The Dying Diplomats Club

by Matthew Benns

  ‘So you are just going to leave us hanging in the wind?’ fired Hayden, his florid face becoming even redder. He looked up the table to Monaro for support and when he received none turned to his wife, who was distractedly nibbling on a lettuce leaf and clearly paying no attention at all. ‘Perhaps you could seek some guidance,’ said Hayden, casting another heavily weighted glance at the Prime Minister, who was steadfastly ignoring his gaze. Hill angrily stuffed a prawn into his mouth and started chewing with his mouth open, as he prepared another salvo for the diplomat.

  ‘I do believe that our people advised you against following that course of action when we became aware of it,’ rumbled Charlie. ‘But you choose to ignore us in favour of what you perceived to be a saving in costs. That turned out to be a false economy, as we warned it would, and I am afraid you are the one who now has to bear the consequences of your actions.’

  Hayden angrily opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by the sound of a knife clinking against the side of a Champagne flute.

  ‘Friends,’ said Monaro, rising once again to his feet at the end of the table. ‘The staff and security personnel have now gone. We are alone.’

  ‘OK, Scout, we are on the edge of our seats with excitement,’ said Alexander. ‘What’s all this cloak and dagger stuff about? What’s the big mystery?’

  ‘I am being blackmailed,’ said the Prime Minister simply, and a few startled gasps rippled around the table. Karen’s face registered shock before she quickly got it back under control and resumed her normal, professional demeanour. La Contessa cast a quick, measuring glance around the table to assess the other guests’ reactions. As one, they were registering surprise, with only social influencer Taylor seemingly unmoved by the revelation. She sulkily continued to stare into space. Outside, the noise of revelry seemed suddenly incongruous following the Prime Minister’s statement.

  ‘This is terrible. Naturally you have informed the relevant authorities?’ said Sir Aiden, swift to resolve the issue.

  ‘No, Aiden, I have not told anyone about this, apart from Patricia. I wanted to discuss it with all of you first.’

  ‘Well naturally we are all ’ere to support you,’ said Armand, leaning back in his chair and spreading his hands wide in a welcoming gesture. ‘What do you want us to do?’

  ‘Absolutely, we are your friends,’ said Alexander, leaning forwards to look down the table. ‘How can we help?’

  ‘You are all here exactly because you are friends,’ said Monaro. ‘Apart from Nick there, who is married to a very good friend and has the added qualification of being a first-class detective.’

  Nick raised an eyebrow at this and then smiled reassuringly at the other guests, attempting to project an air of confidence to them that he was not as shocked as they were at this surprising turn of events.

  ‘Robert, you are talking in riddles,’ said La Contessa. ‘What is going on? Who is blackmailing you?’

  ‘That is the problem, La Contessa,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘So why talk to us about it?’ said Charlotte. ‘You can’t possibly think —’

  ‘You have all known me a very long time,’ interrupted Monaro. ‘Long before the media dubbed me “Kingswood” – a not-very-funny play on their view that I was not fast enough to be a real Monaro. No one calls me Scout apart from my very close friends, people who know me closely from university, the army, my early days in politics or for a long time. In short: each of you.’

  ‘Come along then, Scout,’ piped up Brett from the other end of the table. He had been calling Monaro ‘Scout’ since working on his first election campaign. ‘Get to the point.’

  ‘The point, I’m afraid, is that the blackmail note I received was addressed simply to “Scout”, which means . . .’ said Monaro, his voice trailing sadly away.

  ‘Which means,’ picked up Nick quietly, ‘the blackmailer is one of the people sitting at this table.’

  *

  The man had crossed the city without incident, blending in easily with the thousands of tourists and families making their way to the various observation points around the harbour for the New Year’s Eve fireworks displays later that night. He had chosen to avoid public transport and walked at a brisk pace across the Harbour Bridge, a lanyard with a security pass swinging from his neck, before taking the stairs down and threading his way through the leafy, affluent streets of Kirribilli. He could feel the weight of the gun and water bottle in the rucksack but it was not significant enough to cause him any discomfort. He moved with the light agile steps of a natural predator.

