The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1) (44 page)

 Arthur passed a few hours in Ponterlally
with Hector and Elizabeth and tried to pretend it was just like any other
visit. But Elizabeth knew better. Her beloved son was not his usual cheerful
self, and something about the way he looked at her had the feel of goodbye
about it. ‘When shall I see you again,’ she asked, trying not to sound anxious.

‘As soon as I possibly can,’
said Arthur cheerfully, wishing he could tell her more. The truth was that he
did not know himself when, if ever, they would meet again. ‘Don’t worry mother,
We’ll talk regularly.’

None of this made sense to
Hector. He knew what was in Elizabeth’s mind but she had got it all wrong.
Arthur was not going anywhere. How could he? Was he not the Prime Minister?

Arthur had not met Keir since that traumatic
night climb at Oxford. It was time, he decided, to pay him a visit. Nothing had
changed; he was still the same old Keir, still living alone, still alternately
defensive and aggressive, still expecting imminently, or so he insisted, to be
appointed a director of the internet provider he had worked for since leaving
school, still – and this was hardest of all to take – still jealous and
esentful of Arthur. After only a few minutes awkward conversation Arthur was
wondering why he was there. Was it nostalgia for his childhood? Was it guilt?
Could it be, despite everything, affection? Whatever the reason, he was
reluctant to lose touch with Keir, though he had nothing to offer him; not yet.
But all hints that Arthur might wish Keir to join him at some time in the not
too distant future were scorned. ‘You’ll have to come up with something more
concrete than that, my dear chap. Something bloody attractive too. This is Keir
you’re talking to. I’m a highly saleable commodity in the city. Everyone in the
world wants me.’

When he said goodbye, Arthur
tried to hug his adoptive brother. It was like trying to hug a wooden board.

If Igraine registered Arthur’s hints that he
might not be around for a while, she did not respond to them, being far too
pre-occupied with her own problems; in a short space of time she had lost her
husband and her eldest daughter, and poor Morgan had ended up in what Igraine
referred to as a ‘sanatorium’, though she and everyone else knew that it was
really a secure psychiatric ward. Arthur, whom she once so dearly loved, she
now held responsible for the death of her husband. Uther’s lies, his hypocrisy,
his cheating, his fraudulent activities, his chronic adultery were all
forgotten. Igraine had sanitised his memory, loving him in death far more than
she had ever done in life.

‘Uther was a good man,’ she
insisted, flashing a defiant look at Arthur. ‘I adored him. And he adored me.’

What he could he say? Like so
many things about his father it was partly true. Unfortunately the part that
was not true contaminated the part that was.

‘I wish he were here now.’ Igraine burst into
tears.

Arthur tried to hug her but
she was unresponsive, standing stiffly in his embrace. ‘I’m sorry, truly sorry.
I never dreamed it would end the way it did.’

‘Didn’t you?’ Igraine dried
her eyes. ‘You were cruel, Arthur. Your father welcomed you back into the
family and into his heart. He deserved your gratitude. Not your . . . ’ She
searched for the right word but could not find it.

Nor could Arthur. What was the word that
described what he had done to his father? Deception? Treachery? Betrayal?
Whatever it was, he would have to live with it. Even though he had no cause to
feel guilty his conscience would trouble him for the rest of his life.

Then there was Guinevere. What was he to say to
her? And where was he to say it? Certainly he had no intention of subjecting
her to the attentions of the
papparazzi
, who would be far more difficult
to shake off than his bodyguards. If the two of them were seen together he
could imagine what the tabloids would make of it.

It was four years, almost to
the day, since Guinevere had rejected Arthur’s proposal of marriage, and in
that time there had, of course, been men friends, though none of them serious
involvements. Arthur was still a bachelor. Like her, he had obviously not yet
found the ‘right one’, though it would surely not be long before he did, now
that he was an even bigger catch than ever . . . Prime Minister of the United
Kingdom, young – well, relatively young – macho, charming, intelligent,
entertaining, and as good-looking as any man had a right to be. Incredible that
no one had managed to catch him, when it seemed as if the whole world was
trying to marry him off. The gossip columnists were always linking his name
with some girl or other, and it was rumoured that the Party grandees would like
him to settle down sooner rather than later.

From time to time she bumped
into him, and whenever they met, she was reminded what an exceptionally kind
and caring person he was. He actually listened to what you were saying, a rare
attribute these days when everyone was so intimately involved with mobile
phones and computer monitors. She told herself that her feelings for him were
entirely rational and nothing at all to do with love. It was simply that she
enjoyed his company; he made her feel so relaxed and secure that whenever she
saw him it was a bit like coming home. How old must he be now? Thirty? No,
thirty-one. And she was twenty-one. No doubt he found women of her age very
immature, certainly far too young to be married to the most important man in
the country. Oddly enough, she could scarcely remember now why she had turned
him down.

