The Frozen Circle

by Peter Watt

  ‘Surprise, four bombs and two pistols,’ Joshua replied. ‘And a chance for you to take home a Victoria Cross to impress your family.’

  George knew his friend was attempting humour in a moment when he had put their lives on the line. No decoration for bravery could replace just being alive.

  For the rest of the day the two Australians lay in their concealed position, taking turns to rest, eat and watch the enemy move about the village. Joshua thanked the gods of war that the village had been occupied by relative amateurs. Had they been trained troops, he knew his plan would have little chance of succeeding.

  The beatings had gone on all day it seemed to Major James Locksley as he lay on his side of the earthen floor. He had trouble seeing out of one eye, now closed by a blow, and knew that he had lost teeth. It hurt when he breathed and he suspected that his captors had broken some ribs as well.

  The Bolshevik commander was not as stupid as he appeared, Locksley concluded. Finding the British-made hand grenades and pistol on him, the bear, as Locksley named his captor, concluded that Locksley was probably a spy for the White Army. Fortunately, he had not discovered Locksley’s British identity. In the end, Locksley had given away some information to his inquisitors, if only for an interlude from the beatings and burning of his skin with a glowing, fire-heated poker.

  They were careful not to take the torture to the point of death, the bear realising that his captive was probably a man of importance to the White Army, maybe a high-ranking officer with much to tell on their enemy’s military dispositions. He had some regrets for killing the priest who might have given helpful information on the man they were brutally interrogating. But his hatred for the Russian Orthodox Church, dating back to his early life in his own village in southern Russia, and for those who preached subservience to the Czar was enough to make him act impulsively.

  The prisoner had finally confessed that he was attached to the Czech army and was originally from St Petersburg before the revolution. He had been a captain in the Czar’s army and was now on liaison duties between the Czechs and the Russian White Army. He admitted to being on a spying mission behind their lines when he had been caught.

  Why was it that he did not believe the confession, the Bolshevik commander of the small unit mused, staring at the head slumped onto the blood-spattered shirt. The prisoner had been hung by his wrists from the ceiling. But the Commander needed time to ponder on what tact to take in the next bout of questioning. He would recommence his forceful interrogation that night after a meal. He was in no hurry but expected to curry favour with his masters higher in the chain of Party command when he finally broke his prisoner and learned the truth about who he was and why he was in the village. He nodded to the men to cut down their prisoner and give him a short rest.

  The guard gave the major a drink of water. It tasted like blood. No wonder, Locksley thought. His mouth was full of the stuff. He knew he would be wasting his time asking the guard to untie his hands now swollen by the tightness of the ropes around them. Why should they care that he might lose his hands when he was a dead man anyway? The courageous British officer only hoped that his two companions had got away and were on the track back to Archangel.

  Joshua checked the priming of the hand grenades by the weak light of the dying day. George eased himself from his position on his stomach, turning to sit with his back against the trunk of one of the tall firs. They had gone through the plan together and synchronised watches. Joshua had pointed out that by their peasant dress they could easily be taken for a villager or even one of the Bolshevik soldiers.

  Approaching the village should not be a problem as a couple of the bored guards had used the day to take pot shots at the village dogs, killing most of them.

  ‘Time to go,’ Joshua said, easing himself to his feet.

  George followed, and by the light of a half moon which appeared sporadically through a sky of scudding clouds, they edged their way into the village unchallenged. To add to their luck most of the occupiers had taken up residence with the villagers in their homes and only two men guarded the artillery gun at the edge of the houses. Next to the gun was a wooden wagon containing the shells for the field piece.

  Joshua tapped George on the shoulder to indicate it was time to split up and make their separate ways to the targets they had decided on. Joshua continued boldly along a deserted, rutted street between the houses lit by candles until he came to the log cabin where they had last seen the British major. Joshua felt sure he had found the place and the major’s agonised groans confirmed his instinct.

  Cautiously, Joshua pressed himself against the outside wall and made his way to the window. Poking his head just around the edge of the opening he could see four men inside. One was the major while the other three were enemy soldiers. One of the Russians was the giant Joshua took as the commander of the gun detachment. In the second that he could see in the room Joshua observed as much as he could, and the fact that the Russians had not bothered to post a guard outside made his job easier.

  The major was sitting in a chair behind a table, blood trickling down his battered face. Opposite him sat the huge Russian dressed in furs. Locksley had been stripped naked and the two men with the commander stood back near the door observing the interrogation. They were armed with rifles slung carelessly on their shoulders.

  A grim smile of satisfaction creased Joshua’s face and he hefted one of the two grenades into his hand. Everything now depended on the British major’s ability to comprehend the events of the next few seconds.

  ‘Major Locksley, sir,’ Joshua yelled from outside knowing that his voice should carry through the window but not be understood by the Russians inside. ‘I am about to toss a grenade inside. You have to get the table over and stay behind it.’

