The Librarians and the Lost Lamp

  She sat down at the table and exchanged a hundred dollars in cash for chips. It was a six-deck game, to discourage card counting, but the casino hadn’t reckoned on Cassandra’s special talent for visualizing odds and keeping track of what cards had already been played. Unknown to the dealer and other players, probability tables shimmered above the table, instantly updating themselves with every hand and guiding her play. She started small, making modest bets to get a feel for the game, but soon stared betting more aggressively, depending on the cards she was dealt. She could literally taste the odds in her mouth, hear them singing only to her. Her modest stakes began to build at a geometric rate, doubling, tripling, quadrupling.…

  “Yes!” she blurted as the dealer busted, multiplying her winnings. “Chips ahoy!”

  To her surprise, she found herself having fun. The thrill of victory settled her nerves and sent a rush of adrenaline through her veins. I could get used to this.

  “Easy does it, gambling queen,” Baird said, standing behind her. “Don’t get carried away.”

  It was good advice; Cassandra could see now why some people got hooked on gambling, even if they couldn’t play the odds as well as she could. She could only imagine how exciting it must be for people who couldn’t predict if they were going to win or lose in the long run.

  As she’d hoped, her winning streak began attracting more than its fair share of attention, luring people away from the craps table.

  “Way to go, Red!” a random spectator cheered her on. “Keep it going!”

  A gorgeous harem girl thrust an unsolicited martini into her hand. “On the house, sweetie.”

  “Um, thanks.”

  She hadn’t felt this popular since that time an enchanted storybook briefly turned her into Prince Charming. She understood intellectually that the casino was plying her with booze in hopes of impairing her judgment and keeping her at the table long enough for them to win their money back, but she figured a sip or two couldn’t hurt.

  Like Ezekiel had said before, why not live a little?

  Despite the occasional loss, her winnings accumulated rapidly, especially when she started doubling down and splitting her bets. “Blackjack!” she called out as she flipped over her cards to display a natural twenty-one consisting of a queen of diamonds and an ace of hearts.

  Reminds of that time we ran into the real Queen of Diamonds, she thought. Talk about a multifaceted individual.…

  “Excuse me, miss.” A palace guard built like a bouncer squeezed through the crowd to reach Cassandra. “Perhaps you should collect your winnings and call it a day.”

  “Nope,” Cassandra said. “I’m good.”

  The casino employee signaled the dealer to hold off. An edge crept into his voice. “I’d strongly advise you to reconsider, miss. You’ve had a good run. Don’t push your luck.”

  He plucked the half-finished martini from her hand.

  “Hey!” she protested. “I wasn’t done with that.”

  “Oh, you’re done,” he said firmly. “Take the hint, why don’t you?”

  Cassandra wasn’t sure how to respond. She realized, belatedly, that the casino had apparently decided to cut off her winning streak, but they couldn’t just bounce her from the table, could they?

  “What’s your deal, man?” Stone challenged the guard, coming to her rescue. “Let the lady play if she wants to.”

  “Please stay out of this, sir,” the guard said. “This is between the Palace and the lady.”

  “And, what if I want to make this my business?” Stone got up in the guard’s face. “You got a problem with that, Ali Bubba?”

  Baird shot him a cautionary look. “Stone…”

  The guard scowled. “Don’t make me evict you, sir. For the record, the management reserves the right to eject any player suspected of card counting.”

  “Card counting?” Cassandra asked incredulously. “With six decks in play? Do you even realize how ridiculously impossible that would be? I can run the numbers for you if you like. Six decks equals three hundred and twelve cards, which means twenty-four possible face cards, and approximately a one in a hundred chance of any particular value card turning up in any given hand, and—”

  “Save it.” Stone raised his voice so everybody in earshot could hear. “Don’t shut her down. Let her play.” He threw out the question to the spectators. “You all want her to keep playing, right? So let her play.”

  The crowd and the other players picked up the chant.

  “Let her play! Let her play!”

  Cassandra smiled slyly. This was working out even better than she’d hoped.

  You wanted a distraction, Jones?

  * * *

  “Hey, what’s going on over there?” Dunphy asked, noticing the commotion at the blackjack table, which was now drawing an even bigger audience than his craps game. “Where’s everybody going?”

  Ezekiel took advantage of the thinning crowd to ease up behind Dunphy. “Some gal is on fire playing blackjack. It’s a pretty impressive run. You should check it out.”

  “Really?” Dunphy sounded curious. Still playing with his lucky penny, he stood up to get a better look, craning his neck to try to see over the heads of the crowd. “Good for her.”

  “Not that you aren’t killing it yourself, mate.” Ezekiel flashed the gambler his most winning smile. He held out his left hand, even though he was right-handed. “Put it here. Maybe some of your luck will rub off on me.”

  “Uh, sure, I guess.”

  Still distracted by the hoopla a few tables over, Dunphy popped the penny into his jacket pocket in order to shake Ezekiel’s hand. The thief tried to not smirk too obviously.

  “Excuse me, Mister Dunphy,” the dealer asked. “Are you still betting, sir?”

  Ezekiel wondered why the casino hadn’t terminated Dunphy’s winning streak yet. Maybe he was spending his proceeds on high-priced accommodations and amenities as quickly as he was raking it in? That penthouse suite didn’t come cheap.…

  “Hold your horses, Jerry,” said Dunphy, who was apparently on a first-name basis with the dealer. His attention was split between his own game and the action at the blackjack table, so that he barely noticed Ezekiel at all. “Me and my chips ain’t going nowhere.”

  “You tell him, mate!” Ezekiel threw an arm over Dunphy’s shoulder and thumped him on the chest. “You’re a real high roller, anyone can see that. You’re calling the shots here, am I right?”

  Like taking candy from a baby, he thought.

  “Damn straight I am.” He retrieved a penny from his pocket and blew on the dice in his other hand. “Just get a load of this.”

  “No need, mate. You’ve obviously got this covered.”

  Ezekiel sidled over to the blackjack table, where a squirming palace guard was facing a small-scale insurrection. Chants of “Let her play!” indicated that Cassandra had already generated her own fan club. Confident in his own awesomeness, Ezekiel was perfectly fine with sharing the spotlight. He was just glad that Cassandra’s brain hadn’t short-circuited again.

  He sidled up to Baird and slipped the real coin into her hand.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” he said. “No, don’t tell me. You’re thinking how truly grateful you are to have a world-class thief and pickpocket on your side.”

  “And a mind reader, too,” she said dryly. “Amazing.”

  “I know!” he said, grinning. “Sometimes I even astound myself.”

  Baird leaned forward to whisper to Cassandra. “Objective achieved. You can call it quits now.”

  “Already?” Disappointment showed on her face. “But I was still winning.”

  “This is not the game that matters,” Baird reminded her. “We have the penny. That’s the important thing.”

  Cassandra sighed. “I know, I know.” Generously tipping her dealer, she collected her winnings and stepped back from the table, to the audible dismay of the spectators. “Thanks for your support, everybody, but, on second thought, maybe I ought t
o take a break. Give somebody else a chance to win.”

  The besieged guard looked relieved.

  “Want me to hold on to your chips, Cassandra?” Ezekiel asked.

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” she replied. “I’m sure I can find a good home for these winnings, like maybe a deserving charity or a cancer research project.”

  “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—”