The Librarians and the Lost Lamp (17 page)

“Time-traveling…?”

He started to explain, but she placed a hand over his mouth.

“Never mind,” she said. “I don't want to know. I'm still trying to keep one foot in reality, if you don't mind.”

“Fair enough,” he answered after she pulled her hand away. “Although I can't guarantee how long that's going to be possible as, with any luck, we get closer and closer to the Lamp.” He shifted a leg to keep it from falling asleep, while trying not to encroach on Shirin's personal space more than was strictly necessary. “What about you? What's your story, aside from being the world's most glamorous museum curator?”

She arched an eyebrow. “Glamorous?”

“Did I say that?” he said, blushing. “I mean, aside from being the assiduous and intrepid archivist for the Baghdad Museum of Arts and Antiquities?”

She shrugged again, mercifully letting him off the hook for the moment. “What's there to say? Only child, middle-class roots, a lifelong fascination with the ancient writings and history, and parents who did not pressure me to get married instead of pursuing my career … well, at least, not too much. They moved out of city after the invasion, but I stuck it out in Baghdad and have been hiding out in the Archives for the last few years, while working to get the museum up and running again.” A rueful look came over her face. “Until the other day, that is, when my life took an unfortunate turn toward the crazy.”

“Sorry about that,” Flynn said.

“Not your fault, really,” she insisted. “You were right about the Forty coming after me, as hard as that it is to admit. And you've saved my life at least twice now.” She smiled at him. “If I have to hide beneath carpets, like Cleopatra before Caesar, I could have worse company.”

“Likewise,” he said, “although, technically, Cleo was rolled up inside a carpet, not hiding beneath a heap of them.…”

“Don't be a pedant,” she said. “Not that I'm comparing myself to Cleopatra, mind you.”

“Why not?” Despite his best intentions, he found himself captivated by the dark eyes gazing back at him, which were only dimly visible in the faint light. Was it just his imagination, or was it getting even hotter inside the sweltering compartment? Acutely aware of just how tightly they were packed together, he tried to play it cool. “I can see it.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Just don't make an asp of yourself.”

A pothole caused the truck to abruptly lurch to one side, throwing him up against her. Her soft curves cushioned the collision to an embarrassing degree.

“Oops!” he blurted. “Sorry about that.”

“Stop apologizing.” The truck righted itself, but she didn't pull away. “I'm fine.
We're
fine, and, honestly, I could use a hug after everything we've been through.”

“Just a hug?” he couldn't resist asking. What was it about death-defying quests to save the world that always seemed to put him in the mood?

“Don't get ahead of yourself, Librarian,” she teased. “Didn't anyone ever tell you it's not polite to skip ahead to the end of the book?”

*   *   *

Hours passed as the truck gradually left the lowlands and began climbing toward the Zagros Mountains dividing Kurdish Iraq from Iran. At least it certainly felt as if they were driving uphill, which Flynn chose to take as a good sign. Exhaustion eventually caught up with them and they dozed off in each other's arms—until squealing brakes awoke Flynn rudely.

“Huh?”

Disoriented, he started to sit up, only to smack his head into the ceiling.
Right,
he remembered,
I'm hidden in the back of a truck.

Shirin stirred beside him. “What is it? Why have we stopped?”

“I'm not sure.” He settled back down against her and consulted the illuminated display on his wristwatch. “By my calculations, assuming a more or less consistent rate of speed, we've probably reached the border.”

“And?” she asked.

“Now we see just how reliable a smuggler our driver is.”

Border crossings tended to be time-consuming even if you had all your papers in order, which they most definitely did not, and this delay was more excruciating than most. Despite their driver's assurances that he had done this run many times before and had greased all the appropriate palms along the way, Flynn kept waiting for armed border guards to yank open the lid of the compartment and drag him and Shirin out into the harsh light of day. Keeping quiet, he listened tensely to the sounds of idling engines, pacing footsteps, and impatient voices arguing in Arabic.

Just the usual border hassles,
he told himself.
Nothing to worry about.

