The Disappearance of Anna Popov

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘So? Is this some kind of joke?’

  ‘Far from it. Does the name ring a bell?’

  ‘Should it?’

  ‘Come on, Will. Think back! January 2005. Alice Springs, two girls disappeared ...’

  ‘Popov ... Popov. Oh yeah ... It was in the news for months. They vanished without a trace. Backpackers.’

  ‘That’s it. I looked it up on the internet before you came. The police operation was huge at the time with lots of overseas interest and media attention, especially from Britain. Almost as big as Azaria Chamberlain. The police even brought in Aboriginal trackers and a psychic. “Operation Dingo II”, it was called. It came to nothing. The case was closed a year later. No leads, no clues. Zilch.’

  ‘What are you getting at, Jack?’ asked Will impatiently.

  ‘Aren’t you even just a little bit curious? We find this old secretaire here – purely by accident – on an abandoned farm in the middle of nowhere with “Anna Popov – Help” scratched into the desktop. Next to a date – 07. That’s two years after she disappeared!’ Jack said, jabbing his finger at the numbers.

  ‘You’re not seriously suggesting it was this Popov girl who wrote this desktop graffiti two years after she vanished? Are you saying she could be alive, or was at least, in 2007? Come on, mate, I can think of a hundred other explanations. I’m going back to bed.’

  ‘I have a funny feeling about this, Will,’ said Jack pensively. ‘What if this is for real? What if this is a desperate plea for help and we ignore it?’

  ‘You’re a hopeless romantic, Jack, admit it. This is bullshit! Sheer speculation and you know it.’

  ‘The place was spooky, you said so yourself,’ argued Jack. ‘I think we should at least go back and have another look. Make some enquiries, poke around a little. You know, find out who lived there before, what happened to the place, why it was abandoned, the fire ... The agent acted strange, admit it. He accepted the pittance we offered for the stuff without argument. He was happy – no, relieved – to be rid of it.’ Will shook his head. ‘Come on, Will, it’s only a three-hour drive. We could do the whole thing in a day, easy. There and back.’

  ‘I thought you had to go to London. Pressing author business.’

  ‘I’m leaving on Monday. We could do it today.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up at six.’

  ‘We’re getting too old for this, Jack!’

  ‘Bullshit!’

  ‘Dreamer,’ said Will.

  ‘Scared?’

  ‘Me? What of?’

  ‘I may be on to something ...’ said Jack.

  They arrived at the farm just after nine in the morning. It was already very hot and the flies were unbearable. They had to walk the last 200 metres to the gate because the track was too rutted for Jack’s MG. On their first visit, they had completely ignored the house. This time, however, they decided to take a closer look at it.

  The fire had obviously started in the kitchen. It was almost completely gutted.

  ‘Here, look at this,’ said Jack, picking up an urn with a rubber hose attached to one end. ‘And all this junk over here.’ He pointed to a rusty stove-like six burner lying on top of a heap of glass tubes, steel clamps and broken bottles.

  ‘Looks more like stuff from a laboratory than a farmhouse kitchen,’ commented Will, kicking some metal tubing aside.

  The front room was empty. Fingers of sunlight reaching through gaping holes in the roof illuminated intricate cobwebs ready to ensnare the careless and the curious. There were no doors left. All the windows were broken and most of the floorboards had rotted away. Lying on its back, a fly-encrusted rat was decomposing in front of the fireplace.

  ‘Here, have a look at this,’ said Jack. He pointed to a timber wall next to the fireplace. The wall was covered in black numbers carved into the wood in neat groups of three sixes: ‘666’

  ‘How weird ... Look over there; above the fireplace. What do you reckon it is? A stuffed goat’s head?’

  The mantelpiece with its forest of black candles reminded Jack of a strange pagan altar waiting for a sacrifice. Pools of hard candle wax coated the floorboards below the mantelpiece.

  ‘This place gives me the creeps,’ said Will.

