The Frozen Circle

by Peter Watt

  Locksley was frustrated by the chief’s support of the Freikorps. He saw problems into the future with such an organisation gaining political power and toppling the struggling Weimar government. A starving, humiliated country was open to the voice of any man promising jobs and pride. Such a man could emerge from the Freikorps movement to impose a dictatorship as evil as that the Bolsheviks were attempting to put in place in Russia. But no one was really interested in the future of Europe, Locksley reflected. All people wanted in 1919 was a better life free of war and its bitter memories.

  ‘What do we do about Princess Maria then?’ Locksley asked.

  ‘Now more than ever we need to find the Princess and silence her,’ Cumming answered. ‘You still have that mission, Major Locksley. Do you have any ideas?’

  Locksley had spent many sleepless nights pondering the whereabouts of Larkin and Princess Maria. What would he do if he were the Australian soldier? Where would he go?

  The answer was simple: he would get Maria as far from Europe as possible so as to protect her. Maybe travel to Canada, South America or the United States of America. But it was just as possible Larkin would return to Australia with her. The country was a vast land, easy to disappear into. But it had one weakness: a very small population despite its geographic size. Maybe Larkin had not thought of that, Locksley considered. He leaned forward in his chair.

  ‘I think that a trip to Australia might pay dividends,’ he said. ‘I doubt that I could find Larkin and the girl in Europe, but the hunted eventually return to known territory. My suggestion is that I steam for Australia and ambush the prey in his lair.’

  ‘If you think that your plan will work I will authorise the documents for the mission,’ Cumming replied. ‘But you must understand, your trip to the colonies will be seen as a private venture with no association with this office. If anything should happen to you we will disown any relationship we have with you. Do you understand and accept the consequences of what I have told you?’

  Locksley took in what the intelligence chief was telling him. He was completely on his own and could not even tell his wife and children of his mission. He would simply disappear from their lives until he returned when no doubt he would be secretly rewarded by a grateful British government. It was worth the risk.

  ‘I understand,’ Locksley answered. ‘I have been a loyal soldier to the King and I consider this mission as no less important than the orders I obeyed during the war.’

  ‘Good, chap,’ Cumming said, rising to his feet and extending his hand. ‘I will draft the appropriate papers for your travel to Australia and see to it that your family continues to receive your pay. You will operate on a fund we will set up for you to draw on.’

  Major James Locksley left the SIS HQ with a new lease on life. The arrogance of the Germans and their treatment of him in Hamburg still smarted. To be virtually marched out of Germany under arms as if he had lost the war had been too much for the proud British officer. And it had been that colonial upstart who had caused his shame. Locksley had Russian blood and to him dishonour was worse than death. Both Larkin and the Princess Maria would pay with their lives for his ongoing failure to serve his country.

  Paris

  October 1919

  Joshua and Maria were married by a refugee Russian Orthodox priest in a private ceremony in Paris. It had been Maria who had sought out help from the small order of monks at their priory in the Rue d’Allery and arranged the marriage. Although Joshua was a Methodist by birth he did not object being converted to the Russian Orthodox faith if it meant so much to Maria. Like many Australians, he did not put much stock in a man’s religious convictions.

  Madame Dubois had been invited as their only guest and had fussed over making Maria a wedding dress. Joshua used some of the money from the Romanov fortune to purchase a suitable suit. The priest was a young man with a heavy beard and had been on the Bolshevik death list in his village. He spoke no French but that did not matter. At the end of the ceremony, Joshua realised that the woman at his elbow was now Mrs Maria Larkin.

  They celebrated the wedding with a quiet meal in a good French restaurant where other couples congratulated them with a toast of wine. It was a happy day neither would forget and Joshua had even booked them into a good hotel for the honeymoon, albeit only of one night.

  As the sun set Madame Dubois said goodbye to the couple with hugs and teary kisses. Wiping at her eyes with a dainty handkerchief she pressed a simple gold ring into Maria’s hand. ‘This belonged to my son,’ she said. ‘He was killed in 1915 and it was meant for his fiancée. But she married another and now I would like you to have it for good luck in your life. Maybe it can be passed to your first born son for his fiancée.’

