My Wife's Li'l Secret (16 page)

Two days later, unbeknownst to my wife, I was on a plane to Odessa.

It had been years since I visited Ukraine and to be honest, it wasn’t a place I was particularly fond off. Save for the memories of when I first met Olga.

Come to think of it, even those memories were tainted and it was official…I hated Ukraine.

If I had told Bear and Arena about my plans to fly to Ukraine, they would have most definitely stopped me, so I called in sick, then quietly bought my ticket.

Olga thought I was flying to South Africa to arrange the liquidation of some of my late parents' assets with my siblings.

“I have to pay Aristov, remember? Back in a week,” I lied.

“Oh, okay then. Okay. Yeah, okay.” Her eyes gleamed with greed. “Will you bring me a few cartons of cigarettes?” she asked.

“Eh…”

“It’s so much cheaper there.”

“O…kay,” I said.

“Peter Stuyvesant cigarettes.”

****

Only after I touched down at Odessa International Airport did I email Bear from my phone and fill him in.

Within minutes I got a response. .

Coming to join you. Stay put. Where bouts are you?

I stopped him, but he protested. However, after a few emails back and forth, he realized that I did not want him around, and he backed off. Reluctantly.

As for Arena, she sent me about twenty emails chastising me for putting myself in such a dangerous position. As expected.

I ignored all of her emails and tried to focus.

First thing I did was check into the same hotel I had lived in years ago.

Next, I rented a Mitsubishi and drove to Olga’s house. At that moment, I had no idea what I was going to do when I got there, but I just needed to go there for some reason. I did get lost for a while, but I eventually found it.

Although the sun had set, it was still bright enough to get a good view of the house. As I looked at it, I realized that it was more of a glorified trailer than a house. The paint had peeled, the grass was ankle deep, some of the windows were broken, and plywood had been nailed to them. Clothes fluttered on a washing line that creaked and looked like it was going to fall any moment.

Through the curtains I saw a figure moving around. A woman. Was it the old woman who passed as Olga’s mother? I wondered.

It quickly grew dark, and since I couldn’t see much, I terminated my surveillance and drove back to the hotel with plans to return the following morning.

At 9 a.m. the following morning, I was parked a distance away from Olga’s house, a pair of binoculars at hand and a baseball cap pulled low over my face.

Again I could see the figure of a woman moving around the house through one of the windows. I was convinced that the figure did not belong to the old lady. This woman or girl had long, light hair – not short, dark hair like Olga’s "mother" had. She moved swiftly and with more ease than an older person would.

Just as I was contemplating walking up to the house, the figure stepped outside, garbage bag in her hand.

I did a double take – it was Olga.

It can’t be; Olga is still in Sydney.

Not only did the woman
look
like Olga, her mannerisms were like Olga – the way she moved her fringe aside, the manner in which she wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, her gait…all that made me think I was looking at Olga.

Perplexed, I kept my eye trained on the woman.

When she strolled toward the letter box, I got a clear view of her face.

She wore no make-up; her clothes were simple – faded blue jeans, a white polo, a navy polar fleece jacket, and a pair of sneakers.

This is crazy, I thought. I have to talk to her.

I got out of my car and strode toward her. I would ask for directions or something, I decided, while getting up close to suss her out.

The woman squinted at me approaching and as she did, recognition danced in her eyes before it morphed into panic. “Ritchie!” she mouthed, her eyes bulging.

As I looked at the woman a few feet away from me, took in her make-up-free face and unflattering clothes, I thought of two probabilities:

Olga had a twin.

The plainly-dressed, fresh-faced woman in front of me was the one I had married!

"Hello, darlin!” I said. “Did ya miss me?”

Her head jerked to look at the front door, then back at me. Suddenly, she turned and darted toward the house.

“Where you going, hon?” I said as I gave chase.

She reached the house, got inside, and tried to push the door closed.

She almost made it, but I was too fast. Using my shoulder, I shoved so hard the door went flying, and she landed on the floor.

For a moment, she lay dazed on her arse, then quickly scrambled to her feet and ran into the next room. Knowing that there was no one else in the house, I let her.

Before she could lock that door, I was in the room facing her.

“Ritchie…” she said, backing away from me, fear on her face. “Wha…?”

