The Disappearance of Anna Popov

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘Hop in. I’ll give youse a lift back to town.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Julia, pulling Anna out of the bushes. ‘Julia, don’t!’ cried Anna. ‘No hitchhiking, remember?’

  ‘It’s all right ... he’s your hero.’ Julia walked over to the car and opened the passenger door. ‘You scared us,’ she said, climbing in.

  The snake man smiled at her, revving the engine. Reluctantly, Anna climbed in after her friend and closed the door.

  1

  Sydney Harbour, New Year’s Eve 2009

  The old year was dying. ‘Five, four, three, two, one ...’ counted the cheering crowd as the final seconds of 2009 tumbled through the hourglass. Suddenly, the massive steel arch of the Sydney Harbour Bridge erupted, forming a dazzling tiara of sparks. As they raced along the girders from both sides towards the centre like fire-breathing dragons, the fireworks spectacular lit up the night sky. Meeting in the middle between the main deck and the top of the arch, light and colour engaged in a breathtaking duel, heralding a turbulent year to come.

  ‘Happy New Year, Jack!’ shouted the stunning young woman standing next to Jack Rogan on the crowded yacht. Rebecca Armstrong reached up, threw her slender arms around his neck and kissed him passionately on the mouth. It was the first time she had kissed her famous client.

  ‘Wow! I thought a kiss like this was strictly the province of the writer’s imagination,’ said Jack, coming up for air. ‘Happy New Year, Becky!’

  Rebecca flicked her glossy dark hair from her flushed face – as women who know they have beautiful hair often do – and took him by the hand. ‘Don’t get used to it. Tonight’s an exception. Come on. I have a surprise for you,’ she said.

  ‘I like surprises.’

  Heads turned as Rebecca pushed through the crowd with Jack by her side. Radiating sophistication and style in her New York designer clothes, she made straight for the stern of the yacht.

  As the captain navigated the pitching vessel through the tightly packed spectator fleet under the Harbour Bridge, the yacht almost collided with an ostentatious motor cruiser. Sounding like a warning, the deep, throaty foghorn of a large ocean liner tied up at Circular Quay added to the crazy cacophony welcoming the new year. An acrid, phosphorous, eye-watering gunpowder smell of spent fireworks cartridges filled the balmy air as a smoke haze drifted past the Opera House.

  ‘Who are all these people?’ asked Jack, waving a hand at the crowd on the deck.

  ‘The Sydney literary set. Don’t you recognise anyone?’ asked Rebecca, frowning.

  ‘I’m new to all this, remember?’

  ‘They all seem to know you ...’

  ‘Am I paying for it?’ Jack asked anxiously.

  ‘No, Jack. Your publisher is. Relax. Look who’s over there.’ She pointed to a tall, sandy-haired man in a crumpled checked shirt leaning casually against the mast with a bottle of beer in his hand.

  ‘China!’ yelled Jack, walking over to his friend. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Spinner! Your girlfriend invited me. Cheers!’ They touched glasses. ‘And a few of your other neglected mates as well.’ The sandy-haired man pointed to the bow of the crowded vessel.

  ‘She isn’t my ...’ said Jack, lowering his voice.

  ‘China?’ asked Rebecca. ‘He told me his name was Will.’

  ‘It is,’ replied Jack, laughing. ‘China’s his nickname.’

  ‘China? How come?’

  ‘My little mate, rhymes with china plate; china. Simple – see?’

  ‘You Aussies are something else,’ said Rebecca, shaking her head. ‘I can see I’ve a lot to learn.’

  ‘Thanks Becky,’ said Jack, giving her a hug, ‘very thoughtful of you.’ Her firm, toned body sent a ripple of excitement racing up his spine.

  During his whirlwind book-signing tour across the US, Jack had repeatedly complained that he missed Sydney and his Aussie friends.

  The surprise New Year’s Eve party on Sydney Harbour was his publisher’s response.

  ‘You’ve got to watch Will, he’s quite a lad,’ warned Jack, a sparkle in his eyes.

  ‘Don’t listen to Spinner,’ said Will.

  ‘Spinner? Not another nickname!’ said Rebecca.

