The Visitor by Brent Ayscough

mushroom soup and freshly baked bread to intensely satiate the senses.
    The aroma consumed her. “This smells wonderful!”
    As she inhaled its magnificence again and again, the waiter poured two glasses of wine that Baron had chosen.
    She inhaled again, consumed in olfactory extravagance, and let out a “Hmmmmmm!”
    Tak waited to see how Baron handled this strange object. He broke off a piece of the bun top with his fingers and took a spoon in his other hand. Sipping the steaming soup with the spoon, he ate the piece of hot bread. She copied him, sampling the sumptuous concoction.
    “Delicious!” she found herself saying, involuntarily. She sipped the wine, savoring it, and looked at Baron, smiling. “I had no idea there were such wonders here.”
    “Do you have mushroom soup where you come from?” he asked.
    “Nothing like this, to be sure.”
    “Tak, I speak quite a few languages and pride myself that I can tell where many, if not most, people come from. But I confess, I cannot place your origin from your accent. Perhaps, you have not obtained a particular accent because you travel so much. Have you traveled a great deal?”
    “That much is certain.” She wondered if he would continue to press. She could tell him she was from Kansas as that was where she had planned to land. But she did not know what a Kansas accent sounded like or much about Kansas itself. And most likely, a linguist like Baron would know right away that she was lying. Better not mention it, she decided, as he might turn her in to the authorities.
    Baron took the cue that she did not wish to reveal her origins and left the subject alone to concentrate on the fabulous soup. His evening was, after all, adorned with a very beautiful young woman and so, he concluded, why not enjoy it to the fullest?
    “What have you in store for the rest of your visit to Poland?”
    “I want to learn as much as I can.”
    “Have you had a chance to visit Auschwitz and Birkenau?”
    “No. Are those people interesting?”
    Baron blinked and sat back in his seat, as he could hardly believe her naiveté. He wondered if it was possible that someone had not heard of Auschwitz? She did not seem stupid. She seemed foreign, very foreign--and as charming as she was beautiful. He wanted her.
    “Those are not people, but places. I’ll tell you what. I have business tomorrow, and now that includes exchanging gold for you. And, of course, I’ve already seen Auschwitz and Birkenau. Why don’t I have the concierge hire an English-speaking, private driver and a tour guide for you with a car and send you off to see them tomorrow? We could then meet for cocktails and dinner later. I’ll have your currency for you then. What say you to that?”
    “That would be excellent.”

CHAPTER 5

    Hot breath exhaled from the man and woman like low flying clouds as they plodded up the steep, snow-packed road, leading up to a plateau in the mountains nine miles from remote Stepnogorsk, Kazakhstan. Spring, that had come elsewhere, was still absent there.
    The man carried a plastic bag with something in it that was fairly heavy.
    The bus had dropped them off at the spot where there used to be a half dozen armed Soviet soldiers at a guard station, an electrified fence, a radio to call to verify any questionable identities, and a weapons carrier, all now vanished.
    Dr. Borislav Dorogomilov was tall, gaunt, and pale-skinned. His hair receded on either side of his head and gray filled his sideburns. His mouth and lips had an unfriendly thinness, and his nose was long and slender. His expression gave no hint of welcome.
    Dr. Anastasiya Volkova, his assistant of many years, was almost as old. She was tall, slender, with long, thin legs; thin, broad shoulders; and a tall, thin head with blondish hair. She was attractive, but she took no time to apply makeup nor fuss with her looks. Her manner was very domineering.
    “It’s so good to have you back,” she said to him. “The funeral for Karina