Kill Cupid: Internet dating just got dangerous (15 page)

He wandered home somewhere in the “Twilight Zone.” In a true to life episode, a man kept in deep freeze for hundreds of years came back to find nothing had changed. Only the characters had married, become successful and moved on without him. Even his wife had a new husband living in his house, driving his car, playing with his kids and holding barbeque with his neighbours and friends. Bronte was still in shock that he had walked out of his flat and bumped into the real Zhana. That, in a city of a million was itself stranger than fiction.

He had been more than lucky. He considered chance and luck too haphazard to have played any part in this pantomime of brilliant timing. The all-seeing eye pervading everything and everyone, The Almighty Dog spelled backwards, had known exactly where Zhana was. If It could bark loud enough to get his attention, then they’d meet on that pathway. Fortunately, Bronte heard and acted and it all came about.

The walk home that night could have taken hours. His head was still on the path holding Zhana, the lost soldier returning to find his sweetheart. And all the while he had not given a single thought to his destination. As an automated response to her kiss and about turn, he’d walked in the opposite direction. Fortunately he knew it was the right one when he saw the statue of Lenin ahead and in the chilly April breeze that night, the old man needed his bronze overcoat.

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Zhana re-read Willy’s sms which arrived while she sat alone with Katya in the cafe. She simply couldn’t deal with it at the time and she’d barely comprehended the words. Now re-reading his message, she was faring only a little better.

“Hi darling, just want you to know I have taken delivery of the ring. It’s very nice (smiley face). I’m sure you will like it. I love you and miss you.” She pressed reply on her phone and typed, “Thanks my dear, (smiley) you are a very good man. I miss you too. Kiss.” As she pressed send, she felt more than a little disappointed with herself. Here she was receiving news of the greatest gift in her life, yet could manage no more than those mere cool words. She wanted to cry. How could she show enthusiasm and joy on that evening? She was still in a state of concussion. What had begun as a casual stroll with conversation about pending marriages had instead became a walk into a romantic scandal of epic proportion. In as many moments as it took for Bronte to pass her on the pathway, the settled world she knew became a real life television soap drama.

Only a script writer could be so ruthless with her love life. And the story she was still running through her thoughts had far reaching implications. What if Alessiya had not concealed Bronte’s letters? What if he had arrived first, instead of Willy? What if Rita hadn’t got involved? Might she even be marrying this Australian and planning a move to Australia and not Germany? She could admit she’d immediately felt empathy and instant ease with Bronte. It was as though she’d known him for one hundred years. Thankful her son was still at mum’s she burst into the apartment, threw herself on the bed and let it all out, indulging in a good sob session. The man from the photo in her kitchen had travelled as far as any man could possibly travel to meet a Russian woman, but had been suckered by a former friend. He had even sent her all that money, simply on a request to support her vanity.

As she blew the watery contents of her yet unmodified nose into a tissue, her throat became heavy and her eyes overflowed again when she acknowledged this most admirable act. Why did this happen with him and not Willy?
Cupid is a killer of love’s best intentions
, she thought.
That’s why she uses a bow and arrow
. Lying there on her bed that night she felt like she had been shot through the heart, usually a fatal wound.

              ----------  * * --------------------- * * * ------------------------ * * -----------

As Rita made her way home, she truly wished nuclear war would erupt right there, right then, and that her city, her friends, her problems, her life could just end in a blinding flash. She had no idea how she could summon sufficient courage, but she knew she had to inform Alessiya. There was no way she could repay the fifteen hundred dollars and if Zhana and Bronte went to the police, her life was over. Her parents would disown her and she would have to leave town for who knows where. Maybe she deserved to work as a cheap whore in Moscow? During Zhana’s tirade of insults, it had been suggested she was suitable for such work. Now, Rita considered Zhana was probably right and as she contemplated the night’s ordeal again, started to cry. Courage to call Alessiya came from reasoning she was so desperate she had nothing to lose. With blurred and teary vision and a shaking hand, she struggled to pull Alessiya’s number from her mobile address book.

              ‘Hello Oly’ she sobbed.

              ‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’

              ‘A really terrible thing…’ The sobbing continued.

              ‘Calm down... Tell me what’s happened.’ Rita arrested the sobs for a moment.

              ‘He met Zhana… it was just as you said.’ She burst into tears again.

              ‘What? You’re kidding… God Rita, that’s just great! How did that happen?

              ‘Oh Oly… what have I done?’ The sobs went on… ‘Shoot me.’

