Raga Six (A Doctor Orient Occult Novel) (24 page)

As he lay on his bed in the dark, Raga’s agreement gave Orient little hope to sleep on. He knew that she wasn’t ready to commit herself. And he couldn’t prevent himself from considering the possibility that she simply didn’t love him enough to offset the inconvenience of the situation.
 

He was still awake when the telephone rang unduly early.
 

"Owen?" When he heard Raga’s voice, Orient was conscious of a sharp jab of anxiety.
 

"Yes." His voice betrayed his concern.
 

"Alistar and Pia just arrived. He’s down taking care of the luggage and arranging for our trip to Italy. He wants to leave tomorrow."
 

"Why the hurry?"

 
"I don’t know. Pia’s completely exhausted and can’t talk about anything. I think Alistar slapped her."
 

"I’ll be right over."
 

"No." Raga’s voice was suddenly strained. "It’s better that I handle this by myself. Why not wait and come for dinner tonight?"
 

"All right."
 

Raga caught the reluctance in his voice. "Don’t worry, my love. We must be patient. We need time. Please, Owen, for me." She hung up.
 

Orient stared at the phone, then slowly replaced the receiver. He lay back on the pillow for a moment, then, with sudden resolve, sat up, swung his legs over the bed, and placed his feet on the carpet.
 

He sat down on the floor and slowly began the stretching exercises of the Yang series, trying to empty his body and squeeze out of the jangling currents of doubt tingling through his thoughts.
 

He went through the movements doggedly, carefully opening more and more of his muscles, contracting and relaxing the million fibers within himself, pulling them into a vibrant harmony and drawing his scattered energy into a compact, controlled flow. Each time he repeated the series of exercises he shifted his concentration from the workings of his bodily organs to the prime source of their activity, their source of fuel. His breathing.
 

He regulated the intake of air, breathing in four-cycle rhythms of exhale-inhale, inhaling through his nostrils and exhaling through his mouth as he bent and stretched his body, until his body and breathing had fused into a single pattern. And then, when the pattern had become a humming current of reality, he lay on his back on the floor, and became motionless.
 

He felt for the pull of the earth’s natural gravity and listened to the current of the pattern. As he concentrated, he intensified his breathing, going from the steady four-beat cycle to a more complicated rhythm, trying to set off tonal chords within his finely tuned body.
 

As he listened to the variations, he went back, reaching for the source of the music. And then he heard it, lyric and serene.
 

But he also heard a high, singing discordant note, disrupting the harmonies of energy. It was grating and relentless. His mind tasted the sound. It was bitter. The same discordant, decayed quality of Pia’s message the night Janice died. A presence of something chaotic and predatory.
 

His meditation was shattered by a surge of concern for Raga. She was unprotected against any danger from Doctor Six—or Pia. As he dressed, Orient wondered if his concern was enough reason to confront Six immediately. He decided it would be foolish.
 

There was no proof of anything except his own need for Raga.
 

He stayed in his room until late afternoon, reading and waiting for the telephone to ring. After a few hours he decided to take a walk before dinner.
 

Tangier is a small city. Orient was able to wall; from the outlying beach area, past the sleek luxury hotels, through the concrete regularity of the European section, and down the curved street to the crooked, haphazard architecture of the Casbah, in less than an hour. As he crossed the large central marketplace and went through the gate that led to the Socco Chico deep inside the native quarter, he relaxed his pace. He did so partly because the streets were narrow and crowded and partly because the alleys had come to exert a calming influence on him.
 

Socco Chico, the small marketplace, was a tiny plaza at the crossroads of a complex of eight or nine indefinite streets, ringed by large outdoor cafes. The circle of tables and chairs made that patch of connecting paths an arena. Everyone sitting at the tables or passing by was both spectator and actor. It was there that tourists in sports shirts and panama hats sat alongside Arab shopkeepers and watched the brilliant costumes of the wild-haired hippies, the rough-robed men driving burros, and the veiled women shuffling past with trays of pastries balanced on their heads. And it was here that the news and the gossip of the day were sifted and evaluated.
 