I had no time to waste. “Who’s the woman I’m living with?” I demanded, advancing slowly toward her.

Her blue eyes darted toward the window.

I lunged at her and grabbed her by the hair. “I will kill you, Olga. I will. I have nothing to lose. You need to talk to me.”

“Aaaawww!” she cried, wincing in pain.

I released her hair, but planted myself firmly in her personal space. “Spill!” I snarled.

“You don’t understand; I can’t tell you, Ritchie!”

So I’m right, you are my wife!

I should have felt victorious that my hunches were correct – I wasn’t; I was angry at her. But when she uttered my name, it was the way she said it when I first met her, and my heart slammed against my chest – I was talking to my
wife
, the woman I had loved and married, the same woman who betrayed me by sending an imposter in her place, the woman who deserted her children.

The imposter who took her place, the one who awaited me in Sydney, had a sharper accent, and the way she uttered my name was different from the woman before me. I had noticed it, but not enough to get suspicious over it. Stupid me!

I stared at the woman in front of me, torn between the desire to grab her and shake her for her duplicity, or lunge at her to give her a hug.

The whole thing felt surreal – I was in one of those fragmented and obscure dreams.

Questions darted through my mind like tadpoles: How could she do this to me, to our children?
Why
did she do it?

If Olga,
my
Olga, was here in front of me, then who the hell was the woman in Sydney living in my home, pretending to be my wife?

The woman in front of me appeared to be visibly withdrawing. Her chin was tucked into her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around her body, her eyes fixed to the floor. “I’m sorry,” she chanted.

“I know that Viggo is actually Cruikshank,” I said, hoping to draw her out. “I know so much. More than you think…”

It worked – her head jerked to look at me. “You know that?” Surprised flitted in her eyes and her arms slowly dropped to her side.

I nodded.

Her brows knitted and she gave a series of tiny shrugs.

“I know about Aristov.”

The mere mention of his name made her eyes grow wide and she started to wring her hands. “You know him?”

“Yeah. But I need more answers from you or I am going to the cops,” I threatened.

At the mention of the cops, I expected to see fear on her face, followed by pleas not to get the cops involved and an assurance that she would talk.

None of that happened.

Her response was a mirthless chuckle.

The fact that she wasn’t afraid of the cops knowing her secret floored me, and for a few moments, I looked at her in silence, not knowing what to do.

“You don’t understand, Ritchie,” she said in a gentle voice, probably feeling sorry for me and my brick walls. “The cops can’t do anything to Aristov. He’s connected. In a huge way. I’d like to talk to you, tell you everything, but I can’t. I’m sorry.” A pained expression masked her face as she slowly rubbed the back of her neck. Her gentle and caring voice messed with my head and added to my confusion. I found myself on the brink of actually nodding my understanding.

But I quickly snapped out of it. This woman was part of a syndicate who had scammed me. They were professionals who showed me and my kids no mercy.

“Like hell you can’t!” I snarled. “I’ve been scammed by you and your comrades, arrested, slapped with a restraining order, had the crap kicked out of me, and am being exhorted big time. I’ve travelled a long way, and I’ll be damned if you think I’m leaving without answers. You hear me, Olga or whoever the fuck you are?"

She jerked back, her eyes scudding.

I waited for her to talk, my patience at an all-time low.

She didn’t, even though she appeared scared.

Her silence caused my frustration to mushroom. I scanned the room for something I could use to get her to talk. All I could find were some faded gold curtains hanging by a white plastic cord. I ripped off the curtains and the cord and moved toward her.

Her eyes grew large and she backed away. “Wha…?”

I grabbed her by the shoulders shoved her into a chair.

“Ritchie, stop!” she cried.  She tried to shake me off.

“I’m done playing,” I said as I wound the cord around her body and pulled it tight.

“Let me go!” she cried. ‘You’re hurting me!”

Ignoring her, I ripped the curtain into pieces and used them to tie her hands and her legs to the chair. “No more Mr. Nice Guy,” I said.

“Please don’t!” she begged as I tightened the strips of fabric. “Please!”

Ignoring her pleas, I left the room and strode into the kitchen.

When I returned to the room, it was with a butcher knife.

At the sight of the knife, she gasped, her terror-filled eyes fixed to the blade.

“I plan to kill every single one of you,” I said, then raised the knife high into the air.

