Chapter One

“A Reunion in Arizona”

1.

AFTER THE OPULENCE AND careful imposing décor of the Admiralty, Tally’s first foray into the offices of the Bureau had been something of a letdown. He had not really known what to expect at first—since becoming embroiled in the adventures of Professor Stone and his cohorts he’d seen so many wild and unbelievable things and wouldn’t have been surprised in the least had the whole building been staffed by talking rabbits, or other such fanciful nonsense. He had at least anticipated some sort of grandeur, but was taken aback by the mundane nature of it all. Their offices were situated near Chancery Lane, accessed by a single, simple door into a wide building made of grey bricks with rows of oblong windows stretching across its four floors—well, those that you could see through the smog, anyhow. He was, quite literally, gasping for Dublin’s clean air, and still hadn’t quite got used to the grotesque figures that swished through the pollution in goggles and full respirator masks.

Inside the Bureau was no more inspiring—it was an office, nothing more, mostly staffed by women running from their dotage to the freshest flower of youth. Its corridors were labyrinthine and, frustratingly, un-numbered, so much so that even the longest-serving agents often needed to follow one of the girls to get them to where they needed to go.

As Tally followed his own guide through the maze, he noticed most of the doors to smaller rooms were closed. When the floors did open up—and it didn’t take long for Tally to deduce that the building must have been larger than it appeared from the outside—they revealed open spaces the size of school halls filled with rows and rows of partitioned booths. Women and girls, their hair bundled up into tight buns shot through with pencils, were busy clacking into typewriters and carefully transcribing copy from one paper to another. Others still pored over blueprints, or poked around at small brass machines with screwdrivers, fixing or improving them. He must have seen five or six of these bustling, esoteric hives of activity before, three flights of stairs and what felt like an eternity later, they reached a nondescript room with TOOLER printed at eye height on the door.

“The Big Room,” said Miss Baker, smiling and indicating the door. Tally couldn’t help but look at her. She was a handsome woman, perhaps in her late thirties, with a mess of red curls tied up to the back of her head. Her lips were as red as a Connacht rose, tinged with a smile, and her eyes were green but had the spark of fire about them. And there was something about the way she as dressed, too, that put a bit of a toot in Tally’s whistle. All that fancy finery and arses the size of jalopies, Jaysus. Now here was a woman, in a crisp white shirt with a frilled collar and a long navy dress with only the most tasteful of lines hemmed in thin black lace. Tally was surprised she was a Miss.

“Mister Cahalleret?” she said.

“Oh, aye. Yes. That’s me.”

“You were staring.”

“Oh, right. So I was. Well, I guess I’ll be getting no points for that.”

“I’ll start you a tab,” she said. Hang on, did she just give us the wink? “He’s expecting you, no need to knock.” She moved off, shuffling her hips, and even though he was risking being late to see Mister Tooler, Tally thought it’d be the height of rudeness not to at least watch them go. Tally turned around, attempted to shake the impure thoughts that were now crowding his mind, and opened the door to the office of the Director of the Secret Service Bureau, one of the three most powerful men in Britain, if not the world.

He could see why they called it the Big Room. The wit of bored Bureau boys. It was tiny, around four metres by three, though the ceilings were uncommonly high. What little space remaining was taken up by Tooler’s desk, the kind of thing any mediocre bureaucrat would sit at in parochial underwriter and accountancy firms throughout the land; pitted wood, sticky drawers, green-shaded desk lamp and all. A few boxes filled with files littered the floor, some stacked against the walls—all of which were covered in the brown leather spines of books, most of them tatty to the point of decay. It had the aroma of a library but the smell was tenfold, and in order to procure himself more space than the chaos of the desk Tooler had set up several music stands around his chair, on which stood open tomes and sheaves from secret files.

He stood when Tally entered; fairly short, bald and unassuming, his neck wrapped in a scarlet scarf.

“You’re flushed, Mister Cahalleret. Thought you’d like Miss Baker, I picked her especially. The bored housewives of London need something to do, Mister Cahalleret, and why let their talents go to waste? We’ve found they’re often more discreet than the men, but why wouldn’t they be? They have to keep the secret from their husbands too, those that have them. I rather like the fact we’re giving them a little more independence from that rather measly spouse’s wage, eh? Girls must have their fun.”

“That’s very…progressive.”

“Isn’t it just. I’m happy to say that Her Majesty’s Navy has decided to follow our lead, albeit on a trial basis. Should mix things up a bit on those ships of theirs, eh? Still, your background hardly precludes working women now, does it, Mister Cahalleret?”

He was being warned. Gently, he knew, but he was definitely being warned. Tooler seemed pleased that he had picked up on the undertone so quickly, and smiled. “Please, Tally,” he said. “Take a seat.” He sat back at the same time as Tally and pulled a pair of half moon spectacles from his breast pocket, balancing them on his nose. “In all things, Mister Cahalleret, we like to think ahead of the curve here at the Bureau. In time, you’ll come to learn of some of our plans.” He steepled his fingers. “The injury done to your arm, however, has regretfully kept you out of what we might term more ‘active’ service. Apologies for the pen-pushing, but you know how it is. There is, however, the small matter of a delivery that I believe you’d be more than happy to assist with.”

