Underground (8 page)

In any case, we were saved further pleasantries, because at the top of the stairs the door opened, and one of our captors descended. He was wearing a balaclava, but had no weapons that I could see. Instead, rather strangely, he carried a small television set with a rabbit-ears aerial.

‘About fucking time,’ I declared.

He glanced my way, then held up a finger—wait. Wordlessly, he set up the TV on the bar, plugged it in and switched it on. I watched with growing outrage and impatience. He played with the reception for a time, and when the picture cleared it revealed a game show. The volume was turned down, but it was ‘The New Price is Right’. Not far from the end. So now I knew that out there in the normal world—away from all these basements and masked faces and clockless walls—it was about five minutes to six on a weekday evening.

Satisfied, the man took a seat. He leant back, hands behind his head, and considered us both at leisure. ‘The Prime Minister’s brother,’ he said at last. ‘And a cell leader from the Great Southern Jihad. I gotta say it—you two are a real mystery.’

I looked at Aisha. She was glaring across the room at him, but didn’t seem inclined to speak. ‘Um,’ I said, ‘I’m not
with
her, you know.’

‘Oh?’

‘She was holding me hostage. Just this morning. She was probably going to kill me.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes! Look, for fuck’s sake—’

He laughed. ‘Okay mate, relax. I get the general idea.’

I sat back, staring. It was hard to guess his age. Maybe late forties, going by his hands, and by a solid frame that suggested the beginnings of a middle-age spread. Grey eyes, through the holes in the mask. A patient, confident voice.

I said, ‘So who the hell are you people?’

‘We’re the ones who rescued you.’

‘I’d already
been
rescued, before you came along.’

He barked another dry laugh. ‘Believe me, you needed rescuing. Both of you. Whether you knew it or not.’

‘Fine. You’ve done it then. Now let us go. Or at least let me go. I don’t give a shit about her.’

‘That wouldn’t be in your best interest, trust me.’

‘
You
know what’s in my best interest?’

He nodded. ‘Right now, I’m your only friend.’ He was watching Aisha. ‘The same goes for you, little lady.’

‘Stick it up your arse,’ she responded.

And I could tell the man was amused by the crinkle of his eyebrow. He turned to check the TV screen. ‘The New Price is Right’ was running the credits. The final contestant had been playing for prizes valued at half a million, including a fully armoured family sedan, with the complete anti-terrorist defence attachments, tear gas and all. But she hadn’t won. He turned back to us.

‘Before we talk, I want you to watch the news. It should give you some idea of what’s going on here.’

He moved his chair around, and we all sat there, facing the screen.

I was interested despite myself. It must have been a week—way back before the cyclone neared the coast—since I’d seen any news. These days, a week was an eternity. And the way the man was talking, perhaps something momentous had occurred. Another Twin Towers, another nuke—who could tell?

But there was none of that. The news, at least the first two minutes of it, was solely about me. And the fact that I was dead.

‘Forensic tests have finally confirmed,’ said the newsreader, ‘that the body found at the Ocean Sands Green Resort near Bundaberg is indeed that of Leo James, the twin brother of Prime Minister Bernard James. The state of the remains had until now led to doubts about the identity of the deceased, but authorities have today made the death official. The Prime Minister himself reportedly donated a DNA sample early yesterday to aid with the identification process.’

I was staring at the wreckage of my resort on the screen, bathed now in sunshine, shot from a news helicopter. And then I was listening to an obituary, outlining my sad and sorry life in a well-censored lack of detail, while old photos of me flashed
across the screen. Bernard and me as children. Me at my second wedding. Me with Bernard in his Prime Ministerial office. (The friendly pose belying the fact that he was probably dressing me down at the time.) Me in a silly hard hat on the site of some construction project I was trying to fund.

‘The Prime Minister has expressed his great sadness at his brother’s passing, and has said the occasion is a reminder that even in these troubled political times, we must not forget the dangers and tragedies with which nature herself presents us. He also expressed deep sympathy for others who have lost loved ones or property as a result of Cyclone Yusuf.’

‘Fuck him!’ I said to no one, disbelieving.

The man held up his finger again. ‘There’s more.’

