The Disappearance of Anna Popov

by Gabriel Farago

  A few minutes later, a taxi pulled up at the front gate. Cassandra got out, holding a bike helmet in one hand and her walking stick in the other. Mumbling ‘Follow me’ as she limped past Jack, she hurried inside. Jack followed her up the wooden stairs to the first floor.

  At the top of the landing Cassandra stopped. ‘Please wait here,’ she said.

  Jack looked around: naked light globes dangled from the ceiling, the light fittings a distant memory. Most of the ornate cornices had fallen off long ago and the wallpaper was barely recognisable under the rising damp and grime of neglect. But worst of all was the stench: a nauseating mixture of urine and cleaning fluids.

  ‘Quick, Jack. In here,’ said Cassandra, opening one of the doors.

  There was only one bed inside the large room. The boy lying propped up in the bed – motionless and with his eyes closed – looked like a corpse. It was impossible to tell his age, other than to know he was still a child.

  Various tubes and monitoring devices were attached to him and a complicated looking piece of machinery stood next to the bed. Jack guessed that he was on life support. A woman in a nurse’s uniform stood up and left the room. Cassandra closed the door, walked over to the boy and kissed him tenderly on the forehead.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Jack. I owe you an explanation. We must talk, but there isn’t much time. My escort will arrive shortly and no one must know that we’ve met here. Do you understand?’

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘I come here once a week, but never alone. One of the Wizard’s lieutenants brings me. I sabotaged his bike and jumped into a cab to come here.’

  Recollections of the perplexed bikie tinkering with his engine on the footpath brought a fleeting smile to Cassandra’s troubled face. ‘I’m sure he’ll turn up soon though – we have to be quick.’

  Cassandra sat down on the edge of the bed and reached for the boy’s limp hand.

  ‘This is my son, Tristan. He’s been in a coma for three years.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I’ll tell you another time – there are more urgent things we have to discuss right now.’ Cassandra looked at Jack. ‘As you’ve probably guessed, what I told you about the cards last night wasn’t the truth. Our entire meeting was recorded. The Wizard was watching everything. You’ve seen the cameras, they’re everywhere. He’s obsessed with security and very suspicious. I’m not even allowed access to a phone.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Jack, I know what you seek and I can help you find it ... I know why you’re really interested in the Wizards of Oz ...’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You made a promise to a mother ...’

  Jack’s mouth went dry. He bit his lip, but said nothing.

  ‘You want to find out what happened to Anna ...’

  ‘How do you know this?’ Jack almost shouted.

  ‘Not so loud – please! The Wizards own this place. Everyone here works for them.’

  Kissing Tristan again on the forehead, Cassandra stood up and walked to the window. She parted the curtain and looked down into the street. ‘I know because yesterday, you and I met in an eternity moment. Our fate-lines touched.’

  Jack looked at her, nonplussed.

  ‘He’ll be here any second. This is my proposal: I will help you find her, but ...’

  ‘Is she alive?’ interrupted Jack.

  Ignoring the question, Cassandra held up her hand. ‘But you will have to do something for me first,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Here he is now.’

  Cassandra dropped the curtain, turned around and looked at Jack with eyes like burning coals.

  ‘We must hurry. He won’t come up here. I’ll go down in a moment and you will stay here until you see me leave with him. Understood?’

  Jack nodded.

  ‘You are a man who follows his instincts. You will have to decide right now what to do. There is a karmic window of opportunity. A small one. It will remain open for only the blink of an eye. If you accept, there’s no turning back. If you can’t, you walk away – clear?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I have to warn you. There’s danger – great danger.’

  ‘Alright.’

  ‘Okay. Listen carefully. This is what you have to do for me before I can help you ...’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  15

  Rose Cottage, 23 February

  ‘How did it go, Jack?’ asked Rebecca, dropping her Gucci, Louis Vuitton and Dior bags on the sofa. ‘My God, it’s hot. I need a drink.’

