The Librarians and the Lost Lamp

  “The once-great city was divided by walls and strife. The people turned on one another, nursing grudges old and new, until it was not safe to pass from one neighborhood to another. One day, as the maiden was shopping in the market, a speeding carriage crashed deliberately into a building, causing a terrible explosion. And deafening noises hurt the maiden’s ears, even as smoke and ash blotted out the sun, turning day to night. The maiden ran in terror from the destruction, afraid for her very life.…”

  Her voice caught in her throat for a moment as she relived what had obviously been a harrowing ordeal. Flynn wondered if it helped or hurt her to get all of this out of her system. Granted, a flesh-eating ghoul was not the ideal therapist, but maybe there was something cathartic about it?

  Flynn hoped as much, for her sake.

  In any event, Shirin’s story did what it was supposed to do: hold the ghoul’s attention. The creature squatted mutely upon the floor, arguably more attentive than he had ever been during Flynn’s stories. The Librarian felt a twinge of competitiveness.

  Hey, that business with the Crystal Skull was pretty good, I thought.

  Not that he could really complain about Shirin keeping the ghoul entertained. Hours passed, and the torches in the braziers began to sputter and die down. The ghoul yawned again, more sleepily this time, and his head began to droop. Flynn and Shirin exchanged hopeful looks. Maybe they were going to live to see the dawn after all?

  “Then, one fateful night,” Shirin continued, her voice growing hoarse, “thieves crept into the House of Wisdom, stealing a tome of ancient secrets that pointed the way toward a treasure beyond comprehension. The maiden, who had been entrusted with caring for the book, feared that it had been lost forever, but then a dashing stranger—the Librarian she had met on the sea voyage, remember?—came back into her life and revealed to her that magic truly existed in the world.…”

  Her voice faltered, and Flynn could tell that she was running out of steam. The drowsy ghoul lifted his head, noting her silence. “Is that it? Are you done?”

  “No, no,” Flynn insisted. “We’re just getting to the best part.”

  He whispered into Shirin’s ear. “Keep it going … just for a little longer.”

  “I’m not sure I can,” she said weakly. “I can barely think straight at this point.”

  Flynn remembered feeling the same way hours ago. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got this.”

  He picked up the tale where she left off, hoping his break had given him a second wind.

  “Their reunion was a timely one, for the Librarian was also in search of the treasure and sought to find it before the wicked thieves did, but he needed the beautiful maiden’s help—for she alone recalled the secrets recorded in the stolen book and grasped their meaning. Alas, she doubted him at first and kept her secrets to herself.…”

  Shirin jabbed him with her elbow.

  “Ouch!—he said, feeling the sting of her distrust, but he guessed that she too was in danger, so he followed her to a crowded marketplace, where a nameless woman of dubious virtue accosted the fair maiden and attempted to abduct her.…”

  A snore interrupted Flynn’s narration. Down on the floor, the ghoul’s eyes had fallen shut, and he slumped over onto his side, making a nest for himself amid the scattered bones. Flynn felt mildly offended that the ghoul couldn’t stay awake long enough to find out what happened next.

  I was just getting to the part where I saved the day!

  “You did it,” Shirin whispered. “He’s asleep.”

  “We did it,” he corrected her.

  Flynn glanced at his wristwatch. In theory, the sun had just risen outside.

  “Seems ghouls are nocturnal,” he said. “Good to know.”

  Using the jagged edge where the scimitar’s blade had once been, Flynn began cutting a hole in the net until he had a gap big enough for them to pass through one at a time. “Try not to make too much noise,” he advised Shirin as he helped her lower herself to the floor. Loose bones rattled quietly beneath her feet, causing the sleeping ghoul to stir worryingly, but he kept on slumbering while Flynn cautiously descended to the ground. He stretched his limbs to restore circulation to them.

  “I think he’s out like a light,” Shirin said in a low voice.

  “Lucky him.” Flynn tiptoed away from the ghoul. “I could use a few winks myself.”

  She looked back the way they’d come. “Maybe we should try to find a way out of here?”

