The Librarians and the Lost Lamp (13 page)

“Go away!” Leila shouted back through the door. “We're closed!”

“We have reason to believe that you're harboring an American spy,” the voice insisted. “Open up!”

“You're mistaken,” Leila said. “There's nobody here but me and my books. Leave a harmless old woman alone, you scoundrels!”

Glass shattered loudly, followed by the unmistakable sound of intruders smashing into the bookshop. Leila cried out in protest.

“You can't do this! You have no right! I swear to heaven, there's no one here but—”

Her voice was cut off abruptly, as though by a knife or a noose. A loud thump sounded too much like a limp body hitting the floor. Shirin clasped her hand over her mouth to keep from gasping. She knew what she had just heard, even if she didn't want to accept it. Leila Hamza was gone.

It all happened so fast,
she thought.
One minute she was alive, and then …

“Search this place!” an all-too-familiar female voice ordered impatiently. “Find the Masri woman!”

Shirin recognized the voice. It belonged to the nameless kidnapper who had placed a knife to her ribs only hours ago.

“We have to go,” Flynn said tautly. A pained expression betrayed his own dismay over Leila's sacrifice. Along with the torn pages from the cookbook, he snatched their teacups from the kitchen table and stuffed them into the pockets of his jacket. “Quickly, out the back.”

Like many homes in Baghdad, the back of the building faced an inner courtyard. They rushed onto a small balcony overlooking the patio. Shirin peered over the railing; it looked like a sizable drop. “How are we getting down there?” she asked in a low voice.

“We're not.” Flynn cupped his hands to give her a boost. “Up … onto the roof!”

Footsteps pounded up the stairs inside the building. Doors were thrown open noisily. Gulping, Shirin tossed her briefcase onto the roof and clambered up after it. She reached down to offer Flynn a helping hand.

“Just a sec.” He rushed to the edge of the balcony and tossed the loose pages over the edge, so that they fluttered down onto the courtyard below. A moment later, he tossed the salvaged teacups over the railing as well. They shattered loudly against the brick floor of the patio.

“Listen!” one of the intruders shouted. “They're escaping out the back!”

With Shirin's help, Flynn scrambled up onto the flat, dusty roof of the building, only heartbeats before a couple of the intruders burst out onto the balcony. The men ran to the railing and stared down at the courtyard. “Look! They dropped some papers! Find them!”

Shirin held her breath, afraid to make a sound, as she and Flynn flattened themselves against the roof while the intruders ransacked the building searching for them. More men stampeded out into the courtyard and inspected the various gates and doorways leading away from the enclosed yard. Frightened neighbors slammed their windows shut and turned off their lights. A kidnapper scooped up the strewn pages and squinted at them in the dim light; he was in for a severe disappointment when he realized that they held only recipes and cooking instructions.

The woman from the market strode out onto the balcony, wearing a hooded black cloak. She threw back the hood to reveal short black hair with bangs. Her gold nose stud glittered in the night.

“Well?” she demanded. “Where are they?”

“We are looking, Second of the Forty,” one of her men said, somewhat sheepishly. “But they may have eluded us again.”

“Fools!” She slapped him across the face. “Our spies told us exactly where they might be found. How can you let them get away? You're a disgrace to the proud tradition of the Forty, all of you!”

The Forty?
Shirin's eyes widened at the term.
As in … the Forty Thieves?

Maybe Flynn was not quite as delusional as he'd sounded.

In years gone by, before the helicopters and flying mortar shells, the people of Baghdad had routinely slept on their roofs to escape the heat, but that had always required wetting the roof down first. Leila's roof was thickly coated in dust, which invaded Shirin's nostrils, tickling them. To her horror, she felt a sneeze coming on. She sniffled as quietly as she could, struggling to hold the sneeze in, but the harder she tried to contain it, the more intense the urge became.

I can't help it,
she thought.
I'm going to sneeze.

Flynn reached over and clamped his fingers over her nose. He shook his head while holding onto his own nose with his other hand. He shook his head to remind her that they had to remain totally still.

