The Visitor

by Brent Ayscough

  “Are the wars and killing finally over, or continuing?” Tak asked,

  “Oh, continuing, to be sure. The US and its allies are at war in Afghanistan. There are outbreaks of minor fighting in many parts of the world. There is war in Syria, Muslim against Muslim. There is killing by Muslims of other Muslims in Iraq. There is fighting in parts of Africa.

  “Humans are a primitive lot, as evidenced by their adherence to numerous religions and blindly following religious leaders. Today is not much different from medieval times and the Inquisition. Religious leaders, and there are so many, seek power by wanting to be exclusive. Most people, excepting the Hindus, believe in a single God, but of course they have different notions of what the true God is. Most all believe that their notion of God is the one and only true God, and all other Gods are false. It is sort of like saying, ‘I believe in the one and only true God, and He is merciful and wonderful. And if you don’t believe in Him, I’ll kill you.’”

  Baron smiled at his little joke, but Tak did not take it as humor and listened intently. “But, I must say, it’s good for business,” he added.

  “Good for business?”

  He backed away from the admission. “Oh, it’s just an expression.”

  Then, she wondered, why did the Federation send me to this barbaric place? Was it just to confirm the obvious? Was it just a training mission for me as my first mission alone and, in actuality, unnecessary?

  Baron looked at his watch to avoid further interrogation. “Will you join me for dinner? There is a delightful, elegant restaurant downtown, overlooking the square that has the most wonderful Polish food. I’ve reserved a table in two hours.”

  “Oh, yes.” Then she looked down at her clothes. “I believe that the custom is to dress differently at elegant restaurants, and I would not look appropriate at your table, so maybe I should decline.”

  “Nonsense!”

  Baron looked about for the concierge and saw him at the end of the lobby. Baron signaled for him to come over by raising his hand.

  The concierge hurried over to the distinguished guest. “How may I serve you, Baron?”

  “My guest will be joining me for dinner in two hours. Will you please tell Lachhiman where to take Mademoiselle for the best dress shop in Krakow? And call ahead and have the shop charge whatever she wants to me here on my hotel bill.”

  “Of course, Baron,” the concierge said.

  “I’ll stay here and have another drink or two,” Baron said to Tak. “Why don’t you go now before the shops close? Have fun.”

  ***

  Tak sat across from Baron at a little table for two in a bay window at the quaint restaurant on the second floor, overlooking the square in downtown Krakow. The guests were more formally dressed as Baron knew they would be, and Tak looked beautiful in her new outfit and shoes.

  “Is this outfit good?” She had bought a simple, one piece, black evening outfit and black, high-heeled shoes, all of which the shop keeper recommended.

  “You look like a supermodel.”

  The waiter came, and Baron was prepared. “Definitely the duck.” He then selected a wine.

  The waiter looked at Tak. She smiled. “Definitely the duck.”

  Baron laughed and then announced his plans. “Tak, tomorrow I’m scheduled to go to Germany. I assume you’ll be staying on?”

  “Is that far?”

  “No. I’ll be going by car. The drive is through the countryside and, with a stop or two to stretch and eat, it should take one day. Do you know Germany?”

  “No.”

  “It is quite different than Poland. Would you like to join me? You have seen the main highlights here in Krakow.” Then he said something satirical but it was not understood as such by Tak. “Or perhaps tomorrow you were going to stay on and do some shopping for Polish crystal?”

  “Oh no, it would be inconvenient to collect native artifacts.” After she said that, she realized somehow collecting native artifacts did not seem like the best choice of words.

  But if Baron noticed her faux pas, he did not mention it. “Then why don’t you join me?”

  “That is across another governmental border, correct?”

  Baron again raised his eyebrows at the curious question. “Yes, we cross the German border.”

  “What would I need to cross the border?”

  “Well, since the two countries are both part of the European Union, you do not need a passport. But if you want later to go elsewhere, you’ll need your passport.”

  “Thank you, I’ll join you. Where do I get a passport?”

  ***

  The morning view of the Vistula River from her balcony at the Forum Hotel was a sight to remember.

