The Frozen Circle

by Peter Watt

  Now he was alone with the girl he had taken prisoner. He had intended to kill her male companion first but when she volunteered to go with him he thought that he had seen the glimmer of co-operation in her gesture. Grigory Tarasov was not a really committed Bolshevik but an opportunist who knew where his future survival lay. He could foresee that the Czar’s former soldiers and their foreign allies were on the verge of defeat and that those in Moscow flying the red flag would assume power, and he had immediately displayed his loyalty by announcing a soviet in the village he had once administered on behalf of the former Czarist government. His natural intelligence and ability to take on the demeanour of a zealot had cemented his position with the district soviet. In a short time he had personally overseen the killing of those he nominated as class enemies of the revolution. It had been easy to betray former friends and colleagues when his own life had been in jeopardy because of his former position in the government. In the backwaters of Russia he was not alone in taking advantage of chaos and his position had privileges far beyond his previous life as a clerk. Now he could possess what he wanted in the name of the people’s revolution so long as those in Moscow saw a share of his small victories in seizing men and material for the cause. Tarasov knew from dealing with a cross-section of Russian society that the girl standing before him was no kulak or peasant.

  ‘What is your name again?’ Tarasov asked, barely interested in the answer.

  ‘Maria,’ she whispered, her throat dry with fear.

  Tarasov walked over to her and reached down to lift the hem of her long dress. Maria flinched away from him but he simply looked up and slapped her face. The crack resounded in the confines of the musty smelling shed. Maria reeled from the blow but remained standing. She knew that her capture had nothing to do with her possible counter-revolutionary ideals. This man was simply a criminal who had the political power to force himself onto her. She tried to remember a prayer to recite but nothing came. Fear swept over her when she felt his hand reach under her dress and up between her thighs. His fingers hurt when they were forced inside her.

  ‘Please, God,’ she began to pray aloud.

  ‘Haven’t you heard,’ Tarasov sneered, standing to breathe into her face. ‘We do not believe in God. Comrade Marx has taught us that religion is the opiate of the masses. God will not help you – but I can.’

  ‘What must I do?’ Maria pleaded, knowing that the answer would not be pleasant.

  ‘You can pull up your dress and lie on your stomach on that pile of bags there,’ he said. ‘If you do not, I will have my men go to the hut where your companion is and bring him here to be shot in front of you. Would you like that?’

  Maria could feel the heat of his lust on his breath. She closed her eyes and shook her head. She did not want anything to happen to Joshua considering that he had a chance to flee. But now the situation had turned against them and she prayed silently that she could at least delay the leader long enough for the night to come and Joshua to make his escape.

  Her face was swelling from the vicious back-handed blow Tarasov had delivered, but she hardly felt the stinging effects compared to what she knew was inevitable. Maria walked unsteadily to the pile of bags and bent over, pulling her dress up over her bare hips, revealing herself to Tarasov. She lay face down and felt his bodyweight on her back. Maria closed her eyes and tried to take herself to a place she remembered as a girl with her family in the Crimea. There were fields of flowers and the sound of honey bees. The scent of the flowers returned to her until the first agonising thrust. Maria had been a virgin until this moment and now something had been taken from her that could never be returned. She screamed, causing the panting man behind her to thrust harder. Joshua, her guardian angel, could do nothing to help her just now.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Valley View

  Present day

  Morgan recognised young Matthew’s voice over the telephone. ‘I think I got something for you, Mr McLean,’ he said. ‘I was talking to Mr Barry down at the pub and he told me a Russian kind of guy was booked into one of his rooms. His name is Mr Olev.’

  ‘Thanks, young Matt,’ Morgan replied. ‘You have done a good job.’

  ‘It was not a problem,’ Matthew said. ‘Anything I can do to help, you only have to ask, Mr McLean.’

  Morgan bid him a good day and placed the phone on the cradle. When he looked up he saw Monique walk through the door.

