The Frozen Circle

by Peter Watt

  Maria examined the menu and placed an order with the waiter. When he left for the kitchen, Maria’s face seemed to light up with a serenity Joshua had not seen before and she reached out for his hands across the table.

  ‘Do you know, Joshua,’ she said. ‘Tonight I truly feel that I am safe. That we will live and be free for the first time in as long as I can remember.’

  ‘We have a long way to go before we get out of danger,’ Joshua cautioned.

  ‘Sergeant Larkin, you are such a pessimist,’ Maria scoffed gently, withdrawing her hands. ‘I am always safe when I am with you.’

  Joshua felt humbled by her faith in him and poured them a glass of wine from the bottle brought to the table by the waiter. It was a rich, red wine with no label but Joshua did not care. He had learned to drink ‘plonk’ in France and acquired a taste for the Froggy drop.

  He raised his glass towards Maria. ‘Here is to the most beautiful woman in Europe,’ he toasted.

  Maria looked away uncertainly. She’d piled her hair on top of her head and when she turned away Joshua could see the smooth curve of her neck.

  ‘I do not know what is my destiny,’ she said, turning back and taking a sip of the wine. ‘Tonight, I am but a woman like any other. Oh, Joshua, I wish I could see into the future and know if it is my fate to return to my beloved Russia when the Bolsheviks are defeated.’

  Her words tapered away as she remembered how horrified and helpless she had felt watching her family being executed before her eyes.

  Joshua reached over to take her hands in his. ‘We have a more important role to play right now – just staying alive and getting out of here,’ he said. ‘Worry about your destiny when we are finally safe. I will not feel that way until I can once again smell the gum trees and see the heads of Sydney Harbour from the bow of some ship.’

  Maria did not attempt to retract her hands from his and he could see that she was struggling with thoughts that wanted to be words.

  ‘Joshua, I cannot go on without confessing …’

  Joshua pulled away just as the waiter placed two large plates of a finely cooked stew in front of them, interrupting that delicate moment when words might have been uttered that could not be taken back.

  They ate in relative silence except to exchange little jokes about their time together. Maria laughed often and it seemed so natural for her to do so. Joshua was pleased that he could make her smile and for the moment feel they could have been anywhere safe in the world.

  When the meal was finished they drank the bottle dry and ordered another one. When they’d downed the last drop, Maria paid for the meal and they stepped out onto the bitterly cold street. Together, they hurried back to the house, leaning on each other for support. Bursting through the door, Maria flung herself into Joshua’s arms and kissed him on the lips, taking him by surprise.

  ‘Thank you, Joshua,’ she said. ‘I cannot remember such a wonderful night as we have had tonight. But now we must sleep,’ she continued. ‘The Pole will expect us to be ready at dawn.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Joshua answered, regretting that Maria had broken the embrace to head for the stairs.

  ‘Goodnight, Joshua,’ she said and disappeared into her room.

  It dawned on Joshua that this was the first time since he had met her that Maria had not slept in his arms for protection against the cold and the enemies that pursued them.

  Reluctantly, he went to his room and lay down on the bed fully clothed to stare at the ceiling. He could not sleep despite the wine and found himself reflecting on his life. Only five years earlier he had been a simple clerk, married and living in Sydney. Five years later he had become a ruthless killer of men; a soldier who other men had followed into hell – and died for their faith in him. He was no longer the Joshua Larkin of five years earlier. War had changed him and he could never go back to his country as the same man he had once known.

  He felt the guilt of the survivor but worse, he felt the guilt of treason. He had whored with his men behind the frontlines. The need to smell, touch and taste the purity of a woman’s flesh had been his way of reminding himself he was still alive. When the news arrived that his wife had died of the terrible flu pandemic Joshua had been racked with guilt for his betrayal of the woman he loved. He felt the anguish of helplessness at not being by her side and soon after had volunteered for the Russian campaign hoping that death would find him and wash away his guilt. Instead, he had found Maria and a reason to stay alive – despite how impossible his love for her was. If nothing else he would keep her alive until her destiny was fulfilled.

