The Librarians and the Lost Lamp (4 page)

“What makes you think this Forty outfit is involved in the Baghdad heist?” Flynn asked. “I hate to say it, but looted historical sites and museums are old news in the Middle East at this point, what with the wars and political instability in the region. It's a shame, but I'm not sure where we fit in.”

Judson looked at Flynn. “Are you familiar with the House of Wisdom?”

“Of course,” Flynn replied, vaguely insulted by the query. “During the Golden Age of Islam, from roughly the eighth to the thirteenth century, the House of Wisdom was the greatest library in the known world, attracting scholars from all across the map to Baghdad, which, at the time, was the undisputed center of power, wealth, and learning in the medieval world. Alas, the House of Wisdom was sacked in 1258 during a Mongol invasion, causing many rare books and documents to be lost forever.”

“
Supposedly
lost,” Judson corrected him. “The invasion was instigated, at least in part, by the Forty to give them the opportunity to raid the House of Wisdom for the secrets it held, but the Librarian at the time managed to keep them from obtaining anything
too
dangerous—although, yes, some of the House's most priceless volumes did go missing in the process.” Judson shook his head woefully. “Call it a hunch, but this business in Baghdad feels uncomfortably familiar. The thieves went straight for archives, bypassing more valuable artifacts and treasures, as though they were searching for ancient knowledge, not riches. That sounds like the Forty to me, and Baghdad used to be their home base, back in its glory days.”

“I don't know,” Flynn said. “No offense, but that sounds like a stretch to me.”

“Perhaps,” Judson said. “I could be wrong. I probably am. But we can't afford to take the chance. Even if the Forty aren't back in the game,
somebody
raided those archives, and, as you should know by now, the secrets of the past can often pose a serious threat to the present … if they fall into the wrong hands. In a worst-case scenario, we could even be talking about—”

“The fate of the world,” Flynn supplied, knowing the spiel by now. “I get it, really I do. It's just that I was hoping for a little time off before embarking on another globe-trotting trek into possibly mortal danger.”

“And I was hoping that my next blind date would turn out to be Antonio Banderas,” Charlene said sarcastically. “Tough. We don't always get what we want.” She handed him a coach-class airline ticket. “Your flight leaves from LaGuardia in three hours. If I were you, I'd get going.”

Flynn bowed to the inevitable. If he hurried, he might be able to manage a shower and a change of clothes before hightailing it to the airport. New York to Baghdad was at least a twelve hour trip, so maybe he could catch
some
sleep on the way there.

Or catch up on his reading at least.

“Good luck,” Judson said. “But watch your back. The Forty weren't just thieves; they were murderers and cutthroats. If they're back in business, they'll stop at nothing to achieve their ultimate goal … whatever that might be.”

“You heard him,” Charlene added. Just for a second, a flicker of what might actually have been genuine concern softened her pinched expression. “Be careful, and don't forget—”

“My receipts,” Flynn said. “I know, I know.”

He sighed in resignation. Times like this, he wished he weren't the only Librarian.

This job was too big for just one person.…

 

3

2016

Ten years later

Portland, Oregon

Magic is real,
Colonel Eve Baird thought.
Just look at this place.

Tucked away under the south end of a lofty suspension bridge crossing the Willamette River, in what appeared to be an unremarkable gray utility building, the Library's Portland Annex was much more impressive on the inside than on the outside. Antique electric lights cast a warm, gentle glow over the Annex's ground-floor office, which had a certain timeless charm that was distinctly at odds with the building's weathered stone exterior. Sturdy wooden bookcases were crammed with worn volumes on everything from stamp collecting to cutting-edge string theory. An old-school card catalog ran along one side of a sweeping staircase leading up to the mezzanine overlooking the office. A large inlaid compass symbol decorated the hardwood floor. Side doors magically linked the Annex to the rest of the Library, with its innumerable galleries and collections, while the frosted-glass “Back Door” led to, well, most anyplace she cared to imagine, as well as a few destinations beyond imagining.

