.

Just his type, in other words.

“It's funny,” she said finally. “When I was growing up, my mother used to tell me that we were descended from the original Scheherazade, the one who told all the tales to the sultan for a thousand and one nights. It was just a silly family legend turned bedtime story, of course, but it probably helped inspire my interest in ancient writings and the
Alf Layla
in particular.”

“You see,” Flynn pressed. “Maybe part of you has always believed … or wanted to.”

“But that's just foolishness,” she insisted. “This is the real world, a world of checkpoints and curfews. There's no room for fantasy anymore. Why would anyone want to kidnap me because of an old folk tale about a lamp and genie?”

“Probably because they needed your help with the translation,” Flynn guessed. “You are the expert, after all, and the one who discovered the book in the first place.”

“Then it's a good thing they didn't get my case.” Shirin checked to make sure it was still resting on the floor by her feet. “If that's really what they're after.”

Flynn recalled that she had risked her life to recover the case back in the market. She hadn't let it out of her sight since.

“What's in that case that's so important anyway?” he asked.

“My notes on the translation, naturally. Thank goodness I took them home with me the night of the robbery. They're all I have left of my work to date.”

“You still have a copy of the translation?” Flynn's heart leaped in excitement. “You didn't mention that before!”

“A
partial
copy,” she clarified. “And after what happened at the museum, I was being a lot more careful about what I revealed to, for instance, some random stranger who just got off a flight from America.” Guilt washed over her lovely features. “I'm still kicking myself for not being more discreet about my discovery before.”

Flynn felt for her, understanding that her whole life had turned upside down.

“I'm sorry you had to get sucked into this craziness,” he said, “but I could really use your help—and those notes—to find the Lamp before the bad guys do. You don't have to come with me. Just point me in the right direction.”

“Toward Aladdin's Lamp?”

“Exactly. Which, believe me, is more serious than it sounds.”

Shirin lowered her head onto the table. “This is just a crazy dream, right? I'm going to wake up any minute now?”

“I'm afraid not,” Flynn said. “But, if it's any consolation, I was just thinking the same thing not too long ago.”

 

10

2006

Marjanah's eyes were still burning from the turmeric that damn American had blown in her face back at the market. She'd taken the time to thoroughly scrub her face and rinse her eyes out after returning to their hideout in the Red Zone, but her mood had not improved. She wasn't sure what stung more, her eyes or the fact that she had failed in her mission to obtain Shirin Masri.