The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1) (2 page)

To Save the
World

A tall, good-looking man in his early thirties
strode briskly along Pall Mall, headed up St. James’s Street, pausing for a
moment to peer through the window of his favourite cigar shop, and bounded up
the steps of Grey’s, the most prestigious of all London’s private membership
clubs. Pushing his way through the swing doors, he observed the tranquil scene
inside with some amusement. Whatever upheavals and cataclysms had convulsed the
world in the last three hundred years had left this hushed and elite interior
undisturbed.

In the sitting area directly
ahead, a few men lounged in button-back maroon leather armchairs, reading
newspapers, chatting in subdued voices, or merely dozing. To the left, the
famous bar (where it was said MI5 and MI6 once recruited spies) was almost
empty. Not exactly what you would call a hive of activity, the young man
thought. Most people would find the atmosphere stuffy and, in truth, so did he,
but stuffy or not, Grey’s was London’s premier ‘establishment’ club, the one to
which everyone who was anyone belonged. The question was, did he?

General Sir Roger Harding,
KCVO, GBE, MC, DSO and bar, advanced towards him with outstretched hand.
‘Congratulations, Pendragon! The committee has approved your application.’

Yes! Elation powered through
Uther’s body. With difficulty he restrained himself from punching the air
triumphantly. Members of Greys did not punch air. ‘Fantastic! Thank you, sir.’

‘Don’t thank me. Having the Marquess of Truro
as your sponsor was the clincher.’

‘If only he were still around
to thank,’ said Uther sadly. Lord Godfrey Whittaker had died of a gunshot wound
to the head less than a month ago.

‘Suicide, wasn’t it?’ enquired the general.

‘Could have been an accident.
Coroner delivered an open verdict. But you know . . . ’ Uther lowered his voice
discreetly, ‘there were financial problems. I tried to help, but . . . ’ – a
shrug – ‘Godfrey was a proud man.’

‘How is his wife taking it?’

‘Devastated, naturally.’ Uther
looked appropriately solemn. ‘But Igraine’s a strong lady. And of course she
has the three girls.’

‘Quite so.’ A closer look at
Uther. ‘Ever been told you look like him?’

Uther nodded. ‘Many times.’

‘All very sad. Still, there we
are. Life goes on. Like you to meet a couple of friends of mine.’ The general
gestured towards the bar.

‘Delighted,’ said Uther.

It was not yet noon, and there
were only two other men in the bar. One was fiftyish, a wiry, compact man, with
a neat moustache and close cropped hair – a civil servant he guessed, or a
soldier in civvies? The other looked distinctly eccentric, not at all the sort
you would expect to meet in Grey’s. He was young, considerably younger than
Uther – in his mid-twenties, perhaps – with blond, shoulder-length hair. He
wore some kind of white smock, and over it one of those sloppy linen jackets
with no shape and no collar. The jacket was too short, and the smock reached
almost to his knees. Fish out of water. What was a weirdo like this doing here?

Drinks ordered, the general
made the introductions. ‘Colonel James Armstrong – Uther Pendragon.’ Just as he
thought. The man with the moustache was a soldier, his keen gaze and firm
handshake expressing his forthright personality. ‘James is Chief of the Joint
Forces Weapons and Communications Research and Development Unit in
Beaconsfield. Quite a mouthful, eh? Very hush-hush. A member of this club for
how long, James?’

‘Twenty years,’ said the
colonel, ‘and every one of them a joy and a privilege.’ He indicated the
weirdo. ‘My deputy, Merlin Thomas.’ Expecting Thomas’s handshake to be limp,
Uther was surprised to find his hand held in a strong and controlling grip. For
a moment he had the impression he was being detained and scrutinised. The eyes
that studied him were green, luminous and hypnotic.

‘We are trying to persuade
Merlin to become a member of Grey’s,’ the general remarked. As he spoke, the
weirdo blinked and released Uther’s hand. Persuade! Who could possibly need
persuading to become a member of Grey’s? Uther was puzzled and irritated.
Wasn’t there a ten year waiting list for God’s sake! In exceptional cases
someone was able to jump the queue, as Uther had done. But what was so
exceptional about Merlin Thomas? He looked as though he would be more at home
in a field, with a crook in his hand and a flock of sheep at his heels, than
here in the most distinguished club in London.

