The Visitor

by Brent Ayscough

  “I see your point. Will it be interesting to go to Kazakhstan?”

  “Oh yes. However, I have not been there myself.”

  He rang Mei Ling on the intercom.

  She was already informed as to what to do. She walked in with another box, identical to the one given Shanta, and handed it to Baron.

  He then handed it to Tak, and said with a big smile, “Did you think you would be left out?”

  Tak opened it with childlike excitement, took out the exotic scarf, and wrapped it around her as Shanta had done, turning about.

  “Marriage is expensive,” Baron said. “And, if I keep this up, I’m going to have to buy you a bigger satchel for your return.”

  ***

  Just two days later, Mei Ling came into Baron’s office. “I have confirmation of a wire transfer of twenty five million United States Dollars to your usual offshore account.”

  “Thank you, Mei Ling.”

  When she left, he checked the Internet to find the time in Kazakhstan, picked up his phone, and placed a call.

  Dr. Volkova answered the call from someone who was speaking in Russian, asking for Dr. Dorogomilov.

  She hurried for Dr. Dorogomilov. “Borislav, there is a phone call for you from Taiwan.”

  “Who can possibly be calling me from Taiwan?” Dorogomilov wondered.

  “He says his name is Baron Von Limbach, and he speaks Russian.”

  “A baron?” Dr. Dorogomilov stopped what he was doing and went to take the unusual call. “This is Dr. Borislav Dorogomilov.”

  “Dr. Dorogomilov, I’m Baron Von Limbach. I have the advantage of knowing about you and your ability, but I doubt that you know of me. I’m interested in speaking to you about a project. It cannot be discussed by phone. If you are interested, I can be there in a few days.”

  “I could be very interested.”

  “Good. My staff will confirm the arrival date and time and call you on this number.”

  “The local airport is now unmanned, without a tower, and the runway is in disrepair,” Dr. Dorogomilov advised. “A private jet cannot land here or the potholes will damage the landing gear. If you are planning to fly in, you can only do that in an Antonov AN-2. Are you familiar with that airplane?”

  “Yes, I know it. I’ll fly to Astana and charter one of those.”

  “How long will you be staying?”

  “Two days, three days at most, depending on our talks. Can you reserve a place for me for two and, oh yes, and a place for the pilots of the Antonov?”

  “The spring holiday is about to begin, but I can arrange it.”

  Baron ended the call and pressed a button on his phone.

  Mei Ling appeared. “Yes, sir?”

  “Call the baroness down from upstairs. She’s on the Internet. Then I want you to make reservations for her and me to go to Astana, Kazakhstan, with no unnecessary stops, starting tomorrow. Then hire a private Antonov AN-2 airplane out of Astana to meet us at Astana to take us to Stepnogorsk, Kazakhstan. Make sure the Antonov will be there and ready for us. I want two pilots. Leave the return open. My host there will book us a room, as the spring fair is about to begin.”

  Tak appeared with a cheerful smile and sat down in front of his desk.

  “How have the Internet searches been going for you?”

  “I’m fascinated with the incredible amount of serious crime, especially those called serial murderers and serial rapists. I had no idea there was so much of that.”

  “Well, welcome to Earth. But, Tak, I think I may have something you may find very interesting. I have to go to yet another part of the world, where things are yet even different. It is called Kazakhstan. There I will see if I can find a way to do what the Americans want. We’ll leave tomorrow, and you will get to experience a spring fair there called a Nauryz, which is very much different than what you have seen so far, and I think it will enrich your views on humans.”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  CHAPTER 14

  “Doctors Borislav Dorogomilov and Anastasiya Volkova,” the Kazakhstani official announced to Christine Rhyes-Walters of the American Department of State at the hotel reception room. Present were two other governmental officials from Kazakhstan and two from the US, in addition to Rhyes-Walters. The doctors wanted the meeting to include Building 221, the ostensible purpose to show the testing of the fungi to kill poppies, but the real motive was to keep US money coming in. The tour of 221 included the frightening ten five-thousand gallon anthrax mixing vats, an impressive sight. Although there were interpreters, the doctors spoke in English to their sponsoring country’s representatives. Rhyes-Walters wore a blue business suit, a blue skirt, and jacket, with a white shirt. She had gained weight since she bought the suit, and the skirt stretched out a bit at the seams. The jacket would not close due to the same extra fifteen pounds.