  ‘David said that you would need a statement from me about my car being stolen,’ she said. She appeared pale and shaken.

  ‘Would you like a tea or coffee?’ Morgan asked, walking over to the front counter of his office to meet her.

  ‘No, thank you,’ she replied. ‘I am fine and I am sure that you are a busy man with all that is happening at the moment around Valley View.’

  ‘What is wrong?’ Morgan asked, sensing that she was acting in a very distant manner towards him. ‘How about you come in and take a seat. I will close the station.’

  Monique stepped behind the counter and took the seat he offered. She had been crying.

  ‘I just had a slight upset with David. Nothing much, really.’

  ‘How much does David know about what’s going on in your life?’ Morgan asked, taking a seat near her chair.

  ‘I have not told him very much,’ Monique sniffed. ‘I don’t want him to worry. I know David and all that is happening would be too much for him.’

  ‘What does he know?’ Morgan persisted.

  ‘He just knows that I went to London and that my car was stolen last night. I am having trouble coping with the fact that that poor boy was killed in it.’

  ‘There is not much I can say to console you on that matter,’ Morgan said. ‘It was not your fault that he should hotwire your car and get himself killed at Spencers Bend.’

  ‘What happened?’ Monique asked, staring at Morgan through misty eyes.

  Disconcerted, Morgan would have preferred to avoid answering but knew he must use the tragic incident to warn her away from Valley View. ‘Is it possible that you might like to visit Sydney and stay with friends or family for a while?’ he countered, sucking in words that he did not want to utter.

  ‘Why would you say that?’ Monique asked. ‘What is happening?’

  ‘The brakes on your car were tampered with,’ Morgan exhaled. ‘It could be that someone wanted you dead. But it was a clumsy attempt and I doubt that whoever was responsible would hang around Valley View knowing that we would eventually recognise the sabotage.’

  ‘I don’t know why, but the moment I heard that my car was involved in a fatal accident, I just knew it was not really an accident,’ Monique said. ‘It all has to do with that warning I received, and my link to the Larkin name.’

  ‘So you know that he is your great-grandfather?’ Morgan asked.

  ‘I suppose I should have trusted you more,’ Monique answered, looking past him to the posters on the wall displaying missing persons and wanted people. ‘I am about ninety-nine per cent sure that Joshua was my great-grandfather and all I am attempting to confirm now is that my great-grandmother, his wife, Maria was my ancestor. As you know I had a DNA test when I was in London as they have a database for the Russian royal family over there.’

  ‘A positive result might confirm that you are the direct heir to the Russian throne – that you are also a Romanov by blood. Authenticating Captain Larkin’s journal would be a moot point. Your blood is all the evidence required to prove that Maria survived the massacre.’

  Monique looked up. ‘It is something I am having trouble coming to grips with,’ she said. ‘The DNA test might confirm that she was my great-grandmother and as far as family records show there are none other alive who share her royal blood. But why would that be a reason to want me dead?’

  Morgan walked over to the counter, glancing through the window of his office at a car that had pulled into a space in front of the police station. He suspected that he would have to cut short his conversation with Monique.


  ‘I can’t answer that question,’ he answered bluntly. ‘But there are a lot of psychos out there who might think that finishing off the last of the Romanov line will grant them immortality. You need to get out of town for a while until I get the chance to try to track down whoever was responsible for tampering with your car.’

  Monique rose. ‘I will not be leaving Valley View,’ she said, passing Morgan to reach the door. ‘Matters are bad enough with David and my leaving won’t help our relationship. I can only hope that you find whoever was behind the sabotage.’

  Morgan opened the door and Monique stepped past an older man whose florid face displayed his pent-up anger.

  ‘You have to find the little bastard who nicked my wallet,’ he yelled at Morgan as if he had been personally responsible for the theft. Morgan sighed and led him inside, taking the details of how the man had been at the row of stalls in the paddock where the folk festival tents were erected. Seeking out Mr Olev would have to wait for the moment.