Tooler began to root around in the mess of ink pots, dossiers and crumpled blotting paper that lay in jumbled strata on his desk. Somewhere in the pile his fingers came across a small bundle, wrapped in calico fabric and tied up with twine. He pulled it out and set it down so the bow was facing him, before tugging at the end of the string. As the hoops disappeared the fabric uncurled and there, uncovered and glinting malevolently, was a chunk of deadly green crystal.

“I hardly have to tell you what this is. Or do I, Mister Cahalleret?”

There was an edge to the question which Tally didn’t need to strain to hear. Not only did he know what the ethereal mineral was, he knew where it had come from—the caverns under Phoenix Park. He and Nathaniel had brought it back themselves. The sample had mysteriously vanished during a meeting at the Admiralty at which Tooler was present. Yer man must be pretty nifty with his fingers, thought Tally, as even an expert pickpocket such as he hadn’t noticed the Bureau chief spirit it away. Tooler, it seemed, had hidden depths, but Tally was hardly surprised—the Bureau employed all sorts, and its chain of command was worryingly opaque.

“You do not, sir.”

“And I daresay I do not have to warn you of the calamities which doubtless would befall the innocent, should it fall into the wrong hands?”

“You do not, sir.”

“Excellent. I am, of course, aware of the fact you have seen the destructive capabilities of this… What was it poor Doctor Fontaine said it was called during his incarceration? Aleksandrite, that’s it. Dreadful name, simply dreadful. But I suppose it must suffice until something better comes along. Still, knowing its power I imagine you’ll be glad to hear that we are now sending it to Professor Stone, whose expertise and keen mind will, I’m sure you’ll agree, ensure its study is conducted in the most ethically conscientious way. And you, Mister Cahalleret, are to deliver it. But then, I assume you’d already guessed that.” Tooler beamed at him, his mouth broad and thin. “Tell Professor Stone it comes with my compliments.”

It wasn’t just the reappearance of the aleksandrite that had Tally feeling skittish. Some Bureau dogsbody had packed it into a wooden box which was strapped securely inside a small leather briefcase, its handle handcuffed to Tally’s good wrist. He clasped it tighter to his chest every time the train carriage lurched, fearful that the next shock or jolt might set the blessed thing off. He’d been assured that in its current state it was harmless. He almost believed that, but he still didn’t want to be taking any unnecessary chances. He remembered the smoking, desolate crater that had been left in his home town of Dublin on the day he fled his mother country, and the thought made him idly wonder how the repairs were getting on. Suddenly, he was hit by the realisation that he may never see his native land again.

Yet he was more anxious to get to Nathaniel. Tooler had certainly been right about that—if Tally trusted anyone to make sure the best use came from this deadly stuff it was Professor Stone. The professor was ensconced in the secret laboratories that were housed deep in the heart of the Admiralty. Not that all that meant much to Tally—he’d never had much truck with all that science stuff. Truth be told he just couldn’t get his head around it, and though he didn’t like to admit it, a deeper part of himself often recoiled in a sort of superstitious dread at the more wondrous marvels of the age. Still, such instances were becoming markedly fewer thanks to Nathaniel’s influence.

Even though the suitcase that pulled down at his arm was also a weight on his mind, he didn’t let it show as he walked the length of Horse Guard’s Parade towards the grand gates that served as an entrance to the Admiralty. He was far too much of a professional for that, and walking in like he owned the place was one of the tricks of his old trade. The thought that this essentially criminal trait was now happily being utilised by the British Government was a source of endless amusement for him. This boy’s done good, he thought to himself—though he’d be the first to admit it was more by luck than judgement. He just thanked his lucky stars that Tooler had seen his potential.

The Bureau would have called ahead, though whether the message had reached Nathaniel was anyone’s guess. Only a few weeks ago Tally would have been fairly intimidated approaching the angular, beautiful architecture that sat across the open square. Now it just felt like par for the course. Yet it wasn’t just familiarity that bolstered his resolve—the knowledge that Nathaniel was inside, possibly waiting for Tally’s arrival while he tinkered with his test tubes and pipettes, also spurred a spring into his step. He’d be doing his job, sure, but the chance to catch up with the professor was one he relished.

Of course Nathaniel smiled. Why wouldn’t he smile? After all, it had been weeks since they’d last seen each other, and the kind of trials they’d faced together only heightened the appreciation of meeting face-to-face without their lives being in immediate peril. Tally was, as he had expected, expected and a smartly dressed orderly had politely asked him to follow. They had been walking for a good ten minutes, first through grand wooden corridors with richly-patterned maroon carpets and then through utilitarian, white-tiled ones. Shortly they had reached a heavy metal door. The orderly knocked and, presumably more interested in tinkering with some machine or poring over reams of notes, Nathaniel grunted some affirmation it that was safe to enter.

His face lit up when he saw Tally.

“Tally!” Nathaniel had, naturally enough, been engrossed in some unfathomable papers, but he immediately stood and extended a warm hand in greeting. Tally crossed and the two shook hands, before a moment of silence fell as the two old friends took each other in. “How’s the arm?”

“Ah, it’s grand. Well, it’s getting there at any rate. Sure you’re looking well, Professor.”

“You too, Tally. You too. Bureau treating you well?”

“Aye,” mused Tally, smirking. “I daren’t complain. And yerself?”