A couple of weeks ago he had
made a brief appearance at a charity dinner at Grosvenor House. There had been
much whispering and turning of heads as the Prime Minister walked all the way
across the Great Room to her table and sat between her and her father. To her
surprise it was not her father he wanted to talk to, it was her. Their
conversation was still running in her head as if it had been recorded. First
there was the usual exchange of platitudes.

‘Good to see you, Guinevere.’
‘You too.’

‘How are you?’ ‘I’m fine.’

‘Good, good.’

This was hardly typical of the
relaxed conversationalist she knew. Altogether he seemed ill-at-ease. There had
then been some rumblings in his throat, impossible to interpret.

‘I’m sorry?’ she enquired diffidently.

‘I was – um . . . ’ – the
clearing of his throat was followed by more rumblings – ‘ . . . I was trying to
say how much I have . . . missed having you around, and that, um . . . ’ He was
eyeing the podium. Was he about to rush back to his table for the speeches?

‘Yes?’ Her heart was racing.

‘ . . . I wanted to tell you .
. . that if anything should . . . that is to say, if there would be a . . .
change in my situation, or . . . if I were not able to be with you . . . for an
indefinite time, let’s say . . . I would be . . . I would be . . . sad not to
see such a . . . dear friend again. Very sad,’ he ended lamely.

What was all that about? Then
suddenly she understood what he was trying to tell her in his halting fashion.
A
change in my situation . . . not able to be with you for an indefinite time
.
. . It could hardly be clearer. He was getting engaged, and he wanted her to
know.
Sad not to see such a dear friend
. A dear friend! That was telling
her, wasn’t it? He might have loved her once but all that was over. She was
nothing more to him now than a dear friend. As for
an indefinite time
,
well that was simply another way of saying forever.

But why, she asked herself,
had he broken the news in such a roundabout way? Why had he not just come
straight out with it? The more she thought about it, the angrier she became.
Could he possibly imagine she was carrying a torch for him? Surely not. Did he
expect her to be heartbroken just because he was getting married? Did he think
she would make a scene? Run screaming into the street? Throw herself under a
bus? It made her blood boil. The presumption of it! The arrogance of the man!
Why would she care if she didn’t see him for an indefinite time! She wouldn’t
care if she never saw him ever again! After a sleepless night she could not
wait to tell her father about this aggravating conversation, expecting him to
be as outraged as she was. To her chagrin, Leo did not at all react as she had
expected. Instead, listening to what Arthur had said, he looked thoughtful,
even a little anxious.

‘You don’t think you might
have misunderstood him, do you, darling?’ he asked.

‘No, I do not,’ she said
fiercely. ‘That man thinks he’s God’s gift to women.’

‘Hmm.’ Leo decided that saying
nothing was by far the most prudent reaction.

‘I’m quite sure he thinks me
shallow and trivial and quite unworthy of him,’ said Guinevere bitterly. ‘Well,
that doesn’t bother me in the least,’ she asserted, looking very bothered
indeed, her father thought. ‘I don’t give a hoot for his opinion. I’m
completely indifferent to it,’ she said loftily. ‘I only wish he would not make
his contempt for me quite so obvious.’

There was on her father’s face
that non-committal look he assumed when he did not agree with her. She found it
intensely irritating, insufferably coy; what was worse, it made her wonder
whether he had known all along that Arthur was getting married. If so, he had
hidden it from her. Why would he do that? Of course! He was trying to protect
her. The notion was deeply offensive. Surely he could not for one moment
believe that she would be affected by anything Arthur did? He was being just as
presumptuous and condescending as Arthur – more so, in fact. It was all too
annoying for words. ‘I don’t care if he is the Prime Minister. He’s a vain and
self-important man,’ she concluded.

Leo’s eyebrows lifted
steeply. ‘Oh, do you think so?’

How it infuriated her – that
oh,
do you think so
? It was so sly, so damned patronising. Of course she bloody
well thought so! She would not have said it otherwise, would she? Why couldn’t
he just say he disagreed with her? Because he was a coward, that was why. A
fine thing when you couldn’t rely on your own father for moral support. ‘Men
always stick together, don’t they? Such devious creatures!’ Delivering that
final insult she ran out of the room, slamming the door so hard that the walls
shook.