Like she didn't know that already!

They hid on the roof, spying on the murderous home invaders, for what felt like hours, but was actually only a few minutes. Sirens wailed in the distance, along with the whirr of an approaching Black Hawk helicopter. Shirin guessed that one of Leila's neighbors must have called the police.

The slapped henchman looked about nervously. “We must flee, Second of the Forty. We have attracted too much attention already.”

She glared furiously at him, but did not dispute his conclusion. “Tell the men to keep searching every back alley and garbage heap until they find them! We need what's in that woman's brain, before I crack open her skull and spill it onto the ground.”

Wheeling about, she stormed off the balcony in disgust, followed closely by her henchmen. Shirin heard them stomping down the stairs toward the street as their accomplices left the courtyard. Within moments, the assassins had fled back into the night.

“Wait,” Flynn whispered, “until we know they're gone. Count to a hundred first.” He adjusted his position slightly, settling in for the wait. “On second thought, make that five hundred.…”

“Okay,” Shirin said, daring to breathe again. She was all for letting the mystery woman and her cronies get far away, especially after hearing that talk about having her skull split open. “But what are we going to do now?”

“That depends,” Flynn said. “What's the best way to get to Iran from here?”

 

11

2016

“Baird? Eve Baird?”

To her surprise, a voice addressed her by name. The voice sounded familiar, but she couldn't quite place it until she turned around to see a friendly face making its way through the crowd toward her. Even still, she couldn't quite believe her eyes.

“Krieger?”

Major Mark Krieger was an old army buddy she hadn't seen in years. His leathery features and cropped blond hair were familiar to her from any number of shared operations—and close calls—overseas. Easily as tall as her, with a reddish-blond crew cut and a strong, square jaw line, he was a career soldier whose military bearing gave away his background despite his civilian attire. A neatly pressed tan sport coat and khakis conveyed the appearance of a man at leisure. His left arm rested in a sling, wrapped in Ace bandages, which possibly explained why he was off duty at the moment. It had been fine the last time they worked together.

“In the flesh,” he said, grinning. “Never thought I'd run into you at a Vegas casino.”

“Roger that.” Baird smiled back at him. “Last I heard you were stationed in Afghanistan.”

“Got a little banged up during my last tour of duty,” he said, displaying his injured arm. “Figured Vegas wasn't a bad place to recuperate, even if it did mean deploying to yet another desert.” He chuckled at the irony. “But what about you? Rumor has it you opted out of Special Forces to go to work for … a library?”

Baird wasn't surprised to hear that talk of her career change was making the rounds. She imagined that many of her old colleagues were puzzled by the news.

“That's a long story,” she said.

“I'd love to hear it.” Krieger drew nearer. “You doing anything right now?”

“Not really,” she admitted. Dunphy hadn't budged from the craps table, and they were still waiting on Jenkins's verdict concerning the stolen penny. Nor could she explain to Krieger that she was monitoring a suspected magic abuser. “Just soaking up the atmosphere, I guess.”

“Sounds like you,” Krieger said. “You never struck me as a gambler. You always preferred solid plans and preparation to taking unnecessary chances. Should have known I'd find you conducting reconnaissance.”

You have no idea,
she thought, keeping one eye on Dunphy. “You've got me pegged, all right.”

“So you want to get a drink at the bar?” he asked. “Catch up a little?”

“I'd like to,” she said sincerely. She and Krieger had been through some tough scrapes together and had saved each other's lives more than once, like that time their convoy got ambushed outside Kirkuk. “But…”

“But what?” he pressed. “You here with anyone?”

She glanced at Stone, who shrugged and gave her a nod.
I've got this
was his silent message.

“Just some … librarians … from work,” she said, “but I guess I've got some downtime before I have to meet up with the others.” She reconsidered Krieger's invitation. “Sure, why not? But the first round's on you.”

“I wouldn't have it any other way.” He started to offer her his wounded arm, but the sling got in the way. He circled around her to make his other arm available. “Sorry. Still not used to this thing. Blasted sling is seriously cramping my style.”