  Both Tak and Baron went down to the restaurant for polish sausage and coffee.

  “We’ll be leaving in an hour,” he told her after they enjoyed coffee and sausage together.

  He left for his room to make ready for the journey to Germany. Tak had nothing to pack other than her satchel and her new black dress and shoes, which fit neatly into her bag, and which she had already packed. So she stayed on to observe more human behavior.

  After Baron had gone to his room, four men came in from the outside, apparently not staying at the hotel, and sat near to Tak. They ordered coffee. Their appearance was rough and disheveled. They were wearing inexpensive suits that had not been pressed recently and had on wrinkled shirts with soiled collars and without ties. The pockets in their suits sagged, as if from carrying things. They were not clean shaven. Tak detected a slightly foul body odor from the one sitting nearest to her. They were speaking what she recognized as Russian, although she didn’t understand the words, and did not seem to belong in the hotel compared to the other guests.

  She could see outside the hotel glass doors to the area where the cars arrived. A small crowd of on-lookers was gathering around as Baron’s grand, white car pulled up. Out of the car came Lachhiman, muscular and fit, in command of the car and his surroundings. The four men in the lobby all looked toward the Rolls Royce and spoke to each other about it, but so did everyone else who saw it. They then got up and went outside to the parking area.

  “Good morning, Tak!” Baron’s louder than normal voice vibrated the air from behind her as she was watching outside. Tak turned to see Baron, eloquently dressed, adorned with a fedora hat.

  “Baron! Good morning!” she said, trying to return his exuberance.

  A baggage man came along with Baron’s luggage on a brass hotel luggage cart. His bags were four in number, of cloth and natural saddle leather from the best of London’s shops, and in slightly descending sizes. Lachhiman placed the bags on the luggage rack that folded down horizontally off the rear of the car, making it into a shelf. He strapped them down with matching leather straps, the largest on the bottom. The bags actually added to the unique effect of the car.

  When Lachhiman finished strapping the bags on, he came around to stand at attention for Baron. Then, at just that moment, as though on cue in a movie, out he came from the hotel doors, with all four of the doormen standing at attention in a row to bid him goodbye, the concierge having orchestrated his leaving. Hotel guests outside stopped to gaze at the sight of this most interesting man entering his car, as if it was a major event. Lavish tips were passed out by Baron, with the most to the concierge. Tourists took photos of the car with their small-point-and-shoot cameras or cell phones, while Baron fed off of the attention. Tak then followed Baron into the car.

  The spring scenery through the countryside was gorgeous, initiated by a light shower, followed by sunlight, with the delightful odor of spring in the air. After a while, Tak, curious about the driver, asked, “Baron, Lachhiman has brown skin. Where is he from?”

  “His name is Lachhiman Thapa, PVC. He’s a Gurkha.”

  Ignoring the fact that Baron might wonder about her wrist computer, Tak commanded her wrist computer for an instant translation of what was being continuously recorded for PVC in English. It showed an an
swer, polyvinyl chloride.

  She turned to Baron. “He’s named after plastic?”

  Baron laughed aloud and announced his driver’s new name: “Lachhiman Thapa, polyvinyl chloride!” He laughed again. “PVC stands for Param Vir Chakra. It’s the post-independence equivalent of the Victoria Cross.”

  “Is that like Baron?”

  “The difference is that baron is usually a title from birth for a nobleman, although there are exceptions. PVC is earned after birth through achievements. In the case of Gurkhas, most of the awards of the Victoria Cross or the Param Vir Chakra have been given posthumously--that is, after death.”

  “I see. He comes from Gurkha. Please tell me about them.”

  “Gurkha is not a place, but a soldier. The Gurkhas come from Nepal. They are not just soldiers, but soldiers for hire. They have been hired by the British since 1815. They are also hired by the Indians, as was Lachhiman. They have been hired by a number of other countries as well. Until India gained its independence from England in 1947, the award given for bravery was the English award of the Victoria Cross. More Victoria Cross medals were given to the Gurkhas than any other group of people. They can still get a Victoria Cross if they were actually serving in the British Army, but if hired by India, the medal is the Param Vir Chakra, or PVC, and if from Pakistan, the Nishan-i-Haider. Now, Lachhiman enjoys the title of PVC. It’s quite an honor.”

