Dirty Fracking Business

by Peter Ralph

  The reaction to this second article was more subdued; however, there were some responses from residents of the Fisher Valley accusing CEGL of using chemicals that were known carcinogens, which had resulted in the death of six-year-old Charlie Paxton. These responses were passionate and inflammatory - they were also libellous and could not be published. The journalist did, however, phone those who had sent the inflammatory emails to get the full story. The following day, the Advocate ran a carefully-worded article, which had been screened by its lawyers, that mentioned CEGL and its contractor’s refusal to disclose what chemicals were being used in hydraulic fracturing, the explosion at CEGL’s gas well and Charlie Paxton’s death, without specifically drawing any conclusions - there was no need, as the article was both subtle and obvious.

  CEGL had been in the Harbrow family for a long time and Spencer Harbrow was its third-generation CEO. His father, Winston, might still have been in that position had he not died in a car crash sixteen years earlier. Winston had openly admired the woman who was now Spencer’s deputy, Moira Raymond, but Spencer was jealous of her and her abilities.

  When Spencer became CEO, he demonstrated that he did not share his father’s aversion to debt. He had a dream of turning CEGL from a small, family-controlled retailer of electricity, gas and appliances into a major gas producer. He borrowed hundreds of millions of dollars from second-tier lenders on unfavourable terms and at exorbitant interest rates. As his grand plans progressed, money was always scarce, so he raised more capital by issuing shares. The result was that his family’s interest in the company declined from sixty to just eight percent, but the company’s market capitalisation had grown to eleven billion dollars and Harbrow was eight hundred million dollars richer. He liked to boast that CEGL was the only Australian owned energy company, but its share register was dominated by foreign institutions. The financial press lauded him, but he was uncertain whether he could have achieved his goals without Moira Raymond’s talents and toughness.

  Harbrow was tall, slightly greying, tanned and, although pushing fifty-six, had not a wrinkle on his superficially friendly face. Sitting in his sixtieth floor office overlooking Sydney Harbour, he read the article in the National Advocate one more time before summoning his PA, Janet Bourne. He gave her precise instructions: get CEGL’s Chairman, Harold Llewellyn, on the phone; get him a macchiato - which only she could prepare to his exacting standards; make sure he wasn’t disturbed; and lastly, track down the other directors in the event that he might need to speak to them. As Janet scurried off, Harbrow paced over to the window, his thumbs pushed into the vest of his Brioni suit, and cursorily glanced down at the yachts being tossed around in the harbour. He had used his influence to appoint five, hand-picked, non-executive directors. They all controlled firms that did business with CEGL and were therefore both indebted to him and massively conflicted. The seventh director was Moira Raymond and she had been appointed by the board against his wishes, when he had been ill for three months with pneumonia.

  He was anxious to talk to Llewellyn, whom he had appointed Chairman of the company shortly after his father’s passing, because of his business and political connections. Llewellyn was senior partner of the blue-blood legal firm, Braithwaite Ogilvie and Llewellyn, and a former National Party minister who knew how to count the numbers and was a past-master when it came to networking and schmoozing. He had not practised law for years, finding managing the practice and being chairman of a number of public companies more befitting his prestige and expertise. Born of wealthy English parents, he was a throw-back to a bygone era: long, silver hair, a matching, floppy moustache, mutton-chop sideburns and florid cheeks. Even after a lifetime in Australia, he yearned for the class system of the old country. Llewellyn fervently believed that he was superior to all others, with the possible exception of the British Royal Family. He also liked to boast that he was one of only a handful of people who had the Prime Minister’s direct number. Despite his pomposity, he was no-one’s fool and was known around the firm as the Silver Fox.

  Harbrow took off his suit coat and hung it on the stand behind his desk, carefully removing the diamond cuff links from his light blue hand-tailored shirt before rolling up his sleeves. The intercom buzzed: ‘I have Mr Llewellyn for you.’