Guinevere was hurt and angry.
She could not even confide in Lanky. What would be the point? She would only
tell her what a fool she had been, and that she didn’t need to hear from
anyone. Normally hard-working and social, she took time off from her job in the
estate agent’s office, and passed most of her days taking lonely walks round
London’s parks, enjoying the sights and scents of spring.

Nature had never much appealed
to her before, or rather she had never really noticed it, but now she became
consciously and acutely aware of the natural phenomena she had always taken for
granted – sunshine and cloud, the shifting patterns of light and shade on
grass, the song of birds, the riffling of water in a wayward breeze, the
opening and closing of a flower. For the first time in her adult life she
looked about her with eyes as honest and direct as a child’s, seeing things she
had never seen before. On her long solitary walks she discovered a new world.

In that world, moreover, she
was also re-examining her own feelings and finding that when she looked at them
honestly and directly, they too opened up to her as miraculously as flowers to
the sun. Suddenly it was blindingly obvious; she had made a terrible mistake,
indeed may have ruined her life. For she had turned down a man who had all the
qualifications of a perfect husband, a genuinely remarkable and talented man
who loved her, or who had loved her once. What could be more foolish than that?
Unless it was to turn down the man she loved?

She became an avid reader of
The
Times
, expecting daily to see the announcement of the Prime
Minister’s forthcoming marriage. Strangely enough it did not appear.

 Addressed to the Prime Minister of the
United Kingdom, the ultimatum was delivered to 10 Downing Street shortly before
nine a.m., London time, Friday, the 24th October, 2026.

Two hours later the cabinet
met. On the table in front of every minister was the text of the message. Arthur
read it aloud:

A number of devices containing fissionable
and biological material have been concealed in your capital city. These devices
will be detonated at nine a.m. on Tuesday, the 28th October, should you fail to
meet the following demands:

1. One hundred and
twenty-five billion United States dollars are to be wired to us. You will be
given the relevant account details on your confirmation of the availability of
the necessary
funds.

2. Our freedom fighters
listed separately are to be released immediately and unconditionally from your
prisons and delivered at the times and to the places which will be indicated by
us.

3. The
Prime
Minister
of
the
United
Kingdomwill
publicly acknowledge
that he and his government is responsible for the murder of thousands of our
blessed martyrs, falsely accusing them of terrorist activities. He will
announce to the General Assembly of the United Nations that Britain has
renounced its so-called war on terrorism and ceased all aggressive activities
outside its
borders.

4. As
aconsequenceofthesecriminal
activities,
the
British Prime
Minister,
Foreign
Minister
and
Minister
of
Defence
will
surrender themselves for trial by an International Court of
Justice
whose members will be appointed by us.

‘The message is signed by a group calling
itself “The Angels of Mercy”.’

Everyone was talking at once.
Arthur raised a hand and immediately the cabinet room was quiet. ‘One at a time
please, ladies and gentlemen. You will all have your say.’ He nodded at Thomas
Winnington, the Foreign Secretary. ‘Thomas?’

‘Are we the only country targeted?’

‘The same ultimatum has been
received in eight capital cities,’ said Arthur. ‘London, Washington, Beijing,
Tokyo, Moscow, Berlin, Paris, and the European Commission in Brussels.’

There were murmurs of
incredulity around the table. ‘Eight countries! Unbelievable! Who are these
maniacs?’

Arthur turned to his old army
comrade. ‘The Minister of Defence has prepared a few facts for us. George.’

‘Thank you, Prime Minister.’
George Bedivere consulted his notes. ‘The Angels of Mercy first surfaced about
ten years ago. Like many terrorist organisations in the Middle East, Central
Europe, Asia and South America, they began financing their operations by dealing
drugs. They have always had conventional weapons and bomb-making capacity. More
recently we think they may have laid their hands on some real nasties, chemical
and biological weapons, and perhaps some small nuclear weapons too, though as
far as we know they have never used them. Over the years they have developed
links with various anti-Western terror groups, especially Islamist extremists.
They are totally ruthless and highly professional.’

‘They want us to release
prisoners,’ said Thomas Winnington. ‘Have they given us a list of names?’

George Bedivere nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘How many are we holding?’ asked Winnington.

John Aitkinson, Home
Secretary, answered the question. ‘We have five of them in high security
prisons in this country.

The Americans and the French have locked up a
few – I’d say about twenty in all.’

‘Has this group actually
carried out any terrorist acts?’ The question came from Diana Partridge,
Secretary of State for Trade and Industry.