  He paused to see if Tak was absorbing this. Hearing no questions, he continued. “His efforts inspired his platoon to capture a vital strategic hilltop. Nearly dead from injuries, in the freezing snow and thin air, he refused to die. When his platoon finally took the hill, he was taken ‘to hospital.’ He spent over three months ‘in hospital’ and was awarded the medal Param Vir Chakra. His commander thought his injuries too severe to have him return to active combat, and I was lucky enough to hire him. He is fierce and will not back down.”

  “Why do you use such a formidable warrior just to drive your car?”

  “He is not just my driver, but also my bodyguard.”

  “Oh, I see. You need a soldier to protect you. What sort of weapons does he have?”

  “He carries only his kukri, a long, curved knife, and a smaller blade. He is very good with them, and there is no prohibition against taking knives across borders, contrasted with guns. So it works out very conveniently for him to drive for me in countries where I do not have a local bodyguard with a weapons permit.”

  “Convenient,” she responded.

  The grand Roll Royce came over a hill. There were fields of rye, oats, and potatoes on either side of the road in the beautiful Polish countryside. No other cars were in sight. As they came around a curve, two stopped cars were ahead, apparently in an accident, blocking the road. The occupants, a total of eight men, were outside the vehicles, looking, pointing, and talking as though they were in disagreement as to who or what was the cause.

  “Problem ahead,” Lachhiman warned.

  Baron leaned forward to evaluate. One of the cars was cross-ways in the road, pointing to the left, the other apparently having hit it in the rear, resting with its front bumper touching the left rear of the other car, blocking any car from passing. The shoulder of the road on either side was narrow and then dropped off six feet at that spot, such that no car could go around.

  “What do you make of it?” Baron asked.

  Lachhiman slowed the Rolls Royce down to a crawl. “We can’t go around.”

  Tak looked at the men and recognized some of them as the men who sat at the table next to her at breakfast. “Baron, four of those eight men sat next to me during breakfast at the hotel.”

  Baron sized them up with their disheveled clothes and concluded they could not afford to stay at the Forum Hotel. This meant that they were Russian gangsters, involved in a carjacking. They would take the car back to Russia where a stolen, expensive car could be sold in an instant. There were no reciprocal agreements between countries to recover a stolen car from the corrupt Russian government. But there was danger to him and his passengers, as they would all be witnesses.

  “Lachhiman, get ready. They want the car and may kill us!”

  Lachhiman stopped the car and tried to put it into reverse but, before he could, most of the men stormed the Rolls Royce, pointing Russian pistols at the three of them through the car’s windows.

  “Get out car now!” one of them yelled, pointing his Russian pistol, correctly assuming that they spoke English as the men had heard English spoken earlier by the driver and the baron at the hotel.

  Baron spoke softly and quickly to Tak. “They’re Russian bandits. They intend to steal the car, take it to Russia, and rob us of our valuables. Be very careful. They may decide to kill us to leave no witnesses.”

  Without moving his head or looking down, Baron lifted one of the armrests of the luxury rear seats in the Rolls Royce, which had a hidden compartment with a hinged top covered in leather that pivoted to one side. When closed, it was completely unnoticeable. Open, it exposed a 9 millimeter semi-automatic pistol. He slipped the equalizer into his suit jacket’s outside pocket.

  They were ushered out of the car at gunpoint. Tak put her satchel strap over her shoulder as she exited. The three captives were then held at bay outside the car with guns trained on them. The Russians became excited at their spoils, as their usual bounty was a late-model Mercedes. This super car could sell for several hundred thousand euros to one of the Russian billionaires or a Russian drug dealer, as it was very rare, eye-catching, and handsome.

  The bandits gazed in delight at their bounty, with one getting in the front and another in the back, behaving like children with a new Christmas toy. Filled with exuberance, all but two went to look at the prize, leaving just the two to guard their victims at gunpoint.

