The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1) (25 page)

Uther scorned the implied
threat. ‘Do you really think so? You know your problem, Arthur? You don’t
understand human nature. You think the man in the street gives a toss who lives
or dies in the Kingdom of the Euphrates? Of course he doesn’t. You want to know
what he cares about? He cares about jobs, pay packets, mortgages, interest
rates, vacations, the price of booze and cigarettes and petrol. Our arms trade
with Sadiq is good for the economy. It’s worth a few thousand jobs a year.’

‘So tell me, father,’ asked
Arthur, stung by his father’s cynicism, ‘how many butchered men, women and
children are the equivalent of one job? What’s the going rate of exchange these
days?’

‘Easy for you to scoff, my
boy. You don’t have to make those calculations.’

‘And you do?’

‘I’m afraid I do,’ said Uther,
‘but if you quote me, I’ll say you’re a liar.’

It was wasted breath. If he
and his father talked till doomsday they would never agree. ‘Whatever happened
to that ethical foreign policy you promised when they made you Foreign
Secretary?’

Uther sat stiffly erect. ‘It
is a Foreign Secretary’s duty to promote his country’s interests overseas. That
obligation is paramount.’

‘Then why did you make the
promise?’ asked Arthur. ‘Why?’ Uther seemed surprised at the question. ‘To
impress

the electorate, of course.
Does that shock you? I see it does. Nevertheless, people understand politicians
better than you think. No one takes that sort of statement seriously.’

‘I do.’

‘Then,’ said Uther sadly, ‘I
fear you are extremely gullible.’ Arthur stood up to go. ‘Permission to leave,
sir?’

Uther’s fingers drummed his
desk nervously. If his son left now in this rebellious mood, he would most
likely go straight to the tabloids. Uther drew a deep breath and forced his
reluctant features into a smile.

‘I fear the petty officials
have handled this badly. What’s more, I haven’t done much better. Sit down, my
boy. I owe you an apology.
Mea culpa
. Please forgive me.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Arthur, after
a pause, ‘I was too quick to condemn.’

‘Think nothing of it,’ said Uther jovially.
‘Put it down to the Pendragon temperament.’ He beamed at his son. ‘You will
make a fine leader of the regiment.’

‘It’s a long way from major to colonel.’

An insinuating smile and a
wink. ‘Indeed it is. But these things can be speeded up.’

It was distasteful to be
offered such a blatant bribe by your own father. Arthur made no comment. To
Uther’s frustration his wretched son was adamant – no apology, not even a
verbal one, and absolutely no commitment for the future. But furious as he was
with Arthur for defying him, Uther was a realist. He knew when he was beaten.
The truth was he didn’t give a damn that Arthur had disobeyed orders, and just
as long as he kept his mouth shut the government could spin that mini-disaster
in the K.O.E into a triumph. A phone call to the Ministry of Defence ensured
there would be no court martial. Believing he could count on his son’s
discretion, he had taken a calculated risk. What could Arthur possibly hope to
gain by discrediting the government, still less his own father? Uther was
satisfied he had read the situation correctly and handled it appropriately.

Even so, his son was becoming
much too independent- minded for his liking.

 Colonel Harcourt had made it clear to
Arthur that the ‘slight hiccup over that K.O.E. incident’ was well and truly
forgotten. Moreover the Colonel had dropped a broad hint that he would shortly
be taking early retirement, and that Arthur was being very seriously considered
as his successor. The C.O. also stressed that the appointment would be made purely
on merit, and that Arthur’s father would have no influence whatever on the
selection process. That unexpected news compelled Arthur to consider his future
more seriously than ever. The conversation with his father had disturbed and
confused him; he was not at all sure now that he wanted to make the army his
career. He needed to think, and he needed to talk to the one person he trusted
above all others.

‘They tell me if I stay in the
regiment I’ll be in line for the top job,’ said Arthur.

