The Frozen Circle

by Peter Watt

  Morgan placed the phone on its cradle. No sooner had he put it down than it rang again. It was a prominent TV reporter wanting his comment on the article in the morning paper. Morgan was polite when he said he had no comment to make and put the phone down. He quickly switched it to the answering machine and hoped that the media did not have his mobile phone number. He needed time to think. First, he must get in contact with Monique which might not be easy. But his instincts told him that whatever was going down had something to do with her.

  St Petersburg, Russia

  Present day

  The concrete was crumbling, revealing the rusting re-inforcing steel rods behind the walls. The promise of the great Soviet dream to build factories had been achieved by taking short cuts and the three-storey building that had been intended for use as a factory producing consumer goods was never occupied. But now it provided the ideal training ground for Petrov Batkin’s youth group of starry-eyed idealists dreaming of a new order in Russia.

  Batkin watched the party of nine predominantly young men pretending to be warriors as they ran and shouted through the decaying corridors of the deserted building. He knew that they were attempting to impress him with their bravado, balancing precariously on exposed steel girders as they crossed the gaps a storey above the jumble of broken glass and rough concrete blocks below. A fall could incur serious injury – or death.

  Batkin had the muscled body of a man half his forty-eight years on earth. The scars on his back and chest were a legacy of a Taliban RPG-7 blast many years earlier in Afghanistan when he had been part of a Spetnaz team infiltrating the valleys and mountains of his country’s enemy. That had been a time of despair, when he saw his country care little for the sacrifice of its young men. Batkin grudgingly admitted that he had comrades in the West who had served a decade earlier in a war in a place called Vietnam and they too had died for an ungrateful nation. Batkin did not like the West. He could see its decadent influence in the streets of his beloved Moscow corrupting the youth born after the end of his military career. At least these young men and women balancing on the exposed beams had displayed some sense of what Russia could be given the right circumstances; to rise once again as a super power, not in the failed tradition of the Communists, but that of the ancient Czarist times, before the disastrous revolution of 1917. Most of his old special forces comrades called him a foolish dreamer, swigging the rotgut vodka at reunions rarely held now. After all, either the vodka killed them or they chose to take their own lives, forgotten and unmourned by their country as they lay in morgues around the new Russian Federation.

  Oh, but he would have dearly loved to tell his students of new developments in the future of Russia. He watched a young woman, older than her comrades, wiping the sweat from her brow as she descended from the balancing exercise on the girders. Under the grime she was very beautiful, Batkin mused. More importantly, he calculated she was potentially one of the most important students that he was grooming for future operations. No longer would simply the bashing of the inferior races from the former impoverished republics flocking to Moscow in search of employment be their trademark. Those nationalist expressions of extreme violence against helpless immigrants were seen by some bleeding-heart liberal Muscavites as being on a level with the rising racist, skinhead groups of Europe. No, all his group needed was genuine legitimacy in the political system and then the average Russian would flock to their cause. After all, had not Adolf Hitler risen to power in Germany by promising the defeated nation its rightful dignity in the world? Symbols were all powerful in man’s search for meaning in life and he had learned of the most powerful symbol for his cause.

  Batkin removed a mobile phone from his coat pocket and made a call. He had found his ideal candidate for the mission to a far-off country. All he needed now was the backing of his secret admirers and financial supporters.

  Sarah Locksley felt the muscles in her thighs cramp. She was not known as Locksley to her Russian instructor but rather as Sakharov. Her mission to infiltrate the neo-Nazi gang in St Petersburg for MI6 had been achieved on account of her fluency in Russian and her profile as a young English woman of Russian heritage being disillusioned with the ways of the West. Like many misguided children of radical immigrants she feigned an idealism for the past glories of the Russian Empire of her ancestors. The leader of the St Petersburg chapter had accepted her loyalty to their cause and Sarah knew that her model-like beauty had helped her win him over. As tough as Petrov Batkin was however, he was still a man, and over the weeks of demanding physical and mental training he had come to accept her as a trusted member of the gang of young men and women preparing for urban warfare in the coming revolution.

  Batkin knew that his English student resided in one of St Petersburg’s better hotels but that was expected of a woman used to the luxuries of the West. She openly spoke of her family’s wealth in England and so he was not suspicious of her. He had been able to learn from discreet inquiries made by his organisation that she was a twenty-nine year old former model and now freelance journalist for a radical right-wing magazine in Germany – and that she was single and had never married. For his upcoming mission, the girl had a perfect profile.

  Sarah bid her companions a good day and left for her hotel. Here she would flip open her well-hidden laptop and report all that she had learned of the organisation’s aims, leadership and methods. In return she could scan her email.