  ‘Good morning Harold. Have you read that disgraceful article in that disgusting yellow rag? God, they’re saying we were responsible for that boy’s death. It’s defamatory and I want something done about it.’

  While he was talking, Janet quietly brought him a cup of piping hot macchiato which he picked up and sipped, neither acknowledging nor thanking her.

  ‘Yes, and I feel the same way you do, so I took the liberty of running it past the firm’s defamation specialists. I’m sorry, but they say it’s obvious that the Advocate took legal advice before it was published. Unfortunately there are no grounds for mounting a successful action.’

  The phone went quiet and after fifteen seconds Llewellyn pressed the receiver hard against his ear. ‘Spencer, are you there?’

  ‘I was thinking,’ Harbrow said, offering no apology. ‘Perhaps you misunderstood me. I’m not looking for damages. I just want to stop them publishing any more rubbish. Look, five years ago the company was worth less than two billion dollars and you well know why it’s grown into the powerhouse it is today. It’s because I had the foresight to apply for coal seam gas exploration licences on massive tracts of land all down the eastern seaboard. The last thing we need is any adverse publicity that results in slowing or stopping exploration like what’s occurred in New York. You know what happened there: the greenies lied and said there was a distinct probability that the city’s water supply could become contaminated. The press believed them and next thing you know the wells and exploration were on hold. I don’t need to tell you that the value of your shares and options in the company will be significantly diminished if the same thing happens here.’

  Llewellyn pondered this. It was true; he had made more money from CEGL in the last five years than he had from a lifetime in the law and politics. It also applied to the other directors, particularly Harbrow, who had almost become a billionaire. He didn’t particularly like Harbrow, thinking him a Jekyll and Hyde character: smooth and charming with those in power who might be able to help him and sarcastic and demanding with those on his payroll, including directors. ‘I’ll ensure that a writ is issued before the day is out, claiming unspecified damages.’

  ‘You said there are no grounds for legal action.’

  ‘There aren’t, but nothing focuses an adversary’s senses like a well-worded writ and, after it’s served, the Advocate won’t be taking liberties with what they print.’

  ‘It’s a bluff.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I like it, but what if they call your bluff?’

  ‘They won’t. However, if they do, we’ll apply for an injunction restraining them from publishing further defamatory articles. We’ll tie them up in the courts for weeks.’ Llewellyn laughed, thinking that the litigation might turn out to be a nice little earner for his firm.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Spencer, the Western Australian Premier’s visiting next week. Would you like to have lunch with him on Thursday?’

  ‘Set it up,’ Harbrow said, putting the receiver back in its cradle while simultaneously buzzing Janet. ‘Get me Clem Aspley.’

  A few minutes later Aspley was asking, ‘How can I help you, Spencer?’

  Clem Aspley was an advertising genius who had twice been bankrupted after taking huge risks that would, had they been successful, have catapulted him to the top of his profession. Harbrow had known from the day they had met that any grandiose plans that he put before the board would have the overwhelming support of Aspley and he had moved quickly to ensure his appointment as a director. Harbrow had few close friends but, as he had got to know Aspley, he found they had many common interests; they were both divorced, they loved wine, they enjoyed the finer things in life and they were committed to makin
g as much money as was humanly possible. Aspley looked and dressed far younger than his fifty-two years and often attended board meetings wearing ripped jeans, a polo shirt and sandals. He may not have been the first advertising executive to use the words ‘clean’ and ‘green’ in relation to coal seam gas, but the form in which he used those words, including the changing of the company’s name, was brilliant, and the public perception of CEGL was that it was an environmentally friendly company.

  ‘Clem, I’m very unhappy about those articles in the National Advocate. Did you see them?’

  ‘Sure, and I agree that last one was a bit rough.’

  ‘The Advocate’s owned by the Maddock Group and we must be spending a fortune with them. They have magazines, regional newspapers, radio stations and an interest in Channel Twelve, don’t they?’

  Harbrow knew that Aspley would have guessed the purpose of his question and be thinking of subtle reasons to oppose it, as he hated changing schedules or breaking contracts. ‘I think that’s right.’