‘Merlin was the outstanding
Oxford man of his generation,’ said Colonel Armstrong, as if answering the
unspoken question. ‘A true genius.’

‘You exaggerate, James,’ said
Merlin Thomas, smiling. ‘Does he?’ said the general. ‘Three double firsts
before the age of twenty sounds like genius to me.’

‘He is also the outstanding
inventor of the age,’ said the colonel. ‘The country is indebted to him. We are
very fortunate to have him at Beaconsfield.’

Uther was beginning to be
irritated by the praise they were lavishing on the weirdo. Were they trying to
put him in his place? Did they secretly resent the upstart South London boy
invading these hallowed halls? Or were they simply envious of his wealth?

‘Are you involved in the space race?’ he asked,
trying to make intelligent conversation, ‘or are weapons your speciality?’

‘Forgive me, but I’m not
allowed to answer that,’ said Merlin.

‘Official Secrets’ Act,’ the colonel muttered.

After an awkward pause, the
general abruptly changed the subject. ‘Pendragon’s a property developer.’

‘What company is that?’ asked the colonel.

‘It’s called Pendragon,’ said
Uther. ‘My own outfit. You wouldn’t have heard of it.’

Merlin intoned, as if reciting
from an invisible text: ‘Pendragon Property Development and Management. West
End of London, 96-101, King George Street. Five floors. Private company
registered in 1982 with an initial capital of two thousand pounds, now believed
worth in the region of two hundred million. Major commercial developments in
the City of London, the Docklands, Chelsea Harbour, Knightsbridge, Wimbledon,
Manchester, Liverpool and Glasgow. Also fifteen apartment blocks.’

Uther laughed. ‘Have you been swatting up on
me?’

‘Not really,’ said Merlin. ‘I
expect I read about you somewhere or other. When I have nothing better to do, I
soak up information on the Internet, or I memorise the Yellow Pages, trade
gazettes, company reports, phone directories, that sort of thing.’

Uther wasn’t sure if his leg
was being pulled. ‘You are not saying you memorise telephone directories, are
you?’

‘Used to, yes. To be honest I
find them rather boring. I prefer Encyclopaedia.’

‘Encyclopaedia,’ repeated
Uther dully. ‘Yes.’

‘May I ask how long it
takes you to achieve this
extraordinary
feat of memory?’ Uther’s tone
was now profoundly sceptical. ‘A month? A year?’

‘I should say – what? – a couple of hours?’

‘Come now, Thomas,’ said Uther with a smile,
‘are you telling me you can commit an entire encyclopaedia to memory in two
hours?’

‘You misunderstood me.’

‘Aha! Thought perhaps I had,’
said Uther, winking broadly at the general.

‘Not one encyclopaedia. A set of
encyclopaedia.’

Uther’s mouth gaped.
Recovering his composure, he laughed scornfully. ‘Who do you think you’re
kidding? Pull the other one, it’s got bells on. Memorise a set of encyclopaedia
in two hours! You expect me to believe that?’

He looked around for support
but to his surprise no one was paying him the slightest attention. Why were
they not backing him up when the man’s claims were so patently absurd? He felt
isolated and disoriented, being in a place he did not know, attempting to
communicate with people he could not reach.

Suddenly he realised what was
going on. It was all a joke, a pretty feeble joke it seemed to him, but a joke
nonetheless. What a gullible fool he was. They had really got him going. But if
it was a joke, why was no one smiling? The colonel was looking for an ashtray,
the general was trying to attract the barman’s attention. Both appeared to be
seriously preoccupied. If not a practical joke, then, what could it be? Was it
perhaps some sort of primitive initiation ritual that new members of the club
were traditionally subjected to? Yes, that must be it. And the code of these
grown-up schoolboys no doubt dictated that they act as if nothing odd were
happening. Fine, anyone could play that game. No one was going to put one over
on Uther Pendragon.

‘Forgive me,’ he said gravely,
‘but now that I think about it, two hours does sound feasible – quite feasible.
For a genius, that is.’ That should fix them, he thought, with a complacent
smile.

‘I agree,’ said the general.
‘A couple of hours sounds reasonable enough to me. What’s your view, colonel?’

‘I would have thought two hours was very
reasonable indeed,’ said Colonel Armstrong, ‘especially for a whole set.
Frankly, I’d call it cheap. Was it on sale?’

‘Actually, no,’ said Merlin,
‘I memorised it at full price.’ Uther’s mouth gaped. None of this made any
sense at all.

