Read the previous part here.
I'm flying back to New York. I can't wait to get back to my place and meet my family and friends. The past few days have made me realize what I truly am and I have a hint of what my future's going to be like.
After meeting Imagina last night, I realized what part I was playing in the plot that had caused me to be brought to Europe. The books in the room helped me to totally understand what was happening. There was a telephone in the room; we made a few calls, to the police and to the American Embassy. Half an hour later, the place was stormed by the Police and we were rescued.
EPILOGUE:
Luxembourg is a parliamentary representative democracy with a constitutional monarch; it is ruled by a Grand Duke. It is the world's only remaining sovereign Grand Duchy. Succession to the throne is inherited by Salic law, as dictated by the Nassau Family Pact, first adopted on 30 June 1783. The crown is passed by agnatic-cognatic primogeniture within the House of Nassau, as stipulated under the 1815 Final Act of the Congress of Vienna and as confirmed by the 1867 Treaty of London.
Count Henry II of Nassau had two sons, Walram II and Otto I, Walram being the older of the two. In about 1247, Henry II abdicated, passing the reign to Otto, the younger son. Sometime between 1249 and 1251, Walram began to share the reign as Co-Count of Nassau. Because of continuing disputes with Otto, Walram II divided the inheritance with him on December 17, 1255, beginning a centuries-long political and geographical separation between the two lines of the House of Nassau.
As per the provisions of the Nassau Family Pact, the Walramian line was to rule the Nassau lands. Only in case of one of the lines becoming extinct, the other would succeed in its hereditary Nassau lands. This implied the Ottonian Line could take over only after the Walramian Line became extinct. The Ottonian line “allegedly” had long been lost in its internal disputes; and its claim to the monarchy was more or less rendered invalid after the death of John II.
The present-day Grand Dukes of Luxembourg are descended from Walram. "Agnatic-cognatic primogeniture" allows female agnates (or their descendants) to inherit once there are no surviving male agnates.
Jean Felix, the Duke's only child was also the only heir to the monarchy. After the old Duke's demise, he would be the last male descendant in the Walramian line. Robert XII was the torch bearer of the Ottonian Line. He realized that Jean was the only wall separating the throne and his (Ottonian) lineage. It was common sense that Jane be removed. However, the old duke had expected Robert’s intentions, and to stop him, in his last days, he introduced a change in the Family Laws that prevented anyone suspected of foul play to be eligible for the throne.
Thus, Jean had to be removed from the picture without raising any suspicions. What if Jane was killed and replaced by someone that looked exactly like him. Of course, Jean’s replacement would have to be rendered harmless first. That was the plan. It could succeed if Jean’s replacement were someone that would allow himself to be a silent playing-along John. But he was not. And their plan did not succeed.
Michael Baker succeeded not only in marring the success of their plan but also in saving two innocent lives- his and Imagina’s. Imagina was Jean’s fiancé. That fateful night when Michael found Imagina a hostage, he realized why he was in Europe. They called the American Embassy and the Police and were rescued.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
Elan-e-Jung the Band Brawl at IITH
It was a warm Saturday afternoon. I was minding my own business,trying to figure out how the Support Vector Machine works, when suddenly I heard the characteristic "ping" that I seldom hear (not that I am deaf or anything; it's just that I'm not a popular guy). It was my email account that comes with an embedded messenger. In case you've guessed "Gmail", you've guessed it right. I had logged into it hours ago (I had recently spent forty minutes explaining to my lovely mother that being online all the time did not imply I was chatting all the time, and I still doubt if she believed me), had not received an email since but this ping was a reminder that technology not only distances people from one another but also has the power to bring them together at times. It was a ping from one of my few (I wish mother reads this) companions. It said, "Kryptos@IIT?" Our ancestors would have failed to gain any sense from the encrypted message but the message hit home in my head. For those as wise as our ancestors, I'd like to extend technical support by saying that the message was an invitation to the rock show at IIT Hyderbad where the headlining band was Kryptos. I looked at my watch, it was three in the afternoon. "When do we leave?", I typed back. "5:30" came the reply. "Count me in" were my next words.
Next I opened another tab in my Mozilla and typed "IIT Hyderabad map" in the search box. No relevant results. I modified the query to "Hyderabad Map" and I selected the first result. A map of Hyderabad was on my monitor. I searched for IIT Hyderabad in this window, google instead responded with IIIT Hyderabad. At times I wonder if Google is really as intelligent an organization as it is supposed to be. Look at my goddamn IP before throwing those suggestions! I reminded myself that big table was optimized for speed and not correctness. The bottom line is, I could not locate IITH on Google Maps, so I had to make sure someone knew the way before we set off. It was Vedant who claimed he could get us to our destination and we believed him.
