Direct Action. J D Svenson
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if he was going to take it off; there were still standards to maintain – and by the fourth floor down, his shirt was soaked. They had already descended eight levels of stairs, and Parliament House only had seven storeys. The security guards would only say that all would be explained when they got to something called ‘cog’, as they called it. It wasn’t really very satisfactory. He was the Premier of New South Wales for goodness sake, supposed to be security briefed at the highest levels, but it seemed like even this was something he wasn’t fully informed about. He would take it up with the relevant people after this was over.
Meanwhile, how on earth was he going to explain Colin? A few steps ahead of him, his lover’s low jeans and canvas shoulder bag with its raggedy Greenpeace iron-on on the flap clearly marked him as non-staff, his dayglo-yellow No Sweat ethical hitops cringingly flashy; the Minister for Energy and his own irritating deputy, fresh as a daisy in her navy suit despite the heat, were only metres in front. For three years they had managed to keep their relationship secret, no small feat given Colin’s passion for getting physical outside the bedroom. Robert reached out and gave his hand an unobtrusive squeeze – reassuring to himself or Colin, he wasn’t sure, but it made him feel better. They would just explain it somehow. The most important thing was that Colin was safe.
Robert’s legs were shaking by the time they finally arrived. At the foot of the stairs four security guards waited next to a metal detector and the standard conveyor belt x-ray machine arrangement. What, more security? But anyone here had done all that to get into Parliament House to begin with. Maybe these people weren’t all from Parliament House though. Looking at them he would have no idea. There were more than two thousand workers in the building, and he only really knew members of his own Cabinet and, maybe, one or two of their longer serving staffers. Could never be too careful, he supposed. A security detail in a dark suit stepped forward.
‘Honourable Members …’
People raised their hands and called for quiet and he began again.
‘Honourable Members, you are about to enter Unit COG – Continuation of Government. Once you have cleared security please file in in an orderly fashion and help yourselves to refreshments. A security briefing is due at twenty hundred hours. We hope to have as much information for you as possible then.’
Robert’s stomach lurched. Continuation of government? What the hell was going on?
‘Damo,’ someone called out. ‘Come on, it’s just a blackout for fuck’s sake – is all this really necessary?’
‘I’m sorry, madam,’ Damo replied, ‘it is.’
Colin turned to look at Robert. His face was calm but there was concern in his eyes. Robert swallowed, dredging up presidential as well as he could.
‘Go on.’
Belts and shoes and jackets were shucked, phones and laptops deposited in trays and passed through the x-ray, MPs patted down and caressed with the explosives tester wand. Robert sighed and pushed his hand through his hair. This was really going to ruin his weekend, he thought, irrationally. He had been intending to surprise Colin with lunch at Wild Duck. It had been so long since they’d been there, and the weather was flawless.
Damo was standing in front of him. He was indicating a corridor off to the right Robert hadn’t noticed before.
‘This way, Mr Premier.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Necessary to segregate you, Mr Premier. Extra precaution.’
‘Oh,’ Robert said, grinning tightly. He craned to see past Damo to the crowd behind. ‘Colin.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said the security guard, shaking his head as Colin stopped and turned. ‘Highest levels only.’
‘Oh.’ The Premier’s stomach fizzed. ‘Oh – alright – Colin – I’ll see you – later …’ he said, waving optimistically.
Colin gave that reassuring grin. ‘Copy that,’ he said, and was gone.
Damo nodded and Robert stepped ahead of him. They came to another door. Robert turned to him.
‘What about the scanner?’
‘No need,’ the officer said, holding up a swipe card until the door hissed open. For some reason Robert’s heart was going like crazy, and sweat had sprung out on his palms. Something was seriously wrong, and he was Premier. He would be expected to know what to do. Quick, think of something. Inside was a large space that looked like a dated hotel room, all ’70s laminate and vinyl, except that along one side was a bank of televisions, three telephones, and two laptops. It must have dated from when the back extension to Parliament was built. Two large men in suits, and another in an Australian Federal Police uniform stood by the buffet drinking out of plastic cups, white spiral cords at their ears. When he entered they stopped their conversation and turned around.
‘Ah, Mr Premier,’ one said, stepping towards him. ‘Have a seat.’ The TVs on the wall flashed on, and he saw … what were the Federal Minister for Home Affairs and the … wasn’t that the Federal Resources Minister? What were they doing on videolink?
‘Mr Premier.’ The officer sat down across from him and pushed a white card with blue writing and a raised gold insignia across the gap. ‘Joe Fitzgibbon, Senior Constable, AFP.’ Then he passed him a document. TOP SECRET, said the title, MAJOR INCIDENT: POWER SUPPLY. Oh gosh. So. Not a blackout then. There was a carafe of water on the table and a stack of plastic cups; Robert reached for one and filled it.
‘Goodness,’ he said, scanning the document. ‘Senior Constable – I’m sorry but this needs the presence of my Cabinet to discuss this. The Deputy Premier and the Energy Minister – they were in the crowd a moment ago. Could they be collected please?’
‘The Honourable Federal Members requested only you at this time, Mr Premier.’
Robert swallowed. There was going to be a tonne of fresh hell to pay for this, and no more Saturday pub lunches for a while. He took a deep breath.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Better get them live then.’
6
In the morning Cressida woke to someone banging on her door. It wouldn’t be Felipe because he had a key. Cressida yanked the windows shut against the hot air outside and squinted at the clock radio. Off. Oh for God’s sake, she thought, pulling on her cream silk dressing gown. Hadn’t someone sorted out the power yet? She padded across the floorboards to the front door and squinted through the peephole. Helena stood there, her curly brown-haired head dwarfed by enormous wraparound sunglasses.
‘Oh thank God,’ said her stepmother when Cressida opened the door, running into the flat and slamming the heavy timber behind her so hard the potplant next to it fell off the shelf. She did a lap of the loungeroom checking the windows were locked and fell on Cressida in a cloud of L’eau d’Issey. ‘The world’s ending, Cressida – you have to come home.’ She cupped her hands around Cressida’s face, her eyes wide. ‘Haven’t you heard? Terrorists. We’re under attack. Joan next door said she’d heard it was the electrical union. Quick, pack some clothing. What is your skirt doing in the hallway? Is someone else here?’ She peered out the window as if to look for terrorists running down the street, then hurried into Cressida’s bedroom and started hauling clothes out of drawers. ‘The police have said—’
‘Helena,’ Cressida cut her off. Rubbing her eyes, she began in her best low, firm voice, ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Cressida, haven’t you heard? On the radio. Terrorists have sabotaged three power stations. Three. That’s why there’s no power. We have to get out of here.’
‘What? Jesus,’ Cressida said, not sure whether to run in circles like Helena or go back to bed and pretend it wasn’t happening. Neither would be particularly helpful, she decided. Instead she carefully sat on her bed and picked