The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1) (5 page)

Having served ten years as Deputy Director of
the Weapons and Communications Research and Development Unit, Merlin handed in
his resignation. It was a disappointment, if not entirely a surprise to Colonel
James Armstrong, Merlin’s boss, and a major setback for the Ministry of
Defence. Whilst Merlin was unknown to the general public, amongst researchers
and scientists his name was magic. Britain now led the world in several
important fields – robots, nano-technology, communications and weapons
technology amongst others –

and the explanation was simple: Merlin Thomas.

The Defence Minister was on
the phone the next day. ‘This is extremely bad news, James. The PM is seriously
upset. It’s no exaggeration to say that the United Kingdom owes its pre-
eminent position in the world to Merlin, not to mention our economic
prosperity. He has boosted our sales of weapons and technology several hundred
percent. We simply cannot afford to lose him.’

No one knew that better than
James Armstrong. ‘I understand, sir, but I’m afraid he has made up his mind.’

‘Then make him change it.’
‘How?’

‘Give him what he wants. Double his salary if
necessary.’

James Armstrong sighed. In his
experience politicians were invariably hardened cynics, judging others by their
own dubious standards. ‘It isn’t a question of money.’

‘Do I need to remind you that
everyone has his price,’ said the minister wearily. ‘Discover what that is, and
we have him,

James. It could be money, it could be a country
house, it could be a generous
douceur
, it could be a title. For all we
know he might settle for an Aston Martin. Whatever it takes. I mean what I say,
James: whatever it takes. Am I making myself clear?’

He would have to be as big an
idiot as the minister not to understand him. ‘Yes, sir. Crystal clear.’

James Armstrong conveyed the
minister’s message as tactfully as possible, but as he expected, nothing could
tempt Merlin.

‘At least tell me why you’re
leaving. For my own satisfaction.’

‘I have something more
important to do,’ said Merlin vaguely.

‘What could be more important
than serving your country?’

Merlin hesitated; there were
things he could not discuss, even with James. ‘Let’s just say I have another
master to serve.’

That was hard to credit. ‘Does
that mean you are going to work for the competition?’

Merlin smiled. ‘In a way.’

‘I must say you surprise me,
Merlin. You are always saying the world is in grave danger, and here you are
walking out on us. What has changed?’

It was a good question, and
again, hard to answer truthfully. ‘Nothing. The terrorists have the weapons and
the technology to destroy us. Every year that passes brings mankind closer to
annihilation.’

In spite of himself, James
Armstrong shivered. ‘Twilight of the gods? Ragnarok?
Götterdämmerung
?’

‘Something like that.’

There were times when Merlin
scared him, and this was one of them. ‘My God, you sound like an Old Testament
prophet.’

‘I fear you don’t take me seriously.’

‘Indeed I do,’ said James Armstrong earnestly.
‘So does the PM.’

A sceptical smile. ‘Only
because I’m good for the country’s arms trade. Believe me, James, there are
greater priorities than exporting weapons. The time is fast approaching when we
shall no longer have the capacity to take on the terrorists and the terror
states. Our armed forces are weak and unprepared. The same is true of the rest
of Europe, and even of the United States. Their soldiers don’t want to fight,
and as for their technology, it may be expensive, but it doesn’t do the job.’

Merlin looked and sounded as
sombre as Armstrong had ever known him. ‘We need to strengthen our defences, no
doubt about it,’ he admitted.

‘Being able to defend yourself
is not enough,’ said Merlin. ‘If you wait for your enemies to strike, it is
always too late. We have to hunt them down wherever they are – seek them out,
and destroy them.’

If Merlin felt so strongly,
then why in heaven’s name was he resigning? ‘This is no time to walk away, man.
Stay and give us the means to destroy our enemies before they destroy us.’

‘I can give you the means.
What I can’t give you is the will,’ said Merlin sadly. ‘We are in the hands of
politicians who are not interested in the future of mankind. All they care
about is getting elected, lining their pockets and promoting their image.’

So that was it. That was why
he had resigned. Merlin had finally given up on the politicians. And who could
blame him? James Armstrong tried one last desperate throw of the dice. ‘I shall
probably have to resign myself.’