We set out at five; someone said the show would begin earlier than the scheduled time. We were five out of work blokes on three hard working bikes. Our destination was thirty kilometres from our source, give or take a couple of those units. Avinash (not Abinash) joined us at Lingampally. He perched his rear on Vedant's bike, Soumen's came behind mine and we set out to explore the terra-incognita, the part of Hyderabad that none of us believed was part of Hyderabad owing to sheer geographical separation. We raced forth on NH9 for about 18-20 kilometres and then took a left, speeding through the village markets and finally on thinner roads with agriculture on both sides. There were some chemical factories along the way that almost paralysed us with their utterly-butterly repulsive gases. For miles we had to constrain our inhalation procedures; at one point of time I craved mouth to mouth for fear of fainting but I just did not have the right company. At one point, I did a Pulsar Stunt Mania manouvre and Soumen and I almost ended lying by the road when the rear wheel slipped in the sand and the centre of gravity of the bike,biker and pillion system shifted by a metre and the net force forced us into the dense undergrowth on the side of the road. For forty seconds we experienced a complex harmonic motion superimposed by the centripetal gyration and accelerated motion on an inclined plane; then we were back on the road. Soumen uttered a four lettered word when we resumed rectilinear propagation.
We reached the spot (no pun intended). It was a stadium in the humblest of surroundings. One of the bands had just begun. There were chairs laid out in the field and a big stage was erected. The band that was playing was called Eagle Riders. It was good. We looked around for add-ons, there were none. It was one of those scenarios where you said to yourself "Just the Music, nothing else", except that this time the scenario was imposed upon you and despite the lavish arrangements, the sound was not exceptional.
We walked as close to the stage as our conscience allowed and started to bang our heads involuntarily, to cheer the jammers; no band likes a cold response and there were not enough people around to satisfy the quorum at a Gram Panchayat. A volunteer from the organising committee was sent to dampen our spirits by asking us to step away from the stage; he reasoned the audience was unable to see the performance. "This is not some Nautanki chum, it is a freakin' Rock show" I was tempted to say, but they were IITians, a species considered more evolved than our own, so I refrained. We complied. Our keyboardist Abinash, who is often found listening to bands like Lamb of God and Dimmu Borgir, and has had long chats with Mephisto, found the explanation preposterous and demanded "Why do you have chairs in the first place?". The volunteer gulped a lump in his throat, probably felt an outward thrust in his bladder, and responded "for families and old people". Another question was raised, "Families? Old people?" and the answer was "We support that". I intervened with "that is good,God bless your noble intentions" and the issue was not pursued further. Meanwhile the KB Bakers and Frankie vendors had arrived and they were selling edibles. We had something to eat.
The other bands followed, among which we adored All the Fat Children and liked Death Note and the track Maha Kali by Downpour. More people gathered; these included more IITians and several old aunties, several fathers and mothers with their small children. We met our friend Swaroop from Cerebral Assassins who shared our view about the crucial ingredients missing in the show. We discussed about the bands. Meanwhile the IITians had sprung into action. They were dancing, jumping around, throwing each other in the air, pushing, pulling, and what not. They were exuberant. We grabbed all the inspiration they had to offer and upon Swaroop's invitation -which was an elbow jab in my chest- started our own moshing pit. We took turns at head banging and moshing and observing the vigour of the hosts. We witnessed people doing Bhangra,Kathakali,Bharat Natyam,even Salsa at the growling vocals and heavy music. It was quite a sight. It looked like a disco theque, if not someone's Baraat. Young girls and guys, dancing hand in hand; the guys swirling the girls around; God it was annoying.
Suddenly it was time for Kryptos to set foot on the stage. The vigour of the crowd did not diminish, Au Contraire, it increased. Fathers, with their small kids holding their fingers walked up, thumping their feet and adding to the amount of dust in the air. Kryptos did a fine job; they were the reason why we were there. We still hope the sound system was better. It was brought to our attention that the Rock show was to be followed by the Dance Competition and our jaws dropped. WTF? Kryptos was given the hint and they played Descension, the last track of the evening. They did not play more than six tracks. Nolan, as he was leaving the stage uttered the words "Thank You guys for keeping metal alive in Hyderabad". I remembered the words of Pulkit, "Now you're being judgemental". Metal was on a ventilator and perhaps even a catheter that night if not lying peacefully in a grave. I expect all rock listeners to understand this statement.
All in all, the rock show was decent (another brick in the wall), but are rock shows supposed to be decent?
Next I opened another tab in my Mozilla and typed "IIT Hyderabad map" in the search box. No relevant results. I modified the query to "Hyderabad Map" and I selected the first result. A map of Hyderabad was on my monitor. I searched for IIT Hyderabad in this window, google instead responded with IIIT Hyderabad. At times I wonder if Google is really as intelligent an organization as it is supposed to be. Look at my goddamn IP before throwing those suggestions! I reminded myself that big table was optimized for speed and not correctness. The bottom line is, I could not locate IITH on Google Maps, so I had to make sure someone knew the way before we set off. It was Vedant who claimed he could get us to our destination and we believed him.
