by Ken Saunders
Renard was glad they were so evidently content, but there went issue number one of his campaign. Ned Ludd, the Ned Ludd with the terrible cough who had originally planned to run, wanted him to have his program platform sorted by the end of the week. Kate, still scowling, took him to the door. ‘Walk with me,’ she muttered tersely.
They went several blocks in silence. ‘That is just so fucking typical of them!’ Kate finally blurted. ‘They never think of themselves. If it’s good for the patient, it doesn’t matter if it stabs them in the heart.’
There were real tears flowing now. The odd combination of seething and filial devotion made Renard’s own eyes well up. ‘I think,’ he attempted, clearing the choke from his throat (he had a weak threshold for sentimentality), ‘your parents are proud of what you tried to do there. And I—’
She held up a hand to cut him off. ‘This isn’t over!’
‘Kate, I can’t campaign against the Dr Ottos if the doctors approve of them.’
‘They want me to be active. They want me to campaign for the kind of better world my generation wants.’ Her eyes bored straight into his. ‘I can do that!’ she nearly spat.
‘Can you?’ Renard couldn’t imagine saying the same. ‘What kind of better world are we after?’ he asked tentatively.
‘I don’t know!’ she nearly shouted at him. She took a few breaths and then said very evenly, ‘give me a week and I’ll come back to you with what we’re going to campaign on.’
Leaving the campaign up to an angry seventeen year old was not much of a political plan, Renard conceded, but it was, at least, a plan.
...
Compink Australia was a perennial worry for Fiona Brennan. The ASIO director had planted several operatives into the ranks of the suspect corporation. Collectively, however, they’d learned next to nothing of the corporation’s plans. Wilson Huang, the Compink Australia CEO, worked closely with them all, played with them on the corporation volleyball team, but confided nothing to them. One of her agents had downloaded everything, literally everything, from Huang’s office computer and still found nothing. Only one file on his computer was password-protected and encrypted. When ASIO cracked that open and decoded it, it contained only one sentence: I hope you aren’t reading this on company time. Wilson Huang was playing with her head.
Fiona Brennan travelled to Sydney from Canberra that morning to see for herself the discovery security analyst Geraldine Nesbitt had unearthed. A drone image on the screen showed an Asian woman moving past some shops. Security data analysts at ASIO routinely used drone surveillance. They no doubt presumed ASIO operated a fleet of sophisticated drone surveillance cameras merely designed to look as if they were part of the regular Australia Post parcel delivery service. The reality was far simpler; they were actual Australia Post drones. Fiona had personally negotiated the contract whereby Australia Post agreed to put its fleet at ASIO’s disposal. ASIO could have rogue packages delivered to a location to suss out who was frequenting a place. Australia Post could tail along unnoticed high above any suspicious character. Importantly, it did so at a fraction of the cost of ASIO maintaining such a system itself.
The woman on the screen pushed open a shop door and disappeared from view. ‘That shop is CalliNail,’ Geraldine said. ‘It’s a black hole.’ She advanced the image. ‘Fourteen minutes from that point …’ She stopped the film again. ‘There. Wilson Huang goes into the gymnasium next door to CalliNail. CCTV cameras from inside the gym show Huang working out only briefly and then he disappears from sight for ten minutes. There’s a blind spot between the gym’s cameras. Deliberate, I suspect. I also suspect there’s an unmarked passage connecting the two buildings. The woman at CalliNail has been identified as Amy Zhao, a data entry clerk at Compink Australia. She leaves CalliNail a few minutes after Wilson Huang returns to view in the gymnasium.’
Geraldine froze the image of Amy. ‘There’s something here,’ she insisted. ‘Amy Zhao goes to CalliNail every week and yet … she never wears sandals. At work, no one has ever seen the calligraphy on those toenails.’ Geraldine considered this a telling point.
‘Have Amy Zhao kept under electronic surveillance,’ Fiona instructed, despite sensing it would somehow prove fruitless.
