by Unknown
The terrorists’ third communication came at eight p.m., London time. Like the first and second message it was posted simultaneously in all eight capitals. The sting was in the last sentence. ‘This is our final communiqué. We inform you that we are ready to negotiate with your country separately from the seven others. But we warn you that we shall explode three devices in each capital in turn in a sequence to be determined by us, unless and until we have concluded a satisfactory settlement with all eight of you.’
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.’
Six
Sunday, 26th October
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 sur
e 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.
Seven
Monday, 27th October
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 tra
pped, 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!’