  Sitting on the edge of her bed Sarah opened the encrypted email from Sam Briars. She frowned as she had no romantic interest in the gawky computer expert whose sending of bits and pieces of information were intended to impress her. She was impressed, however, by his blurted confession to her at a wine bar that he was able to monitor even his superior’s so-called secure cyberspace mail. She knew that he had made the indiscreet confession to show off his considerable intellect in the field of Information Technology. Had she done her job she should have reported him, but she had filed away what she had learned for her own use in the future. After all, the old adage that knowledge is power was very valid in the universe of intelligence gathering. Sam Briars was nothing more to her than an awkward boy infatuated by her. She could use his expertise when it suited her although she had been, at least, impressed by his ongoing emails outlining the Larkin affair in Australia. It had echoes in her own family history. Sarah Sakharov aka Locksley read the latest information and her eyes widened. A journal had been discovered and there was a hint that a member of the Czar’s family had survived the massacre to travel to Australia. Sarah took a deep breath. Could this be the answer to the little spoken of scandal concerning her great-grandfather? If so, then a matter of family honour cried out for vengeance. Sarah Locksley did not know it but even as she clicked off her laptop circumstances were conspiring to resolve the matter of her family honour.

  TWELVE

  The taiga

  South-east of Archangel

  August 1919

  The stabbing pain came even when Major Locksley breathed.

  ‘Broken ribs,’ he winced, gripping his chest.

  ‘They really did you over,’ Joshua said, examining the British major’s head for any sign of injury. ‘Other than that, you seem fine.’

  ‘Thank you, sergeant,’ Locksley said with a touch of sarcasm. ‘I am sure that your medical credentials are impeccable.’

  ‘About the best you will get out in the taiga,’ Joshua said, standing and scanning the gaps in the thick stands of forest behind them. The temperature was dropping and the three men felt the cold bite through the layers of clothing they wore.

  ‘What is our situation, Sergeant Larkin?’ Locksley asked.

  ‘Down to our last four tins of bully beef, one packet of biscuits and a tin of jam,’ Joshua answered. ‘No bombs left and thirty-six rounds of ammo for the two pistols.’

  ‘Not good,’ the British officer grunted. ‘But we have to go on.’

  George cast Joshua a questioning look. ‘Would it not be better that we call off
the mission, sir,’ Joshua offered quietly. ‘Considering the extent of your injuries.’

  Locksley gritted his teeth against the shooting pain in his chest. ‘You were once an officer, sergeant, would you call off the mission if you were in my position?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Joshua sighed. ‘Well, we still have a compass and all we need to do is keep a bearing of due east. That course will eventually bring us to our rendezvous point about twenty miles away.’

  ‘What do we expect to find there?’ George asked.

  Locksley turned on the Australian corporal. ‘It is not up to you to ask that question, corporal.’ He replied. ‘All you have to do is complete the mission.’

  What bloody mission? Joshua thought. From the beginning all they had been briefed was that they were to escort Major Locksley on a mission behind the Bolshevik lines. What they were going to do there was left out of the briefing – other than that the British major might make it clear why they were risking their lives if his position became untenable.

  ‘Sir,’ Joshua said. ‘In my opinion your injuries have seriously impaired your ability to complete whatever mission that we are on. Either we take you back or you brief us now as to why we are out here.’

  Locksley grimaced. ‘I was careful to pick you and Corporal Littleton for this task,’ he said. ‘The mission is so important that if I cannot go on you must carry out any orders that I give you without question. The mission is so important that it is worth more than our lives. That you were once commissioned officers gives me faith that you have an understanding of your sworn oath of loyalty to the King. But at this stage I am not considering going back so will rely on you and Corporal Littleton to help me complete what we have set out to do. Is that clearly understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Joshua answered, frustrated by the air of mystery surrounding why exactly they were in the middle of a dark and almost silent forest deep in enemy territory. ‘But what if you are killed?’

  ‘Should that situation suddenly arise, I have taken steps to cover the event,’ he answered. ‘I am going to write out an outline of what you are to do upon identifying the reason for us being out here,’ he said. ‘Should you be in possession of the briefing paper, because of my inability to go on, you are to immediately destroy the paper after accepting its contents. My outline will be clear and concise. The paper will be in my top pocket.’

  Joshua shrugged and turned away. It was time to march east to whatever awaited them.

  Although Joshua and George had left the village occupiers in a state of turmoil after their short but brutal attack, the Bolshevik militia were able to reassemble. The survivors knew that they would incur the wrath of the supreme council of the district for the loss of the precious artillery gun and needed to hunt down those responsible.

  The killing of their commander had caused enough confusion to give the three invaders time to put a reasonable distance between themselves and the village. But they were travelling with a man slowed by his injuries. A party was organised immediately to go in search of whoever had done the damage to their section. They had the advantage of knowing the region. It was only a matter of time before they would catch up with the three enemy soldiers.

  The three soldiers did not make more than five miles before the sun began to set. They had moved cautiously but the distant sound of their pursuers drifted on a brisk breeze towards them. Major Locksley hobbled at the rear, supporting himself at times with a stick that they had fashioned into a crutch.

  ‘Stop,’ Locksley commanded. ‘We need to reassess the situation.’

  George and Joshua slumped down beside the major who rested with his back against a tree.

  ‘It appears that the Bolshies are on our trail,’ Locksley said. ‘With the way I am they will catch us before the sun rises.’

  ‘We will have the darkness to conceal our position,’ Joshua offered.