Nathaniel sighed and swept a disparaging arm at the papers that covered his workbench. Tally couldn’t help but notice that at least a third of the sheets were covered in impatient crossings-out and corrections. “I’ve been tasked with finalising and implementing the improvements to Sovereign’s drive systems, so we at least have a fighting chance of catching up with Imperator. It’s all a bit of a dead end. Rather frustrating, if I’m brutally honest, especially with Admiral Hamilton champing at the bit for results.”

“Well,” said Tally. “Perhaps I can help you out there, Nate.”

Tally looked around to where the orderly was standing, politely but obviously listening in. The Irishman took no small pleasure in the discomfort on the man’s face as he stared at him pointedly, and the orderly blushed and made his way back outside with a classic look of English contrition. When the door clicked shut Tally turned back to Nathaniel.

“If only I were here on a purely social call,” he said, not without regret. “But I’m playing errand boy again, and I don’t think you’re wholly gonna like what I’ve brought with me in this here briefcase. I sure as hell don’t.”

Nathaniel furrowed his brow as Tally unlocked the handcuffs around his wrist and set the case down beside Nathaniel’s notes. He unclicked the clasps and opened the lid, carefully unstrapping the small wooden box and placing it reverently on the desk.

“G’wan,” said Tally. “Take a peek.”

Nathaniel carefully gripped the edge of the box’s lid with his fingertips and lifted it. “’Pon my soul!” he breathed. It was not an exclamation of shock or surprise, merely one of curiosity. But then, the professor was a smart one, and Tally felt sure he’d been expecting this moment for quite some time.

“Obviously came from the same chunk we spirited out from the auld country.”

“Without doubt,” said Nathaniel, his face lit slightly with the glow of the green crystal. “Only it’s, what, I’d guess perhaps a third of what we brought back?”

“Along those lines, aye. Which does make me kinda chary about what’s happening to the rest of it.”

“Indeed. So it must’ve been Tooler…”

“…Who pocketed it the last time we were together inside the Admiralty. I really should have noticed. Guess I was a bit distracted by the chandeliers.”

“Don’t berate yourself too harshly, Tally. At least it wasn’t Chillingham. The Lord above alone knows what disasters he’d propagate if he’d have got his hands on it.”

“Well, see, there’s the thing. You better than anyone knows what this stuff is capable of, Nate. I just want to make sure that you’ll only be using it for the right reasons.”

Nathaniel didn’t answer straight away. Instead, he turned slowly to Tally and looked the Irishman dead in the eye, scrutinising his face for any reaction when he asked, “And what, Tally, if I did not?”

Tally felt his stomach lurch. Was this some sort of test? It was precisely the kind of thinking he had never expected of the professor, and he was momentarily at a loss for what to say. “Well, I… I don’t, that is…”

But Nathaniel smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Tally. This mineral is the missing piece of my research into the improvements on Sovereign. The Russians managed to utilise it to empower Imperator’s engines, and it is for that sole reason I too wish to employ it. Now, do you have time for some tea?”

Tally felt relieved, but not wholly satisfied with the response. For the first time since making his acquaintance, he wondered to himself if Professor Nathaniel Stone was everything he believed him to be.

2.

ANNABELLE BEDFORD SAT ON the floor of her tepee with a small leather mat stretched between her legs. Her prosthetic leg, while arguably the most advanced example on the entire planet, still didn’t deal too well with her attempts at sitting cross-legged. Bending the knee joint like that seemed to cause it to jam up, and on more than one occasion she had had to resort to calling George in order to help her bend the thing back straight again—an occurrence that often descended into outright hilarity as the two lovers laughed and wrestled around with the wretched thing. She wouldn’t be surprised if it became gunked up with all this fine desert dust.

But all in all, a nice, sturdy, high-backed chair was about the only thing wanting in Annabelle’s current life. On the mat between her knees lay the carcasses of three skinned rabbits, their pelts sitting in a neat pile to one side. Using a large, sharp knife she was jointing the meat and gently placing the pieces in a large bowl of brine on her right. George had nipped out to procure some more salt and a few carefully-chosen spices from one of the local squaws, and even at this basic stage it looked to be the beginnings of a particularly fine stew. She had worried at first that this lifestyle would have alienated George, that he would soon be missing the home comforts and cosy delights of London or, worse still, the cramped and uncomfortable realities of life aboard ship. She had been delighted, in fact, by how quickly and eagerly George had adapted to this humble lifestyle. It seemed to bring out the hidden frontiersman in him, which Annabelle couldn’t help but find rather sweet—especially when he got things wrong, much to the amusement of the tribe and their children. But then, there had always been something of the Indian about him. It was one of the many qualities that had drawn her towards him in the first place.

She had never imagined she would be back here so soon. It had been just over a month since she had sailed away again, leaving behind the daughter whose existence she had almost stricken from her memory. It was not that she was ashamed of her daughter—quite the opposite, in fact. Now she had come to know Kai better, she had grown to love her. Now eight years old, the girl was spirited, curious and stubborn, and if anything Annabelle was getting rather sick of George pointing out how much of a “chip off the old block” the young girl was—even to the extent of the way they both wrinkled their nose up when annoyed or distracted.

No. Annabelle had far better reasons to suppress the memory of her only child.

