The Librarians and the Lost Lamp (20 page)

“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 thought. “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,
Flynn 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.

“Too true.” Khoja gestured toward the lithe, unsmiling woman at his side. “I believe you've already met my second-in-command, Marjanah?”

Her dark eyes shot daggers at Flynn and Shirin, making him sweat nervously.

“Well, I can't say we were ever formally introduced.…”

“Trust me,” she said acidly, “you made a lasting impression. Both of you.”

That's what I was afraid of,
Flynn thought. “So, about that business with the spice, you realize that was nothing personal.…”

She snickered cruelly. “We'll see about that.”

“Enough pleasantries.” Khoja peered past Flynn at Shirin. “The book, please, Dr. Masri.”