CHAPTER FOUR

DAY SIX – CUP DAY (TUESDAY)

The sun quickly broke the ocean horizon, filling the bedroom with light. The increasing warmth aroused Jonathan Wolff from his slumber.

A sharp ache in his head attracted his fingers and he gently rubbed the scar of an old wound to relieve his discomfort. Opening his eyes to gaze into the mirror above the bed, he realised his friend from last night was still with him. He slid from the bed without disturbing her to prepare his usual breakfast and plan his day.

Wolff’s Gold Coast apartment was only ever used by him as a holiday residence when he wasn’t overseeing an election or a political campaign somewhere in the world. The demand for his special services was high and kept him from his favourite place for too long. Covert campaign strategy and assistance was the specialty he offered generous benefactors wanting to win an election or influence government policy, but he never took money from politicians, considering it a conflict of interest.

He padded naked across the marble tiles of the open concept living room to a modern galley-style kitchen and began to prepare a pot of French Earl Grey tea and a bowl of strawberries, toasted oats and vanilla yogurt. He enjoyed living on the coast, and especially his sub-penthouse that provided commanding views along the famous beaches.

The apartment was full of glass. Bright, airy and secure, the perfect place for his much-needed breaks from the demands of dealing with people. Gnashing on his oats, he thought about hitting the waves. As he watched keen surfers in the early morning swell, he realised he would first have to rid himself of last night’s guest.

Turning his mind to his phone, he found it in his strewn leather jacket and checked his messages. Sitting on a high wooden stool at his marble kitchen island, he scrolled through various messages, spotting notifications from six missed calls. He recognised the number and pushed the redial button, waiting for Kerry Jameson to answer.

‘Wolff!’

‘Mr Jameson, how are you? How can I help?’

‘Always straight to the point, never any chit-chat.’

‘Nothing to talk about, Mr Jameson.’

‘Can you get to Melbourne today? Where are you?’

‘I arrived back from Zimbabwe on Saturday. I was expecting your call sometime this week.’

‘Zimbabwe? Did our boys win?’

‘Yes, the opposition leader is – shall we say – no longer relevant.’

‘Don’t tell me anymore. I would prefer not to know,’ Jameson said quickly. ‘Are you able to get a flight?’

‘I’ll check, but it should be okay. Who are you backing?’ ‘Self-interest.’

Wolff chuckled. ‘No, not in the cup, I meant in the election.’ He walked to the boiling kettle and poured steaming water into his white teapot. ‘Are we supporting Gerrard again?’

‘No. As I said, self-interest.’

‘No surprise. I think he’s overrated now. Perhaps it’s time for someone new.’

‘Someone from his party – or would you recommend the opposition? What are your thoughts on Stanley?’

‘Doesn’t really matter. In a lot of ways, both parties are mirror images. We don’t have the robust politics they do in Africa.’

‘We’re supporting Stanley, although we retain reservations.’

‘Which are?’

‘Well, he was only elected leader last week, for one thing.’

‘That could be problematic in getting his message out. Most folks in the electorate wouldn’t know who he is from a bar of soap.’

‘That is why we need you to manage the campaign.’

‘I’ll do my best. What service do you need?’

‘Strategy, and probably recruiting boots on the ground. We’re sending funds to them.’

‘Any other services?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like the ones I supplied to your friends in Zimbabwe?’

‘Different country, different politics, needing different outcomes.’

‘I still have your credit card from the recent job in Taiwan, shall I use that?’

‘That should be okay. Have your rates changed?’

‘I have a bonus on positive election outcomes now, but we can talk about that when I see you later today.’

‘That’ll be fine, I’ll get a ten per cent, $200 000 advance to you tomorrow.’

‘I’ll get down to Melbourne this afternoon, depending on flights, and we can go through it. Is Hancock active?’

‘He and Gerrard are mates, but he supports us getting rid of the government.’

‘Other than the obvious issues, why do you want to get rid of him?’ Wolff jumped as he suddenly felt a hand slip around his waist, caressing his naked stomach before moving lower while another clasped his chest, then warm lips on his back. ‘Mr Jameson, I have to go. I’ll be in touch later today.’

‘Righto.’

Wolff turned and the nude girl warmly kissed him. ‘Good morning. How did you sleep?’ he finally asked, stepping back. ‘Would you like tea?’

‘That would be nice,’ she said dreamily, straddling a stool. ‘You look sharp this morning, no headache?’

‘I don’t drink. How’s your head?’

‘The champagne you opened was sensational. Was it local?’

‘No, French. Would you like milk?’

‘No thanks.’ A freshly poured mug of tea was passed to her. ‘You must work out a lot, you look in good shape for an old bloke.’

‘Couple of times a week.’ Wolff climbed on the stool next to her. ‘You live nearby?’

‘I live in Sydney. I’m up here for a conference. Do you know where my bag is?’

‘To be honest, I don’t even remember your name.’