  ‘Sure is,’ replied Will. ‘He’s always spinning yarns – right?

  The two men could have been mistaken for brothers, not only because of their rugged good looks, but also because of their good-natured banter suggesting a deep friendship forged by years spent together. Both were clearly outdoor types. Will’s tanned face – lined by laughter and a little too much sun – hinted at laid-back good humour, whilst Jack’s piercing green eyes and athletic physique were a magnet for women of all ages.

  ‘You’re a lucky bastard, mate,’ said Will.

  ‘How come?’

  ‘She’s not bad,’ said Will pointing with his glass to Rebecca. ‘Girlfriend?’

  ‘No, mate.’

  ‘Sure ... Don’t tell me you haven’t ...?’

  ‘No, seriously. My publishers told me I needed help with PR, book signings, publicity, stuff like that. You know what I’m like. So, they appointed her to look after all that crap for me. You should see her office in New York. She’s very good,’ said Jack. ‘Strictly business.’

  Will wasn’t convinced. ‘I’ve heard that one before,’ he said. ‘You and women ... Lucky bastard.’

  ‘Perhaps I am.’

  ‘Perhaps? Jet-setting author with yachts and champagne and classy chicks like this one to look after you? You’ve come a long way, Spinner.’

  ‘It all happened very fast.’

  ‘I can see that, but you hardly have time for your old drinking buddies anymore,’ lamented Will.

  ‘I haven’t got time to scratch myself.’

  ‘Just look around, mate. This crowd isn’t you.’

  As a freelance journalist, Jack Rogan depended on his eclectic network of contacts and friends for leads and inspiration. It was Will who had given Jack the lead to a great story two years before – the trial of a Nazi war criminal that exposed a secret hoard of Nazi gold in the vaults of Swiss banks.

  When Jack published Dental Gold and Other Horrors it was an international success. The Swiss, embarrassed by the outcries about ‘abandoned’ bank accounts of thousands of Holocaust victims, finally agreed to open their ledgers. This was seen by many as the first serious step towards compensation. Overnight, Jack had become a celebrated Time magazine front page hero, and his book a sensation.

  ‘Come on, Will, it’s not that bad,’ retorted Jack, handing his friend a glass of champagne. ‘Here, drink up!’

  The famous Sydney New Year’s Eve fireworks were reaching their climax with a multicoloured waterfall of sparks cascading from the deck of the bridge into the ink-blue waters of the harbour below.

  ‘So – what next, mate?’ asked Will, draining his glass.

  ‘I’m taking a couple weeks off. First break in two years.’

  ‘Then why don’t you come with me?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m taking some time off too ... Going bush, out west ...’

  ‘Fossicking for bric-a-brac and old furniture?’

  ‘Exactly. And I still have the old van.’

  ‘I don’t believe it! Just like the good old days, eh?’

  ‘Some things never change, mate. Do you reckon they might have some more beer around here? I’m sick of this foreign crap,’ said Will.

  Jack pointed an accusing finger at his friend. ‘This is Bollinger, you peasant,’ he said. ‘The best.’

  ‘I don’t give a stuff. It’s crap.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. When are you leaving?’

  ‘As soon as I sober up.’

  ‘I tell you what. You clear it with Becky, and I’m in.’

  ‘Well, well! I never thought I’d see the day. Jack Rogan actually in awe of a woman. Asking for permission?’ said Will, shaking his head.

  ‘You don’t know these Yankee broads, mate. T
ough as old boot leather. And besides,’ continued Jack lowering his voice, ‘they hold the purse strings.’

  ‘You go and find me a beer, Spinner, and leave her to me.’

  ‘Good luck.’ Poor bastard, thought Jack. She’ll eat him alive!

  2

  Somewhere in the bush near Bathurst, 1 January, 2010

  The old van lurched alarmingly to one side – tortured gears crunching loudly – and began the steep descent down into the valley. Jack woke with a start. Rubbing his aching shoulder – a constant reminder of the sniper’s bullet that ended his stint as a war correspondent in Afghanistan – he turned to Will.

  ‘Where are we?’ he asked, reaching for his sunglasses.