Merlin was impressed. ‘C.O. of
Special Forces. You’ve done well, Art. Outstandingly well.’ Arthur flushed. A
compliment from the magus was still something to be prized. ‘But is it what you
really want?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Well I am,’ said Merlin
positively. ‘My advice is to leave the army as soon as possible.’

It was what Arthur needed to
hear, although he had not admitted it to himself until this moment. Merlin was
prodding him in the direction he wanted to go. He had loved being a soldier, it
was exciting and it had taught him many things, not least about himself. Now it
was time to move on.

‘If I left the army what would I do?’ ‘Only you
know the answer to that.’

‘But I really don’t know,’
said Arthur. ‘It’s all so confusing.’ ‘Somewhere in the turmoil of your mind,’
said Merlin, ‘there is a spot where everything is calm.’ The green eyes and the
voice were both hypnotic. ‘Let go, Arthur. Let your thoughts be taken by the
whirlwind, and in the end you will find that quiet spot. Only then will you
know what it is you really want to do.’

Arthur sat at the pine table
in Merlin’s kitchen, chin in hands, dreaming as he used to dream when he was a
lad. His thoughts spun slowly at first, then faster and faster until, tossed
and tumbled, they were flung by the whirlwind into a calm and restful place
where, as Merlin had promised, Arthur’s mind was at peace and he knew at last
what it was he truly wanted. The trouble was it seemed so presumptuous. ‘I
would like to change the world,’ said Arthur. ‘Does that sound ridiculous?’

‘It sounds like very good
sense to me,’ said Merlin. ‘Perhaps,’ suggested Arthur, that little mole of
thought tunnelling in his forehead just underneath the skin, ‘perhaps I could
do something for poor and disadvantaged people.’

Merlin sat back in his chair,
clasped his hands behind his neck and studied the wooden beams that supported
the kitchen ceiling. ‘If that’s what you want, then you must do it. But don’t
deceive yourself, Arthur, you are not going to change the world by doing good
work.’ A searching look. ‘Have you ever considered politics?

Arthur’s only serious
encounter with politics was one he would never forget, being carpeted by his
father after that unhappy business in the K.O.E., and it had left a bad taste
in his mouth. If all politicians were as cynical and disillusioned as his
father, what was the point of going into politics? And anyway was it not a
strange suggestion coming from Merlin? Did the magus not have other ideas for
him?

‘Only a stepping stone, of course,’ said Merlin
with a knowing look.

A stepping stone to what?
Arthur ignored the not so subtle hint. Merlin had not mentioned that troubling
word ‘destiny’, but Arthur sensed it was in the air. ‘My father says
politicians can never change anything. If that’s true, then what is the point
of being a politician? I certainly wouldn’t want to serve under him.’

‘No need to,’ said Merlin.
From his perch on the mantelpiece Virgil nodded his head and hooh-hooed, as if
agreeing with his master. ‘There are other fiddlers and other tunes to play.’

Leo Grant was leader of the main opposition
party in the House of Commons, formerly New Labour, renamed United Labour in
2012 following an eruption of bitter internecine strife. At Merlin’s
recommendation Arthur went to see Leo at his house in Bayswater.

Leo took to Arthur
immediately. He knew something of his reputation – strong-minded, intelligent,
responsible beyond his years, a young man who knew how to handle himself.
‘Merlin tells me you are considering a career in politics.’

‘Perhaps. It’s his idea,
really,’ said Arthur. ‘I’m certainly thinking of leaving the army.’

Leo had heard as much and
wondered why. ‘I understand you’re in line for the top job in your regiment. If
that’s the case, why throw away such a wonderful opportunity?’

‘I want to make a difference,
sir,’ said Arthur firmly. ‘I want to change the world.’

Leo weighed up the young man.
Coming from anyone else the response would have sounded pretentious, but
somehow not from Arthur; he was unashamedly serious. ‘If you feel that
strongly, then I wouldn’t hesitate,’ said Leo. ‘I’m sure your father would be
delighted to have you in the New Millennium Party.’ An innocent enough comment.
There was nevertheless an implied question in it that was not lost on Arthur.
Leo was challenging him to decide where his political loyalties lay.

