I set to work on the dishes, putting a kettle on the stove to boil. Then Alex strode in, a broad smile on his bearded face. Freshly showered and smelling of Duc du Lac cologne, he kissed me on the cheek and led me away from the sink.
‘I’m washing up,’ I protested.
‘Leave it. Bevan’s having trouble with the generator, and the hot water’s down again.’
‘I’m boiling a kettle.’
‘Kate,’ he said with firm patience, ‘sit down.’ He gently pressed me into a chair. ‘I want to talk to you.’
He straddled another chair gaucho-fashion.
‘I overslept,’ I said.
‘It’s allowed once in a while. After all, you are the King’s daughter.’
‘You’re very cheerful this morning.’
He helped himself to a mouthful of my coffee. ‘I’ve good reason to be.’
He was dressed in a chunky fawn sweater and dark brown cavalry twill trousers; he always managed to look well groomed, whatever the circumstances. Tall and strongly built, with his auburn hair grown long and his beard dense, he was like a lion of a man to me.
‘How’s your Russian?’ he asked.
‘My Russian?’
‘Nyet, Vladivostok, and all that.’
I eyed him. ‘Alex, what’s all this about?’
‘Your cousin’s husband’s sending a ship for us.’
He drained the last of my coffee, awaiting my reaction.
‘Is this a joke, Alex?’
‘No joke, Kate. I got the news only half an hour ago. It’ll be here some time tonight or early morning.’
I sat back in my chair to ease the ache in my belly. Alex had always enjoyed springing surprises, but this was not the usual sort.
‘They’re coming to pick us up?’
He nodded.
‘I didn’t even know we were in contact with Moscow.’
‘It was pure luck,’ he replied. ‘Six days ago I locked on to one of their spy planes doing an overfly. I broadcast an SOS. This morning I got confirmation that a ship’s coming for us.’
It was obvious he wasn’t teasing, yet it seemed too fortuitous to be true.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘What if it’s a set-up? A trap?’
He shook his head. ‘I signed the message Charlotte Brontë. The one that came back this morning was signed Anne.’
This, I had to admit, was a clever stroke. As children, Margaret, Victoria and I had played at being the Brontë sisters, Margaret being Anne, myself Charlotte and Victoria Emily. Alex was the only person I had ever told, and if the message had been relayed to Moscow, Margaret would have known it was genuine. That there had been a reply in kind settled matters.
‘Why didn’t you say anything until now?’
‘I wanted to be certain it was a Russian ship. I didn’t want to raise your hopes unnecessarily.’
He reached across and took my hand. I felt a certain excitement but also other, mixed emotions.
‘Just think of it,’ Alex said. ‘Escape at last. Freedom.’
‘Are they going to fly us straight to Moscow?’
‘I presume so. Somewhere within their borders at least. It’s what we’ve been waiting for.’
‘Have you told the others?’
‘Not yet. I’m going to announce it at lunch. Then I think we’re entitled to a little celebration.’
His optimism was infectious, and I couldn’t begrudge him the good news, even though leaving England would mean abandoning my father and Richard to their imprisonment. We really had no other option. Sooner or later, the Aztecs would push into Wales, and we would be captured if we remained.
Alex seemed to sense my thoughts. ‘There’s nothing more we can do here, Kate. We’ll be better placed to continue the fight in Russia.’
‘I know. It’s just not that simple for me.’
‘Of course it isn’t. I do understand, you know. But there’ll be plenty of other exiles there. Don’t forget that half the Royal Navy made it to Murmansk after the invasion.’
I decided to be positive. ‘It’ll be good to see Margaret again.’
He squeezed my hand. ‘There’s something else. Something it’s time I showed you.’
‘What?’
‘Not here. Upstairs.’
Despite the gravity of his manner, there was also a gleam in his eye. I knew full well what a visit to our bedroom would entail.
Late morning sunlight shone full through the window as we lay together.
‘So,’ I said at length, ‘what is it you wanted to show me?’
‘A small thing,’ he replied, ‘but mine own.’
Nimbly he leapt out of bed and went to the bottom drawer of his dresser, removing an attaché case. He had worked for the Ministry of Defence before the invasion, and I had always known that the case contained something important, without ever asking him what.
He opened it on the bed. It held several document wallets, but Alex removed a flat square object which I recognized as a computer disk. He held it out to me as if it were a sacred offering.
‘Just what I’ve always wanted,’ I said, with eager sarcasm. ‘What is it exactly?’
Alex sat back on the bed. ‘It’s the culmination of more than ten years’ work, Kate. It’s a piece of software, an advanced analytical intelligence programme with a random response capacity.’
I was illiterate as far as computers were concerned. ‘What does that mean in plain English? Can it fry an egg?’
‘It’s a kind of parasite,’ he told me. ‘Something that can insert itself into existing systems and extract information from them. But secretly, without being detected unless you’re really looking for it.’
Under the bedclothes, I drew my knees up to my chin. ‘So it’s important, is it?’
He knew I was teasing, and he gave me a suitably patronizing smile.
‘If we could get access to the enemy’s security networks, we’d be able to ransack their files, plant false information, do pretty well what we please. It could be devastating, Kate.’
‘Gosh.’
He snatched up a pillow and swiped me across the head.
‘Don’t mock. It’s even more impressive than you realize, and I’m sure the good Tsar and his government are going to be very interested in it. We’re not just taking ourselves to Russia, Kate, we’re taking something that’s going to be of vital importance in the battle against the Aztecs.’
Bevan was out on the front garden lawn, crouching over the generator. He had removed two of the fan-shaped solar concentrators and was working on the third with an adjustable wrench.
‘Bore da,’ I said, crouching beside him.
‘Blasted thing,’ he said without looking round. ‘Hold that for me, will you?’
He passed me a greasy bolt and washer, continuing to tinker for a moment, grunting under his breath.
‘What’s wrong with it?’ I asked.
‘We’ve been using it non-stop this last twelvemonth or more. Something’s got to give.’
I helped him lay the concentrator down on the grass. It was twice my height but quite lightweight, its matt-black panels iridescent in the sunlight. It was veined with slender support struts like a butterfly’s wing.
At the centre of the generator sat the sun-crystal, striated and multifaceted, the colour of zinc. Manufactured from reed-like coralline growths which the Aztecs farmed in their coastal waters, the crystals absorbed sunlight at high efficiencies. Bevan had jury-rigged the generator from the transporter’s drive-units, and it supplied all our heating and lighting.
Bevan unscrewed a conducting disc and began sanding it with a scrap of emery cloth. He was a pot-bellied man of about forty, lantern-jawed and balding, dark hair hanging lank behind his ears.