Crooked House

by Peter Menadue

  The Club President didn’t comment on his performance in that portfolio, though most defence pundits believed he’d done well. The recent civil war in Indonesia had made national defence a major political issue. In response, Martin shook up his department by cutting the bureaucracy, boosting troop numbers and replacing a lot out-dated equipment. Recently, the Government had purchase a squadron of Vulcan attack helicopters, three squadrons of F-32 jet fighters and three new navy frigates.

  When the Club President had finished, Martin stepped up to the lectern, thanked the President for his remarks and read his speech. I followed what he said in the printed copy Riddick gave me.

  He spoke well, but said little of interest. Mostly, he delivered a panegyric about his performance as the Minister for Defence. I was relieved when he reached the last page.

  "… unfortunately, we live in an increasingly unstable area of the world. If Australia wants to ensure its survival as a prosperous nation it must be prepared to spend more - a lot more - on defence. This Government has made a good start. Our defence forces are now leaner, tougher and better equipped than before. But more still needs to be done." He looked up and glanced around. "Now, are there any questions?"

  A female waiter appeared holding a microphone. Darcy Adams, from The West Australian, got to his feet and grabbed it. His pebble-frame spectacles, puckish expression and goatie beard made him look like a leftie uni lecturer who traded A's for sex - which is exactly what he did until he got caught and a Vice Chancellor gave him the boot.

  He said: "Minister, my question is about the economy. Despite this country being in a recession, the Government is still running very tight economic policies. Don't you think it's time for the Government to start spending more money to stimulate growth?"

  Martin shuffled the papers in front of him as if uncertain how to respond. Then he looked up. "Darcy, you've asked me to stray outside my portfolio. You should really ask the Treasurer that question. However, if you want my personal opinion, I think you're right. The Government's fiscal and monetary settings are too tight and that's inhibiting growth. We should put together a package of stimulatory measures which will boost economic activity."

  Shit.

  After two glasses of wine and Martin’s turgid no-news speech, I’d become sleepy. Now I was wide-awake. Around me, reporters who’d been idly quaffing coffee or rummaging around for mint chocolates looked like startled hares. Those who thought they were free to get pissed sobered up fast. It’s always big news when a Cabinet Minister attacks his Government’s handling of the economy. It’s even bigger when that Minister is a potential challenger to the PM. The PM couldn’t tolerate such disloyalty. Martin would have to either resign his portfolio or be sacked. The phoney war was over. Tom Riddick said I should "wait and see" whether Martin challenged the PM. Well, I didn’t have to wait long. Martin had just lobbed a political shell into the Lodge. He was a real politician.

  Government MPs were due to meet in ten days time. It was now almost inevitable that, at that meeting, Martin would challenge the PM for the top job.

  Barry Burbage, from The Telegraph, in Sydney, was the next person to grab the microphone. "Minister, what sort of stimulatory package do you have in mind?"

  "I think that the corporate tax rate should be lowered and there should be a higher depreciation allowance for new plant and equipment. I also want to see more spending on job creation schemes and infrastructure projects."

  An ABC Radio reporter seized the microphone and introduced herself. "How much money do you think the Government should spend on this package?"

  "I think $3-or-$4 billion would be enough to kick-start the economy."

  The next few questioners sought more information about the proposed stimulatory package, but Martin refused to give any more details.

  Finally, I got my hands on the microphone and said: "Minister, your criticism of the Government’s handling of the economy is, obviously, also a criticism of the Prime Minister. Does this mean you now want his job?"

  Martin again shuffled the papers in front of him, as if caught by surprise. That was just an act. He must have expected a question like mine.

  He said: "I think the Prime Minister has done an excellent job. But I think it’s time for new ideas and a new approach. Certainly, if there is a leadership ballot, I’ll put my name forward."

  Before I could ask a follow-up question, a waiter snuck up, wrestled the microphone off me and passed it to another reporter. But Martin held up his hands. "Sorry, ladies and gentlemen. I’ve answered enough questions. Thank you for coming."

