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.
THIRTY-SEVEN
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.’
I stared at him.
‘What? You think you Aussies are the only ones with a resistance movement?’
‘But you? Aren’t you in charge of the secret services here in Canberra?’
‘That I am. Not bad going, for an Underground operative.’
‘But—but if you’re against all this, then how could you let it happen? How could you go along with it all this time?’
‘For the greater good, that’s how. It’s all part of a plan.’
‘What plan?!’
‘You’ll see. Very soon. Now come on.’
We continued. The tunnel intersected with another tunnel, and then others, running off at all angles. There were signs on the walls, pointing out cryptic routes.
‘Who built these?’ I asked.
‘We did.’
‘Who? The American Underground?’
‘No! The CIA. You must have heard the rumours about the US Embassy and all the tunnels underneath?’
‘I never believed them.’
‘You should have. We had this town completely wired.’
‘Is that where we’re going now? The US Embassy?’
‘Christ, no. Too many eyes.’
The tunnel started to descend gently, and somehow I knew that we were going under Lake Burley Griffin. Eventually it rose again, and then we turned off into a smaller side tunnel, and ascended a ladder that ended in a manhole. We opened it and climbed into daylight, hidden from sight in a pocket of shrubs. I looked about. We were on the shore of the lake, directly across the water from the old Parliament House. The time seemed to be around mid-morning, and yet the city was deserted, no cars moving, no people walking. A ghost town.
Sam led me up the embankment to the foot of Anzac Parade. A black limousine was waiting there, driverless. We sat in the front, with Sam behind the wheel. He started up, and then we rolled away, north along the parade, past the statues and memorials of Australia’s long history at war.
‘Are we getting out of Canberra?’
He nodded. ‘But there’s something I want you to see first.’
We wound through the silent suburbs. Before us, Mt Ainslie hulked against the sky. Up we went along the road through the scrub, until we reached the lookout where I’d stood with Harry and Aisha. We climbed out and went to the railing. Canberra spread below us, empty and grey.
‘Look there,’ my rescuer said, pointing to the airport. ‘You see that plane parked off on its own? The one that’s all black?’
I saw it. In fact, I’d seen it once before. It was the same plane that had flown over the three of us that first morning, just as we reached the mountain top, not knowing that two of us would be dead within hours.
‘It’s a CIA transport,’ Sam went on. ‘And that’s how we brought it in. The crew, the pilot, the ground staff back in the States—they’re all in the American Underground.’
‘Brought what in?’
His teeth were perfect as he gave his deformed smile. ‘A nuclear warhead.’
‘Another one?’
He nodded. ‘But bigger than the last one. Much bigger. And much dirtier.’
‘What’s it for?’
‘We’re going to wipe Canberra from the face of the earth. For real this time.’
I stared down. ‘When?’
‘One hour from now. Midday. At exactly the same time that the closing ceremony of the big conference is due to finish.’ He pointed down to the old Parliament House. ‘They’re in there right now, all the negotiators and guests and dignitaries, congratulating themselves. And they’re right next to ground zero. The bomb is in a catering van parked at the back.’ He laughed. ‘Do you see our plan now, Leo? What we’ve been working towards all these years?’
I looked at him, understanding. ‘You wanted them all in one place.’
He nodded. ‘And for the first time in history, here they are. The warmongers. The dictators. The spy masters. The arms dealers. The oil barons. The corporate overlords. The terrorist leaders. The whole cabal that’s ruined this planet. All those obscene old men who expect the rest of
us to do the dying in the wars they start. There’s never been any way to get to them before. Not all of them at once. But here in Canberra—they think they’re so safe in this city. They think they’ve built a fortress. But it’s a trap. They’ve built their own death chamber.’
‘And in one hour . . . ?’