We set out at five; someone said the show would begin earlier than the scheduled time. We were five out of work blokes on three hard working bikes. Our destination was thirty kilometres from our source, give or take a couple of those units. Avinash (not Abinash) joined us at Lingampally. He perched his rear on Vedant's bike, Soumen's came behind mine and we set out to explore the terra-incognita, the part of Hyderabad that none of us believed was part of Hyderabad owing to sheer geographical separation. We raced forth on NH9 for about 18-20 kilometres and then took a left, speeding through the village markets and finally on thinner roads with agriculture on both sides. There were some chemical factories along the way that almost paralysed us with their utterly-butterly repulsive gases. For miles we had to constrain our inhalation procedures; at one point of time I craved mouth to mouth for fear of fainting but I just did not have the right company. At one point, I did a Pulsar Stunt Mania manouvre and Soumen and I almost ended lying by the road when the rear wheel slipped in the sand and the centre of gravity of the bike,biker and pillion system shifted by a metre and the net force forced us into the dense undergrowth on the side of the road. For forty seconds we experienced a complex harmonic motion superimposed by the centripetal gyration and accelerated motion on an inclined plane; then we were back on the road. Soumen uttered a four lettered word when we resumed rectilinear propagation.
We reached the spot (no pun intended). It was a stadium in the humblest of surroundings. One of the bands had just begun. There were chairs laid out in the field and a big stage was erected. The band that was playing was called Eagle Riders. It was good. We looked around for add-ons, there were none. It was one of those scenarios where you said to yourself "Just the Music, nothing else", except that this time the scenario was imposed upon you and despite the lavish arrangements, the sound was not exceptional.
We walked as close to the stage as our conscience allowed and started to bang our heads involuntarily, to cheer the jammers; no band likes a cold response and there were not enough people around to satisfy the quorum at a Gram Panchayat. A volunteer from the organising committee was sent to dampen our spirits by asking us to step away from the stage; he reasoned the audience was unable to see the performance. "This is not some Nautanki chum, it is a freakin' Rock show" I was tempted to say, but they were IITians, a species considered more evolved than our own, so I refrained. We complied. Our keyboardist Abinash, who is often found listening to bands like Lamb of God and Dimmu Borgir, and has had long chats with Mephisto, found the explanation preposterous and demanded "Why do you have chairs in the first place?". The volunteer gulped a lump in his throat, probably felt an outward thrust in his bladder, and responded "for families and old people". Another question was raised, "Families? Old people?" and the answer was "We support that". I intervened with "that is good,God bless your noble intentions" and the issue was not pursued further. Meanwhile the KB Bakers and Frankie vendors had arrived and they were selling edibles. We had something to eat.
The other bands followed, among which we adored All the Fat Children and liked Death Note and the track Maha Kali by Downpour. More people gathered; these included more IITians and several old aunties, several fathers and mothers with their small children. We met our friend Swaroop from Cerebral Assassins who shared our view about the crucial ingredients missing in the show. We discussed about the bands. Meanwhile the IITians had sprung into action. They were dancing, jumping around, throwing each other in the air, pushing, pulling, and what not. They were exuberant. We grabbed all the inspiration they had to offer and upon Swaroop's invitation -which was an elbow jab in my chest- started our own moshing pit. We took turns at head banging and moshing and observing the vigour of the hosts. We witnessed people doing Bhangra,Kathakali,Bharat Natyam,even Salsa at the growling vocals and heavy music. It was quite a sight. It looked like a disco theque, if not someone's Baraat. Young girls and guys, dancing hand in hand; the guys swirling the girls around; God it was annoying.
Suddenly it was time for Kryptos to set foot on the stage. The vigour of the crowd did not diminish, Au Contraire, it increased. Fathers, with their small kids holding their fingers walked up, thumping their feet and adding to the amount of dust in the air. Kryptos did a fine job; they were the reason why we were there. We still hope the sound system was better. It was brought to our attention that the Rock show was to be followed by the Dance Competition and our jaws dropped. WTF? Kryptos was given the hint and they played Descension, the last track of the evening. They did not play more than six tracks. Nolan, as he was leaving the stage uttered the words "Thank You guys for keeping metal alive in Hyderabad". I remembered the words of Pulkit, "Now you're being judgemental". Metal was on a ventilator and perhaps even a catheter that night if not lying peacefully in a grave. I expect all rock listeners to understand this statement.
All in all, the rock show was decent (another brick in the wall), but are rock shows supposed to be decent?
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
In a Stranger's Shoes, part 7
Read the previous part Here.
Now that I have the knowledge that there might be clues in the next room, I can't rest. It is midnight. I was brought in some food at seven; I was given an injection at ten. Fortunately I had the chance of replacing the injections with water, so I am not drugged. In the last few hours, I have devised a plan to get to the next room. It is time to execute the design. I open the window and climb out of it. The cold wind blows against my face. I feel the life, the adventure that I always sought in my teenage years. I had wanted to be a cop and was the topper in the academy, but my father's sudden demise and my greedy relatives had caused me to work as a journalist. Striving to push the past aside, I fling myself from the supporting bars and land on the sill of the window in the next room. A sharp fist jab on the wood forces it to open. I step in the room. As I am about to reach for the light switch, I realize I have company. I am startled by someone's muffled cries coming from the same room. Did they find out? As I wait for them to make the move, the cries become more distinct. It is a female voice crying out in French. I can make out the words aider, laissez-moi which in my language mean help, leave me. I hit the switch and light shatters the darkness in the room. I see an impeccably beautiful woman clad in a white dress tied to the bed. Her limbs and her mouth are tied with cloth. On seeing me she stops. I untie her and she embraces me. “Jean. Jean. s'en aller. ils vont te tuer.” It hits me: Jean was the guy in the passport. He and I looked alike, he's the guy who had died in the hotel in Brussels. I was brought here because I bear a striking resemblance to him and now I'll be playing his part in their scheme. I run my hand through her hair and she calms down. “Listen”, I tell her. “I am not Jean. I am Michael Baker.” She draws herself apart from me as she grasps the meaning of my words. She starts sobbing. “Is he dead?”, she asks. “Yes.” I let her cry; tears are the right of a sad soul.