Baird surveyed the familiar scene from her desk, where she had been carefully reviewing the Library's security systems and emergency action plans. A statuesque blonde whose supermodel good looks came in third to her top-flight military training and no-nonsense attitude, she preferred to leave nothing to chance when it came to guarding the Library, its inventory, and its agents. Granted, the deceptively cozy-looking Annex was a far cry from the hostile war zones and rogue states she'd once frequented as part of an elite NATO counterterrorism unit; you'd never guess that she was often dealing with far more dangerous weapons of mass destruction these days.

Magic is real
and
frequently deadly,
she reminded herself for the umpteenth time.
And maybe someday that won't sound quite so crazy to me.

Over a year had passed since the Library had recruited her as a Guardian, making her responsible for the well-being of three newly minted Librarians. The Portland Annex was already starting to feel like her home away from home, but the whole magic-and-monsters thing still took some getting used to. Yawning, she stretched at her desk to keep from getting stiff.

She could have used a good workout. Ever since that weird “time loop” business at DARPA, things had been quiet—maybe too much so for her tastes. Where had all the troublesome dragons and golems gone? Surely there had to be some long-lost magical relic they should be tracking down?

Two of her new charges, Jacob Stone and Cassandra Cillian, were seated at the cluttered conference table in the middle of the main office, across from Baird's own desk. Typically for Librarians, they were taking advantage of the downtime to catch up on their reading. Cassandra, a petite redhead with a penchant for short skirts, knee socks, and frilly collars, was avidly devouring some abstruse mathematics text as though it were the latest bestselling thriller, while periodically peering up at swirling patterns and calculations that only she could see, thanks to her peculiar gifts. Her slender fingers traced equations in the empty air. Baird had stopped trying to figure out what Cassandra was seeing. Chances were, she wouldn't understand it anyway.

Sitting opposite her, Jacob Stone looked as rugged as Cassandra looked dainty and delicate. Scruffily handsome, in a country-western kind of way, he leafed through a lavishly illustrated coffee-table book on pre-Columbian cave paintings while scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad, no doubt in preparation for writing a learned monograph on the topic. A rumpled plaid shirt, faded jeans, and work boots belied his status as a world-class expert on art and architecture, with numerous publications under a variety of pseudonyms. As every Librarian knew, you couldn't always judge a book by its cover.

Worryingly unaccounted for was Ezekiel Jones, self-proclaimed man of mystery and master thief. Baird wanted to think that Jones was behaving himself, but she knew better.

Try not to end up on a most-wanted list, Jones,
she thought.
Just this once.

“Seriously?” Stone reacted indignantly to something in the book he was perusing. His gruff voice held more than a hint of Oklahoma and the rough-and-tumble oil yards where he had once labored. “You call those Aztec fertility symbols? Any fool can tell that they're obviously Toltec in origin.”

“Obviously,” Baird said dryly.

Stone looked up from his book. “Say, didn't you and Flynn explore a buried Toltec temple a while ago?” He turned the book toward her. “You remember seeing anything like these petroglyphs when you were there?”

“'Fraid not,” she replied. “I was too busy running from molten lava and a bad-tempered feathered serpent to check out the finer points of the decor.”

The discussion drew Cassandra out of her private reverie. “Speaking of Flynn, have you heard from him recently?”

I wish,
Baird thought. “Last I heard, he was in Nepal, or maybe Tibet, doing his own thing … as usual.”

That last part came out a bit more acerbically than she had intended. Although she liked Flynn, and found him oddly attractive, his tendency to run off half cocked and on his own drove her nuts sometimes. Used to being the only Librarian at large, he wasn't exactly a team player, which was something of a sore spot between them. For all she knew, he was knee- deep in a new adventure right now, flying solo, which was apparently just the way he liked it.

“Sorry,” Cassandra said sheepishly, as though fearing she had inadvertently crossed a line. “I didn't mean to pry.”

“It's all right, Red,” Baird assured her. “Flynn is a big boy. He can take care of himself.”