  Jack picked up an iron poker and went through the mound of ash in the fireplace. Buried under the ash, charred bones, an iron cross covered in soot and a dagger with a broken blade had escaped destruction by the flames. Leftovers from a black mass? thought Jack, glancing at the back of the fireplace. Then something behind the grate caught his eye. It looked like a piece of limp material – burnt around the edges – with some kind of picture in the middle. He lifted it up with the poker and dropped it on the floor in front of him.

  ‘How weird,’ he said, examining the strange thing lying on the floorboards. It turned out to be a piece of leather with a picture of a human head cut in half. The left side of the face was a grinning skull, the right, the face of a bearded man. On top of the head sat a conical black hat with strange looking symbols like silver arrows and stars.

  ‘What do you reckon? A magician?’ ventured Will, pointing to the head.

  ‘Half dead, half alive?’

  ‘Yeah. Something like that.’

  ‘Black magic.’

  ‘Scary place. Let’s get out of here.’

  ‘Why don’t you track down the agent?’ suggested Will on their way back to the village. ‘See what you can find out about the farm. I’ll try the store and the pub. Let’s meet there in an hour.’

  Everyone they spoke to had two things in common: suspicion and a reluctance to talk about the farm. The responses varied. Moving from polite evasion via pretended ignorance and obvious lies to rude rebuff, they covered everything but the truth.

  ‘I could do with a cold beer,’ said Jack, pulling up a stool next to Will’s at the bar. Apart from the publican reading the paper behind the counter, the bar was deserted.

  ‘Any luck?’ asked Will.

  ‘Nothing! The bastard didn’t want to know me and almost threw me out.’

  ‘Same here,’ said Will, lowering his voice, ‘except for the vicar. You just missed him. He was having a quiet beer at ten in the morning.’

  Jack ordered two beers. ‘What did you find out?’ he asked.

  ‘About a year ago, there were some rather unusual characters at the farm who caused the village here, and particularly the vicar, a lot of grief. They terrorised the locals for months and only left after the farm burnt down.’

  ‘Not your ideal tenants,’ said Jack. He took a sip of his beer and nodded appreciatively. ‘Who were they?’

  ‘At first, even the vicar was reluctant to talk. But three scotches later he opened up a little.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘A bikie gang,’ said Will, lowering his voice even further. ‘Can you believe it? Here, in this God forsaken place?’

  Jack looked up, surprised. ‘Yes, I can,’ he said, grinning. ‘And we have the proof right here.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘This.’ Jack pulled the piece of leather he’d found in the fireplace out of his pocket and put it on the bar in front of him. ‘Do you know what this is?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘The penny dropped as soon as you mentioned the bikies. This, my friend, is the colours of an outlaw motorcycle club.’

  ‘You’re kidding! Do you know which club?’

  ‘Yes. The Wizards of Oz.’

  Will’s jaw almost dropped into his glass. ‘Let me buy you another beer, mate. You deserve it,’ he said.

  5

  On the plane to London, 11 January

  ‘You asked me the other day how I find the material for my articles, remember?’ said Jack, leaning back in his comfortable business class seat just before takeoff. He reached for his glass of champagne and turned towards Rebecca sitting next to him. ‘I don’t find the stories, they find me. Cheers.’ They touched glasses.

&nbs
p; ‘You went back to that farm with Will yesterday? Why?’

  ‘Because I believe another story has found me.’

  ‘Oh? And are you going to tell me about it?’ asked Rebecca, looking at him mischievously, ‘or is it a secret?’

  ‘You really want to know?’

  ‘Of course. Don’t tease me.’

  ‘It’s about a girl. A backpacker, who disappeared without a trace with her girlfriend four years ago in Alice Springs.’

  ‘Fascinating.’

  ‘Listen to this.’ Reaching for his briefcase, Jack told her about his discovery at the farm. He showed Rebecca photos of the piece of leather found in the fireplace at the abandoned homestead. He described the derelict farmhouse, what was left of the kitchen, and the room with the strange wall covered with numbers.

  ‘It all comes back to the inscription,’ said Jack. ‘How do we explain it? Is it some practical joke? Hardly. Coincidence? I don’t think so. Popov is an unusual name in Australia. I’m convinced that the secretaire has been at the farm for a long time. So, whoever carved “Anna Popov Help 07” into the desktop, must have been there in 2007. It’s the most logical explanation, don’t you agree?’