Her breathing came out in spurts. “Rit…chie!”

I plunged it into the chair right next to her face.

Her scream caught in her throat and emitted more like a gurgle.

“Consider that my warning shot,” I said. “If you think I’m joking, think again. You’re busted, there’s no way out for you.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and started to shake. “Please don’t…please, Ritchie!”

Trying really hard not to hear her voice, the way she said my name, I grabbed a plastic chair and placed it across from her.

After removing the knife from her chair, I straddled my plastic chair. “I’m going to ask you questions, you’re gonna answer them. Lie to me, and this knife is going to be plunged into you. I don’t have time, and I’m not kidding. I won’t be able to let you live unless you come clean. Understand?”

A heavy silence fell between us, followed by a slight nod from her.

Good
.

“Who did I first meet? Here in Ukraine?”

After another hesitation, she jerked her chin to her chest.

“You. O…kay.” I had thought as much. “Who did I marry?”

“Olga, my sister, my twin.”

I had not married her!

For a few seconds, disappointment washed over me.

My disappointment must have been visible because she said, “I’m sorry, Ritchie.”

Ignoring her apology, I continued. “If she is Olga, what is
your
name?”

“N…Nadia.”

“Nadia…” I said as I thought about the Western Union receipts I had found. The money was always sent to N. Alvang.

“Okay,
Nadia
, tell me more. That day we met, did you set me up? And don’t lie to me!” I flashed the knife in front of her face. “I’m warning you!”

Her eyes shifted to the left.

“Don’t fuck with me Olga! Or Nadia.” I shoved my angry and disappointed face into hers. “Don’t. Fuck. With. Me.”

“Yes, yes, yes!” she cried. “But
I
didn’t set you up. I just did what I was told, carried out instructions.”

“Carried out instructions...?”

She nodded.

“Okay...okay…so it
was
a scam. Go on.”

“I was to meet you and get to know you and…you know…and then, we…we got married when I fell pregnant…”

“Wait!” I cocked my head and looked at her. “
You
got pregnant? I married
you
? Explain this to me.”

“
I
got pregnant and you married me, but I was instructed to use Olga’s identity. We’re twins. Identical. She’s nine minutes older than me. You married Olga, not me. On paper, that is. But I lived with you and I had Ally and Becky.”

Olga is not my daughters’ biological mother!

No wonder she was so mean and uncaring toward them – they weren’t hers! Suddenly, I felt as if a light had been switched on and I actually wanted to smile.

I didn’t, though.

On one hand I was thrilled to hear that the Olga was
not
the mother of my girls, on the other hand, I was trapped in an intricate and dangerous web – there was absolutely nothing to smile about.

“Then what happened?”

“After Becky, I was asked to come to Ukraine to
talk.
I refused. Was uncooperative. But when I was pregnant with our son, I received such a beating from Aristov for not following orders, I thought I was going to lose the baby.”

“What? He beat you?”

She nodded.

“Was that the time you lied about being knocked by a bicycle?”

“Yes,” she said in a grim voice.

The time I was accused of beating my wife by the cops and hospital staff.

“That was some beating,” I said.

She shrugged, giving me the impression she was used to it.

“Shortly after that I came to Ukraine, when I told you Viggo had a heart attack. We talked, Aristov and all of us, but when it was time for me to leave, they handcuffed me to the radiator and sent Olga in my place back to Sydney to complete the job.”

“Job,” I muttered. “I was a
job
.”

“That was the plan all along, but I didn’t know that.”

“Why?” I demanded. “Why didn’t you want to cooperate?”

Her face spasmed and her eyes brimmed with tears. “Because…because I didn’t want to leave my b…babies and my husband. I kept making excuses, kept procrastinating, and they got fed up.” Tears coursed down her cheeks as she spoke.

To remain focused, I tried not to notice them.

“Who engineered all this?”

To dry her tears, she brushed a cheek against her left shoulder, then her right, before she answered. “Aristov.”

“Aristov engineered
all
this?” I asked, fighting to remain focused, fighting to remind myself that she was a damn good actress and that her tears were probably the alligator kind.

She nodded.

That was news to me. “I didn’t know Aristov, so how…?”

“The coffee shop we met at? They are his informants. They told him about you. Their job was to alert him about people like you; Americans and foreigners to…”

“…scam?”