“One would assume so,” Jenkins said, strolling into the office from an adjacent reading room. A dapper, silver-haired gentleman who was older, by centuries, than he appeared, he had been looking after the Annex for longer than Baird knew or wanted to think about. He placed a neglected copy of Cagliostro's personal diary back on a bookshelf, precisely where it belonged. “Not that Librarians are always the most prudent of individuals. In my extremely extensive experience, their erudition is consistently beyond dispute, but their common sense? Well, that's another matter.”

A pair of frosted-glass doors swung open, admitting a breeze and Ezekiel Jones. The cocky young thief sauntered into the Annex bearing a pink cardboard box and an infectious grin. A wiry man in his early twenties, he had dark hair, mischievous eyes, and designer clothes that had probably been shoplifted from only the most fashionable outlets. His stylish wardrobe contrasted sharply with Stone's more blue-collar attire, and put Baird's own workaday clothes to shame as well. As a rule, she preferred to dress for practicality, as in a white button-down shirt and trousers.

“Miss me?” An Australian accent betrayed his Down Under roots. An irrepressible smile lit up the room. “What am I saying? Of course you did. I'm Ezekiel Jones. Who wouldn't miss my delightful company?”

“Everybody you've ever ripped off?” Stone said sternly, like an older brother addressing a wayward younger sibling. “Where'd you get off to anyway? Monte Carlo? The Riviera? Fort Knox?”

Baird eyed the box apprehensively.
Please let that not be the Crown Jewels, or a priceless Picasso.

“Nah,” Ezekiel said. “Voodoo Doughnuts. Just up the road from here.”

Cassandra's large eyes widened even more than usual. “Doughnuts?”

“Portland's best.” Ezekiel placed the box down on the conference table and flipped its lid to reveal a mouthwatering selection of gourmet doughnuts. “Feast your eyes, and then just feast in general. The doughnuts are on me.”

Baird stepped out from behind her desk to investigate, drawn in part by the tantalizing aroma of the deep-fried treats. She had to admit, they did smell tasty.

“That's very generous of you, Jones. Uncharacteristically so, in fact.” She regarded him suspiciously. “I don't suppose you actually
paid
for these doughnuts?”

“You're joking, right?” He scoffed at the very notion. “I need to keep in practice, after all. You wouldn't want me to get rusty.”

“Heaven forbid,” Jenkins said archly. “But perhaps, Mr. Jones, you could kindly refrain from placing your ill-gotten refreshments on top of these private love letters between Napoleon and Josephine, detailing the actual circumstances of his exile on Elba?” He sighed theatrically as he extracted several yellowed sheets of paper, each carrying a faint whiff of French perfume, from beneath the doughnut box. “And to think this used to be such a quiet, contemplative environment, before it turned into a children's playhouse.”

Baird was used to such grumbling by now. She and her freshly forged team of Librarians had set up shop in the Annex at a time when the rest of the Library was lost between realities. Jenkins had already been a fixture at the Annex, along with the card catalog and desks, and had stayed on for the duration, despite his frequent sighs, disdainful sniffs, and sarcasm. Baird suspected that his high-handed curmudgeon routine was at least partly an act.

“I don't know,” she said. “Sounds to me like you're protesting a bit too much. Are you sure you don't actually enjoy our company?”

“Quoting the Bard, are we, Colonel?” Jenkins placed the Elba correspondence in a desk drawer, safely away from icing and sticky fingers. “Why don't you leave Shakespeare on the shelf and join your ravenous colleagues in their sugar spree?”

“Like you've never indulged your own sweet tooth,” Ezekiel teased him. Claiming the biggest, frostiest, most lavishly sprinkled doughnut for himself, he took an enthusiastic bite and smacked his lips afterward. “Now that's what I call a treat for the taste buds. Almost as delicious as those gold-flecked Swiss chocolates I nicked in Dubai last Easter from a certain overfed oil baron who, frankly, could stand to lose a few stone.” He licked some icing from his nimble fingers. “Come on, mates. Dig in.”

Stone shrugged. “Don't mind if I do.”

A raspberry jelly doughnut met with his approval. “Whoa. That's positively sinful.” He stepped aside to let Cassandra get at the doughnuts. “Step right up, Cassie. You've got to get in on this action.”

She contemplated the all-too-tempting spread. “Well, maybe just one.…”