The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1) (47 page)

Within seconds, the US
President was on the secure line to Arthur. ‘You have the Angels’ message?’

‘Yes.’

The stubborn bastard would
have to see reason now. ‘You agree it changes everything.’

‘It changes nothing,’ said Arthur.

‘You mean you still refuse to
negotiate?’ ‘I do,’ said Arthur.

Winslow Marsden’s blood
pressure soared dangerously. ‘You can’t be serious!’

‘I am absolutely serious.’

The President’s voice leaped
an octave. ‘I don’t believe this!’ he shrieked. ‘What kind of man are you? How
many good people have to die because you are too goddam arrogant to talk to
terrorists?’

‘That is a gross distortion of
the facts,’ said Arthur quietly. A long silence.

‘I apologise.’ The President
sounded contrite. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. Look . . . ’ Winslow Marsden
faltered, searching for the right words to persuade Arthur. ‘Do this for me, my
friend. Do it for all of us. You believe in democracy, don’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘In a democracy, the majority rules. Right?’
said the President.

Surely he had him now.

‘Even in a democracy bad
decisions can be made,’ said Arthur.

‘It’s one against seven,’ said
the President, trying desperately to control his anger. ‘Who are you to say
this is a bad decision?’

‘Surrendering to terrorist blackmail is always
a bad decision,’ said Arthur bluntly.

The President tried flattery.
He had tried everything else and failed. ‘We need your advice, Arthur. We need
your brains. We need your guts. You can be there in the background helping all
of us get the best possible deal.’

Arthur shook his head. ‘If we
surrender, it will be the end of the free world. It will be the beginning of
chaos.’

The President’s voice climbed
to a hysterical shriek. ‘You don’t get it, do you, Pendragon? If we don’t make
a deal with those mother fuckers, they’re gonna blow us all to hell! And that
includes you! Well, let me tell you something, if they don’t destroy London, I
will. I’ll nuke you fucking Limeys! Do I make myself clear?’

‘What is clear, Winslow,’ said
Arthur calmly, ‘is that their tactics are succeeding. We’re at each others’
throats when it’s them we should be fighting.’

Winslow Marsden shook his head
in frustration. ‘For the love of God,’ he said wearily, ‘how the hell do we
fight them? We don’t know where they are. We don’t know where the damn devices
are. Time is running out. I’m asking you – no, I’m begging you – to
co-operate.’

For a few moments Arthur was
silent. ‘What exactly do you want from me?’

‘In three minutes from now,’
said the President, ‘I’ll be online to the boss man of The Angels of Mercy. He
is waiting for my assurance that we’re willing to negotiate. That means all
eight of us. If not, there’s no deal. Seven of us are ready to talk. What do I
tell him about you, Arthur?’

There flashed through Arthur’s
mind the images of those men, women and children brutally slaughtered in Wadi
Jahmah. What had changed since then? The so-called Free World had always made
squalid, self-serving, cynical deals with dictators and terrorists. What made
them do it? Self-interest? The illusion of power? Fear? Greed? Stupidity? All
those and more. And now the politicians were about to make yet another cowardly
compromise, just as they had at Jurassic Hill. Only this time it was not a
village but the whole world that would suffer the terrible consequences. What
had changed? Nothing. And nothing ever would until someone had the courage to
take on the murderers.

‘For chrissake, Arthur,’ the
President pleaded, ‘what do I tell him?’

‘Tell him,’ said Arthur, ‘tell him he’ll be
hearing from me.’

 The meeting in the cabinet room had been
called for ten p.m. Sunday evening. Ministers sat grim faced and silent,
waiting impatiently for the Prime Minister to appear. The minutes ticked by . .
. five, ten, fifteen minutes past ten.

‘He did say ten, didn’t he?’
The Foreign Secretary looked up and down the table seeking confirmation.

Heads nodded. No one spoke.
They were all hoping that the Prime Minister would rush in at any second,
apologising profusely for being later. More minutes passed.

George Bedivere shifted
uneasily in his chair. ‘Not like him at all,’ he muttered. ‘He’s never late for
cabinet meetings.’

Finally they were tired of
waiting. Arthur’s PPS was summoned and questioned. ‘He was here about an hour
ago. Spoke to the US President. Then he said something about going out.’

‘Going out? Where?’ asked the
astonished Bedivere. ‘He didn’t say.’

