She shook his hand, holding it not a moment longer than necessary.
“I’m not sure you needed to come all this way. I’ve already spoken with the authorities about the recent theft.” She eyed him quizzically. “You’re with the New York Metropolitan Library, or so they tell me?”
“That’s right. Part of a new task force investigating black-market trafficking in rare manuscripts and relics.”
“I wasn’t aware of any such task force,” she said.
“Well, we’re more interested in results than publicity.” He wiped his brow, which was already perspiring in the heat. “Any chance we can move this discussion indoors? I haven’t quite adapted to the climate yet.”
“Of course,” she said. “Come with me.”
His luggage rolled and bounced on a paved walkway as she guided him into the museum, which, like the city itself, had seen better days. Armed guards were posted at the front entrance, which was possibly a textbook case of closing the barn door after the horse had already been rustled. A sign out front indicated that the museum was presently closed to the public.
“We’ve been closed since the looting a few years ago,” Shirin explained, “while trying to reconstruct the collection.” Frustration tinged her voice. “We were on the verge of reopening when this happened.”
“I’m sorry,” Flynn said sincerely as they entered the building. Stark white walls strived not to compete with the ages-old artifacts and statuary on display. Glass display cases held souvenirs from thousands of years of recorded history. “Do the authorities have any idea who is responsible?”
“If they do, they haven’t told me.”
Crime-scene tape still sealed the lobby of the museum. A chalk outline on the floor reminded Flynn that, according to what he’d been able to learn about the burglary on the plane, at least one security guard had been killed by the thieves, his throat cut quickly and efficiently sometime during the heist. He gulped at the thought, while noticing that Shirin averted her eyes from the outline.
“Tariq Hassan,” she said quietly. “He was a good man. Honest and incorruptible.”
“I’m sure he was,” Flynn said. “I’m sorry … again.”
“Not your fault,” she said, shrugging. “But thank you.”
Passing by galleries of ancient statuary, tapestries, and relics, which had apparently gone untouched by the thieves, they arrived at Shirin’s office in the Archives section of the museum. A plethora of volumes and scrolls were stacked in the corners of the office, waiting to be reshelved. An overturned bookcase needed to be righted. A spinning fan struggled to combat the heat and stuffiness; apparently the museum’s air conditioning was another casualty of war.
“Here we are,” she said. “Sorry about the mess. We’re still picking up the pieces after the robbery.” She sat down behind a cluttered desk, whose disorganized state would probably have given Charlene a heart attack. “Take a seat … if you can find one.”
Rooting around, Flynn found a chair buried beneath a pile of books. He cleared it off before sitting down. The cramped, overstuffed office offered barely more leg room than the plane had.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” she said impatiently. “No offense, but I can’t really spare you much time right now. Like I said, I’ve already spoken with the local authorities, and, as you can see, I’ve got plenty of work to do putting things back where they belong.”
“I understand,” he said, getting down to business. “So I’m told the thieves targeted the Archives specifically. Do you have any idea of what they were after?”
“Well, I’m still in the process of conducting a thorough inventory to determine exactly what might have been taken and what was left behind, but … yes, at least one item has gone missing,” she said bitterly. “A very rare and precious item.”
“And that would be?”
“Possibly the oldest existing edition of the Kitab Alf Layla Wa-Layla, or, as it’s known in the West, The Arabian Nights, or One Thousand and One Nights. This particular copy dated back to the eighth century, which makes it a good century older than any other version in existence.”
“Whoa,” Flynn said, impressed. “In Persian or Arabic?”
He was aware that that no complete edition of the Alf Layla, containing all 1001 tales, was known to exist and that the very origins of the book were obscured by the mists of time; as he understood it, current scholarship held that the celebrated Arabic version had been based on an even earlier Persian chronicle long lost to history. Subsequent translations and variations, including the early French and English editions, had taken the collected stories even further from their roots, to the extent that there was no definitive version of the text, only countless variations comprised of different combinations of stories. There were practically a thousand and one versions of One Thousand and One Nights.
