Raga Six (A Doctor Orient Occult Novel) (30 page)

Presto’s body had no heartbeat and his eye was dulled. The pinpoint blaze of energy in his pupils had been snuffed.
 

"Will you sign the certificate?" Hamid asked softly.
 

Orient straightened up. "Of course."
 

"The autopsy will be performed this afternoon. The certificate will be ready after that." Hamid looked up at Orient. "Do you know the address of his relatives?"
 

"No. Were there any effects?"
 

Hamid went over to the cupboard near the door. "Just his motorcycle and this knapsack."
 

Orient looked inside the khaki bag. There were two still cameras inside.
 

"Is this all?" Orient murmured. He remembered the many pieces of equipment Presto was carrying. His movie camera and lenses. His rolls of film. None of it was there.
 

"Everything as we received it, Doctor," Hamid said anxiously.
 

Orient looked at him. He felt sure that Hamid was telling the truth. Someone must have taken Presto’s gear before he was brought to the hospital. He hefted the bag in his hand. "I suppose it would be best if you held the motorcycle against the medical bills until his relatives can be located."
 

Hamid shrugged. "All right." He looked at Orient. "Will you be leaving Marrakesh?"
 

Orient nodded.
 

"Will you take the bag then and try to contact the boy’s people? It is difficult for us here. We’re rather remote."
 

Orient agreed reluctantly. He was anxious to get back to Raga. He could place a call to the hotel in Tangier and check if there had been any messages from her. But even if there wasn’t any word from Raga, he was going directly from Marrakesh to Naples. He had seen Sordi on the island during his Astral voyage. And he knew that Doctor Six was headed for the same place where Sordi lived. The island of Ischia.
 

But nowhere in those myriads of images where all time and existence converged in the same space had he seen Doctor Six, Raga, or Pia.
 

"There was only one other matter," Doctor Hamid was saying. He walked over to the night table.
 

Orient looked at the portable oxygen tent standing near the door waiting to be wheeled away, along with Presto’s body.
 

"The boy was out of coma for a few minutes," Hamid said.
 

"Did he say anything at all?"
 

"No." Hamid returned with a piece of paper. "But he wrote this. He managed to point to my pen." He fingered the metal clip on the pocket of his smock.
 

Orient looked at the paper. There were three wavery Xs written on the sheet. Nothing else. "I thought perhaps they had some American or English significance," Hamid suggested.
 

Orient shook his head and handed Hamid back the paper. "Nothing I know of," he sighed. "I’ll be back to sign the certificate after you get the results of your autopsy."
 

"Very good." Hamid walked to the door with Orient. "I hope we can discover the cause of your friend’s illness."
 

"I hope so," Orient said. He knew it was a slim chance.
 

Going to a hotel across the street from the hospital, he placed a call to Tangier. There was no message. He went to the reservations desk and checked the flights to Italy. There was a nonstop to Paris from Casablanca that evening. Orient made arrangements to be on it.
 

As he waited for the clerk to complete the call to the airport to confirm his seat, Orient’s restlessness became a nagging apprehension. It would take him at least a day to reach Raga. He had to see her. He had to find out what Doctor Six knew about Presto’s death. He still didn’t know what it was that had consumed Presto’s life. There was only the memory of the smothering mist obscuring all sight. He still didn’t know how to protect Raga.
 

After booking his flight, he crossed the square and slowly made his way back to Ahmehmet’s shop to say goodbye. As he pushed his way through the press of people jamming the outdoor arena, the drums rippled mockingly through his thoughts. His candidacy to the second level had become a motion of failure. And he had endangered the life of his teacher. For nothing at all.
 

When he entered Ahmehmet’s shop, he saw that the small shopkeeper’s skinny frame was sagging under the bright-beaded shirt he wore. He was talking to the man in the red fez who came every day to haggle with him. Ahmehmet shook his head, looking at the necklace in his hand. The man insisted.
 

"I will come back tomorrow to see if you change your mind," the man was saying.
 