‘It’s not going to be pretty, Leo. When the bomb goes off, and the truth finally comes out, it’s going to be fucking chaos, right around the world. Governments are going to collapse, revolutions are going to happen, riots, wars, bloodshed. But at least there’ll be a proper reason for it this time. At least this will give us another chance at getting it right, without those people down there perverting it all.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ I said. I turned away from the city and faced him. ‘I can’t believe it’s you doing this. Americans.’
He shrugged. ‘Who else could have? You boys here in Australia? The English? The Chinese? The Arabs? They all have their resistance movements too. But no, it was up to us in the States, just like it always is. And don’t misunderstand, Leo. We’re all proud Americans, in our Underground. We know full well that the US is the most important country in the world, and that it’s our responsibility to lead the world.’ He gestured out over the city. ‘But not like this.’
A wave of hope swept over me, like wind on the mountain top. Then a trilling sound broke out. It was the ringing of a mobile phone. Sam reached into his pocket, brought the phone to his ear, and listened.
‘Goddamn,’ he said, after a time.
‘What’s wrong?’
He hung up the phone, tight-lipped, and nodded towards the city. At the same time, a siren began to wail. And then another one. And then more. Like air raid sirens, rising and falling mournfully, trying to wake the dead town.
‘What’s happening?’
‘There’s been a fuck-up,’ he said grimly. ‘Word has got out about the bomb.’
‘They’ve found it?’
‘No. But they know it’s somewhere in the city. Look.’
Lights were flashing outside the old Parliament House, and suddenly a crowd of people were flooding through the front doors, and down the stairs. Cars appeared from everywhere.
‘They’ll get away!’ I said.
‘No,’ Sam replied, sounding sad, ‘they won’t.’ He was staring at his phone. ‘Although I was hoping we would.’
I looked at him.
He said, ‘An hour would have been long enough for us to get clear. It’s a pity. But it hardly matters.’ He puffed out a sigh and, with slow finality, punched a series of numbers into the phone. Then, to my amazement, he handed the phone to me. ‘Executive override code to detonate the bomb instantly. All you have to do is press “Send”—and that will be the end of it.’
I stared at the phone, and then down at the old Parliament House. The crowd there was piling into the cars, and the vehicles were racing off madly.
From very far away, I could hear the screams of panic.
‘You want me to do it?’
‘You’ve got as much reason as any of us, don’t you?’
‘But . . .’
‘You don’t mind, surely? You were going to die anyway.’
‘I know . . .’
‘But just before you do . . .’ Sam was pulling a pack of cigarettes from his suit pocket. ‘I was down to only a few of these a day. But there’s no harm now.’
He lit up. Offered the pack to me.
And so we both smoked a last cigarette, savouring the unique pleasure of living a few minutes more, while below the sirens droned on, and Canberra convulsed in its final terror. Most of the vehicles fleeing the old Parliament House were heading, I could see, for the airport. It wasn’t far. A large passenger jet had powered up, and a stairway had been rolled out to its side.
‘What’s the lethal range of that bomb?’ I asked, fingering the phone.
Sam thought calmly. ‘Even up here, we’ll be incinerated instantly.’ He studied the speeding cars. ‘The airport is even closer to it. There’s no rush.’
‘Good.’
It was my first cigarette in years, and I wanted to finish it.
Below, the cars had reached the terminal, and figures were leaping out, running around the side of the building to get to the plane. And somehow, even from two miles away, I could see them all clearly, even their faces, as they sprinted across the tarmac. The lords of this corrupted earth, grappling and shoving at each other in their haste, mouths contorted. Brave generals, and national leaders, and suited CEOs. Arab oil merchants and their terrorist cousins. All of them shrieking and swearing and fleeing for their lives. Nathaniel Harvey was in there somewhere. Osama bin Laden too. But ahead of them all, miraculously, was my little brother. Bernard ‘Last Man Out’ James. Determined to be the first this time. His stout legs pumping.
I took a long final drag, stubbed out my cigarette.
I looked to Sam. ‘Well?’