George Bedivere was now very
concerned. ‘Are you sure? Where would he go at this time of night? The mobs are
out there. The streets aren’t safe. Anyway, why would he want to leave Number
10 at a time like this? Think, man, think!’

The PPS tried to recall every
detail of his last conversation with the PM – what he said, how he looked, how
he sounded. ‘He gave me the impression he had an urgent appointment to keep. He
seemed to be in a hurry.’

‘Maybe he just forgot about
the meeting,’ suggested Lionel Gottfried.

‘The PM doesn’t forget things like that,’ said
Leo Grant looking deeply concerned. ‘Besides, he was the one who called it.’

Julian Petherbridge suggested
a more reasonable explanation. ‘You don’t suppose he has fallen asleep?’

George Bedivere thumped the
table with his steel hand. ‘Of course! That’s it! I doubt he has slept more
than a couple of hours since the crisis broke. That has to be the answer.’

But it was not. A room by room
search proved unsuccessful, the PM was nowhere to be found. As the PPS left the
cabinet room, the panic was rising in their throats. George Bedivere looked
about him uncertainly. ‘As Defence Secretary, are there any objections if I
chair the meeting?’

There were none. George did
his best, but although he commanded considerable respect, even he was unable to
concentrate the attention of the cabinet. They felt badly let down by the Prime
Minister. How could he desert them at a time like this? Without his leadership
and guidance they found it hard to think rationally. In the hour of mortal
danger he had been so strong, so confident, so undaunted. What could they hope
to achieve without him?

Now that he was no longer
there to strengthen their resolve, they were suddenly convinced that a deal had
to be made with the terrorists. But what sort of deal? No one had given it any
thought. Why should they? Until now any deal had been unthinkable.

George Bedivere spoke in a low
voice, as if he were far from happy with himself. ‘Look, I frankly admit I’m
out of my depth. Why don’t I ask the US President to negotiate for us? I don’t
like handing over our sovereignty to the Americans, but what choice do we have?
We’re almost out of time, and none of us is properly prepared.’ He looked at
his watch. ‘It’s eleven p.m., thirty-four hours to the deadline. All those
lives at stake . . . Do I have your agreement? Those in favour?’

Up and down the table hands were slowly raised.
The vote was unanimous. If ever they had the will to fight, they had lost it
now. The meeting broke up in silence and the cabinet members filed out with
heads down, avoiding each other’s eyes. The Prime Minister’s PPS was waiting
for George Bedivere in the corridor. ‘For what it’s worth, the two policemen on
duty in Downing Street both say they saw the PM leaving Number 10.’

‘Are they quite sure it was
him?’ ‘Absolutely positive.’

‘When did he leave?’

‘Shortly after he spoke to the
US President, so it must have been between eight-thirty and eight-forty-five. I
questioned them separately and their stories are identical. They saw him
heading up Downing Street in the direction of Horse Guards Parade. He was
walking fast, they say, and he seemed very focused, as if he knew exactly what
he was up to. To me that sounds like a man in full control of himself, if you
understand my meaning.’

The corners of George
Bedivere’s mouth drooped. He understood the PPS’s meaning only too well. So
Arthur had not panicked, then. What he had done, he had done deliberately. Who
would have thought it of him? The PM had abandoned ship. And after all his
brave talk.
Our
duty
is
to
the
people.

They depend on us.
Nothing
could excuse this final, shameful act of treachery.

It was hard to take in. ‘He
was the most level-headed man I ever met.’ George Bedivere shook his head in
disbelief. ‘A deep thinker. He did nothing on impulse. What he did could only
have been pre-meditated. That means he knew the situation was hopeless, so he
decided to save himself.’ Bedivere looked about him furtively to be sure they
were not overheard. ‘Though how the hell he expects to get away, I can’t
imagine. Every road is blocked. Frankly I don’t fancy his chances. If the mobs
catch him, they’ll tear him to pieces.’

‘Um.’ There was obviously something else on the
PPS’s mind, though he seemed reluctant to say what it was. ‘Out with it.’

‘Both policemen swear they saw
some flying object swoop down somewhere close to Number 10, probably on Horse
Guards Parade. It was out of sight for a short time, and then they saw it rise
up over the rooftops and hover for a second or two. And then . . . ’

‘Get on with it.’

‘ . . . it disappeared. Anyway
that’s how they described it. It’s probably complete nonsense. They are both
tired and overwrought.’