Ahmehmet hesitated. "Take it then," he said. "I will suffer the loss of some money and then gain the fortune of a quiet shop." He placed the magnificent amber-and-emerald necklace on the desk.
 

The man wheeled. "What?" he said incredulously.
 

"Take the necklace and give me your money," Ahmehmet sighed.
 

He seemed too broken with weariness to argue any longer.
 

The man in the red fez took a wallet from the inside pocket of his robe and slapped some bills on the desk while Ahmehmet slowly wrapped the necklace in tissue paper.
 

Orient felt even more depressed as he saw Ahmehmet giving in. The wiry shopkeeper seemed to have lost his zest for his dealings today.
 

Yousef was sitting in a corner, glowering at Orient as if his presence had infected his teacher with some wasting disease.
 

Ahmehmet rang up the deal on the NO SALE button.
 

"He paid too little," Yousef said angrily after the man was gone.
 

Ahmehmet smiled sadly. "We made a profit."
 

"Not enough." Yousef glanced at Orient. "Why?"
 

Ahmehmet stroked his chin. "When he goes home with his necklace he will think he has made a bargain. But then he will think that Ahmehmet gave in too easily. Why? He will ask himself. Why has Ahmehmet refused to take full profit?" He paused and looked at Yousef. "Then the man will think, Ahmehmet has tricked me. That could be the only reason. He will come back to the shop and try to buy something else. After a hundred days I will let him buy it. I will be very firm. I will take a double profit. And then the man will be sure I tricked him. He will insist I take the necklace back. At first I will argue, but then I will take it back." Ahmehmet shook his head. "Now do not presume to advise your teacher. Go and bring our guest refreshment." He looked at Orient. "Come," he said gently, "let us go inside."
 

Orient followed Yousef into the inner room and sat down heavily on a pillow. Ahmehmet remained standing, watching him.
 

"I must leave here, Ahmehmet." Orient rubbed his burning eyes.
 

"I know," the small shopkeeper nodded. "You must go alone. Our paths divide." He put his hand into the pocket of his velvet trousers, took out a blue object, and gave it to Orient.
 

Orient looked at the plain silver ring crudely mounted by an unpolished lapis. The pitted glaze of the stone glowed a dull, flat blue.
 

"It is yours," Ahmchmet said. "My gift to the candidate for expansion."
 

Orient stared at the ring. "I thought our experiment was a failure."
 

Ahmehmct sat down next to Orient. "The marketplace brought me the news of your friend this morning, but last night I knew he could not be saved. It was his fate." He leaned forward. "Each man has many fates. Each choice produces a different path. Each path another choice. So be it. When a man has found his way through the maze of many lifetimes he will find harmony. Or he will remain in chaos lost in the maze. His choice alone determines."
 

Orient nodded. For some reason he thought of the completeness he had found with Raga. The harmony of their love.
 

"The grip of the Nine Unknown Men of the universe is not strong," Ahmehmet continued. "It is like the balance of the acrobats in the square, trying to perform on a hill of ice." He paused and looked at Orient. "Your choice is the weight of our balance. Your failure another wind that threatens our harmony."
 

Yousef came in with the table. He placed it in front of them and turned to go. "Prepare yourself," Ahmehmet said to him. "And bring the black mirror." The wiry shopkeeper began to pour the tea as the boy left the room.
 

"A man can go through many lifetimes before he becomes a candidate for expansion," Ahmehmet said, sighing. He looked at his glass. "Or he could pass through many expansions in one existence."
 

Orient took a sip of the warm, sweet tea. He was calmer now but not entirely. The urge to be on his way to Raga was pricking at his composure. He began to regulate his breath, going deeper into a receptive state.
 

"Here then are the words of power." Ahmehmet’s voice came to him from very far away. "They are to be used only as an ultimate and they can be opened only by the key. Their power remains locked until the object of your judgment is correctly named by the key."
 