  “Not without what we came for.” He understood, however, that Shirin might not feel the same way after nearly becoming a ghoul’s late-night snack. “But if you want to search for a way out and leave the rest up to me, that’s okay, too. I signed up for this kind of craziness. You didn’t.”

  She thought it over, but only for a moment.

  “I’ve come this far. I might as well see it through.” She contemplated the snoring ghoul. “Besides, if shape-shifting ghouls are real, I guess Aladdin’s Lamp is not beyond the bounds of possibility either. Which means you were right all along: we can’t let those killers find it first.”

  Flynn admired her resolve after all she’d been through. “Glad we’re finally on the same page, so to speak. I wasn’t kidding a few minutes ago when I said that I really needed your help.”

  “I remember,” she said. “Something about a beautiful maiden, wasn’t it?” She adopted a teasing tone. “Beautiful, you say?”

  “I seem to recall something about a dashing stranger,” he countered, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. “Dashing?”

  “Poetic license,” she said, blushing. “But never mind that now. Don’t we have a tomb to explore?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Flirting could wait. It was time to find Scheherazade … and the buried secrets of The Arabian Nights.

  “After you, beautiful maiden.”

  15

  2006

  Tiptoeing across the ghoul’s lair, Flynn and Shirin entered the chamber beyond, where their eyes widened in amazement. Shirin gasped, but not in fright this time.

  “This is it,” she said in awe. “The tomb of Scheherazade … for real.”

  Flynn didn’t immediately spot a marked vault or sarcophagus. “More like an antechamber, I suspect, but I know what you mean. This is … wow.”

  Unlike the gruesome, bone-filled lair, the subsequent cavern was a masterpiece of Arabian art and architecture. Instead of hanging stalactites, a domed ceiling gave the chamber a far more airy feel. Decorative tiles sporting endlessly repeating arabesques adorned every exposed surface, from the walls to the ceiling. Sunlight filtered into the ornate vault through tinted glass panes cunningly embedded in the high ceiling. An exquisitely crafted Persian carpet caught Flynn’s eye before his attention was drawn to the rest of the chamber’s decor. Carved stone shelves held an impressive collection of dusty books and scrolls, presumably from Scheherazade’s personal library, as well as mementos from her stories, including a miniature sailing ship of classic Arabian design, a toy-sized mechanical stallion wrought of bronze and silver, and a shard of enormous egg shell.

  But nothing resembling a lamp, magical or otherwise.

  Because that would be too easy, Flynn thought.

  Eyes wide, Shirin spun in a complete circle in the center of the chamber, taking it all in. “This is astounding,” she said in a hushed tone. “But how on Earth did they manage to transport all these grave goods down the side of the cliff?”

  “Magic?” Flynn speculated. “Or maybe the ghoul did most of the heavy lifting?”

  As a librarian, Flynn could have spent days examining the priceless contents of just this antechamber, but as the Librarian, he knew they had to keep their eyes on the prize. A beaded curtain on the opposite side of the room veiled the portal to a further chamber, carved even deeper into the solid rock. Flynn sensed that they were nearing the end of their quest—or at least this stage of it.

  He drew back the curtain and peeked ahead.

  Eureka, he thou
ght. “Shirin, you need to see this.”

  The next chamber was as elegantly appointed as the one before, with the same gleaming ceramic tiles and arabesques, but the elaborate ornamentation faded into background compared to the centerpiece of the burial chamber: a polished marble sarcophagus carved in the image of an exotically beautiful sultana, lying horizontally atop the tile floor. The sculpture’s elegant stone eyes stared upward into eternity.

  “It’s her,” Shirin whispered. “Scheherazade.”

  Flynn admired the sculpture’s serene countenance.

  “She had perused the works of the poets and knew them by heart,” he recited, “she had studied philosophy and the sciences, arts and accomplishments, and she was pleasant and polite, wise and witty, well read and well bred.”

  Shirin turned toward him, recognizing the quotation. “Sir Richard Burton, the 1885 translation.”

  “That’s right.” Flynn took a closer look at the carved face. “You know, she does kind of look like you.”