‘In other breaking news,’ read the host, ‘the Federal Police have reported a successful raid on a terrorist cell in south-east Queensland. After lengthy investigation, several members of a group calling themselves the Great Southern Jihad were ambushed and eliminated by AFP agents. Police warn, however, that the cell commander remains at large.’

And suddenly there she was, large as life on TV. It was one of those surveillance-type photos, taken as she was crossing a street somewhere, in normal clothes, her head turned slightly away from the camera. But it was Aisha, sure enough.

The genuine article was blinking at the screen.

‘The AFP report that Nancy Campbell is armed and extremely dangerous. Members of the public are advised not to approach her, but to inform police immediately if she is sighted. Campbell is wanted dead or alive, and a shoot-to-kill order has been issued. Extra AFP forces have been deployed to south-east Queensland, and increased roadblocks and other security measures will be in force. Returning now to the clean-up of Cyclone Yusuf . . .’

The man reached over and switched the television off.

‘They aren’t kidding about the AFP reinforcements. It’s a madhouse out there. Not just the AFP, but the army too, trucks
and troops everywhere, roadblocks all over the place.’ He nodded towards Aisha. ‘They really want you dead.’

‘Is that any surprise?’ I interjected. ‘She’s a terrorist. More than that, she’s one of the ones who nuked Canberra.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘She did.’

He laughed. Stared at her for a moment. ‘Got tickets on yourself, haven’t you, girl?’ He shook his head. ‘Either way, she steps out the door and someone will gun her down. As for you—your own brother has declared you dead, when he knows perfectly well you aren’t.’

‘It’s some sort of mistake . . .’

‘No mistake. From what we’ve heard, the AFP has secret orders to shoot
you
on sight as well. The story is that you and her work together, and always have, but supposedly it’s all being kept quiet to avoid embarrassing the PM.’

I was shaken. ‘That’s not true.’

‘We know. But even so, by government decree, you don’t exist anymore. Indeed, the government seems to be shifting heaven and earth to make sure that neither of you exists. Do you understand what I’m saying? The only reason you’re both alive is because we’ve got you safely hidden down here.’

My mouth was dry. ‘Who
are
you?’

He hesitated, picked at the hem of his balaclava. ‘I guess you should be told. The fact is, you two don’t have any choice but to trust us, if you want to stay alive.’

Then to my astonishment he pulled the mask off. I saw a round, ruddy face. A dishevelled mass of sandy hair. And a wry, lopsided smile.

‘My name is Harry. Welcome to the Oz Underground.’

So now I was a captive of the OU.

And I know that you bastards don’t believe me—not if the interrogations are anything to go by—but until that very moment I had never in my life had a thing to do with them. Until that moment, in fact, I wasn’t even sure that the Oz Underground really existed. Yes, I’d heard the rumours. Yes, I’d seen the graffiti. But I never once read their name anywhere in the media. I never once heard any law enforcement agency decry their activities, or issue warrants for their arrest. So what was I supposed to think? And when, on occasion, I’d raised the question with the odd government official who crossed my path, I was always blithely assured that there was not now and never had been an Underground. They were a fantasy, a chimera, just the wishful thinking of a few left-wing crazies. Forget all about them, Leo, old son, and have another beer.

Lying motherfuckers.

Meanwhile, down in the empty snooker room, Harry was folding his balaclava neatly and trying to point out that I wasn’t a captive at all. (And no, I don’t know his last name. Or if Harry was even his real first name. And why am I bothering with denials? You’d know more about it than me. You’re the ones who killed him, and you’re the ones who have his body.)

‘You see what I’m saying?’ He was looking earnestly from Aisha to me. ‘There’s no point hiding my face. I know you two won’t betray me. There’s no one you could betray me
to
. We’re the only refuge you have left.’

‘The Underground?’ I said, still in disbelief. ‘You’re telling me that the Underground is real, and that you’re it?’

He smiled. ‘Well, a part of it.’

He sure didn’t look it. Of all the gun-wielding idiots I’d met in the last few days, he seemed the least likely to be part of a militant resistance movement. With his beer belly and open face and receding hairline, he looked like he should be sitting on a beach with a stubbie in one hand and a battered old trannie tuned to the cricket in the other, ogling topless girls who were twenty years too young for him.

He asked, ‘You’ve heard about what we do?’