  Sarah Sakharov was not only strikingly beautiful but had an intelligence quotient worthy of a physics professor. Sarah knew that she turned heads when she entered a room and her private school education, followed by Swiss finishing schools gave her that educated accent Aussies referred to as posh. Dressed in a pair of designer jeans and silk blouse, Sarah could have passed as the poster girl for the folk festival.

  But Sarah was more than just a beautiful young woman attending the festival. As her name implied, her family roots were in Russia, albeit before the turn of the 20th century. Her fascination with genealogy had inspired Sarah to study the Russian language and in her spare time visit the birthplace of her blood. Now she spoke in fluent Russian to the man who had recruited her to the mission. They sat opposite each other at a wooden bench in the Valley View park by a city of festival tents and sipped coffee from cardboard cups. The muffled sound of singers and banjos drifted to them along with the aroma of sausages sizzling on a barbecue stand.

  ‘There was a car crash involving Miss Dawson’s car,’ Petrov Batkin, aka Olev said. ‘They are trying to dispose of her.’

  Sarah sipped her coffee and gazed around at the crowds of people drifting into the tent city, seeking souvenirs, sausages and songs. ‘I have read about the accident in the local paper but did not know it was Miss Dawson’s vehicle involved.’

  ‘Kildare must have got to her car,’ Batkin growled. ‘I blame myself for losing him at the dance in the hall. Somehow he was able to identify and sabotage the car.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ Sarah asked. ‘It did not say in the newspaper report that her car had been sabotaged.’

  ‘I was passed a report from our people in St Petersburg,’ Batkin replied. ‘They have been able to tap into the local police computer network and read their reports. It has taken a lot of money to buy the right hackers for that job.’

  ‘Then we must assume that the British MI6 is involved in a black op to eliminate any trace of the Romanov blood,’ Sarah answered. ‘In the meantime we should avoid contact as much as possible.’

  Batkin gazed around the pretty town of green, rolling hills and a gentle river running past the edge of the village limits. ‘I doubt that we have much to concern us with Australian intelligence monitoring our activities,’ he scoffed. ‘This place is so far out of the way I doubt they know it exists. As far as my reports go it also appears they are not aware of what the British are doing in their country. No, this is between us and the English.’

  ‘Do you wish me to make contact with Miss Dawson today?’ Sarah asked. ‘In the light of what has occurred with her car I suspect that she will be open to meeting me. I will arrange for a meeting today. I doubt that she will feel threatened considering who I am.’

  Batkin could see that Sarah was exuding confidence. His organisation had scored a coup when she had joined their ranks to train in urban warfare and assassination. He had schooled her in how to become an opportunist killer – she could turn readily available items found in any house into weapons. She was the perfect choice for this mission with her cover of freelance journalist and her ability to blend in with the crowds attending the festival. His recommendation had been enthusiastically accepted by the board of wealthy businessmen in St Petersburg, who Batkin well knew were really Russian mafia. He despised much about this organisation but was realistic enough to recognise that it was they who really controlled Russia, their money being their power. They needed political legitimacy and Batkin’s shadowy organisation needed political clout. Strange fellow travellers with a common aim. Had not Hitler been brought to power and supported by the German industrialists before the Great Patriotic War? As an avid student of history, Batkin knew his organisation would accept criminal money but in the end, when they had achieved political legitimacy, they would turn on the hand that fed them just as Hitler had done to his financial supporters who mistakenly believed they could control the man. Monique Dawson would be the core symbol of their struggle to re-establish the Old Order of imperialism that Russia once knew. Batkin understood the power of icons in his country and she would be a living icon – descended from a Russian princess now sanctified by the Orthodox Church. All she needed was to be convinced that they could protect her against the anti-Russian forces out to kill her and they could expose her existence to the world.

  Sarah finished her coffee and pushed herself away from the bench. ‘It is time to assume my role here,’ she said with a faint smile. ‘It is one that I will enjoy.’