Election campaigns were high terrorism-alert periods during which ASIO was always stretched. Fiona Brennan didn’t really have time for Compink Australia. Then there was the problem of the Luddites. The Prime Minister was furious that the reality show astronaut Paula Perkins had changed her name to Ned Ludd and no one had told him about it—though the states ran the registries of births, deaths and marriages, not ASIO. So far the Luddites were all stunts and secrecy, but their success disquieted Fiona at a time when she couldn’t spare the resources to have the Luddites closely watched.
Still, she had Renard. He’d elevated his assignment from working for the Luddite candidate to being the Luddite candidate in Sydney. Nevertheless, the Luddite political structure was proving elusive even to one of its candidates. Renard was certainly not yet privy to the inner workings of the organisation. As an undercover agent, Renard was dutiful but somewhat surly, complaining about having to find shops that would change his endless fifty-dollar notes and blaming ASIO (more than once in the reports) for breaking up his relationship. Fiona had never met Taylor, but the ex-girlfriend’s unsupportive attitude irritated the ASIO director. She’d rather Renard was happy in his assignment. ‘I think …’ Fiona stopped, realising she had let her thoughts stray vastly off topic.
‘What?’ Geraldine asked.
‘Do you know Renard’s girlfriend, Taylor?’
‘I’ve met her a few times …’ Geraldine hesitated, surprised at the question. ‘Why?’
The trouble with being ASIO director was that no one really felt comfortable gossiping with you. Ask a person something and they’d think national security was somehow involved. Fiona sometimes longed for a good old-fashioned catty bit of gossiping.‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘This Taylor doesn’t seem right for Renard.’
‘Never thought much of Taylor,’ Geraldine offered. ‘Jealous sort. Possessive.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ Fiona remarked. Geraldine had gossiping potential.
...
The Get Out of My Space embarrassment normally would have caused the government to take a hit in the polls. When the election had been called, the polls had stood at 42–35 per cent for the Liberal–National Coalition over Labor with 9 per cent for minor parties and 14 per cent undecided. The two-party preferred vote stood at 53–47 per cent in their favour. The Luddites’ call to confuse pollsters by encouraging everyone to claim they were voting for the Liberal–National Coalition had caused an immediate blip upwards for the Coalition. Fitzwilliams expected that blip would dissipate once the novelty wore off and people resumed declaring their actual voting intentions to pollsters. Instead, the movement in the polls was showing a disconcerting persistence. The Coalition had shot up further, and was now at 62 per cent of the primary vote with Labor at 27 per cent. The ‘Luddite Lie’, as the media called it, had shifted 20 per cent of the electorate into claiming they were intending to vote Liberal–National when they might not be.
‘The Luddite Lie has an insidious effect, Prime Minister, one I didn’t grasp at first,’ Langdon pointed out to him. ‘We think there’s a blurry twenty per cent in the Liberal–National column of the poll—people who could be planning to vote any which way and can’t be relied on. It could even be worse than that. It could be twenty-five per cent. There’s no way of knowing. With people lying to the pollsters, we can’t tell for sure whether our forty-two per cent primary vote the pre-election polls predicted has gone up, stayed the same or is plunging dangerously.’ Langdon was grim. ‘To be frank, Prime Minister, our campaign has been a mess so far. It’s impossible we have gone up, unlikely we’ve held our ground. We’ve sunk below forty-two per cent of the primary vote but, because of the Luddite Lie, we can’t tell by how much.’ The maths was making Fitzwilliams’
head hurt. For the first time in his political life, the polls couldn’t be relied on to say anything useful.
A new strategy was needed. Fitzwilliams had summoned his key cabinet colleagues, bringing them scuttling back from the campaign trail. Senator Olga O’Rourke, Treasurer Alan Chandos, Minister for Health and Ageing Donna Hargreaves and … Russ Langdon. It had never been a conscious decision by Fitzwilliams to include Langdon in his inner circle, but nevertheless he had summoned him. Langdon’s left wrist was in a cast. His colleagues were sporting their Relief Kerchiefs, a boy scout-type scarf around the neck to fundraise for … was it bushfire disaster relief?
Their new campaign manager, Georgia Lambert, rounded out the group. Unlike her predecessor, Lister St John, Georgia listened to what they decided to do and then helped them to do it. She didn’t give him orders. These were admirable qualities in a campaign manager, Fitzwilliams thought.