“Ancient Persian,” she said. “A sixth-century Farsi script, to be exact. I had only recently stumbled onto the volume while cataloging a treasure trove of old documents captured from one of Saddam’s palaces.” Her eyes lighted up at the memory. “You can imagine my excitement when I realized what I had discovered. Mind you, I’m not saying that it was the original text, said to be penned by Scheherazade herself, but it was older and more authentic than any other surviving copy of the Alf Layla. I was in the process of translating it when—”
She gestured at the messy aftermath of the robbery.
“This whole travesty makes me sick to my stomach, not to mention mad as hell. I really wish you could help me, Mr. Carsen, but I’m afraid that one-of-a-kind copy of the Alf Layla has been lost again, perhaps forever this time.”
“Never underestimate a determined Librarian,” he said, while wondering how the thieves had found out about the book in the first place. “How many people knew about your discovery?”
“I’d mentioned it to a few of my colleagues and fellow curators,” she said, shrugging. “It never occurred to me to keep it a secret. In retrospect, that might have been a mistake.”
“You can’t blame yourself. It’s not your fault that some bad people got wind of the book’s existence. You were just doing your job.”
“I suppose,” she said, sounding unconvinced. “But speaking of my job, I really do need to get back to it.” She stood up behind her desk, as though to signal that the interview was over. “I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing.”
I wouldn’t say that, he thought. If nothing else, he had discovered what the thieves had absconded with, even if he still wasn’t quite sure if this was a matter for the Library. A unique, centuries-old edition of The Arabian Nights was undoubtedly a priceless item, well worth stealing, and its theft a genuine loss to legitimate scholars and historians, but he wasn’t convinced that this was “fate of the world” territory. Sometimes a museum heist was just a museum heist.
“I’m staying at the Tigris Hotel, at least overnight.” He handed her a business card with his cell phone number on it. “If you think of anything else…”
“Don’t get your hopes up, Mr. Carsen. The Alf Layla is gone, and, frankly speaking, I doubt that the New York Metropolitan Library can do anything about that. This was, by all indications, a professional operation, executed with merciless precision. I suspect you’re out of your league.”
Flynn shrugged.
“You’d be surprised.”
* * *
The Tigris Hotel catered to visiting American contractors and consultants. Like much of the Green Zone, it was an oasis of air conditioning and steady electricity amid the privations of war-torn Iraq. Exhausted by his nonstop journeying, Flynn barely registered the relative comfort of his accommodations before collapsing onto the bed with his clothes on. He was out like a light within seconds.
But that didn’t necessarily mean that he was off the job.
Dreaming, he found himself wandering through a crowded outdoor marketplace in the long-lost Baghdad of The Arabian Nights. Bearded men wearing turbans and robes haggled over f
ine goods, spices, and produce from all across the known world: silk and paper and porcelain from far-off China, coconuts and sandalwood from India, grain and linen from Egypt, perfumes from Arabia, succulent fruits from Persia and beyond, all brought to Baghdad by countless caravans and sailing ships. The mouthwatering aroma of cooking fish and lamb competed with the smells of myriad spices wafting on the breeze. Gleaming palaces and mosques, topped by gilded onion domes and towering minarets, climbed toward the sky, in contrast to the humble beggars pleading for alms in the streets and alleys. Mules and camels made their way through the packed buyers and sellers, transporting yet more wares to the market. Money changers converted silver Persian dirhams for gold Byzantine denarii and vice versa, bridging East and West. A storyteller held a small crowd transfixed by tales of doomed lovers, capricious genies, and fiendish ghouls waiting in the wastes for unwary travelers. Veiled women peered out from behind the filmy curtains of gilded palanquins born on poles atop the shoulders of brawny servants. Glancing down, Flynn saw that he was dressed like a Hollywood version of Ali Baba or Sinbad, complete with an embroidered vest, silk pantaloons, and a sash around his waist.
Yep, he thought. I’m definitely dreaming.