‘Must have been a helicopter.’

‘They were adamant. This
craft, whatever it was, made no noise. And it was round.’

George Bedivere’s eyes
widened, his shoulders heaving as he broke into a derisive guffaw. ‘So are my
balls,’ he said.

A disc-shaped object hovered silently over
Bossiney Castle. Slowly it sank to earth and disappeared in the shadows. With
sunset came the night sounds. An owl hooted, a fox barked. Here and there bats
squeaked, taking their high frequency soundings. An occasional flurry of wind
disturbed the trees, and in the distance white horses raced across the Atlantic
waves.

On a ridge overlooking
Bossiney Mound stood a man, silhouetted against the dying light. So still was
he that he might have been a statue of an ancient god, or a solitary column
surviving from some pagan temple. After a while a white-robed figure joined
him, and the two men waited there, silent, motionless, linking earth and
heaven, time past and time future.

High up the west winds blew.
Clouds raced across the night sky, filtering the moonlight. It was eleven p.m.,
Sunday, October the 26th, and the moon was full. Bossiney Castle glowed with an
eerie light. A cloud moved across the moon, land and sky merging in one dark
mass. Inside Bossiney Mound a dim light glowed, illuminating first the base,
then inching higher, growing brighter as it rose.

When it broke the surface of
the mound, there in the darkness, bathed in shimmering silver, lay the Round
Table.

 By nine a.m. Monday, London time, all
eight capitals were in the grip of the mobs. Gangs drifted through the streets,
lacking any obvious leadership, driven, it seemed, by some sinister collective
subconscious, looting, burning, raising and tearing down barricades, battling
rival mobs, and sometimes, for no obvious reason, erupting in savage fighting
amongst themselves. Rumour and counter-rumour flared, died down and erupted
again spontaneously, like rampant bush fires . . . the terrorists were defiant
. . . they had surrendered . . . a deal had been struck . . . negotiations had
broken down . . . the devices were located . . . the search had been called off
. . . helicopters were evacuating the seriously sick and wounded . . . they
were ferrying to safety political leaders, the rich and privileged.

By mid-afternoon, not even a
cat could have found its way out of London. Every surface road was blocked. In
the labyrinthine tunnels and corridors of the underground system that had
offered the last hope of escape, all was mayhem and chaos. Lifts, escalators,
platforms, even the lines themselves were crammed with the dead and dying, some
electrocuted, others suffocated or trampled to death. Outside every underground
station in London thousands of screaming, panic-stricken men and women fought
to get in, battling with thousands equally desperate to get out.

Frustration and fear, the
conviction that the politicians had betrayed them, and a growing sense of
impotence in the face of a ruthless and invisible enemy, created not just mass
hysteria, but a frenzied need for revenge – revenge not on the Angels of Mercy
who were beyond anyone’s reach, but on whatever scapegoat could be found. Any
representative of officialdom unfortunate enough to be out on the streets – the
police, the armed forces, fire and ambulance services, postmen, traffic
wardens, even trash collectors, no matter who or what they were – if they wore
a uniform, they were seized by the crowds and beaten mercilessly. From time to
time, if a length of rope was available, some poor wretch was strung from the
nearest lamp-post to wild cheers and applause, murder being the mobs’ sole
entertainment now, killing the only focus of their anger, distracting their
attention, however momentarily, from their hopeless plight.

As night fell, several huge
crowds, each more than fifty thousand people, moved slowly but inexorably, like
a many- headed monster, east along the Thames Embankment and north across the
Thames bridges – Vauxhall and Lambeth, Westminster and Waterloo – destroying
everything and everyone in their path, massing finally in Parliament Square,
chanting, jeering, fighting, lobbing petrol bombs at the Houses of Parliament,
toppling and smashing to pieces the statues of soldiers and statesmen lining
the square.