  Joshua’s shouted command startled the Russians who reacted by unslinging their rifles. Swearing, the commander stood up from the table, unholstering his pistol. But Major Locksley seemed hardly to react to the command. He lifted his head and blinked at the movement in the small room. Joshua pulled the pin on the grenade and stepped to the window. It sizzled and smoked as the internal fuse burned its way down. Experience had taught him just how long he could hold the grenade before it went off. Locksley heard the sound and instinctively dropped to the earthen floor, painfully knocking the heavy wooden table on its side to act as a shield.

  It was the commander who saw Joshua’s face framed by the window. He snapped off a shot that threw splinters, causing him to flinch away.

  Joshua tossed the grenade inside where it thumped onto the earthen floor and rolled to stop at the Russian commander’s feet. For a second, Joshua could see utter terror in the big man’s face but he reacted quickly by bending down to pick up the grenade.

  Joshua ducked his head back just as the blast ripped through the room, the shrapnel from the exploding grenade tearing flesh in the confined space. He kicked in the door, praying quickly that the major was still alive and that the grenade had done its job. When the door flew open he was rewarded by the sight of all three Russians lying on the floor. One of the men stirred, groaning in his pain from the terrible shrapnel injuries. Joshua shot him in the head with his revolver and stepped over him to look behind the upturned table. It had absorbed much of the grenade’s shrapnel, shielding the major, who was lying on the ground curled into a foetal position. Joshua reached down and was rewarded by the major staring up at him with bleary eyes. Joshua helped him to his feet.

  ‘Are you okay, sir?’ he asked but the major only blinked at him without comprehension. Then he shook his head.

  ‘Sorry, old chap,’ the major said loudly. ‘Can’t hear a damned thing you are saying.’

  The major’s deafness was confirmed when a second loud explosion shook the cabin to its foundations. He did not appear to have noticed although the explosion had caused Joshua to jump. George’s grenades had set off the ammunition wagon, causing confusion among the ranks of the Bolshevik soldiers. Joshua doubted that many wo
uld spill out of the safety of the villagers’ stout homes to investigate the cause.

  Quickly, Joshua stripped a Russian for his clothes. The British officer dressed with irritating slowness but Joshua understood that his injuries were causing him great pain.

  ‘Time to get out of here,’ Joshua yelled into the major’s ear. ‘They aren’t going to stay quiet for very long.’

  Although Locksley could not understand a word the Australian sergeant was saying he had enough of his wits to realise that they had to flee the village.

  Joshua placed his arm under the major’s shoulders and helped him through the door into the night, now alive with frightened shouts from one cabin to another. Joshua guessed that the survivors were discussing what to do next.

  In the cover of darkness the two men made their way back to the rendezvous point Joshua had established outside the village and were greeted by George.

  ‘Let’s go,’ George said, assisting Joshua with the British officer.

  Behind them they could hear the sounds of men organising a search. They were far from safe.

  ELEVEN

  MI6 HQ

  London

  Present day

  Harry Stanton’s mug of coffee had gone cold. He hardly paid it any attention as he thumbed through the report that had been compiled for him by young Sam Briars and added to by Daniel Kildare. From what he could ascertain a journal had been kept by the late Captain Joshua Larkin detailing the events in Russia. Jason’s considerable skills in hacking other people’s computers had provided the MI6 department head with all the information he needed for a first rate ulcer. Secrets that should have lain buried for eternity were now staring him in the face and the transcription of the journal lifted from Monique Dawson’s computer on the other side of the world were as clear as the headlines in any leading British tabloid. Stanton knew that if what was before him leaked out to the media it would make front-page news in every Western paper, easily displacing even the latest scandals of the young royals.

  But worse still, was the impact the information could have on the stability of an already rocky Russian Federation. With his hands behind his back, Harry leaned back in his comfortable leather chair and looked through the double-glazed window of his office onto the city of London below. It was a bleak day outside with sleeting showers of rain but not as grim as the way he felt. He knew that the Prime Minister’s department would scurry for shelter and leave his department out to dry if he did not nip the situation in the bud. Careers could fall on whatever decision he made next.

  Leaning forward, Harry flipped over the pages of the report. So far the secret appeared to be confined to a tiny and internationally insignificant part of the world that, he had been briefed, was relatively cut off from the mainstream of events in Australia. That he had the information before him was good but what the young intelligence analyst downstairs had warned him about was the inordinate interest being shown by a Russian website well known for its extremist right-wing politics. Harry strongly suspected that they had the same information sitting in a report somewhere in Russia and would most likely act swiftly. That meant he could not delay. The contents of Captain Joshua Larkin’s journal must be destroyed before they leaked out to the media. The total elimination of the journal was now of highest national priority.

  Harry Stanton took a deep breath and sighed. He cursed the regulations forbidding smoking in the building. He had given up ten years earlier but right now he would have killed for the nicotine rush to sooth his nerves.

  Breathing out, Stanton picked up the phone and dialled an internal number. As he did he scribbled a name across the front of the folder containing the explosive report.

  ‘Kildare?’ he queried. ‘I want you in my office in fifteen minutes. We have to talk about Operation Cleaner … I know you have not heard of it … That’s right, its existence will be severely restricted.’

  Stanton replaced the phone. Maybe ghosts are real, he thought. Because the ghosts of a lot of long-dead people were haunting him now.