The media might be without reliable polls, but the Prime Minister had the PR research firm of Baxter Lockwood at his disposal. Whatever muffins Baxter Lockwood were passing out to their focus groups, they must be good. Their Behavioural Insights Unit was somehow providing clear information at a time when no one else could. The only trouble was, what they had to say was not what he wanted to hear.
Network Nine had invited the Luddites to the leaders’ debate. There’d been no consultation with the two major parties, just a broadcast declaration by the network CEO that it was in the public interest. Public interest? Ratings grubbing, Fitzwilliams snorted to himself.
‘The word from Baxter Lockwood,’ Georgia Lambert told his colleagues, ‘is that the public overwhelmingly wants the Luddites at the debate.’ The group considered this in silence. ‘If we refuse to debate them, Baxter Lockwood predicts it’ll cost us severely. The electorate would perceive it as cowardliness. They predict—’ there was no way for Georgia to sugar-coat it ‘—we’d lose ten to thirteen seats on that alone.’
‘Then we debate them,’ Alan Chandos said cheerfully. Did the man have any other setting? the Prime Minister sometimes wondered. ‘You’ll be more than a match for them.’
‘Take them on,’ Donna Hargreaves agreed. ‘We’ve been on the back foot with this lot for too long. We need to do something bold, something striking, something to stop everybody talking about that damned astronaut.’ Fitzwilliams wasn’t sure whether to hope that Paula Perkins (aka Ned Ludd) be voted off the space station next Sunday or not. On Earth, she might be more of a problem.
‘I might have a little something to fit the bill,’ Alan Chandos piped up.
A little something. Fitzwilliams was ready to listen. Chandos’s last little something had led to the GP reforms. That idea could have blown up spectacularly and shattered political careers, but Chandos had delivered it so palatably that people actually wanted it by the time it came into effect. ‘Give me a week,’ Chandos promised, ‘and I’ll have it ready.’
Olga spoke for the first time. ‘Network Nine cares only for the leaders’ debate. That’s the only one that rates. We could undermine that. Hold a series of small debates where cabinet ministers debate Labor’s shadow ministers. Invite the Luddites to each of those. Get the Luddites talking dry policy or commenting on things they don’t understand. Get the media bored with them. Right now, the media are infatuated with the Luddites because they have made the news interesting, unpredictable.’
Fitzwilliams hesitated. He saw the tactical worth of her proposal—but his cabinet? Did he want them loose in potentially off-script situations? For God’s sake, his Minister for Multiculturalism sometimes used the word ‘wog’ if he’d had a few drinks. ‘I’m not sure all the cabinet ministers are …’
‘Competent?’ Langdon suggested.
Fitzwilliams diplomatically left it at not contradicting Langdon.
‘I understand your caution,’ Donna said. ‘What if I challenged the shadow health minister to a debate and invited the Luddites to send a spokesperson?’
The Prime Minister didn’t need to give that much thought. Donna Hargreaves was formidable. Her command of statistics could bewilder even the most astute opponents and leave them in a confused muddle. She would mop the floor with the Luddite.
The agreed debate strategy would be to sideline Labor first and then go for the Luddite. If Labor went after the Luddite, Hargreaves wasn’t to join in. They couldn’t let it look as if the main parties were ganging up on the minnow. Donna Hargreaves would give the Luddites a good mauling in formal debate, but was that enough? The Luddites had been extremely disruptive in the campaign so far.
‘We should employ a broad range of strategies to neutralise the Luddites,’ Georgia Lambert advised. ‘My team will develop an anti-Luddite strategy and advertising campaign for you within the week.’
There was another problem. The Prime Minister produced a copy of an email from Lister St John. Though his ex-campaign manager had resigned, the letter demanded full payment of his contract. ‘The threat behind this extraordinary request,’ Fitzwilliams told the room, ‘is that if we don’t pay up, Lister is going to make the rounds of the talk shows telling tales. He also threatens legal action about workplace bullying and being physically assaulted.’
Everyone looked at Olga.
