The Seth Papers

By Frank Lauria

From Tangiers to the Vatican, Dr. Orient breaks deep cover to track an ancient evil

After skipping the country to escape a crazed voodoo killer, Dr. Orient finds himself in exile in Tangiers—and still on the run from the CIA, which wants to use his psychic abilities against mankind.
 
Low on money, he agrees to act as the interpreter for Maya Rand, a beautiful art expert who takes him to an archaeological site in Marrakech reputed to be the tomb of Imhotep. Within days, Orient is under occult attack and involved in a murder. On the run again, it’s up to him to break a hieroglyphic code and prevent an ancient curse from rising once again.
 
In The Seth Papers, Dr. Orient’s adventure takes him from Tangiers to Casablanca to Rome, where he uncovers an unholy plot to sacrifice the Pope and unleash hell on the Vatican.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Jun 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504009775

Frank Lauria

Frank Lauria was born in Brooklyn, New York, and graduated from Manhattan College. He is a published poet and songwriter and has worked in the publishing industry as a copywriter and editor. He has been writing novels since 1970 and his twenty books include five bestsellers. He has traveled extensively through the Middle East, Morocco, and Europe to research his occult novels. He lived through and participated in the Beat era, reading poetry with Jack Kerouac, Alan Ginsberg, and most of the other well-known artists associated with the movement. He lives in San Francisco, where he teaches creative writing and performs with his rap band. Lauria blogs regularly and publishes installments in his autobiographical journey through the cultural past of the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s. Lauria is perhaps best known for the seven volumes of the Doctor Orient series. Doctor Orient is a delver into mystery and the arcane, a knowledgeable man on all subjects occult, and a seeker of truth. His adventures take him around the world and into the depths of psychic and spiritual challenge and adventure. The books in the series are Doctor Orient (1971), Raga Six (1972), Lady Sativa (1973), Baron Orgaz (1974), The Priestess (1978), The Seth Papers (1979), and Blue Limbo (1991). An eighth Doctor Orient novel is currently in the works. Lauria has written a number of tie-in and young adult novelizations of hit movies, including Dark City (1997), Pitch Black (1999), and End of Days (1999), as well as a series of Zorro novelizations.

Book preview

December 14

Marrakech

At this moment I’m being held prisoner in the house of one Hucein Benjeloud, Director of National Museums in Morocco.

My involvement in this predicament began the instant I saw Maya, but of course I couldn’t foresee the consequences of a chance encounter in a Tangier café. Certainly there was no way short of blindness to avoid the impact of her beauty. Even the cluster of disdainful queens busily slandering their friends over afternoon tea gaped in silence when she entered.

It was cold, wet, and lonely on that December 14, and Maya’s tentative smile was a lush oasis in the gloom. Admittedly, a lapse of concentration caused me to bend my prime rule of survival: Make no new friends.

An unofficial fugitive from the Company has little margin for such lapses. Mine already forces me to divulge certain facets of my identity. In brief, I was a physician conducting private research in New York until the Company heard of my experiments and tried to buy the project, and me, for military purposes.

When I refused to sell they had me expelled from the medical profession, burned my home and laboratory to the ground, and made numerous attempts to kill me. Computer Integrated Assassins; they’re a chilly little clan. God knows what they intend for humanity. What they can’t dominate or pervert, they destroy.

After a spot of trouble in Miami I managed to acquire a new identity. Mark Rider will do for this record.

Having spent two solid years on the move, I decided to extend my stay in Tangier. Mistake one. That extra week stretched into months and led to my meeting Maya.

I’ve always had a nose for the wrong woman and should have known from experience to ignore her smile. But it had been months since my last flirtation, and I was flattered by her interest.

She was a rare lady, with eyes like lapis lazuli crescents set in a face molded of smooth white gold. A lavish flow of platinum hair caressed her exquisite features as it swept past the flawless curve of her neck.

If I seem to be overselling her virtues, it’s only to explain the unusually compelling attraction she exerted on me. I wanted her from the moment she walked in.