“Who are you?”, she asks.
“I am Michael Baker, an American. I was brought here from Brussels as a hostage. I want to know what these people want from me”, I tell her.
She starts talking,
“Jean was the old Duke's only heir. The old Duke is on his death bed. After the Duke's death, Jean would be the last male survivor of the Walramian line. Our captors work for Jean's distant cousin Robert. Robert draws his blood from the Ottonian Line. Robert can take over the Dukedom only after the Walramian line becomes extinct. However, the old Duke suspected a threat to Jean's life, so he amended the Family-Pact to include a clause wherein if foul play is suspected, the line suspected of foul play can be denied its right to the throne. Thus, Robert could not kill Jean, until he found you. Now his plan is to prove that Jean, i.e. you, are mentally retarded and the right to the throne is his.”
After she finishes, I assure her that Robert would never be able to succeed in his evil plan. Finally I set my eyes on the huge piece of furniture that I had suspected would be in this room. It is a wooden shelf holding books. It has many books, photo albums, even manuscripts. One week of my life certainly deserves more explanation than she has given me. I scan through the books, flipping several pages wildly. I must find out the entire truth. Finally I succeed to retrieve the book that holds the answers to all the questions in my head. I read it.
Read the LAST part here.
Now that I have the knowledge that there might be clues in the next room, I can't rest. It is midnight. I was brought in some food at seven; I was given an injection at ten. Fortunately I had the chance of replacing the injections with water, so I am not drugged. In the last few hours, I have devised a plan to get to the next room. It is time to execute the design. I open the window and climb out of it. The cold wind blows against my face. I feel the life, the adventure that I always sought in my teenage years. I had wanted to be a cop and was the topper in the academy, but my father's sudden demise and my greedy relatives had caused me to work as a journalist. Striving to push the past aside, I fling myself from the supporting bars and land on the sill of the window in the next room. A sharp fist jab on the wood forces it to open. I step in the room. As I am about to reach for the light switch, I realize I have company. I am startled by someone's muffled cries coming from the same room. Did they find out? As I wait for them to make the move, the cries become more distinct. It is a female voice crying out in French. I can make out the words aider, laissez-moi which in my language mean help, leave me. I hit the switch and light shatters the darkness in the room. I see an impeccably beautiful woman clad in a white dress tied to the bed. Her limbs and her mouth are tied with cloth. On seeing me she stops. I untie her and she embraces me. “Jean. Jean. s'en aller. ils vont te tuer.” It hits me: Jean was the guy in the passport. He and I looked alike, he's the guy who had died in the hotel in Brussels. I was brought here because I bear a striking resemblance to him and now I'll be playing his part in their scheme. I run my hand through her hair and she calms down. “Listen”, I tell her. “I am not Jean. I am Michael Baker.” She draws herself apart from me as she grasps the meaning of my words. She starts sobbing. “Is he dead?”, she asks. “Yes.” I let her cry; tears are the right of a sad soul.
“Who are you?”, she asks.
“I am Michael Baker, an American. I was brought here from Brussels as a hostage. I want to know what these people want from me”, I tell her.
She starts talking,
“Jean was the old Duke's only heir. The old Duke is on his death bed. After the Duke's death, Jean would be the last male survivor of the Walramian line. Our captors work for Jean's distant cousin Robert. Robert draws his blood from the Ottonian Line. Robert can take over the Dukedom only after the Walramian line becomes extinct. However, the old Duke suspected a threat to Jean's life, so he amended the Family-Pact to include a clause wherein if foul play is suspected, the line suspected of foul play can be denied its right to the throne. Thus, Robert could not kill Jean, until he found you. Now his plan is to prove that Jean, i.e. you, are mentally retarded and the right to the throne is his.”
After she finishes, I assure her that Robert would never be able to succeed in his evil plan. Finally I set my eyes on the huge piece of furniture that I had suspected would be in this room. It is a wooden shelf holding books. It has many books, photo albums, even manuscripts. One week of my life certainly deserves more explanation than she has given me. I scan through the books, flipping several pages wildly. I must find out the entire truth. Finally I succeed to retrieve the book that holds the answers to all the questions in my head. I read it.
Read the LAST part here.
In a Stranger's Shoes, part 6
Read the previous part Here.