  ‘We have to talk,’ replied Jack. ‘Sit down, I’ll fix you something.’

  Rebecca collapsed into a chair and kicked off her shoes. ‘I can’t wait. A little more hocus-pocus?’

  Jack went into the kitchen and returned with two glasses of iced tea. He described Bleak House and Tristan, and recounted the meeting with Cassandra.

  ‘She knew about Anna and the promise I made to the countess. How do we explain that?’

  ‘You must have given her a clue; said something ...’

  ‘I didn’t. No way.’

  ‘That’s what clairvoyants do, Jack, they’re very perceptive. They probe, ask questions and catch you off guard when you least expect it; think!’

  ‘No.’ Jack shook his head.

  ‘Being circumspect and subtle aren’t exactly your strong points. Admit it.’

  ‘Bullshit!’

  ‘Typical male response.’

  ‘Try to keep an open mind.’

  ‘Well, it must have been in the cards, then,’ Rebecca said, a raised eyebrow the only sign of her growing exasperation.

  ‘You weren’t there ...’

  ‘She’s bewitched you. Snap out of it, Jack.’ He shook his head.

  ‘Tell me then, what do you have to do for her, before she’ll help you – huh?’

  ‘I have to make a phone call.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘There’s more to it than that.’

  ‘Do tell.’

  ‘She lives in the bikie compound behind the church. You’ve seen the place. Apparently, most of it is underground. She’s a virtual prisoner there. She can’t go out by herself. She hasn’t even got access to a phone.’

  ‘This is bizarre.’

  ‘I know. Look, she gave me this.’ Jack pulled something out of his wallet and placed it on the table in front of him.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The other half of the Tarot card she gave me yesterday – Strength. This is the bottom bit with a phone number written on it.’

  ‘And when you make this phone call, who will you talk to and what will you say?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘Come on, Jack, this is crazy.’

  He looked up, annoyed. ‘I’ll be asked to come back for another session and she’ll tell me then,’ he said curtly.

  ‘I thought the suspicious Wizard was watching everything. The cameras – remember? Why didn’t she tell you today? You were alone. It would have been a lot easier, and safer – right?’

  ‘Because she doesn’t know yet. She’ll tell me through the cards ... discreetly. All I have to say when I make the call is the name of one of the cards she’ll show me.’

  ‘Let me get this right: after you’ve met her again and she’s shown you a certain card during your little session, you’re to call this number and tell a stranger the name of the card. And all this, because she doesn’t want the Wizard to know about it and can’t make the phone call herself – is that it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You should listen to yourself, Jack Rogan.’ Rebecca looked at him and shook her head.

  He hadn’t told her all the instructions regarding the strange phone call he would have to make for Cassandra. Not because he didn’t trust Rebecca but because, even to him, the whole episode sounded weird.

  Yet rather than walking away from it all as reason and commonsense strongly suggested, Jack found himself irresistibly d
rawn to Cassandra and her mysterious request.

  16

  Third visit to Wolf’s Lair, 24 February

  The next morning, Wednesday, the Wizard phoned Jack again. He asked him to come to the church in the evening for another Tarot consultation with Cassandra. Apparently, a small ambiguity in the previous reading required clarification.

  Using the Bow Spread this time, Cassandra picked up the first seven cards off the bottom pile after Jack had parted the deck and placed them face down on the table. Taking her time, she turned over each card and explained its meaning and position in the Spread. Jack knew that the card he had to look out for was the one in the number 2 position, symbolising the present. The card in question was the Devil.

  At the end of the brief session, Cassandra gathered up the cards, put them back in the box and stood up. ‘Please wait here,’ she said, reaching for her walking stick. ‘The Wizard wants to talk to you.’

  Jack watched her limp slowly away from the table.

  ‘Welcome to the world of the Wizards of Oz, Jack, where a promise kept is handsomely rewarded, but a promise broken, severely punished,’ she said, as she disappeared into the shadows.

