The Librarians and the Lost Lamp by Greg Cox Page B

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.
    â€œI’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…”
    â€œDon’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.
    â€œYou’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 fine 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.
    â€œWatch your step,” a familiar voice warned him, a moment too late. “Oh, never mind.”
    â€œJudson?” 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?”
    â€œI, I’m not doing anything,” Judson stammered. “This is your dream, isn’t it?”
    â€œSo 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