by Unknown
‘Uther was a good man,’ she insisted, flashing a defiant look at Arthur. ‘I adored him. And he adored me.’
What he could he say? Like so many things about his father it was partly true. Unfortunately the part that was not true contaminated the part that was.
‘I wish he were here now.’ Igraine burst into tears.
Arthur tried to hug her but she was unresponsive, standing stiffly in his embrace. ‘I’m sorry, truly sorry. I never dreamed it would end the way it did.’
‘Didn’t you?’ Igraine dried her eyes. ‘You were cruel, Arthur. Your father welcomed you back into the family and into his heart. He deserved your gratitude. Not your . . . ’ She searched for the right word but could not find it.
Nor could Arthur. What was the word that described what he had done to his father? Deception? Treachery? Betrayal? Whatever it was, he would have to live with it. Even though he had no cause to feel guilty his conscience would trouble him for the rest of his life.
Then there was Guinevere. What was he to say to her? And where was he to say it? Certainly he had no intention of subjecting her to the attentions of the papparazzi, who would be far more difficult to shake off than his bodyguards. If the two of them were seen together he could imagine what the tabloids would make of it.
It was four years, almost to the day, since Guinevere had rejected Arthur’s proposal of marriage, and in that time there had, of course, been men friends, though none of them serious involvements. Arthur was still a bachelor. Like her, he had obviously not yet found the ‘right one’, though it would surely not be long before he did, now that he was an even bigger catch than ever . . . Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, young – well, relatively young – macho, charming, intelligent, entertaining, and as good-looking as any man had a right to be. Incredible that no one had managed to catch him, when it seemed as if the whole world was trying to marry him off. The gossip columnists were always linking his name with some girl or other, and it was rumoured that the Party grandees would like him to settle down sooner rather than later.
From time to time she bumped into him, and whenever they met, she was reminded what an exceptionally kind and caring person he was. He actually listened to what you were saying, a rare attribute these days when everyone was so intimately involved with mobile phones and computer monitors. She told herself that her feelings for him were entirely rational and nothing at all to do with love. It was simply that she enjoyed his company; he made her feel so relaxed and secure that whenever she saw him it was a bit like coming home. How old must he be now? Thirty? No, thirty-one. And she was twenty-one. No doubt he found women of her age very immature, certainly far too young to be married to the most important man in the country. Oddly enough, she could scarcely remember now why she had turned him down.
A couple of weeks ago he had made a brief appearance at a charity dinner at Grosvenor House. There had been much whispering and turning of heads as the Prime Minister walked all the way across the Great Room to her table and sat between her and her father. To her surprise it was not her father he wanted to talk to, it was her. Their conversation was still running in her head as if it had been recorded. First there was the usual exchange of platitudes.
‘Good to see you, Guinevere.’ ‘You too.’
‘How are you?’ ‘I’m fine.’
‘Good, good.’
This was hardly typical of the relaxed conversationalist she knew. Altogether he seemed ill-at-ease. There had then been some rumblings in his throat, impossible to interpret.
‘I’m sorry?’ she enquired diffidently.
‘I was – um . . . ’ – the clearing of his throat was followed by more rumblings – ‘ . . . I was trying to say how much I have . . . missed having you around, and that, um . . . ’ He was eyeing the podium. Was he about to rush back to his table for the speeches?
‘Yes?’ Her heart was racing.
‘ . . . I wanted to tell you . . . that if anything should . . . that is to say, if there would be a . . . change in my situation, or . . . if I were not able to be with you . . . for an indefinite time, let’s say . . . I would be . . . I would be . . . sad not to see such a . . . dear friend again. Very sad,’ he ended lamely.
What was all that about? Then suddenly she understood what he was trying to tell her in his halting fashion. A change in my situation . . . not able to be with you for an indefinite time . . . It could hardly be clearer. He was getting engaged, and he wanted her to know. Sad not to see such a dear friend. A dear friend! That was telling her, wasn’t it? He might have loved her once but all that was over. She was nothing more to him now than a dear friend. As for an indefinite time, well that was simply another way of saying forever.
