The Librarians and the Lost Lamp (12 page)

“Tell me more about this American meddler,” her leader said.

The First of the Forty sat behind a desk, listening to her report on the botched operation. Only a single desk light illuminated the room, allowing him to keep to the shadows as he preferred. As his Second, Marjanah was one of the few members of the Forty who was allowed to see his unveiled face. Armed guards were posted outside the door to ensure their privacy.

“He identified himself as Flynn Carsen,” she stated, “of the New York Metropolitan Library.”

“A librarian?” The First leaned forward, bringing his face into the light. A frown marred his distinguished features. His brow furrowed thoughtfully. “Or maybe
the
Librarian?”

“Perhaps.” Marjanah chided herself for not considering that possibility before; well-versed in the Forty's long and storied history, including their past run-ins with the do-gooding Librarians, she understood why the First was concerned. “He didn't act like any librarian I've met before.”

“I see,” he said. “That complicates matters. Rather than take chances, I think we need to operate on the assumption that we now have competition in our quest, which makes it all the more imperative that we move quickly to translate the book and uncover any clues to the final resting place of the Lamp.”

The stolen copy of the
Alf Layla
rested on the desk before him, flipped open to the story of Aladdin. A hand-colored illustration portrayed the mighty Djinn towering over Aladdin, who was clutching the precious Lamp while gazing upward at the freed giant in amazement. Marjanah could make neither head nor tail of the ancient Persian script on the fragile pages. She knew it was giving their best translators trouble, too.

“What of Dr. Masri?” he asked.

“She was last seen in the company of the librarian, fleeing the market.”

Marjanah didn't mention that, in a moment of rage, she had attempted to stab the uncooperative curator.
But I still owe that sneaky witch for striking me,
she thought,
and I intend to collect that debt someday … when we have no further use for her.

“Before they somehow eluded you and your men?”

“Yes.”

The admission tasted like bile in her mouth, but there was no way to sugarcoat the truth. Shirin Masri was in the wind, at least for the moment.

“I have to say I'm disappointed,” the First said, leaning back in his plush desk chair. “I thought I had done a better job of rebuilding the Forty after it had fallen into obscurity and irrelevance, but now I'm wondering if that was a waste of my time.”

His words stung like a lash, but she didn't let it show.

“This was just a temporary setback,” she promised. “We have spies and informers all over Baghdad, and lookouts posted outside all of the woman's usual haunts. She and Carsen won't be able to hide from us for long.”

“I hope you're right,” he said. “We have an opportunity to fully restore the Forty to its former glory and achieve ultimate power at last. And Dr. Masri could prove an invaluable asset to us,
if
you can manage to secure her without further delays or complications.”

“We'll get her,” Marjanah said. “And the librarian?”

“I'll do some digging into this Flynn Carsen person to see if I can confirm our suspicions. In the meantime, do
not
underestimate him again.” He slammed the
Alf Layla
shut forcefully enough to make Marjanah jump. “Under no circumstances can we permit the Library to keep the Lamp from us. Are we clear on that, Second of Forty?”

“Yes, sir.”

Along with the turmeric, this humiliating failure was Carsen's fault as well. She had a score to settle now, with both him and that troublesome curator. And if he was actually the Librarian … well, that would make her eventual revenge all the sweeter.

*   *   *

“There's something I've been meaning to ask you,” Shirin said. “How did you manage to show up in the nick of time at the market anyway? Don't tell me that was just a chance meeting.”

“Nope,” Flynn answered. “I had gone back to the museum, hoping to catch you before you left for the day, when I spotted some suspicious-looking characters tailing you on your way home. So I followed them following you, keeping a low profile until it was obvious you were in trouble.”

Makes sense,
Shirin decided. In fact, it was probably the least crazy thing Flynn had said so far. That she was trusting her life to an apparent lunatic was … troubling.
Maybe he's just a little nutty where the old stories are concerned?

Her partial translation of the
Alf Layla
was spread out over Leila Hamza's kitchen table as she and Flynn pored over her notes … in search of clues to the location of Aladdin's Lamp. The whole idea still struck her as ridiculous, but she had to admit that it felt good to be doing actual research again, as opposed to running from knife-wielding criminals. Studying ancient documents was more in her comfort zone.

“The odd thing about the Aladdin story,” she observed, “is that it actually doesn't appear in any of the earliest editions of the
Alf Layla.
It was added by the first French translator, back in the early 1700s, who claimed to have heard it from a storyteller in Damascus.”

“Added or restored?” Flynn asked.

“The latter, apparently. The fact that it appears in the eighth-century volume I discovered is proof that ‘Aladdin and the Magic Lamp'
was
included in the earliest compilations of Scheherazade's stories, even if it fell out of favor for a few centuries.”

Her heart ached again for the loss of the precious volume. There was no way she could share her conclusions with the world without the actual book as evidence. She'd be dismissed as a crackpot or worse.

“Interesting,” Flynn said, “but what did the book have to say about what happened to the Lamp?”

“Nothing really.” She leafed through the relevant pages again, while doing her best to remember exactly what the original Persian text had said. “The story simply ends with Aladdin living happily ever after, having triumphed over his enemies and been granted great wealth and success by the Djinn. There's nothing about what happened to the Lamp afterward.” She shoved the pages away from her. “I'm afraid we've hit a dead end, Flynn. Even
if
the Lamp were real, and I'm hardly ready to concede that, there's nothing in this old version of the story that could help you find it.”

Which means,
she thought,
I'm being stalked by killers for no reason.

“Let's not give up just yet.” Getting up from the table, he paced restlessly around the small kitchen, so full of nervous energy that Shirin felt exhausted watching him. He scratched his head, having taken off his headscarf earlier. “Maybe we're missing something.”

