The Librarians and the Lost Lamp (7 page)

Flynn shrugged.

“You'd be surprised.”

*   *   *

The Tigris Hotel catered to visiting American contractors and consultants. Like much of the Green Zone, it was an oasis of air conditioning and steady electricity amid the privations of war-torn Iraq. Exhausted by his nonstop journeying, Flynn barely registered the relative comfort of his accommodations before collapsing onto the bed with his clothes on. He was out like a light within seconds.

But that didn't necessarily mean that he was off the job.

Dreaming, he found himself wandering through a crowded outdoor marketplace in the long-lost Baghdad of
The Arabian Nights.
Bearded men wearing turbans and robes haggled over fine goods, spices, and produce from all across the known world: silk and paper and porcelain from far-off China, coconuts and sandalwood from India, grain and linen from Egypt, perfumes from Arabia, succulent fruits from Persia and beyond, all brought to Baghdad by countless caravans and sailing ships. The mouthwatering aroma of cooking fish and lamb competed with the smells of myriad spices wafting on the breeze. Gleaming palaces and mosques, topped by gilded onion domes and towering minarets, climbed toward the sky, in contrast to the humble beggars pleading for alms in the streets and alleys. Mules and camels made their way through the packed buyers and sellers, transporting yet more wares to the market. Money changers converted silver Persian dirhams for gold Byzantine denarii and vice versa, bridging East and West. A storyteller held a small crowd transfixed by tales of doomed lovers, capricious genies, and fiendish ghouls waiting in the wastes for unwary travelers. Veiled women peered out from behind the filmy curtains of gilded palanquins born on poles atop the shoulders of brawny servants. Glancing down, Flynn saw that he was dressed like a Hollywood version of Ali Baba or Sinbad, complete with an embroidered vest, silk pantaloons, and a sash around his waist.

Yep
, he thought.
I'm definitely dreaming.

Roaming idly through the colorful scene, he paused before a small bookshop tucked away in a side street. A pair of gold-tinted bookends on display at the front of the shop caught his eye; fashioned in the shape of twin lions, they looked like miniature versions of the sculpted golden felines guarding the entrance to the Library back in Manhattan. He pushed forward through the crowd to get a better look, only to step into a fragrant heap of camel dung.

“Watch your step,” a familiar voice warned him, a moment too late. “Oh, never mind.”

“Judson?” Flynn turned to see his mentor standing nearby, clutching the reins of a particularly cranky-looking camel. A traditional Arab robe was draped over the former Librarian's slight form. “What are you doing here?”

“I, I'm not doing anything,” Judson stammered. “This is your dream, isn't it?”

“So I thought,” Flynn replied suspiciously. This wasn't the first time Judson had appeared to him as a dream or mirage. “You ever going to tell me how exactly you pull off stunts like this?”

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Flynn. I'm undoubtedly just a figment of your subconscious, talking back to you.” He glanced with distaste at Flynn's soiled boot. “But, just for the sake of argument, if I
was
here talking to you for real, what would you have to tell me? Have you learned anything more about that robbery at the museum?”

“Possibly,” Flynn said, maintaining a safe distance from the camel. Even in a dream, he didn't feel like getting bitten. “I spoke with the curator of the Archives, and she mentioned that one particular item had apparently been stolen by thieves.”

He quickly filled Judson in on what Shirin Masri had told him about the lost copy of the
Alf Layla.

“Oh, dear,” Judson said, sounding distinctly troubled by the news. The worry lines on his face grew even deeper than usual, and he shook his head gravely. “That's, that's very troubling to hear. I was afraid it might be something along those lines.”

“How come?” Flynn asked. “I mean,
The Arabian Nights
is just a collection of folk tales.” He regarded Judson curiously. “Isn't it?”

“‘The Goose That Laid the Golden Eggs' is a folk tale,” Judson reminded him, “but I still have to clean out its coop every morning. There's more truth to the old myths and legends than today's modern world wants to admit, and that applies to the Thousand and One Tales of Scheherazade as well, particularly in their original tellings.”