But why, she asked herself, had he broken the news in such a roundabout way? Why had he not just come straight out with it? The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. Could he possibly imagine she was carrying a torch for him? Surely not. Did he expect her to be heartbroken just because he was getting married? Did he think she would make a scene? Run screaming into the street? Throw herself under a bus? It made her blood boil. The presumption of it! The arrogance of the man! Why would she care if she didn’t see him for an indefinite time! She wouldn’t care if she never saw him ever again! After a sleepless night she could not wait to tell her father about this aggravating conversation, expecting him to be as outraged as she was. To her chagrin, Leo did not at all react as she had expected. Instead, listening to what Arthur had said, he looked thoughtful, even a little anxious.
‘You don’t think you might have misunderstood him, do you, darling?’ he asked.
‘No, I do not,’ she said fiercely. ‘That man thinks he’s God’s gift to women.’
‘Hmm.’ Leo decided that saying nothing was by far the most prudent reaction.
‘I’m quite sure he thinks me shallow and trivial and quite unworthy of him,’ said Guinevere bitterly. ‘Well, that doesn’t bother me in the least,’ she asserted, looking very bothered indeed, her father thought. ‘I don’t give a hoot for his opinion. I’m completely indifferent to it,’ she said loftily. ‘I only wish he would not make his contempt for me quite so obvious.’
There was on her father’s face that non-committal look he assumed when he did not agree with her. She found it intensely irritating, insufferably coy; what was worse, it made her wonder whether he had known all along that Arthur was getting married. If so, he had hidden it from her. Why would he do that? Of course! He was trying to protect her. The notion was deeply offensive. Surely he could not for one moment believe that she would be affected by anything Arthur did? He was being just as presumptuous and condescending as Arthur – more so, in fact. It was all too annoying for words. ‘I don’t care if he is the Prime Minister. He’s a vain and self-important man,’ she concluded.
Leo’s eyebrows lifted steeply. ‘Oh, do you think so?’
How it infuriated her – that oh, do you think so? It was so sly, so damned patronising. Of course she bloody well thought so! She would not have said it otherwise, would she? Why couldn’t he just say he disagreed with her? Because he was a coward, that was why. A fine thing when you couldn’t rely on your own father for moral support. ‘Men always stick together, don’t they? Such devious creatures!’ Delivering that final insult she ran out of the room, slamming the door so hard that the walls shook.
Guinevere was hurt and angry. She could not even confide in Lanky. What would be the point? She would only tell her what a fool she had been, and that she didn’t need to hear from anyone. Normally hard-working and social, she took time off from her job in the estate agent’s office, and passed most of her days taking lonely walks round London’s parks, enjoying the sights and scents of spring.
Nature had never much appealed to her before, or rather she had never really noticed it, but now she became consciously and acutely aware of the natural phenomena she had always taken for granted – sunshine and cloud, the shifting patterns of light and shade on grass, the son
g of birds, the riffling of water in a wayward breeze, the opening and closing of a flower. For the first time in her adult life she looked about her with eyes as honest and direct as a child’s, seeing things she had never seen before. On her long solitary walks she discovered a new world.
In that world, moreover, she was also re-examining her own feelings and finding that when she looked at them honestly and directly, they too opened up to her as miraculously as flowers to the sun. Suddenly it was blindingly obvious; she had made a terrible mistake, indeed may have ruined her life. For she had turned down a man who had all the qualifications of a perfect husband, a genuinely remarkable and talented man who loved her, or who had loved her once. What could be more foolish than that? Unless it was to turn down the man she loved?
She became an avid reader of The Times, expecting daily to see the announcement of the Prime Minister’s forthcoming marriage. Strangely enough it did not appear.
Four
2026
Addressed to the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, the ultimatum was delivered to 10 Downing Street shortly before nine a.m., London time, Friday, the 24th October, 2026.
