by Peter Watt
‘That is not a problem, old chap,’ the colonel replied. ‘You will be able to leave tomorrow morning with a column going up the rail to supply Ironside. I will have your papers ready and all you have to do is be at the rail station at zero six hundred. An NCO from my HQ will meet you there with the papers and pass. I am afraid that for the moment I cannot suggest any place of interest for you to fill in the time before you depart.’
‘Thank you for your thoughts, sir,’ Locksley said with a wry smile. ‘I am sure that I can entertain myself in the city.’
With the business completed, Locksley saluted smartly and left the presence of the staff officer. He had rough and ready accommodation with a logistics unit near the harbour but was in no hurry to go back there. Instead, he dropped into an Orthodox church with its rounded cupola like an onion half. There amidst the echoing gloom and incense, the British major crossed himself and kneeled to pray. Old habits died hard despite his conversion to the Church of England. He was not alone and the many scarfed women – young and old – hardly gave him a glance, so preoccupied were they praying for those they had lost in this terrible civil war.
Major James Locksley, DSO had much to consider and needed to seek advice although he knew there would be no easy answer. He would offer a prayer for his wife and two children in England. When James Locksley had married a good, English girl from a wealthy family he had told her very little about his Russian roots. His children were growing up as English as any and only the war had brought him back into contact with his previous life. He also prayed for success. If his mission was successful he could change the course of the war and possibly history. As a Russian-born national, now working for the Secret Intelligence Service, it was within his power to do this. But, as a British officer sworn to uphold the oath of his commission to the King of England, Scotland and Ireland, he would have to forget the ties to the country of his birth. It was not an easy thing to put aside the Russian blood that flowed in his veins. Although growing up in England, he had been forced to deny his Russian identity, the smell of the giant fir trees and the vastness of this cold and troubled country was a part of his soul. His body belonged to the British army but his soul belonged to Mother Russia. His memories from his childhood were of endless seas of flowers growing across the steppes in the spring bloom. It was not a memory he could forget but nor could he neglect his duty to his adopted country of England.
Sludka village
Northern Russia
Early August 1919
There was a rumour floating around the battalion that they were to be evacuated back to Archangel, and then home to England. George Littleton prayed that there was substance to the whispers of hope as he had recently witnessed the terrible effect mustard gas had on its victims. The artillery barrage that preceded their assaults on the villages of Chudinovka, Kochimaka, Borok and Gorodok had poured in the deadly gas-filled shells – along with a mix of smoke and high explosive – before the Fusiliers launched their attack with rifle, bayonet and grenades. The two villages had fallen and George had again felt the almost paralysing fear before each battle.
The village of Sludka had also been taken by force of arms and the Russian dead still lay where they had fallen in the muddy, rutted streets. Smoke and flames billowed from the burning logs of the wooden houses and spent cartridge cases lay everywhere. Physically and mentally exhausted, George half kneeled in a former Russian trench, using his rifle as a prop, and took stock of the situation. His section had two men wounded – but not seriously – and he himself had not sustained a scratch so far. The rumour that they would be going home seemed to make his thoughts of survival even more moribund. Maybe God was going to play a cruel joke on him and snatch his life away just when it looked like he would live to see Australia again.
‘George, get your section up and moving,’ Joshua said, hurrying towards him. Sergeant Joshua Larkin was temporarily platoon commander as Lieutenant Jones had been laid up with a bout of dysentery and evacuated to a rear medical unit. ‘The Bolshies are mounting a counterattack and we don’t have the men to hold them. We are posted in the rearguard.’
George’s morbid thoughts intensified when he heard the phrase ‘rearguard’; it implied that they would be the last out and in constant contact with the Bolshevik troops pursuing them. It was a dangerous position to be in. Almost on cue George could hear the rattle of a machine gun and staccato of rifles from the edge of the village. The Bolshie attack was on and already the battalion was falling back, leaving Joshua standing beside George with his rifle tucked into his shoulder. George’s men were well trained and now experienced soldiers. Each man knew his job and faced the yet unseen enemy. Suddenly, a group of Bolshevik infantrymen rounded a corner of the street that Joshua had organised the platoon to hold until the last moment.
‘Fire,’ Joshua yelled and the platoon’s rifles opened up on the advancing infantry who did not have time to take cover. They were cut down but quickly replaced by their comrades surging forward. ‘Sections one and three, up and move,’ Joshua screamed. ‘Section two, covering fire.’
Two of the platoon sections rose and raced for the end of the street, leaving their comrades to lay down fire on any foolish enemy who might try to follow them. When Joshua was satisfied that the first two small parties of men had gone far enough to take up secure firing positions to cover their retreat he bawled the order for the remaining section to move.
Gasping for breath, George flung himself behind a burning building and peeked around to see if the remaining section was joining them. He could see that they were, with Joshua ensuring that he was the very last man to take cover, flinging himself beside George. Sweat poured down Joshua’s face despite the cold. The crash of gunfire was almost continuous.