  ‘Goldmining country. We just passed Bathurst. Good sleep? A little too much Bollinger, perhaps?’ suggested Will good-naturedly. ‘You should have stuck to the beer, mate.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’ Jack asked. Leaving the party at dawn with Will to go back home and pack was still a blur.

  ‘I suggested she let you go for a month, and after a bit of argy bargy, we settled for a week. Done and dusted. She’s taking a few days off as well. Barrier Reef. That helped. But you’re right, she’s one tough cookie. She even challenged me to a drinking contest – vodka shots – before she agreed. We must have downed a dozen, I reckon.’

  ‘Who won?’

  ‘You’re here, aren’t you? The things I do for a chum.’

  ‘Where are we staying?’

  ‘Camping, Jack. Just like we used to. I know a good spot up in the hills by the creek. This area used to be Dad’s favourite, remember? The gear’s in the back,’ Will said, ‘including the old tent.’

  ‘It leaked like a sieve,’ said Jack. He was beginning to have second thoughts. Maybe New Year’s Eve nostalgia and a little too much champagne had got the better of him.

  As young men, he and Will had been inseparable. Will’s family had taken in the fresh-faced Queensland country boy as one of their own.

  The two lads had accompanied Will’s father on many a buying trip, going from farm to farm in remote rural areas and offering to buy old stuff nobody needed. Buy cheaply, take the goods back to Sydney, do them up a bit in the workshop behind the house and then sell them for a handsome profit in the shop at the front.

  ‘Presentation is everything,’ Will’s dad used to say. ‘Remember boys, the wrapping can be more important than the present.’ He had made a good living out of this for over fifty years. After he passed away, Will continued the tradition once a year or so, for old times’ sake. Jack had many fond memories of those trips: delicious roast dinners with a farmer and his family in the cosy kitchen; sitting on the veranda of a remote homestead with a cold beer at the end of a long hot day; and many a romp in the hay with a farmer’s daughter. Even, sometimes, his wife. Or both.

  Most of the furniture in Jack’s house came from these excursions. It was surprising what curios had found their way to Australia and were waiting in disused sheds or in the back of barns to be discovered by someone with imagination and an eye for value. Jack and Will used to joke about it often. The father’s buying trips had turned into a nostalgic treasure hunt for the son and his friend.

  After putting up the old tent by the creek, Will made a fire and cooked some sausages. ‘What’s she really like?’ he asked, stoking the fire.

  ‘Becky?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t know her that well.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘We’ve been flat out these last couple of months travelling together, on and off. All business.’

  ‘She’s a good looker, that’s for sure. Very sexy; great body. She must be pushing 40, surely?’

  ‘She’s a bit of a health buff.’

  ‘What? All carrot juice and push-ups?’

  ‘No. Yoga and karate. She’d deck us both in three seconds flat. I’ve seen her do it. Very fit.’

  ‘Bodyguard as well. Impressive.’

  ‘She’s also very smart, sophisticated and incredibly well connected.

  She knows all the right people.’

  ‘Single?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Boyfriend?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. Career type; too busy.’

  ‘Well, then?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come on, mate, it’s me you’re talking to. She’d be great in the sack.’

  ‘I don’t look at her that way. She’s a professional. She takes care of my business interests. The royalties; the financial side of things.’

  ‘Don’t give me that crap.’

  ‘No, I’m serious. Never put your dick in the cash register, as my first editor used to say.’

  ‘You must have at least thought about it.’

  ‘Hmm ... There’s something about her ... I can’t put my finger on it, but ...’

  ‘She sure likes you ...’ interrupted Will.

  ‘You can tell, can you?’

  ‘She and I are drinking buddies – remember?’

  ‘Well, that explains it ...’

  ‘We’ll see. Here; done.’ Will took the pan off the fire and put the sausages on a plate. Accidentally touching the hot pan, he burnt his fingers and almost dropped it. ‘Shit! Throw us another tinnie, mate, and let’s get stuck into it.’

  They were both asleep just after sundown.

  ‘There’s enough grog in here to get an entire football team pissed several times over, but no food at all,’ complained Jack next morning, searching in vain for some eggs and bacon for breakfast.

  ‘I’m the alcohol technician, you’re the cook, remember?’ replied Will, tinkering with his fishing gear. ‘I fixed dinner last night, mate. Breakfast is your job.’

