The Frozen Circle

by Peter Watt

  Joshua stood and a middle-aged officer waving a pistol gestured for them to approach. When they were close enough to speak Maria addressed the officer.

  ‘I am the Princess Maria and I am the only survivor of my family,’ she said. ‘I have proof as to my identity and this man with me is a member of the British army who was sent to find and save me. I would like us to be taken to Archangel.’

  Joshua had not been able to follow her speech as she had spoken in Russian but did note that the Russian major burst into laughter. Joshua did not take this as a good sign and felt that he might have been better off fighting a Bolshevik platoon rather than fall into the hands of a White Russian company.

  ‘Girl, you are a lunatic and could also be a Red sympathiser,’ the Russian officer said, scanning the identity papers Maria had hastily retrieved from her skirt. ‘You will both be escorted to the regiment’s HQ for questioning and depending on what you say you will either be released or executed.’

  From the shocked expression on Maria’s face Joshua guessed that all was not well with their supposed saviours. ‘I am a British soldier,’ he said loudly. ‘Does anyone here speak English?’

  The middle-aged Russian major swung on Joshua with his pistol and Maria stepped protectively in front of Joshua, at the same time speaking hurried words. The officer lowered his pistol and turned to call back to the soldiers spread out in a skirmish line behind him. One stepped forward and saluted. He was a young man with a thin face and wispy moustache. Shouldering his rifle he came forward to the major then turned to Joshua.

  ‘I speak English,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Sergeant Joshua Larkin of the British army. I have identity discs concealed on me to confirm my identity and this young woman is the Princess Maria and should be shown the utmost respect.’ His statement caused a look of shock on the face of the young Russian soldier who turned to the major to translate. A frown spread over the major’s face and he spoke softly to his translator.

  ‘Our company commander says that you are to go with us to our HQ where you will be handed over to a more … how you say … senior person for further interrogation and examination of identity papers. Please to come with us.’

  ‘You speak very good English,’ Joshua remarked. ‘Where did you learn?’

  ‘You would not know the place because it is far from England,’ he replied. ‘I learn English when I am with Russian diplomatic post in Melbourne, Australia before the war. I was cook.’

  When Joshua burst into laughter Maria was startled, but even more so when he slapped the young soldier on the back. ‘No kidding,’ Joshua said. ‘I am from Sydney. I am an Australian.’

  The young soldier burst into a beaming smile. ‘I think you sound like an Australian but not think so when you say you are British. Do you know who win Aussie Rule grand final last year?’

  Joshua shook his head. ‘Sorry, old chap, I don’t follow Victorian football but it is good to probably meet the only Russian for a thousand miles who knows where Australia is.’

  ‘My name Grigor,’ the young soldier said, extending his hand which caused further alarm to the Russian major. ‘Good to meet an Aussie again.’ He turned and rattled off a long speech to the major whose face finally broke into a smile. The Russian officer stepped forward and slapped Joshua on the back in a fraternal manner.

  ‘My major think you okay. That you are an ally,’ Grigor said. ‘Is true that the woman is Princess Maria?’ he asked in a more awed tone.

  ‘She certainly is – but it is a long story,’ Joshua answered. ‘We need to get to Archangel.’

  ‘The major says he can do but he is not convinced girl is Princess Maria,’ Grigor cautioned. ‘He will treat you well but I convince that you are truly British. He not understand that you Australian.’

  ‘Well, that’s a start,’ Joshua said, noticing that Maria was looking at him with some admiration for the way in which he had turned their situation around so she felt safe once again.

  British HQ

  Archangel

  Early September 1919

  Major James Locksley had been seen by an army doctor and cleared for inactive service for the time being as he had not fully recovered from his broken ribs. He had been able to obtain a new uniform and the trappings of his rank. Pale and gaunt, he waited patiently to be debriefed by Colonel Kingston, the liaison officer for the Secret Intelligence Service in northern Russia. Locksley sat outside the colonel’s office while smartly dressed staff officers strolled past to the many offices in the marble and gilt building.

