But the woman just said that he was a very busy man and really the only way to see him was to set up a meeting.
Fuck, I said, shaken. Okay, when can I get in?
In the end, the little bastard made me wait two weeks.
TWELVE
I don’t suppose that the residents of a police state really grasp the truth about their nation until they become
fugitives
within that state. But it opens your eyes, let me tell you. Suddenly, all those security roadblocks that you used to sail through—annoyed at the delay, perhaps, but unscathed, and certainly aware of the necessity, given the unstable times—they become hundred-foot-high walls, impossible to clear. Suddenly those identity papers that you had to renew every year, queueing up for hours—another annoyance, but no different from a driver’s licence, surely—the lack of them leaves you feeling like you’re naked in a crowd. And all those police and soldiers on the streets—a sight that you found slightly distasteful maybe, but also rather comforting, given that they were there to protect you—now every single one of those uniforms is your enemy.
Bad enough if you’re actually a terrorist on the run. But when you’re completely innocent, then it’s something else again.
Luckily, with the Oz Underground I was in the hands of experts when it came to security evasion. And by the time I got to look in a mirror, I had to admit that I barely recognised myself. It was many days since I’d seen my old reflection, and then the face staring back at me had been smooth and round and well fed (if a little raddled) under a full head of dark hair. Now I had a dirty blond crew cut, huge shadows around my eyes, a certain gauntness about the cheekbones, some freshly healed scars on my chin, and a swollen nose bent a good ten degrees from true. It was still me, and yet not at all the typical me. Certainly I didn’t look like my photos on television—but was it really enough? A beard might have been more camouflage still. Or at least a moustache. But Harry had changed his mind about that, and ordered me to shave. And when I’d suggested some fake glasses, or an eye patch, or a wig, he’d only laughed.
Aisha, on the other hand . . . Well, I’d never been that familiar with her appearance in the first place, so it was hard to tell whether she was recognisable or not. But Harry hadn’t been kidding, they really had taken her long hair and cut it into a sixties-style bob. They’d dyed it, too, from white to dark red, with accompanying work on her eyebrows. Then they’d adorned her with some dangling clip-on earrings and makeup and a bead necklace and, finally, dressed her in neon green tracksuit pants and a sweatshirt. The transformation was quite freakish—from pale terrorist to suburbanite fashion victim. Not that I was any better. They’d given me a button-up short-sleeved shirt, brown shorts, long socks and (God forbid) a pair of sandals. It made no sense to me. Surely someone dressed like a lay preacher from the 1970s would
attract
attention rather than blend in. But Harry, with some particular plan in mind, was content.
Plus we had papers again. Harry presented me with a worn old wallet that held—besides a small amount of cash—the standard Australia Safe identity card, a driver’s licence, severalcredit cards, frequent flier cards, and even some membership cards for gyms and the like. All in a new name, and all bearing a photograph of my new face. A complete life, bogus address and occupation (hardware supplier, in my case) included. Aisha received the same, wrapped in a handbag. And those papers were my first clue to just how powerful the Underground’s contacts were. Because they weren’t merely clever fakes. They were real. The Australia Safe card came straight from the Department of Citizenship. Which could only mean that the OU had an operative in the department. Someone highly enough placed to take my new photograph and plug it into the database, attached to an
Fuck, I said, shaken. Okay, when can I get in?
In the end, the little bastard made me wait two weeks.
TWELVE
I don’t suppose that the residents of a police state really grasp the truth about their nation until they become
fugitives
within that state. But it opens your eyes, let me tell you. Suddenly, all those security roadblocks that you used to sail through—annoyed at the delay, perhaps, but unscathed, and certainly aware of the necessity, given the unstable times—they become hundred-foot-high walls, impossible to clear. Suddenly those identity papers that you had to renew every year, queueing up for hours—another annoyance, but no different from a driver’s licence, surely—the lack of them leaves you feeling like you’re naked in a crowd. And all those police and soldiers on the streets—a sight that you found slightly distasteful maybe, but also rather comforting, given that they were there to protect you—now every single one of those uniforms is your enemy.
Bad enough if you’re actually a terrorist on the run. But when you’re completely innocent, then it’s something else again.
Luckily, with the Oz Underground I was in the hands of experts when it came to security evasion. And by the time I got to look in a mirror, I had to admit that I barely recognised myself. It was many days since I’d seen my old reflection, and then the face staring back at me had been smooth and round and well fed (if a little raddled) under a full head of dark hair. Now I had a dirty blond crew cut, huge shadows around my eyes, a certain gauntness about the cheekbones, some freshly healed scars on my chin, and a swollen nose bent a good ten degrees from true. It was still me, and yet not at all the typical me. Certainly I didn’t look like my photos on television—but was it really enough? A beard might have been more camouflage still. Or at least a moustache. But Harry had changed his mind about that, and ordered me to shave. And when I’d suggested some fake glasses, or an eye patch, or a wig, he’d only laughed.
Aisha, on the other hand . . . Well, I’d never been that familiar with her appearance in the first place, so it was hard to tell whether she was recognisable or not. But Harry hadn’t been kidding, they really had taken her long hair and cut it into a sixties-style bob. They’d dyed it, too, from white to dark red, with accompanying work on her eyebrows. Then they’d adorned her with some dangling clip-on earrings and makeup and a bead necklace and, finally, dressed her in neon green tracksuit pants and a sweatshirt. The transformation was quite freakish—from pale terrorist to suburbanite fashion victim. Not that I was any better. They’d given me a button-up short-sleeved shirt, brown shorts, long socks and (God forbid) a pair of sandals. It made no sense to me. Surely someone dressed like a lay preacher from the 1970s would
attract
attention rather than blend in. But Harry, with some particular plan in mind, was content.
Plus we had papers again. Harry presented me with a worn old wallet that held—besides a small amount of cash—the standard Australia Safe identity card, a driver’s licence, severalcredit cards, frequent flier cards, and even some membership cards for gyms and the like. All in a new name, and all bearing a photograph of my new face. A complete life, bogus address and occupation (hardware supplier, in my case) included. Aisha received the same, wrapped in a handbag. And those papers were my first clue to just how powerful the Underground’s contacts were. Because they weren’t merely clever fakes. They were real. The Australia Safe card came straight from the Department of Citizenship. Which could only mean that the OU had an operative in the department. Someone highly enough placed to take my new photograph and plug it into the database, attached to an
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