by Peter Watt
Peter Watt has spent time as a soldier, articled clerk, prawn trawler deckhand, builder’s labourer, pipe layer, real estate salesman, private investigator, police sergeant and adviser to the Royal Papua New Guinea Constabulary. He speaks, reads and writes Vietnamese and Pidgin. He now lives at Maclean, on the Clarence River in northern New South Wales. Fishing and the vast open spaces of outback Queensland are his main interests in life.
Peter Watt can be contacted at www.peterwatt.com
Also by Peter Watt
Cry of the Curlew
Shadow of the Osprey
Flight of the Eagle
To Chase the Storm
Papua
Eden
The Silent Frontier
The Stone Dragon
Excerpts from emails sent to Peter Watt since his first novel was published:
‘Stand proud, Peter Watt. Your stories have touched one … may they touch a nation.’
‘There was not one boring chapter in [The Stone Dragon] … Just fantastic reading.’
‘Thanks for many hours of enjoyment …’
‘I read one of your novels, Shadow of the Osprey. I was hooked from the very first page and I had to go out and buy what other books of yours I could find … I would say “move over Wilbur Smith” … yours are something special and I hope that you continue to write for a long time yet.’
‘I started reading the first of your books … and before you knew it I had read them all … Thank you for writing novels that have history attached; it is wonderful.’
‘… you tell a very good story, so good in fact I cannot put them down.’
‘I heartily agree with the comments from readers that are printed in your books. I also have read Wilbur Smith and Bryce Courtenay and am very pleased to add you to the list of my favourite authors. Keep up the good work.’
‘… brilliant reading … you have a great gift.’
‘I have just read The Stone Dragon and I have to say that the first page made me smile so much because you resurrected a favourite character in John Wong. Then reading the story of Peking made me think about your recommendation of other books on this sad saga and I am now going to broaden my horizons on different countries. But I know you have many more stories to tell and I cannot wait.’
‘I re-read Eden and it has not lost its suspense and reality …’
‘I picked up The Stone Dragon at my local library in Western Australia, and after a couple of chapters am delighted to have found a new good author to add to my favourites. I’ll be reading your other books and confidently pay for them at the bookshop.’
‘Inside the cover you have emails sent to you and I would like to add my compliments. Thanks for many enjoyable hours of reading.’
‘Peter Watt is one of the best authors I have ever read and his ability to take you with him on the journey is wonderful.’
‘I am an avid reader of your books … I love your work.’
‘I could not put [Cry of the Curlew] down – great stuff, terrific story and a great feel of Australia permeating through the story … Thank you for writing these stories of the early settlers in this land of ours.’
‘I have thoroughly enjoyed your entertaining and informative books …’
‘Thank you so much for Shadow of the Osprey! I could not put it down.’
PETER
WATT
THE
FROZEN
CIRCLE
First published 2008 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney
Copyright © Peter Watt 2008
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Watt, Peter, 1949–.
The frozen circle / Peter Watt.
ISBN 978 1 4050 3854 6 (pbk.).
A823.3
Set in 13/16 pt Bembo by Post Pre-press Group
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
These electronic editions published in 2008 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney 2000
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.
The Frozen Circle
Peter Watt
Adobe eReader format 978-1-74198-247-3
Microsoft Reader format 978-1-74198-306-7
Mobipocket format 978-1-74198-365-4
Online format 978-1-74198-424-8
Epub format 978-1-74262-500-3
Macmillan Digital Australia
www.macmillandigital.com.au
Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy
both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and
news of any author events.
To Naomi,
for her love and support
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTES
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
Ipatiev House
The Siberian city of Ekaterinburg
Ural Mountains, Russia
Evening of 16 July 1918
Comrade Yakov Yurovsky paced the small room. A tall, sturdy man with a neatly trimmed goatee beard, dark short hair and intelligent eyes, his face was now twisted with anxiety. He stopped pacing to remove his pince-nez spectacles and lay down on the couch in his office, applying a wet cloth to his brow. In his forty years on earth he had experienced war, prison and exile under the Czar’s tyrannical rule and
now the Czech White Army was rapidly approaching the city of Ekaterinburg which he knew would inevitably fall into their hands. If so, his wife, children and widowed mother who shared his small flat would be at risk if the White Army learned they were related to the leader of the local Soviet.