  ‘Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?’ asked Rebecca.

  ‘I thought you were on my side! Aren’t you supposed to give me encouragement?’ replied Jack, pretending to be hurt.

  ‘Minders like me have to make sure that their charges keep at least one foot on the ground, and one eye on reality.’

  ‘Inspiration moves in mysterious ways and fact can be stranger than fiction. I’ve seen it many times, and so have you. Take our current book, for instance. We’re travelling the world promoting it, millions are reading it, the media can’t get enough of it and politicians have taken notice of it and changed laws. It’s a great success, yes?’

  Rebecca nodded.

  ‘Yet, as we both know, that story began with an old photograph found by accident in the ruins of a cottage destroyed by bushfire. Look where it ended up.’

  ‘Point taken,’ said Rebecca, reaching for Jack’s hand.

  ‘And guess who found that photograph and alerted me to that story?’

  ‘Your friend Will. I know.’

  ‘If I have any talent at all, it’s certainly not my writing. Many can do that much better than I. I’m a reporter, not a writer. It’s my instinct for a good story, that’s the difference,’ said Jack. ‘I’m a newshound with a good nose. I love to investigate, get to the bottom of things, solve the puzzle, explain the mystery and if I’m really lucky, find, no, expose the truth. I can feel it in my bones that this is one of those stories. I can’t wait to get back to Sydney ...’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Talk to this man,’ Jack answered quietly, handing Rebecca another photograph.

  ‘My God! Who on earth is that?’

  The photograph looked like a typical mugshot of a delinquent under arrest. There was even a number at the bottom. Long, shiny black hair neatly parted in the middle, fell down on broad, tattooed shoulders. The eyes – a little too far apart – were slanted, reptilian, and almost almond shaped. Prominent cheekbones, a heavy jaw and a drooping moustache gave the subject a distinctly Mongolian look. A thin scar running diagonally across the forehead, brow and cheek, pointed to a large earring in the left ear.

  ‘Eugene Alfonso Cagliostro. Aka the Wizard. Founder and president of the Wizards of Oz motorcycle club. You’ve already seen the club’s emblem.’

  ‘The piece of leather from the fireplace?’

  ‘Exactly. That was the important clue. Eugene’s a notorious character and very dangerous. My sources told me that he’s the only son of an Italian trapeze artist and a Gypsy fortune teller – circus performers – and has spent more than half his life behind bars,’ Jack said. ‘Armed robbery, extortion, numerous assaults, drug trafficking and bestiality, would you believe, are some of the more colourful entries in his charge sheets over the years. The club is quite small, but run with almost military precision, demanding monastic obedience from its members.’

  ‘He looks evil.’

  ‘A bit different from the Amish lads you grew up with, I suppose?’

  ‘How did you find all this out in such a short time?’

  ‘Friends in the police force – well-placed friends, that is – and prison wardens, can be an excellent source ... of valuable information,’ said Jack, enjoying himself.

  ‘I knew it from the start: travelling with you, Jack, could never be boring. Here’s the list of your UK engagements.’ Rebecca thrust a sheet of paper into Jack’s hand. It was time for a reality check. ‘How about another glass of champagne?’

  Jack signalled to the stewardess. ‘I was afraid of this. Look, book signings, talk-back radio, morning TV shows, dinner engagements with book clubs, receptions, speeches and a press conference. It’s never ending. I won’t have time to come up for air!!’

  ‘You’re famous, Jack. That’s the price you have to pay. You entered almost unnoticed through the back door and went straight to centre stage. And all that without the usual hurdles: the knock-backs, the countless rejections, the waiting ... Many would give their proverbial right arm to be in your position,’ came the gentle rebuke.

  ‘I know ... It’s just ...’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘Get used to it, buster. Think of your bank balance. It must be rising at an alarming rate,’ Rebecca said.

  ‘If you can arrange a day off for me – just to give my fingers a rest during the London book signing, you understand – I really would like to meet this man before I talk to Eugene,’ said Jack, handing Rebecca another photograph. ‘The one on the right, here.’