They had been reunited when, shortly after their marriage, George and Annabelle had been tasked by the Admiralty (under the auspices of the shadowy Bureau) with investigating the mysterious green mineral that had been secretly protected by the tribe for aeons past. Of course, merely to ask the newlyweds for their assistance would have been far too egregious a move for the Bureau’s cloak-and-dagger pretensions, and they were sent off under the delusion of a free honeymoon, paid for by the crown. Naturally, any thoughts of relaxation and nights of passion were shattered fairly early on—they hadn’t even reached their intended destination before the train on which they were travelling was attacked by bandits.

Soon, they were embroiled in a dangerous adventure; one which they later discovered had been the brainchild of her uncle, Cyrus Grant. Grant had finally let the madness that had stalked him for years to overtake him, and he and his considerable genius had defected to the side of the Russians. They had had to leave Arizona at a moment’s notice in order to give chase to the Russian Imperial Dreadnought Imperator, and Annabelle was torn at once more having to abandon the child she was only just starting to know. The revelation of her uncle’s betrayal and the inhuman experiences many of her friends had been forced to endure for the sake of his insane plots had left her, and many of those closest to her, emotionally and physically drained—not to mention the evidence that seemed to suggest Captain Jacob Folkard, whom she had always looked up to and was an almost-surrogate father to George, had also abandoned them for the Russian cause. She simply did not know what to believe any more.

Eventually Imperator, thanks to the mechanical machinations installed by Uncle Cyrus, had managed to evade Sovereign and penetrate the asteroid belt. It was a crushing blow. After that, their band of adventurers had dissipated across England to lick their wounds and mull on their defeats. Dear Nathaniel was once more engaged in improving Sovereign, George had been tied up with reams of Admiralty business and poor Arnaud was convalescing after having his mind and body ravaged by a savage alien drug. She had been mostly left to fend for herself, and it didn’t take long before her restless, questing spirit had got the better of her and she was bored silly.

It had, in fact, been George who suggested he take a bit of “shore leave” and that they attempt their honeymoon properly. He had suggested the Galapagos Islands, a week in Australia, even a trip to one of the finer Martian cities—for Annabelle, though, there was only one place she wanted to go. He’d seemed disappointed when she first suggested Arizona, but when he came to understand that this was truly what her heart desired he was happy to acquiesce. She longed to see Kai again, to strengthen the burgeoning bond between them and once more revel in the gentle and illustrious culture of the apaches.

These were not the only reasons she returned; still the spirit of adventure and moral fortitude flowed within her, and if she could help her tribe find retribution for the crimes that had been committed against their ancestry, she would. So far, however, investigations into the gang of bandits that had desecrated their sacred cave had proved fruitless.

The flap of the tent whipped open quickly and George poked his head in.

“Look lively, darling,” he said. “We have visitors.”

“Did you get the herbs?” she enquired.

“The stew will have to wait,” he said entering and, ever the gentleman, offered his hand to help Annabelle up. “You know what these Agency boys are like.”

Annabelle looked up at him. “Agency?” she asked, before swearing in a most unladylike manner.

3.

THIS NEW MAN FROM Europe was an idiot.

Goyahkla, as chief of the Chiricahua Apache, prided himself on his ability to judge people not on the colour of their skin, but by the mettle of their minds, body and, above all, their spirit. While this man of Spain—his face coloured by the sun and streaks of dirt to a hue not dissimilar to Goyahkla’s own—looked far more similar to himself than his beloved Yohana or the venerable George Bedford, the two with the pale skin had far more of all three qualities than this childish simpleton.

Still, Goyahkla could not deny that the man wasn’t lacking in spirit. On the contrary, Goyahkla was now finding himself wishing that the energy of this short, chubby man would somehow abate. His glee when they first entered the sacred cave was the tempestuous joy of an overexcited boy or an oblivious coyote pup—he practically squealed in delight when Gopan had first revealed the cave with a long sweep of the blazing torch that he held in his hand.

The space was large enough to stand in, a relief from the cramp of the tunnels. Straight, unnaturally smooth walls stretched up a cupula roof, and onto those walls was daubed a palimpsest of ancient images, dark brooding images and symbols criss-crossing and painted over with thick paints or blood. Animal bones dangled from bits of twine, clanking together even though no breeze came this deep down. In the centre of the cave was a green stump of crystal that shimmered in the torchlight and sent the light back around the room. Behind it, and opposite the entrance at which they stood, a skeleton sat on an ornate throne of bones—a skeleton whose head and stocky, angular limbs belied the fact that it was not of this Earth.

It was only with great restraint that Doctor Orlondo Quintana was stopped from handling the relics on the walls and the skeleton directly. Bedford had introduced the man back at the reservation, and this was the first time Goyahkla had found the need to address him by name.

“No, Orlondo Quintana. The relics here must remain untouched. Those who we seek came here and desecrated this tomb of the ancients; they raped and destroyed and tore the heart from the holiness that sprang up here, the tree of the Old Gods, their gift. With that came a great sadness, and darkness. A punishment. We must not disturb things further.”

Quintana looked pained. “But Señor Geronimo, please? You see…you see the skull here?” He picked his way over to the skeleton and framed its cranium in his hands, still not daring to touch it. “There’s a thing, a new thing, here.” In the air he traced a line down the side of the skull, from the temple to the top of the cranium. “Between the frontal and the parietal lobe, it’s almost like… Sí, sí! Unlike anything I’ve seen before. Incredible! I must know its age, take samples, make tests!”

