The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1) (24 page)

Part Two

Father and
Son

 Arthur stood stiffly to attention.

‘You were given clear
instructions to call off the operation,’ said his Commanding Officer, a tall
spare man with close-cropped greying hair.

‘Yes, sir,’ acknowledged Arthur.

‘You disobeyed orders,’ said
the C.O. rapping his desk with his hand to emphasise each word.

‘Yes, sir.’ Arthur showed no sign of
contrition.

Colonel Harcourt’s voice was
stern but his pale blue eyes surprisingly kindly. ‘You’re a fine soldier,
Pendragon. I don’t know that I ever came across a better officer.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘If you were to be
court-martialled . . . ’ – the C.O. shrugged – ‘we all know what the verdict
would be. Guilty. Dishonourable discharge. End of story.’

Not a muscle moved in Arthur’s
face. ‘A brilliant career down the drain,’ continued the colonel, ‘reputation
tarnished. I don’t think you deserve that. Do you?’

‘Not for me to say, sir,’ intoned Arthur.

‘For God’s sake, man, the
Foreign Office are after your blood. I’m trying to help you.’ The colonel
fiddled with the paper knife on his desk. ‘They don’t call us the Family for
nothing,’ he said quietly. ‘A special bond and all that. Give me some ammo,
Arthur.’

After a time, Arthur said, ‘I
was told to stand down the troop. When I asked for an explanation, they said a
deal had been struck, the rebels had given an undertaking to leave the area.
Obviously they never meant to keep their word and someone must have told them
we were there. They set us up, made us think they really had withdrawn, and
then they slipped back, surrounded our positions on Jurassic Hill and attacked
the village.’

‘You certainly had a right to
defend yourself and your men,’ agreed the colonel, ‘but that’s all.’

‘We prevented a massacre, sir.’

The colonel prided himself on
being diplomatic rather than confrontational. ‘Could I tell the powers that be
that there was some misunderstanding on your part?’

Arthur stared straight ahead.
‘There was no misunderstanding.’

‘Some confusion about the
order itself?’ The C.O. was inviting Arthur to help him find a compromise.

The invitation was firmly rejected.
‘There was no confusion, sir.’

The colonel shrugged; there
was nothing more he could do. It was hard to help a man who refused to help
himself. ‘They want to see you, Pendragon.’

‘They, sir?’

‘Some Under Secretary in the
Foreign Office, I imagine. Whoever it is, take my advice and eat humble pie.
You might just get off with a reprimand.’

It was not some Under Secretary who had
summoned Arthur. It was the Foreign Secretary himself – his father, Uther
Pendragon. Uther had played a key role in fashioning the New Millennium Party,
the phoenix that rose from the ashes of the old Conservative Party. When they
lost their fourth successive election by a landslide in 2009 the Tories were
compelled to accept that they were looking extinction in the face. A palace
revolution of young and ambitious M.P.’s led to the dumping of the Old Guard,
Robert Marriott was elected leader and Uther Pendragon brought in as Party
Chairman. Politics, Uther reminded his colleagues, had long ceased to be about
ideology; it was about image and good management. Under his direction the old
Conservative Party became the New Millennium Party, albeit a little late for
the new millennium, its image restyled to appeal to a broader electorate. It
was a heaven-sent opportunity for Uther who used all his P.R. skills, adapting
many of Tony Blair’s tactics in creating New Labour in the nineties. When,
largely thanks to Uther, Robert Marriot became Prime Minister in 2013, he had
shown Uther his gratitude with a seat in the cabinet, first as Secretary of
State for Trade and Industry, more recently as Foreign Secretary.

‘Normally I would not be
handling this myself, but you’re my son and you’re in trouble. I should like to
help.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Sit down, and let’s dispense
with the formalities.’ Uther placed a chair opposite Arthur, sat astride it,
arms resting on the back, and regarded his son thoughtfully. ‘This is a bad
business, Arthur. It’s been handled clumsily. Happens all too often when you
delegate to petty officials. I know you’re a man of integrity, I know you did
what you thought was right. Trouble is, my people don’t see it that way. They
are setting you up as some kind of troublemaker. They say you had some sinister
motive for what you did.’

‘I would never do anything to
embarrass the Regiment,’ said Arthur.

‘Nor His Majesty’s Government,
I imagine?’ No reply.