  Both were touched by her kind gesture and Joshua hugged the grandmotherly lady in appreciation.

  They took a taxi to the hotel and registered for the night as Mr and Mrs Joshua Larkin. Joshua knew that this was dangerous as it meant they could be traced but as he had no intentions of remaining long in France he took the chance to display their names proudly as man and wife. He had yet to tell Maria of his plans. It could wait.

  That evening Maria lay asleep in Joshua’s arms with an expression of peace and contentment on her face. Their lovemaking had been gentle rather than passionate and it seemed to Joshua that time and his patience had cured the wounds of the past inflicted on Maria’s body and soul. The next morning, as they partook of breakfast in the hotel dining room, Maria’s beautiful face beamed with happiness.

  ‘Do you think that we could remain in Paris forever, my old bear?’ she asked, breaking open a warm croissant and spooning in rich strawberry jam.

  ‘Old bear!’ Joshua snorted, but pleased at the compliment. ‘I am only twelve years older than you.’

  ‘You are not really old in my eyes,’ Maria said, chewing delicately on her croissant. ‘What do you think about my idea to live in Paris? We both speak French and there are many of my countrymen fleeing here.’

  ‘That’s the problem,’ Joshua replied, sipping his coffee. ‘You might be recognised by one of your countrymen and no matter how well meaning they might be about who you really are, the British are bound to find out. I doubt that you would be safe. No, we have to move on.’

  The expression of disappointment on Maria’s face hurt Joshua but he realised that he could not give in to her whims. His role was to protect and provide for her.

  ‘There is one place as far from Europe you can get,’ Joshua said, taking Maria’s free hand in his. ‘My home, Australia.’

  Maria’s eyes widened in shock. ‘That is at the other end of the world!’ she exclaimed. ‘I have heard that it is hot and dry.’

  ‘I know a place where it snows in winter,’ Joshua said, hoping that his compromise might mollify her fears of an alien landscape. ‘With the money we have we could buy a small property and I could become a farmer like my father. We would be out of reach of the English as my country’s government is not always compliant with British interests. We refused to allow the English to shoot our men for desertion during the war as they did their own. There was a lot of pressure from the British for us to fall into line but my government resisted. I doubt that now the war is over the British could get their hands on me for a charge of desertion.’

  ‘There will be snow in winter?’ Maria asked.

  ‘There is snow and a wonderful little village in the hills west of Sydney,’ he said. ‘There we would be safe and happy. A great place to raise children.’

  ‘What is the name of this place?’ Maria asked.

  ‘Valley View,’ Joshua replied. ‘A place of safety.’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Valley View

  Present day

  Petrov Batkin sensed the danger: a creak on the wooden planks of the floor outside his room late in the afternoon. He slipped the .32 pistol from his luggage at the end of the bed and held it behind his back.

  ‘Police! Open the door!’

  Under the consid
erable bulk of Ken Barber, the door f lew open and Batkin brought up the pistol to fire. Barber had hardly burst into the hotel room when it was filled with a small explosion and the acrid smell of cordite. Ken knew the smell well; it had been part of his life as a young soldier serving with an infantry battalion in Vietnam. What he had not experienced before was a bullet smacking into the upper part of his chest just below the collarbone. Behind him, young Mark Branson brought up his pistol to level on Batkin, but the Russian’s special forces skills gave the young trainee detective no time to fire. The second bullet from Batkin’s pistol took Branson in the lower jaw, causing him to spin around and drop his gun.

  So fixed had Batkin been on the two targets bursting through the door, he did not see Morgan smashing through the flimsy screen on the window that opened onto the verandah. He slammed into the Russian from behind, the momentum taking Batkin completely off guard. Before he could recover, Morgan had wrenched the man’s arm holding the pistol into an angle, forcing him to drop his weapon. Morgan’s other arm was around the Russian’s neck and he applied a savage sleeper hold. Batkin attempted to shake the policeman off but to no avail. His struggles decreased as the oxygen was starved to his brain. He went down and with one knee in his back, Morgan yanked the semi-conscious man’s wrists into a set of handcuffs.

