The Frozen Circle

by Peter Watt

  ‘Afghanistan, when your Yankee brothers from the CIA gave the Taliban the means to eventually cause us to withdraw.’

  ‘The Gulf War, when our Yankee brothers went to war to fight the fundamentalists,’ Morgan said, holding out his hand to the stranger. ‘The ones you guys failed to kill. Morgan McLean.’

  Batkin accepted the extended hand and his grip was strong. ‘Petrov Olev,’ he said.

  Morgan almost recoiled. He had found the man he had intended to search for and question about the message passed to Monique and the sabotage of her car.

  ‘Is long time to meet a man, who know what is like to serve country as we did,’ Batkin continued, still gripping Morgan’s hand and staring him directly in the eyes. ‘We should share drink, yes.’

  Morgan retrieved his hand. ‘May be a good idea,’ he replied. ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘At public house at other end of town,’ Batkin replied.

  Morgan already knew the answer to the question he had asked. This was not the place or time to question his suspect, however, and Morgan continued to play dumb. ‘I will look you up,’ he said. ‘I reckon you and I could swap a story or two.’

  Batkin nodded. ‘I must continue run or I will get cramp,’ he said, turning to jog down the hill.

  Morgan allowed him time to get ahead before setting out to return to the town. As he passed Monique’s house he noticed that the unidentified car was still in the driveway. He memorised the registration number. In the back of his mind was the nagging thought that Olev had once been a member of the feared Spetsnaz forces although he did not admit to it directly. But old habits die hard among former special forces soldiers and maintaining a high standard of physical fitness was one of those habits.

  Batkin had not considered that the local town policeman could have been a former member of an elite fighting force. This previously unknown fact now nagged him. His intelligence had informed him that the local town police officer was involved in the investigation of the two bodies that had unleashed the ghosts of the past to wreak havoc in the present. Batkin cursed those who had briefed him for the oversight. He would have to do something to change the current situation.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Northern Russia

  Late August 1919

  Joshua watched through the cracks in the wall as the armed patrol sauntered past, their rifles slung. It was obvious that they were not well trained soldiers from the way they carried themselves and the Australian soldier suspected that his captors were probably poorly trained militia. Night was falling and it had been about an hour since Maria had been taken from the hut by the Bolshevik commander. Inwardly Joshua raged at the sun for being so slow to set. As each minute dragged by he fretted about Maria’s fate at the hands of the militia commander.

  Finally, it drew dark enough for Joshua to act. He could no longer see the patrol which had returned from a final sweep of the tiny village and ambled down the street out of sight. He guessed that they were returning to their night quarters. Joshua drew the revolver from beneath the straw and pushed up against the wall. Through a crack in the wooden slab, he could see the back of the guard’s head only inches away. Carefully, Joshua pushed the end of the barrel of the pistol through the crack and sighted the guard’s head. He knew that he must act fast and already had a plan to help him search for Maria. What he would need after pulling the trigger was a diversion.

  When he squeezed the trigger the pistol bucked in his hand and he had the satisfaction of seeing the guard crumple without knowing what had torn through his skull. A fine spray of blood filled the air and the three men with Joshua yelled in their fright. Joshua kicked open the rickety wooden door.

  ‘Get out!’ he screamed at his three fellow prisoners who, although not understanding his words, recognised the opportunity for freedom. Scrambling to their feet they pushed past Joshua and fled into the night.

  Joshua slipped from the hut and made his way behind it. As expected, he saw the remaining militia men tumble from a building at the other end of the village which Joshua remembered was a storage shed. They had their rifles unslung and immediately rushed to the hut. From his position Joshua watched the men mill about, shouting and arguing. As he had guessed, they immediately set off in the direction of the river, calculating that their prisoners were making a dash back to the boat they had left there.