But that was not his only concern. Comrades Lenin and Trotsky in far away Moscow wanted to keep their prisoners alive against the wishes of the local Soviet. Trotsky wanted to place the Czar on trial and humiliate him; Lenin, to use the royal family as pawns in his vicious civil war. But Comrade Lenin had given in and signed the death warrant. Only Trotsky protested and he was not a man to be ignored in the Revolution. Moscow was a long way from Siberia and the pressing matter of possibly allowing the Czechs to overrun the region and rescue the royal family was here and now.
A knock at the door stirred the commander of the grand old house now being used as a private prison for the Czar, his family and their personal servants.
‘Comrade Yurovsky, the party has been assembled and pistols issued to each man.’ The voice from the doorway was that of the foreman of the twelve-man execution squad.
‘Just wait one moment, comrade,’ Yurovsky waved from the couch. ‘I will join you soon.’
Had he made the right choice, Yakov asked himself. What was at stake in the next few hours was the very fate of his family and the history of the Revolution. He knew that he would forever twitch at every footfall outside his office or apartment for the lie he would have to live. But Yakov had proved his loyalty to Comrade Lenin and Trotsky’s revo lution. This was a personal matter and the audacity of it must forever be hidden not only from those he supported, but also from history itself. Not only Comrade Lenin was capable of using pawns, Yakov thought as he rose from the couch to join the execution squad. He knew there was no going back but the faces of his own family flashed before him as he followed the foreman down the stairs to the cellar where nine unsuspecting, innocent people waited to have their photograph taken for posterity. But instead of looking down the lens of a camera the Romanovs would be facing a row of revolvers and smelling the stench of cordite mixed with the acrid scent of blood as they died in a hail of gunfire in the tiny cellar. When it was all over, Yakov would make his report to Moscow and Comrade Lenin informing that he had carried out his revolutionary duty. After all, who would question the man responsible for ridding Russia of the evil tyranny of the Czar and his family?
But Yakov was also human. He knew that he needed what the American imperialists called ‘an ace up the sleeve’ should the Czechs overrun his home and threaten his family. Good luck had sent him his ace.
20 kilometres west of Ekaterinburg
23 July 1918
One week later
Although it was the middle of summer, with the disappearing light of the day the temperature was falling. The young woman, bedraggled by her flight from the city, struggled in the dense forests of the taiga. Her strong body had been sapped of strength as she had escaped the besieged city where she had been held prisoner after the execution of her parents by the Bolsheviks under the command of Comrade Yakov. The White Army was fighting fiercely for possession of the city but Maria had taken advantage of the confusion brought about by the fighting, slipping from the house where she had been held captive.
She collapsed on the spongy mosses of the forest floor to rest and thought about her future. She knew that she had a long journey ahead of her through war-torn territory and the fortune in jewellery she carried in a cloth belt around her waist was as much as a liability as an asset. Should she fall into the hands of bandits or Bolsheviks she knew that she would not fare well. Her only hope of survival was the identity papers she also carried, declaring her as the Princess Maria Romanov – if she could reach the Allied or White Army lines around Archangel. Surely the English royal family would do everything to rescue her from the Bolsheviks, she thought hopefully, if only she could reach Archangel. For now the city in the Arctic Circle could have been as far as the moon itself and her chances of survival very slim in a land as vast as the Russias.
She was sure Yakov had only kept her alive because she might prove valuable as a bargaining chip should the Czechs overrun the city and threaten his family for his role in the execution of the Russian royal family. If the Czechs failed then her life too would be forfeited. She could not take the chance of remaining and had seized the first opportunity to slip from under the guard placed on her with a bribe of one of the many precious stones concealed in her corset.
‘I’m cold,’ Maria whimpered, shivering as the short darkness of summer descended in the tree tops and a wind sighed through the pine needles to sing away her hopes of survival.