  The Club President returned to the lectern, thanked Martin for speaking and invited everyone to applaud.

  Usually, politicians only received polite and prissy applause. But this applause had a primal edge, flecked with the sound warriors hear when going off to battle. He looked a little surprised and gratified as he left through a side exit.

  Everybody knew they’d just witnessed a major political event. Voices bubbled loudly. The forthcoming leadership struggle would be a gift that kept giving.

  On the way out, I passed Darcy Adams, smiling widely, and said: "Good question Darce."

  "Not mine, I'm afraid. Riddick put me up to it. Said that if I asked Martin that question I'd get an interesting answer."

  "For once, Riddick wasn’t lying."

  Crossing the main foyer, I saw Barry Graham, Martin’s political adviser, nervously pacing about, talking into a mobile phone. He was in his early thirties, with a wine-waiter hairstyle, gaunt features and oily smile. I've always distrusted men who wear pinstripe suits, and his were wide as railway tracks.

  His job was to ensure Martin hewed to the path of political expediency, a task he obviously relished. Once, over a beer, he confided that the politician he most admired was Stalin. I almost fell off my chair. "You’re kidding, right?"

  "No. Of course, some of his methods were a little primitive", he said, sounding like he was criticising the tyrant’s table manners rather than the liquidation of millions. "But he was cunning and effective. A master politician."

  I studied his face to see if he was pulling my leg. He wasn’t. Indeed, after our conversation, I wondered why he didn’t nominate Hitler. I also wondered if he had the political nous his job required. He had most of the attributes of a political adviser. Sharp suit. Sharp face. Sharp tongue. But sharp brain? I wasn’t so sure. Maybe, in the tumultuous days ahead, Martin wouldn’t get the best advice possible.

  Political advisers fantasise that their minister will one day become prime minister and let them wield real power. So Barry’s face was flushed with excitement and he started chewing his fingernails.

  Both were bad signs. Top political operatives send out waves of calm authority and definitely don't chew their nails. This was like seeing James Bond pick his nose or leave his fly open.

  As I drew close, he turned off his mobile and saw me. He obviously wanted to talk to someone - anyone. "Hi Paul. What did you think of the Minister’s speech?"

  "I'd love to be a fly on the wall when the PM hears about it. He'll be fucking homicidal. Your man will have to resign. You know that."

  "Don’t worry. The letter’s already on its way to the PM’s office."

  "He must be pretty confident he’s got the numbers."

  A thin smile. "Don’t worry, he has." He suddenly realised I wasn't worth talking to and glanced at his watch. "Anyway, can’t hang around. Things to do."

  Plots to hatch, more like it. He shot out of the entrance ahead of me and got into a Comcar parked against the curb.

  I believed him when he said Martin had the numbers. Martin wouldn’t have launched a challenge unless plenty of backbenchers had pledged their support.

  I strolled towards the car park with a spring in my step. Like most political reporters, I’m not really interested in social issues or economic policies. I don’t care whether the Government is good or bad for the country. I just report on gladiatorial politics: the clash of personaliti
es. I tell my readers who’s going up and who’s going down, who’s in and who’s out.

  The struggle between Martin and the PM was the biggest personality clash imaginable. And at the end of it, one of them would go crashing to the canvas. Until it was over, I’d have a mortgage on the front page.

  As I drove back to Parliament House, I mentally rummaged through my stock of political clichés, wondering which ones to use in my story. Should I say Vincent Martin had "laid claim to the PM’s throne", "thrown down the gauntlet" or "crossed his political Rubicon"? I felt obliged to use at least one.

  The PM’s office hastily announced that, at 4 p.m., their boss would hold a presser in the Ministerial Courtyard. I got there a few minutes early. A portable podium had been set up in a rope-off area, surrounded by dozens of collapsible chairs. Almost a hundred reporters stood or sat around, chatting excitedly about Vincent Martin’s challenge.