Two hours later the cabinet met. On the table in front of every minister was the text of the message. Arthur read it aloud:
A number of devices containing fissionable and biological material have been concealed in your capital city. These devices will be detonated at nine a.m. on Tuesday, the 28th October, should you fail to meet the following demands:
1. One hundred and twenty-five billion United States dollars are to be wired to us. You will be given the relevant account details on your confirmation of the availability of the necessary funds.
2. Our freedom fighters listed separately are to be released immediately and unconditionally from your prisons and delivered at the times and to the places which will be indicated by us.
3. The Prime Minister of the United Kingdomwill publicly acknowledge that he and his government is responsible for the murder of thousands of our blessed martyrs, falsely accusing them of terrorist activities. He will announce to the General Assembly of the United Nations that Britain has renounced its so-called war on terrorism and ceased all aggressive activities outside its borders.
4. As aconsequenceofthesecriminal activities, the British Prime Minister, Foreign Minister and Minister of Defence will surrender themselves for trial by an International Court of Justice whose members will be appointed by us.
‘The message is signed by a group calling itself “The Angels of Mercy”.’
Everyone was talking at once. Arthur raised a hand and immediately the cabinet room was quiet. ‘One at a time please, ladies and gentlemen. You will all have your say.’ He nodded at Thomas Winnington, the Foreign Secretary. ‘Thomas?’
‘Are we the only country targeted?’
‘The same ultimatum has been received in eight capital cities,’ said Arthur. ‘London, Washington, Beijing, Tokyo, Moscow, Berlin, Paris, and the European Commission in Brussels.’
There were murmurs of incredulity around the table. ‘Eight countries! Unbelievable! Who are these maniacs?’
Arthur turned to his old army comrade. ‘The Minister of Defence has prepared a few facts for us. George.’
‘Thank you, Prime Minister.’ George Bedivere consulted his notes. ‘The Angels of Mercy first surfaced about ten years ago. Like many terrorist organisations in the Middle East, Central Europe, Asia and South America, they began financing their operations by dealing drugs. They have always had conventional weapons and bomb-making capacity. More recently we think they may have laid their hands on some real nasties, chemical and biological weapons, and perhaps some small nuclear weapons too, though as far as we know they have never used them. Over the years they have developed links with various anti-Western terror groups, especially Islamist extremists. They are totally ruthless and highly professional.’
‘They want us to release prisoners,’ said Thomas Winnington. ‘Have they given us a list of names?’
George Bedivere nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘How many are we holding?’ asked Winnington.
John Aitkinson, Home Secretary, answered the question. ‘We have five of them in high security prisons in this country.
The Americans and the French have locked up a few – I’d say about twenty in all.’
‘Has this group actually carried out any terrorist acts?’ The question came from Diana Partridge, Secretary of State for Trade and Industry.
‘Depends what you mean by terrorist,’ said Bedivere. ‘Their activities could be categorised as criminal, though they use tried and tested terrorist techniques. So far their speciality has been kidnapping for money. They have a nasty habit of torturing their victims on camera and releasing the videos to various TV stations in the Middle East.’
There were exclamations of horror around the table.
‘If they don’t get what they want,’ continued Bedivere grimly, ‘they don’t hesitate to kill. They do that on camera too. As you can imagine, people tend to agree to their demands. All in all they have extorted huge sums of money – I’m talking many millions.’
‘Were they behind the kidnapping of the French President two years ago?’ asked Leo Grant, who, as Chairman of the Party, was a member of the cabinet as a Minister without Portfolio
George Bedivere shook his head. ‘That was another Islamist group, the Children of the Revolution. No direct links as far as we know. Although . . . ’ He shrugged. ‘We can never be sure. The scenario gets rewritten every day.’
‘If their speciality is extorting money,’ said Aitkinson, ‘couldn’t this just be a huge bluff?’