  The inexperienced and overconfident Rhyes-Walters announced herself and her purpose as though the doctors had no idea why she was there.

  As the group wandered about the lab, fascinated by the huge anthrax vats, Dr. Dorogomilov said quietly to Dr. Volkova, “The Idiots! They can’t even stop the stealing of cars in the region, with the cars going mostly into Russia. How on earth does this idiotic, infantile woman think she is going to make any dent in the business of those who deal in drugs? Perhaps I should give the woman a little scare on the ability of the lab to start up again, in order to keep the money coming.”

  When they gathered, Dr. Dorogomilov did just that. “This is a complete, level four, bio-hazard lab. The lab and its equipment here can make the lab operate it as it did before. It is equipped with a pressure system and pressure suits to study and mass produce most any biological warfare agent. The suits we wore here during such studies were pressurized. In case there was a puncture, the air would tend to force any biological agent out, instead of in, to protect the person inside.

  “As there are various instruments used in such studies that are sharp, cuts and punctures are not altogether rare. I headed the studies of bio-warfare right here and also led anthrax mass production. Many different types of biological weapons can be made here. But now, I’m working with nominal resources, developing fungi that attacks poppies, to be sprayed on poppies in the fields to curtail the opium trade and yet not harm the environment, people, or small animals.”

  Frightened by the idea of mass production of biological weapons, Rhyes-Walters changed the subject. “How is the progress with the fungi?”

  “I could easily develop something to kill all the poppies in the world,” he responded. “But my task is to develop an environmentally safe fungi that attacks poppies but yet is harmless to people, animals, and other crops, not merely another agent orange. I have made very good progress and can show you some of the effects right here.”

  He then led the ridiculous diplomat around the narrow lab aisles with Dr. Volkova to show her effects of his new fungi on poppy and on control plants and animals. There were live poppy specimens grown under special lamps for the tests and dead plants to show the results. There were also animal cages for rats and animals for testing by exposure, something that would horrify many Westerners. It was all staged.

  Dr. Dorogomilov was, without question, a genius. And even though he was not a salesman, just having the opportunity to hear what he was doing was impressive. Rhyes-Walters was, indeed, impressed.

  Following the lectured tour, they came back to the front of the building. Rhyes-Walters turned to Dr. Dorogomilov. “I’m favorably impressed. Have you any idea when you might have a final formula to recommend for production?”

  She had gotten down to business. After all, that would be just about the only question put to her when she got back.

  Even though Dr. Dorogomilov did not like such questions, he had to answer them to keep his funding and, having been under the Soviet Union’s rule, he was very used to them.

  And she could not go back and simply report that she had seen research and that funding should continue indefin
itely. So she would have to bring something back.

  On the other hand, Dr. Dorogomilov had already created the fungi that was environmentally safe and killed only poppies, which was safe for animals and humans, but he did not want to reveal that as it would cut off the funding money, whereupon he would lose the lab and his irreplaceable specimens of the exotic viruses that would then have to be destroyed. In addition, he resented the ignorance of these interrogations.

  “Madame Diplomat,” he said to her in English. “I’m a scientist, not a businessman. I have only one assistant scientist, Dr. Volkova, and practically no support staff to run controls and variables. If I had a dozen qualified assistants, I could expedite things greatly. But we have made progress and should soon have what you seek.”

  “I certainly think that you are working on a worthy cause, and keeping this lab doing something constructive is very beneficial,” the diplomat replied. “I’ll recommend that, pending a progress report to be reviewed by our own scientists, funding assistance be continued for the fungi.”