  Joshua waited until the last of the Bolshevik militia were deep into the darkness before emerging from his hiding place. He had been right about their poor training and made his way cautiously down the street where dogs were barking at the uproar. He found the shed and noticed that the lights were still blazing inside. With pistol in hand, Joshua found the door and eased it open. Through the crack he could see two men. One was sitting at a desk made from a slab of timber and supported by barrels writing, while the second man stood behind a pile of grain bags with his rifle slung over his shoulder. Joshua recognised Tarasov sitting at the improvised table. Scanning the inside of the shed he attempted to see if any other threat remained beside the two men he could see. Satisfied that they were alone, Joshua burst into the shed, firing three shots at the man with the rifle. His aim was true and one of his bullets struck the armed man in the throat before he could unsling his rifle to retaliate. Even as the man grabbed at the mortal wound to his throat, Joshua swung his pistol on the seated Bolshevik commander whose face registered his shock and terror. Then Joshua heard a moan from near where he had shot the first man who was now kneeling and making gurgling sounds as the blood ran back down into his lungs. Joshua saw Maria lying on the dirty floor, her dress thrown across her like a blanket. With the pistol still levelled at Tarasov, Joshua walked across to her, kicking the dying Bolshevik in the head as he passed him to reach Maria.

  ‘Have they hurt you?’ he asked, still keeping the pistol levelled at Tarasov who had enough sense not to move.

  ‘Oh Joshua,’ Maria sobbed. ‘I prayed that God would take me. I prayed that you might fly from here and reach a place of safety. Why did you not flee?’

  ‘Have they hurt you?’ Joshua asked once more in a cold voice, knowing already from the way she’d been thrown into the corner of the shed with her clothes piled on her, that she had probably been raped by one or more of her captors.

  ‘I want to die,’ Maria sobbed. ‘Please, leave me and let me die.’

  Joshua left Maria to walk over to Tarasov and forced the pistol into his mouth. The terrified Bolshevik commander attempted to mumble a plea for his life but the gun went off and he was thrown back from the shot. Toppling from his chair, the man fell to the earthen floor to twitch away his life in a pool of blood. Joshua kicked him in the face and quickly ejected the empty cases to reload the revolver before returning to Maria who was still huddled in a foetal position under her dress. Joshua squatted down beside her and gently stroked her hair matted from the filth of the shed.

  ‘You will always be safe with me from now on,’ he soothed with words. ‘You will get dressed and we will leave here and we will reach Archangel. The man responsible for your pain has been sent to hell for his sins.’

  Maria stood, pulling the dress up to her bare breasts. Joshua turned aside to allow her to clothe herself in privacy and kept the doorway covered with his pistol. When Maria was dressed, Joshua offered his hand to lead her from the place. She did not resist. God had returned her guardian angel to guide her from this place of torment and into the light.

  ‘We will travel away from the river and north,’ Joshua said to Maria. In the distance and coming from the direction of the river, Joshua could hear the faint pop of rifle fire. He shook his head and sighed. It did not seem that his fellow captives had made their escape after all, but he knew that would be the outcome when he had manufactured their freedom. They had been his diversion to allow him to free Maria, who now gripped his arm at the sound of gunfire.

  ‘It is nothing,’ he whispered. ‘We must go on.’

  Maria wondered about the fate of the three men who had be
en with them in the hut and she prayed that they had made it safely to their boat. But Joshua insisted they could not go in search of them; they must set off immediately in order to make good headway.

  They trudged through the short night until Joshua found a place in the woods where he felt safe enough to snatch some sleep for a few hours. According to his calculations it might be safe enough to attempt to change course and head for the river. There they might be lucky and find someone to take them down to Archangel. Civil war or not, the river still had a life and men must ply their trades. Fish was still in demand and, Joshua guessed, so were the silver coins that he now carried around his waist.

  The advance to Archangel through mostly enemy dominated territory had taken its toll on Lieutenant Novotny’s column. Skirmishing had gradually whittled his command down to himself, five of his cavalry men, George Littleton and Major Locksley. Of the five men, two had sustained serious, but not fatal wounds. Food was rationed and ammunition all but spent.