  ‘Sausages. Big deal.’

  ‘If you don’t like the tucker, get some fresh stuff. The village is just down the road.’

  ‘Okay.’

  The only thing open in the tiny hamlet was the corner store which also served as the post office and petrol station. The man behind the counter turned out to be the local real estate agent minding the store for a mate who’d gone to visit family. Inquisitive by nature, the agent was intrigued by the old van with ‘Arthur Hamilton & Son – second-hand furniture bought and sold’ prominently painted on its sides. The business logo – a laughing kookaburra perched on the arm of a rocking chair – reminded him of a biscuit tin popular in the 1950s. After half an hour of small talk, Jack had managed to buy some meagre provisions. He had also managed to arrange their first assignment.

  By the time he manoeuvred the van back into camp, it was already lunchtime and very hot. Holding a fishing rod with one hand, Will was dozing under a tree by the creek.

  ‘Enjoying your holiday, mate?’ asked Jack, unpacking the groceries. ‘Here, look at this.’ He handed Will a crumpled piece of paper.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A map.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Our first assignment. You didn’t think I drove this contraption all the way into the village just to buy some eggs?’

  ‘And you didn’t think I invited you along just because you’re a famous author, eh?’ retorted Will. ‘Be a good sport and throw us a tinnie.’

  They waited until late afternoon had taken the sting out of the sun before setting out to find the farm. Following a rutted track for several kilometres, they turned a sharp corner and stopped in front of a wooden gate which had all but rotted off its hinges.

  ‘What a dump,’ said Jack, pushing the gate open with his shoulder. ‘The agent did warn me the place is about to be demolished. No one’s lived here in years. A stockbroker from Sydney just bought it and wants to get rid of all the furniture and stuff. The agent said we should grab what we want and meet him in the village tomorrow to make an offer. This could be our lucky day.’

  Will looked around the ramshackle yard. ‘I doubt it,’ he said and shook his head.

  The abandoned homestead had definitely seen better days. Part of the wo
oden structure had been destroyed by fire and was open to the elements. The front door was missing and the corrugated iron roof of the veranda had collapsed. Most of the windows were broken. Coming closer, Jack noticed something shiny and tightly coiled like a sailor’s rope on the deck of a yacht, glistening in the sunlight. Shit! A red bellied black, thought Jack, watching the deadly snake sunning itself on the warped floorboards of the porch; an ominous sentinel, guarding the entrance to a forbidden place.

  ‘You got a bum steer, mate. The place is empty. We’re wasting our time,’ said Will. He turned around and began to walk back to the van. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘The agent said all the stuff’s in a barn behind the house – see?’ Jack kept an eye on the snake, and picked his way carefully through the tall grass. ‘Here, give me a hand.’ Together they pushed open the old wooden door and peered inside.

  The small barn was filled with all kinds of furniture, kitchen utensils, farming implements and carpentry tools. Broken crockery, pages torn from books and magazines, crumpled old newspapers and an assortment of cutlery and pottery shards littered the floor. Everything was covered in dust.

  ‘Well, well, what have we here then, eh?’ asked Jack, squinting into the gloom.

  Will picked up a candle from the floor and lit it. ‘Look at this,’ he said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A harmonium.’ Will pulled over a rickety stool, sat down in front of the keyboard and began to operate the bellows with the broken foot pedals. He handed the candle to Jack and started to play. At first, the air in the protesting bellows responded with a tortured, wheezing sound, but it soon turned into a melody, faint and church organ-like. The hymn sounded eerie and out of place in the barn filled with abandoned possessions of generations past.

  ‘I didn’t know you could play.’

  ‘Sunday school. You never forget.’

  They pushed the harmonium aside and began to explore the barn.

  Their curiosity aroused, they opened tea chests, emptied drawers and peered into hatboxes and armoires crammed with vintage clothing. They pored over photo albums filled with sepia portraits of dapper gentlemen wearing their Sunday best and Victorian matrons staring blankly into space. Pulling funny faces, they tried on waistcoats, bonnets and bowler hats and took turns parading in front of the cracked dressing table mirror.