by Alan Fenton
‘You had no right to make any deal with Dionysus,’ said Arthur. ‘Not without my authority.’
The blood drained from Agravaine’s face. ‘But . . . ’
‘Didn’t you know Dionysus would almost certainly be sentenced to death?’
‘Of course I did. I fooled him. Didn’t I do well?’ ‘No, Agravaine,’ said Arthur, ‘you did badly.’
Agravaine’s jaw sagged. ‘But I don’t understand. I did it for you, nuncle. What’s wrong? What’s wrong?’ The words tumbled out faster and faster. ‘I thought of all the good things Camelot could do with the money, all the bad people we could punish, all the good lives we could save. And we can, nuncle, I know we can. Tell me I did the right thing, nuncle, tell me I did right. Tell me you’re not angry. Please don’t be angry with me. Please, don’t be angry, nuncle.’
‘You lied and you cheated,’ said Arthur sternly. ‘You played a cruel trick on Dionysus.’
‘But he’s evil. Everyone knows that. Look how many millions of drug addicts there are because of him.’
‘All that is true, Agravaine, but it’s no excuse for what you did. If we do as the drug barons do, how are we better than they are?’
Agravaine’s eyes filled with tears. ‘You’ve been so cold to me since . . . ’ – He gulped – ‘since . . . ’
Since Margot and Adrian Pellinore were murdered. So that was it. Now he knew for certain that what he had long suspected was true; Agravaine’s hands were stained with blood. ‘Go, now,’ he said, turning his back on his nephew.
Agravaine pranced round his uncle, trying to make him look at him. ‘What did I do wrong?’ he asked plaintively over and over again, ‘what did I do wrong?’ As the observatory door closed behind him he cried out, ‘Why can’t you just love me, nuncle?’
A few minutes before dawn the eleven prisoners were handcuffed and led out of their cells to the prison yard. In front of them stood the firing squad – eleven members of the Round Table – each, bar one, having drawn the short straw. The sole exception, Arthur, had insisted on carrying out the sentence of death on Dionysus. As the time of the execution drew near, some prisoners began to moan and plead for mercy. A minute to go. George Bedivere looked at his watch, then up at the sky. There would be no sun to signal the dawn. A heavy bank of dark cloud hung over Camelot. The wind wailed round the prison walls.
Venom in his eyes, Dionysus spoke his last words. ‘I told you I never killed Merlin. I lied,’ he said. ‘I killed him. And I tortured him before he died. My men held him down while I broke his arms, then his wrists, then the bones in his fingers and feet. He died in agony.’
‘Merlin will never die,’ said Arthur.
At a sign from George Bedivere, the execution squad raised their portables and fired in Elimat mode.
Nothing remained of the drug barons, neither flesh nor blood nor bone, nothing to show that they had ever existed.
Fifty Seven
The sword in the sky, seen yet again by billions around the globe, celebrated what many ordinary people considered to be Camelot’s greatest achievement. As its image faded, Arthur appeared on TV channels across the globe. What Camelot had done was harsh, but necessary, he said. Sadly, innocent people had died, and that he deeply regretted. But Operation Mainline had succeeded in its goal of destroying the drug barons and rooting out the cancer of illegal drugs. It was now up to the nations of the world to ensure that the drug trade was never revived.
Following his speech, a world-wide debate began; and it soon became clear that not everyone agreed with Arthur. Some world leaders, in particular those whose territory had been invaded and whose nationals had either been Elimatted or killed by conventional means, condemned Camelot in the strongest terms, threatening serious consequences. For days the United Nations was in uproar. Religious leaders, whilst acknowledging Arthur’s good intentions, questioned the moral justification for what he had done. The world’s media generally saluted the spectacular success of Operation Mainline, but some questioned its long-term effectiveness, echoing Dionysus’s observation; you can destroy the drug trade, but you can never destroy the demand.
The majority of the world’s population, however, welcomed Camelot’s victory over the drug barons, and in the wake of Operation Mainline there was a growing consensus to do what Arthur asked – to ensure that the deadly trade was never revived.