Roaming idly through the colorful scene, he paused before a small bookshop tucked away in a side street. A pair of gold-tinted bookends on display at the front of the shop caught his eye; fashioned in the shape of twin lions, they looked like miniature versions of the sculpted golden felines guarding the entrance to the Library back in Manhattan. He pushed forward through the crowd to get a better look, only to step into a fragrant heap of camel dung.
“Watch your step,” a familiar voice warned him, a moment too late. “Oh, never mind.”
“Judson?” Flynn turned to see his mentor standing nearby, clutching the reins of a particularly cranky-looking camel. A traditional Arab robe was draped over the former Librarian’s slight form. “What are you doing here?”
“I, I’m not doing anything,” Judson stammered. “This is your dream, isn’t it?”
“So I thought,” Flynn replied suspiciously. This wasn’t the first time Judson had appeared to him as a dream or mirage. “You ever going to tell me how exactly you pull off stunts like this?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Flynn. I’m undoubtedly just a figment of your subconscious, talking back to you.” He glanced with distaste at Flynn’s soiled boot. “But, just for the sake of argument, if I was here talking to you for real, what would you have to tell me? Have you learned anything more about that robbery at the museum?”
“Possibly,” Flynn said, maintaining a safe distance from the camel. Even in a dream, he didn’t feel like getting bitten. “I spoke with the curator of the Archives, and she mentioned that one particular item had apparently been stolen by thieves.”
He quickly filled Judson in on what Shirin Masri had told him about the lost copy of the Alf Layla.
“Oh, dear,” Judson said, sounding distinctly troubled by the news. The worry lines on his face grew even deeper than usual, and he shook his head gravely. “That’s, that’s very troubling to hear. I was afraid it might be something along those lines.”
“How come?” Flynn asked. “I mean, The Arabian Nights is just a collection of folk tales.” He regarded Judson curiously. “Isn’t it?”
“‘The Goose That Laid the Golden Eggs’ is a folk tale,” Judson reminded him, “but I still have to clean out its coop every morning. There’s more truth to the old myths and legends than today’s modern world wants to admit, and that applies to the Thousand and One Tales of Scheherazade as well, particularly in their original tellings.”
Flynn could believe it. If there was one thing he’d learned as the Librarian, it was to check his twenty-first-century skepticism at the door when it came to fantastic stories from bygone days. If the Sword in the Stone and the Medusa’s Head were real, why not the myriad wonders of The Arabian Nights as well?
“All right,” he said. “Assuming the bad guys had a reason for stealing the Alf Layla, besides it being priceless and all, what’s their endgame? What are they really after?”
“What the Forty have always been after, since the sacking of the House of Wisdom more than seven hundred years ago,” Judson guessed. “Aladdin’s Lamp.”
“Aladdin’s Lamp!” Flynn could not contain his excitement. “That’s for real?”
Judson gave him a look.
“Never mind,” Flynn said sheepishly. “Of course it is. So what’s the actual scoop on the Lamp? Are we talking wishes, a genie, the whole nine yards?”
“Pretty much,” Judson said. “Aladdin’s Lamp is arguably the most powerful magical relic described in The Arabian Nights and the most dangerous … in more ways than one.”
Flynn wasn’t sure what Judson meant by that. “Okay, I can see why letting the Forty gain control of a wish-granting genie would be bad news for everyone else, but is there another downside I’m missing?”
“Very much so,” Judson explained. “As unfortunate as it would be if the Lamp fell into wrong hands, the greater threat is the Djinn trapped inside the Lamp. Djinn are spirits of fire, and not necessarily friendly ones. Every time the Lamp is rubbed and a wish is granted, it imparts energy to the confined Djinn, who will eventually grow strong enough to break free of the spell binding him to the Lamp.” Judson shuddered at the thought. “Aladdin’s Lamp has been missing for centuries. There’s no way of telling just how fragile the Lamp is at this point or how many more wishes it will take to shatter it, releasing the Djinn for good.”
“Which would not be a happy ending, I take it?”