‘We have to get across the swamp,’ Joshua panted, indicating with a nod of his head the direction of the Sheika River. ‘Your turn to move out,’ Joshua continued, turning his attention back to the last streets of the village before they were in the woods and heading for what was more like a swamp than a river.
George nodded and called out to his section to make a break for the edge of the forest beside the river wetlands. He could vaguely make out Joshua’s booming voice shouting orders to provide covering fire. George and his section penetrated the dense and gloomy forest where many other soldiers were milling around seeking their NCOs and officers, before making a dash across a narrow plank that bridged the deep and murky waters below. The sound of rapidly approaching enemy soldiers firing behind them spurred him and his men on. Fear had pumped adrenalin through their systems and they managed to make the other side of the watercourse.
Safely across the plank, George took count of his men and was relieved to see that even the two wounded had been able to make it. They might be fighting a rearguard action for the retreat but they were winning in their task, he consoled himself just as Joshua and the remaining men of the platoon also struggled into the cover of the dense forest beyond.
Half crawling, half staggering, George made it to the trees and collapsed behind a fallen log to catch his breath and recover a little. It was then that he noticed that they were not the last to cross the river. The calls of distress were in English and when George propped himself up for a look he could see that around four British soldiers were floundering in the water, one an officer George recognised. Their heavy equipment was dragging the Englishmen under as bullets squirted waterspouts around them. Then George noticed a young, fellow corporal leap into the water and swim towards the drowning men. The Russians had reached the edge of the swampy river and were firing at the rescuer with everything they had, but one by one, Corporal Arthur Sullivan, dragged the men from the water, saving all four. A cheer went up from the throats of the Australian and English soldiers who had witnessed the courage of the young Aussie. Four men owed Sullivan their lives.
‘Bloody fool should get a VC for that,’ Joshua muttered. ‘If I had been his officer I would be recommending him for one. Up and out of here,�
� Joshua ordered the men of his platoon. ‘We still have a job to do.’
Exhausted but less fearful, George and the others rose from the soft, pine-needle forest floor and followed Sergeant Joshua Larkin in retreat to some place safer. They marched through the night to put distance between themselves and the pursuing enemy who Joshua suspected had called off the chase to seek whatever they could scrounge in the village that had fallen to them. Eventually they were able to collapse, thankfully into a location being prepared by another British unit as a defensive position further down the line. Only sleep mattered now and it came quickly to the soldiers wrapped around their rifles and huddling under their warm greatcoats.
George did not know how long he had been asleep when a distant voice seemed to be calling him from the end of a long white tunnel. At first he tried to ignore the call but a boot kicked his own and George slowly opened his eyes to stare up at the strained face of his friend, Joshua Larkin.
‘Sorry, George. But you and I have been summoned to HQ.’
George accepted the hand that was offered to help him on his feet. ‘They want to give us medals or what?’ George cracked a tired smile.
‘Don’t think so,’ Joshua replied, reaching down to pick up George’s rifle. ‘It seems we are to meet with some Pommy major by the name of Locksley. Don’t ask me why but from past experience when majors summon you to a meeting it usually means trouble. I got briefed on him a little while ago when the brigade runner caught up with me. It seems that he is fresh out of London by way of Archangel.’
Passing George his rifle, Joshua turned and trudged wearily towards the centre of the sprawling impromptu camp, where he knew he would find brigade headquarters and the mysterious Major Locksley.
SEVEN
MI6 offices
London
Present day
Sam pressed the button to the printer and spat out all the hits on the name of Joshua Larkin. With a set of coloured highlighters he commenced identifying the individual enquires, attempting to place them into categories. His considerable skills in the world of cyberspace had equipped him to the mission very well although he was not briefed on why he had the task. He was aware that he worked in a world of ‘need to know’ and that all he needed to do was identify who was asking about this long-dead Aussie soldier. He was vaguely aware that his task was of some importance as he had been called into a meeting being chaired by the head of a section two levels above his and briefed on what he was to report.
Most of the hits could be tracked back through the ISPs to media outlets and this he considered normal. Many others were from private persons, no doubt curious at the past items in the media about the apparent murder mystery. Even the extensive searches originating from the address of the residence where the bodies were found appeared normal to him. After all, if a couple of skeletons turned up in your backyard you would have to show some interest in who they had once been. But, as a matter of course, he flagged the computer’s signature and when he turned back to view his screen noticed that the resident of the house was on another search. This time it was about the 1919 campaign in Russia. Still, nothing unusual, he mused, reaching for the cup of coffee on his desk.
Sam keyed in his advanced program to continue monitoring any hits on websites pertaining to Joshua Larkin and sat back. ‘Christ!’ he blasphemed softly and leaned forward to activate the icon to trace the ISP from Russia. Though the program he used for tracking users was sophisticated, the source of the hits was disguised by cipher. Sam smiled to himself. This was not the first time in his career that he had seen similar firewall blocks. He had a good idea who was hitting on Joshua Larkin and his tedious task on the watch had just provided him with a challenge. Sam did not ask himself why one of Russia’s foremost intelligence services would be making the search. The fact that they were was of note in itself and he duly logged the occurrence. Before the end of his shift his interest would again be piqued when a second hit came in from the Russian Federation. This one stirred a vague memory of a briefing he had once attended as part of his training for MI6. The firewalls were a lot easier to bypass and now Sam’s log was slowly showing a strange but sinister pattern emerging. A known, neo-Nazi organisation was tracking Monique Dawson.