The most significant opposition came from those who, secretly, and sometimes not so secretly, collaborated with drug producers and dealers; senior police and army officers, politicians, businessmen, bankers, accountants and lawyers, all of whom had reaped vast rewards from active involvement in, or passive acceptance of, the drug trade. Hundreds of thousands of rich and powerful people had, as a direct result of Operation Mainline, lost money, power and prestige. They were the ones who most savagely criticised Arthur, accusing him of murder, fraud and theft on a massive scale.
The harsh truth was that the drug trade, tragic though its effects were, had provided a living for millions. Its elimination was destabilising, especially for third world countries whose economies virtually depended on street drugs. There were calls for the destruction of Camelot, and for Arthur to be brought to justice, though no one was able to suggest how that might be achieved.
Arthur himself was neither surprised, nor particularly concerned, by these adverse reactions. Yet he was beginning to have doubts. ‘Did we do the right thing?’ he asked Leo Grant. ‘We acted in good faith,’ said Leo. ‘What we did, we did for the right reasons.’
‘We?’ Arthur was touched. Leo could easily have said, “I told you so.” ‘You never supported Mainline.’
‘I had my reservations,’ admitted Leo, ‘but that’s history now. As always, I am with you.’
So was the Round Table. Even Mordred was careful not to criticise his father openly. Though Operation Mainline might not have been an unqualified success, it had achieved many of its objectives. It was disheartening, therefore, that the reaction of so many world leaders was either lukewarm or downright hostile. More than ever, Camelot needed their co-operation.
A week later, Lancelot submitted a full report to Arthur. ‘Our surveillance shows that at least ninety per cent of illegal drug supplies have been destroyed. That includes warehouse stocks, and drugs transported by air, ship, road and rail. We have also destroyed or incapacitated approximately the same percentage of processing plants.’
‘And the drug barons?’
‘According to our information,’ said Lancelot, ‘which by the way is confirmed by most of the world’s intelligence services and narcotic agencies, there are no major drug barons left alive.’ This was more than satisfactory, better than Arthur could ever have hoped for. ‘What about crops of coca, cannabis and poppies?’
‘We have scanned the globe. There are no significant crops left.’
It was the answer to those who questioned whether the end justified the means. If only the world did its duty, there was a chance that the next generation would be free of the scourge of drugs. But then, as Lancelot was about to take his leave, there came the question he had hoped would not be asked.
‘What about casualties?’ said Arthur. ‘We lost twenty-two men.’
By far the heaviest casualties they had suffered in any operation.
‘So many.’ ‘I’m afraid so.’
‘And other casualties?’ ‘They were proportionate.’ ‘Proportionate?’
‘Well, as you know, we did all we could to avoid . . . ’ Arthur cut in. ‘The numbers, Lance.’
‘Ah. Numbers.’ Lancelot consulted his print-outs. ‘Let me see.’ There were columns of figures, many of which he would have preferred to forget. ‘We estimate approximately – um – eight thousand, five hundred,’ he said. ‘Pretty much as expected,’ he added, as if that somehow softened the blow.
Arthur looked shaken. ‘How many of those were fatalities?’
Lancelot riffled through his notes, though in truth he had no need to. The numbers were branded on
his brain. ‘Those are the fatalities,’ he said.
‘We killed eight thousand five hundred people!’
‘So it seems.’ Lancelot shifted from foot to foot. ‘What is that proverb about not being able to make omelettes without . . . ’
‘We are not talking eggs, we are talking lives,’ said Arthur curtly. ‘How many wounded?’
Lancelot shuffled his papers again. ‘I asked you a question, Lance.’
‘As we all know, the number of wounded always exceeds the number of fatalities,’ Lancelot mumbled, ‘by quite a large margin.’
‘And that is?’
‘Four to one,’ Lancelot’s glance wandered away from Arthur. ‘I believe.’
‘Are you saying we wounded thirty-four thousand people!’ ‘Give or take . . . ’
Arthur sank back in his chair.