  Batkin watched her walk away. He was feeling sluggish from his stay in the hotel and felt the itch to exercise. For the rest of the day he would take in the events organised for the folk festival and track down the English intelligence agent, Daniel Kildare.

  Morgan’s shift was coming to an end and he welcomed the two young constables who had been sent out from Hume City to relieve him. After briefing them on the events of the day he left them in the station to return to his accommodation and change into shorts, his old singlet with its faded SAS insignia emblazoned across the front and running shoes. It was time for his hard run out of town and up the road to Connors Hill. The last few days he had slipped in his regime and looked forward to being alone, out of town, running with the sun setting over the tree-covered hills.

  Morgan stepped out to a wolf whistle from the female constable behind the counter. She was barely twenty and pretty so Morgan accepted the compliment as good for his ego.

  ‘Not bad for an old guy,’ she said with a broad grin.

  Morgan waved to her as he set out to follow his usual route north of town past the Larkin residence. He passed crowds of festival-goers, meandering their way back to the caravan park and camping ground, and continued on until he was outside the town’s last row of houses. Now he was jogging along the bitumen, past paddocks and the occasional farmhouse set back in a field of flowers. The road wound into the hills north of the town and Morgan knew his challenge lay ahead, steadily climbing the road to the top of the range. It was an extremely tough track but one that he had conquered many times. He passed the Larkin house and noticed a car parked in the driveway. By the look of it, it was a hire car. Monique and David had visitors, he thought idly as he continued to jog, sweat running down his face and body despite the cool nip to the still, spring air.

  Past the house Morgan was finally away from civilisation, and felt the road bite with the increase in the incline. He was breathing steadily and knew his pulse was beating at a safe rate, and as he pushed himself for the climb to the top he was surprised to see a distant figure ahead of him, jogging as he was. Never had he seen anyone else take this route for a run since he had been at Valley View. It had to be one of the more physically minded tourists. At least he would have company. He suddenly felt an urge to catch up and pass his sole competitor for the right to reach the top first. With a savage grin, Morgan pushed just a little harder to close the gap between himself and what he could make out was the figure of a man around his own age.

  The
runner ahead glanced over his shoulder and noticed Morgan fighting his way up the hill, attempting to overtake him. For over a half kilometre both men pushed each other until the unidentified runner finally reached the top and reeled into the lookout that had sweeping views to the valley below. He was bent over and forced himself to stretch, taking in extra air to his lungs.

  Morgan was not far behind him and also staggered into the tourist stop. The sun was three-quarters behind the distant hills, bathing them in an eerie blue haze.

  ‘You ran well, my friend,’ Batkin complimented Morgan as he remained bent over, trying to bring his breathing back to a normal pattern. ‘You are soldier?’ he then queried, noticing the faded SAS emblem on Morgan’s old singlet.

  ‘No,’ Morgan gasped. ‘I am the local copper.’

  ‘But you have army sign, yes?’

  Batkin frowned, recognising the emblem of the Special Air Service. It had been, after all, that the Russian military had chosen the British SAS in the early 1970s as a model for their own special forces soldiers, but they had not been granted an emblem in order to disguise the fact that they actually existed.

  Morgan glanced at the tough-looking man speaking to him and noticed a faded, tattooed parachute on his right bicep. From the stranger’s accent and demeanour Morgan made a calculated guess that his rival for the honour of the hill was a former Eastern bloc soldier who once belonged to Warsaw special forces – possibly even Spetsnaz – as the only symbol they could claim was that they were para trained.

  ‘Not good for man to carry SAS sign,’ Batkin said, shaking his head. ‘Unless he member of unit.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Morgan said, standing straight and eyeing the other man. ‘I was once a member of the regiment, but that was a long time ago. Were you Russian special forces?’

  Batkin grinned at Morgan. In the serenity of the dying day, so far from the rugged mountains and valleys of Afghanistan and his own former Communist forces, it did not seem to matter that he admitted his former service to another who he suspected had also once served his country as a special soldier.