Harry Stanton read the internet results the trainee agent had left on his desk. The younger man sitting opposite Harry in the conference room had also read a copy of the same report and awaited his supervisor’s comment.
‘The Aussies have certainly stirred up more than they would ever realise in a million years,’ Harry said, looking up from the folder in front of him. ‘It seems that our old friends in Russia are aware of the implications of the Aussie find.’
‘How would they know?’ Daniel Kildare asked. He was only thirty-eight years old and a graduate of a prominent British university. He had the studious appearance of a young Oxford don and had only been with the agency for the past five years. Prior to that he had commenced a career in foreign affairs and from there was recruited for work in MI6. Daniel Kildare also held a commission in a territorial army unit and was fluent in three other languages besides English – Russian being one of them. He was an unmarried man without any real girlfriend, which he blamed on the long hours he spent developing his skills in intelligence work. His dedication had been noted by those above him and he was marked as a man who would go far in the service of his country. Some of his colleagues said behind his back that he was a fanatic, but grudgingly admitted Daniel Kildare could get the job done.
‘According to the old records we suspect that Kim Philby passed on the file to Stalin just before the war,’ Harry said, reminding his colleagues of the irreparable damage the former British intelligence traitor had done to England’s security, before being exposed.
Kildare nodded. The home-grown spy web was now part of intelligence folklore.
‘Apparently, when Stalin learned of the contents of the file he was said to have placed it at the top of the list for attention by Beria,’ Harry said. ‘Such was the threat he saw in the matter and in due course, as the result of Beria’s investigation, thousands of people were arrested, tortured and executed. Nothing was uncovered but we have since learned that in Stalin’s paranoia he would often drag Beria before him and berate the sadistic head of the secret police for his failure to produce results.’
‘The PM’s department has sent the file back to us for actioning,’ Kildare said. ‘Where do we go from here, since it appears from the wording in their reply that they don’t really want to know what is going on?’
The senior intelligence man pursed his lips. ‘I still think that nothing will come of the Aussie’s finding of the bodies, but it may be wise to send someone to monitor the situation on the ground, considering that the Ruskies are showing interest. I will discreetly feel out if the Aussie domestic intelligence services have wind of the Larkin file.’
‘Do you think that is a wise move?’ Kildare asked. ‘How much would they know of the contents of the file?’
‘Nothing that I know about,’ Harry answered, glancing down at the growing pile of papers in his folder marked Top Secret. ‘This file is restricted to only those I personally nominate for inclusion on the team.’
Kildare nodded. He hoped that his boss might nominate him to travel to Australia. After all, spring was already in the air in that part of the world and spring was followed by summer, whereas winter was coming to England. ‘What about our friends in the USA?’ Kildare asked.
‘They need not have any involvement in the matter,’ Harry replied. The last thing he wanted was for the Yanks to become involved in a purely British affair – well, an Anglo-Russian affair. The Cold War was long over but that did not mean old animosities were dead. The file had been sealed and was not to be opened until the middle of the 21st century. It was not unlike the American papers on the JFK assassination in that respect, except the file on the table in front of him had the potential to raise a lot of questions about the department’s past dirty secrets and
even reach as far as the behaviour of the revered former king of England, George V.
‘If there is nothing else,’ Harry said, ‘you may as well do some homework on that Russian nationalist movement the Russian premier is so keen to stamp out.’
‘I will get on it,’ Kildare said, recognising that the meeting was over and rising from his chair to leave Harry Stanton rubbing his forehead.
It was hard to believe that matters almost a century old could be accidentally exposed by the unearthing of a couple of bodies on the other side of the world, Harry mused, watching Kildare depart from his office. But then who remembered the name of the Serb nationalist who fired the fatal shots at the Austrian heir and his wife in Sarajevo so long ago? Shots that would spark the terrible conflict of the Great War. And somehow not all the ghosts of the Great War were exorcised. They still had the power to wreak havoc on the early part of the 21st century. Harry Stanton had to monitor the disturbing rise of neo-fascist movements in Russia. The seemingly criminal gangs of skinheads were emerging with the trappings of Hitlerism in a country where the Great Patriotic War had lost so many of its people to the same scourge in World War Two. How strange it must be to the grandparents of the tough gang members now sporting tattoos of the swastikas their grandparents had despised and feared as the emblem of their annihilation.
Harry appreciated that the threat these same gangs could perpetuate in Russian politics. The gangs had been virtually overlooked, but if organised and led by a strong person bearing a powerful icon, they could destabilise European geopolitics. Harry was learning from his sources within the new Russia that the influence of the gangs reached into the psyche of many Russians yearning for the symbols of the old imperialist Russia of the Czars and the gangs had the tacit support of many wealthy businessmen who also desired a nation modelled on that of Nazi Germany in the 1930s under fascism.