Flynn could believe it. If there was one thing he'd learned as the Librarian, it was to check his twenty-first-century skepticism at the door when it came to fantastic stories from bygone days. If the Sword in the Stone and the Medusa's Head were real, why not the myriad wonders of
The Arabian Nights
as well?

“All right,” he said. “Assuming the bad guys had a reason for stealing the
Alf Layla,
besides it being priceless and all, what's their endgame? What are they really after?”

“What the Forty have always been after, since the sacking of the House of Wisdom more than seven hundred years ago,” Judson guessed. “Aladdin's Lamp.”

“Aladdin's Lamp!” Flynn could not contain his excitement. “That's for real?”

Judson gave him a look.

“Never mind,” Flynn said sheepishly. “Of course it is. So what's the actual scoop on the Lamp? Are we talking wishes, a genie, the whole nine yards?”

“Pretty much,” Judson said. “Aladdin's Lamp is arguably the most powerful magical relic described in
The Arabian Nights
and the most dangerous … in more ways than one.”

Flynn wasn't sure what Judson meant by that. “Okay, I can see why letting the Forty gain control of a wish-granting genie would be bad news for everyone else, but is there another downside I'm missing?”

“Very much so,” Judson explained. “As unfortunate as it would be if the Lamp fell into wrong hands, the greater threat is the Djinn trapped inside the Lamp. Djinn are spirits of fire, and not necessarily friendly ones. Every time the Lamp is rubbed and a wish is granted, it imparts energy to the confined Djinn, who will eventually grow strong enough to break free of the spell binding him to the Lamp.” Judson shuddered at the thought. “Aladdin's Lamp has been missing for centuries. There's no way of telling just how fragile the Lamp is at this point or how many more wishes it will take to shatter it, releasing the Djinn for good.”

“Which would not be a happy ending, I take it?”

“Hardly. Djinn are capricious, often vindictive entities. They lack imagination, which is why they rely on human beings to make wishes for them, but they bitterly resent humans for the same reason. And this particular Djinn, the one confined in Aladdin's Lamp, is more vengeful than most.” Judson's voice took on a forceful tone, losing its characteristic stammer. “Whatever you do, Flynn, no matter how tempting, you must
not
rub the Lamp. Remember that.”

“Got it,” Flynn said. “So we have no idea where the Lamp is hiding these days?”

“The final resting place of the Lamp has been a mystery for ages, which is where I fear Dr. Masri's stolen copy of the
Alf Layla
comes in. None of the previously known translations of
The Arabian Nights
reveal where the Lamp ended up after Aladdin's time, but perhaps an even earlier version, closer to the original source of the legend—”

“—might contain a clue on where to find the Lamp,” Flynn said, getting the picture. “Sounds to me like maybe I need to talk to Dr. Masri again, and find out if she managed to translate the Aladdin story before the book was stolen.”

“I'd do that,” Judson advised. “Preferably before the same idea occurs to the Forty.”

Flynn winced at the thought of the ruthless thieves targeting Shirin Masri.

“I can't stress how important this is, Flynn. You cannot let the Forty obtain Aladdin's Lamp, or allow the Djinn to break free of the Lamp. Both prospects are, well, alarming to the extreme.”

“Message received,” Flynn said. “Loud and clear.”

“Glad, glad to hear it. We're counting on you, Flynn. And, oh, one more thing.”

“Yes?” Flynn asked.

“Watch out for the camel.”

Too late! The camel spat in Flynn's face, spraying him with gloppy green drool.

“Aaagh!” Flynn woke with a start, wiping his face frantically, only to find it mercifully free of camel drool. Sitting up straight in his hotel room, he needed a moment to reorient himself as the sights and sounds and smells of medieval Baghdad receded and reality snapped back into place. A digital alarm clock informed him that it was late afternoon, local time.

But though the dream was already fading in his memory, the gist of his “conversation” with Judson stayed with him.

Aladdin's Lamp. A vengeful genie. The Forty.

And Shirin.

I need to get to her,
he realized,
before anyone else does!