‘Why on earth would you do that?’

‘The PM is furious with me. He
thinks I’m responsible for your resignation.’

Merlin chuckled. ‘You never
were a very good liar, James.’ Armstrong raised his hands in surrender.
‘Alright, I confess.

It was a crude attempt at emotional blackmail.
But do me one favour. The PM’s PPS is desperate to see you. Go and talk to him.
At least it would get them off my back. That much you owe me.’

Alec Pettifer, Parliamentary Private Secretary
to the Prime Minister, crossed the room with a welcoming smile and an
outstretched hand. ‘A privilege to meet you, Mr Thomas. You have quite a reputation
here. Do sit down.’

The two men faced each other
across the PPS’s imposing desk. The PPS prided himself on being a cool,
twenty-first century man. He had seen most things, though never anything quite
as bizarre as Merlin Thomas, quite the most oddly dressed individual ever to
enter Number 10, even in these egalitarian days. What was he wearing? A
knee-length sheet, and what looked like a hessian sack with pockets. As for
that scraggy, shoulder-length blond hair . . . he looked more like a pop star than
a major brain. Still, genius often came in strange packages. Twenty-five, and
the greatest mind since Leonardo da Vinci, so it was said.

‘I’ll come straight to the
point, Merlin. May I call you Merlin?’

He already had, hadn’t he? ‘Of course.’

‘I am authorised by the Prime
Minister to offer you a knighthood.’

‘Why?’

Now the PPS had considerable
experience in such matters. Offers of honours elicited varying responses;
either fulsome gratitude, or incredulity, or some disingenuous expression of
unworthiness was invariably involved. Never in his experience had anyone
responded with a question quite so challenging, more than challenging –
provoking. ‘Are you asking me in what way you have earned a knighthood?’

‘Not at all,’ said Merlin, ‘I
have not the slightest doubt that I have earned it. I am questioning the Prime
Minister’s motives in offering it to me.’

Bloody impertinence. Who did this spook think
he was? The PPS took a deep breath and resolved to remain calm. His speciality
was handling awkward customers with skill and tact. ‘The PM feels it is time to
recognise your outstanding work in research. He believes, and I understand his
view is shared by the President of the United States, that your contribution
has been unique and invaluable in many fields, not least in the development of
new weapons systems, satellite surveillance, communications, and
micro-technology – to say nothing of your remarkable work with – um – robots.’

‘What you say about my work is
undoubtedly true,’ said Merlin, who saw no point in false modesty. ‘I was
wondering whether the timing of the offer had any particular significance?’

‘A simple case of achievement justly rewarded.’

‘There are no conditions
attached? Because if there are . . . ’ ‘None whatsoever,’ confirmed Pettifer.

Merlin considered. ‘I am most
grateful for the honour, then.’

‘It is we who should be
grateful. Your work at Weapons Research has been, and of course continues to
be, of national importance.’

Merlin’s eyes flashed.
‘Continues to be? But I have handed in my resignation. Had you not heard?’

An unctuous beam. ‘I believe
there was some . . . chatter, though I never took it seriously. Anyway, I
imagine that now . . . ’

‘Am I being asked to withdraw my resignation?’

Alec Pettifer shifted uneasily
in his chair. He was not accustomed to being put in corners. A corner was not a
convenient place from which to conduct good public relations. ‘The PM expects
nothing from his friends, nothing, that is, but loyalty. I’m not saying he
would not be enormously . . . pleased, and . . . relieved, if you were to see
fit to stay on another . . . what shall we say?’ He was suddenly uncomfortably
aware of the unsettling effect of Merlin’s gaze. It was like being observed by
two shining satellite dishes. ‘ . . . another year or two, perhaps? Entirely up
to you, of course. Absolutely voluntary.’ He bared his teeth, emphasising how
voluntary it was. ‘Shall we say . . . three or four years? So much work to be
done. Your decision, naturally. The PM was adamant. No conditions, no deals. He
has the very greatest respect for your integrity.’

‘And my millennium proposals
for research and development?’

‘Are being studied.’

‘What about my paper on the
formation of a dedicated anti- terrorist task force?’

‘That too is under
consideration.’ ‘But not acted on.’

