Underground (35 page)

‘Leo,’ he said, his expression cultivatedly grave and concerned.

‘Oh fuck you, Bernard,’ I replied.

That raised a tolerant smile. He glanced at my papers. ‘They tell me you’ve been writing your autobiography. Is it finished?’

‘All the fun bits, yes. I don’t really know how it’s gonna end though.’

‘Ah.’

‘But there’s a passage about you masturbating in the shed, when we were kids.’

He only looked at me, then shook his head as if disappointed.

I said, ‘You’re here for the big conference, I suppose?’

‘I am.’

‘And is President Nate here now too?’

‘He is. The concluding ceremonies are tomorrow. Followed by the joint signing of all the new treaties and accords.’

‘And you’re centre stage, are you? We’re playing a key role in everything, Australia? I mean, we’re more than just the caterers here in Canberra, right? We’re not just serving out the tea and lamingtons to the big boys?’

‘Our voice is heard,’ he said.

‘Oh, I bet it is. The Americans must owe you big, if you’ve done all this for them.’ Anger rose up in me. ‘That night at The Lodge. When that agent came in and told you about the bomb, it was all just pretend for you.’

He inclined his head modestly.

‘But why did you want
me
there? Why all the crap about Mum’s will, and about cutting me off? You knew none of it was going to matter.’

He shrugged. ‘I had the time to spare.’

The time to spare? Ha! I didn’t believe that for a second.

In fact, you want to know what I think, interrogators? I think he wanted me there that night because, somewhere inside him, there was a tiny spark of guilt glowing in regards to the travesty he was about to enact. It might only have been subconscious, but I think he needed to break completely from his family before it happened. To finish burying his mother, to cast off his only brother, to sever himself from all connections of kinship, before taking the final step into depravity. Just like Aisha—ridding herself of her parents before the jihad could begin.

But then who really knows with a furtive prick like Bernard?

His hands stroked the table. ‘I’m here to talk about
you
, Leo.’

I ignored that. ‘What’s the name of this thing anyway?’

‘What?’

‘This table.’

He stared. ‘The Table of the House.’

Well, that was a let down. I gazed up at the walls and the visitors’ galleries. ‘Why here? Why did you ask them to put me in this room in particular?’

‘Well, I knew it wasn’t being used.’ He considered the chamber in satisfaction. ‘Besides,’ he added virtuously, ‘I didn’t want you in a
cell
.’

And that was a lie too. I could have been kept in a house, a motel, anywhere at all. But no, the prison had to be Parliament House, at Bernard’s insistence. And this is just my theory, interrogators, but perhaps that’s how Bernard, in his dark mind, actually views the House of Representatives—as a prison. His own days in here were not happy—hemmed in by laws, constrained by the necessity for votes and debates and compromises. No doubt he was glad to be finally free of the place. And then couldn’t resist the urge to lock
me
in here, in his stead.

I said, ‘But don’t you need a meeting hall like this? Where do all the big ceremonies take place during this great conference of yours?’

‘We use the old Parliament House. Everyone thought it was more comfortable. Not as roomy, but more . . . intimate.’

And perversely enough, I could see that. This new Parliament House is all sharp edges and steel and glass, but the old one, it’s more like a well-worn gentlemen’s club. All scuffed polished wood and cracked leather. The sort of surrounds that world dominators have gravitated to ever since Britannia ruled the waves. Poring over the maps with brandy and cigars.

‘So this building is empty apart from me?’

‘Not exactly. Some of the offices are used.’

‘By who?’

And he didn’t seem to want to answer that.

‘It’s the Americans, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘This is
their
headquarters now.’

‘It’s no such thing.’

‘Oh no? Then why haven’t I seen a single Australian face since they captured me? Why are the Americans doing all the questioning? Why isn’t it ASIO or the AFP? This whole debacle is their business, isn’t it? So where are they?’

The old stubborn look was there. ‘It doesn’t matter who questions you. We have an arrangement for the full exchange of intelligence.’