He stubbed his out too. Took a deep breath. Nodded.
Down on the tarmac, Bernard was clambering up the stairs to the door of the plane. He was waving madly at the cockpit. Go, go, go.
Behind him a scrum had developed at the foot of the stairs. Bernard was shoving the whole structure away from the plane anyway, screaming all the while.
The jet started forward.
I pressed the ‘Send’ button.
And a white purifying flame filled the sky.
THIRTY-EIGHT
But that was just a dream.
Here in the House of Representatives, it feels cold for the first time since my imprisonment. The sky, the tiny fragment of it I can see, still seems dark. But the guards were here a moment ago. They said they’ll be ready for me in one hour.
I asked them where it will be. Which part of this building, or of Canberra, do they use for the executions? Outdoors, I assume, if it’s a firing squad.
But they wouldn’t tell me where, or who would be behind the guns.
So, dear interrogators.
What is there left for me to say?
Except . . . that dream. It has me thinking. I mean, there really must be some sort of US Underground, mustn’t there? God knows, not every one of you Americans can be happy with the way your country operates now. Of course, I doubt that my friend with the blighted face could really be a member of such a group. There’s no double agent as masterful as that.
But what about you, interrogators? I’ve seen five of you over these last weeks. Is there any chance that just one of you—just one—isn’t so sure about the way things are? I’m not imagining for one second that anyone is going to save my life here. But these memoirs I’ve written. What about them?
It would only take one copy of these pages, let loose on the streets.
The truth would be out. And then what would happen?
Just a quick trip to a photocopier, that’s all that needs to be done. Are you listening, whichever of you is reading this, days or weeks or months after I’m dead?
Are you alone in your office?
Then do it.
And I’m going to break one last law before I go.
I’m going to talk about the Roman Empire again. Because I look back at everything that’s happened, not just in these last weeks, but in these last years. And not just in my life, but in the life of the whole country. I look at the changes in Australia that made these events possible, the changes in us, all in the name of protecting ourselves, of fending off the threat beyond our borders. And I can’t help but think of Rome, its decline and its fall, and whether or not we in this age share any similarity with it. As I said, I’ve studied some history. And I’m wondering. Those Romans living say about the year 350 AD—could they see what was coming?
After all, to most people, the Empire must have looked as strong as it ever had, and the city of Rome as supreme and as untouchable. The barbarians loomed on all sides, true, but they were still being held beyond the frontiers. And yet, did any perceptive soul see what it cost the Romans to keep those
hordes at bay? Like the armies that demanded ever more men and money? Or like the autocracy of the emperors that grew ever more severe—stifling internal debate, corrupting law, imposing dogma over knowledge, reducing free citizens to serfs—all for the sake of unity and strength? Did anyone see how dangerous that was? Did anyone feel the withering of the very inspiration that had made Rome so great?
And did they imagine, in their darkest dreams, that it was all in vain? That by the time the barbarians did break through, the Empire would already be essentially dead? That instead of protecting their world, they had fatally weakened it? That in fifty years Rome would be a smoking ruin? That the Empire would have become a bloodied stamping ground for the armies of a dozen different sides and causes? And that within a hundred years a Dark Age would be settling over Europe—an era of war and poverty and enslavement that would last for centuries?
There must have been some who saw it. Some who yelled it out in the streets. And how they must have been scorned, and locked up as madmen.
Well, I’m no prophet.
I have no idea what the future holds. I won’t even be alive to see it. But I’ll say one thing. If—in this blind pursuit of security above all else—we poison our own society, and so decline, and fall, then we will be more culpable than even the Romans were before us. And such a fall, I suspect, would be followed by an Age so terrible, compared with the knowledge and the light which preceded it, that it wouldn’t merely be called Dark. It would be called Black.
I hear marching footsteps in the hall outside. Orders yelled.
I think the fuckers are actually going to shoot me in here.
And God help them, they sound Australian.
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