‘Give it time, Merlin. The
wheels of government . . . ’ ‘How long?’

The PPS offered up the palms
of his hands. ‘We do what we can. The constraints of budgets, you know. People
do so loathe paying taxes. Who can blame them?’

He was already congratulating
himself on his people skills, and on a job well done. It could so easily have
ended differently. Pushing back his chair, he clapped his hands on his knees
and leaned forward, indicating that the meeting was over. ‘Your name will be in
the New Year’s Honours’ List. May I be the first to congratulate you.’

Merlin stood. ‘Be sure to
thank the Prime Minister. Tell him how much I appreciate his kind offer, which
under the circumstances, and with regret, I cannot accept.’

In the act of rising, Alec
Pettifer froze in a crouching position. ‘You are turning down a knighthood?’

‘I am.’

The PPS fell back in his
chair. ‘Isn’t that somewhat arrogant of you?’

‘I can see how it might look
that way. I assure you, though, I don’t feel arrogant. I feel only regret that
my warnings are being ignored.’

At the door of his office,
bridging the awkward moments of ushering out his distinguished visitor, the PPS
remarked tartly, ‘The Prime Minister will not be pleased. Is there anything you
would like to say by way of explanation?’

Merlin considered the
question. ‘Tell the Prime Minister this: time is short. Every day that passes
we lose ground to those who threaten the stability of the world. We must
destroy them, or they will destroy us.’

‘Are you not rather stepping out of your field,
Mr. Thomas?

These matters are, after all, best left to
politicians.’

‘Are they, Mr. Pettifer? What
have politicians ever done to earn our trust? Tell me that. Can you think of
one good reason why we should place in their hands the most precious thing we
have – the future of mankind?’

‘If I may say so, Thomas, you
seem to take yourself a bit too seriously. But then you are young, very young.
Politicians are not infallible, but they do have the experience, and on the
whole they make good use of it. There have always been prophets of doom, and
mankind has survived in spite of them. No doubt it will continue to survive.’

‘That cannot be taken for
granted.’ ‘You and Nostradamus, eh?’

Merlin shook his head. ‘We are
very different, he and I. Nostradamus was convinced that the end of the world
was inevitable. I am convinced it is not.’

When Merlin had gone, the PPS
breathed a sigh of frustration tinged with relief. The fellow obviously had a
screw loose, several screws in fact. Didn’t they say that genius was close to
madness? Had he slipped over the edge? A knighthood? A straightjacket would be
more appropriate.

When the news broke of Merlin’s resignation
from the Weapons and Research Unit, there were many in both the commercial and
academic worlds eager to employ his services.

First, however, he had to be found, and that,
for a time at least, proved impossible, for Merlin had disappeared. He seemed
to have broken all contact with his friends and former colleagues, surfacing
for brief periods in various parts of the world, never staying in the same
place for long. No one knew what he was up to, though there were plenty of
rumours: he was creating complex software programmes for the drug barons; he
had become a master computer hacker; he was amassing a great fortune; he was on
a remote desert island testing weapons of the future for the Chinese army. He
was working for the Russians, he was working for the Americans, he was working
for the Israelis, he was working for the Arabs. He was in South America, he was
in Africa, he was in the Antarctic, he was on the sea bed, he was in space.
When the unglamorous truth was revealed, it created both alarm and sheer
disbelief; Merlin had become an assistant House Master at Glastonbury School in
the county of Somerset.

That he had chosen an academic
rather than a commercial career was not perhaps so surprising. What was more
puzzling was that he had not offered himself to one of the United Kingdom’s
principal centres of learning and research. Had he done so, it was certain that
every leading University in the land would have competed hotly for him. Quite
apart from the inevitable academic glory, he would certainly have been showered
with national honours and prestigious appointments; Chairman of this Royal
Commission, President of that Council, and no doubt Tsar of whatever Committee
or Association he cared to name. Yet for some inexplicable reason he had
abandoned any notion he might once have had of making a name for himself, and
in the process as good as labelled himself a failure. No one doubted that he
would make an excellent schoolmaster, but oh what a waste of such extraordinary
talents! It was a mystery to everyone who knew and admired him.