‘Oh, right. Absolutely. And God knows, you can always trust the Americans, can’t you? Especially when it comes to intelligence.’ Then the realisation finally dawned. ‘But they don’t trust
you
, do they? Not you, not ASIO, not the AFP. You guys fucked the whole thing up. Ever since Aisha’s boys nabbed me, you’ve made a mess of it all. So they’ve shunted you lot aside. Cut you out of the loop. In your own damn country. In your own damn Parliament House.’

Bernard glared coldly. ‘Either way, they’ve finished with your interrogation. And the question of what to do with you now—that’s entirely up to me.’

Which shut me up, good and proper.

‘So what
do
we do with you, Leo?’

I couldn’t answer. That’s the problem with—well, I can’t think of anything else to call it but sibling rivalry. Of course, brothers fight all the time, younger and older. And, in any family, the little brother will eventually score some sort of symbolic victory over the bigger. That’s hard on the older brother, to have to admit defeat, and yet it’s all part of growing up. But when the little brother has won absolutely everything, and holds the bigger brother’s life completely in his hands . . . Let me tell you, no amount of growing up can help you there.

Bernard sniffed. ‘Under the state of emergency security provisions, the law allows only one penalty for your various crimes.’

And I knew what that penalty was, sure enough. I said, ‘What are my crimes, precisely? What law did I break?’

‘Trespassing in the Canberra Protected Zone is a capital offence, for one. But there’s at least a dozen others. Using false identity cards. Consorting with known terrorists. Illegally entering a cultural precinct.’

‘I had no choice in any of that. I was a hostage. Seems to me, all I did was get kidnapped. And that only happened because I’m the Prime Minister’s brother. But that’s my real crime, isn’t it, Bernie? Being your brother.’

He laughed.

I said, ‘What is it exactly that you can’t stand about me? Is it just that I always had more fun than you? That
everyone
always had more fun than you?’

He smiled his dead smile. ‘You should thank God you’re my brother. I’m the only one who can get you out of this.’

‘And will you?’

‘I’ve always bailed you out before, haven’t I?’

‘You signed my death warrant!’

‘Maybe,’ he said. And then, offhand, ‘But you don’t have to die.’

‘I don’t?’

‘Not if you’re smart. Obviously, you can’t just be let go. As far as the world is concerned, you died over a month ago. But that isn’t necessarily a problem. Quite a few officially dead people are living and working here in Canberra.’

‘Osama bin Laden, for one.’

‘He’s an extreme example, but yes.’

‘So what—you let me live, but I have to stay in Canberra the rest of my life?’

‘There are worse options.’

‘I wonder.
You
never liked living here, I recall.’

He took the remark seriously. ‘This city was a mistake. It should never have been built. At least now it’s being put to a useful purpose.’

He said it with such complacency, with such indifference about what he had done to Canberra and the whole country. And yet I could see that it was as much explanation as I would ever get on the matter. There was no question of whether it was right or wrong—simply that it had worked.

I swear I would have reached over and belted him in that moment, if only the Table of the House wasn’t so wide.

Instead I said, ‘And what would I do here?’

‘Anything you like. You’d be monitored, of course. But you’re not entirely without skills. I’m sure a job could be found for you somewhere. Meanwhile, there’s plenty of nice houses to choose from. Make yourself a home.’

And the rage drained out of me. What use was anger to me now? He had me, and we both knew it. So, I thought, a life in Canberra. Could I do it?

In short, of course I could.

After all, the high moral ground was
not
my native habitat. The pursuit of pleasure had always been far more important
to me than worrying about who runs the world and how it’s done. Staying alive was even more crucial. And there was no reason I couldn’t be comfortable in Canberra. Bernard was right—I did have some skills, and one of them was always keeping myself supplied with the little luxuries. There would be booze somewhere in the city. There would be good food. There would be women around who were prepared to fuck my tired old body, if I asked nicely. What would it matter if they worked for the CIA or ASIO or some other secret police force? What would it matter if their heads were full of laws and rules and self-righteousness? As long as their cunts were tight and juicy.

Bernard was watching me, half smiling.