When I regain consciousness, I am in the car. The two guys who had picked me from the hotel are with me. The one who was driving then is sitting on my right and the other one is at the wheel. I can still feel the numbness in my limbs but I’m not paralysed any more. I can move my arms and as I raise my palms to press them against my temples, my companion is alarmed; he turns to face me but makes no physical contact. He smiles at me but makes no attempt to talk. Presently he turns away to look at the fields by the side of the road. In a muffled tone, I ask him where we’re headed to. He says without looking at me, “You’ll find out soon.” I reply, “I’m sure I will” and I turn to my left to look outside. Among the green surroundings, I spot a milestone which tells me that Luxembourg is a hundred kilometres away. I now have reason to think Luxembourg is our destination, or at least the next stop. The vehicle is cruising at a hundred kilometres per hour. If I try to jump off, I’ll positively break a few bones. Even if I escape any bodily injuries miraculously, I certainly cannot hope to escape. Besides, I’m out of most of my physical strength which will guarantee that if I mess with any one of these guys, I’ll be on the receiving end of any of the blows any man delivers. Time to show off has not come yet. I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep. For a long time the bastards don’t talk, even to each other. Then I sense the vehicle speed decreasing, gradually. Apparently the driver is pulling off. The sedan comes to a halt. I hear the doors opening. I keep my eyes closed. My companion shakes me but I pretend not to notice. Soon I hear the doors shutting and the blip-blip of the automatic lock. Few seconds later I open my eyes. I’m alone. I can see my captors smoking outside some small cigarette shop on the other side of the road. I try to unlock the door but it doesn’t open. I’m trapped inside. There’s a plastic case in the rear pocket of the driver’s seat. I grab it and open it. There are half a dozen syringes with some transparent solution in them. That’s what they’ve been giving me. There’s a bottle of mineral water between the two front seats. Hastily I discharge the contents of the syringes under the floor mat and refill each of them with the water. I replace the box in the pocket. From the corner of my eye I see them crossing the road. I drift off to the pretentious sleep again. Moments later the wheels of the auto-mobile are set into motion again. Minutes later, I open my eyes and engage myself in staring at the view that the window offers. We are nearing Luxembourg because the buildings have started to appear. I can see a river flowing below us; we must be on a bridge. Thirty minutes later, the car takes a right turn; away from the free way and another ten minutes later the car enters a huge gate which leads to some palatial building. The architecture is ancient, as if the building were some fort or some palace - I can’t tell which - a few centuries ago. So, I’m going to stay at this palace for a while. My captors are certainly hospitable.
I am shown my room by my companions. We had to climb quite a few stairs to get to the room. I'm not shackled but there's only one window to the room and a solitary door,locked from outside, and perhaps guarded. I look around the room, there's a bath attached. The room's arrangement has been changed recently, as can be seen from the drag marks on the carpet. Looking at these marks on the carpet, I can guess furniture has even been removed from the room. There's some plaster missing from the wall opposite to my bed. I examine it closely. There was something heavy kept against the wall, perhaps a wooden shelf and it was moved out of the room. As I was being ushered into this room, I had seen peculiar scratch marks in the floor leading from this room to the adjacent one. This brings me to believe that something heavy that was in this room was recently moved to the other room. What could it be? Could it be something that would help dissolve the clouds of mystery in my head? Perhaps.
Read the next part Here.
When I regain consciousness, I am in the car. The two guys who had picked me from the hotel are with me. The one who was driving then is sitting on my right and the other one is at the wheel. I can still feel the numbness in my limbs but I’m not paralysed any more. I can move my arms and as I raise my palms to press them against my temples, my companion is alarmed; he turns to face me but makes no physical contact. He smiles at me but makes no attempt to talk. Presently he turns away to look at the fields by the side of the road. In a muffled tone, I ask him where we’re headed to. He says without looking at me, “You’ll find out soon.” I reply, “I’m sure I will” and I turn to my left to look outside. Among the green surroundings, I spot a milestone which tells me that Luxembourg is a hundred kilometres away. I now have reason to think Luxembourg is our destination, or at least the next stop. The vehicle is cruising at a hundred kilometres per hour. If I try to jump off, I’ll positively break a few bones. Even if I escape any bodily injuries miraculously, I certainly cannot hope to escape. Besides, I’m out of most of my physical strength which will guarantee that if I mess with any one of these guys, I’ll be on the receiving end of any of the blows any man delivers. Time to show off has not come yet. I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep. For a long time the bastards don’t talk, even to each other. Then I sense the vehicle speed decreasing, gradually. Apparently the driver is pulling off. The sedan comes to a halt. I hear the doors opening. I keep my eyes closed. My companion shakes me but I pretend not to notice. Soon I hear the doors shutting and the blip-blip of the automatic lock. Few seconds later I open my eyes. I’m alone. I can see my captors smoking outside some small cigarette shop on the other side of the road. I try to unlock the door but it doesn’t open. I’m trapped inside. There’s a plastic case in the rear pocket of the driver’s seat. I grab it and open it. There are half a dozen syringes with some transparent solution in them. That’s what they’ve been giving me. There’s a bottle of mineral water between the two front seats. Hastily I discharge the contents of the syringes under the floor mat and refill each of them with the water. I replace the box in the pocket. From the corner of my eye I see them crossing the road. I drift off to the pretentious sleep again. Moments later the wheels of the auto-mobile are set into motion again. Minutes later, I open my eyes and engage myself in staring at the view that the window offers. We are nearing Luxembourg because the buildings have started to appear. I can see a river flowing below us; we must be on a bridge. Thirty minutes later, the car takes a right turn; away from the free way and another ten minutes later the car enters a huge gate which leads to some palatial building. The architecture is ancient, as if the building were some fort or some palace - I can’t tell which - a few centuries ago. So, I’m going to stay at this palace for a while. My captors are certainly hospitable.