‘Calm down girl… pull yourself together. I thought you said he didn’t have her phone number?’

              ‘I don’t know…. I swear he didn’t have it in his phone… not in her name… I have no idea…. They didn’t say how they met…’ Rita began to sob and hiccup at the same time.

‘You silly bitch, I warned you this could happen. You had no control over him...’ Then mellowing her tone,

‘Rita, Rita, calm down, get a grip on yourself, it’s not such a big deal. Why are you so upset? He can’t do anything, and what can Zhana do? Jump up and down with her hands on her hips and call us bitches. So what?’ The sobbing had subsided but the hiccups and sniffles hadn’t.

              ‘She says she will go to the police if we don’t return the fifteen hundred dollars. It’s bad…. I don’t have it.’ The sobbing resumed.

‘And say what? The police have more important matters to attend. They will do nothing and he will go home. It will all be soon forgotten.’

              ‘You think so?’ The sniffles and mistimed breathing sounded like an upset child.

‘You better bloody pray so. Last thing I need is someone snooping around my affairs’
Alessiya blurted, biting her lip. Then feigning bravado she added, ‘Yes, of course, I know so. They’ll go away, screw each other’s brains out and forget about it.’

‘But what about his fifteen hundred, I’m supposed to meet him at 2 o clock tomorrow… at the agency.’ Rita was oblivious to the curious glances of others passing her on the pavement as the phone call unfolded on the street.

‘Don’t worry about it, leave that to me. I’ll deal with him… just stay away, okay?’

‘You are not going to kill me for this?’

              ‘Rita my dear, you are a silly girl with a lot to learn. Start by learning that every moment you are not with the man, you invite problems. Then learn that panic is a last resort. And a last resort is a long way off yet.’

              ‘O thanks Oly. You are wonderful… it won’t happen again...’ She felt like she was at a gospel revival meeting, Oly had seen her raised hand, and she’d been saved from hell. Rita blew a kiss but Alessiya had already hung up.
That wasn’t so bad after all,
she thought, especially considering the way she’d felt after seeing Zhana and Bronte. The damned Australian had caused her enough headaches as it was, but after he’d somehow met Zhana, things had looked disastrously bleak. But how did he meet her? If he had her number, why only use it after two or three days? It was a mystery and Zhana hadn’t mentioned it. At the time it seemed unimportant how it happened - more important that indeed it happened. Thirty minutes ago, she was wondering how she would look in a mug-shot or a police line-up. Now her hero had squashed all those childish fears and despairing images. She was on her way home, knowing she could sleep well. The stress to find so much money by the following day had dissipated.
Life is good
she thought as she turned the corner to her apartment.

              ----------  * * --------------------- * * * ------------------------ * * -----------

Bronte was not sure of the time he fell asleep but it was late. He remembered seeing the bedside clock read 2:41. He knew he walked home, showered, drank coffee and lay in bed but had no specific recollection of doing any of these things. Even when he closed his eyes he had visions of Zhana, tears creeping down her cheeks, moist eyes sparkling like black diamonds. He really wanted to speak about the current status of their relationship, but a blind man could see the impact events had on her. Just seeing him standing in there in the flesh must have been like an apparition sent from twelve thousand miles away. After all, the scam had dawned on him only moments before he revealed it to her, so he had a good idea of how upside down she felt.

              When he woke the next day, he was exactly where he left off the night before - still thinking about the night before! He immediately felt the impulse to call Zhana. More than once he picked up his mobile and started to dial her number only to chicken out. Rather, he decided to study the map Zhana sketched and unlike Rolf’s, it made perfect sense.

              At 1:30, he was ready to leave the apartment. He collected his things, repacked his bag and straightened the place up a little. After performing yet another idiot check including a look in the mirror, he walked to the balcony for a final smoke. The courtyard was eerily quiet now the children were back in school or truanting someplace else. Absent of excited, noisy kids, the deserted playground was the exclusive domain of the sleeping black dog lying under the swings.

When Bronte walked out, the dog lifted its head for a drowsy one-eyed look. Watching him exit the complex it barked, Bronte later realising the mutt was trying to tell him, “Stop, don’t go, I’m trying to warn you!”

He dragged his luggage a few blocks and then made a left into another apartment building. Thankfully, the agency was a first floor apartment so he wouldn’t have to labour up too many stairs with suitcases that needed Weight-Watchers. The elevators almost never worked in these old complexes and he guessed this place was no exception. There were at least 150 apartments and numerous entrances, so how he had no idea which one may be hers. An old woman sweeping her doorway with a straw hand broom grunted and pointed to the entrance across from hers, then went right back to sweeping.