  ‘No, Clem, you know it’s right and you also know the name of every media outlet that the Maddock Group have an interest in. I want you to cancel every advertisement you have booked and let them know why.’

  Aspley groaned. ‘They’re going to sue my arse off.’

  Harbrow chuckled. ‘No they won’t. You own one of the biggest agencies in the land and they’ll be worried about you slagging them off and cancelling contracts for other clients. Besides, if you’re successfully sued, which you won’t be, CEGL will pick up the tab.’

  ‘Don’t do it, Spencer. Robert Maddock doesn’t like being stood over and has a history of retaliating against those who threaten him or his newspapers. It will be very bad for the company if they dig their heels in.’

  ‘As if Robert’s even going to hear about it. We’re an awfully large account to lose, so let them know, when they stop publishing that rubbish, we’ll reinstate all contracts.’

  ‘You’re gonna owe me one after this.’

  ‘Clem, with what we pay you for your unique skills, together with director’s fees, not to speak of the shares and options, I think hell will freeze over before this company ever owes you anything.’ They were friends but Aspley, like the other directors, often needed to be reminded on which side his bread was buttered.

  Harbrow put the phone down and smiled, knowing that, once the writ was issued and the advertising contracts severed, the smart-arse reporter and his stupid editor at the Advocate would be right in the firing line of those who controlled the cash at the Maddock Group. There’d be no more derogatory or suggestive articles about CEGL published in the Advocate. It’s always the cash, he pondered, and he who has the most gold always calls the tune. He didn’t have gold but something better - unlimited reserves of methane just waiting to be pumped from the ground.

  Harbrow briefly thought about phoning the other directors, but he knew that they would support his actions and he decided not to waste his or their time. Sir Richard Crichton-Smythe was nudging eighty but had lost none of his mental agility or toughness, having started his career as an office boy with Newtower Iron & Steel, a company he now chaired. He had introduced Harbrow to his financial contacts in London when CEGL had been desperate for cash, on the conditions that the company appoint him as a director, issue him a significant number of options and purchase the huge quantities of steel pipe that it used in its gas exploration and extraction exclusively from Newtower Iron & Steel.

  One of those London contacts was Joe Biederman, the head of the Royal Treasury Group, an institution that was CEGL’s largest shareholder, with twenty-nine percent of the stock. Like everyone else, the Royal Treasury Group had made a fortune on its investment, but Biederman had never made the transition from highly-salaried employee to entrepreneur. Despite this, he had enormous influence and, while not a member of CEGL’s board, major decisions were rarely taken without his tacit approval. About the same age as Harbrow, his strengths lay in his uncanny knack to sniff out a good deal, an elephant-like memory, his ability to make figures talk without the need for computers and an overbearing negotiating style which centred on the deal being done at his price or not at all. In just fifteen years he had managed to increase the size of Royal fiftyfold. Shareholders loved him and he was on an enormous salary and options package but his one weakness ensured that his package was never enough to make ends meet. She was platinum blonde, a real-life Barbie twenty-five years his junior, who had been a hat check girl at one of the clubs when Joe, a happily married man, had walked in one night and fallen head over heels in love with her. The divorce was messy, drawn out and expensive, but not nearly as costly as marrying young Trish. She spent fifty thousand pounds a month on clothes and cosmetics, had a chauffeur-driven limousine and a passion but not a taste for art, on which she squandered millions. Joe Biederman was a brilliant investor and one of the very few men whom Harbrow deferred to.

  Phillip Bancroft was senior partner of Bancroft & Coulter, a second-tier Sydney stockbroking firm. He had convinced his clients to take huge risks and buy shares in CEGL just as Harbrow was implementing his expansion plans. Not a cent of his own money was invested but he had made a personal fortune from the free options that had been issued to him for risking his clients’ money. Those clients had made twenty times their initial investment and thought that Bancroft was an investment guru - had they known what he had done, they may not have held him in such high esteem. He was particularly sensitive about anything that adversely affected the company’s share price and Harbrow knew he would support the actions he had taken to bring the Advocate to heel.