“I'm not sure what,” Shirin said. “I've gone over the Aladdin pages over and over. There's nothing there.”

Flynn's eyes lit up. “Maybe that's our mistake. Maybe we're zeroing in too closely on those particular pages and not seeing the bigger picture.” She could practically see the wheels turning inside his brain. “What if we have to look at the forest instead of trees?”

“How do you mean?” she asked, confused.

“When in doubt, seek out the primary sources. That's one of the basic principles of solid scholarship, right?”

“Absolutely,” she agreed. “But what does that have to do with—”

“You said that what you found was not the
original
edition of
The Arabian Nights
but simply the earliest known one,” he interrupted her. “What if what we really need to find is the very first copy of the book, written by Scheherazade herself … and
that's
what will lead us to the location of the Lamp?”

“But Scheherazade—or ‘Shirazad' as she's called in the older Persian accounts—is just a myth in her own right,” Shirin protested. “And her famous tales are just stories within a story.”

“That's what I used to think about Mother Goose, too,” Flynn said, “until I learned better.” He nodded at the pages strewn atop the table. “What did the stolen book have to say about Scheherazade's last days … and what became of her stories?”

Shirin remembered reading something about that before when she was working on her translation. Intrigued despite herself, she flipped to the end of her notes.

“According to this,” she said, “Scheherazade lived happily ever after with the sultan, after telling him a story every night for a thousand and one nights. But when she finally passed away at a ripe old age, the only complete copy of the
Alf Layla,
written in her own hand, was buried with her in a secret tomb hidden from the world. All subsequent versions were penned by other hands, including those of her younger sister Dunyazade, who attempted to preserve them for posterity.”

“That's it!” Flynn said excitedly. “If I can find the original edition, with all one thousand and one tales, maybe that will tell me what happened to the Lamp.”

“Tell
us,
” she corrected him. “Don't think you're leaving me out of this.”

“But I thought you didn't even believe in this stuff?”

“I don't, not about the genie and the magic lamp and all that. But if there's even a chance of proving that Scheherazade was an actual historical figure, and finding the original text of the
Alf Layla,
how can I pass up that opportunity? That would be an incredible, game-changing discovery … that would more than make up for losing that book from the museum.”

Shirin still blamed herself for the theft of the ancient edition of the
Alf Layla,
but if she could locate an even older edition, maybe even the original text, that would make all this craziness worthwhile. It would be a discovery for the ages.

“Are you sure about that?” Flynn asked. “Not that I wouldn't appreciate your help, but … mortal danger, remember?”

“I'm already in danger,” she reminded him. “If I'm going to be stalked by thieves and killers, I might as well try to get something out of it … and what could be more tempting than finding the lost tomb of Scheherazade? That's something worth risking my life for.”

For a second, she flashed back to the bedtime stories her mother had told her so many years ago, about how Scheherazade, their supposed forebear, had cleverly kept the bloodthirsty sultan from executing her every morning, as he intended, by telling him a never-ending string of stories that always ended on a cliffhanger just as the sun was coming up, so that he kept her alive for yet another day in order to find out what happened next, and how she had kept this up for a thousand and one nights until he finally fell in love with her and spared her life forever. Even as a child, Shirin had always been impressed by Scheherazade's courage, ingenuity, and imagination; the mere possibility that she might have actually lived thrilled both Shirin, the serious historian and scholar, and the little girl inside her, who had listened enraptured to her mother's tales way back when.

“Okay,” Flynn said. “Trust me, I know the feeling.” He called her attention back to the pages on the table. “So does your translation offer any clues to exactly where Scheherazade was buried?”

“Let me see.”

Her excitement dimmed as she reviewed the pages again, finding little concrete information.

“It's no good,” she said. “The closest thing to actual directions is a statement to the effect that Scheherazade's tomb lies where the stories end, ‘two hundred and eighty and four miles northeast, as an enchanted carpet flies, from the House of Wisdom, and two thousand seven hundred and nineteen miles from the fabled mines of King Solomon the Wise.' Which is no help at all, since nobody actually knows where King Solomon's Mines were, or whether they actually existed.”

A grin broke out across Flynn's face. “That's what you think.”

“Hold on,” Shirin said. “Now you've got to be pulling my leg. You're not seriously telling me that you know where King Solomon's Mines are.”

“Well, I know where they
used
to be,” he replied. “They weren't in such good shape the last time I saw them.” Ignoring her stupefied expression, he kept on thinking aloud. “Let's see, an Arabic mile, as used in the classical era, equaled approximately 1.2 modern miles, so the tomb would be roughly thirty-three hundred miles northeast of the Mines—which are outside Mombasa, by the way—putting Scheherazade's tomb somewhere in the mountains of northern Iran, which would have indeed been Persian territory back then. And we know where the House of Wisdom once stood, before the Mongol invasion, so now we just need to draw two straight lines from both sites and see where they intersect.” His voice rose in excitement. “I need an atlas!”

He raced out of the kitchen to the landing at the top of stairs, leading down to the bookshop, where Leila was maintaining a lookout. Shirin hurried after him.

“Excuse me, Ms. Hamza?” he hollered down. “You don't have a good world atlas at hand, do you?”

“Quiet!” she said urgently. The elderly bookseller peered out through the blinds over the front window. “Someone's coming. Keep out of sight.”

Shirin and Flynn retreated from the landing. “Pack up your notes,” he whispered. “Quickly.”

Her heart racing, she did as he instructed, hastily stuffing the loose pages back into her attaché case. At the same time, Flynn pulled a cookbook down from a shelf and started ripping random pages from it. Shirin stared at him in confusion.

“What…?”

“Just a precaution,” he said. “Get ready to make a break for it.”

Within moments, there was a pounding at the front entrance downstairs. “Open up!” a harsh voice demanded. “Let us in!”