Orient didn’t stop at the small market but took a winding path off the square and followed it up past another, smaller crossroads, continuing on until the inclined street became a wide stone stairway. Near the top of the stairs he turned off onto a narrow, steep path. At the top of the first rise he turned into a doorway, ducking his head to avoid the low sill. He went through a long, dimly lit room and went out through another door that led to a side, outdoor terrace fitted with crude wooden stools and tables. It was Orient’s favorite cafe.
 

Half the terrace was in the sun, and Orient chose a table under a large tree where he could look down on the street below.
 

Except for the taciturn proprietor and two Arab youths sitting in the shade puffing at their long, painted pipes, the cafe was empty. As Orient sat down, the proprietor set aside his pipe, stood up, nodded, and walked into the kitchen. Orient took a hand-wrapped cigarette from his case, struck a match, and looked out across the rooftops. The cafe was situated on a hill, giving him a view of the spiraling mosque steeples and blue-washed stucco rooftops sloping down to the golden sand, far away at the water’s edge. The scene gave him a lingering sense of peace.
 

The proprietor came out of the kitchen and set down on Orient’s table a steaming glass of black tea stuffed with mint leaves and an orange blossom, before returning to his seat in the shade and his pipe.
 

As he sipped the tea and smoked, Orient pondered the turn his life had taken. He loved Raga and thought of his future in terms of her. He had come to accept this reality. But it would take time. Time for Raga to settle her affairs. Time for him to set up a research laboratory and start earning money. And he was trying to rush it. Much better for them to be patient. Raga was right.
 

He wished he knew more about Doctor Six’s work, the nature of his professional activities. That was the variable, the prod at his patience. If only he could be sure that Raga would be safe, no matter what her choice.
 

Raga knew very little about the mechanics of psychic energy. Less than Pia. If something was threatening her, she wouldn’t even be aware of it.
 

He lingered in the cafe, watching the children at their games on the street below. As the lowering sun cast purple streaks across the sky, he realized that he must proceed carefully. For Raga’s sake.
 

He took the short route to Raga’s hotel, going straight down the stairs and along the side street to the small market, then taking another stairway to the harbor and following the wide boulevard that ran along the shore.
 

When he reached the hotel he felt calm but uncertain. He took the elevator up and Raga met him at the door. When she saw him she kissed him quickly and whispered in his ear, "I haven’t told him. He’s too upset with Pia. We have to wait." Then she kissed him again and said out loud, "Hello, Owen. Come in. We’ve been expecting you." Her husky voice was cool and even.
 

Orient’s uncertainty became a gnawing discomfort. He disliked subterfuge. He felt like an interloper.
 

He followed Raga into the living room. Alistar Six was standing in the center of the room, scowling at the tip of his cigar. Pia was curled in an armchair, her chiseled face set in a sullen pout that didn’t change when she greeted Orient.
 

Doctor Six nodded and waved Orient to a chair. "Good evening, Doctor Orient," he rasped. "Good to see you." His preoccupied frown led Orient to believe otherwise.
 

Everyone declined Raga’s offer of drinks. "I must thank you for your kindness toward my wife," Six began slowly. "Raga told me of your gallantry." Orient wondered if there was any sarcasm intended by Six’s choice of words. "She seemed to be very worried," he said. "I’m sure that she’ll recuperate from her anxiety in Italy," Six rumbled.

 
Raga smiled. "I’ve become quite attached to Tangier these days." She looked at Orient, her yellow eyes gleaming.
 

"Do you have a clinic in Italy?" Orient asked.
 

"I have a laboratory on the island of Ischia. Do you know the place?"
 

"I’ve heard of it." Orient had never visited Sordi’s birthplace, but his friend had often described it to him. "It’s near Capri, isn’t it? Off Naples?"
 