Ah, but I’d seen so many people die. Some of them crazy and violent, like Aisha and her boys. Some of them pathetic, like the refugees in the desert. Some of them doggedly doing their best in impossible situations, like the people in the ghetto. And some of them simply striving for a fairer world, like poor old Harry. But all of them caught in the same web that Bernard and his friends had spun. And that wasn’t supposed to matter? I was just supposed to forget it all?

Bernard’s smile told me exactly what
he
thought I’d do.

And oh, how I would’ve loved to prove him wrong. How I would’ve loved to rail at him about freedom and justice and the value of life, to declare that self-preservation wasn’t everything, that fear wasn’t the only motivating factor for humanity, that my soul wasn’t cold and shrivelled like his. But in the end, I refused his offer for no such noble reasons or sentiments. I would have said yes to Bernard despite all of that, and served out my sorry existence in this charade of a city, and lived with the humiliation of owing him my life.

No, what stopped me was the simple awareness—just by looking into his eyes—that my brother was lying his head off.

He had no intention of letting me live. He never has had any intention, not since declaring me dead. And it isn’t just because he hates me. He’s always hated me. The crux of it is, I’ve done the unforgivable. I’ve embarrassed him in front of
you
, dear interrogators. In front of the Americans. Even worse, I’ve scared him. His whole wonderful scheme—Canberra, the state of emergency, his dictatorship—it all tottered there for a moment, as me and Harry and Aisha fled up and down the country. How that must have terrified him. How he must have sweated, waiting for us to be caught. There’s no way he could let me survive after that, the suggestion was always the purest bullshit. No, he just wanted to see me beg for mercy. To confirm for him, if nothing else, my complete cowardice.

So I performed the one defiant act of my life. Because I’m going to die anyway, and because it robbed the little turd of that one last pleasure.

I said, ‘No thanks.’

If Bernard was surprised, he didn’t show it. He’s a professional politician, after all. The vote had been put, and the motion had failed, but nothing had changed. He pushed away from the table, and stood there a moment by the dispatch box, gazing around at the House of Representatives one last time.

‘Firing squad,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow morning.’

And out he walked.

‘American troops?’ I yelled after him. ‘Or Australian?’

He didn’t answer.

I’ve just woken, and come straight to the table.

I’m amazed, actually, that I went to sleep. I didn’t mean to, not on my last night. And dawn can’t be far away now. There are clocks on the walls in here, but none of them work. Can I see the faintest glow, through the angled windows above?

No, I don’t think so. Not yet.

So I have a little while still, to write this down. Because while I was sleeping, I had a dream. A vivid, coherent dream.

I was sitting here as usual at the Table of the House, and I heard an odd sound from outside—like the soft popping of a champagne cork. One of the doors opened, and there, incredibly, was my acquaintance with the half-paralysed face, cowboy boots and all. My own Uncle Sam. Holding a gun in his hand, with the long barrel of a silencer attached.

He said, ‘You coming?’

‘What?’

‘I’m busting you out, Leo. So
move.
’

I moved. In the corridor outside were two of my guards, lying dead on the floor. Sam beckoned me on without a word, and we hurried through the empty hallways of Parliament House, until we came to what seemed an important suite of rooms. In fact, they were familiar. It was the Prime Minister’s wing. I’d visited Bernard there once, in much happier days. But it was all dark and deserted now. US flags hung on the walls.

We came to the Prime Minister’s office, and there was Bernard’s desk, just as I remembered it. Apparently it was Sam’s office now. He closed the door, and then reached for something under the far side of the desk.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

‘Watch,’ he said, his half-smile twisted, and I heard a button click.

The desk rose slightly, and then swivelled on a pivot to reveal a hole beneath the floor. Narrow stairs dived down into darkness.

I said, ‘What is this?’

‘Our way out. We could hardly go through the front doors.’

I followed him down. There were many steep steps, and then we came to a smooth concrete tunnel, dimly lit. It ran ahead for hundreds of yards.

‘I don’t understand,’ I said, as we moved down the tunnel, Sam limping slightly at my side. ‘Why are you helping me?’

‘Can’t you guess?’

‘No.’

He paused at that, and held out a hand to introduce himself. ‘Samuel R. Hopkins. American Underground.’