‘Depends what you mean by
terrorist,’ said Bedivere. ‘Their activities could be categorised as criminal,
though they use tried and tested terrorist techniques. So far their speciality
has been kidnapping for money. They have a nasty habit of torturing their victims
on camera and releasing the videos to various TV stations in the Middle East.’

There were exclamations of horror around the
table.

‘If they don’t get what they
want,’ continued Bedivere grimly, ‘they don’t hesitate to kill. They do that on
camera too. As you can imagine, people tend to agree to their demands. All in
all they have extorted huge sums of money – I’m talking many millions.’

‘Were they behind the
kidnapping of the French President two years ago?’ asked Leo Grant, who, as
Chairman of the Party, was a member of the cabinet as a Minister without
Portfolio

George Bedivere shook his
head. ‘That was another Islamist group, the Children of the Revolution. No
direct links as far as we know. Although . . . ’ He shrugged. ‘We can never be
sure. The scenario gets rewritten every day.’

‘If their speciality is
extorting money,’ said Aitkinson, ‘couldn’t this just be a huge bluff?’

‘It could,’ said Bedivere.
‘Whatmakes me doubtits seriousness is the fact that this ultimatum is a major
departure in a number of ways. First, to my knowledge, they have never before
used the threat of nuclear or biological weapons. Second, until now they have
targeted wealthy companies and individuals, not governments. And third, there’s
the sheer scale and arrogance of the ultimatum.’

‘I’ve just realised,’ said Lionel Gottfried,
Chancellor of the Exchequer, ‘that we are talking eight times a hundred and
twenty-five billion dollars. A trillion dollars! The mind boggles!’

Thomas Winnington expressed
what they were all thinking. ‘Surely they must know their demands are
unrealistic?’

‘To me that indicates that
either it’s a bluff,’ said George Bedivere, ‘or that they have no intention of
negotiating.’

‘Let’s not jump to conclusions,’ cautioned
Arthur.

‘Do we have any idea what they
do with the money they extort?’ asked John Aitkinson.

‘What they claim to do,’ said
Bedivere, ‘is redress social wrongs world-wide. Hence the name Angels of Mercy.
They say they help the poor, the starving, the sick, the victims of war, that
sort of thing. We see absolutely no evidence of that.’

‘What are they trying to achieve?’ asked
Aitkinson.

George Bedivere deferred to
Arthur. ‘We are not sure,’ said Arthur. ‘So far they have said very little
about their ultimate goal. It could be a worldwide Islamic State. Or the
overthrow of Western style democracy. The chances are there’s a hidden agenda
somewhere.’

‘And what might that be?’

‘They claim to act in the name
of Islam,’ said Arthur, ‘though many Muslim leaders disown them. We don’t have
conclusive proof but we suspect they are the terrorist arm of one of the
countries in the Middle East. If that’s true, then with this sort of money that
country could change the balance of power in the Middle East – in the world,
for that matter.’

Angela Furnival, Secretary of State
for Employment, asked, ‘Are you talking about Iran?’

Arthur hesitated. ‘I’ll get to that in a
moment.’

‘Where do they get their
weapons from?’ Thomas Winnington wanted to know.

‘Many came from the break-up
of the old Soviet Union, of course. But believe it or not,’ said Arthur, ‘they
also came from Europe and America. It’s an old story. On a number of occasions
government stockpiles of radio-active waste in the USA and Sweden were broken
into. It was always hushed up, but quite a lot of “dirty” uranium has gone
missing over the years.’

‘Quite a lot?’ echoed Angela
Furnival. ‘How much is that?’ ‘I wish I knew,’ said Arthur frankly. ‘The fact
is no one does.

It’s hard to credit, but
neither the Americans nor the Swedes ever kept proper records of their stockpiles.
We do know that some terror groups have significant quantities of the stuff. In
the last twenty-five years there have been a number of incidents involving the
use, or the threatened use, of uranium, both dirty and enriched.’

‘Which is this?’ asked Leo Grant.

‘Hard to say,’ admitted
Arthur. ‘The ultimatum talks of fissionable material. It could be enriched but
it might not be. Nevertheless dirty uranium is still deadly. A simple mechanism
does the trick. The bomb is detonated by remote control – a signal from a
mobile phone, for example. Each bomb would probably be about a third of the
size of the Hiroshima type, or it could be smaller.’

There were a lot of worried
faces in the room as it began to dawn on every member of the cabinet that this
was potentially the most serious global terrorist threat ever.

‘They also talk about
biological material,’ John Aitkinson reminded them. ‘You think they have
biological weapons?’