‘I assure you, sir, we did the very best we could to minimise . . . ’ began Lancelot, stopping abruptly as he saw the look on Arthur’s face.
‘I know,’ said Arthur, ‘I know you did. We all did.’
When Lancelot had left the observatory Arthur sank into a chair and stared disconsolately into space. There were times, he was thinking, when doing your best was not good enough.
There was, however, a measure of good news to come. It was only at the next Round Table meeting that its members were given the final tally of money extracted from drug producers and dealers, and deposited in hundreds of accounts opened by Techforce Ten around the world.
‘Say that again,’ said Arthur incredulously. ‘How much?’ ‘One thousand, two hundred billion, eight hundred and seventy-five million, two hundred and thirty-eight thousand dollars,’ said Tich. ‘Or, if you like,’ he added dryly, ‘one trillion, two hundred billion, eight hundred million, and some loose change.’
For a long time not a muscle stirred, not a voice was raised. Members sat with mouths open, eyes wide. Then, beginning with a low murmur, the laughter grew louder and louder until it reached an hysterical crescendo. When it died down Leo Grant asked: ‘What are we going to do with all this money?’
It seemed no one had given the question much thought.
Once the debate was under way, the Round Table was not short of ideas. ‘Now that Merlin is no longer with us,’ said Lancelot, ‘we shall have to work even harder on research and development.’ Agravaine wanted to commission more satellites in order to boost Camelot’s lead over the rest of the world in communications and surveillance. Leo Grant proposed a second Eclipse and a second Kraken and doubling the number of Nimbles and Scuttles. George Bedivere – even more adventurous – wanted to construct a second Camelot on the other side of the globe ‘to complement and expand our operations.’
There were those who opposed all these ideas. If a second Camelot would double their power, it would also double the security risk. As to more research and/or weapons, surely Camelot was already so far ahead of its time that it had no need to increase its arsenal or update its technology. So many ideas and so many points of view were advanced that finally it was agreed to reconvene in a week’s time to consider the matter further.
After the meeting, Arthur summoned Leo Grant and George Bedivere. ‘I’d like to have your opinion. What do we do with this obscene amount of money?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Leo. ‘We need more discussion.’
‘I agree,’ said George Bedivere. ‘After all, there’s no hurry.
We should take our time and make the right decisions.’
Arthur’s fingers brushed the faint scar on his cheek. ‘In my opinion, there is only one decision to make.’
‘And that is?’ said Leo. ‘Not to use it at all.’
Both men were close to Arthur. At a time like this, however, they realised how little they knew him.
‘Explain,’ said George.
‘It’s drug money.’ Deep lines furrowed Arthur’s forehead. ‘Dirty money.’
‘There’s no such thing as dirty money,’ said George Bedivere, thrusting out his big chin belligerently, ‘there’s only dirty hands. Your hands are clean, Arthur.’
‘I see no problem,’ said Leo Grant, ‘as long as we use the money in a good cause.’
‘A good cause,’ repeated Arthur thoughtfully.
When his two friends had left, his mind focused on this new problem. A good cause, Leo had said. He was right. Whatever use they put the drug money to, it had to be for a good cause. His hands were clean, George said. If only that were true. Once, he would have been right. Not any more, though. He was tainted. They were all tainted . . .
. . . All but one.
Fifty Eight
The door panel buzzed, the speaker crackled.
Name? ‘Galahad.’ Enter Galahad.
As Arthur advanced to embrace him, Galahad first raised his hand as though it were a shield against an excessive display of intimacy, then extended it stiffly. Shaking it solemnly, Arthur waved the young man to a chair.
Galahad settled himself, crossed his ankles, folded his hands primly on his bible, and looked expectantly at Arthur.
‘Are you enjoying your time in Camelot?’ ‘May I speak truthfully, sir?’
‘I would expect nothing else from you.’
‘I would like it better if my opinions were taken seriously,’ said Galahad.
‘You don’t think they are?’ ‘No one listens to me.’
‘I’m listening now,’ said Arthur.