‘No, of course not,’ said
Uther, answering for him. This was not going to be easy. ‘I’ll come straight to
the point. You disobeyed an order, a particularly crucial one as it happens.
What’s more, you did it on the field of battle, or what passes for the field of
battle these days.’

Arthur looked his father in
the eye. ‘You can have my resignation if it helps you, sir.’

‘It isn’t me who needs help,’ said Uther
acidly, abandoning the laid-back approach and seating himself behind his
massive mahogany desk. Was he pulling rank, Arthur wondered, or taking shelter?

‘Soldiers, Arthur . . . they
think they run the show, but they don’t. A soldier is not required to express
opinions, he’s required to do what he’s told. His job is to obey orders. Why?
Because we live in a democracy. In a democracy the army does not run the
country. The politicians do.’

‘Hitler was a politician,
sir,’ Arthur pointed out. Uther scowled. ‘That is impertinent.’

‘They hung men for obeying
Hitler’s orders.’ ‘Enough!’

Silence.

No, it was not going to be
easy. ‘I have the very greatest respect for the Special Forces, Arthur. For you
too. I hear excellent things about you.’

‘Good of you to say so, sir,’ said Arthur stolidly.

‘Don’t waste it, my boy, I beg you. Don’t throw
it all away. You are young. Like all young people, you think everything you do
is right and everything the older generation does is wrong.’

That was not how Arthur saw
it. ‘I like to understand the orders I’m given, that’s all. I’m a soldier, not
a robot.’

Uther smoothed the leather
desktop. ‘In that case, let me share a confidence with you. I dare say you have
heard the expression
Realpolitik
?’

‘I have.’

‘Politics based on reality,
Arthur – on reality, not on principles, not on morals, not on ideals. On
reality.’ Uther moved across to the window and looked out, a studied gesture
that somehow seemed to imply that the world was a bigger and altogether more
complex place than Arthur could possibly know. ‘What I am about to tell you
must not leave this room. Do I have your word?’

‘Of course.’

Uther returned to his desk. ‘The tribes in the
east have been a thorn in Sadiq’s side for years. So he financed some
mercenaries to “cleanse” the Eastern provinces for him – not wholesale
slaughter, you understand, but enough to scare the eastern tribesmen out of the
country. It was going pretty well

. . . ’ – He coughed – ‘for
Sadiq, I mean. But then the whole thing got out of hand. The mercenaries he
hired were becoming too powerful. They were a threat to him. He invited us in,
not because he wanted to stop the killing, and not because he feared a rebel
uprising, but because he wanted to show the mercenaries who was boss.’

‘Then why did you call off the operation?’

‘Sadiq made a deal with the mercenaries,’ said
Uther.

Deal. A clandestine word,
thought Arthur, the innocent- looking stone that covered the creepy crawlies.
‘What sort of deal?’

‘Sadiq is a shrewd politician.
Knows how to divide and rule. That’s why he’s lasted so long. So what does he
do? He gives the mercenaries a free hand in the East in exchange for their
loyalty.’

‘A free hand? Meaning they
were free to continue slaughtering innocent people?’

‘Those tribesmen have been at
each others’ throats for centuries,’ said Uther imperturbably. ‘Nothing we do
will stop them killing each other.’

Arthur’s blue eyes glittered.
‘That is patronising, racist rubbish.’

A few stunned moments passed
whilst Uther absorbed the rebuke, as a jousting knight absorbs the lance’s thrust.
The challenge could scarcely have been more direct or more powerful, and the
insolence of it staggered him. How quickly the raw youth had become a man, and
how ruthless in condemning his father. Uther was tempted to teach his son a
lesson. A court martial was what he deserved, and a court martial was what he
really ought to get; the problem, however, was the media. They would have the
greatest sympathy for a hero of the Special Forces. It would not look good for
the government if the truth came out. It would certainly not look good for the
Foreign Secretary.

‘I’m a generous soul, Arthur,
as you know, so I’ll overlook that comment. I am also prepared to overlook your
indiscretion. On certain conditions. First, you tender a written apology;
second, you give me your word that you will never disobey orders again; third,
none of this will be discussed with the media, or anyone else for that matter.
I can’t say fairer than that, now can I?’ Uther jumped up, hand extended.
‘Come, my boy, let’s shake on it. You are my son and a gutsy fellow. Let’s bury
the hatchet. Is it a deal?’

