The Disappearance of Anna Popov

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘How did he die?’ asked Cassandra.

  ‘About three months ago, he was on his way here to sell his paintings. Usually, he just turned up in his ute with paintings stacked on the back, but occasionally, he’d hitch a ride on one of the planes visiting from the other stations. Unfortunately, this time the plane he was on crashed into the Timor Sea during a storm – not far from here. We were all devastated.’

  ‘Did anyone else die in the crash?’ asked Rebecca anxiously.

  ‘As far as I know, only the pilot,’ replied Hamish. ‘Not surprisingly, the small plane disappeared without a trace. The bodies weren’t recovered.’

  ‘Muddenbudden, you said earlier that you showed Mungo where to find the best rock art – right?’ asked Andrew, changing the subject.

  ‘Yes. Many of the locations are kept secret and are only known to the initiated few.’

  ‘Would it be fair to say that you would therefore know where he used to do most of his work?’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ replied Muddenbudden without hesitation. Jack gave Andrew a meaningful look.

  ‘You also said that I’ve come here to right a great wrong. What exactly did you mean by that?’ The old man closed his eyes and began to tremble. His whole body began to shake.

  ‘Another time, Andrew. I would like to leave now, please,’ said the old man, gasping for air. ‘Give me your arm.’

  Muddenbudden got unsteadily to his feet. ‘Come to see me tomorrow, alone. And bring the painting,’ he whispered in Bunuba, as he shuffled out of the room.

  For a while, no one spoke, the old man’s presence lingering in the room like the silence after the last curtain call. Hamish opened another bottle of wine and quietly went around filling up the glasses.

  ‘What does all this mean?’ asked Jack after a while. ‘Where does it take us?’

  ‘We know that Pigeon and Anna escaped from the Wizards’ farm three years ago,’ said Cassandra from the back of the room. ‘We also know that Pigeon disappeared into the Outback and ended up joining O’Grady’s boxing troupe.’

  ‘Without Anna of course,’ Will pointed out.

  ‘Correct,’ Jack agreed. ‘He certainly couldn’t take her with him, could he? So, what did he do with her? Any ideas?’

  ‘He pointed us to Kalumburu just before he died. Assume for the moment that Pigeon brought Anna up here to the Kimberley,’ speculated Andrew. ‘Far away from her ordeal and a place he knew well, and left her in the care of someone he could trust – his uncle – before going off to box in O’Grady’s tent. Can you think of a better place to hide her?’

  ‘Isn’t that a little far fetched?’ said Rebecca, shaking her head. ‘A white girl living here in this wilderness with ...’ Rebecca didn’t finish the sentence. ‘And aren’t we forgetting something here?’

  ‘What?’ asked Jack.

  ‘It was Pigeon who abducted the girls – right? It was Pigeon who delivered them to the Wizards, and for all we know, willingly participated in his own induction ritual ... And we now have some idea what that was all about. In short, he’s the cause of Anna’s ordeal and the person responsible for her friend’s death, albeit indirectly perhaps.’

  ‘Correct so far,’ said Andrew.

  ‘Yet here we are, speculating about how Pigeon rescued her by bringing her up here to this remote place to keep her safe by hiding her among his people. Far away from the evil world of the Wizards which once he so desperately wanted to be part of. I just don’t get it,’ said Rebecca, shaking her head. ‘How can the same man be both tormentor and saviour at the same time? For her to come up here with Pigeon and then live with the Aboriginals for two years would have required co-operation and trust. In short, a willingness to participate. I can’t see how any of this could have happened against her will. How do we explain this?’

  ‘Stockholm syndrome,’ interrupted Jack.

  Andrew nodded. ‘I was just thinking the same thing,’ he said.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Will.

  ‘It’s ... well, it’s a psychological phenomenon; a paradox,’ said Jack.

  ‘Where the victim of a crime forms a strange bond with the perpetrator and sees him as their saviour?’ said Rebecca.

  ‘That’s the one.’ said Andrew. ‘It all fits perfectly.’

  ‘What, Anna forms an attachment to Pigeon, her abductor, and willingly participates in all this?’ said Will, shaking his head.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Jack. ‘Survival instinct and self-preservation.’