"Exactly," Six nodded. "It’s a radioactive island on top of a partially extinct volcano. It has great healing properties. I’m in the process of completing a significant experiment there. One that might have saved Janice’s life and may save the lives of others similarly afflicted with blood diseases. Like Pia." Six turned to her. "Although my patient doesn’t always know what’s best for her." His face softened in its expression as it rested on her.
 

"Tell me about Tangier, Owen," Pia said suddenly. "After seeing Marrakesh, I want to know everything about this country." She sat up in her chair avoiding Six’s eyes.
 

"Is Presto still in Marrakesh?" Orient asked.
 

Pia glanced at Doctor Six. "I think so," she said. She slumped back in her chair.
 

"These countries," Six snorted. "They’re full of poor sanitation, disease, and filthy habits. I’ll be glad when we’re out of here tomorrow."
 

During dinner they talked about the Trabik, and the shops and restaurants in Tangier. Raga described their sightseeing enthusiastically, smiling often at Orient as she spoke. She looked magnificent.
 

Her silver hair hung loose around her bare shoulders and she wore a long sheath dress of purple silk that clung to her slender body. Her beauty and charm didn’t completely dispel the air of gloom at the table, however. It was as if Orient had come in the midst of an argument that would resume when he left.
 

Pia was extremely subdued. She spoke little and ate nothing, her usual vibrancy muted by a kind of sullen defiance toward Doctor Six. Toward Orient she was civil but cool.
 

As the meal progressed, however, Orient’s mind became more intent on getting the answer to one important question. He wanted to know exactly what had happened to Presto. There were moments when he could have logically inserted the question into the conversation, but they seemed to pass. From time to time he would glance at Raga and see she was watching him. He wanted to reach out and take her hand. But he couldn’t. And the knowledge of their deception nibbled at his talent for polite conversation.
 

"Did you see Presto in Marrakesh?" he asked finally, determined to force a response. Doctor Six’s scowl tightened into an expression of deep anger. "Yes," he said. "I saw the fellow."
 

"I’m sorry," Pia interrupted. "You must excuse me. I’m still feeling very tired." She got up. "It was nice seeing you again, Owen," she smiled distantly. Then she left the table and walked quickly into her bedroom.
 

"You were saying about Presto—" Orient persisted, despite a warning, anxious look on Raga’s face. He had an impulse that Presto was the key to Pia’s strange behavior.
 

Six looked past Orient, his thick-lidded eyes still on the door Pia had gone through. "Doctor Orient," he said slowly, "my work is just at the completion stage. I believe that the serum I’m developing will not only cure blood diseases but will enable people to increase their life span by at least fifty years." His eyes flicked to Orient’s face. "It’s important."
 

Orient didn’t answer.
 

"When I found Pia she was near collapse, driven to exhaustion by that fool Presto. He took her on a reckless joyride, and endangered Pia’s life. He also endangered the results of my work."
 

 
"And you saw him in Marrakesh?" Orient pressed.
 

 
Six’s eyes narrowed and the anger in his face hardened. "I left the man in a hospital there," he hissed. "What was wrong?" Orient’s thoughts began a slow, confused rotation.
 

 
"He was in a coma from an overdose of drugs."
 

Orient was incredulous. "And you left him there?"
 

"Your friend’s behavior," Six went on, "seriously hurt my patient. He’s a young fool and disrupted my work, my family, and my plans. If he hadn’t been in his wretched condition I would have thrashed him." Six pulled a cigar out of his pocket and snipped the tip with a tiny gold cutter. His voice was calm, but Orient could feel the murderous rage beneath his words. Now he knew why Raga was so nervous and Pia unable to communicate. They were afraid of this man.
 

Six stood up. "Excuse me, Doctor, but I must see to Pia. I’m afraid I won’t have a chance to see you again before we leave."
 

Orient stood up. "Do you know what hospital Presto is in?" he asked evenly.
 

Six shot him a shrewd glance, staring at Orient for a moment before he answered. "The French Hospital there."