  Joshua hardly noticed that sleep was washing over him until he suddenly snapped from his dozy state, sensing that he was not alone in the dark. Someone else was in the room and Joshua edged his hand towards the pistol under his pillow.

  ‘I could not sleep alone,’ Maria’s voice came to him from a few feet away.

  Joshua let the pistol go and turned to see her outline against the flickering candle on the bed stand. But he was truly snapped from the last remnants of sleep when he saw that she was completely naked and shivering in the cold air. He immediately reached up to draw her down to the bed and hold her to him.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Valley View

  Present day

  Morgan grappled for the phone beside his bed and hauled himself into a sitting position before answering. From the corner of his eye he could see his digital clock register 2.13 am.

  ‘Valley View police, Senior Constable McLean speaking,’ he mumbled, still shaking the sleep from his fogged mind.

  ‘Constable,’ the voice at the other end said, ‘I realise that it is very late where you are as I am calling from the UK but I am very concerned about a relative of mine, a Mr Daniel Kildare, who I believe is visiting your town to attend a folk festival. My concern is that I have not heard from him for the last couple of days and that is not like him. I am hoping that you could make some inquires as to his whereabouts as I am worried for his welfare.’

  ‘Maybe he is no longer here,’ Morgan replied, rubbing his eyes. ‘The festival has been over for the last week but since you have called from the UK I will make some inquires in the morning. What is your name and the number I can call you on?’

  ‘My name is Paul Smithers and you can contact me on my mobile phone.’

  Harry provided his telephone number and a description of Daniel Kildare, which Morgan scribbled down on a pad he kept by the bed for messages. Conversation over, Morgan replaced the phone, rolled over and went back to sleep.

  In his office on the other side of the world, Harry Stanton leaned back in his chair and noted the name of the police officer he had spoken to, along with the time and duration of the call. He had not given his real name – nor could the mobile phone number ever be traced to him. It was all a habit from his intelligence experience to habitually do such things. Except that he had not recorded the contact for official MI6 records. Harry stared at the wall opposite his desk and the portrait of a young Queen Elizabeth II. He had not updated the portrait, as he liked the look of the Queen when she was a younger woman in her reign over the British Commonwealth. He thought it ironic that she was also the monarch of the Commonwealth of Australia. Some links with England died hard.

  But Harry’s mind was distracted by the silence from Australia. It was like losing a crew in a capsule in outer space, he thought. The sudden loss of contact and the darkness beyond where those at ground control could do nothing. He rubbed his forehead; he would dearly love a shot of Scotch to ease his troubled mind. Whatever was happening on the other side of the world was now out of his control unless he established communications with Daniel Kildare. Otherwise, something very bad was about to happen. Harry knew it in his bones as sure as the cold, grey clouds covered London in the winter.

  Morning came to Valley View and a cloudless, humid spring day once again promised an afternoon thunderstorm. Morgan showered, shaved and dressed in his uniform. A quick breakfast of orange juice, a
mug of tea and a piece of toast was all that he needed to start his day. Then he remembered the missing person call he had received during the early hours of the morning and retrieved the scrap of paper from beside his unmade bed.

  Daniel Kildare, a Pom. Gladys Harrison was sure that her assailants had British accents. Morgan closed the police station door and made his way to the top hotel. It had not yet opened and he found the publican, Clare Neill in the backyard supervising the unloading of beer kegs from a truck.

  ‘G’day, Morgan,’ she greeted him.

  Clare was in her fifties but had the figure of a woman in her twenties. She had a face that had seen too much sun in her youth and the years of working behind a bar had hardened the expression in her eyes. As the local cop Morgan had proved himself firm, fair and friendly and she respected him.

  ‘Morning, Clare,’ Morgan answered. ‘Looks like a good day for business.’