  ‘You can go through now, sir,’ an NCO acting as an orderly room clerk said.

  Locksley stood and marched to the office at the end of the huge, echoing foyer. He entered the colonel’s office and saluted smartly.

  ‘Good to see you in the land of the living, old chap,’ the colonel said warmly. ‘We had almost given up on you but I believe that you had somewhat of a hot time getting back to Archangel before the evacuation of our forces.’

  ‘I had some good fortune in remaining alive,’ Locksley replied dismissing the praise for his capacity for survival deep behind enemy lines. ‘But I failed to complete my mission.’

  Colonel Kingston gestured to an ornate chair. ‘Have a seat, old chap,’ he said. ‘I am still being kept in the dark about the purpose of your mission by those in London but it seems that they want you back as soon as possible – and some Australian chap, Corporal Littleton.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Corporal Littleton,’ the British major said. ‘I have recommended him for a decoration for his role in the affair. I expect they will give him something like a DCM if he is lucky – an MM at the least. Pity he still did not have his commission. It would have been a DSO or MC if that had been so.’

  ‘From what I have read of your report he will be the lucky one considering what you have written of this Sergeant Larkin chap. He will be fortunate if he doesn’t get a firing squad if we ever catch up with him, although naturally a court martial will come first before we shoot the bugger.’ The colonel lifted Locksley’s report from his desk and waved it in the air. ‘But I doubt that he would have been able to survive long with that girl with him. I strongly suspect that the Reds would have killed them a long time ago.’

  ‘I would not presume that, sir,’ Locksley said. ‘He is a rather resourceful and tough chap for a colonial. It must be that convict blood they all seem to have.’

  The colonel burst into laughter at the joke. He had a prejudice against anyone who was not born in Britain of Anglo-Saxon blood. In his opinion, those former Anglo-Saxons who had left England’s shores for whatever reason had relinquished their claim to any equality. They had been, after all, the dregs of English society. His grandfather had been a magistrate and had sentenced many of his countrymen to transportation to the penal colony on the other side of the world.

  ‘Well, we shall be on the look out for the blighter if he does turn up in Archangel. He will be immediately arrested if he does.’

  ‘Sir, if he is arrested in Russia I feel that those in London would not want him to be interrogated by anyone here,’ Locksley cautioned. ‘He is a matter for national security to deal with. I think that you will understand. If he happens to be with a Russian girl at the time we would rather she be discreetly dealt with. She may attempt to claim that she is the Princess Maria but we have proof that she is an impostor. You can imagine that if she is left to run around free she could cause us a lot of embarrassment.’

  ‘You can assure those in London that should either turn up on our doorstep I will ensure that they are dealt with in the appropriate manner,’ the colonel said, touching the edge of his nose in a conspiratorial manner. ‘Here are your movement orders and those of Corporal Littleton,’ he concluded, handing Locksley a bundle of papers. ‘Have a good trip home and I will hopefully have the opportunity to invite you to my club when I return very soon.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ the major said, rising to accept the papers and salute the colonel.
‘I would be happy to join you at your club for a drink.’

  Locksley left the office and walked out into the foyer. He accepted a salute from the orderly room NCO and stepped out into the chill of the street where George Littleton had been waiting in the cold.

  ‘Well, sir, are we returning to London?’ George asked.

  ‘Not only are we returning to London, Corporal Littleton, but I suspect that you will be invited to Buckingham Palace to receive a gong I recommended for your service to our mission,’ Locksley said, stunning George. The mad major was a man of many facets, and George felt a surge of gratitude. He would return to his family from his military service a decorated hero.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  MI6 HQ

  London

  Present day

  ‘Harry, you are wanted upstairs in the chief’s office ASAP,’ a fellow department head said, popping his head around the door to Harry’s office.