  At the gate to Kirribilli House, the man was stopped by a uniformed security guard. He produced a manila envelope carrying the official logo of the Australian Government. The guard opened the envelope and pulled out an A4 letter bearing the name of the Prime Minister of Australia. He read it carefully before folding it and putting it back in the envelope. He nodded to the black-clad man and waved him through the gate without searching him. The man glided noiselessly up the drive and slipped in through the front door.

  CHAPTER 6

  PM Unravelled

  ‘Do you have the blackmail note?’ asked Nick, quietly taking control of the situation. The hint of a moving shadow in the hallway momentarily caught his attention. He dismissed it. The calm certainty of his voice had silenced the others around the table and they all turned to the Prime Minister.

  ‘I do,’ he said, pulling a manila envelope from the inside of his jacket pocket. It was an unremarkable envelope, one that could be bought in bulk packs in office supply stores all over the country. A laser printer had been used to write the word Personal in the top left corner and then FAO Robert Monaro, c/- Kirribilli House in the centre.

  ‘How did you get it?’ asked Nick.

  ‘It was just included in my mail. Someone must have dropped it off at the gate. My mail is normally vetted so I didn’t think anything of it – until I opened it of course.’

  ‘Well, come on,’ said Brett impatiently. ‘What does it say?’

  The envelope remained firmly in Monaro’s hand. ‘I would rather not. It rather defeats the purpose of blackmail if the secret inside is broadcast to a wider audience.’

  ‘Unfortunately, without that information it will be very difficult to flush out the blackmailer,’ said Nick. ‘I assume that what is contained inside would only be known to certain people?’

  ‘It is known to a number of people in this room, at least two of whom I would trust with my life. And have done so in the past. The question is how anyone else could have got that information,’ Monaro said.

  Nick nodded, looking at the two diplomats at the opposite end of the table. They had the composed, neutral features of skilled negotiators. Or soldiers waiting for action, he thought.

  ‘Perhaps we should tackle it another way,’ said La Contessa, a frown of concentration creasing her forehead. ‘What does the blackmailer want? That could provide us with a clue to their identity.’

  ‘There is a sum of money involved,’ said Monaro, nodding. ‘And whoever it is wants me to step down from office.’

  ‘And if you don’t pay up and quit?’ asked Nick.

  ‘The information the blackmailer has will be handed over with the proof to the newspapers. My career and reputation will be finished.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said La Contessa. ‘You are in a bit of a pickle.’

  ‘It looks that way,’ said Nick gravely. ‘But I can’t see why anyone here would want you to give up the top job. Money, on the other hand, is unfortunately a universal motivator.’

  Monaro sagged back in his chair, suddenly looking every one of his 53 years, his expression bleak.

  Patricia got up and walked the length of the table to stand behind her husband and rest a supportive hand on his shoulder. Absent-mindedly he reached up and patted her hand. ‘You have a big decision to make, Robert: are you sure you want to divulge your secret to so many people?’ she said.

  The Prime Minister wa
s still for a time and then nodded slowly to himself. He looked up at Nick, who nodded to him.

  ‘I don’t want to do this,’ Monaro said. ‘Are you sure it’s really necessary? It feels like I am making the problem worse.’

  Nick held out his hand and reluctantly the Prime Minister reached across the table and handed him the envelope. Nick took it and carefully opened the flap, pulling out a single folded page of manila writing paper. He unfolded it and held it out in front of him at arm’s length. ‘Very soon my arms will not be long enough for my eyes,’ he said apologetically. No one laughed.

  ‘Scout,’ he said, reading the note. ‘Time’s up. Your dirty little secret is out. Either you step down from office and hand back the Iraqi gold or the truth of what you did in the Gulf War on the banks of the Euphrates River will come out. I have the report. Quit by New Year’s Day or see your reputation ruined on the front of every newspaper in the land.’

  ‘That doesn’t seem so bad,’ said La Contessa reassuringly. ‘I can’t imagine you did anything really bad in the Gulf War. I mean, it’s a war . . .’ Her voice trailed off as she saw the expression on Monaro’s face. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘It really is a dirty little secret.’