  ‘You well know that even if they overshoot any hide we make for the night that will only put them in front of us and the chances of stumbling on them tomorrow is too well stacked in their favour.’

  ‘I can lead them off,’ George said with an expression of reluctance, secretly cursing the British major for persisting with his mission when they should have turned around and headed back to Archangel.

  Joshua glanced at his fellow Australian. ‘Or I can.’

  ‘You’re the senior non-com,’ George said with a weak grin. ‘You should have volunteered me to lead off the Bolshies.’

  Joshua shook his head. ‘You only do it if you promise me that you stay out of trouble.’

  ‘Corporal Littleton’s volunteering to lead the enemy away from us makes sense,’ Locksley said. ‘You have my permission to do so.’

  George stood up and stretched his long limbs. ‘Time I got going then,’ he said. ‘I will double back and take a course north for about five miles and then the same east before going south. According to my calculations, that should put me in the area of the rendezvous point.’

  ‘Do you think that you can do it?’ Locksley asked.

  ‘The compass and paces will keep me on track,’ George said, raising a compass to his waist to shoot a bearing north. ‘Needless to say I will leave enough clues as to my panicked flight north.’

  ‘We will cover all traces of our tracks here and pray that your ruse works,’ Locksley said. ‘What you will be looking for at the contact point will be a couple of log huts in the woods. Good luck, old chap,’ he added.

  ‘A bit like Hansel and Gretel finding the gingerbread cottage,’ George quipped. ‘But hopefully without the wicked witch.’

  He flashed them a grim smile and began his trek north. He would continue marching through the short night until he was certain that the hunters had peeled off to follow him, allowing Joshua and the mad major to continue east. But as confident as he had appeared briefing the other two on his intention to set a new course, George realised that finding the meeting point would be like searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack. He would be alone in enemy territory, potentially sacrificing his life for a mission the purpose of which he was completely in the dark about.

  Joshua and Locksley were careful to retreat into the forest, concealing any traces of their movement. They had gone a mile when darkness fell and they set about constructing a hide under fallen timber and moss clods.

  The two men took turns staying awake to guard against a surprise attack but it seemed that either the pursuers had camped for the night or that they had continued to follow George’s trail into the forest. Joshua guessed that the Bolsheviks would have halted. Tracking a man at night in the dark forest was near to impossible. But if George continued marching he would be exhausted by the time the sun rose over the taiga. Joshua hoped that his friend had enough sense to consider his options. He felt responsible for the affable young man.

  When the sun returned to warm the vast forests of Russia Joshua helped the major from the concealment of their hide. In silence they threw down the last can of bully beef and drank from a clear pool of water. As neither had detected the sound of their enemy it seemed that George’s courageous ploy of luring off the enemy had worked, although the weather was setting in with a sky black and ominous. And the temperature continued to drop.

  Locksley appeared to be recovering from his injuries and Joshua was amazed by his resilience.

  ‘Time to go, Sergeant Larkin,’ the major said, taking a bearing east with his compass. ‘I think that we should be seeking shelter before the storm is upon us.’

  As they set off Joshua found his thoughts drifting to George. He had grown to respect the young man’s toughness as he had proved himself to be a fighter since they had disembarked at Archangel and fought their way through the Russian campaign.

  ‘How far, sir?’ Joshua asked.

  ‘I am not sure, sergeant,’ Locksley replied. ‘But I pray we will reach our destination before dark. It will require a cracking pace.’

  Joshua shrugged. He would see if the English major had th
e strength to do it. If not, he would take possession of the paper Locksley had placed in his pocket and go on alone.

  Corporal George Littleton was at the end of his tether. He had forced himself to stay on his feet during the night but exhaustion was setting in. Just before dawn, as he stumbled through the forest his legs gave way. Groaning, he collapsed into the soft bed of pine needles where he lay, breathing in the antiseptic smell that mingled with the richness of the damp soil.

  Despite attempting to stay awake, George drifted into a dreamless, deep sleep. Time lost all meaning until his world of slumber was rudely shattered by a painful kick in his ribs. He awoke, confused, and for a moment did not know who he was or why he was lying on the ground in some place that could have been anywhere in the world. He sat up and blinked at the hazy figure. A uniformed soldier was pointing a pistol directly at his head. As George’s vision cleared he could see a row of about forty armed and mounted horsemen staring down at him.

  The soldier pointing the pistol at him shouted something in a foreign language. George presumed it was Russian. At least he had led off the hunters from the village and given Joshua and the major time to continue their journey. At least he hoped so – otherwise his death would be meaningless.

  ‘Okay, you’ve got me,’ George groaned and noticed a look of surprise on the soldier’s face.

  ‘You speak English?’ the soldier said.

  George turned his attention to the man who from the way he was dressed was obviously an officer. ‘I should,’ George replied. ‘I am Australian.’

  ‘Australian?’ the man with the gun queried.

  ‘British,’ George answered, realising that nationality was probably more understood in this campaign.

  ‘I speak English,’ the officer said with a heavy accent.

  A few Russians might, George guessed – not that it helped his chances of surviving a firing squad or a long and tortuous journey to Siberia.