  Clare glanced at the sky, before going back to assisting the delivery driver in getting the kegs to the back of the hotel. ‘Yeah, could be a hot one.’

  ‘I was just wondering,’ Morgan said. ‘Do you have a patron staying by the name of Daniel Kildare – a Pom, I believe.’

  Clare ceased rolling a keg and stood up to wipe the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. ‘I did,’ she replied. ‘But he seems to have done a runner on me. Hasn’t been in his room for the last couple of days and owes for a week’s accommodation. I was hoping that you might be able to find him for me.’

  ‘Has anyone occupied the room since he left?’ Morgan asked.

  ‘Not so far,’ Clare answered. ‘You want to have a look around?’

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ Morgan said. He followed Clare into the back of the hotel to walk up the worn carpeted stairs to the second level. She opened a door off the corridor and Morgan followed her in. The bed had been made up and the room cleaned. The room opened out onto the wide verandah overlooking the main street.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Clare said. ‘Just close the door when you have finished.’

  She was about to leave when something came to mind. She stopped mid-way through the door. ‘You might talk to the English lass a couple of rooms up,’ Clare added. ‘I suspect she spent more time in his room than her own. Her name is Sarah Sakharov and her room is Number 3. I am sure she will still be in.’

  Morgan thanked her and began his search. He opened an old-style wooden tall boy where clothes were hanging on coathangers. Morgan rifled through the pockets of a pair of trousers but found nothing but a handkerchief.

  He tried the drawers of a bedside low boy of similar vintage. The usual Gideons Bible for travellers and a dogeared, glossy brochure extolling the trout fishing of the local streams in the mountains around Valley View, as well as fliers from various businesses for their products and services. It was evident that if the English tourist had chosen to leave without the intention of paying he would at least have taken his clothes with him. But Morgan saw no other sign of foul play in the room. He had been provided with the missing persons’ particulars as to physical description, date of birth and so on by the caller from hours before. Now he would write up a missing persons’ report to satisfy the rules and regulations of his job. In the meantime, he would question this Sarah Sakharov whose name he already knew from Monique’s mention of her as the freelance reporter who had interviewed her a week earlier.

  Morgan closed the door and walked a short distance down the passageway. He knocked on the door. A muffled female voice answered and Morgan declared his occupation and waited. After a short time the door opened to reveal a very attractive young woman whose ruffled hair and pale face indicated that she had been asleep when he knocked. Morgan introduced himself. Sarah held the door ajar but did not invite him inside. ‘Yes, how can I help you, Senior Constable McLean?’ she asked.

  ‘Are you Sarah Sakharov?’ Morgan asked.

  ‘I am,’ she replied with a frown of irritation. ‘May I ask why you want to know?’

  ‘Nothing to be concerned about,’ Morgan reassured her. ‘I am just asking some routine questions about a gentleman I have been informed you may know – a Mr Daniel Kildare – and if you have some ID like a driver’s licence it would help greatly.’

  ‘Daniel, yes I know Daniel,’ Sarah responded. ‘But I haven’t seen him for the last couple of days. I was actually considering a visit to the police station to see if you could help me locate him.’ The door had opened wider and the girl’s initial annoyance had seemed to dissipate a little.

  ‘You interviewed Monique Dawson recently,’ Morgan said unexpectedly and thought he saw a fleeting look of concern on Sarah’s face. ‘Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ Sarah answered. ‘I am a freelance journalist and was attracted to your town by the rumours that the Princess Maria of Russia might have escaped the slaughter in 1918 and eventually settled in your little village. I felt that the story was worth travelling from the UK to research and Ms Dawson’s name was prominent in my investigation. It would have been super to actually prove that she was a direct descendant of Princess Maria. It would have been wonderful for my career.’