              The large metal door had a buzzer on the left. He pressed the button but no one answered. He rang it again and with the second ring, locks began to unlatch. The door opened and Oly – Alessiya, stood looking like a vampire in spandex. The black jeans she wore must’ve been hermetically sealed around her. He quickly gathered himself as he digested her black nail polish and dark lipstick in stark contrast to the wild flame hair she sported.

              ‘Hi Oly.’ Before he could say more,

              ‘What do you want?’

              ‘I thought you’d know what… I am here to see Rita.’

              ‘Rita is not here and I am busy right now so I can not help you. Do you have the apartment key for me?’

              ‘Rita told me to be here at two o’clock. Maybe she is late? Surely she told you, Zhana and I know about your game?’ She stared at him blankly.

‘God Oly, you wrote the bloody letters after all. The entire affair was a blatant scam… and probably your idea.’

              ‘Rita called me and told me what happened with Zhana. She is not late, I assure you. She won’t be coming here, so stop wasting your time and get out of Russia. You should meet a local woman from your village. Why do you even try to meet a young Russian woman anyway? My key please.’ He pulled the large apartment key from his pocket but did not release his grip after she took hold of it. As she tugged he said,

              ‘I’m not going to bother answering your question… Tell Rita we will go to the Police... I think she’ll believe me. She knows Zhana was very upset with all your bullshit. We are very serious about charging you with identity fraud and she wants her money… and we’re serious about taking action to get it.’

              ‘Ha! You are a stupid foreign man. Go to the police! They will do nothing for you. Go! Go! Get out of Russia!’ She slammed the door in Bronte’s face.

Zhana agreed to meet Bronte in the centre of town. She hadn’t taken a break for lunch in case she needed to get him to the hotel she organised. When he called and relayed what had happened at two o’clock, she told him where to meet and then as quickly as it took to explain the address, just hung up. He didn’t comprehend the location at all and his luggage seemed to be putting on weight since he started out. He hailed a cab. While the driver put his bags in the car, he called Zhana again then passed the phone to the cabbie who received her instructions.

Zhana was already standing out the front of the Old Police building as the taxi pulled to the curb. It was a fine piece of early 20
th
century Russian architecture with splendid stone steps leading to a large marble portico. She greeted him with a kiss to the cheek, insisted on taking his small hand luggage and said,

‘Let’s go… I don’t have long.’ They walked straight up the flight of steps from the street and into the building. She approached the main desk and spoke to the officer on duty. He appeared to ask few questions, repeatedly looking at Bronte and then picked up a telephone and began to speak.

‘Let’s sit here,’ Zhana pointed, walking towards a bench against a wall.

‘We must wait to speak to a detective.’ They sat together with his luggage, the sum total of his life’s possessions in that place. Bronte wondered if a street dweller pushing his entire possessions in a shopping cart enjoyed life like someone on perpetual vacation. A trim man in his forties wearing collar and tie appeared from a doorway and began striding towards them, heels echoing loudly on the marble floor.

‘How do you do?’ He said, shaking hands with the pair of them. Zhana flew into a conversation, no doubt detailing the chain of events. The detective listened and said little only frequently sizing Bronte up and down. After a few moments he spoke briefly and with smiles, put out his hand and said,

‘Goodbye and good luck.’ He shook Bronte’s hand then Zhana’s, turned and walked away.

              ‘Let’s go’ Zhana said again. ‘I will explain outside.’

On the street Zhana said it sounded like they could mount a case against the swindlers and if this was what they wished to do, the police would get involved. However, because international money transfers were central to the issue, it was not the domain of the Krasnodar Police. Instead they must go to the offices of the F.S.B. - formerly the KGB. These were the heavy hitters that combined functions and powers similar to those exercised by the FBI, A.S.I.O, the
NSA
and DEA, not to mention the CIA. Aside from commanding their own
Internal Troops
or
spetsnaz
, they had custody and control of the country’s 6,000 nuclear weapons. Bronte simply wanted a little help with an uncooperative bitch so hoped that despite their nuclear weapons, this wasn’t beyond their control.

Their offices were not close by meaning they had to walk numerous city blocks struggling with his damned luggage. He found himself recalling packed items he could jettison. It seemed the stuff had increased in weight and more than once he stopped, grabbed a breath and stretched his back for fear of a permanent Cro-Magnon posture. And why was it so difficult to keep up with Zhana, even though she wore four inch heels? He decided it could only be one of those unique anomalies of gender, like performing child birth, or demonstrated by African tribal women balancing giant baskets on their heads.