Gopan strode forward purposefully to restrain the excitable palaeontologist before he blasphemed. It didn’t stop his gabbling.

“There’s a fissure there, almost like a new lobe. But this I think is older—” He stopped for a moment, put his hands on his hips and gazed around like a tourist at the witchcraft composition of the walls and ceiling. “Sí, perhaps much so. But then…” He scratched at his wealth of stubble. “Convergent degeneration? Devolution? No, no.”

He dived into a rucksack to bring out a small leather tome and a notebook, scribbling on one and occasionally consulting the other, all the time pacing in a small circle. Gopan sidled up to Goyahkla in the gloom of the torchlight.

“I don’t understand,” said Gopan. “Why should we allow this fool into the cave? He babbles like a hungry squaw.”

“Yohana. She and George know him; they say he is a good man. Perhaps even the trail of a fool can lead to the right path, Gopan. Remember that. He may seem to have the mind of a child, but to assume that is all he possesses is a mistake. He may well find something that will lead us to the men who have wronged us, and the tribe can return to a way of peace.”

When he had finished making his notes and scratching his head, Quintana began to unpack a series of strange boxes and bundled sticks from the backpack he had diligently—if not uncomplainingly—dragged with him down the tunnels to the cave’s dark depths. Goyahkla vaguely recognised the makings of a wet plate camera, and his suspicions were confirmed when Quintana brought out the apparatus for a flash-lamp and a large jar of powder. He turned and grinned encouragingly at Goyahkla.

“It is permissible? I make daguerreotypes? The notes, I can only make so many before sunset.”

Goyahkla looked down his nose at the little man’s fixed grin, eagerly awaiting the response. After a moment the grin waned and fell away, and Quintana, sensing it was time to employ some tact, crossed respectfully across to address him.

“Señor Goyahkla, you must understand… I am not here to disturb your sacred space, or meddle with your histories and past. I am here simply to uncover, to discover, to yes, yes! To understand all I can about how the… How you say?” He indicated the skeleton without looking at it, frustrated by his own inability to make himself clear. “The skeleton, you call it…?”

“Shaltak,” murmured Goyahkla. “We called them the Shaltak.”

“Sí, sí. The Shaltak. In my research we call them Drobates, entender? They come from beyond the Earth; I have found evidence of them throughout the inner planets, unearthed their cultures, their ancient ways. It is fascinating, no? But here…here is the first time I have found them on our own planet. A major discovery; very important. Nothing will be disturbed, and these pictures you let me take will mean I do not need to return. That your cave and the spirits you believe rest here will be left in peace.”

Goyahkla waited for a moment before he nodded assent, making only the tiniest movement to do so.

“Gracias, Señor Geronimo. Thank you.”

Gopan just about managed to keep his tongue and his temper in check. Soundlessly and without movement, Goyahkla watched with distaste as the Spaniard set about fussing over and assembling his photographic equipment, clattering and rattling bits together all the while. He recalled a time, not that long ago, when no such activity would have been allowed. They had even taken the precaution of blindfolding the little man for much of the ride here. Once, the Crystal God Tree had blossomed to its fullest in this very cavern, untouched and revered by his people for centuries. Only the wisest and most trusted elders of the tribes knew of its existence, let alone were allowed to visit. But those days were buried now, deep under the Arizona sands. The cave had been desecrated; the green gift of the Shaltak that had been left here so that his people should protect it had been cut down, stripped and sent to other lands so that its mystical properties could be used in the plots of evil men.

Returning to the cave brought all these mournful and guilt-ridden thoughts back to Goyahkla. He had to bear his failure, and as such felt impelled to also bear this prattling man’s presence in this lost, ravaged place. Even if he had found the will to drive off this man, he doubted he could have mustered the strength to follow through with it. Of late he began to feel a great tiredness overtaking his body and mind; he felt that it would not be long now before his ancestors called him to account.

As Goyahkla mulled and Gopan looked on with ill-concealed mistrust, the powder flashed in the pan with a great whoomph and the whole of the cavern was momentarily illuminated in a great white blast of light. The pall of smoke rose up to ceiling, tingeing the air with an unholy chemical smell.

4.

THE DAY WAS COOL by Arizona standards, and a low wind whipped the dust on the plains into curlicues that looked like burnt orange waves. The sun was not that strong and the sky pallid, but nevertheless the two black-suited figures stood out sharply against the dull colour of the desert landscape.

“Bert!” squealed Annabelle.

One of the figures turned sharply, and even from this distance she could see his face break into a broad grin. With George pacing close to her heels, she dashed across to where the agent stood beside his compatriot. Tall, thin, middle-aged and with a rampant widow’s peak, Agent Bertrand Boon did not stop smiling until Annabelle had reached him and, much to his surprise, flung her arms around his neck.

“Mrs Bedford,” stammered Bert, blushing as red as the soil around him. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“Bert,” said Annabelle, releasing him and starting up into his warm, friendly face. “After all the dangers we have faced together, I think you have earned the right to call me Annabelle.”

“Agent Boon,” snapped the other man. “If we could maintain decorum.”

She had only just noticed that she recognised the other man, too. Younger than Bert, shorter and slightly stockier, he wore a long, tailored black greatcoat over his standard issue Bureau suit and a pair of small, darkened glasses with oblong frames. This was Mister Enderby, a high-ranking Bureau operative who had accompanied Folkard on their mission to uncover the dark secrets of Imperator. It was Enderby who had, so he maintained, witnessed Folkard’s betrayal first-hand, having seen him laughing and joking with the Russian crew after the agent’s ignominious capture aboard the ship.

