by Steve Lewis
‘So, $11 billion will flow from next financial year, after Sinopec signs the lease. We expect that to be finalised by late August.’
On the floor in front of the stage, two tables of working press sat stunned. They were used to observing the first rough draft of history – but this was epic.
Toohey was building to his punchline which was aimed straight at Labor’s core supporters. As he did he noticed several of the journalists picking up their mobiles and checking messages that had flashed onto their screens.
Probably their editors gobsmacked by my plan.
‘This program is Labor to the bootstraps. It tends to the weakest by leveraging our nation’s bounty. And it delivers jobs. Ten thousand jobs in the construction phase and a thousand permanent jobs thereafter. It cements our place as an energy superpower and it builds even stronger ties with our neighbours in this Asian Century.
‘Only Labor has the plan to deliver a fair go for Australia. Help for the weakest. Jobs for the rest. Prosperity for all.’
The Prime Minister finished his speech to rapturous applause. He acknowledged it with a nod and took a drink of water, readying himself for the queue of questioners.
‘Thank you, Prime Minister, for that truly important speech,’ Wilson said. ‘We now turn to questions from the press gallery. The first question: Jonathan Robbie from Channel Nine.’
Robbie cradled the microphone and wore a smug smile.
‘Prime Minister, fantastic speech. But I have just received extraordinary news. Catriona Bailey has tweeted a picture of herself. She’s been taken off life support. Here . . . can you see the picture? What is your response?’
That unspeakable cow.
‘Jonathan, I could not be more delighted to hear that the Foreign Minister seems to be making a miraculous recovery. I am, quite literally, speechless. I look forward to seeing her soon.’
The next question was from News Ltd’s Tom Shapiro, a young gun with a high opinion of himself, training to be a head-kicker.
‘Given the Foreign Minister’s close links with China, will she play a big role in helping to make sure this deal is sealed?’
‘Tom, I’m sure she will have a role to play but this deal will be sealed. By me. My office has all the necessary plans in place.’
Andrew Probyn, the West Australian’s feisty political correspondent, was on his feet.
‘PM, the Foreign Minister has just tweeted congratulating you on picking up one of the ideas that came up at her 2020 forum. Is that true?’
You little Pommy prick!
‘Andrew, more funding for mental health was a recommendation from the forum but I think you’ll find that the detail of this plan is far wider in scope than anything that has come before. And, if I might take some credit for this, there is a big difference between having an idea and sealing a deal.’
The next three questions were all about Bailey, the gallery ignoring the detail of Toohey’s tour de force.
Finally, Laura Tingle, the political editor from the Australian Financial Review, got the call and Toohey knew she hated Bailey at least as much as he did. She was also a serious economic journalist.
‘PM, you’ve skated over an important element in funding this plan. The briefing notes suggest that by 2025 your funding model will be $1 billion a year short of paying for itself. And you plan to lift the Medicare levy to fund the shortfall.’
We hoped that would be a footnote, not a focus.
‘You’re right, Laura. The difference will be funded by lifting the Medicare levy by a modest 0.25 per cent. But that will not happen until 2020 and, even then, it will only add a few dollars a month to the costs of an average family. Again, I stress that cost will not come for seven years. I think you will agree, Laura, that is a modest charge for a safety net that will give everyone peace of mind.’
Phones were starting to light up again on the working press tables.
The final question was from Paul Bongiorno, Ten’s veteran political correspondent.
‘PM. Bruce Paxton has just put out a press release saying he is quitting the Labor Party to sit on the crossbenches. Will that jeopardise the passage of your bill?’
Fuck me drunk, can’t I have a second of clear air?
‘Well, Paul, that is a surprise. But Bruce Paxton has spent his life trying to improve the lot of working men and women and I would be staggered if he did not see the merit in this plan. I will be seeking a meeting with him and briefing the other crossbench MPs soon.’
And with that the Prime Minister stepped down from the podium, ignoring the gift of a Mont Blanc pen and honorary Press Club membership.
A day that promised triumph and glory had turned to shit. Again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Canberra
It’s dubbed the 6pm index, a few minutes of primetime torture that can test the bravest.
Every night the Prime Minister and his inner sanctum would gather around a bank of television screens to see how they’d fared on the commercial networks.
Tonight was a disaster.
The Seven network led with ‘exclusive’ footage of Foreign Minister Catriona Bailey sitting serenely in a wheelchair, flanked by a deeply tanned neurosurgeon from Brisbane.
The network had a special relationship with the former prime minister, forged over her years of appearances on its breakfast program, Morning Glory.
‘This is close to miraculous. I’ve never had a patient show such steely determination to recover,’ the neurosurgeon said. ‘And, let me emphasise this, very few people suffering from Ms Bailey’s condition ever get off life support. We hope that soon the Foreign Minister will be able to talk.’
On Nine, Laurie Oakes had scored an interview with Bruce Paxton, who was declaring his intention to be yet another thorn in the side of the Toohey Government.
‘I will treat every bill on a case by case basis,’ Paxton advised. ‘This government had better not take me for granted.’