  A subtle reminder? thought Jack to himself., Or a threat? Or both? I wonder ...

  Jack heard footsteps approaching from behind. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the Wizard walking towards him.

  ‘You’re in, Jack, congratulations!’ the Wizard’s voice boomed through the chamber.

  ‘Thank you. So where do we start?’

  ‘I’ll get to that. But first let me tell you about the conditions ...’

  ‘Conditions?’

  ‘We have rules. Number one. Nothing you learn or discover about us may be discussed with outsiders without my permission.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Everything you produce about us – and that includes photographs – must be submitted to me for approval first, before it can be shown to outsiders or published.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘We can both terminate our little arrangement at any time. Without explanation.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘You will observe these conditions?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We take these things very seriously, Jack. You heard what Cassandra said about promises kept and promises broken ...’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘So when can I begin?’ Jack asked again.

  ‘A good starting point would be the Mardi Gras on Saturday,’ said the Wizard.

  ‘The Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras?’ Jack asked, surprised. ‘How come?’

  ‘For the first time, the Wizards of Oz will participate. We will ride in the Mardi Gras Parade. I think you will find it both interesting and enlightening. Some photographs would be useful. As you know, we want to raise our public profile ...’

  ‘No doubt to promote your courier business,’ interrupted Jack.

  ‘That too ...’

  ‘I will be watching the parade with interest,’ said Jack, ‘and with a professional photographer by my side.’

  ‘Good. I can see we understand each other.’

  ‘Will I have access to all the members of the council?’

  ‘Yes. Once you’re admitted, there are no restrictions apart from the rules I mentioned.’

  ‘Okay, good.’

  ‘What did you think of Cassandra?’

  ‘I was impressed.’

  ‘I thought you might be. She’ll be riding with us in the parade. She’s the only female member of the club.’

  ‘Will the Wizards be wearing costumes by any chance?’ asked Jack, grinning.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘I can’t wait.’

  On his way back to town, Jack pulled up in front of a mobile phone store and parked his bike on the footpath. With the warning about broken promises still ringing loudly in his ears, he wanted to make sure the call could not be traced back to him. Jack took the battery out of his mobile and walked into the shop.

  ‘I just tried to make a call and dropped the phone,’ he said, smiling at the eager young shop assistant. ‘I think it’s broken. Could you look at it for me?’ Jack put the phone and the battery on the counter.

  ‘Of course,’ said the young woman, sizing up the tall stranger in the faded bikie leathers with interest.

  ‘Look, the call was urgent, could I ...?’

  ‘Sure, use this. It’s the same as yours.’ The young woman handed Jack her mobile.

  He walked across to the display cabinet, pulled the Tarot card Cassandra had given him out of his pocket and dialled the number.

  In a small, remote Queensland country town 700 kilometres to the north, the tent behind the rundown pub was packed and throbbing with testosterone and beer.

  ‘Do we have a challenger?’ asked the ringmaster, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. ‘A thousand bucks is yours if you can go three rounds with Captain Thunderbolt here. What’s wrong with you guys, surely one of you can do it? Is there no one with guts in this godforsaken town?’

  ‘Jacko here will take him on,’ shouted one of the stockmen.

  ‘Yeah, he’ll do it,’ shouted another, slapping a giant of a man on the back.

  The crowd surrounding the makeshift ring – mainly young men who had had a few too many – parted to let the man through. A little unsteady on his feet and with a foolish grin on his flushed face, the man walked up to the champ.

  ‘I’ll take you on, mate, no worries,’ he drawled. The crowd cheered.

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ shouted the ringmaster. ‘Now, step forward, fellas, and place your bets. Put your money where your mouth is.’

  Captain Thunderbolt was about to take his shirt off when the mobile in his shirt pocket rang. Annoyed, he turned away from the boxing ring and pressed the ‘answer’ button.