  Harbrow had appointed Harold Llewellyn so that he could be introduced to and access heads of business, finance and government, whereas he had appointed the rough-around-the-edges Vic Bezzina so that he could be informed of the weaknesses of those powerful people, their hidden skeletons and what motivated them. Bezzina was an ex-federal policeman who had built a unique business, which provided discreet security itineraries and investigatory services for heads of corporations and government leaders. He employed ex-federal and state police, ex-ASIO operatives, ex-tax office investigators and even had two former CIA spooks on his payroll. Over the years, he had built up dirt files that Edgar Hoover would have been proud of, on senior industry and government figures and those who posed a threat to his exclusive clientele. One of his clients was Newtower Iron & Steel and, when the greenies and other radical groups started picketing CEGL’s annual general meetings, blockading properties and generally making nuisances of themselves, Sir Richard Crichton-Smythe suggested to Harbrow that his problems might be solved if he met with Bezzina. Soon after their meeting, Harbrow had dossiers on all those in positions of power who were opposed to coal seam gas development, but what really impressed him about Bezzina was that he seemed to have the power to influence the Federal Police to hassle and restrain the green radicals who had been causing CEGL trouble. Like the other non-executive directors, Bezzina negotiated a very generous fee and a remuneration and benefits package which Harbrow did not attempt to bargain down, as he liked the idea of his directors being indebted to him.

  He gave no thought to contacting the ruthlessly ambitious Moira Raymond, who openly aspired to his job. Unfortunately she had the ear and support of Harold Llewellyn who doted on her, and Harbrow often wondered whether they had been sexually involved. Sir Richard Crichton-Smythe also sang Moira’s praises and, while Harbrow could have used his influence to remove her, he could not run the risk of his chairman and another ‘distinguished’ director resigning or creating a fuss.

  Moira had in the past occupied the office next to Harbrow’s and she had mistakenly thought that he had had the hots for her. He’d wanted to bed her all right but his motivations weren’t sexual but rather to show her who was boss. She had flirted and led him on many times, only to reject him when things started to get serious and, the more she rejected him, the more determined he became to have her submit. Frustrated at the sight of her every day
and wanting to move her on, he came up with the brilliant idea of putting her out in the field into situations that might be physically violent for a man but were unlikely to be for a woman. When she failed, which she surely would when dealing with hardened labourers and facing angry landowners, it would destroy her chance of ever sitting in his chair. He had not envisaged her making an outstanding success of those tough assignments and, when she did, she not only won the plaudits of board members but was seen by them as his successor-in-waiting. He vaguely recollected telling her one night that he would stand aside so that she could become the company’s CEO, but he had only said it because he was trying to get her between the sheets and he promptly forgot the details after she had rejected him yet again.

  Chapter 7

  Much to Steve’s disappointment, Bianca had left by the time he returned home. There wasn’t a trace of Allure and it was almost as if she had never been there. Her response to a note that he had left, apologising for leaving early that morning, was that she would be busy at the weekend selling real estate and that she would phone him when she could. She had a healthy sexual appetite and he suspected that she must be wondering what was wrong with him.

  The front page of Monday’s Paisley Chronicle carried graphic colour photos of CEGL’s gas well in flames. The accompanying article mentioned Billy McGregor and his sighting of a big black wolf but it did not draw any conclusions as to what caused the explosion. No mention was made of Karen. Most who read the article already knew what it contained and thought that it was boring. Many subscribers and advertisers phoned to express their disappointment and spoke to Steve’s receptionist-come-girl Friday, Buffy Preston, letting her know in no uncertain terms that they thought he had wasted a golden opportunity to tip a bucket on CEGL. Steve was close enough to hear what Buffy was saying but he could not understand why she had broken into fits of laughter. She was a big girl who had been with him since she left school, and when she laughed her whole body shook.