The Librarians and the Lost Lamp by Greg Cox

answered. “But, please, call me Flynn.”
    â€œDr. Shirin Masri,” she said, introducing herself in flawless English, albeit with an appealingly exotic accent. “I’m the curator of the Rare Documents Archives here at the museum. I was told to expect you.”
    Her neutral tone made it unclear if she was happy about this or not. Dark brown eyes looked Flynn over skeptically. They were nice eyes, he noticed, and more than a little distracting.
    Uh-uh, he cautioned himself. Keep your mind on the business at hand.
    â€œThanks for meeting me.” He held out his hand, while trying to smooth a stubborn cowlick back in place with his other hand. “My apologies if I seem a bit discombobulated, what with the twelve-hour flight and all. Jet lag cramps my style, I’m afraid.”
    She shook his hand, holding it not a moment longer than necessary.
    â€œI’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?”
    â€œThat’s right. Part of a new task force investigating black-market trafficking in rare manuscripts and relics.”
    â€œI wasn’t aware of any such task force,” she said.
    â€œWell, 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.”
    â€œOf 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.
    â€œWe’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.”
    â€œI’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?”
    â€œIf 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.
    â€œTariq Hassan,” she said quietly. “He was a good man. Honest and incorruptible.”
    â€œI’m sure he was,” Flynn said. “I’m sorry … again.”
    â€œNot 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.
    â€œHere 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.