  Jokes were made about having such a car themselves and how it would bring girls and recognition if they had such a trophy back home. To the Russians, the three victims posed no apparent threat. Lachhiman looked like a harmless, third-world chauffeur; the baron like a wealthy industrialist, with his flashy clothes and car; and the young girl possibly his niece, since she carrying her satchel over her shoulder like a school bag, as opposed to a designer handbag.

  Finally the Russians decided that everything was under control, and they walked away from the Rolls Royce, except for one, who remained behind the wheel. He was the one who was to be the driver back to Russia and was familiarizing himself with the controls. The others came over to where their three captives were standing and began to talk.

  One of them said to his comrades, in Russian, “This beauty will be extremely easy to spot once it is reported stolen, unlike an ordinary black Mercedes sedan that we normally score. If we turn these people loose, they will report what happened, and the Polish police will be alerted to stop this easily seen car before we get it across the border out of Poland. We should kill them and then we can get across the border.”

  “I agree,” one of the others said. “Let’s shoot them here and leave them in the ditch.”

  The most senior, Pyotr, disagreed. “Murder is a completely different crime than auto theft. I don’t like the idea of killing them.”

  “Pyotr, this will not be the first time we have killed,” another said. “Think how much this car will bring us back home. We can sell it for a fortune. If we don’t kill them, they will report the theft and the border guards will be looking for the car. I say we kill them.”

  Another, one holding his Russian Stechkin pistol on the victims, came to Tak and took her satchel off her shoulder. He sat the bag on the ground and began looking through it. “What have we here?” He pulled out the black outfit and high heeled shoes she had bought. “Evening wear,” he said, laughing and holding up the dress and the black high-heeled shoes. “She must be the fat one’s girlfriend, not his niece.”

  The rest of them laughed after they saw the evening outfit. Then the man found Tak’s stack of Euros Baron got her for her gold in the bottom and held it up.


  “Look! She has a fortune! She must be the fat one’s wife or whore!” Holding it up, he turned and flashed it, to let all of them see the bounty. His big smile showed his bad teeth. “We’re already rich!”

  The laughing subsided, and then the first one that had said the captives should die, said, “Let’s shoot them.” He looked around at the group. It was clear that they had no particular leader and a consensus was needed.

  “I agree,” the one with Tak’s money said. “Let’s do it before someone comes along.”

  This time no one else objected, not even Pyotr.

  By now, as there was no apparent threat to the Russians, all but two of the six who had pistols had put them away. Two of them went to the money to see how much there was. It was a moment when only two guns were trained on them, and the last chance to react. Unbeknownst to them, Baron understood Russian and was alerted to their evil intent.

  He nodded to Lachhiman, who leaped like a jungle cat. In his practiced move, he pulled his razor sharp, long kukri down from its blade-up position where it was held in a special knife holster under his tunic. He brought it down in a blindingly fast swinging motion then added his other hand to the handle while still swinging it, to maximize the force. He swung it up and around then brought it down with tremendous force right over the arm just below the elbow of the man holding his gun on Baron and Tak. In his bravery, he chose to save his employer before himself. In the move, he stepped forward to strike and to one side of the gunman who was pointing his gun at him.

  The arm, just below the elbow of the Russian holding his gun on Baron and Tak, came off quickly and neatly. The hand, still holding the gun, fell to the ground. His swing was not slowed by the contact with the Russian arm, and he brought it up once again, adding a twist to it by turning his body, holding the kukri out to add velocity. He swung it around at a blinding speed until it found its next target, the neck of the Russian holding his gun on the spot where Lachhiman had been standing an instant before. The force of the swing, with his arms extended, was so much that the kukri went right through the neck of the Russian, and his head literally rolled off his shoulders and fell to the ground ten feet away. The headless Russian got a round off with his pistol before his head left him, but it went harmlessly through the spot where Lachhiman had been standing a second earlier. An eerie sight, the body of the headless man did not fall to the ground immediately, but instead remained erect as blood squirted out of his neck.