“Hardly. Djinn are capricious, often vindictive entities. They lack imagination, which is why they rely on human beings to make wishes for them, but they bitterly resent humans for the same reason. And this particular Djinn, the one confined in Aladdin’s Lamp, is more vengeful than most.” Judson’s voice took on a forceful tone, losing its characteristic stammer. “Whatever you do, Flynn, no matter how tempting, you must not rub the Lamp. Remember that.”
“Got it,” Flynn said. “So we have no idea where the Lamp is hiding these days?”
“The final resting place of the Lamp has been a mystery for ages, which is where I fear Dr. Masri’s stolen copy of the Alf Layla comes in. None of the previously known translations of The Arabian Nights reveal where the Lamp ended up after Aladdin’s time, but perhaps an even earlier version, closer to the original source of the legend—”
“—might contain a clue on where to find the Lamp,” Flynn said, getting the picture. “Sounds to me like maybe I need to talk to Dr. Masri again, and find out if she managed to translate the Aladdin story before the book was stolen.”
“I’d do that,” Judson advised. “Preferably before the same idea occurs to the Forty.”
Flynn winced at the thought of the ruthless thieves targeting Shirin Masri.
“I can’t stress how important this is, Flynn. You cannot let the Forty obtain Aladdin’s Lamp, or allow the Djinn to break free of the Lamp. Both prospects are, well, alarming to the extreme.”
“Message received,” Flynn said. “Loud and clear.”
“Glad, glad to hear it. We’re counting on you, Flynn. And, oh, one more thing.”
“Yes?” Flynn asked.
“Watch out for the camel.”
Too late! The camel spat in Flynn’s face, spraying him with gloppy green drool.
“Aaagh!” Flynn woke with a start, wiping his face frantically, only to find it mercifully free of camel drool. Sitting up straight in his hotel room, he needed a moment to reorient himself as the sights and sounds and smells of medieval Baghdad receded and reality snapped back into place. A digital alarm clock informed him that it was late afternoon, local time.
But though the dream was already fading in his memory, the gist of his “conversation” with Judson stayed with him.
Aladdin’s Lamp. A vengeful genie. The Forty.
And Shirin.
I need to get to her, he realized, before anyone else does!
6
2006
The Barani Street market was still going strong as Shirin made her way home from the museum. Rows of open-air stalls hawking everything from books to fabrics to spices lined the narrow avenue, while more shops occupied the maze of surrounding streets and alleys, many of which didn’t even have names. Merchants called out to passersby, extolling their wares. The tantalizing aromas of coffee, black pepper, cardamom, nutmeg, cumin, ginger, cloves, and other spices wafted through the air. Concrete barriers at both ends of the street were an unpleasant reminder of the realities of modern-day Baghdad. Shirin enjoyed browsing in the market on her way home most afternoons, but remained alert and on guard for any possible threats. You couldn’t be too careful these days.
“Fresh spices! Best prices!” a merchant called out to her from his stall. Brightly colored heaps of powdered spices created a festive display. “Paprika! Turmeric! Saffron!”
Enticed by the vibrant colors and smells, Shirin paused to inspect the spices. There was a curfew in effect after sundown, but she figured she still had time to do a little shopping and make it home before dark. She put down her battered black attaché case, tucking it between her feet for safekeeping. Come to think of it, she was running low on nutmeg.…
Distracted, she let her guard drop a moment too long.
“Don’t react. Don’t say anything,” a husky female voice whispered in her ear as a figure came up behind her and pressed the tip of a knife of against her ribs. “You’re coming with us, Dr. Masri.”
Despite the heat, Shirin felt her blood freeze. She had no idea who was holding the knife, and she was afraid to look back over her shoulder, but all at once she was in mortal danger. If only she had gone straight home after work, or paid more attention to her surroundings…!
First the robbery at the Archives, she thought. Now this.
“There’s a car waiting at the north end of the street, beyond the barricades,” the other woman said. “Come quietly, and you won’t be harmed.”