Deal. That furtive word again.
‘There’ll be no more killings?’

‘I devoutly hope not. After
all, we do have some influence with Sadiq.’

‘What kind of influence?’

‘We sell him arms, Arthur.’
Utherspread his arms expansively. ‘Rather a lot of arms in fact. Some people
have their doubts, of course, but . . . ’ A shrug.

‘What sort of doubts?’

‘Well . . . this is all highly
confidential, Arthur . . . do I have your word . . . ?’

‘I already gave it.’

A suspicious look. Uther
trusted no one, not even his son. ‘Iran is not the only player in the terrorist
game, though they have always been a major one, even more so since they
developed nuclear weapons. The fact is, the CIA, MI5 and Mossad believe that
Sadiq finances and supports terror groups responsible for various bombings
across the globe. Naturally we have had to be . . . discreet about that. The
general public know nothing about it.’

Arthur could hardly believe
what he was hearing. ‘You are saying Sadiq is a terrorist?’

‘In a way, dear boy. But,’
a disarming smile, ‘at least he’s
our
terrorist.’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘He might be responsible for
the odd bombing here and there,’ said Uther casually, ‘but he would never bomb
London or anything ungrateful like that. Why should he? He’s in our pay. He’s
our man. That’s why we had to help him out. You do see that, don’t you?’

Arthur leaned forward in his
chair. ‘I want to be sure I understand you. Are you telling me it is now this
government’s policy to support mass murderers, just as long as they leave us
alone?’

Uther spread his hands
apologetically. ‘I fear it’s the only way to handle an intractable problem.’

‘And you think that’s the way
to defeat the terrorists? Well sir, I don’t. It’s cowardly, it’s short-sighted,
and it’s immoral.’

‘Immoral!’ echoed Uther
derisively. ‘What nonsense. Get real, Arthur. Come out of the woods. This is
life, this is the world. What does morality have to do with the twenty-first
Century? This is not about the Ten Commandments, this is about looking after
number one – or Number 10, if you like.’ Uther chuckled at his own witticism.

‘There is still such a thing
as right and wrong, truth and lies,’ said Arthur. ‘The lies of our leaders
contaminate every man and woman in the country. They lose faith not just in
politicians but in our way of life. How can we expect people to live an honest
decent life if you set them such a dishonest example?’

Uther was unimpressed. ‘Don’t
be so bloody naïve, Arthur. We’re not talking right and wrong here; we’re
talking self- preservation. You think we’re the only ones making deals with
terrorists? Well I’ve got news for you. I could give you a list as long as your
arm: China, Russia, America, Pakistan, India, Iran, France . . . dozens of
countries. Quite apart from buying insurance, there’s the arms trade to
consider. It’s hugely competitive. Frankly, we can’t afford to be left out of
it.’

‘This is madness,’ said Arthur. ‘We are selling
our enemies the weapons to destroy us. If you sow the wind, you reap the
storm.’

Uther sighed. ‘Do try not to
preach, my boy. You are beginning to sound like Merlin.’

‘You can jeer as much as you
like, father,’ said Arthur angrily. ‘But the fact is, you have blood on your
hands. Now I know what those men, women and children in the K.O.E. died for.
They died for an arms deal.
Your
arms deal. That makes you as guilty as
Sadiq.’ He could hardly conceal his disgust.

Uther mangled a notepad,
wishing it were his son’s neck. ‘Being a major in the army does not qualify you
to pronounce on foreign policy,’ he said coldly.

‘Nor does it disqualify me from having an
opinion.’

Uther was wondering what lay
behind Arthur’s protests. Being young, he was naturally a bit of an idealist,
one of youth’s more boring afflictions. Yet there had to be more to it than
that, some hidden agenda. He thought he knew what it was. ‘Best stick to things
you understand, my boy. Politics is not for you.’

‘I have no interest in
politics,’ Arthur assured his father, ‘I’m a soldier.’

A hostile glare. ‘If you want
to continue being a soldier, you had better learn to do what you are told. If
you had done so on this occasion, several men in your troop would still be
alive.’

The blood rose in Arthur’s
face. ‘If my troop had not intervened, a thousand innocent civilians would have
been slaughtered. And you were willing to let that happen, something your
constituents might be interested to know.’