He hoped.

Although neither he nor Shirin dared speak to each other for fear of being overheard, he could feel the tension in her body as they snuggled together. In theory, the heavy carpets would muffle any noises coming from the hidden compartment, while also discouraging the border guards from searching the back of the truck too closely, but why take chances? There was nothing they could do now but keep mum and hope for the best.

Finally, just as Flynn was starting to think they were going to spend the rest of their lives entombed in the truck, to be discovered by future archaeologists millennia hence, the truck finally lurched forward and drove ahead for fifty yards or so—before coming to a halt again.

This time the arguing voices were in Persian.

Let me guess,
he thought.
We've gone from the Iraqi checkpoint to the Iranian one.

That's progress, I suppose.

Another interminable delay ensued, but eventually the truck rolled on again, driving uphill for several minutes before pulling off to the curb. Flynn sighed in relief as, accompanied by much strenuous grunting, the rolled-up carpets were shoved aside and the compartment's lid yanked open to let in fresh air and sunlight.

“End of the road,” their driver announced. Ali was a stocky, affable fellow who nonetheless preferred to keep things on a first-name basis only. “For me, that is.”

Flynn helped Shirin out of the compartment, even as his stiff limbs both rejoiced and protested at the activity. They found themselves alongside a winding mountain road, safely out of view of the border station. The rocky gray slopes of the Zagros Mountains loomed ahead, beneath a breathtaking blue sky. As arranged, a surplus army Jeep was waiting for them a few yards away. Both of them had already changed into proper hiking apparel back in Baghdad.

“This is as far as I go,” Ali said. He held out his palm. “The rest of the payment, please.”

Flynn reluctantly handed over a thick wad of dinarii from his money belt. “Um, I don't suppose I can get a receipt?”

Ali laughed out loud.

I was afraid of that,
Flynn thought.

The smuggler did not stick around after getting paid. Following his example, Flynn and Shirin set off in the Jeep into the mountains, quickly diverging from the main routes onto twisty hillside byways that barely qualified as roads. Any semblance of blacktop was soon left behind as the Jeep bounced over crude dirt roads that almost had Flynn pining for their chauffeured trip in the back of the truck. A born New Yorker, accustomed to public transit, he let Shirin drive while he navigated, relying on both a secondhand GPS device they had picked up in a souk back in Baghdad and an old-fashioned paper map on which he had marked the supposed location of Scheherazade's tomb, at least according to Shirin's translation of her stolen copy of
The Arabian Nights.
The cooler climate at this elevation came as a blessed relief after the dry, arid heat of Baghdad and the sweaty confines of the smuggler's truck.

“Turn east up ahead,” he instructed Shirin, “when the opportunity arises.”

“Are we sure we're going the right way?” she asked dubiously. “Seems like we're heading deeper and deeper into nowhere.”

“Which is a good sign, actually. In my experience, lost tombs and such are generally found off the beaten track, far from major population centers—okay, except for the hidden crypt of Pope Joan underneath the Vatican, or that secret Masonic temple in the Paris catacombs.…”

“Forget I asked,” she said. “I swear, I think you're just making most of this up, except when I'm scared that you're not.”

“Scared, but curious, I hope.”

“That, too,” she admitted.

Flynn wondered how she was going to react if and when they finally stumbled onto an actual magic lamp or genie. He knew from personal experience that discovering the magical truth behind the myths could be a life-changing revelation. In his case, sheer excitement had won out over shock and disbelief, but who knew if that would apply to Shirin as well?

Thieves and assassins were one thing. A genuine Djinn was another.

He carefully tracked their progress on the map. Lacking a flying carpet or any other form of aircraft, they couldn't fly straight to where “X” marked the spot, forcing them to take frequent detours. Steep slopes tested the Jeep's four-wheel drive. Rocky cliffs rose on the left side of the road, while a sheer precipice dropped off sharply to the left. A notable lack of guardrails made the drive even more unnerving, as did weathered signs in Persian warning of possible rockslides and other hazards.