I am shown my room by my companions. We had to climb quite a few stairs to get to the room. I'm not shackled but there's only one window to the room and a solitary door,locked from outside, and perhaps guarded. I look around the room, there's a bath attached. The room's arrangement has been changed recently, as can be seen from the drag marks on the carpet. Looking at these marks on the carpet, I can guess furniture has even been removed from the room. There's some plaster missing from the wall opposite to my bed. I examine it closely. There was something heavy kept against the wall, perhaps a wooden shelf and it was moved out of the room. As I was being ushered into this room, I had seen peculiar scratch marks in the floor leading from this room to the adjacent one. This brings me to believe that something heavy that was in this room was recently moved to the other room. What could it be? Could it be something that would help dissolve the clouds of mystery in my head? Perhaps.
Read the next part Here.
Friday, August 7, 2009
In a Stranger's Shoes, part 5
Read the previous part here.
I must meet these people who are waiting for me in the car. I stuff the loose cash I found, a decent amount of twelve hundred Euros, in my pant pockets. I also collect the four Credit Cards and the Passport from the attaché case, all of which bear the name of Jean Felix; I keep these in the inner pocket of my jacket. Dr. Ackerman’s visiting card finds its way in the same pocket moments later. Now I must go and see my companions in the car. With this intention I exit the room. Once outside, I find a man, dressed in the Hotel Staff Uniform, wearing the Crescent Hotel Badge over his breast pocket. He greets me in a thick French accent,
“Bonjour, Dear Sir. I will escort you to the parking place where your car is waiting. This way please.” I follow him to the Elevator Entrance, outside which a Gold Sign reads: 12th Floor.
Minutes later, I see the sedan in which three men are seated. One of them starts walking towards me. He is a heavily built huge guy; his presence is certainly intended to intimidate me. As he approaches me, he greets me in a friendly manner, much to my surprise. I had a feeling I was about to be muscled into the car, but the man’s not looking threatening. He asks me to step into the car politely. With some hesitation I get in. He gets in after me and sits beside me. The other one starts the car and we set on a journey to our next destination, whatever that might be. Once the wheels are set in motion and we hit the road, I ask them where we are going. My companion tells me that we are going for my treatment.
“What treatment?” I ask.
“Mr. Felix Sir. You must not speak.” He says.
“What treatment?” I repeat.
“Give him the injection” says the driver.
And suddenly I feel a needle piercing through my arm and I feel my bodily sensations weakening.
When I open my eyes, I am tied to a chair. I have electrodes connected to my temples and there’s a monitor showing some graphs on my right. I still can’t move my limbs; it seems like I am in a trance. I can discern the things around me but I sit there paralyzed. I can feel the peculiar warmth in my temples and some kind of a gel is dripping down my sideburns. I know this is a medical facility. I am undergoing a brain scan, but why? Who’s administering this? My eyes travel to a sign on the wall which reads:
Ashford Institute of Brain Research.
That sounds familiar. I have a visiting card one in my pockets which bears the same few words on it.
And then I hear someone’s voice telling me, “Stay collected. Do not think. You might hurt yourself.” The voice is coming from the vibrations of the vocal chords of a man, aged between 60 and 65, and presently I see him looking into my eyes. I can barely read the name on his badge as he turns a few knobs on the monitor which let strong sensations through my brain and I fall unconcious again.
The name I read is Dr. Patrick Ackerman.
Read the next part Here.
I must meet these people who are waiting for me in the car. I stuff the loose cash I found, a decent amount of twelve hundred Euros, in my pant pockets. I also collect the four Credit Cards and the Passport from the attaché case, all of which bear the name of Jean Felix; I keep these in the inner pocket of my jacket. Dr. Ackerman’s visiting card finds its way in the same pocket moments later. Now I must go and see my companions in the car. With this intention I exit the room. Once outside, I find a man, dressed in the Hotel Staff Uniform, wearing the Crescent Hotel Badge over his breast pocket. He greets me in a thick French accent,
“Bonjour, Dear Sir. I will escort you to the parking place where your car is waiting. This way please.” I follow him to the Elevator Entrance, outside which a Gold Sign reads: 12th Floor.
Minutes later, I see the sedan in which three men are seated. One of them starts walking towards me. He is a heavily built huge guy; his presence is certainly intended to intimidate me. As he approaches me, he greets me in a friendly manner, much to my surprise. I had a feeling I was about to be muscled into the car, but the man’s not looking threatening. He asks me to step into the car politely. With some hesitation I get in. He gets in after me and sits beside me. The other one starts the car and we set on a journey to our next destination, whatever that might be. Once the wheels are set in motion and we hit the road, I ask them where we are going. My companion tells me that we are going for my treatment.