  Three sophisticated-looking, middle-aged gentlemen in dinner suits were smiling at the camera.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Professor Nikolai Popov, Anna’s father. The photo was taken last year in Stockholm. He received the Nobel Prize for physics.’

  ‘You want a whole day off?’ asked Rebecca, shaking her head disapprovingly.

  ‘Purely for research purposes, you understand. Please?’

  ‘All right. I’ll see what I can do,’ Rebecca sighed, shrugging her shoulders in resignation. ‘Authors!’

  ‘Eugene is obviously not the only one expecting monastic obedience,’ mumbled Jack.

  ‘Did you say something?’

  ‘No, nothing,’ he murmured, and closed his eyes.

  Jack adjusted his seat, stretched out his long legs and nodded off. He found himself back home in his study. The old secretaire was whispering to him: ‘Help me ... help me’. Jack woke with a start. He opened he eyes and stared drowsily at Rebecca’s hand on the armrest next to him. The silver bracelet he had found in the secret drawer looked lovely on her slender wrist. I wonder, he thought, rubbing his eyes. A link perhaps?

  6

  Vienna, 13 January

  Jack hurried out of the BBC studio after his early morning TV interview. It was his only engagement that day and the hire car Rebecca had arranged to take him to the airport was already waiting outside.

  Contacting Professor Popov personally had been impossible. The Nobel laureate’s schedule was almost as hectic as Jack’s, with speaking engagements and receptions all over Europe. All Rebecca had been able to find out was that Professor Popov would be in Vienna that day, addressing a group of prominent physicists at the university. Jack was hoping to somehow catch up with him there.

  Sitting in the back of the limousine, Jack opened his briefcase and began to sort through the meagre material. He had to admit, when he looked at everything objectively, it didn’t amount to very much. Most of it was a hunch, and to sell a hunch was never easy. However, he had decided to borrow the bracelet from Rebecca. What if it was in some way connected to Anna? It was the only item found in the secretaire and it was in surprisingly good condition, suggesting a fairly recent origin. He would show it to Professor Popov, just in case. But first, he had to find
a way to meet him.

  Trying to talk to people who don’t want to know you is part of every journalist’s lot. The challenge was simply to find that one window of opportunity that would invariably present itself, and climb through before it closed. That needed ingenuity and luck; especially luck. Unfortunately, that day all the windows appeared to be firmly shut with typical Austrian efficiency. Security at the university was tight and Jack couldn’t get near the conference building. With Islamic terrorist paranoia sweeping across Europe and Vienna’s reputation as a safe conference venue at stake, the authorities weren’t taking any chances. Policemen armed with machine guns patrolled the grounds with sniffer dogs and all approaches to the building had been sealed off.

  Jack didn’t speak German but he had to get a message to the Professor while he was still in the building. It was his only chance – Jack had to return to London that evening. Then he remembered something he had pulled off at the United Nations building in New York in similar circumstances – with spectacular success. An old CNN fox had shown him a tried and tested journo trick: how to get a message to a delegate he had never met, without going through security.

  Jack walked over to one of the benches, cleared away the snow and sat down. Here goes, he thought, opening his briefcase. He took an enlarged photo of the desktop showing the inscription – ‘Anna Popov Help 07’ – out of the case and scribbled the words: ‘Please call to discuss. Urgent!’ on the back. Underneath, he jotted down his name and mobile number, slipped the photo into an envelope, but didn’t seal it. Then he hurried across to the young policeman standing at the barricade.

  Fortunately, the man spoke a little English. Jack showed him his Australian press ID and explained that Professor Popov had dropped an envelope as he was getting into his car at the hotel. Jack knew that by passing the envelope to the young officer, he had made it his responsibility to do something about it. The important thing was to leave it there and walk away.

  Jack looked at his watch. ‘I have to run,’ he said, turning on his heels. ‘Please make sure he gets it. He’s a Nobel Prize winner ...’

  Well, it’s on its way, he thought. Fingers crossed I’ll get a call. All going well, the envelope would move up the ladder of command and find the Professor.