‘I know,’ Fitzwilliams told her, ‘he insulted your favourite chess grandmaster. It’s not an extenuating circumstance.’
Lister’s email gave them three weeks to pay up. Of course, three weeks took them to just days before the leaders’ debate. There was no coincidence in that.
Olga arched an eyebrow as she read the email. ‘A full three weeks,’ she commented. ‘A serious mistake on his part.’ Her eyes locked on to Fitzwilliams’. ‘You needn’t worry about Lister St John, Prime Minister. I shall take care of him.’
Olga’s accent gave her promise a sinister, Stalinist tone. Fitzwilliams felt a brief pleasure at the mental image of Lister St John that conjured, but his more cautious side asked, ‘He won’t … come to any harm?’
‘No physical harm,’ Olga replied delicately.
There was a clatter in the hallway and one of the communications staffers appeared at the door. ‘A Labor attack ad, Prime Minister,’ the staffer panted. ‘I thought you’d better see it. It’s …’
… clearly bad, Fitzwilliams deduced. The staffer opened the wall screen and onto it came the image of the Prime Minister on the tennis court. Olga’s voice was overlaid as the Prime Minister was scrambling back and forth after each successive shot. Olga’s ominous Russian accent intoned: ‘You’re no longer young, Prime Minister. You’re not fast anymore.’
‘This again.’ Fitzwilliams waved a hand dismissively. ‘Everyone’s already seen this. Is that the best Labor can do?’
‘They’re using slow motion!’ Langdon complained. ‘Or is that your actual speed, Prime Minister?’ he asked, uncertain.
Fitzwilliams’ leg twitched in annoyance and caught Langdon’s chair under the table. He saw Langdon wince and realised he hadn’t connected with the chair leg.
The image of the Prime Minister’s tennis struggles dissolved. In its place was Roslyn Stanfield wearing shorts and a generic AFL-type striped jersey, a ball tucked under her arm. ‘It’s time, Australia, to change the game,’ she said straight to camera with a smile. Stanfield pivoted to camera two, took several steps and kicked towards the distant poles. An AFL umpire rushed between the poles and gave the always dramatic two-handed goal signal. ‘Our goal for a better future! Vote Labor,’ came Roslyn Stanfield’s voice. The standard announcement at the end was less hasty than usual. ‘Voiced by Liberal Senator Olga O’Rourke,’ it drawled, ‘and sponsored by G. Gregory, Australian Labor Party, Canberra.’
Langdon inhaled audibly during the clip. ‘That kick must have been thirty-five metres!’ he marvelled.
Who would have guessed Roslyn Stanfield could kick like that? Perhaps it was why Labor had chosen her as leader.
Alan Chandos gave a fatalistic grin. ‘Well, there goes Victoria.’
�
�Is that all you have to say?’ Fitzwilliams snapped.
The Treasurer shrugged. ‘South Australia too.’
Fitzwilliams sighed. The campaign had just got nasty.
...
The two employees of the Behavioural Insights Unit of the PR research firm Baxter Lockwood took a closer look at the numbers. ‘Fifty-one,’ Sam Turcot verified. ‘Leaves …’ he paused to calculate. ‘Double sixteen to finish.’ He pulled the last dart from the triple-seventeen slot and handed them to Jiang Luu.
Jiang let out a breath, needing an odd number above seven to set up closing. How would Harry the Needle, current darts world champion, approach the situation? Harry would go nineteen, double fifteen, game closed! There would be no element of randomness. Jiang squinted at the board, focusing on the nineteen, zoning out all the other numbers.
‘Where is everyone?’ came a startled voice.
Jiang and Sam turned in unison, Jiang’s dart still poised for the nineteen. Before them was their CEO, Olivia Alcott. Olivia Alcott’s offices were on the twenty-second floor of the prestigious Central Park complex on Broadway. She hadn’t visited their office in Tempe in two years.
‘Where is everyone?’ she asked again.
Both men looked around them as if the absence of co-workers was a surprise to them as well.
‘Where is everyone,’ Olivia asked, alarm rising in her voice, ‘and what’s been going on here?’