  The Prime Minister nodded before looking down, ashamed. Both Charlie and Alexander were unnaturally still. Alexander was staring fixedly at a spot six inches from his dessert spoon on the table while Charlie’s gaze did not leave the middle distance above the heads of the people opposite him. Neither betrayed any emotion.

  ‘Come on, Scout, in my experience nothing is ever that bad,’ said Brett reassuringly. ‘I have stared down some pretty serious scandals and allegations in my time. I mean, there was the time I was accused of fixing the Melbourne Cup with a ring-in from New Zealand. They couldn’t pin a thing on me. Walked away clean as a whistle.’

  ‘But did you actually fix the Melbourne Cup?’ asked Charlotte suspiciously.

  ‘Of course I did.’ Brett grinned. ‘Made a fortune. Came in at a hundred to one. But the point is they couldn’t prove it. No proof, no problem.’

  ‘But the note says there is a report,’ said Karen. ‘Is there a report, Scout?’

  Monaro nodded sadly. ‘There was a report. I thought it had been destroyed but obviously it hasn’t.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Nick thoughtfully. ‘But how do you know that whoever this is really does know your dirty little secret and is not bluffing?’

  ‘Look at the date,’ said Monaro.

  Nick looked at the letter again and read out the date typed in the top right corner of the page. ‘The thirteenth of April, 2003.’

  ‘That is when it happened,’ said Monaro sadly. ‘I don’t think that is a mistake. Particularly when coupled with the geographical detail.’

  ‘On the banks of the Euphrates River,’ said Nick. ‘Is that conclusive enough for you? It is very hard for us to tell without knowing the detail.’

  Monaro sighed dejectedly. ‘You really don’t think I have a choice but to spell it all out?’

  Nick said nothing, letting the other man work it out.

  Slowly Monaro nodded, as if to himself. ‘Well —’

  But before he could continue, Sir Aiden interjected. ‘Prime Minister, I really must urge caution at this point. The fewer people who know the actual detail of something that can be used to blackmail you, the better. Surely,’ he looked to Nick now, ‘there must be other avenues we could explore before taking such a drastic and quite clearly irrevocable step?’

  ‘I agree,’ rumbled Charlie. He glanced at Alexander, who gave a nod of agreement. ‘This impacts others here too, you know.’

  Patricia had been standing silently behind her husband while this exchange took place, but now she looked with the unresting eye of a seasoned hostess and made a suggestion. ‘I think Sir Aiden may be right, Nick. Why don’t we eat the starters and give it a little more thought before we jump into anything hasty?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Nick, returning to his chair. ‘I must say these do look to be exceptional prawn cocktails.’

  These were not the shrimp cocktails of yesteryear. Gone were the tiny crustaceans swimming in a sea of Marie Rose sauce and in their place were giant tiger prawns from Queensland, their tails hanging invitingly over the edges of the glasses. A wedge of lemon was conveniently cut and placed on the rim next to them. They were all sitting untouched, apart from the one in front of Hayden Hill, which the corpulent tycoon had already rather messily demolished.

  ‘Perfect with the old shampoo,’ said Brett, pushing his chair back and standing up. ‘I’ll go and get us another bottle.’

  But instead of heading to the foyer, where the Champagne bottles stood in melting ice at the foot of the enormous unicorn ice sculpture, he turned and bolted through the verandah doors – taking off at a sprint across the lawn towards the gate that led to Admiralty House. The startled oryx shot their heads up in alarm and then took flight along the fenceline away from the harbour. Before she had time to think, La Contessa too was on her feet and giving chase. Her Christian Louboutin heels were in her right hand and the hem of her red satin dress in her left without her even registering how they got there. She flashed across the deck and vaulted onto the lawn in a fluid movement, long brown legs pumping in pursuit of the fleeing bookmaker. La Contessa drew back her right arm and threw her shoes, one of which struck Brett on the back of the head. He faltered but kept running for the gate, which was now less than 20 metres away. Inexorably, he was gaining ground.