“What treatment?” I ask.
“Mr. Felix Sir. You must not speak.” He says.
“What treatment?” I repeat.
“Give him the injection” says the driver.
And suddenly I feel a needle piercing through my arm and I feel my bodily sensations weakening.
When I open my eyes, I am tied to a chair. I have electrodes connected to my temples and there’s a monitor showing some graphs on my right. I still can’t move my limbs; it seems like I am in a trance. I can discern the things around me but I sit there paralyzed. I can feel the peculiar warmth in my temples and some kind of a gel is dripping down my sideburns. I know this is a medical facility. I am undergoing a brain scan, but why? Who’s administering this? My eyes travel to a sign on the wall which reads:
Ashford Institute of Brain Research.
That sounds familiar. I have a visiting card one in my pockets which bears the same few words on it.
And then I hear someone’s voice telling me, “Stay collected. Do not think. You might hurt yourself.” The voice is coming from the vibrations of the vocal chords of a man, aged between 60 and 65, and presently I see him looking into my eyes. I can barely read the name on his badge as he turns a few knobs on the monitor which let strong sensations through my brain and I fall unconcious again.
The name I read is Dr. Patrick Ackerman.
Read the next part Here.
Friday, July 31, 2009
In a Stranger's Shoes, part 4
Read the previous part here.
According to News Paper reports, Michael Baker is dead. I know the report is not true; it doesn’t take much persuasion to convince oneself that one is not dead: I am Michael Baker. The clouds of confusion surrounding my head become denser. The News Report also says that Baker was missing from his California office for a week. Today is August 24; there is certainly one week of activity that my brain cannot account for. For some strange reason, I can’t recall how I engaged myself during the last week. The News Paper could still be hoax. There’s one way to find out. I must call the Crescent Hotel and find out if someone by the name of Michael Baker was found dead there. I reach for the Telephone Directory. Upon opening it, on the inside of the cover, I find stamped in red ink:
“Property of the Crescent Hotel, Brussels.”
Upon further inspection, I find similar stamp marks on the other books in the shelf.
I realize I am in The Crescent Hotel. The only logical explanation I can summon is they must’ve mistaken someone else for me, but logic is not the driving force of the events I have experienced lately.
The phone rings again. I pick it up and the same female voice conveys that they are still waiting for me in the car. I tell her to tell them that I’d be there in five minutes. I must go and find out who they are and what they want.
I find my clothes and get dressed up properly. There’s no money on my person. There’s a small gray attaché case on a wooden shelf. I open it. There is some loose cash, besides a few Credit Cards and some other documents. Among the documents I can see a Passport with my picture on it. But it bears the name of some Jean Felix. It dawns on me that I am being set up as an imposter. Someone has died and the departed is being identified with my identity.
There has been no misunderstanding: these events are planned; I can bet my life on it. There is some force which has brought about the series of events - by expert planning and flawless execution - culminating to this point so far, and this adventure will definitely go beyond the present, for this is part of a scheme which is yet to see its final stage, a fact which I know because they are waiting for me in the car. The forces who have planned the scheme are no ordinary ones, they have exhibited extraordinary qualities by making an American citizen disappear from his country and reappear in strange circumstances in a strange Nation with one week of his memory more or less fully erased. They must have International links and substantial resources to pull this off. Without a doubt they are a threat to my life, but my guess is: I have an important part to play in this plan, whatever it is, and my living is essential to the completion of it.
Now that I’ve figured out as much as I could’ve with the aid of the clues at my disposal, I must play along with their plan to discern their motive and their plan. The bottom line is, I must know more about the people I am dealing with before trying anything that might lessen my chances of survival. And for that I must meet these people.
Read the next part here.
According to News Paper reports, Michael Baker is dead. I know the report is not true; it doesn’t take much persuasion to convince oneself that one is not dead: I am Michael Baker. The clouds of confusion surrounding my head become denser. The News Report also says that Baker was missing from his California office for a week. Today is August 24; there is certainly one week of activity that my brain cannot account for. For some strange reason, I can’t recall how I engaged myself during the last week. The News Paper could still be hoax. There’s one way to find out. I must call the Crescent Hotel and find out if someone by the name of Michael Baker was found dead there. I reach for the Telephone Directory. Upon opening it, on the inside of the cover, I find stamped in red ink:
“Property of the Crescent Hotel, Brussels.”
Upon further inspection, I find similar stamp marks on the other books in the shelf.
I realize I am in The Crescent Hotel. The only logical explanation I can summon is they must’ve mistaken someone else for me, but logic is not the driving force of the events I have experienced lately.
The phone rings again. I pick it up and the same female voice conveys that they are still waiting for me in the car. I tell her to tell them that I’d be there in five minutes. I must go and find out who they are and what they want.
I find my clothes and get dressed up properly. There’s no money on my person. There’s a small gray attaché case on a wooden shelf. I open it. There is some loose cash, besides a few Credit Cards and some other documents. Among the documents I can see a Passport with my picture on it. But it bears the name of some Jean Felix. It dawns on me that I am being set up as an imposter. Someone has died and the departed is being identified with my identity.