It wasn’t long before George caught up with them.

“Quintana,” stated Enderby, without preamble. “We’re here for Quintana.”

“Afraid you’ve missed him, old chap,” said George, cutting through Enderby’s brusqueness as he casually put his hands in his pockets. “He and Geronimo went off this morning. Doubt they’ll be back much more before tomorrow afternoon.”

“Not good enough,” snapped Enderby. “We need him back in London. Forthwith. Get a band together, Bedford. We’ll ride immediately to go and fetch him.”

“Now steady on,” said George, his shackles rising.

“Steady on nothing, Commander Bedford!” snapped Enderby. “I am here in the service of Her Majesty, to whom you have pledged your allegiance by way of your naval service. You will do what is required of you, when it is required. Do I make myself clear?”

“Look here,” said George. “That’s all well and good, but it’s simply not possible. I wouldn’t know the way to their location if I tried.”

“Well one of these savages must know where this damn cave is. Get them to take me.”

Annabelle stepped up to Enderby, her face barely concealing the rage she felt. “Listen here,” she said, slowly and angrily. “My husband may be beholden to Queen and Country, but I have no such allegiances. Your government made sure of that. It therefore falls to me to tell you, Mister Enderby, that I will not stand idly by while you insult these people and stomp around demanding your every whim be met. You’d do well to remember that you’re no longer on sovereign ground and, seeing as Doctor Quintana is a Spanish national, you have no jurisdiction with regards to whisking him off without a by-your-leave. And last but not least, the cave is a sacred place for the apaches. You don’t just waltz in and drag people from there by the collar.”

“There are bigger things at stake here than the pride and superstitions of a ragtag band of hunter-gatherers. You, Mrs Bedford, would do well to remember that. Mister Boon?”

Bert, clearly somewhat abashed by Enderby’s behaviour, sidled up beside him. “Sir?”

“Do you know where this cave is?”

Bert looked to Annabelle and back to Enderby. “Afraid not, sir. Roughly due east in as much as I remember, but beyond that the journey there is all a bit of a blur. What with the heat, sir.”

“Heat? I thought you were in Burma.”

“Only for the holidays, sir.”

“This won’t do,” said Enderby. “This simply will not do at all. Very well. I suppose, given the circumstances, Mister Boon and I shall camp here for the evening and await Quintana’s return in the morning. Commander Bedford, be aware of the fact that your recalcitrance in this matter has been duly noted, and Admiral Hamilton will be informed of it upon my return to London. Mister Boon, unpack our things from the horses.”

5.

ANNABELLE STORMED BACK INTO the tepee, a maelstrom of anger and frustration, with George cautiously following her.

“What is the problem with that wretched man?” she seethed as she sat herself heavily down on a buffalo skin. “The arrogance of him!”

“He’s only doing what he thinks is right,” said George, as he lowered himself beside her and put an arm around her shoulder.

“I’m well aware of that, George, but he has no right!”

“In all honesty, darling, I think it has less to do with his own conceitedness and more that his meeting us has brought back some rather unpleasant memories for him.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, in as much as I understand it he still feels very bitter about Folkard. The scuttlebutt I managed to pick up before we left seems to indicate his testimony regarding Folkard’s apparent betrayal wasn’t seen as particularly convincing by the higher-ups. If anything, it seems he was laughed out of the inquiry. Didn’t think much of myself and Professor Stone insisting on upholding the captain’s good name and character, either. Anyway, the way they see it is there’s no point in condemning Folkard without giving him the chance to explain himself. What would they gain? It’ll hardly be good for morale if the public discovers the details regarding his absence, and for all we know he’s still aboard Imperator, working solidly for our cause.”

“Well the denting of his ego is no excuse to be such a blowhard.”

“I quite agree. Listen…” He nudged up slightly closer to Annabelle, and she could tell he was treading lightly. He looked down like a recalcitrant schoolboy—a tell of his she knew rather well. He would never look her in the eye when he was about to say something that might irritate or upset her. “Do you not think he was rather too keen to discover the location of the cave?”

“Far too keen. You don’t think…?”

“I’m afraid I do. The aleksandrite. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the Bureau is keen to get their hands on any of the mineral that might remain. I daresay they’re plundering the remains from Calcutta, and trying to find a way to scavenge the wreckage that is Phoenix Park Zoo. And now they’re here.”

“Never!” yelled Annabelle. “Why, that would make them no better than the criminals who stole it in the first place! Typical John Bull behaviour! Striding across the globe, contemptuous of anyone who gets in the way of what they immediately want. I won’t let it happen, George. Not while I live and breathe.”

“Of course, Annabelle. I understand that, I really do. But…”

She recoiled from him, unhooking herself from his arm so it fell limply into his lap. The stare she gave him made George’s face pale. “But what, George?”

“Well, given the current circumstances would you rather not have the empire utilising what aleksandrite remains? We both saw what the Russians did with it, and when push comes to shove—which it invariably will, going by the Russian’s behaviour thus far—would it not be better if its power was in our hands?”