  Morgan was closely appraising her response to his question but could not read deceit in either her voice or body language. Either she was innocent of any misdeeds or she was a very practised liar, he concluded. After all, what were the chances of two British citizens – a man and a woman – being involved in the assault on Gladys Harrison. Here he had both and from what Clare had told him they knew each other. Sarah retrieved an international driver’s licence with her particulars, which Morgan quickly scribbled in his notebook before handing the licence back to her.

  ‘If it is convenient,’ Morgan said politely and with a broad smile, ‘I would like you to drop into the police station to assist us with our search for your fellow countryman, Ms Sakharov. Say, around ten o’clock this morning. I promise that I will provide a good cup of tea when you arrive. You can call me Morgan, if you like.’

  Sarah found herself thrown off guard by the Aussie policeman’s charm. He was not bad looking for an older man, she thought. Monique had mentioned his name more than once in the interview and she could see why.

  Morgan turned to walk away. What had an old sergeant once told him when he had first commenced working the streets – when it came to getting answers from suspects an ounce of honey is worth a ton of salt. Morgan had never forgotten the advice.

  He was no longer smiling when he made his way down the narrow wooden stairs. His gut feeling was that he had identified who had broken into the museum and viciously assaulted Gladys. The only trouble was that one of his suspects had suddenly disappeared and he still required legal proof before he could act on his instinct. So who was this person who had called him from the UK?

  ‘Gonna be a hot one today,’ the barman said to Morgan as he made his way to the front door.

  ‘Looks like it, Marty,’ Morgan answered. ‘A real stinker.’

  As soon as he arrived back at the police station he picked up the phone and dialled a number.

  ‘Ken,’ he said. ‘I think we might have a couple to put in the frame for the break-in and assault out here. I need to run a couple of names through the UK system. Can you do that?’

  When the answer was in the affirmative Morgan supplied the names of Sarah Sakharov and Daniel Kildare along with Kildare’s date of birth, explaining that he would have more on the woman after he interviewed her at the station.

  Morgan closed the conversation and put the phone down. He wondered if he had any Earl Grey tea bags.

  Petrov Batkin took the call on his mobile phone. It was short and to the point. After meetings in St Petersburg the organisation had decided that Monique Dawson must be taken against her will if necessary. It was in her best interests as it was obvious that British intelligence wanted her dead. Batkin would be assisted by a couple of local Russians working for organised crime and based in Sydney. They would arrive that night and Batkin was to brief them
on the abduction. Under no circumstances was she to be harmed. A cargo ship steaming off the coast of New South Wales would be available for them to smuggle her aboard before it headed to Singapore.

  Everything was in place and all Batkin had to do now was wait for the meeting with the two men arriving from Sydney. He expected them within hours of his call.

  Sarah arrived at the police station on time. ‘I was hoping that you may have some information on the whereabouts of Daniel,’ she said. ‘It seems so unlike him to simply leave without telling me.’

  ‘I gather that you two had a more than friendly relationship,’ Morgan said.

  ‘That is really none of your business,’ Sarah responded coldly. ‘Now, if that is all, I will go. I have matters to complete before I leave your town.’

  Morgan knew that he could not stop her leaving but needed to learn as much about her as he could without appearing to be conducting an interrogation.

  ‘I’m sorry if I sounded a bit personal,’ he apologised. ‘It’s just that I have been a copper too long to change my manners.’ His apology appeared to work and Sarah settled back into the chair.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Mr Kildare?’ Morgan asked.

  ‘I think it was a couple of mornings ago,’ Sarah said. ‘He was in his room and said something about spending the day sightseeing on the northern side of your town. Daniel was a fly fisherman and was interested in checking out your waterways.’

  ‘You used the past tense to refer to Mr Kildare’s interest in fly fishing,’ Morgan said. ‘Do you feel that something may have happened to him?’

  ‘I meant, is,’ Sarah quickly countered.

  ‘For a journalist you should be more aware of such a slip,’ Morgan said, knowing he had caught her off guard. ‘Not that I am implying you have had anything to do with his disappearance.’