When she took a cigarette and held it poised beside a questioning expression, I immediately left my table and offered her a light. Mistake two.

She accepted without surprise, as if we were old friends, and her voice retained that familiarity.

Perhaps you can help me solve a problem. Do you know this place well?

The years of drifting have scuffed my social graces, and I sat down without being invited.

Do you mean North Africa, Tangier, or this café? I inquired, again not very polite.

She didn’t seem to mind. I’m Dr. Maya Rand, she informed me briskly. I’m an archeologist on a special research expedition. I’m making a trip south to Marrakech and need an interpreter. The job pays extremely well, I might add.

I noted the rich texture of her skin and soft coral lips as I listened.

Maya’s English was clipped by a Scandinavian accent, and her offer rang with promise. My situation severely limits opportunities to earn money, and a paid vacation with a highly desirable female sounded like ideal employment.

Still, I was wary—suspicious nature is another byproduct of my situation. But this time I wasn’t suspicious enough.

Finding a driver who’s able to speak the language shouldn’t be difficult, I hedged. Have you tried the Embassy?

You speak the language, don’t you, Mr. Rider?

I kept my face blank and tried to do the same with my voice. I don’t recall being introduced, Dr. Rand.

She grinned, immensely pleased with herself. I watched you haggling with the fruit vendor this morning. It was quite a performance. I enjoyed it so much I followed you to the bank where you changed your checks. It wasn’t difficult to find out your name.

I winced inwardly. Those damned traveler’s checks. But even the most elaborate precautions break down in Tangier. It’s essentially a village, and the citizens make it a point to know everyone’s business.

The explanation was plausible, however, and her canted eyes burned away the remnants of my suspicions. I wanted to believe her. The possibility of a few weeks in her company was as alluring as sugar to a starved bee. There was no doubt that the price would be equally attractive. Despite her casual denim dress and sensible shoes, Maya exuded the unmistakable musk of luxury.

But I’d learned something about bargaining in the medina and decided to hold out a bit.

Sorry, Doctor, the fact that I speak the dialect doesn’t mean I’m for hire.

She seemed unperturbed by my little speech.

I don’t want to waste your time, or mine. I need a qualified assistant and was told you might be available. The job pays three hundred American dollars per week plus expenses, with a guarantee of three weeks. If you decide to accept, be at the Minzah Hotel tomorrow morning at ten sharp. I suggest you give it some thought, Mr. Rider.

I didn’t have to. As I watched her leave the café I knew I’d be there at ten sharp.

The Minzah is considered Tangier’s finest hotel. When I arrived Maya was having breakfast at the pool. I watched her face carefully as I told her I’d decided to accept her offer, but her reaction was masked behind a pair of oversized sunglasses. She merely dipped an ivory hand into her bag and extracted three one-hundred-dollar bills.

Your first week’s salary, she said casually. The locals tell me you’re an honest man.

Believe very little in this town, I advised, making sure the bills were genuine.

When can you be ready to leave?

Two or three hours.

Make it two, I’d like to start out as soon as possible.

It took less than an hour to pack my meager possessions, and when I returned Maya was in front of the hotel, standing beside a silver Mercedes 450 SEL that was ringed by a large coterie of admiring street boys. I stowed my bag in the trunk between two oversized Guccis and opened the back door for Maya.

Ignoring the gesture, she pushed past her fan club and eased into the front seat.

I hired you as my interpreter, she explained crisply when I slipped behind the wheel. Not as my chauffeur.

I recovered slowly from that one, and it wasn’t until we were well on our way that I asked the main question.

Just why did you single me out to assist you, Doctor? Morocco’s crawling with guides.

I could tell you it’s not your concern.

I could also return your money and take the bus.

She smiled as if it were the most amusing remark she’d ever heard.

You’re perfectly right about the guide surplus in this country, she conceded. In fact, there’ll be someone waiting in Marrakech. But I need someone I can trust.