  Harry cast his colleague a questioning look but received a shrug in response. He had a bad feeling about the order to see the head of MI6. Dame Susan Perry, DCB – Dame Commander of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath, QC – was a formidable woman. She had once practised constitutional law before entering public service where she distinguished herself on many boards overseeing Britain’s foreign policy. She was also known as a staunch supporter of the Labor Party. Having been appointed the head of MI6, for the last year she had settled into intelligence politics as easily as if she had been orating in the Supreme Court. In her late fifties, she dressed conservatively and looked like the modern grandmother that she also was. It was rare for her to summon individual department leaders to her office unless a matter needed clarification. In this case Harry had a horrible premonition his requirement to be in her office immediately had something to do with the operation he was conducting in Australia.

  When Harry was ushered into the chief’s office he noticed a man he recognised as one of the accountants from the pay office bending over her desk, pointing at a sheaf of papers. When he looked up at Harry he was frowning.

  ‘That will be all, thank you, Mr Cunningham,’ the chief said. ‘Please, sit down, Mr Stanton,’ she added when the bean counter had exited the office. ‘Do you know why I have requested your presence here today?’

  Harry knew that she was expecting him to reveal something she may not have known. He would not fall for her fishing technique. ‘I am afraid that I do not, Ma’am,’ he replied, hoping that he had his nerves under control.

  ‘It has been brought to my attention that we are paying Ms Sarah Locksley to have a holiday in Australia with your endorsement,’ the chief said ominously. ‘I do not remember her trip to Australia being mentioned at our last meeting of department heads.’

  Harry was suddenly confused. The last he knew of Sarah Locksley was that she had been working under cover in St Petersburg, infiltrating a radical nationalist movement apparently led by a former Spetsnaz soldier. He had signed her off for the mission under her old family name of Sakharov. He did at least remember that the target of her infiltration was one Petrov Batkin and he was also in Australia – according to Daniel Kildare.

  ‘I was not aware that Ms Locksley was in Australia but I think that she is with a target, a Russian by the name of Petrov Batkin. I assume that she is following her directive to keep as close to him as she can. Other than that I am as much in the dark as you, Ma’am.’

  The chief’s gaze had the piercing effect of a laser. Harry was aware that his explanation left him open to the accusation that he was not in control of his operations.

  ‘So, it could be said that you do not really know what is going on with your people,’ Dame Perry said. ‘I only became aware of Ms Locksley being in Australia when our accounts department was being randomly audited by Mr Cunningham who noticed that her travel costs were not being properly signed off.’

  Harry frowned and leaned forward. ‘I confess that her presence in Australia is a surprise to me but I will immediately make contact and demand an explanation from her,’ he said. ‘She will be counselled about her reporting procedures as soon as she returns to us.’

  ‘We cannot afford to make mistakes, Mr Stanton,’ the chief said. ‘Our role forces us to live in a very secretive world but that only extends to public perception – not within our own ranks.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ Harry dutifully responded. ‘I will investigate the incident as a priority one matter and inform you immediately the situation is resolved.’

  ‘I expect that you will, Mr Stanton,’ the tough but fair head of MI6 responded. ‘That is all I have to say about the matter until I hear from you within the next twenty-four hours – and no later.’

  Harry stood up and walked stiffly from the office. What in hell was Sarah Locksley doing in Australia? No wonder she had ceased to report back to him from Russia. Locksley! Suddenly the name set off an alarm and he vaguely remembered an old report archived in MI6’s deepest basements. It was a name that had slipped from his consciousness until the Larkin file had been activated.

  Harry quickened his pace to the lift. He slumped into his chair behind his computer, and after coding in his password, called up the Larkin file. He read through the photocopied pages transcribed to a disk to find the name Locksley. It stood out and Harry Stanton scanned the report referring to the decorated former officer of the King who had been recruited to the Secret Intelligence Service in 1919. It was not a flattering report of a man who had marital problems and who had disappeared while on a trip to Australia. The original conclusion on the former British major was that he had run off with some woman he had met in Australia. It was not a very honourable ending to the career of a man who had distinguished himself in the Great War.