While about half of the mob
encamped in the square, the rest drifted up Whitehall and Victoria Street,
shouting anti- government slogans, and hurling missiles at the few windows
still unbroken. Lamp-posts uprooted along the way were used to batter down the
massive doors of the Home Office, New Scotland Yard (the police had long since
fled), the Ministry of Defence, the War Office, the Department of Transport and
Environment. Every government building was stormed by the rampaging mobs, and
chairs, desks, tables, filing cabinets, carpets, mirrors, chandeliers, statues
and paintings hurled from windows and balconies onto the massive bonfires
burning on the streets below. From time to time a building was torched, a great
ball of flame bursting through its roof with a noise like a thunderclap. The
screams of their own comrades trapped

inside were greeted by some of the mob with
cheers and cries of derision, and by others with shamed silence. By three a.m.,
half of Whitehall and Victoria Street were ablaze. Across the city, far into
the distance – east, north, south and west – huge fires burned, casting a
sinister red glow on the underbelly of the dust cloud that hung over London. As
they gazed up at that fearsome and impressive sight, with their white faces,
twisted mouths and frenzied eyes, the savage cries of the people were like
those of anguished spirits begging to be released from the torments of hell.

At about four a.m. Tuesday
morning the crowds began to gather outside the great iron gates barring the
entrance to Downing Street. Inside, a dozen armed police waited, automatic
weapons at the ready. For a time the mob was content to taunt them but when
they refused to open the gates, they became enraged. Vehicle parts, door
knockers, iron railings and scaffolding bars were hurled over the top of the
gates, knocking two policemen unconscious. The remaining policemen retreated to
a safe distance. The mob began to push the gates, chanting, ‘Heave! Heave!
Heave!’ Pressed against the gates those in front cried out in pain and terror,
but their cries were ignored, the collective decision was to break down the
gates, and nothing could change it. Dozens were trapped, arms, legs, chests,
faces thrust against the bars, their screams muffled by the shouts and cries of
the mob.

Nothing could withstand the
power of the advancing mass of people. The great gates bent and buckled, then
with a loud crack, the locks, chains and padlocks that secured them burst. Over
the crushed and broken bodies of their comrades and of the two fallen
policemen, the mob surged into Downing Street, screaming for blood. As they did
so, the police opened fire, and the front two or three rows fell, mortally wounded.
For a moment the crowd stopped in its tracks; then, pushed inexorably from the
rear, regained its forward momentum. Again and again the police fired, until
finally, their ammunition exhausted, they threw away their weapons and backed
away in terror from the mob. There was no escape. Despite their pleas for
mercy, they were battered to death, and Downing Street was strewn with the
gruesome remains.

The mob fell silent, their
blood lust purged, it seemed, by the horror of what they had done. Yet once again
the passion seized them. Two lamp-posts were passed over hundreds of shoulders
to those in front. In a few moments the doors of Number 10 and 11 were battered
down, and the mob flooded in, screaming for revenge. But to their anger and
frustration, both buildings were empty, evacuated the previous night. In a
frenzy of rage and hatred they began to demolish the two icons of government,
using anything that came to hand, iron bars wrenched from the gates, paving
stones, wheel jacks, and, when nothing else was available, their bare hands. In
the orgy of destruction no one heard the approaching helicopter. Suddenly it
was overhead. A voice boomed:

‘Leave Downing Street, or we
open fire! Leave the area at once! You have ten seconds. I repeat, if you do
not leave the area immediately, we shall open fire.’ As the countdown began
over the loudhailer, the mob in Downing Street joined in, and the chant was
taken up by the huge crowds in Whitehall. A hundred thousand voices echoed
derisively: ‘Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven! Six! Five! Four! Three! Two! One!’

A long pause, and the mob fell
silent, waiting for the count of zero. But no zero came, and no sound of
gunfire either, only the steady chatter of the helicopter hovering above them.
They began to jeer triumphantly, revelling in their small victory.

‘
Zero
!’ they shouted
mockingly, stomping to the rhythm of the chant. ‘
Oh,
Oh,
Zero!
Oh,
Oh,
Zero.
Oh,
Oh,
Zero!
’

The two policemen struck down
by scaffolding bars had barely had time to cock their guns. As the helicopter’s
searchlight swept Downing Street illuminating the shadows, there was the glint
of an automatic rifle lying on the ground. One of the mob dived for the weapon,
raised it, and fired a long burst. The helicopter exploded in a great ball of
flame, and the crowd below ran screaming from the rain of burning metal.

In Moscow and Beijing, Berlin
and Paris, in Tokyo, Washington and Brussels, police and the army battled the
mobs. Fires raged unchecked, and the cities were enveloped in a twilight gloom
fed by great columns of dust and smoke rising thousands of feet into the air,
obliterating the sun.