  The PM came out. For once he had a bounce in his step and gleam in his eyes, as if Martin’s challenge had re-invigorated him. But his surge of enthusiasm had probably come too late. His tumbrel was already rolling.

  From behind the podium, the PM announced that he’d accepted Martin’s resignation from Cabinet and would take over his portfolio until he had time to organise a Cabinet reshuffle.

  There would obviously be a leadership ballot at the next meeting of Government MPs. So in a show of bravado the PM said that, at that meeting, he would vacate the leadership of his party. "I will then re-nominate. That will give my parliamentary colleagues a chance to decide whether they approve of my leadership and my economic policies, or want change. Anyone else who wants to stand for the leadership - including Mr Martin - is welcome to do so. Now, any questions?"

  The Prime Minister pointed to a female reporter in the front row.

  She said: "Prime Minister, Mr Martin has claimed that your economic policies are off track. Do you intend to alter those policies?"

  I suddenly realised how brilliantly Martin had cornered the PM. Even if the PM wanted to change the Government’s economic policies, it was now too late. Any shift would be an admission that Martin was right and further weaken the PM’s position. But doing nothing was also the PM’s favourite approach to most problems.

  The PM said: "No. There will be no changes. Mr Martin is entitled to his view, but I believe he is wrong. This Government is on the right track, and if everybody shows a little patience, the economy will soon recover."

  Unfortunately for the PM, in politics, the scarcest commodity is patience. Everybody, particularly voters, want instant results.

  The PM pointed to Angus Reid, the Political Correspondent for Channel Nine. "Yes Angus?"

  "Mr Prime Minister, the next meeting of Government MPs is 10 days away. Will you try to hold it sooner?"

  The PM shook his head. "No. I don’t intend to bring it forward to suit Mr Martin’s convenience. Further, if I did, some MPs might not be able to attend, particularly those now overseas. Don’t worry, Mr Martin will get a chance to challenge me. He’ll just have to be little patient." He held up his hands. "Alright. Thank you for your questions. I’ve got work to do."

  He spun around and retreated into the building.

  I joined the tide of reporters flooding back to their bureaux. When I entered the Herald’s bureau, anxious to start writing my story, Michael sat at his desk, typing on his computer, a press release beside him.

  He gave me a blank expression. "Hi. What’s happening?"

  If I’d rolled my eyeballs, they never would have stopped. "Oh, nothing much."

  "Good." He looked down at the press release. "What’s a Machavalen scheme?"

  "Machiavellian. It’s a cunning or devious plot. Named after a famous politician called Machiavelli."

  "Really? When was he in parliament?"

  Good grief. "He wasn’t. He was Italian; lived about six hundred years ago."

  Michael looked relieved. "Oh. No wonder I haven’t heard of him."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The next day opened brightly and ended in blood and despair. First, the shining dawn which proved so false: my story dominated the front page of the Launceston Herald.

  MARTIN CHALLENGES PM

  By Paul Ryder

  The Minister for Defence, Vincent Martin, yesterday challenged the Prime Minister, Brian Hislop, for the Prime Ministership.

  In a day of high political drama, Mr Martin attacked the Government for its handling of the economy and then resigned from Cabinet.

  The PM responded by declaring that, at the next meeting of Government MPs, to be held at the end of next week, he will declare his leadership position vacant and then renominate.

  Mr Martin threw down the gauntlet to the Prime Minister at a National Press Club luncheon …

  The rest of the story quoted what Martin and the PM said the day before.

  At such a magical moment in Federal politics, most reporters would have crawled on their bellies to get to work. However, Michael Boyd had called in sick, so I didn’t even have to send him on a fool’s errand.

  I hoped Vincent Martin would call a press conference and launch another attack on the PM. But he obviously didn’t want to be accused of damaging the Government for personal gain and, instead, lobbied for support behind the scenes.