  Harry read on and in the notes saw the name Sakharov. It appeared that Locksley was of Russian heritage. Suddenly the MI6 department head was hit with a gripping fear. Sarah had so readily adopted the undercover name for her missions in Russia. She must therefore be a relative of the mysteriously disappeared former British major and intelligence officer. But why would she be interested in the current case – nearly a century old? Or was she simply sticking with the man she had been assigned to get close to? Was the link to her family simply a coincidence? Harry Stanton was not a believer in things just happening and the answer that echoed in reply made him very uneasy. Was she in the private business of settling old scores and completing a family mission almost a hundred years old? If so, she had to be stopped. He knew his next step was to get his hands on her vetting documents for departmental clearance. It would either confirm or deny her links to the disgraced Major Locksley.

  Valley View

  Present day

  The telephone call came through on Daniel Kildare’s mobile in the early hours of the morning. He was annoyed at having been awoken from a deep sleep and fumbled for the phone next to his bed.

  ‘Hello,’ he mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  ‘Kildare, are you alone?’

  Daniel Kildare glanced around his spartan but clean hotel room, recognising Harry Stanton’s voice. He was free to speak as the mobile phone he carried had a special scrambling device fitted to encode any conversation. ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘You know what time it is over here?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have called if it was not a matter of vital importance,’ Harry snapped. ‘Have you seen Sarah Locksley?’

  Kildare pulled himself into a sitting position. ‘Certainly, you assigned her to work with me.’

  ‘Did she say that?’ Harry queried.

  ‘Well, yes,’ Kildare replied. ‘She told me that she is continuing with her work covering Petrov Batkin. Why? What is wrong?’

  At the other end of the world Harry thought about his response to the question. ‘Maybe nothing is wrong,’ he replied. ‘She is not answering any calls so when you see her next tell her she is to report to me immediately. I mean immediately.’

  ‘Okay, consider it done.’

  ‘Have you succeeded in retrieving t
he items?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Not as yet,’ Kildare replied. ‘But I have a fair idea where to look.’

  ‘Well, there is nothing else for the moment,’ Harry said, closing off the call.

  Kildare snapped closed his mobile phone and glanced down at the woman beside him who had been listening to the conversation. It did not pay to inform one’s superior that a trusted operative was sleeping with a colleague. MI6 had rules concerning the behaviour of its agents on foreign assignments.

  ‘It seems that you have caused a bit of a stir with old Harry,’ Kildare said. ‘Apparently you have been a naughty girl and not kept up your reports to home. He wants you to make contact as soon as possible.’

  In the dark, Sarah frowned. She should have known that this moment was bound to come once her silence from Russia had been noted. She would have to hasten her mission.

  One very important reason Petrov Batkin was good at staying alive was because he was a non-trusting type of person. Sarah Sakharov had been recruited by him and seemed ideal for the mission to bring Monique Dawson over to their cause. After all, in his opinion it was Monique’s duty to support them in their quest to re-establish the imperial order of old Russia since she carried the blood of the Czars.

  The fact that Sarah had been late for the assignment caused his first suspicions and now that he had covertly tracked her to her hotel he’d seen her meet with the British MI6 man. It set off alarm bells for Batkin. His thoughts that she may be an agent of the British were strong – but not confirmed. It was no wonder that the British were active on the case, he mused as he sat on the edge of his hotel bed in the dark. The long hours of just sitting around in his hotel room or visiting the folk festival were almost as tortuous to this active man as being shown the interrogation cells of the old KGB. But from his knowledge of his former comrades working in intelligence, this was part and parcel of their world. Only in the English James Bond books were things different. Batkin decided to complete another set of physical exercises before retiring for the night.