‘We have to assume they do,’
said Arthur. ‘In the last three decades there have been at least fifty
relatively minor terrorist incidents worldwide involving biological weapons. We
all know how easy these things are to produce and conceal. They could be
freeze-dried and packed in small containers – nerve gas, anthrax, smallpox,
plague, botulinum toxin, aflotoxin, clostridium, plus a whole new generation of
deadly poisons.’

Angela Furnival raised her
hand. Arthur nodded in her direction. ‘Prime Minister, you referred to a
possible change in the balance of power in the Middle East. You seemed to be
talking about Iran. Who exactly are the political masters of the Angels of
Mercy?’

Arthur nodded. ‘An absolutely
crucial question. To kill the monster you must go for the head. When bin Laden
was alive we used to think all Islamist terror groups took their orders from Al
Qa’eda. But then we discovered that Al Qa’eda weren’t the only players in town.
Recently we have noticed a change in terrorists’ geo-political strategy.’

‘Can you explain?’

‘These days,’ continued
Arthur, ‘terror groups are targeting not just Europe and The United States, but
many other countries, including Russia, China and Japan. In other words they
are confronting all the developed nations. Setting the poor against the rich
could be a good way of destabilising the planet and creating chaos.’

‘With what aim?’ asked Angela Furnival.

‘Out of the ashes of the old
world a new Empire would arise.’

‘An Islamic Empire – is that
what you mean?’ asked Leo Grant.

Arthur considered the question
carefully. ‘We all know that Al Qa’eda orchestrated the Islamist revolutions of
the second decade that overthrew the old Arab feudal regimes. We also know that
the financial and logistical backing came from the Iranian mullahs. There is no
escaping the fact that since then Iran has been dominant in the Middle East,
its power contained to some extent by the West, aided by Israel. The CIA, our
own MI6 and Mossad are picking up more and more talk of a Second Persian
Empire, an Empire that would control not just the Middle East but the whole world.’

‘If these devices really
exist,’ said Julian Petherbridge, Secretary of State for the Environment, ‘what
are the chances of finding them before the deadline expires?’

It was the question on
everyone’s mind, and every cabinet member was looking to the Prime Minister for
reassurance.

Arthur could read it in their eyes. He had no
intention of handing out placebos. The cabinet had a vital job to do; it was
important that no one underestimated the gravity of the situation. ‘All we know
at this moment,’ said Arthur, ‘is what the Angels of Mercy tell us, and that
may or may not be true. If the devices are planted in London, they could be
very difficult to locate. It’s a huge area to search. We shall have a better
idea in a day or so.’

‘Let’s get to it,’ said George
Bedivere who could not wait to do something, anything, just as long as they
didn’t have to sit around talking any longer. ‘We only have four days.’

‘And if we don’t find them?’
asked Thomas Winnington. It was the doomsday prognosis. ‘What happens if the
devices are detonated? How many casualties? How much damage?’

Arthur nodded at the Defence
Secretary. ‘George?’ ‘Obviously any assessment depends on the number of

devices, how powerful they
are, and where they are planted. Right now, we don’t have the answers to those
questions, so we can only make assumptions.’ Encased in a black leather glove
George Bedivere’s right hand was tempered steel. He thumped it on the table,
and a large map of central London appeared on a wall screen. ‘OK . . . first
let’s talk about the explosive effect of the nuclear devices, and let’s assume
they are all somewhere in the city centre. If that’s the case, I’m afraid we
can expect a very significant number of casualties and huge destruction of
property and amenities.’ With his left hand he tapped the keyboard in front of
him. ‘Note the circles on the map. The smallest circle indicates the area of
more or less total destruction – radius, one to two thousand yards. Could be
somewhat greater. The next circle extends the area by a further two to four
thousand yards – that’s the area of medium destruction. Some buildings may
survive relatively unscathed but not many. Most will be significantly damaged.
The third circle shows the area of lesser damage – another five thousand yards or
so.’

He looked up and down the big table,
anticipating questions, but there were none. No one moved or made a sound. The
atmosphere was tense. ‘Apart from the destruction of property,’ he went on,
‘which would of course be instantaneous, huge areas of London would be
seriously contaminated by radiation – buildings, transport systems, water,
food, schools, hospitals, the River Thames, canals and so on – the list is
endless.’

‘How long would that take to
clean up?’ Thomas Winnington asked.

Jean Morton, the Health
Minister, responded. ‘The contamination could last for years. It doesn’t bear
thinking about. We believe our medical and civil defence services are well
prepared, but if contamination were widespread, they would have difficulty
coping with the sheer scale of it. There are adequate stocks of anti-radiation
pills but the problem will be distributing them.’