“I can’t believe you’re saying this, George. These are my people, I grew up here. It’s my history and culture as much as theirs; I won’t have it pillaged wholesale on account of some morbid realpolitik. How would you like it if the apaches smashed up St Paul’s Cathedral because they needed some rubble to throw at a rival tribe?”

“I’m just thinking of the bigger picture, darling.”

“Well don’t. And if you continue to do so you may not be calling me ‘darling’ much longer.”

“Knock knock.”

The two of them looked up. The call had come from outside the tent, and it was a voice they both recognised. Glad to be off the hook—at least momentarily—George stood. “Come in,” he called.

Bert poked his head through the flap at the front of the tepee. “Never sure of the etiquette with these things,” he said cheerily. “Not like you can install a knocker, eh?”

Annabelle rose to greet him. “Come in, Bert,” she sighed. “We were just discussing supper.”

“Right-o,” said the agent. “Look,” he continued, looking contrite, “I just wanted to apologise for Enderby’s abominable behaviour. Things haven’t been too easy for him at the Bureau of late. He’s a good lad when all’s said and done. Just gets a bit…prickly every now and again.”

“I think I’d use a stronger word than ‘prickly’, Bert.”

“Not my place to say, Ma’am.” But he was grinning as he said it. “And I just wanted to reassure you, I know you must be worried about them finding the cave and mining it all over again. Enderby thinks that if he finds enough of that aleksandrite stuff and brings it back it might get him back into the gaffer’s good graces. Pretty sure that’s why he insisted on coming along—it was only meant to be me at first, see, what with me having a bit of experience in the area. And it’s that experience, when I got to know the people of the tribe and their history, that means I won’t be giving his nibs any hints on where he can find the cave. Just so you know.”

“Thank you, Bert,” said Annabelle softly. “That means a lot.”

“Just doing my bit,” he replied, grinning once more. “Oh, and while I’m here…” At first Annabelle had thought he was standing in such a manner to be polite, but then from behind his back he brought out a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string. “I know the first go-around wasn’t much of a honeymoon so I’m hoping you have a better time of it now. Just thought I’d help the two of you celebrate it properly.”

“Oh, Bert!” said Annabelle softly, her face flushing. “That’s so thoughtful, you really shouldn’t have!” She took the parcel from his hands and kissed him on the cheek. George crowded in as Annabelle unwrapped the gift, Bert standing to one side looking pleased as punch with his hands clasped behind his back. Inside the wrapping was a dark blue box made of thick cardboard. Annabelle lifted the lid; inside she discovered two large elegantly cut crystal decanters. “They’re beautiful.”

“Bert, you really shouldn’t have,” said George, as he enthusiastically shook the agent’s hand.

“In all honesty I’m doubly glad I bought them now. At least when you look at these you’ll hopefully remember that not all of the Bureau boys are as uptight as old Enderby.”

6.

IN SPITE OF BERT’S thoughtful gift, a tangible coolness remained between George and Annabelle. After the agent had left the previous topic of conversation was not returned to, yet it still hung heavy in the air. Without speaking Annabelle had returned to jointing her rabbits; George pottered around for a few minutes before leaving silently to resume his search for the salt and the spices Annabelle had asked for. When he came back several minutes later, Kai was by his side.

“And where have you been all morning, young lady?”

“Nenko said he found a rattlesnake nest and he killed them all with his bare hands. I didn’t believe him but he said he wasn’t lying so I told him to take me to where he’d done it. But he was telling a lie, Shi Ma. There wasn’t a rattlesnake nest at all.”

“How many times have I told you, Kai?” chided Annabelle. “You mustn’t go poking around in rattlesnake nests. You’ll get yourself killed.”

“Nu-uh, Mama. Nenko might be a big fat liar but I could kill all the rattlesnakes myself, I’m sure I could. There was the time I shot that vulture, remember, Mama? If I can do that I can kill a nest of rattlesnakes easy.”

“They are nowhere near the same thing.”

“Yes, Mama. Sorry, Mama.”

Like her mother before her, Kai was readily adaptable to any situation, and had taken Annabelle’s reappearance in her life in her stride. For most of her young life she had been brought up by Goyahkla, with the two often venturing into the wilderness together for days on end. Recently, however, Goyahkla’s increasing age had left him tetchy and somewhat uncommunicative—Kai was glad to have adults around that would pay her attention again. The bond that had formed between mother and daughter had done so quickly and naturally. The two of them were alike in so many ways it seemed obvious they would grow close with very little difficulty. Kai, however, was far more guarded around her adoptive father.

Annabelle had tried, with little success, to goad the young girl into spending more time with George, who had tried his level best to befriend his new daughter—albeit with little success. So it was not only the earlier argument that prompted Annabelle to suggest the two of them should go and occupy themselves elsewhere, while she got on with the task of preparing a rabbit stew that would await them upon their return. George, uncomplainingly, did as he was bidden.

7.

THEY WALKED TOGETHER IN silence for a long time. Bedford had been tempted to ask Bert if he would care to accompany them, but on reflection decided that it was probably best for Kai and he to enjoy a little time together, just the two of them and away from the domestic hustle and bustle of the camp. A shame, for he had come to rather enjoy Bert’s company.