‘It could,’ said Bedivere. ‘Whatmakes me doubtits seriousness is the fact that this ultimatum is a major departure in a number of ways. First, to my knowledge, they have never before used the threat of nuclear or biological weapons. Second, until now they have targeted wealthy companies and individuals, not governments. And third, there’s the sheer scale and arrogance of the ultimatum.’
‘I’ve just realised,’ said Lionel Gottfried, Chancellor of the Exchequer, ‘that we are talking eight times a hundred and twenty-five billion dollars. A trillion dollars! The mind boggles!’
Thomas Winnington expressed what they were all thinking. ‘Surely they must know their demands are unrealistic?’
‘To me that indicates that either it’s a bluff,’ said George Bedivere, ‘or that they have no intention of negotiating.’
‘Let’s not jump to conclusions,’ cautioned Arthur.
‘Do we have any idea what they do with the money they extort?’ asked John Aitkinson.
‘What they claim to do,’ said Bedivere, ‘is redress social wrongs world-wide. Hence the name Angels of Mercy. They say they help the poor, the starving, the sick, the victims of war, that sort of thing. We see absolutely no evidence of that.’
‘What are they trying to achieve?’ asked Aitkinson.
George Bedivere deferred to Arthur. ‘We are not sure,’ said Arthur. ‘So far they have said very little about their ultimate goal. It could be a worldwide Islamic State. Or the overthrow of Western style democracy. The chances are there’s a hidden agenda somewhere.’
‘And what might that be?’
‘They claim to act in the name of Islam,’ said Arthur, ‘though many Muslim leaders disown them. We don’t have conclusive proof but we suspect they are the terrorist arm of one of the countries in the Middle East. If that’s true, then with this sort of money that country could change the balance of power in the Middle East – in the world, for that matter.’
Angela Furnival, Secretary of State for Employment, asked, ‘Are you talking about Iran?’
Arthur hesitated. ‘I’ll get to that in a moment.’
‘Where do they get their weapons from?’ Thomas Winnington wanted to know.
‘Many came from the break-up of the old Soviet Union, of course. But believe it or not,’ said Arthur, ‘they also came from Europe and America. It’s
an old story. On a number of occasions government stockpiles of radio-active waste in the USA and Sweden were broken into. It was always hushed up, but quite a lot of “dirty” uranium has gone missing over the years.’
‘Quite a lot?’ echoed Angela Furnival. ‘How much is that?’ ‘I wish I knew,’ said Arthur frankly. ‘The fact is no one does.
It’s hard to credit, but neither the Americans nor the Swedes ever kept proper records of their stockpiles. We do know that some terror groups have significant quantities of the stuff. In the last twenty-five years there have been a number of incidents involving the use, or the threatened use, of uranium, both dirty and enriched.’
‘Which is this?’ asked Leo Grant.
‘Hard to say,’ admitted Arthur. ‘The ultimatum talks of fissionable material. It could be enriched but it might not be. Nevertheless dirty uranium is still deadly. A simple mechanism does the trick. The bomb is detonated by remote control – a signal from a mobile phone, for example. Each bomb would probably be about a third of the size of the Hiroshima type, or it could be smaller.’
There were a lot of worried faces in the room as it began to dawn on every member of the cabinet that this was potentially the most serious global terrorist threat ever.
‘They also talk about biological material,’ John Aitkinson reminded them. ‘You think they have biological weapons?’
‘We have to assume they do,’ said Arthur. ‘In the last three decades there have been at least fifty relatively minor terrorist incidents worldwide involving biological weapons. We all know how easy these things are to produce and conceal. They could be freeze-dried and packed in small containers – nerve gas, anthrax, smallpox, plague, botulinum toxin, aflotoxin, clostridium, plus a whole new generation of deadly poisons.’
Angela Furnival raised her hand. Arthur nodded in her direction. ‘Prime Minister, you referred to a possible change in the balance of power in the Middle East. You seemed to be talking about Iran. Who exactly are the political masters of the Angels of Mercy?’