  ‘What do you think happened to Anna?’ asked Will, turning to Cassandra.

  The psychic stood up and limped over to the fireplace. Then, closing her eyes, she placed her hand on the smooth bark of the painting. ‘This is Anna’s work,’ she pronounced quietly after a while. ‘I can feel the energy. She’s reaching out through the painting here, communicating the only way she really can – through art. Don’t forget, her mind’s been damaged. She’s retreated from reality and turned inwards.’ For a while Cassandra stood in silence. ‘I can sense loneliness,’ she continued, ‘longing, and pain, but I can also feel hope.’

  Jack joined Cassandra by the fireplace and looked at the painting. ‘With everything we’ve just learnt, what do we make of this?’ he asked, pointing to the signature in the bottom corner. ‘Lucrezia. How strange ...’

  ‘Does that name mean anything to you?’ asked Will, looking at Jack.

  ‘To me? No. But I do know someone it may mean a great deal to,’ he added quietly.

  ‘Who?’ asked Rebecca.

  ‘You know her as well as I do.’

  ‘The countess?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  53

  Never Never Downs, 5 March, 3 a.m.

  Instead of going to bed, Jack asked Hamish for permission to use the satellite phone in the homestead library. After several failed attempts, the signal finally connected with the Kuragin chateau.

  ‘Oh Jack – at last!’ said the countess, her voice barely audible. ‘I’ve been to hell and back waiting for your call. Where are you? Any news?’

  ‘We’re on a remote cattle station in the Kimberley, in the middle of a cyclone,’ answered Jack, hoping the countess could hear him. The reception was very bad and the connection cut out several times, the interference from the storm making a painful crackling noise. ‘We have to make this short. We’ve found a painting that may have been painted by Anna ...’

  ‘Oh my God. How? Where? How did you ...’

  ‘It’s signed “Lucrezia”. Does this mean anything to you?’ interrupted Jack.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Lucrezia.’ By now, Jack was almost shouting.

  ‘Lucrezia? Oh yes, yes! I’ll tell you ...’

  Rebecca tiptoed into the library where Jack sat surrounded by open books, some of them lying beside him on the floor. He seemed oblivious of his surroundings. The bark painting was leaning against the bookcase in front of him.

  ‘Do you know what time it is, Jack?’ asked Rebecca, running her fingers through his hair from behind. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Research.’

  ‘At three in the morning? Isn’t that taking things a little too far, especially after the kind of day we’ve had?’

  Enjoying the soft touch of Rebecca’s thigh rubbing ever so gently against his back, Jack put his arm around her leg and pulled her towards him.

  Rebecca bent down and kissed Jack on the cheek. ‘You’re an amazing man, you know. What kind of research?’

  ‘Here, let me read something to you,’ said Jack, reaching for one of the open books on the desk. ‘Born in Tuscany in 1406, Fillipo Lippi, the fifteenth century Renaissance painter, had an eye for beauty, especially in women. This predisposition would have been acceptable had he been only a painter, but he was also a monk ... As a monk he should have known that there was one thing the Church wouldn’t tolerate – scandal.’

  ‘You’re delving into the lives of Italian painters? At this hour? You must be going a little s
oft in the head, Jack,’ interrupted Rebecca.

  ‘Patience. Please, hear me out.’ Jack closed the book and turned around to face her. ‘It’s a great story: One day, as the good maestro was working on a large painting in a convent chapel, he noticed a beautiful girl praying in front of the altar.

  ‘The girl was living in the convent and was under the guardianship of the nuns. So smitten was he by her beauty that he decided to use her as his model for the Madonna. The nuns gave their permission – a fateful decision as you’ll see – and she was allowed to sit for him in the chapel. During one of the sittings he got carried away and made passionate love to her. The girl obviously didn’t mind, because they eloped the very next day. And who could have blamed her? Running away with a famous painter was obviously a lot more fun than living in the convent under the watchful eyes of the nuns. This caused an enormous scandal that not only embarrassed the Church, but rocked the whole of Tuscany. Had it not been for the intervention of the powerful Medici, who thought very highly of Filippo Lippi, the painter’s illustrious career would have come to a sticky end in the arms of the beautiful ... Do you want to know her name?’ asked Jack, touching Rebecca on the arm.