PROCEED AT OWN RISK
read one sign, more or less.

Story of my life,
Flynn thought.
Too bad it cost Leila hers.…

That the bookseller's bravery—and sacrifice—had surely saved him and Shirin was not lost on Flynn. He figured that the best way he could honor Leila Hamza's memory was to make certain that she had not died in vain—by keeping the Lamp out of the hands of her murderers.

That's what she would have wanted, I'm guessing.

Shirin hit the brakes, tossing them both forward in their seats, as they rounded a corner to find a huge boulder blocking their path, along with additional rubble strewn upon the roadway. It was obvious at a glance that there was no way around the granite obstruction. From the looks of things, it was going to be a struggle squeezing past the boulder on foot.

“Now what?”

Flynn shrugged. “Now we get to stretch our legs some.”

Abandoning the Jeep, they trekked up into the mountains on foot, pausing occasionally to rest and sip from their canteens. Roads turned into trails into rough, untracked climbs and crevices that felt more like an obstacle course than a route intended to be traversed by mortals. Scattered elms and walnut trees punctuated the rocky wilderness. Daylight retreated as the sun sank slowly toward the west. A hyena howled somewhere in the desolate hills.

“Should we stop for the night?” Shirin asked, sticking close to Flynn.

“You see a good camping spot?” Flynn consulted his GPS. “By my calculations, we should be almost there.” He glanced around warily. “Given a choice, I think I'd rather spend the night in the shelter of an ancient tomb than out in the open.”

“Seriously?” Shirin asked. “
Those
are our choices?”

“Beats being held prisoner by the Forty,” he pointed out.

“That's a very low bar. When did sleeping peacefully in my own bed cease to be an option?”

When you found a certain long-lost book,
he thought,
and let the wrong people hear about it.

He was trying to craft a more comforting answer when the unmistakable whirr of an approaching helicopter disturbed the wilderness. He grabbed Shirin and pulled her beneath a lonely maple tree while looking around for a better hiding place amid the hills. Searchlights scoured the twilit landscape, probing the shadows, as though looking for two runaway scholars.

“Who is it?” Shirin whispered.

Flynn shrugged. “Maybe just a routine military patrol?”

“You really think so?” she asked.

“Not for a minute.”

They flattened themselves against the tree trunk, hoping to evade the searchlights. Flynn regretted not trying to hide the Jeep earlier—not that there had really been a way to camouflage the abandoned vehicle, aside from maybe burying it under another rockslide. Long minutes passed, causing him to flash back to last night's tense vigil on the rooftop, while they waited for the helicopter to move on. Nightfall, along with the craggy terrain, helped to conceal them, although Flynn found himself wishing for the good old days of
The Arabian Nights,
when the Forty Thieves had not had access to aircraft. It was no doubt easier for fugitives to elude detection back then.

We could hide from a camel better than a helicopter.

None too soon, the chopper circled away from them, leading Flynn to assume that he and Shirin had gone undetected … for now.

“I think it's safe to move on,” he said. “Thank heaven for small favors and rugged hills and canyons. Believe me, you don't want to try to keep out of sight of the bad guys while crossing a vast, empty desert in search of a forgotten oasis.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” She stared after the departing chopper. “You really think that was … our friends from before?”

“Probably,” he admitted. “From what I hear, they've been searching for the Lamp for more than seven hundred years now. Can't imagine they'll give up easily.”

“But we left them behind in Baghdad,” Shirin protested. “How could they trail us to these hills?”

“Who knows?” Flynn said. “Maybe Ali sold us out, or somebody else. A lone American civilian and a runaway Iraqi museum official looking to slip across the border into Iran? That's the kind of thing that gets people talking, even if only in hushed whispers, and I have to imagine that the Forty have their own connections to the smuggling trade.” Thinking it over, another possibility occurred to him. “Or maybe the Forty managed to translate enough of your copy of the
Alf Layla
to point them in right general direction, northeast toward what used to be ancient Persia, where the story of Scheherazade began.”