  The PM also kept a low profile. So I spent most of the day talking to Government MPs, trying to gauge who’d win the leadership ballot. Most thought Martin would win hands down, though a few of the PM’s cronies claimed their boy still had a chance.

  I’d always got on well with Kevin Medlow, the Minister for Administrative Services, and trusted his judgement. I phoned him and asked if he’d see me for a chat.

  "Why?" he asked sarcastically. "You want to write a story about me?"

  "Of course not. Surely you don't want coverage in the Launceston Herald."

  "Not really. What do you want to talk about?"

  "I want to know who’s going to win the leadership battle."

  He laughed. "No kidding? OK, I’ll talk. But off the record."

  "Sure."

  "Alright. I can spare you ten minutes, if you hurry around here."

  I quickly strolled around to the Executive Wing that houses the PM and his Ministers, and used my security pass to scan my way through the entrance door. When I reached Medlow’s suite, the receptionist picked up a phone and told her boss that I’d arrived. After listening briefly, she told me to go into his office. I strolled up a short corridor and pushed my way into Kevin Medlow’s office. It was a long, narrow room with jarrah-panelled walls and a long window overlooking the Ministerial Courtyard.

  Kevin Medlow sat behind his desk, reading some papers. He was about medium height, balding with fleshy features. A former professor of biochemistry, he was undoubtedly one of the brightest and most talented men in politics. However, he had none of the personality defects needed for political success like chronic insecurity, megalomania and intense narcissism. His tendency to be appallingly candid and laugh at himself also made his colleagues suspicious.

  He recently got into trouble while campaigning in his electorate when a constituent wandered up and aggressively asked why politicians told so many lies. According to a newspaper reporter on the scene, Medlow replied: "We lie because fat fucks like you can’t handle the truth."

  Of course, Medlow claimed he was misquoted - he merely said "Ain’t that the fucking truth?" - but nobody believed him and there was quite a hoo-hah for a while.

  Certainly, the incident underlined why he would climb no higher in federal politics.

  He rose, approached and shook my hand with an impish grin. "Hello Paul. Haven’t seen you for a while. I heard about your fight with Bilson."

  Christ, who hadn’t? It would dog me all my days. "I wouldn't call it a fight. It was just an altercation."

  "That's not what I heard. I heard you two went old school, toe-to-toe, over his wife."

  "Like I said, it was just an altercation. Bilson started it. He didn't enjoy be
ing a cuckold and attacked me. Then we had a sissy fight on the floor. It was definitely not the Rumble in the Jungle."

  "I'm disappointed to hear that. I heard there were lots of savage blows and an ambulance was called. Obviously, an exaggeration. You know, it sounds to me as if you two have unfinished business. Maybe you should go down to the lake one foggy morning and fight a duel. En garde."

  Medlow imitated a swordsman driving Toledo steel through the gizzards of a dastardly villain. His gracefulness and springy front knee reminded me of Errol Flynn.

  I laughed. "Sorry, I'm a journalist, not Cyrano de Bergerac."

  Medlow laughed again. "Too bad. Take a pew."

  We sat on tan leather couches facing each other across a glass coffee-table.

  I said: "Thanks for seeing me."

  He smiled. "I’m very popular today."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I’ve had calls from the PM and Martin trying to enlist my support, and their staffers have worn holes in my carpet."

  "Did either of them offer you anything?"

  "Of course. Both offered me a Cabinet portfolio, if they won."

  "Can you trust them?"

  "Of course not."

  "So what did you say?"

  He grinned. "I promised them both my undying loyalty and support, of course."

  He could do that with impunity because the leadership contest would be decided by a secret ballot.

  I said: "Who do you think’ll win?"

  "Well, as you’d appreciate, it’s hard to count numbers. Most of my colleagues are even worse liars than me. I can only tell you what my gut says and hope I don’t have indigestion."

  "Which is?"