There has been no misunderstanding: these events are planned; I can bet my life on it. There is some force which has brought about the series of events - by expert planning and flawless execution - culminating to this point so far, and this adventure will definitely go beyond the present, for this is part of a scheme which is yet to see its final stage, a fact which I know because they are waiting for me in the car. The forces who have planned the scheme are no ordinary ones, they have exhibited extraordinary qualities by making an American citizen disappear from his country and reappear in strange circumstances in a strange Nation with one week of his memory more or less fully erased. They must have International links and substantial resources to pull this off. Without a doubt they are a threat to my life, but my guess is: I have an important part to play in this plan, whatever it is, and my living is essential to the completion of it.
Now that I’ve figured out as much as I could’ve with the aid of the clues at my disposal, I must play along with their plan to discern their motive and their plan. The bottom line is, I must know more about the people I am dealing with before trying anything that might lessen my chances of survival. And for that I must meet these people.
Read the next part here.
Friday, July 10, 2009
In a Stranger's Shoes, part 3
Read the previous part here.
They are waiting for me in the car. Who are they? I find the visiting card still lying on the table by the bed. I pick it up. It says:
Dr. Patrick Ackerman
Head of Department
Ashford Institute of Brain Research
Brussels.
The name doesn’t ring any bells. Brussels? Am I in Brussels?
The table has a lower shelf where a few books are stacked. I must look at them. A man like me, with a lot of questions like these can not rest until he finds the answers; and he leaves no stones unturned to unravel the mystery surrounding the strange circumstances he finds himself in. Perhaps the books would give me something to think about. My hands find their way into the shelf, removing the books on top because they are merely magazines published in Belgium; they could’ve been planted there to mislead me. I find a Bible in the stack. The thickest volume at the bottom of the pile is a directory, the Telephone Directory of Brussels: now I can find out if I really am in Brussels. I search my pockets: my cell phone is missing. I look around; if she has a cell phone, it must be somewhere. Finally I spot the note on the base unit of the land line: Press 0 to make calls, 9 for room service…
I hold the receiver against my ear and press 0, I hear the dial tone. I randomly open a page in the directory and dial the first number I see. I hear the ring from the other end; someone picks up; I hang up. I am in Brussels: the line connected without an STD code.
Why Brussels? Why have I been brought here? Who has brought me here?
Suddenly I hear a swish. I turn around to find a News Paper near the door. Apparently it’s Room Service.
Inside Europe, Brussels, dated 24th August 2007.
Fortunately it’s the English Edition, I can read. I pick it up from the floor; I hate it when people place agents of knowledge on the floor: they demand respect. I look through the first few pages: there are writings about the Politics, the Budget and stuff. And then I come to the local news page. My attention is drawn towards a particular article titled, American Citizen found dead in inscrutable circumstances in a room in The Crescent Hotel. I read through parts of it wherein the journalist describes that the victim was reportedly missing from his office in California for a week and was found in a room in the hotel in mysterious circumstances. The last line says,
The deceased was identified as Michael Baker.
I am Michael Baker.
Read the next part here.
They are waiting for me in the car. Who are they? I find the visiting card still lying on the table by the bed. I pick it up. It says:
Dr. Patrick Ackerman
Head of Department
Ashford Institute of Brain Research
Brussels.
The name doesn’t ring any bells. Brussels? Am I in Brussels?
The table has a lower shelf where a few books are stacked. I must look at them. A man like me, with a lot of questions like these can not rest until he finds the answers; and he leaves no stones unturned to unravel the mystery surrounding the strange circumstances he finds himself in. Perhaps the books would give me something to think about. My hands find their way into the shelf, removing the books on top because they are merely magazines published in Belgium; they could’ve been planted there to mislead me. I find a Bible in the stack. The thickest volume at the bottom of the pile is a directory, the Telephone Directory of Brussels: now I can find out if I really am in Brussels. I search my pockets: my cell phone is missing. I look around; if she has a cell phone, it must be somewhere. Finally I spot the note on the base unit of the land line: Press 0 to make calls, 9 for room service…
I hold the receiver against my ear and press 0, I hear the dial tone. I randomly open a page in the directory and dial the first number I see. I hear the ring from the other end; someone picks up; I hang up. I am in Brussels: the line connected without an STD code.
Why Brussels? Why have I been brought here? Who has brought me here?
Suddenly I hear a swish. I turn around to find a News Paper near the door. Apparently it’s Room Service.
Inside Europe, Brussels, dated 24th August 2007.
Fortunately it’s the English Edition, I can read. I pick it up from the floor; I hate it when people place agents of knowledge on the floor: they demand respect. I look through the first few pages: there are writings about the Politics, the Budget and stuff. And then I come to the local news page. My attention is drawn towards a particular article titled, American Citizen found dead in inscrutable circumstances in a room in The Crescent Hotel. I read through parts of it wherein the journalist describes that the victim was reportedly missing from his office in California for a week and was found in a room in the hotel in mysterious circumstances. The last line says,
The deceased was identified as Michael Baker.
I am Michael Baker.
Read the next part here.
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