  “She does, doesn’t she?” Shirin marveled at the resemblance. “You don’t think my mother’s stories were true, that I’m actually descended from her?”

  “Could be,” Flynn said. “You do seem two of a kind.”

  Shirin beamed at him, her rapt gaze briefly drawn away from the magnificent sarcophagus. “That just might be the most flattering thing anyone has ever said about me.”

  It required an effort to keep her smile from distracting him from the task at hand. Fortunately, there was no need to crack open the sarcophagus; a thick, leather-bound tome occupied a position of honor atop the stone coffin, clasped between the figure’s slender marble hands. Inscribed in gold upon the front cover of the book was a title in Persian: Hazar Afsan.

  “A Thousand Tales,” Shirin translated. “Plus or minus a story.”

  Flynn nodded at the ancient book. “Would you care to do the honors?”

  “Try to stop me.” Shirin approached the sarcophagus reverently and carefully extracted the book from the sculpture’s grasp, holding her breath until it was safely liberated from the stone. “Damn. If only I’d thought to pack cotton gloves.”

  Flynn sympathized, but he had long ago realized that sometimes you had to make compromises in the field, especially when racing to beat the bad guys to a treasure. “You can’t always do things by the book, no pun intended.” He eyed the volume expectantly. “Is that it? The original version, as penned by Scheherazade?”

  “I think so.” Shirin laid the book down atop the sarcophagus and began to leaf delicately through its pages, which held line after line of fine calligraphy. She squinted at the delicate handwriting. “Although I can still hardly believe it. It doesn’t seem possible.”

  “Believe it.” Flynn used his flashlight to give her more light to read by. “I doubt our necrophagous friend out there would have spent centuries guarding a fake or facsimile.”

  “This is amazing,” she enthused. “Just at a glance, I can tell that this copy is even older and more complete than the one I was translating before, more so than any other version known to exist.” She kept flipping through the book, her gaze glued to the pages. “There are stories within stories within stories … I hardly know where to begin.”

  “Well, I don’t want to rush you, but maybe you can skip ahead to the part about Aladdin, and what happened to his Lamp?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m still simply blown away by the fact that I’m actually handling the very first copy of the Tales, and in Scheherazade’s own tomb no less!”

  She began to peruse the pages more deliberately. Flynn stepped back to give her space, while still providing her with light from her flashlight. He glanced around the crypt, on the lookout for any further snares or booby traps. He noticed a conspicuous lack of cobwebs or vermin.

  Guess the hungry ghoul keeps the pest problem under control, he thought. Ick.

  He fought an urge to barge in and search the book himself. Shirin knew The Arabian Nights better than he did, backward and forward probably. He needed to sit back and let her do her thing, no matter how anxious he was to find another clue to the location of the Lamp. He caught himself tapping his foot impatiently against the tile floor and cut it out.

  “Here it is,” she said, excitement filling her voice. “A new section that I’ve never read before, in any of the myriad versions of the Alf Layla.”

  He came up behind her and peered over her shoulder. “What does it say?”

  “The Reader’s Digest version? It says here that Aladdin, in the twilight of his years, came to fear the dreadful power of the Djinn and what might become of the world should the willful spirit ever truly escape the Lamp and gain its freedom, so he entrusted the Lamp to his good friends and contemporaries, Sinbad and Ali Baba, who promised to hide it away on an enchanted island, in a cave guarded by a giant rock.”

  Her face fell as the meaning of what she’d just read sank in.

  “A hidden cave on an unnamed island? None of that does us any good. How are we supposed to locate an enchanted island?”

  Flynn observed that she wasn’t questioning the existence of the island or the Lamp, just doubting their ability to find them. Apparently her encounter with the ghoul, and their discovery of the tomb, had wiped away the last traces of her skepticism. She was no longer playing Scully to his Mulder.

  “Funny you should ask,” he said. “I already have an idea about that.”

  But before he could elaborate, the rat-a-tat of machine-gun fire disturbed the sanctity of the ancient crypt. The alarming noise came from the ghoul’s lair two chambers away. Flynn heard the surprised monster howl briefly in shock and distress before its keening was cut short by the gunfire. Apparently, the ageless ghoul was no match for modern weaponry.