  ‘Yes please, I can’t wait ...’

  ‘Lucrezia Buti. And just in case you’re wondering what all this has to do with us, there is one more little snippet you need to know ...’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Filippo Lippi was young Anna’s favourite painter. She adored his work. So much so that she decided to paint under the name “Lucrezia”. A teenager’s romantic infatuation, no doubt. She became Filippo Lippi’s mistress, in spirit that is, five hundred years after his death.’

  Rebecca looked thunderstruck. ‘You can’t be serious ...’

  ‘Oh yes, I am. I just spoke to the countess. This is Anna’s painting, there’s now absolutely no doubt about it.’

  ‘That’s truly amazing, Jack, congratulations.’

  ‘The power of midnight oil – see?’

  ‘Something to tell the others over breakfast, that’s for sure.’ Rebecca turned off the desk lamp, closed the book in Jack’s lap and looked at him sternly. ‘If you want to keep your eyes open in the morning, and be coherent, you better hit the sack, Sherlock,’ she said, kissing him, this time squarely on the mouth.

  ‘We could sneak back to my room ...’ suggested Jack, a sparkle in his eyes.

  ‘Like two naughty school kids?’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. We agreed, remember?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. And in case you’re wondering, this isn’t a gun in my pocket.’

  Rebecca burst out laughing. ‘You’re an incorrigible rascal,’ she said and bit Jack on the ear.

  ‘If you do that again, it’ll be the floor, or the couch over there.’

  ‘Promises, promises.’

  ‘Don’t tempt me.’

  What the hell, thought Rebecca, and bit Jack on the other ear.

  Jack and Rebecca were not the only ones awake in the early hours of that stormy morning. Drenched in sweat and tossing restlessly from side to side, Cassandra tried to make sense of the disturbing images racing through her throbbing brain. All the images had one thing in common: Tristan, her son.

  Sitting up in bed, Cassandra heard footsteps outside her door and old floorboards creaking like the spars of a wooden ship tortured by the wind. Cassandra knew that Rebecca’s room was directly next to hers.

  The footsteps stopped. Cassandra opened her door just a little and peered outside. Fumbling with the door handle in the dark, Rebecca stood in front of her room.

  ‘Come in, please,’ whispered Cassandra, pushing her door open.

  Cassandra draped a blanket over her bare shoulders and sat down on the edge of her bed. Rebecca sat down next to her. The wind rattling the windows like bony fingers shaking the lid of a coffin was the only sound in the room.

  ‘We’re being swept along by events we no longer control,’ began Cassandra, reaching for the box of matches on the bedside table. She struck a match and lit a candle, the flickering flame casting an eerie shadow across her pale face. ‘It’s like approaching a waterfall. Once you’re in the middle of the torrent close to the edge, there’s no turning back.’

  Rebecca reached for Cassandra’s hand, but said nothing. The hand felt clammy and cold.

  ‘Not everyone going over the edge will survive.’

  Rebecca felt an icy chill racing down her spine. ‘You look tired,’ she said, squeezing her friend’s hand. ‘You should try and get some sleep ...’

  ‘I can’t.’ Cassandra turned to face Rebecca. ‘My son is about to wake up,’ she continued calmly. ‘When he does, he will have to face his destiny, and he won’t be the only one.’

  ‘How can you be so ... ?’

  ‘Sure? You know I can.’

  ‘The Wizard?’

  ‘Oh yes. He’s a wounded animal – unpredictable, desperate and dangerous. An evil genius without scruples. You can’t imagine what he’s capable of. He’ll fight to the end, and the battle will begin in earnest when we find Anna ...’

  ‘You really believe that we’ll find her? Out here? Alive?’

  ‘I do. One mother’s anguish is about to come to an end,’ replied Cassandra sadly, ‘and another’s is just beginning.’

  Rebecca put her arm around Cassandra’s shoulder. Cassandra seemed to relax a little, a wry smile creasing the corners of her mouth. ‘I’m trapped. Trapped between the girl I promised to find and the son I love. Their fates are intertwined like the roots of a tree: impossible to separate and impossible to tell apart.’

  ‘Go to sleep,’ said Rebecca, kissing Cassandra on the cheek. ‘Things will look a lot brighter in the morning, you’ll see.’