  For the moment they rested outside a village in a copse of woods. Novotny had wisely decided to hold up until he could conduct a two-man recce of the area ahead of them, leaving the British major and George with the rest of his men.

  The pursuit of Joshua and the Russian girl had long been side-tracked in favour of just reaching Archangel alive. Not even the major who was possessed of a burning need to find the renegade Australian sergeant had objected when the Czech officer told him directly that his duty to his men had priority over the major’s search. They were now just fighting to survive.

  Locksley had not discussed with George his obsession to locate Joshua but George needed to know what drove it. Waiting among the trees, George decided it was time to confront the British officer and ask for an explanation. Locksley was sitting on the ground with his back against a tree when George approached.

  ‘Sir, if you don’t mind, I feel that you might tell me what happened back at the cabin.’

  Locksley looked up at the Australian corporal standing over him. ‘Sergeant Larkin disobeyed a direct order to carry out the task that I had been given for our mission, corporal,’ he said in a tired voice. ‘A mission that put your life and mine in grave danger, and after refusing to do as he was commanded he then deserted me and only luck has got me this far. If you survive and I do not, you are to continue with the mission and, despite any personal friendship with Sergeant Larkin, you are to kill him and the Russian girl he may be with. It is imperative to the national interests of the Empire that this be done.’

  George almost reeled under the shock of the words so casually uttered. ‘Sir, I am a soldier and former commissioned officer sworn to my oath of office, but I must know the justification for such an order,’ he said.

  Locksley cocked his head, as if digesting the Australian corporal’s response. ‘I wish I could inform as to the reasons you must endeavour to carry out the order,’ he sighed. ‘But you were selected for this mission on the understanding that as a former officer you would remain loyal to the King. I can only appeal to your sense of honour to comply with my order and do your best to bring about the authorised outcome of this mission. Believe me, it is not something that I relish.’

  George shook his head, realising that he would not receive any explanation. He was torn between his bond of friendship to Joshua and his duty to the King. Had not duty been a word he had grown with? His father had forever used the term to educate him about the meaning of life. But had it not also sent over 60 000 Australians to their deaths as they complied with the need to demonstrate their duty to the ideals of the British Empire? Had not he volunteered for the same reason – duty? Would he adhere to duty and carry out the major’s direction if he ever met with Joshua again? The frightening thought echoed that he just might do as the major had commanded if duty meant more than friendship. He walked away to the edge of the trees to scan the marshes and strips of dry land between them. He could see Novotny returning on foot with his escort and his attention was suddenly drawn to the blue sky above. It was small and circling overhead, but George recognised the markings on the wings of the Fokker triplane. It was a Bolshevik fighter and it had spotted Novotny who suddenly heard the distinctive droning sputter of the aircraft engine behind him.

  ‘Enemy fighter!’ George screamed and the Czech officer broke into a sprint as the plane swooped down, levelling for a strafing attack on the three tiny figures below.

  The patter of the twin machine guns mounted forward of the pilot could be heard over the drone of the aircraft’s engine. Dirt flew up dangerously close around the men as they ran for their lives. Suddenly, one of the running men cried out and pitched forward. A bullet had found its mark. Novotny stopped, spun back to bend over his fallen man. George immediately sprinted from the relative safety of the trees to assist Novotny as the enemy aircraft climbed in a circle to make another run on its targets below.

  George fell to his knees beside Novotny and the mortally wounded Czech soldier. The bullet had passed through his back and exited his chest. George grabbed the Czech officer by the sleeve. ‘We have to leave him before that Bolshie bastard has another run at us,’ George pleaded, tugging the reluctant Czech to his feet.

  The Fokker was turning to dive again when George spotted something else coming out of the sun. He immediately recognised the shape of a De Haviland DH9A twin-seater biplane and its markings identified it as a British aircraft. Normally the British aircraft would not be a match for the faster Fokker but it had the element of surprise and the sun behind it, as it now swooped on the enemy fighter concentrating its efforts on the targets below.