Ten lacked the other networks’ audience clout so its bulletin, an hour earlier than the big two, had no exclusive, but Hugh Riminton reported that the Prime Minister’s speech had been ‘overshadowed’ by the breaking news on Bailey and Paxton.
At 7pm, the ABC led with the ‘serious reservations’ being expressed by the Queensland and Western Australian governments about the gas hub plan. Both feared the Commonwealth’s intervention would jeopardise projects planned for their states. And both were making noises about a vague constitutional problem that neither would elaborate on.
‘What crap!’ spat Papadakis. ‘We have all the legal power we need to proceed in the Territory.’
‘Mate,’ Toohey sighed with the resignation of a man with low expectations.
‘The longer I’m in this job, the more I wonder whether I have any power at all.’
Melbourne
The Toorak tram rumbled by as Matthew Sloan hustled along the footpath with the frantic resolve of a man who was late.
‘Fuck those professional bores.’ Sloan swore under his breath as he wove between footpath saunterers conspiring to add more delay to his journey.
He had hated every minute of the Multicultural Communities Council meeting he’d just endured. Typically, minutes had piled into wasted hours in the drone of self-important speeches. The conclave of complaint was supposed to be done by six, leaving him ample time for the 7.30 dinner rendezvous. It was now 7.50.
If only the public could gaze inside a Member of Parliament’s life.
While the perception was of a life of privilege and taxpayer-funded travel, in truth the diary of an MP was larded with tedious speech nights and vapid community events. And meetings. Constituents, complainers, urgers and spivs all demanding time to whine. Meetings with hopelessly divided groups, like the Multicultural Communities Council, to which the application of liberal amounts of precious time usually failed to resolve even the most trivial of issues.
But then there were the moments he lived for, the hidden pearls that made his job
worthwhile.
As chair of the Parliamentary Joint Committee on Intelligence and Security, Sloan had access to some of the nation’s deepest and most sensitive secrets.
It also meant he was feted by every embassy and enjoyed junkets across the world to meet with counterparts in exotic lands. He’d just returned from the US, where he’d been given a personal tour of Langley by the new head of the CIA. A framed photograph of Sloan arm in arm with the Director now graced his office wall.
He was now within smelling distance of Bacash, one of Melbourne’s best eateries and Sloan’s favourite restaurant. He loved the slate-grey interior, the crisp white tablecloths, the dutiful, uniformed staff, and the exquisite menu. He could already taste the char-grilled calamari with chorizo.
Waiting for him at a corner table was Blake Cornwall, the political counsel at the United States embassy in Canberra. Dressed in a sharp dark-blue suit, Cornwall could have been a top-flight banker or lawyer waiting for a client. Instead he was effectively America’s number-one operative in Australia, the CIA’s eyes and ears who could even pull rank on the Ambassador when it came to the big calls.
He rose to meet Sloan with an exaggerated handshake.
‘Sorry, sorry, I’m late. Held up at the last event by a group of blowhards,’ the MP apologised.
‘Don’t worry about it, Matthew.’ Cornwall spoke in polished Bostonian tones. ‘I’ve already ordered some entrees, the one you like, and a decent bottle of white. It’s really great to see you. How’s Mary?’
‘Really well. And she wanted me to pass on how touched she was when the Ambassador wrote to her after her mother died.’
‘He was deeply saddened to hear about it, Matthew, deeply. As he often says, the bonds between our nations are so deep that we are essentially family.’
‘Very true, Blake, very true. And you know there is no stronger friend of the US than Australia.’
‘Is that so?’ Cornwall’s smile vanished, his face turned to stone and his voice dropped.
‘Then what the fuck are you pissants playing at in this gas deal with China?’
Sloan was stunned. He struggled to compose himself.
‘Blake, err . . . it’s an economic compact, it’s . . .’
‘It’s a sell-out. Yet another sign from your government that the old alliances are fading. You have forgotten who your friends are. Do you really believe that this region would be peaceful if we hadn’t done the hard defensive yards? I went to the trouble of getting you a briefing from the head of the NSA. Do you know how rare that is? Are you so stupid you missed the key message? Make no mistake on how this is being viewed in DC. By everyone. Hell, even the State Department and Pentagon agree: you’re giving us the bird and we aren’t about to sit quietly while you guys rat on us.’
‘What do you mean, Blake . . . ending security agreements?’
‘Use your imagination. And enjoy your dinner. Alone. I’ve ordered and paid. You guys should be used to that.’
Cornwall threw his napkin on the table as he rose and left.
Sloan sat crumpled, unable to eat. He fumbled for his mobile and hit the speed dial number for the PM’s chief of staff.
‘George, we are in serious strife.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Canberra
CABINET SPLIT ON CHINA DEAL
The Australian’s splash was designed to erect a tombstone on the policy Martin Toohey and George Papadakis had meticulously crafted over the previous three months. A report on the mental health package was relegated to a pointer off the front to page 5. Predictably, the national broadsheet had instead seized on political divisions within the government over the gas mega-deal.
A ‘senior source’ claimed most of Cabinet had been kept in the dark on the details of the package. There was deep disquiet about ‘selling off the farm’ to the Chinese and serious concern about how the proposed deal would be received by Australia’s neighbours and its ally-in-chief, the United States.