They eventually arrived at another large building surrounded by sturdy wrought iron fences and electronic gates. The place was newer, less conspicuously located, and less grand than the Central Police station. But it looked almost deserted. Only the Russian flag, an official plaque showing FSB and the surveillance cameras declared its identity. They were promptly buzzed through the gate and into the building where they sat to wait for an attending officer. Minutes passed, followed by more minutes until they both finally wandered back out the front to smoke. He began to wonder if the detectives were all out in the field on assignment. It was twenty minutes before a detective finally greeted them.

              ‘Hello, my name is Sasha. I am very sorry to have kept you waiting.’ His English was slow and precise. ‘How can I assist you?’ Bronte’s spirit lifted when he heard his native language. ‘Please, come to my office.’ Bronte collected his luggage and staggered off behind the detective and Zhana, already engaged in a rundown of events in their native tongue. After a few paces he dropped and abandoned the bags. It seemed reasonable to assume they were safe in that building.

Sasha’s office was small with a window overlooking the street below. There was a large filing cabinet pushed hard against one wall, a desk and three chairs. An old computer sat on the table but wasn’t switched on even for Solitaire. Some photos of former celebrated officers adorned two walls, each one wearing the most serious of expressions as their common theme. One picture looked to be posthumous after exhuming the corpse, the man’s face and complexion pallid with a blank stare. Sasha merely pointed Bronte to a chair, making no attempt to interrupt Zhana who made no attempt to stop talking.

After some minutes Sasha leaned back in his chair, held a finger to his lips to indicate she had said enough and lit a cigarette. Opening the window for ventilation he coughed,

              ‘Not supposed to smoke in the building.’ He looked at Bronte and continued with a disarming grin,

‘So, you’re from Australia? Nice place!’ He said with some authority.

‘You have been to Australia?’ Bronte asked.

‘I have seen National Geographic Channel.’ He puffed away, ‘And you have problem with swindler girl here, am I right?’

              ‘Yes. I came here believing I was meeting with Zhana, but was duped into meeting someone who had used her identity.’

              ‘Interesting’ he said slowly and decidedly. ‘And I understand she has a new nose?’ Bronte hoped this story sounded less ridiculous to Sasha than it sounded to him. He felt his cheeks blush and cleared his throat before answering,

              ‘Well that was their excuse for the $1500 I sent… but she still has her real nose.’ Sasha fell into a pose reminiscent of the Thinker statue, elbow on desk and fist against forehead. Bronte expected something helpful, clever or profound,

‘Interesting… What do you think of George Bush?’ His strange question threw Bronte completely. He had no idea what prompted this abstract political question out of left field and so early in the investigation. He assumed it to be a trick question, gauge his outlook on the US leader and the world’s affairs and thereby determine whether or not to assist them.

‘George Bush is dangerous’ Bronte stated as a frank assessment of the US head of state.

              ‘Good answer’ Sasha declared with a grin, and with total disregard for the non-smoking regulations and the conversation, Zhana lit a cigarette.

‘Do you have paperwork of these transactions with this woman or agency; a bank receipt; Western Union slip; something?’ Sasha continued.

              ‘I have records from Western Union, yes.’

              ‘Can I see them?’ The two stared at Bronte, as though they expected he’d whip out a portfolio of all transactions.

              ‘Not right now I’m afraid.’             

‘Why not?’ Sasha said, passing Zhana his makeshift ashtray, made from a sheet of cleverly rolled A4 copy paper.

              ‘Well… unfortunately they are in Australia….’

              ‘Can you get someone to send you copies?’

‘That is difficult Sasha…
I am not sure where to tell the dog or cat to look
…
too difficult.’

              ‘Have you seen sharks in Australia, a Great White shark? You have seen a Great White Shark alive in the ocean?’

‘National Geographic Channel?’

‘Of course’ Sasha said pulling another cigarette from a box.

‘Well yes, as a matter of fact I have Sasha, and too close thanks. I was surfing in the Great Australian Bite and it was big, about six metres. Quite scary, too close.’

              ‘That’s fantastic!’ He said exhaling smoke, as if he didn’t wish Zhana to feel like the lone regulation breaker. ‘So, can you get me the receipts for the transfers?’

‘Only when I’m home can I send them to you.’