‘On what subject would you like me to offer my views?’ enquired Galahad gravely.
Arthur bit his lip to suppress a smile. ‘I would value your opinion of Operation Mainline,’ he said.
Galahad stroked his bible with his pale, scholar’s hands. ‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord,’ he said.
‘You think I should leave it to Him, do you?’ ‘I do.’
‘I suspect that if I did,’ said Arthur, ‘He would do nothing about it.’
‘Then that would be His will,’ said Galahad.
‘In which case,’ said Arthur, ‘He and I have different views.’
Sparring with Arthur did not appear to have weakened Galahad’s resolve. He expressed himself bluntly. ‘Force can never be justified.’
‘Even when it is used to save millions of lives?’ ‘Even then.’
‘If we don’t stand up to the wicked,’ said Arthur, ‘they will destroy mankind.’
‘It is not the power of Excalibur that will establish the kingdom of heaven on earth,’ said Galahad.
‘What will then?’
‘The power of God’s word,’ said Galahad, his eyes bright. ‘You really believe that?’
‘I do. Excalibur obliterates as granite crushes chalk. God’s word is like grass. It seeds itself, it grows and flourishes. You may think granite is stronger than grass, but it is grass that splinters granite and topples the castles of tyrants – even if it takes a thousand years.’
‘I don’t have a thousand years,’ said Arthur. ‘God does,’ said Galahad.
Despite himself, Arthur was impressed. Some thought Galahad naive, and perhaps he was, but his eyes shone with the light of conviction. Such inner strength and self-belief was remarkable in one so young. Not only did he believe, he had the courage of his beliefs. Camelot needed those qualities, now more than ever.
‘You heard the debate, Galahad. I want you to tell me what you would do with the drug money.’ Before Galahad could speak, Arthur raised his hand. ‘Take your time. Think carefully, and come and see me tomorrow.’
He could not get Leo Grant’s words out of his mind. As long as we use the money in a good cause. Not more technology, not more weapons, not even a second Camelot could wash the dirty money clean.
Only a good cause.
Fifty Nine
Mission Grail
As the eight Guardian robots declared the doors of the Great Hall shut and secured, members’ eyes focused on Galahad, who, to the surprise of many, sat at Arthur’s right hand, instead of in his usual seat next to his father, Lancelot. ‘W
e are here to decide what to do with the drug money in our hands,’ said Arthur. ‘Since our last meeting we have polled members, and none of the proposals submitted at our last meeting has received the necessary fifty-one per cent of your votes. I would therefore like to introduce a fourth proposal – that of Galahad, whom I call upon to present it himself.’
A flurry of conversation, and Galahad rose to speak. ‘We have taken from the drug barons more than a trillion dollars – a vast fortune. I propose we use it to search for the Holy Grail.’
This suggestion was greeted first with shocked silence, then with cries of disbelief and protest.
‘A trillion dollars!’ George Bedivere shouted mockingly above the din. ‘That has to be the most expensive cup in history!’
A sally that was greeted with laughter and applause. Galahad was well enough liked, but he was young, and a bit too religious for most palates. The Round Table was making it very clear they did not take his proposal seriously. Yet, to the surprise of many, he seemed not at all abashed. Above the continuing rumble of dissenting voices his voice rose strongly.
‘We must cleanse this dirty money. We must use it not to increase Camelot’s power, but to help the poor, the disadvantaged, the sick, the mentally and physically disabled – above all the addicted, for they are the ones whose lives have been destroyed by drugs. Think what good we could do with a trillion dollars! We could offer hope to society’s rejects, to those who suffer the torments of addiction wherever they are; in city centres, in the depths of the country, in drug colonies where addicts now collect, as lepers once did. We could build new rehabilitation centres, not just in the developed countries, but in Africa, in the Far East and South America. And let the ones we cure be trained to give others the strength to resist temptation, so that those who have not yet fallen will be saved by those who have. Let us shine the light of truth on the world, so that the dreadful scourge of drug addiction is banished from the planet – not by coercion, but by the will of the people.’