  When they all exited, Drs. Dorogomilov and Volkova stood together and watched, and then turned to wave goodbye as they left in a motorcade to Astana.

  Dr. Dorogomilov put his hand on Dr. Volkova’s backside and gave her a squeeze--sort of like the Russian kiss to the cheek, but this to another cheek. “God, it is good to get rid of those assholes. When does this Baron arrive?”

  “The day after tomorrow,” Dr. Volkova said.

  ***

  Tak and Baron disembarked from the commercial jet at Astana, Kazakhstan, and entered the modest terminal. Baron led Tak to a counter where the prearranged Antonov AN-2 flight to Stepnogorsk would be confirmed. The only person at the modest desk was a tall and robust woman with enormous breasts like watermelons. She greeted them and led them out on the tarmac.

  On the tarmac stood an outrageous biplane, the Antonov AN-2. Over thirteen feet tall, it had a wingspan of sixty feet. It was a medium blue color and did not look like any other aircraft. Tak followed Baron and the large-breasted woman to the huge biplane and stared at it in apprehension. “What is this thing?”

  “This was designed at the end of World War II, and flies at only one hundred twenty five miles an hour if there is no headwind,” Baron explained. “We need a plane like this, as the landing strip in Stepnogorsk has not been kept up since the airport was closed a long time ago, and the extremely cold winters and hot summers have taken their toll on the runway. This is the only airplane that can land there. It’ll be a much shorter trip in this plane--and more fun.”

  The pilots arrived, having finished studying the weather updates, and stood at attention to greet their most important guest.

  Baron sized them up, realizing that there was no practical way to realistically assess their ability, and motioned for them to proceed. They loaded the bags and did a final check of the plane.

  “We’re ready to go now, sir,” the captain said.

  Baron and Tak climbed into the plane and took seats a couple of rows behind the two pilots. A tail-dragger, a plane with a tail wheel, the aircraft had its nose pointed up when at rest, and the two were leaning back in their seats. They would remain so until takeoff when the tail was raised up in flight.

  The captain began the starter sequence, pumping the gas lever, turning on switches, and working the throttles a few times.

  Then he pulled the starter flywheel lever and the flywheel began to spool up, whining as it did so. After 15 seconds, he engaged the flywheel. The massive 4-bladed prop began to spin and the huge radial engine belched, starting with a huge cloud of black smoke, followed by a roar--like that of a lion.

  Tak feared that she might not live through the flight in the strange aircraft. But as the biplane taxied and then lifted into the air on its way through the Kazak Mountains, she was finally able to relax.

  Over the noise of the engine, she called, “Baron, can you tell me about this aircraft?”

  “Sure. It’s powered by a Russian made copy of the American Wright Cyclone radial engine, provided to the Russians to copy at the end of World War II. The engine is reliable but goes through a huge amount of oil. It holds thirty two gallons of oil, but can still run on only six. It burns forty five gallons of fuel an hour when cruising. It can take off with as much as twelve thousand five hundred pounds and has special flaps and wing slats, which change the airfoil to add more lift to enable it to land on very short, rough, landing strips. It can land in a headwind with no discernible stall speed.”

  “Stall speed?” she said apprehensively.

  “The speed at which a plane quits flying, due to low speed, so to speak. But don’t worry. We won’t fall out of the air. I promise”

  “Why are we taking this strange aircraft?”

  “The runway where we are going to land has been neglected since 1991 when the Soviet Union pulled out. I’m told that the runway has holes and is in bad repair. But don’t worry. This special plane will land so slowly that there is no danger. It will be a piece of cake.”

  “A piece of cake,” she repeated.

  As the huge biplane worked its way through the mountains, the wind occasionally bouncing and tipping its wings, its Kazak-Russian pilots steadfastly kept it on course.