  Fascinated by the sudden turn of events neither Novotny nor George moved. They could hear the machine guns of the British aircraft stuttering away before the Bolshevik fighter could fire its own. The distance between the two aircraft closed to within a hundred yards and George could see the impact of the British bullets striking along the enemy aircraft fuselage. The Bolshevik pilot slumped forward over his control panel and his aircraft rolled over, to spiral into the ground a quarter of a mile from where they crouched. A splintering boom signalled the death of both pilot and plane.

  Both men stood and waved frantically to the British plane that swooped so low over them they could see the leather helmets and goggles of the pilot and his observer. George was jumping up and down, hoping that his display of enthusiasm for the British kill would indicate that they were on the side of the British airmen.

  The aircraft climbed and waggled its wings. George waved back and the aircraft circled around to feather its engine for a landing on a strip of dry ground. George could not believe their luck. The pilot must be a brave man, George thought. He was taking the chance that those on the ground he had saved were allies and not Bolsheviks.

  The plane bumped to a stop and turned around for a quick take-off if necessary. The pilot did not turn off the engine but idled as the observer behind him turned his ring-mounted Lewis gun towards them. Without hesitation, George dropped his rifle on the ground and ran towards the aircraft, his hands above his head. When he reached the aircraft he stopped and roared over the noise of the engine. ‘Corporal George Littleton, British army, temporarily attached with Czech army.’

  The pilot signalled for George to approach. ‘Pilot Officer Randall, RAF,’ he yelled. ‘Are you chaps lost?’

  George broke into his broadest grin. ‘You could say that, sir,’ he replied. ‘We are trying to get back to Archangel.’

  ‘Well, old chap,’ Pilot Officer Randall said. ‘If you continue on a westerly bearing you will hit the railway line to Archangel in about three miles. From our patrol I can tell you that you have a safe corridor on that route. There is an armoured train due along in about six hours’ time and a company of our boys currently doing a clearing patrol along the track. I will leave you and drop a note to our boys to expect you fairly soon. Just give me the details of your current strength et cetera and you should get a good cup of tea when you arrive.’

  George reached i
nto his pocket for his notebook and a pencil. He quickly scribbled down a quick outline of their circumstances and handed it to the pilot who passed it back to the observer behind him.

  ‘Well, old chap, good luck,’ he said, pulling the throttle back to increase his revs for the take-off. ‘Just do me one favour,’ he added before departing. ‘See if you can retrieve something from the Bolshie plane to identify it. I need some proof that I shot the bugger down. The boys back at the squadron might not believe that we bagged a Fokker.’

  George agreed and stepped back, waving as the tiny, fragile aircraft bounced down the strip of level earth to bump into the sky and fly west. He walked back to Novotny who had witnessed the exchange at the aircraft.

  ‘We are almost there,’ he said. ‘Only three miles to the track to Archangel.’

  True to his word, George retrieved the dead Russian’s pistol from the body still slumped in the shattered aircraft. He also was able to find some papers identifying the dead man as a pilot of Fokker aircraft. And true to the British pilot’s direction they were welcomed by a company of British troops clearing the railway track of enemy interference. George and the major were each handed a mug of hot, steaming tea. It had been something they had not tasted since departing on the mission three weeks earlier.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Valley View

  Present day

  Paranoia was not simply the trait of dictators. The two men simultaneously considered their meeting as more than coincidence. In his hotel room, Petrov Batkin brooded about this new factor in the equation. Why would a former special forces soldier be the local policeman? Had the Australian intelligence services known about Monique Dawson’s family connection to Czar Nicholas all this time? Even as he questioned himself about Morgan McLean the subject of his interest stood under a shower and considered the man he knew as Petrov Olev. Olev had to be the one who passed the warning note to Monique days earlier and thus some kind of threat. Was he behind the sabotage of Monique’s car?