‘Yeah.’ I glanced at Aisha, then back to him. ‘More bloody terrorists.’

‘We’re not terrorists.’

‘No?’

His expression had grown serious. ‘We don’t wish any harm to Australia, or to any western society.’ Aisha gave a cough of cynical laughter, and he stared at her levelly. ‘Or to any other society, for that matter. Certainly not Islam. But we
are
prepared to fight, to save this country.’

‘Save it from who?’ I asked.

‘From itself. Or at least from its government. This police state they’ve set up.’ The smile again. ‘In particular, we’re trying to save it from your brother.’

‘Good fucking luck.’ What did this bloke expect—that just because I hated Bernard I’d be impressed by a bunch of would-be revolutionaries trying to overthrow him? ‘And you can just leave me out of it, okay?’

‘Even when your brother has ordered your execution?’

‘So you tell me.’

‘What do you think that news report was about?’

And there was nothing I could say to that.

At the same time, a list of stories about the OU was running through my head. How they supposedly had a secret network throughout the country. How they had members from all strata of society—public servants, farmers, doctors, mechanics, priests, IT workers, dock workers, lawyers, teachers—any sort of people you cared to name. How they were waging a hidden campaign against the security laws, against the detention laws, against the US bases, against our involvement in all the wars—in other words, against just about everything that had happened in Australia over the last decade, all the way back to the September 11 attacks. How they had hundreds of safe houses from city to city, and ferried all kinds of illegal persons between them. How they had reportedly sabotaged US army vehicles, or ambushed AFP roadblocks, or broken imprisoned dissenters out of jail. How they scrawled their catchcry on billboards and brick walls and battleships, only to have it hastily painted over by the authorities. ‘Free Australia!’ The words always accompanied by the drawing of an upside-down Southern Cross.

Phantoms. Except, here was one of them.

I said, ‘Okay, if I’m not your prisoner, what exactly
do
you want with me?’

‘First of all, to keep you alive.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the government wants you dead.’

I puzzled this through. ‘But how did you know about me in the first place? I mean, that I’d been kidnapped?’ I nodded
towards the brooding Aisha. ‘And how did you happen to show up just when they were about to shoot her?’

‘Ah . . .’ Harry pondered the question for a moment. ‘I only know so much myself, you understand. I get orders and information from above, and I don’t always ask for explanations. But the Underground has contacts everywhere. Even, dare I say it, in the ranks of the AFP itself.’

That
did
impress me. ‘Someone in the AFP tipped you off?’

‘Yes. But the truth is, this isn’t the first we’ve heard of our lady terrorist here and her group. We’ve been watching them for some time now.’

Aisha’s eyes narrowed. ‘Bullshit.’

‘Sorry luv, it’s true. And we’re not the only ones. It’s like this. About a year ago now our sources let us know that the AFP had become aware of a group called Great Southern Jihad. Our informers are only low level, admittedly, but they were confused, because no one in the AFP seemed very worried about these particular terrorists. In fact, orders came down from above that agents were to subject GSJ to only light, intermittent observation, with no interference. And that’s unusual. Sure, sometimes the Feds might watch a terrorist group for a while, to see who its contacts are, but this was different. These were “keep your hands off” sort of orders. Which is all pretty suggestive. So the Underground started its own surveillance of GSJ cells, wherever we could find them. We wanted to know what was really going on.’ He smiled at Aisha. ‘Your little cell was one of the first we started to track. We didn’t actually see you nab Leo, but we heard about it from our AFP sources, quick smart.’

Aisha glowered at that. ‘The abduction was a mistake.’

‘Yes, I’m sure it was. But the question you should be asking is—how did the AFP themselves know about it? And so fast? I doubt that they were out in that cyclone, watching it happen. So who tipped them off?’

She opened her mouth. Shut it again.

‘Exactly. Something stinks here. Our own AFP operatives don’t know the answer, but they said things went beserk when the news came through. People high up were angry. Not so much because Southern Jihad had kidnapped someone important. No offence, Leo, but to the AFP you really
aren’t
important. Or haven’t been, until now. But what really seemed to piss the powers off was that now they had to rescue you. Take action against Aisha and her boys. And that, apparently, was the last thing they wanted to do. For whatever reason, up until a few days ago, GSJ was not a target.’