  The airfield at Stepnogorsk finally appeared. The captain circled the field once, below which was a meter long strip of red cloth blowing downwind as a makeshift windsock put there by Dr. Dorogomilov. Off to the side of the runway were two cars, two men and a woman standing together. The pilot turned to base leg and set the plane up for a short field landing with full flaps down. When he slowed to forty miles per hour on the final approach, the leading edge slats on the wings extended by elastic bungees, providing a huge lift factor for slow landings by the increased airfoil. The slats would have to be reset from the ground after landing.

  Landing into the headwind at the windy airport, the plane gently kissed the ground at the speed of a brisk walk.

  Tak let out an audible sigh of relief.

  After taxiing the plane to what used to be the terminal, the pilot shut down the monster radial engine. The silence was deafening.

  Baron exited and Tak hurriedly followed. The waiting couple approached.

  Baron presumed these were their hosts and said in his perfect, unaccented Russian, “Doctors Borislav Dorogomilov and Anastasiya Volkova, I presume?”

  “Welcome to Stepnogorsk, Baron,” Dr. Dorogomilov greeted in Russian. “We are indeed honored to have an aristocrat as our distinguished guest. How was the trip?”

  “Not too bad, for such an old-fashioned aircraft.” Then looking at Dr. Volkova so as not to ignore her, Baron said, “And you must be the talented Dr. Anastasiya Volkova. How do you do?”

  “It’s such an honor to meet an aristocrat,” she said.

  Baron, never outdone at introductions, said, “On the contrary. It’s my honor to be in the company of such distinguished scientists.” He turned to Tak and then back to them and, switching to English, said, “Please allow me to present my wife, Baroness Tak Von Limbach. Madam does not speak Russian.”

  Tak was beginning to fall into, and enjoy, the role. She nodded to acknowledge them as though a baroness in reality.

  Realizing that English was the way to politely continue, Dr. Dorogomilov switched to English. “I speak English. The majority of the medicine and scientific journals other than in Russian are in English.” He gestured over at the cars. “I’ve hired a separate car and driver here for the pilots, who will take them to accommodations as soon as they have secured the plane. They will stay at a different hotel than you and madam.”

  That, of course, meant cheaper, but Baron did not mind that the pilots would not be staying at his hotel, as this would minimize their knowledge of his activities.

  Baron gave the pilots instructions. “Tie down the plane for tonight, but in the morning, go for fuel to the nearest spot to be sure we have enough for the return trip to Astana and return here. We will be leaving in two or thre
e days.”

  Baron was shown to the front seat of one of the cars, Tak and Dr. Volkova to the rear, and with Dr. Dorogomilov, driving without a chauffeur so as not to be overheard, they headed for the hotel.

  En route Baron said, “Doctor, I was very sorry to learn of the passing of your lovely wife, Karina. I offer my most sincere condolences.”

  “Thank you,” Dorogomilov said with a note of sadness. “I miss her greatly. But I see you are well informed and have the advantage of me. I know nothing of you, Baron, only that you must be a very important and powerful person.”

  “You flatter me,” Baron said. He continued to show his knowledge by saying, “I hope that I’ve not come at an inopportune time as Nauryz starts tomorrow.”

  “How informed you are, Baron. I hope you and madam will be able to stay to enjoy the festival.

  “We’ll see,” Baron said. “We may stay for a part of it.”

  To entice them to stay on, the doctor said, “Following the outdoor national games at the festival tomorrow, my deceased wife’s family is having a special dinner. Would you be able to attend?”

  “A Dastarkhan?” Baron asked.

  “You know of Dastarkhan?” Dr. Dorogomilov was even more impressed. “You know this country as though you were local.”

  “It’s my business to know of the people and places that I do business with.”

  “You will be the most honored guest at the dinner.”

  “But you pay me much too much tribute by making me the ‘most honored guest.’ I’m certainly not worthy of such honor.” That was one thing Baron said that he certainly did not mean.