  ‘You shoulda killed the bastard,’ Ken snarled, clutching the wound oozing blood from his shoulder.

  The gunshots had drawn attention and voices outside the room called if anything was wrong.

  ‘Everything is under control,’ Morgan shouted back, realising that they needed time to review the situation that had gone bad on them. They would need a story for the police integrity investigators because a shooting had occurred, albeit of two police officers by the bad guy. Morgan used his mobile phone to dial triple-0 for an ambulance, explaining in clinical terms the nature of the gunshot wounds then reassured his colleagues despite the blood they were losing they did not have life-threatening wounds and help was on its way.

  ‘You were lucky it was not an AK-47 round,’ he said to young Branson, padding his face with a clean towel from the room. ‘Otherwise it would have taken your face away. As it is you have something that rates just above a shaving nick.’ This was not true but Morgan knew how vain the young officer was about his looks. He fancied himself as a lady’s man so Morgan added that the subsequent scar would impress the ladies even more. So convincing was he that the young man attempted a smile, only to grimace in his pain.

  As the oxygen once again circulated in his brain Batkin was regaining his wits. Morgan took Branson’s handcuffs and secured the prisoner to the end of the iron bed.

  ‘A bloody stuff-up,’ Ken said quietly. ‘You were right. I should have got backup.’

  ‘Not your fault,’ Morgan reassured. ‘Just one of those things that goes wrong from time to time.’

  ‘I could have got you all killed,’ Ken apologised. ‘The bastard was waiting for us when we came through the door.’

  ‘He’s a former Russian special forces soldier,’ Morgan said. ‘It had to be expected.’

  ‘Bloody hell! What has happened here?’ a male voice said from the doorway.

  Morgan glanced up to see the publican, Paul Barry standing with his hands over his mouth.

  ‘Could do with a hand,’ Morgan said. ‘Just keep an eye on Mark until the ambulance arrives.’

  The publican moved forward to kneel by the wounded police officer and hold the towel to his jaw. He was not a stranger to blood after many years of witnessing bar room brawls. Morgan moved back to examine Ken’s wound but he waved him off. ‘It’s nothing much,’ he said in his usual nonchalant way.

  Morgan did not like the ashen appearance of the detective’s face. Ken might be tough but even a small calibre round could do a lot of damage in the right place.

  He turned to Batkin who was now fully conscious and staring bleakly at the two men he had wounded. Morgan had a desire to smash the Russian in the face with his boot but resisted the rising anger.

  ‘You are in a lot of trouble,’ he said to Batkin. ‘If you want to help yourself you had better start talking. We need to know about the murder of Daniel Kildare and what harm you had planned for Monique Dawson.’

  Batkin stared at Morgan but there was no hate in the Russian’s eyes – only a look of confusion and respect. ‘You beat me, my friend,’ he said. ‘We were told that Aussie special forces man was good. You beat me.’

  Morgan shook his head. It was not the response he expected. Olev – or whoever he was – considered being overpowered by him as more important than the situation he was in facing having just attempted to murder two police officers.

  ‘What about Kildare?’ Morgan persisted, ignoring the rules of interrogation. The detectives would carry out a formal interview at the police station later.

  Morgan’s mobile phone rang and he found himself speaking with the district police superintendent. Morgan gave a brief explanation as to what had happened, leaving out as much as he could until he had a chance to tidy up loose ends with Ken Barber. He was informed that a team was on its way from Hume City, as well as more senior officers from Sydney who would take charge of the situation. Morgan was to make himself available to them as well as securing the prisoner. When the conversation had finished Morgan turned his attention to Ken. ‘That was the district super. Said he tried to ring you but your phone was off.’

  ‘Had it off until we finished picking up the Russian,’ Ken said. ‘Didn’t want it going off when we sneaked up on him.’