She nodded again.

I rubbed my eyes with the palms of my hands as I tried to digest all this information. That couple at the coffee shop who served me breakfast was so kind and pleasant. But they weren’t; they were frauds.

“Why?” I demanded. “Is it money, Olga? I don’t have that much money.”

“Don’t call me that,” she said, her body stiffening, her tears drying up.

“Really? What should I call you, then? How about…?”

“I’m…I’m…Liefie, Rit…Ritchie. Her tears returned and gushed down her cheeks. “I am…Liefie.”

“No, you’re not,” I muttered looking at the floor. “Not anymore.”
I shook my head sadly. “Not anymore.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, her face scrunching up.

The room suddenly went quiet. Outside I heard a man and woman talk in Ukrainian, birds chirped, children laughed, and people continued to exist, unaware that inside this little hut of a house, a few feet away from them, sat two wounded souls.

When she opened her eyes again, she said, “Call me Nadia then. Don’t call me Olga.”

I didn’t answer; I couldn’t. Not with the lump in my throat.

“Each time you called me Olga, it grated my nerves. I loathe my sister, loathe that name, and I so much wanted to ask you to call me Nadia, but I couldn’t, Ritchie. So when you told me what Liefie meant,
little treasure
…” she smiled through her tears, “that’s what I wanted to be called for the rest of…”

Stop!

“…my life! The way you used to say it…full of love and…and…”

Stop!

“…adoration. It was one of the things I missed most, hearing you call me Liefie. I pined for it.”

I let her talk, didn’t interrupt, my eyes fixed to the floor. What could I say?

“You didn’t answer my question,” I finally snapped, trying to take back control of the situation. “I don’t have money. Why me?"

“It’s not money, Ritchie,” she said. “Cruikshank wants your
identity
.”

I cocked my head at her.

“Haven’t you noticed how every day, he looks more and more like you? Can even sign your name, I’ve been told.”

She was right. He dressed like me and wore his hair like I do. I thought about the page of my signatures I had found in his room some time ago. They weren't just to obtain the credit cards. He was practicing my signature for future use. Damn!

“Okay, if that’s the case, why hasn’t he taken my identity yet? He’s had plenty opportunity.”

“Bear and Arena. They’re in the way.”

“You serious?”

She nodded, suddenly seeming eager to talk. “Plans have changed because of Bear and Arena. The plan is now for Olga to come over to Ukraine with the children on a ruse. She is then to call you, tell you she’s had an accident, ask you to come over and fetch the kids. When you get here, like me, you will be forced to remain in Ukraine.”

“Seriously?”

She nodded. “You will send emails and photos of you and the kids having a ball in Ukraine. You will tell everyone that you want to travel to Italy and France and you will send postcards to them from those destinations and eventually, when everyone is convinced that you are safe …”

“…Cruikshank will eventually kill me and assume my identity,” I finished.

“Yes. After you have issued Aristov’s nephew Vlad with a power of attorney. While you are still alive, he will begin to liquidate your assets and Aristov will take most of it. Cruikshank will use your identity to apply for a series of loans. Eventually you will be killed and Aristov will cash in your life policy – one million dollars.”

“I don’t have a policy of a million dollars,” I pointed out. “Just five hundred thousand dollars.”

“You do,” she said in a quiet voice. “I upped your policy without you knowing.”

“No way. They would have called me to verify my...”

“They did. You confirmed everything and they upped it. Well, not you, one of Aristov’s men pretended to be you during the telephone interview.”

All I could do was stare at her.

“I intercepted all your mail and hid it from you.”

“Wow! You’re smarter than I thought,” I said, my voice a mixture of bitterness and amazement. “Much…”

I stopped speaking when I heard a baby cry. It came from the next room. I jerked back and squinted at her, my eyebrows raised.

“You need to untie me, Ritchie,” she said, her voice sounding stressed. “Please!”

I jumped to my feet and poked my head into the room the cry was coming from.

I looked back at Nadia. “A baby?” I mouthed.

She nodded. “Untie me, quick!”

I stared at her for a moment, before I hacked at her ties with the knife. “Don’t try any tricks,” I warned. My attempt to sound threatening was a dismal fail.

She rubbed her wrists, then wiped her eyes before she walked into the next room and returned with the baby in her arms.