              ‘Mmm, then I’m afraid there is nothing we can do to help you without the paper trail. Look, the bottom line is this, if you can get me the evidence I need, then I am happy to pursue the matter for you and go talk to this Alessiya – and ah…’

              ‘Rita’ Zhana added.

‘You should remember however, that if we prosecute, you will be required to attend court here, and you will need an attorney.’ Zhana and Bronte looked at each other as if to acknowledge the dead end they’d reached. When they got up to leave Sasha added,

‘Oh, and it will be a Russian only court, no English you understand.’ They shook hands around the table and Bronte led them out of the office. As they got through the door, Sasha called Zhana back into his office. She re-emerged shoving an FSB business card with his name and mobile number into her bag. Everyone shook hands again and after gathering his accursed luggage, the two lost lovers walked out onto the street.

              ‘Well that was a bloody waste of time.’

              ‘You must send this paperwork and then we can do something.’ Zhana said rather distantly.

              ‘Yes, I realise that… but honestly, I can’t be bothered, I’ve had enough. I just want to sit and be depressed, smoke and drink beer.’ She looked at him intently, took a different mobile from her purse and began dialling. As she put it to her ear she said to him,

              ‘You are not leaving Krasnodar without your money. I will see to it’ she stated abruptly. ‘Hello, Rita? What happened about paying today?’ Rita was watching TV with her brother when Zhana called, barely paying attention to the unknown number on her phone screen. Until Zhana’s voice registered, she had virtually forgotten the matter.

              ‘I am unable to pay you… I can’t’ Rita replied. Bronte guessed something was cooking, Zhana looked capable of unleashing fury again with little prompting.

‘What do you mean you can’t? You think we were joking last night?’

‘I am sorry but I can not… And in fact I will not,’ attempting to echo Alessiya’s confidence tactics. ‘Anyway, there is nothing you can do’,

              ‘Nothing we can do eh? Well you were warned you silly bitch, and I have only called to tell you we have just now left the FSB offices where we handed over all Western Union receipts, emails, paperwork and your details. We have commenced legal action against the agency – and you and Alessiya of course - for swindling. The detective said you will be contacted soon. So good luck… with FSB, you’ll need it.’ She hung up.

              ‘What was that about? You called Rita, right?’ Bronte enquired, understanding nothing of the conversation.

              ‘Rita… the bitch must be running to the toilet right now. She’ll be on the phone to Alessiya as we speak.’ Zhana flagged a passing cab and as it circled to do a u-turn, she passed Bronte a piece of paper.

‘Here is the hotel address you need. Just speak to Dasha, my friend in reception… you won’t have trouble finding her. She has a room reserved for you… now I must get back to work. With a bit of luck, the boss won’t know I’ve been gone.’ She opened the cab door and as she got in, offered ‘I will come to you tonight after work, about eight. You take care, ask for Dasha, okay?’ The cab took off in a line of traffic like ants the size of motor cars while Bronte hailed another to take him to the hotel.

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At 4.10pm that afternoon, the pretentious leisure cruiser SS Alessiya ran aground. Cracks were beginning to appear below the safe waterline and she was taking water, floundering at a rapid rate. For the first time ever, Rita thought her captain might jump overboard with rats abandoning the sinking ship.

‘Damn stupid, bloody ugly bitch.’ Alessiya was almost screaming into the phone at Rita. ‘I’d like to rip that little bitch into a hundred pieces. Hell, the FSB? Who does she think she is?’

              ‘So you think she is serious?’

              ‘Rita, for crissakes! If she has given them paperwork… and with him in their offices, do the math… of course she’s bloody serious!’

              ‘Oh my God, what can she do?’ Imagining sirens, handcuffs and mug-shots, Rita’s voice was quivering. ‘What can happen now?’

‘Jeezus Rita, the best that can happen is we will have to repay the fifteen hundred.’ Knowing she had about 50 dollars to her name, Rita felt sudden sickness overwhelming her.

‘And the worst?’

‘We could be in deep shit.’ Hearing once-confident Oly put things so bluntly only made Rita feel like bringing up her lunch.

‘Oly let’s just pay him the money and be done with it. I will repay you, I promise.’

              ‘Shut the hell up Rita you stupid tart, that’s easy for you to say, especially after dumping me in your shit. Since when do you make decisions of what to do with my money? If you’d done a half decent job, we wouldn’t have this bullshit situation. How many times did I warn you of this possibility, huh, how many times?’ Alessiya was pacing the floor and smoking a pen with her teeth.