  ‘I must make contact with the Wizards today, or it’ll be too late. I must give them something. But what can I tell them without betraying either Anna or my son?’

  ‘Hush,’ said Rebecca, touching Cassandra’s lips with the tip of her finger. ‘You need some rest to clear your mind.’

  Rebecca was about to get up, but Cassandra held her back. ‘Please don’t go,’ she whispered, tightening her grip. ‘I have something here I must give you. I’ve been waiting for the right moment ...’

  Cassandra reached into the drawer of her bedside table and pulled out a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. ‘We’ve spoken about trust before. The promise – remember?’ Rebecca nodded. ‘This is part of it, a very scary part. No one must know you have this, and please, only open it if ... when ...’ Cassandra hesitated, looking pleadingly at Rebecca.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If something happens to me ...’

  ‘What is it? Can you tell me?’

  ‘You’re holding the Wizard’s fate in your hands.’

  Looking confused, Rebecca almost dropped the parcel, her hand shaking as the words hit home.

  ‘What am I to do with it?’

  ‘You’ll know when the time comes,’ came the cryptic reply, ‘but you must never show it to Anna or her mother. Never!’

  ‘We both need some sleep,’ said Rebecca and stood up.

  ‘You and Jack are lovers?’ said Cassandra, changing direction.

  If Rebecca was in any way surprised by the question, she didn’t show it. ‘Occasionally,’ she said.

  ‘Why the separate rooms?’

  ‘Well ... you know ... I ...’

  ‘Hush ... I do know.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I think you do. Stay with me, please,’ whispered Cassandra, ‘I need you, not sleep. Please help me fend off the demons ...’

  Rebecca felt an unsettling wave of excitement wash through her.

  She knew she was crossing uncharted waters with something dangerous, yet strangely alluring, waiting on the other side. Unsure whether to leave or to stay, and feeling like a moth circling the deadly flame, she stood and looked at the raven-haired woman sitting on the edge of the bed in front
of her.

  Cassandra lent forward and blew out the candle, the sudden darkness blotting out everything but imagination. ‘You remind me of a song ...’ she whispered.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You are like a caged bird, so it seems, not realising that the door is open wide ... Give me your hand. We’re close to the edge, you and I. There’s no turning back now. We must go over the waterfall together.’

  54

  Broome Jail, 5 March, 3:30 a.m.

  It was three in the morning and the Wizard was pacing up and down in his tiny holding-cell considering his options. Pigeon and Zoran were both dead, and Sladko was in hospital recovering from gunshot wounds. These were serious setbacks, but he wasn’t concerned about his own position. As usual, he had allowed others do his dirty work and take all the risks. The real danger was lurking somewhere else. The real threat was Anna. What had Pigeon told Cassandra? the Wizard asked himself over and over.

  He’d used his one phone call to speak with his solicitor, yet he desperately needed to make another. He was certain Cassandra would have reported in by now, just as he had instructed her to do. With Tristan as his pawn, she would do his bidding – he was sure of it.

  Finding out about Anna was far more important than getting out of jail. His solicitor had retained Cyril Archibald QC, the barrister the Wizards had used many times before. Both were on their way to Broome to meet their notorious client, but weren’t due to arrive until the following day.

  So far, the Wizard had refused to say anything about what really happened at Tunnel Creek, which had infuriated the police and angered the magistrate. In fact, he was playing for time, but time was running out. And besides, as an experienced serial offender, he was well aware of the golden rule: say nothing without your lawyer present. His injuries – extensive bruising and a dislocated ankle, not a broken leg – had been treated in hospital. Remanded in custody and due to appear in court in the morning for a bail application, the Wizard knew that every moment counted. Somehow, he had to get access to a phone and to do that, he had to get out of his cell.

  The Wizard stopped in front of the cell door and began pounding his fist against the steel. When the sleepy guard opened the peephole a few minutes later to find out what the fracas was all about, the Wizard was lying on the floor. Pressing his hands against his stomach, he was complaining about abdominal pain and passing blood. He demanded to be taken to hospital. Remembering a recent death in custody of an Aboriginal man which had caused a huge fuss, the guard called an ambulance.