What makes you so sure you can trust me, Dr. Rand?

I don’t believe in formality, Mark. First names communicate so much better, don’t you think?

Fine with me, Maya, but you still haven’t communicated why you chose me as your confidant.

It’s simple really. You’re neutral. No vested interests, no career ambitions, and no professional face to save. I’m representing the Museum of Primitive Art in New York. It’s my responsibility to see that a joint contract with the Moroccan government is fulfilled. We’re on the brink of an invaluable find, and I need you to insure nothing gets lost in the translation.

You think they’ll try to keep the find for themselves? I asked, instead of doing the rational thing and getting out right there. I needed personal contact with the Moroccan authorities as badly as a farmer needs locusts.

It’s more than a possibility. They’ve already claimed the right to examine and catalogue the find before turning it over to us. Even though our museum discovered the exact location, and financed the entire project.

Exactly what kind of find is it?

She gazed at the rolling expanse of green hills. Can’t tell you that yet, Mark. I ran a quick check before approaching you. The local people said you spoke classical Arabic as well as the Moroccan dialect. Fair enough. But there’s always the chance you’ll give in to temptation.

I already had, but let it pass. There were only brief snatches of conversation for the rest of the trip. I drove straight through without stopping, and reached Marrakech long after sunset.

I dropped Maya at the Mamounia Hotel. She had a reservation but I didn’t. After arranging to pick her up at eight the next morning, I took the car and went off in search of a room. The town was jammed with package tours, but a fifty-dirham note wedged between my fingers pried open a spare single at Le Marrakech. Despite the hotel’s Nouveau Hollywood decor, dinner was excellent, and after sampling an overpriced, undersized brandy at the roof bar, I retired early.

Sleep eluded me, however, leading me onto that miserable treadmill where one counts mistakes instead of sheep. My total was appalling. Suddenly, a profound sense of danger fluttered through my depression like a carrier pigeon. Whether paranoia or premonition, I didn’t linger for a second message, and packed my gear immediately. It was clear I’d become too well known in Morocco.

I left the hotel intending to return Maya’s car, drop the keys at the desk, and hire a cab to Casablanca. She’d been misinformed about my honesty.

Unfortunately, I was so absorbed in the merits of a flight to Denmark that I missed the turn and blundered into the medina.

As I cruised past Djena el Fna square I noticed there was some sort of celebration in progress. By day the large open square is a hundred-ring circus, featuring a variety of acrobats, magicians, storytellers, medicine men, and trained animals. At night the area is taken over by a horde of portable restaurants, and the glow of their clustered gas lamps made it possible to see a group of white-gowned dancers, jogging to the muffled pulse of drums. They were partially obscured by spectators, but as I crawled past, a flash of long, silvery hair clamored for my attention. Although immediately obscured, the glimmer aroused my curiosity. I parked the car and hurried back toward the sound of the drums.

The audience around the dancers was getting larger by the second. As in Rome one learns to push, but halfway through the crush, I gave up.

Maya was standing at the inner edge of the circle, laughing delightedly at something the man beside her was whispering in her ear.

It was a poor start. I didn’t like the man before I saw him clearly, and when I did he generated negative emotions that dug much deeper than jealousy.

He was tall and very plump, with sleek gray skin that matched his velvet robe. He kept one arm clamped around Maya’s shoulder, like a large worm crawling over a drunken angel.

In the flickering lamplight Maya’s hair formed a luminous halo around her glazed, enlarged eyes and slack smile as she stared fixedly at the dancers, long body swaying to their insistent rhythms.

As mentioned, I’m familiar with classical Arabic, most Maghrebi, and some Berber, but the group performing was a special breed. For one thing, they wore masks: part horned goat and part cat, the patched, hairy skins covered their faces completely. They also had snakeskin scabbards for their hooked knives and, unlike most native dancers, wore snakeskin slippers that made a shimmering blur against the ground.