‘I know very little about politics, sir. One
thing I have discovered though . . . ’ Arthur looked round the room, untidy,
comfortable, books on tables, books on the floor, books everywhere. He had
heard that Leo Grant was a thinker, a man of principle and strong beliefs. For
some reason he reminded him of Merlin – about ten years older perhaps – late
fifties, Arthur guessed. ‘My father is a clever man and a very successful
politician, but . . . ’ Arthur hesitated. ‘He and I see the world very
differently. I’m not sure I want to join New Millennium.’ ‘It could be in your
best interest to do so,’ said Leo Grant, playing the devil’s advocate.

‘With the greatest respect,
sir,’ said Arthur obstinately, ‘the way I see it, my best interest is to be as
independent as possible. I’m not sure how independent I can be working in my
father’s shadow.’

Interesting, thought Leo, here
was a young man of conviction, someone he obviously needed to get to know
better. Over the next few weeks Arthur visited Leo regularly, and from him he
learned much about politics and also about the strengths and failings of
politicians. Some of what Leo told him about his father confirmed what he
already suspected: Uther’s chief role as Foreign Secretary was to make secret
deals with terror groups – ‘buy them off’ as Leo put it. ‘Marriott and his
cabinet decided long ago that the war against terrorists cannot be won,’ he
said. ‘Islamist and other terrorists are too numerous, too well-organised and
too highly motivated. The best you can hope for, they argue, is to contain
them. To do that you have to make deals.’

‘My father admitted to me that
he made a deal with Sadiq. I thought that might be an exception to the rule.
Are you saying that kind of arrangement is UK government policy?’

‘I fear so,’ said Leo.
‘Unfortunately there are signs that this country is not alone. Other world
leaders are trying to make their own deals with terror groups. Some of the
extremists won’t deal, but most terrorists will, if they can get what they
want.’

‘Do you think that’s the way
to counter the terrorist threat?’

Leo took time to answer. ‘The
problem is, the more you make deals with terrorists the more you encourage them
to commit acts of terror. So no, it is not the right way, in my opinion. On the
other hand, how else do you tackle the problem? The USA, the European Union,
the UK, India, Pakistan, China, Japan, Russia, Australia and many other
countries have virtually been at war with global terrorists for two decades.
Where has it got them? I ask myself, is the world a safer place now than it was
twenty years ago? My answer – no, it isn’t. If this is a war, then clearly the
terrorists are winning. Every year more and more people all over the world are
killed and maimed in terrorist attacks – city bombings, kidnappings, missile
attacks on trains, aircraft, ships, power plants.’

‘So what’s the answer?’

‘Someone has to make a stand
somewhere, somehow, or we shall all be lost.’

Over the next few months the two men became firm
friends, and soon Arthur was a regular dinner guest at the older man’s house.
He learned that Leo’s wife had died some years ago and that he had a thirteen
year old daughter whom he obviously adored, yet it was not until his seventh or
eighth visit that Arthur met her. It was early evening, and Arthur was waiting
for Leo in the sitting room when the door opened and a young girl walked in.
Arthur jumped up.

‘Dad phoned. He said to tell
you he’s been delayed in the House. He’s on his way home.’

‘Thank you. You must be
Guinevere.’ ‘Yes.’

‘Arthur Pendragon.’

‘I know.’ She regarded him
steadily. ‘Dad talks a lot about you.’

‘And about you too.’

‘He still thinks I’m a little
girl. He tells everyone I’m thirteen.’ There was a note of disgust in her
voice. ‘Actually,’ – a sharp look at Arthur – ‘I shall be fourteen next month.’

‘Is that all?’

‘You mean I look older?’
‘Much.’

A slight flush of pleasure
coloured her cheeks. ‘How old are you?’ she enquired.

For some reason he found
himself reluctant to answer the question. ‘Twenty-three,’ he said. ‘Almost
twenty-four.’

Head on one side, she
considered him carefully. ‘Twenty-four is a good age for a man,’ she said,
adding unexpectedly, ‘You are very good-looking. But then I suppose you know
that.’