The chief of staff had barely slept. Papadakis had left the office after watching a Lateline interview with West Australia’s Colin Barnett, who was in meltdown. The Premier of the resource-rich state had accused the Commonwealth of stealing potential Chinese investment money and issued threats of a Constitutional challenge.
Throughout the long evening, Papadakis had been peppered with disturbing calls.
In Melbourne, his close friend Matthew Sloan had been monstered by the CIA’s chief spook. The Secretary of the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade had been shirt-fronted by what he described as a ‘hysterical’ Japanese Ambassador at a charity ball in Parliament’s Great Hall. The South Korean consul had ear-bashed the Minister for Trade and suggested that Labor had placed Australia on a perilous course, one that could jeopardise a planned free-trade agreement. Even the Israelis had briefly lifted their eyes from the Middle East to give their American friends a diplomatic hand. This time, it had been delivered with their usual shovel-to-the-head bluntness to a hapless Parliamentary Secretary.
Toohey stuck his head around Papadakis’s door, holding his iPad.
‘You know, I miss the old paper version of this rag because right now I’m off to the bathroom.’
‘What the fuck do we do now?’ Papadakis asked in despair.
‘We stick to our guns, mate. This is a good program. You and I know that. We can’t be knocked off course. So, what are your plans?’
‘Well, maybe I’ll tune into Alan Jones and get his calm, considered view on the foreign investment side of this. Just so my spirits can soar with the eagles.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
Canberra
Seven black letters. A shadow from the past now branded on the nation’s soul. Vietnam.
Harry Dunkley slowed as he passed the monument to a decade-long struggle that marked the moment when folk, young and old, began to lose faith in government.
His LandCruiser lumbered north on Anzac Parade, late in the morning. Three bronze diggers, dressed in their combat kit, stood amid a stand of poles representing the dead from another Asian conflict. Korea.
He looked back to the road. Straight ahead, the striking facade of the Australian War Memorial drew close, its copper-green dome set against the moss-and-emerald forest of Mt Ainslie.
What is it about this shrine to the dead that I find so compelling?
The reporter had spent countless hours at the Memorial absorbing the tragic history of a young nation that had lost too many to the horrors of war. It never failed to move him.
Charles Dancer had called again and asked that they meet in the First World War gallery, just off the main entrance. When Dunkley arrived Dancer was contemplating a white landing boat, scarred with bullet holes from the day it approached the beach at Gallipoli.
‘Imagine it, Harry . . .’ Dancer tried to conjure up century-old spirits. ‘The boys in this open boat. And they were boys. The hellfire raining down on them. The noise. Friends dying around them. Yet they go on, driven by a sense of duty. To their country. To each other.’
As he turned to drive his message home, Dunkley could see this place also moved the flint-hard intelligence man. He was beginning to get a sense of what drove Dancer: he saw himself in the long line of warriors who’d guarded the nation.
‘Never ever forget the sacrifice made over generations to ensure this country’s stayed free,’ Dancer stressed. ‘People like Keating argue that the First World War wasn’t our fight. Well, sometimes a fight chooses you. And the boys who died in that war perished in the belief they were fighting for a good cause.
‘Their country, their friends, their way of life and maybe even quaint old notions of Empire. Those are things worth fighting for, Harry. Their sacrifice was noble and should be venerated. We can’t look back from this distance and judge them. If they were following the wrong cause, it’s the politicians and generals who should stand condemned by history. The footsoldiers were honourable men. Heroes.’
Dunkley walked to the bow of the boat to
examine one of the ragged holes where a bullet from a Turkish Mauser had ripped through the metal of the hull, just above the waterline.
‘You’re sounding quite sentimental today, Charles. I like military history lessons. But I suspect that ain’t the reason you called me here.’
‘It’s not history, Harry. War is always with us. It’s sometimes hot, sometimes cold. Sometimes you see it and sometimes it’s a secret war with invisible trenches. Right now the frontline is just over there.’
Dancer turned and pointed south, in the direction of the new embassy being built by the Chinese. He pulled a small handful of prints from his jacket pocket.
‘Have a look at these, Harry. And yes, they are yours to keep – and publish.’
There were three photos, all aerial shots taken from directly above the new Chinese embassy compound.
‘Jesus, how did you get these, Charles? A spy satellite?’
‘Hardly.’ He smiled. ‘That kind of technology is a bit expensive. Actually, Defence finally put that RAAF hot-air balloon to good use. We tried a few times before the winds were on our side. It drifted right over the embassy site, and the Chinese were none too happy.’
Dunkley flicked through the crisp colour pics, each showing a different aspect of the embassy compound. In one, three men in white overalls were shovelling inside a deep trench. A black pipe was being laid down the middle. The work looked difficult and dangerous.
‘I’m assuming these guys don’t have their union cards.’
‘Very funny, Harry. I suspect you’re right. The Chinese appear to have brought their OH&S habits from home. But we’ve had a close look at the work and, coupled with other pictures and information I can’t share, we believe that site will mostly be used as a communications hub. It will gather and distribute intelligence.’