They chanted as they danced, but most of it was meaningless to my ear. I thought I heard the word Kebieh once or twice, which in Berber means fearful influence, but wasn’t sure.

Other signs were unmistakable, however. During the course of my medical research I’ve made a study of the occult sciences. I recognized certain symbols crudely chalked at the cardinal points of the dancers’ circle and realized that their performance was actually a pagan ritual. From habit I checked the moon, and saw that it was almost full.

Abruptly the drumming cut off and the dancers aggressively shoved through the crowd. As the spectators dispersed, Maya and her escort walked away arm in arm, and I decided to tag along. I was wearing a thermal jacket against the mountain cold, and put up the hood as I crossed the square. With the distinctive white streak in my hair covered and my naturally dark skin, I blended into the profusion of gaunt-featured Berbers in hooded djellabas shuffling through the medina.

It was easy at first. The outer market was fringed with lamps that cast metallic glints on Maya’s hair, and her friend’s waddle was as visible as a truck blinker. But inside the tunneled souks trailing them became more difficult. There were fewer lamps, and their tepid glow proved insufficient in the maze of shadows.

I was reluctant to follow too closely, and when they entered one of the long tunnels threading the inner medina I lost sight of them. I hurried past endless files of shuttered shops until I spotted a dim light ahead. It came from a bazaar at the end of the street whose grate was partially lifted, like a half-opened eye, allowing me to see two figures silhouetted at the door. I was certain I glimpsed the platinum sheen of Maya’s hair before they disappeared.

But when I reached the shop and peered through the window there was no one inside except a lone clerk, sitting morosely behind a glass counter.

He looked even more unhappy when I entered the shop.

"Fermé. Closed," he grunted, flexing thick, callused fingers.

Just to annoy him, I lingered a bit. The shop specialized in antique jewelry, and my interest was drawn to a coral necklace with a star pendant, hanging alone in a display case.

How much? I inquired in Arabic. Then I noticed the beaded curtain behind the clerk and understood that Maya and her host were in a rear parlor somewhere.

The clerk became decidedly hostile.

We’re closed. Get out, he snarled, leaving his chair.

His beefy shoulders and broken nose convinced me. I left the shop and walked quickly back to the car, still wondering what was behind the beaded curtain.

The next morning Maya gave me lots more to wonder about. She was having coffee on the patio when I arrived, and two things immediately struck me as odd.

The first was that she was sitting alone, while her escort of the previous evening was at a table ten feet away, deep in conversation with a gentleman wearing sunglasses and a white suit.

The second was the coral necklace adorning Maya’s neck. It had a star pendant and was identical to the one I’d examined in the shop.

Maya greeted me cordially. As I sat down a waiter came to our table and whispered something to her. Maya looked surprised, and turned to the other table.

The plump man sitting there was wearing the gray robe I’d seen the night before, and daylight did nothing to alter my first impression. He was of indeterminate age, with sagging jowls and dark, puffy blotches circling his beady eyes. The sole patch of color on his bleached face was his red, almost female mouth.

He deserved an Oscar for his performance that morning. He squinted, shading his eyes against the nonexistent sunlight, then rolled his fleshy bulk off the chair and duck-walked toward us on pointed slippers.

You are Dr. Rand, I presume, he cooed anxiously.

Maya was equal to the occasion. Yes. Are you the gentleman from the ministry?

He bowed. My dear lady, I am Hucein Benjeloud, Director of National Museums, at your service. The gentleman at my table is the representative from the Ministry of Interior Affairs.

Benjeloud’s companion, Mr. Wahedi, joined us for croissants, and in a few minutes I realized the charade was for his benefit. To anyone familiar with the breed he was pure cop, from his thin-lipped smirk to the bulge beneath his white Cardin jacket.

After breakfast I drove the three of them out to the excavation site.

It took over an hour to negotiate the hairpin curves carved into the face of the Atlas Mountains. A hot sun evaporated the damp morning mist, making it stuffy in the car. Benjeloud was wearing an overabundance of sweet