This was certainly one of the
most extraordinary conversations Arthur had ever had, and he felt strangely out
of his depth. Was this the way thirteen year old girls talked, or was this one
unusually outspoken? He considered returning the compliment but decided against
it; she might think he was only trying to flatter her. Which would not have
been true at all. The compliment would have been perfectly genuine, for she was
indeed exceptionally pretty: dark eyes, black hair, wide mouth, long legs. A
child, of course, though the emerging woman was already apparent in the way she
carried herself, in her direct look, and in her feminine awareness. There was
an oddly appealing blend of shyness and self-assurance about her, of
awkwardness and grace, of childishness and maturity.

She considered him carefully.
‘You have one sad eye and one happy eye. Did you know that?’

‘Which is which?’

‘You’re teasing me,’ she said
reproachfully. ‘I would never do that,’ he assured her.

She was studying his face with
the most concentrated attention. ‘It’s very unusual.’

‘I imagine it must be,’ he said.

When it came to saying good-bye, she held out
her hand, and he took it gravely. Polite nods and smiles were exchanged, all in
the most formal way imaginable. But if that miniature ceremony was conducted in
a manner pointedly guarded, the look of admiration she flashed at him as she
ran out of the room was anything but.

When Guinevere reached the
privacy of her room, the first thing she did was tear down the photographs of
pop idols and movie stars adorning the walls. It took her no more than a few
days to find press cuttings and photographs of Arthur to put up in their place.
When she returned to boarding school at the beginning of the following term,
she immediately confided in her best friend, Gertrude Lancaster, a tall,
fun-loving girl with huge eyes. ‘Lanky’ was thrilled at Guinevere’s news, and
gushed over a photograph of Arthur Pendragon in full army dress uniform.

‘He’s a major in the Special
Forces,’ said Guinevere casually.

Lanky’s eyes grew big. ‘Oh my
God! Look at him. He’s a dream! Didn’t you just die when you saw him?’

‘I thought he was nice,’ said
Guinevere, looking and sounding very composed.

That was too much for Lanky.
‘What do you mean
nice
!’ ‘He’s a
dish
. Did you tell him you liked
him?’

Guinevere frowned her
disapproval. ‘I could never do anything like that.’

‘Why not?’

‘It would be totally immature.
He would lose all respect for me.’

‘I don’t see what respect has
to do with it.’ Why, wondered Lanky, did Ginny always complicate the most
simple things. ‘Either you fancy him or you don’t.’

‘This isn’t some schoolgirl
crush,’ said Guinevere in her most superior manner. ‘I intend to marry Arthur
one day.’

‘Wow!’ Lanky took a few moments to recover her
breath.

‘You don’t think he’s a bit old for you, do
you?’

Guinevere smiled
condescendingly. ‘Young men bore me.’ ‘He’s gorgeous,’ said Lanky, ogling the
photograph.

Guinevere snatched it away.
‘Looks aren’t everything. It’s his character that’s important. Arthur Pendragon
is a man of consequence.’ It was one of her father’s favourite expressions,
more an acknowledgement of a man’s qualities as a human being than an appraisal
of his success or celebrity.

‘That’s all very well,’ said
Lanky solemnly, ‘but are you in love with him?’

‘Oh you!’ said Guinevere with
a toss of her head and a flash of scorn in her eye. ‘That’s kids’ stuff.’

Lanky was puzzled. What could
possibly be more important than love? ‘If you’re not in love with him, how do
you know he’s the one for you?’

‘Because,’ explained Guinevere, ‘we are
compatible.’

Mischief glinted in Lanky’s
eyes. ‘Compatible. That’s when the man is twenty-four and the girl is thirteen,
is it?’

‘I shall be fourteen in a week,’ said Guinevere
severely.

In an abrupt change of mood,
she pushed Lanky onto the bed and began pummelling her with a pillow, with
every blow protesting fiercely, ‘I’m not in love! I’m not in love!’