  Morgan returned his attention to Batkin. ‘What were you going to do to Monique Dawson?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Nothing,’ Batkin lied. ‘I did not kill the English agent. You talk to Sarah Sakharov.’

  ‘Agent?’ Morgan queried. ‘What do you mean by agent?’

  Batkin realised that he had let the dead man’s identity slip. ‘Is nothing,’ he replied dismissively.

  But Morgan’s interest was piqued.

  ‘Are you Russian intelligence?’ he asked, only to receive a look of derision.

  ‘Russian intelligence like kill me,’ Batkin replied. ‘I think Sakharov double-cross me. I think you should find her. She know about Kildare.’

  Morgan noticed that the Russian kept coming back to the English journalist who was now well and truly on his radar as a person of interest.

  ‘What if ballistics matches up your gun to the Kildare killing?’ Morgan asked, noticing that his question had registered concern on Batkin’s face.

  ‘Maybe same gun,’ Batkin answered. ‘But Sakharov have gun. Not me. She plant gun on me. Look bad.’

  ‘Why did you want to kill Monique Dawson?’ Morgan asked.

  ‘Not kill Miss Dawson,’ Batkin answered. ‘Take Miss Dawson away. Save her from English MI6. They want her dead. We want her alive.’

  Morgan was confused by what the Russian’s was saying. Not all had been clarified in the hotel room.

  ‘Before the detectives get here I need to know some things,’ he said quietly to the Russian. ‘This has nothing to do with what has happened in this room.’

  Batkin looked at Morgan. ‘I shoot policeman but think they harm me,’ he said. ‘I know I do that but good lawyer help me in your country. I read criminal in your country never get punished. Maybe do a few years in your prison. Better than living in our house estates anyway. I talk to you as soldier to soldier. I did not kill Kildare who was MI6 man. I think Sakharov did that. She take my gun and say she will fix English agent. I think she work for me but I think she, what you say, double agent. I think she work for herself. Not us or MI6. I think you should look to see if Miss Dawson safe.’

  As Morgan listened to the Russian’s words he felt that he was hearing the truth. But why would the English freelance journalist want to harm Monique? It made no sense.

  ‘I find yesterday from St Petersburg Sakharov not real name of woman I know as Sarah,’ Batkin continued. ‘Her English name Locksley – not Sakharo
v.’

  Locksley! Morgan stiffened as if he had been electrocuted. The name flashed in his mind. Locksley was the name of the British officer who Larkin had mentioned in his journal as the man he most feared. Locksley had the mission of finding and disposing of the last of the Russian royal family. Ghosts! Monique had been so adamant about ghosts being resurrected. Now it seemed that she was right except this ghost was flesh and blood and somehow related to Major James Locksley. Maybe even a direct descendant, Morgan thought. But what could drive a person to murder over an issue almost a century old? Why put your life on the line to satisfy a mission already long dead? Or did such missions not have a statute of limitations?

  Morgan reached for his mobile phone and quickly dialled Monique’s home number. All he heard was a dial tone that rang out.

  ‘Ken, you and Mark going to be all right?’ Morgan asked and was relieved to hear an ambulance scream to a halt in front of the pub, followed by a couple of police cars with lights and sirens blazing a passage through the late afternoon.

  ‘Why? Where you going?’ Ken asked, holding his shoulder.

  ‘Got an urgent job on,’ Morgan replied, returning the mobile to his pocket. ‘Haven’t got time to explain right now.’

  Morgan slipped past the ambulance paramedics as they thumped up the stairs with their bags of emergency equipment. In seconds he was flinging open the door to his vehicle and turning over the engine.

  Locksley! The threatening name from the past was now a danger in the present. He had to get to Monique. He had sworn to her that he would protect her – just as a long-dead Australian soldier had promised a Russian princess all those years earlier.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Valley View

  November 1920

  A year had passed since Joshua and Maria’s marriage in Paris. Maria’s small fortune had been able to buy them papers out of Europe and onto a ship travelling to Australia. They journeyed via the Suez Canal, Bombay and down the west coast of Australia before steaming up to Sydney, where the newly married couple disembarked in March 1920.