“Who are you kidding?” she ribbed him. “We both know you never had any style to cramp.”

Leaving Stone to keep tabs on Dunphy, she let Krieger escort her to one of the casino's many bars, a midrange watering hole called, appropriately enough, the Oasis. Despite the ubiquitous mock-Arabian decor, the bar offered a decent selection of American beers, including a few from Portland. They settled into a cushioned booth. A lattice screen offered a degree of privacy.

“To old times,” Krieger said, raising a glass, “and even better days ahead.”

Baird clinked her glass against his. “To old times and comrades-in-arms.”

“So, about your current gig,” he said. “How does a top-notch soldier like you go from hunting down terrorists and WMDs to doing security for a library?”

“The Portland Annex of the New York Metropolitan Library, to be exact.” She couldn't tell him the full truth, of course, but she was prepared for the question now. “What can I say? I was ready for a change, and the library has some highly valuable assets that need guarding by someone who knows what they're doing.”

“I'm sure,” Krieger said. “But don't you miss the excitement of your old job?”

Memories of mummies, dragons, and alternate realities flashed through her brain, and she smiled slyly.

“Trust me, it's more exciting than it sounds.…”

*   *   *

“What the—?”

It took him a while, but Dunphy finally noticed that his lucky penny had been switched out somehow. His brow furrowed in confusion as he rooted through his pockets, dumping their contents onto the ledge on the outside of the craps table. Squinting at his loose change, he found a few more pennies, but not the one Ezekiel had filched. “Where in the world?”

On its way to the Annex,
Stone thought. He kept watch over Dunphy from a discreet distance.
Where we'll hopefully get a ruling on that coin before long.

“Is there a problem, sir?” the dealer asked.

“Yes … no … I mean, I guess not.” Dunphy shrugged and got back to his game. “Just as long as these dice stay hot.”

Funny,
Stone noted.
He doesn't seem
too
alarmed over the loss of his allegedly lucky penny.

The Librarian grew more concerned as Dunphy kept on winning, even with the wrong penny. Some sort of lingering side effect of the magic coin, or was there something else going on here? Stone was about to call in to the Library, to query Jenkins on the topic, when Dunphy crapped out at last, losing a good chunk of his winnings.

On second thought, maybe the effect of the coin
was
wearing off?

Again, Dunphy blew off the loss as though it was no big deal and he had every expectation of winning it all back eventually. He polished off another cocktail and passed the dice to the player on his left before pocketing the remainder of his chips.

“Gotta take a leak,” he announced, relinquishing his spot at the table. “See you later, Jerry.”

“I'm sure,” the dealer said. “Take it easy, Mr. Dunphy.”

Stone frowned as Dunphy strolled away from the craps table. Keeping tabs on Dunphy had just gotten a little more complicated now that the suspiciously lucky gambler was on the move, but Stone figured he could easily tail Dunphy on his own, particularly if the other man was just taking a bathroom break. It wasn't like Baird could follow him there, and only the Library knew where Ezekiel had gotten to.

Probably picking some deep pockets,
Stone guessed.
Or just generally playing hooky.

Exiting the gaming floor, Dunphy veered away from the more heavily trafficked regions of the casino to reach some restrooms tucked away inconspicuously in a side corridor. Stone groaned inwardly at the signs on the doors, which distinguished “Sultans” from “Sultanas,” complete with cheesy turban and veil stencils to get the idea across. He waited outside and down the hall as Dunphy slipped into the little sultans' room. The way Stone saw it, he didn't need to stick
that
close to Dunphy.

Or did he?

To his concern, a pair of tough-looking customers followed Dunphy into the restroom, while a third man posted himself outside the door, suspiciously like a lookout. Wearing a black snakeskin jacket, the guy was built like a refrigerator, albeit one wearing a bad toupee. His sullen expression didn't exactly fit with the fun-and-games atmosphere of the casino. Stone's unease deepened as a random tourist, sporting a Celine Dion T-shirt and a ponytail, approached the door and was turned away.