Were they all stark staring
bonkers? Or were they still sending him up?

‘Even so, it’s pretty
incredible,’ said the colonel. ‘Didn’t I say he was a genius?’ he observed to
no one in particular.

The back of Uther’s throat was
closing up. Were they all quite mad? He had never experienced a panic attack,
but this must surely be what it felt like.

‘I always say seeing is
believing,’ said the general. ‘Damned right,’ said the colonel, nodding
vigorously. ‘After you,’ said the general.’

‘No, after you, sir,’ said the colonel
politely.

Levitating about eighteen
inches off the ground, and revolving slowly until his back was turned to them,
the general floated out of the bar towards the members’ sitting rooms, followed
closely by the colonel.

Uther became aware that
Merlin’s huge green eyes were staring at him. For some reason he was finding it
difficult to think rationally. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he demanded.

‘Something wrong?’ asked Merlin innocently.

The sweat bloomed on Uther’s
face. ‘I seem to be hallucinating.’

‘Quite possibly. I shouldn’t
let it worry you.’ ‘Did I just see what I thought I saw?’

Merlin hesitated. ‘I can’t be
sure what you thought you saw. In any case, what you think you see is not
always the same as what you see. And what you see is not always what is there.’

Uther put a hand to his head.
‘Either I’m losing my mind, or you are some kind of illusionist. Are you?’

The brilliant eyes shone like
two miniature moons. ‘In a way.’

‘Then,’ said Uther, paying a rare compliment,
‘you’re the best I ever saw.’

Like an owl’s, the eyelids dipped in
acknowledgement.

Something strange was
happening, something Uther did not understand. ‘Who
are
you really?’ he
asked.

‘I am Merlin.’

That he knew already. Was the
weirdo being deliberately unhelpful? Uther frowned. ‘What is it you want from
me?’

‘Your son,’ said Merlin. He
might have been asking Uther for a light.

‘What on earth are you talking
about?’ asked Uther, mystified. ‘I have no son.’

‘Not yet.’

Those damned eyes were so big
and bright, they seemed to possess him. ‘Very well,’ he said, humouring the
man, ‘let’s assume that at some time in the future I have a son. Give me one
good reason why I should give him to you.’

‘To cheat fate perhaps.’

‘There is no such thing as
fate,’ said Uther dismissively. ‘It is written that he will overthrow you.’

That was too much for Uther’s
pride to take. ‘Are you suggesting I should be afraid of my own son?’

‘Is that so surprising? Many men are.’

‘If ever I had a son, I would
know how to control him.’ ‘Not this one you wouldn’t.’

It was all rubbish, impossible
to take seriously. There was no rhyme or reason to it. And yet . . . and yet,
he sensed something about Merlin that defied reason, something spellbinding,
buried deep in that entrancing voice, and in the depths of those hypnotic green
orbs. He decided to put him to the test. ‘I presume you are offering something
in exchange?’

‘You will become a member of Parliament.’

Uther shrugged. ‘I hardly
think I need your help to do that.’ ‘That will only be the start. You will be
what you want to be.’

‘And what is that?’ ‘Prime Minister.’

Dear God, how could he
possibly know that? Uther’s pulse raced. Excitement blazed in him like a flame,
then quickly died. The man was a nutter. ‘You can guarantee that, can you?’ he
asked, with heavy sarcasm.

‘I can. If you promise to give me your son.’

‘I told you,’ said Uther
irritably, ‘I have no son. What’s more, I have absolutely no intention of ever
having one.’

‘Then you have nothing to lose
by promising to give him to me.’

There was, thought Uther, a
certain crazy logic to that statement. ‘What the hell,’ he heard himself say,
‘this hypothetical son of mine sounds like a troublemaker. Take him, then,
since you seem to want him so much.’

Merlin inclined his head. ‘Thank you.’

‘You are welcome,’ said Uther
dryly. ‘Mind you,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘nothing is set in cement.’

‘May I ask what you mean by
that?’ There was a harder edge in Merlin’s voice.

‘I can always change my mind.’

Merlin shook his head. ‘No,
Uther. Once you give me your hand, you will never be able to break your word.’

‘Who says?’

‘Fate will not permit it.’

‘Fate again,’ said Uther
disdainfully. ‘You must be joking.’ Merlin extended his hand. ‘Do we have a
deal?’