The words didn’t appear in Orient’s mind. Rather they were plowed up from some soil lying fallow in his memory. He saw and felt their shuddering connections as each one was released. "Nabmab, Samanta, Vajranam chanda maharoshana Sphataya hum traka ham ma—I dedicate myself to the Universal Diamond be this raging fury destroyed..."
 

He opened his eyes. Ahmehmet was drinking his tea. The shopkeeper put the glass down as Yousef entered the room. "Put on your ring," he suggested softly to Orient. Orient slipped the ring on his middle finger. It fit perfectly. "Please tell our guest what you see in the mirror," Ahmehmet said to the boy.
 

Yousef held the mirror at arm’s length. It was a section of curved, glazed obsidian. The rounded piece of glass was dark and polished against its carved silver backing. As Yousef stared into it, Orient felt a dim scent of recognition, bitter and sluggish. His mind prickled as he watched the boy evoking the alien mist, trying to read it. He wanted to yell out a warning.
 

"Enough," Ahmehmet’s voice cut through the quiet.
 

The boy snatched the mirror away from his face. He appeared unmoved, but Orient saw that he was trying to quell a sudden fright.
 

"What did you see for the doctor?" Ahmehmet asked after a few moments.
 

Yousef took a deep breath. "I could see nothing for him. Only a large cloud." He looked at Orient. "And a path that became four trails that led into the cloud. Nothing else." He glanced at Ahmehmet. "The cloud frightened me for a moment."
 

"Then you should have put the mirror down before I told you. The man must not hesitate," Ahmehmet said quietly, "when he knows the object of his judgment."
 

The boy didn’t answer.
 

"Go now and return the mirror to its place," Ahmehmet said, stroking his chin. The boy turned and left the room.
 

"I have given you the words of power but not the key," Ahmehmet said, peering at Orient. "I had hoped that the boy would show me the word. For the key to the words of power is but a single word..." Orient heard Ahmehmet’s words rising in his brain, a melodic, chanting line that filled his consciousness. He looked up. Ahmehmet was staring at him. "... and the word," Ahmehmet was saying, "is two seven seven."

CHAPTER 17

Ischia, 1970
 

Orient shivered as he stood at the dock waiting for the helicopter that would take him from Naples to the island of Ischia. The morning was chilly and his circulation was numbed from hours of waiting rooms and disconnected travel.
 

The day before, he had signed his second death certificate in four weeks, then taken a train to Casablanca. The flight to Paris had been delayed, causing him to miss an early flight to Rome. After many hours there was another plane, then another long wait before he caught the twin-engine mail plane from Rome to Naples.
 

The dawn was dear and Orient could see the pink slopes of Mount Vesuvius across the black, oil-slicked bay. Since he’d left Marrakesh his only concern had been Raga. He didn’t know if she wanted to see him or how he could explain his fears to her. He looked around.
 

Naples seemed grimy and unmajestic in the dim morning light. Just another iron-twisted dock with listing ships rusting at the water’s edge. A shabby contrast to the opulence of its legend. The city was said to have been created by Virgil through the means of occult experiments. Orient tried to loosen the muscles in his stiff neck. Virgil was also an Insani Kamil, the perfectly perfected man of Arab occult sdence. He knew many secrets and had performed countless miracles. But he had failed short of his major experiment. The rejuvenation of his own life.
 

Orient tried to remember what Doctor Six had told him about his own work. It was very little. He went back over the details of Presto’s autopsy. The body was normal except that his fluids seemed to have been somewhat evaporated. His blood, liver, and gland secretions were minimal. Death had been attributed to natural causes.
 

Orient jammed his hands into his pockets and searched the sky for a sign of the helicopter. He would have to ask Doctor Six point-blank to explain the nature of his work. There was no evidence available to confront him. He shrugged his shoulders and waited.
 

And Presto’s last message. XXX. It could refer to some kind of poison, but no trace of foreign substances had been found in his body. The message was as incomprehensible as the key to the words of power Ahmehmet had given him. Two seven seven.