  Standing in a quiet corner of the mobile phone shop, Jack let the phone ring several times. He was about to hang up when a husky male voice answered. Jack could hear the murmur of a crowd in the background. Taking a deep breath, he said, ‘Sator.’ Pause.

  ‘Rotas,’ replied the voice.

  ‘The Devil,’ said Jack.

  ‘The Devil it is,’ said the voice, and the line went dead.

  ‘Look, his mum just called,’ shouted a man in the front row, laughing. ‘He’s shitting himself – see?’ taunted another.

  Looking a little shaken, Captain Thunderbolt handed his shirt and his phone to the ringmaster.

  ‘This is my last fight, boss, I’m leaving in the morning,’ he said.

  ‘Are you coming back, champ?’ the ringmaster asked hopefully.

  ‘Maybe,’ replied the Captain and stepped into the ring. ‘Come on, you lump of lard, let’s get this over with,’ he snarled to the grinning challenger.

  Flexing his muscles, the Captain began to rock back and forth on the balls of his feet, the sweat on his hairy chest glistening like tears.

  17

  Alice Springs, Wandjina Gallery, 25 February

  Unable to sleep, Jack tossed restlessly in his bed. His body was exhausted but his mind refused to relax. Every time he drifted towards sleep, a persistent little voice kept whispering into his ear: Rotas, sator, rotas ... like a mantra. The devil it is, the devil it is ... the devil ...

  ‘What on earth does it mean?’ he asked himself over and over.

  Feeling hot and sweaty, he threw off the sheet and switched on the light. The clock on his bedside table told him it was 2 am.

  Jack had the rest of the week off. No book signings, no interviews, no appointments. Rebecca had gone away for a couple of days to a health spa in Surfers and wasn’t due back until Saturday afternoon. This gave him three free days. The Mardi Gras parade was on Saturday night.

  Instead of looking forward to this unexpected break, he felt anxious and apprehensive. A sense of dread was following him everywhere like a shadow.

  ‘It’s just a bloody phone call, for Christ’s sake,’ Jac
k told himself.

  He got out of bed and padded down the corridor to his study. At least I’ve kept my side of the bargain, he thought. Now it was up to Cassandra to keep hers. Jack was due to meet her again on Monday at Bleak House. Until then he just had to be patient.

  Sitting down behind his desk – a large Victorian partners’ desk, circa 1880, with a tooled leather top – he reached for his notebook. The name of the police officer Countess Kuragin had given him was Andrew Simpson. Jack had made some enquiries: a year after the case was closed, Andrew Simpson retired from the police force and opened a small art gallery in Alice Springs. It’s time I paid him a visit, Jack thought. He turned on the computer and booked a flight. Feeling better, he went back to bed and fell instantly asleep.

  Jack pushed past the tourists waiting for their coaches, hurried out of Alice Springs Airport, and caught a taxi to the Wandjina Gallery. Located in a modest looking cottage just outside Alice, the gallery specialised in Aboriginal art. It was already after closing time when Jack walked in. He dropped his duffel bag by the door and looked around: the paintings lining the walls were striking. Jack knew enough about Aboriginal art to realise that these works were pretty special. Stopping in front of a large bark painting, he looked up to the strange Dreamtime figure staring at him with bulging eyes.

  ‘That’s Wandjina. He created everything. The Earth, the Sea, the Sky – everything. The gallery’s named after him.’

  Jack turned around and looked at the wiry, lean black man leaning casually against the counter. Wearing faded jeans, riding boots, and a hat that had seen more campfires than a drover’s dog, he looked more like a stockman on a cattle drive than a man selling paintings in an art gallery. But most striking of all was his face: furrowed like parched earth during a drought, with deep creases and wrinkles criss-crossing the forehead and cheeks, it was like a map of a life spent outdoors under the relentless sun of the Outback. The dark eyes – shining and alert – radiated curiosity and intelligence.