In London, the few TV and
radio stations still operating broadcast largely inaccurate accounts of the
latest events. Facts were hard to come by, reporters unable to move about the
streets, and communication with news rooms brief and intermittent. During the
last twenty-four hours rumours had begun to circulate about the disappearance
of hundreds of prominent people. The Prime Minister himself, it was said, had
vanished; so had several senior members of the government. Not only politicians
had disappeared, it seemed, but also high-ranking officers in the armed forces,
leading scientists and engineers, doctors and surgeons.

It was all very mysterious and
disturbing, though it was generally assumed that all these important people had
fled London to save their own skins, callously abandoning less fortunate
citizens. There was nothing extraordinary in that. It was simply another example
of the cowardice and treachery of the privileged classes. What was new? It was
the way they had always behaved.

Soon however, an even more
disturbing rumour began to circulate. These people had not run away at all.
They had been kidnapped by the Angels of Mercy and were being held hostage. The
implications were sinister indeed. How so many people could have been spirited
away in the midst of such chaos no one could understand. The terrorists were
evidently even more efficient and deadly than anyone had imagined. Such rumours
and speculation enraged the mobs still more. Kidnapped or not, their leaders
were responsible for what had happened.

Fear overcame all rational thought. To many it
seemed that the end of the world had come.

From the Oval Office the US
President made a late night appearance on TV, one last desperate attempt to
calm the American people, more especially those millions still trapped in
Washington. He was, he assured them, still at his post in the White House, and
would remain there, confident that a solution would be found. Negotiations were
at a delicate and crucial stage, and he had every hope would be successful.
Similar messages were conveyed by their respective leaders to the citizens of
Berlin and Brussels, Paris and Moscow, Tokyo and Beijing. None of these
palliative words had the ring of truth; few were deceived.

Meanwhile the terrorists
tantalised and tormented their victims, agreeing terms, then, almost
immediately, denying that they had agreed anything. As time passed and the deadline
approached, the harassed negotiators were reluctantly compelled to conclude
that the Angels of Mercy were toying with them. The frightening truth was that
they had no intention of doing a deal with anyone. Their aim, it seemed, was to
teach the free world a lesson it would never forget, so that next time – and
assuredly there would be a next time – their terms would be accepted without
discussion.

Amongst those in the know, the
only question now was not whether the devices would be detonated, but where,
when, and in what order. Which city would be the first to be devastated? This
was mental torture of the cruellest kind. Most worrying and most humiliating of
all, eight of the most powerful countries on the planet were powerless to
defend their citizens against the machinations of a few wicked men.

In the small hours of the
final day, Tuesday, the 28th October, fragmented and incoherent stories of
strange events in Tehran began to drift into TV news stations. Reporting from a
hotel in the city centre, an excited German reporter – unfortunately cut off in
mid-sentence – appeared to suggest that Tehran was under some kind of attack.
This however was immediately denied by a Russian reporter on the streets.

Moments later the senior
political commentator of ABA, the American global news network, reported that
the Iranian government had received some kind of ultimatum, one that was
apparently related to the terrorist organisation, The Angels of Mercy. Whoever
was responsible had supposedly threatened specific consequences at hourly
intervals unless certain conditions were met. According to official government
spokesmen the ultimatum had been rejected with scorn by the government of Iran,
who also strongly denied any links with the terrorists. The commentator reluctantly
concluded that the ultimatum was a bluff, a desperate last-minute attempt by
the eight countries under threat to resolve the crisis. If so, it had failed.
Hopes swiftly raised were as swiftly dashed.

For a time there was no
further news. Then came a flurry of wild stories that seemed to indicate that
Tehran was indeed under attack. There was talk of lights in the sky, mysterious
flying objects and alien landings, culminating in the most absurd rumour of all
– the disappearance of two of Iran’s largest oil terminals in the Persian Gulf.
As if that were not incredible enough, it was reported a few minutes later that
several key buildings in the centre of Tehran had also disappeared.

These stories, flashed
instantly around the world, although impossible for most people to take
seriously, were lent a certain circumstantial credibility by the conviction
with which they were reported. Next came a bulletin from a respected Asian
journalist from TAT International, broadcasting live to the world from his hotel
room on Imam Khomeini Street, as one by one, he watched the Central Bank of
Iran, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and finally the Iranian Parliament,
vanish into thin air. Less than fifteen minutes later the same correspondent
reported that the entire Iranian government had resigned. This news flash was
immediately confirmed by several news agencies. The assumption was that this
startling development was in some way connected to the crisis precipitated by
the Angels of Mercy.