Maria was not only a very pretty young woman, with deep blue eyes and rosy cheeks, she also had a toughness of spirit that would see her continue the journey west towards Europe. She had her indomitable spirit and a small fortune in gems. All she needed now was a lot of luck in seeking out the right people who could help her reach the safety of France. She still remembered the stories of her French mother painting images in her mind of a fabled city called Paris. She would reach Paris and declare to the world that the bestial Bolsheviks had not been able to kill all the Romanov family, she thought with a fierce determination, ignoring the fact that that Paris lay thousands of kilometres to the west.
The sun was gone and Maria huddled into the gnarled roots of a large tree, where she shivered through the night despite the many layers of clothing she had been wise enough to take with her on her escape. She was at least grateful for the fact that it was not winter for she would have surely died of exposure. The young woman curled up and quietly sobbed herself to sleep.
When the warming sun finally returned to kiss her cheeks Maria awoke. As her eyes focused she sat up with a start. Standing over her was a tall, bearded man with shaggy hair and wild eyes. Worse still, he held an ancient rifle in his hand. Maria wondered if death had come to take her.
London, England
Armistice Day
11 November 1918
Three and a half months later
The din outside the walls of the Regimental Officers Mess was deafening. It had been so all day and continued into the night as the masses on the streets of London celebrated the end of the Great War, singing, dancing, beating anything that could make a sound in lieu of drums, blowing whistles, horns and drinking.
The normally busy mess was empty, save for two uniformed officers sitting in their respective leather chairs at opposite ends of the room. The place was heavily adorned with the trophies of past wars: lances, shields and tattered flags festooned the dark wood veneer walls while sepia photos of English officers wearing pith helmets took up any spare space. The mess had an ambience of tradition and serenity: a place where time had stood still since the Battle of Waterloo. Even this just finished war with its rude intrusion of science and technology to aid the killing had not yet intruded with its trophies.
The noise outside tapered off as the night drew on. Now the turning of the pages of the London newspaper could almost be heard as the tough-looking captain wearing the uniform of an Australian officer continued to peruse each and every article, oblivious to the explosive excitement that had been the announcement the war was over.
The young, second lieutenant at the other end of the room also wore the uniform of an Australian officer. In his early twenties, he was tall and had what many would call an aristocratic appearance. Sandy hair and pale blue eyes set off his fine features. He was not reading a paper. Instead, he gripped a gin and tonic in his hands and stared morosely at the emptiness of the room. His melancholy thoughts were interrupted when the Australian captain walked over to him.
‘Another G & T, Mr Littleton?’ the officer asked.
George Littleton appeared startled. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he replied. ‘That would be bully.’
The captain walked over to the bar and went behind to pour two gin and tonics, ticking off the drinks on a chit. The stewards had all deserted
the mess hours ago to join the deliriously happy crowds in the streets. Captain Joshua Larkin, MC, DCM, MM did not think they would be reprimanded for leaving their posts as most of the citizens of London were with them, also away from their places of employment. He returned to the junior officer with the drinks and sat in a comfortable, well-padded leather chair next to the younger officer.
‘Thank you, sir,’ George said, accepting the drink. ‘I would have thought from what I can see of your decorations that you would be out on the streets celebrating the end of the hostilities.’
‘And I would have thought that it would be you, Mr Littleton,’ the captain countered. ‘A handsome, dashing young officer such as yourself could do very well tonight with the ladies.’
George swigged heavily on his replenished drink as if attempting to swallow the decorated captain’s comment. ‘I never had the chance to see any action,’ he replied. ‘I had just arrived in England and was waiting to go over when the Armistice was called. Hardly call that the attribute of being the dashing officer,’ he added bitterly.
‘Count your blessings that you missed the show,’ Joshua said, leaning forward and fixing the young man with his grey eyes. ‘I know that most of my cobbers who are still over there, under the mud or hanging on the wire, would have preferred to bemoan the fact that they missed out than experience their fate. You have the chance to return home – sound in body and sane in mind – to start a life.’