  Valley View

  Present day

  The first signs of winter giving way to spring were appearing in the rolling hills of Valley View. Flowers were thrusting through the earth and the sweet sound of native birds were more apparent in the blue skies.

  Morgan McLean had read the transcripts of the journal and wondered cynically if it could have been some elaborate hoax by the late Australian army officer. After all, the incident of the Hitler Diaries had fooled a lot of experts. Three weeks had passed since he had been given the transcripts and in that time Monique had disappeared from town. She had left a message that she would be in Sydney visiting her parents and that her partner, David would be travelling to Los Angeles on a business trip. But life had gone on as usual for Morgan who policed the district with a firm but friendly hand.

  He finished the paperwork on the three young learner drivers who had nervously chewed their nails while sitting on the front verandah of the police station awaiting their turn to be tested. The two girls passed their driving tests easily but the young man had failed; reversing onto the footpath and running over the sign in front of the town’s only general store and café had not helped his cause.

  The relevant paperwork completed, Morgan glanced at his in-basket and lifted the first file from the pile. It was a folder from district headquarters with attached coroner’s papers on the two as yet to be identified bodies. Morgan reflected with a touch of guilt on the fact that he had Larkin’s journal in his possession and had not as yet informed anyone in the police service of its existence. Was it really relevant? He opened a drawer to his desk and removed the well-worn journal with its dog-eared pages and stared at the book in his hand. The phone rang and Morgan placed the journal on his desk.

  ‘Valley View police. Senior Constable McLean speaking,’ he answered.

  ‘Senior bloody Constable McLean,’ the irritated voice of Detective Sergeant Ken Barber drawled from the other end. ‘Do you hicks in Valley View ever get newspapers?’ he asked in a not-too-friendly tone.

  Morgan sat up straight, leaning into the phone. ‘What the hell are you going on about?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, if you had read the Sydney Morning Herald today you would have noticed the headlines.’

  Morgan instinctively glanced at the journal on his desk with a gut feeling that whatever had the detective sergeant upset had something to do with the contents of Joshua Larkin’s writings. He did not know why he thought that – except he had a good copper’s nose for such matters. ‘Sorry, Ken,’ he replied. ‘I have been taking driving tests all morning. What’s this about the paper?’

  ‘Do you know anything about a diary kept by one Joshua Larkin?’ Barber asked.

  Morgan hesitated. His instinct had proved correct; he placed his hand on the battered journal. ‘Er, sort of,’ he hedged. ‘I saw some transcripts of its contents.’

  ‘Do you know where the original document is?’ Barber questioned.

  ‘It could be with our historical society. I will chase it up,’ Morgan lied, not knowing why he would cover up the existence of the journal. He was not comfortable lying to the senior detective he counted as a friend but something deep inside told him that the book on his desk had suddenly taken on an importance beyond anything he could imagine. Was it possible that everything the former army captain wrote was true? The hair on the back of his neck stood up. For whatever reason, Morgan knew that he had to delay the book being passed to another party until he had time to sort out its implications. Was it a former special forces soldier’s instinct for danger that made him not tell the truth? ‘Besides, what is in the headlines?’ he asked.

  Barber paused. ‘It seems that someone in your town gave a university lecturer in Russian language copies of documents for translation. The translator contacted the media to say that the papers related to a Russian princess by the name of Maria. He told the newspapers that he had information from his source in Valley View that there was a journal writte
n by this Captain Larkin bloke to corroborate the documents.’

  Morgan immediately knew what the matter was about. He found that his hand was trembling – just as it used to after a contact in the deserts of Iraq. ‘So what?’ Morgan countered, hoping that his voice did not give away his rising apprehension.

  ‘So, according to some half-baked investigative journalist the documents and journal prove that not all of the Russian royal family were killed back in 1918. That this princess Maria survived and not only survived but came out to Australia – and to Valley View of all the godforsaken places. According to my hunch, the diary has to have something to do with those two bodies so you need to find that bloody book as quick as you can.’

  ‘Leave it with me, Ken,’ Morgan said, placating the irate detective. ‘I will dig up the journal but it might be a couple of weeks before I track it down.’

  ‘A couple of bloody weeks! It would be better if you said a couple of days!’ Ken Barber exclaimed. ‘How busy do you get out there?’

  ‘I have a fair bit of paperwork to catch up on,’ Morgan offered lamely. ‘I have a station inspection coming up next month.’

  ‘I will keep you to your deadline,’ Barber growled. ‘Have the journal and documents on my desk this time in a fortnight and be prepared for a barrage of phone calls. I suspect that you will probably have all those bloody current affairs programs hammering on the door of the station wanting to prove that we had a real live princess living the rural life in Valley View.’

  Morgan suspected that the detective sergeant was right in his expectation of publicity. ‘I will get down to the pubs and general store to warn them to stock up for the invasion,’ he said lightly. ‘It will be wonderful for tourism around here.’

  His view of the looming situation caused the detective to chuckle. ‘Don’t expect me to sign off on any overtime for all the interviews you do,’ he said. ‘I will be out in two weeks to pick up the journal. It’s part of the coroner’s file now.’