  “What is it?” Shirin snatched up the book and clutched it to her chest. “What’s happening?”

  Flynn remembered the helicopter that had been scouring the mountains before. “I think we’re about to have company.”

  The words were barely out of his mouth when a small band of armed invaders barged into the crypt. Rifles targeted Flynn and Shirin. “Don’t even think of trying something!” a scowling gunman warned. “And drop that sword … or whatever it is.”

  Flynn had forgotten the broken hilt in his hand. He let it fall to the floor.

  “That’s better,” the gunman said. “Stay right where you are, Librarian.”

  Flynn thought he recognized the intruder from the attack on the bookshop. Anger flared inside the Librarian, warring with dismay, as he realized that he was most likely facing one of Leila Hamza’s killers. Flynn was not a violent soul by nature, preferring to rely on his wits instead of weapons, but his fists clenched involuntarily at his sides. He stepped protectively in front of Shirin and the book.

  “We found them!” the gunman called out. “You are cleared to enter.”

  The other intruders—at least a dozen in all—fanned out to take possession of the crypt. Moments later, more grave robbers entered the chamber, including the woman from the marketplace and the home invasion, now wearing a practical black sweater, trousers, and boots. She glared venomously at Flynn and Shirin, as though she was still holding a grudge over that turmeric he had blown in her face. Her fingers toyed with a vicious-looking dagger.

  So much for letting bygones be bygones, Flynn thought.

  She was accompanied by a tall, fit-looking man in rugged outdoor gear. A dark indigo turban concealed both his scalp and the bottom half of his face, so that only a pair of icy blue eyes could be seen. He carried himself with authority as the rifle-toting gunmen stepped aside to admit him. A lone pistol was holstered at his hip. He spoke into a walkie-talkie.

  “Chopper Alpha, we have acquired the targets. Stand by.”

  “Roger that, First of Forty,” a voice replied, over the sound of whirring rotors. “Chopper out.”

  The man put his walkie-talkie away.

  Pretty clear who’s in charge here, Fly
nn thought. Whoever he is.

  The man’s eyes gleamed at the sight of the sarcophagus.

  “At last,” he said in English, albeit with an American accent slightly muffled by the fabric cloaking his face. “Well done, Mr. Carsen, Dr. Masri. You led us a merry chase, but, in the end, you brought us right to what we’ve been seeking for centuries.”

  Flynn mentally cursed the deceased ghoul for giving the Forty time to catch up with them. He briefly wondered how exactly the enemy had tracked them to this very location before realizing that it wouldn’t have been too hard to retrace his and Shirin’s path from the abandoned Jeep to the torched bridge dangling down the side of the ravine. Who knew, maybe they’d even figured out the “cliffhanger” business as well, then used their helicopter to gain access to the tomb entrance.

  Just once, he thought, I’d like to find a lost relic without the bad guys horning in on the action.

  “So you’re the head of the Forty, I gather.” Flynn tried to keep up a brave front. He wasn’t sure what was scarier: a carrion-eating ghoul or professional criminals with automatic weapons. “You know our names, obviously, but I don’t believe I caught yours.”

  “Call me Khoja,” the man said, chuckling as though at a private joke.

  “As in Khoja Hoseyn, the captain of the Forty Thieves in The Arabian Nights?” Flynn replied, seeing through the transparent alias. “I’m guessing that’s not your real name, especially since you don’t strike me as being of particularly Arab descent.”

  “Very good, Mr. Carsen. I see that the Library has not let its standards slip over the years, at least when it comes to the erudition of its Librarians. I did some digging on you, Carsen, and noted that you seemed manifestly overqualified for your official position at the New York Metropolitan Library—but, of course, that’s not really who you work for.”

  Flynn didn’t bother pretending that he didn’t know what “Khoja” was referring to. According to Judson, the Library and the Forty were already well acquainted with each other.

  “Everybody needs a day job,” he said casually.