  And then a black, white and tan ball of energy surged past La Contessa, paws drumming on the lawn. Baxter! Head down, ears flapping majestically in the slipstream of his flying run, the valiant beagle quickly overhauled the bookmaker’s head start. As he got within striking distance Baxter launched, as though jumping for a bouncing ball, and clamped his jaws on Brett’s left calf. They went down in a cartwheeling ball of flying fur and dinner suit. Hurtling up behind them, La Contessa attempted to stop her headlong rush and turned her left ankle on the grass, coming to a crashing halt on top of them both.

  ‘Ow, ow, ow, get off. Get off!’ yelped Brett. ‘Get this bloomin’ dog off me. He’s biting my leg. Stop. Ow, ow.’

  La Contessa pulled herself into a sitting position on Brett’s back. ‘I can tell him to stop if you promise not to run again,’ she said.

  ‘I promise, I promise,’ cried Brett beseechingly. ‘He’s not biting my leg now; I think he is eating it.’

  ‘Very well – that’s enough, Baxter. Leave Mr Porterhouse’s leg alone.’ Baxter gave the canine equivalent of a sigh and released his jaws, instead coming up to check on La Contessa’s welfare, tail wagging. ‘Good boy, Baxter,’ she said, scratching his head. ‘Well done.’

  ‘Very well done indeed, both of you,’ said Nick, sauntering up with his unspilled Champagne in hand. ‘What a run, my Livorno lightning bolt. Proof positive of your long-held claim to be Year Six sprint champion at Palermo’s prestigious Ancelle Institute for Girls.’

  ‘Thank you, darling,’ said a beaming La Contessa, her chest rising and falling rather fetchingly from the exertion. ‘Although I may have rolled my ankle on the final burst.’

  ‘If you two have quite finished with all the chit chat, how about getting off me?’ complained Brett, his breathless voice muffled by the grass.

  ‘He did promise not to run again,’ said La Contessa.

  ‘Today at least,’ said Nick, offering her his hand and pulling her up from the prostrate bookmaker’s back. She winced as she put the weight on her twisted ankle and quickly leaned against Nick for support. Baxter growled warningly as Brett struggled to his feet, the left leg of his suit pants hanging in dog-saliva-soaked tatters.

  ‘Brett, what on earth were you thinking?’ said Nick. ‘As the only real villain in the room, I was counting on you as the one person I could trust.’

  ‘Sorry, Nick, it’s the old instinct kicking in. You know how it is.’

  Nick nodded sympathetically.

  ‘Wait a minu
te,’ said La Contessa. ‘Surely this is proof positive of his guilt. Why run if you are not the blackmailer?’

  Nick and Brett both looked at her in astonishment.

  ‘No, I don’t think so, my Eboli executioner,’ said Nick. ‘In my experience the seasoned criminal knows that when things start to go south it is best to run first and ask questions later.’

  ‘Too right, Nick,’ agreed Brett, nodding vehemently. ‘When the proverbial hits the fan, it’s always the likely lad with a shady past who gets pinned with the crime.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said La Contessa. ‘And do you believe him, darling?’

  ‘Well, I’ve known Brett a long time and I never had him pegged as a blackmailer,’ said Nick before pausing. ‘Although there was that one time with the owner of a Golden Slipper favourite —’

  ‘Come on, Nick, don’t go bringing that up again,’ said Brett. ‘You know there was never any real proof on that one. It was all just circumstantial nonsense put up by dodgy characters who wanted to do me harm.’

  ‘Unless, of course, there is something else going on,’ said Nick, suddenly suspicious. ‘I have noticed you casting furtive glances in the direction of the kitchen ever since the phones were taken away. Is there something else you need to tell us, Brett?’

  Brett seemed to deflate in front of them. ‘There’s no flies on you, Nick,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a private wager going on. I need to call in before 8pm or it all goes south. I thought I might do the old Harold Holt, find a phone, put in the call and then wander back. I’m guessing that’s not going to happen now.’

  Nick shook his head and took a sip of his Champagne. He curled a supportive arm around his wife. ‘Well I have no more reason to suspect Brett here of blackmail than I do any of the other “upstanding” people in that room,’ he said. ‘Come, on let us rejoin the others.’