 

6

2006

The Barani Street market was still going strong as Shirin made her way home from the museum. Rows of open-air stalls hawking everything from books to fabrics to spices lined the narrow avenue, while more shops occupied the maze of surrounding streets and alleys, many of which didn't even have names. Merchants called out to passersby, extolling their wares. The tantalizing aromas of coffee, black pepper, cardamom, nutmeg, cumin, ginger, cloves, and other spices wafted through the air. Concrete barriers at both ends of the street were an unpleasant reminder of the realities of modern-day Baghdad. Shirin enjoyed browsing in the market on her way home most afternoons, but remained alert and on guard for any possible threats. You couldn't be too careful these days.

“Fresh spices! Best prices!” a merchant called out to her from his stall. Brightly colored heaps of powdered spices created a festive display. “Paprika! Turmeric! Saffron!”

Enticed by the vibrant colors and smells, Shirin paused to inspect the spices. There was a curfew in effect after sundown, but she figured she still had time to do a little shopping and make it home before dark. She put down her battered black attaché case, tucking it between her feet for safekeeping. Come to think of it, she was running low on nutmeg.…

Distracted, she let her guard drop a moment too long.

“Don't react. Don't say anything,” a husky female voice whispered in her ear as a figure came up behind her and pressed the tip of a knife of against her ribs. “You're coming with us, Dr. Masri.”

Despite the heat, Shirin felt her blood freeze. She had no idea who was holding the knife, and she was afraid to look back over her shoulder, but all at once she was in mortal danger. If only she had gone straight home after work, or paid more attention to her surroundings…!

First the robbery at the Archives,
she thought.
Now this.

“There's a car waiting at the north end of the street, beyond the barricades,” the other woman said. “Come quietly, and you won't be harmed.”

Shirin doubted that, but she saw no choice but to comply. There was a black-market cannister of Mace in her pocket, but it might as well have been on the other side of the Persian Gulf for all that she could reach it before her captor slid the blade between her ribs. She started to turn away from the spice stand, wondering if she would live to see tomorrow.

“Dr. Masri,” another voice called out to her. “Fancy meeting you here.”

To her surprise, Flynn Carsen stepped out in front of her, blocking her path. Beneath a traditional white headscarf, the well-meaning American wore an open, guileless expression, clearly oblivious to her plight. Shirin wasn't sure whether to be grateful for the interruption or alarmed by his interference. Her situation was dire enough without a loose-cannon librarian complicating things.

“Mr. Carsen,” she said, doing her best to keep a quaver out of her voice. “I didn't expect to see you here.”

“Well, I guess it's true what they say. Everybody comes to the Barani Street market.” He nodded at the figure behind her. “Who's your friend?”

“Nobody in particular.” The mystery woman discreetly prodded Shirin with the knife. “But we really must be going.”

“What's the rush?” Flynn seemed in no hurry to move along. “We haven't even been properly introduced.” He held out his hand. “Flynn Carsen. New York Metropolitan Library.”

“You're a long way from home, Mr. Carsen,” the woman said, not volunteering her own name. “And, if I may say so, perhaps out of your element. The streets of Baghdad are not always safe for lone Americans, not in these troubled times.”

Glancing around, Shirin saw that the conversation was indeed attracting attention from the merchants and shoppers crowding the marketplace. Suspicious, even hostile glares turned in their direction. Again, she wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. She suspected that her would-be kidnapper was not appreciating this kind of scrutiny.

“Thanks for the warning,” Flynn said. “But how could I resist checking out this market while I was in the vicinity? I just had to soak up the atmosphere, you know? Check some of the local color.” He gawked like a tourist at the bustling market all around them. “Did you know that this was one of the very first paved streets in the city, and that there's been a public market on this site since at least the late Abbasid period back around seven fifty AD or so?”

Further up the street, where the knife-wielding woman had been steering Shirin, three grim-faced men began to shove their way through the crowd toward them. Indignant protests greeted their progress. Shirin recalled that the other woman had spoken of “we” before. She guessed that the other kidnappers were growing impatient, which could put Carsen in serious jeopardy as well.