As they had walked the sky had continued to darken, and a chill wind had started up from the plains of the west. It wouldn’t do at all to bring Kai back to Annabelle suffering from a chill, so Bedford had removed his hat and offered to it to Kai, but she had refused it with a gentle shake of her head. He did not press the matter. Like her mother, she would not be pressed into actions with which she was not wholly comfortable. It was one of the reasons he had decided not to instigate any conversation with the girl—if she had something to say, she would say it, and it was no use him trying to make idle small talk on topics in which she held little interest. He hoped, in time, that they would find common ground, but right now he was content to enjoy the physical act of walking in such open and seemingly endless country, enjoying the stark beauty of the wide, boundless landscape around them, even though it was one made sullen by the darkening sky.

“Are you and shi ma angry with each other?” said Kai suddenly.

Bedford was rather taken aback. You really couldn’t get anything past this girl, could you? “We’re not angry, Kai. We’re just disagreed on something. It’s nothing to worry about, I assure you. Your mama and I merely think differently about some things. It’s not a bad thing. Quite the opposite, in fact. The world would be a very boring place if we all thought the same.”

“What did you disagree about?”

“The future, Kai. We disagreed about the future.”

“Did it have something to do with the bandits?”

Kai, Bedford had noticed, had what he considered to be a somewhat unhealthy obsession with the gang of bandits that had been employed to desecrate the apache’s sacred cave—the existence of which, strictly speaking, she should not have known about, though Bedford suspected Geronimo trusted Kai with such information more than he did other elders of the tribe. In a rash yet undeniably impressive display of wanton bloody-mindedness, Kai had tracked Bedford, Annabelle and a host of others to the cave the last time they had been in Arizona. She had arrived during a heated battle with the bandits and proved herself a highly capable warrior when the need arose, but it was not just the taste for fighting and a need to avenge her ancestor’s culture that drove her steely compulsion to find those who had wronged her. Wapi, a young brave who had been a brother to her, had been shot and killed as he protected her from harm. Though the girl displayed little emotion at the best of times, it was no great leap of the imagination to presume that vengeance ranked highly on her list of priorities.

“We’ll find the bandits, Kai. Don’t you worry. And when we do, you must understand that they must be tried by the law of the land. And not who might be quicker with the blade or a bullet.”

“I don’t have to listen to you,” she said simply, starting to skip ahead of him. “These are my lands.”

“But you must understand, if we find them… Kai? Kai!”

Kai was blithely skipping ahead, kicking up patches of brick-red, cooling sands and gaining speed as the desert floor opened up before her. Bedford called again, and twice more, louder, but still the girl ignored him and sped on towards the horizon. Bedford stopped dead, baffled and frustrated. He’d never had much luck with children, even his own nephews and nieces. And to think he was godfather to four of them.

Thinking quickly, he reached down to his waist and popped the button on his holster. He flicked out the Remington 1881, took his stance as he raised it above his head, and fired a single shot into the air. Kai whipped around to face him instantly, crouching, knife poised and breathing hard through her nostrils. She relaxed slightly when she had scanned the rocky outcrops behind him for silhouettes and shadows and had seen none, but when she started to pace towards him, back hunched, she still had the look of the huntress in her eyes.

“Kai,” said Bedford, calmly but forcefully. “Come here.” He waved her towards him. “Look, I know what you’re feeling. I’ve been there, too. And I know these are your lands but I…feel comfortable here,” he concluded lamely. It was not what he wanted to say, but revealing his past to an eight-year-old was hardly appropriate. Not before he told Annabelle. And he would…one day. “I feel at home here. So I know what it means when you feel the need to protect your homeland. Lord alone knows I’ve done it enough times myself. But I also know what it’s like to be driven by a hate of those who wronged you. And in the end there really are better ways. You have to trust me on that. But…” He extended the handle of the pistol to Kai. “…That does not mean that when the time for battle comes, you shouldn’t know your way around a pistol. But you must promise me to always be careful, and never shoot first unless you or those you care about are in terrible danger. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, George…Shitaa.”

She had called him father. He nodded at her and smiled.

“Right, now,” he went on. “You must be very careful. Keep your finger off the trigger at all times. Now this section here is the cylinder, where the bullets are kept, see?”

He clicked the chamber open so she could see, her eyes enraptured.

8.

HE HAD TAUGHT HER the basics and even let her fire a single shot, but only after he’d rigorously been through all the parts of the weapon and the best stance to take. It grew cold very quickly, and on the way back Kai was grateful when Bedford offered her his hat again, feeling he didn’t need it so much thanks to warming thoughts of hot rabbit stew beside the fire.

As they came into view of the camp a large fire was burning at its centre—a not wholly unusual occurrence or custom, but it did seem brighter than usual. As they closed the distance figures began to resolve more clearly; there was Quintana, gesturing wildly at Enderby, while Geronimo sat hunched, with his eyes closed and his spirit broken, on an old tea crate outside the edge of the fire’s glow.

Annabelle dashed into view and by some greater link that bonded them she looked in his direction instantly. She began to jog towards to him, and he and Kai mirrored the movement.

“George!” she breathed. “You’ve been gone forever! Where have you been?”

“We went into the desert, Mama, but we’re here now,” said Kai.

“What’s wrong?”

“Goyahkla and Quintana, they…they came back early. Quintana could see he was getting edgy so he decided to take few plates instead, and that didn’t go down like cherry pie either. On the way back, George, they found something. A body, or parts of one. In a big brass cage. The bandits, George… It looks like they’ve built another Potsdam.”