‘Well, Mr Wolff. Does that mean I didn’t leave an impression?’ she said demurely from behind his shoulder, eyes smiling.

‘Nice one.’ Wolff smiled. ‘Can I drop you somewhere this morning?’ ‘That would be great. I’m staying at the Hilton.’

‘I’ll have to leave in around an hour, so if you want a shower or something, I have plenty of towels and girly things in the bathroom.’

‘Well, I do want something. Shall we do it here?’ She tapped the marble bench then ran her hand between Wolff’s thighs, lingering.

Wolff knew the decision he was about to make might cost him valuable time, but he took her hand and led her to the bedroom.

‘Barton? It’s Jaya. Please tell me, what’s going on?’

Messenger was enjoying a coffee after lunch at a cafe around the corner from campaign headquarters. He walked off from the table to take the call.

‘Hi Professor, what do you mean?’

‘You said you would get back to me, and you haven’t.’ Messenger scrunched his face, remembering she was right. ‘You promised me, in fact.’

‘I’m deeply sorry, Professor, but I’ve been a little distracted with the leadership group.’

‘Can I seek endorsement? What do I have to do?’

‘Yes is the short answer. The nominations close tomorrow and preselection for all vacant seats is Saturday.’

‘Tomorrow?’ yelled Rukhmani. ‘Today is a public holiday and you expect me to have this done by tomorrow?’

‘I’m sorry, Professor, I can’t explain it, I just forgot to get back to you.’

‘No other reason?’

‘No,’ Messenger paused for a moment. ‘Like what?’

‘Racism is revealed in many subtle forms, Barton, and God knows I’ve experienced a lot of it throughout my life.’

‘I forgot, I’m sorry,’ Messenger was a little befuddled. ‘That doesn’t mean I’m a racist.’

‘Barton, you come from a position of privilege and you wouldn’t know racism if it bit you. It’s always subtle – the person never thinks they’re racist, but deep down in their heart, they are.’ The professor paused, Messenger waited, not wanting to respond. ‘I’m surprised by your behaviour, but I won’t have it influence my judgement. Can I use you as a reference?’

‘Of course you can, and I’ll speak to our president about your endorsement and the project you’re planning.’

‘Is that another one of your promises, or just political spin?’

Messenger squirmed a little. ‘I’m truly sorry for letting you down, I didn’t mean it.’ He rubbed the back of his head. ‘I’ll talk to the president immediately. If you have issues getting your application in by the deadline, let me know as early as possible.’

‘I’ll do my hardest to get it in; one of my students will help me. Thank you for your enthusiasm.’

‘Professor, I’m deeply embarrassed not keeping my promise, please forgive me.’

‘No issue, Bart, as I said, when it comes to these sorts of selection processes, I’m used to the covert nature of bias against me. I get it at the university all the time. Bye for now.’

The phone went dead. Messenger tried to dismiss the points made to him, but the lingering thought of unconscious bias and his commitment to equality was challenged by her. Did he believe the professor – was he really a racist?

‘Bad news?’ asked Sussan Neilson as Messenger returned to the table a little absent-mindedly to finish his coffee.

‘No, I failed to do something for a colleague and she accused me of being racist.’

‘That’s a little harsh. Anything I should be concerned about?’

‘My politics professor at university wants to run against Gerrard as our candidate. She is planning to use it as an academic case study so she can design a teaching unit on applied campaigning. They want to blog it and film it. Should be fun.’

‘What’s the problem?

‘She isn’t preselected yet, which is scheduled for Saturday.’

‘Is she suitable?’

‘She has a PhD in politics, she’s an immigrant, a child bride from an arranged marriage, a single mother, although I think her adult son lived with his father when he was younger, not sure about that. She’s a long-term Australian citizen and she is the perfect candidate.’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘She is Siddi.’

‘Where is that, I’ve never heard of it.’

‘It’s the cultural group in India that originated from Africa.’

‘So?’

‘They’re very dark skinned.’

‘Oh.’

‘That’s what I thought.’ Messenger raised his eyebrows and shook his head slightly. ‘It seems that even thinking that thought means I might be racist. I’m also worried the party might not accept her, and if that happens, perhaps we are indeed sending xenophobic messages out into the community.’

‘Leave it to me. If you think she’ll be a good candidate, and if we put her up against Gerrard, and she’s doing it as a university case study, it’s a win-win for everyone.’

‘That’s a bit cynical, isn’t it?’ Messenger gnawed his bottom lip.

‘To use your oft clichéd phrase – it’s the optics. We’ll be seen as inclusive and close Gerrard down from hitting us with immigration as an election issue. Pretty hard to argue politically that we have a discriminatory policy when we are inclusive with our candidates, wouldn’t you think?’

‘So we use her for publicity as much as she uses us?’

‘Yes, of course. It’s politics, Bart. You know that,’ said Nelson as she finished her coffee. ‘I’ll pull in a few favours and get the media ready, just make sure she gets her application in.’

‘You travel light.’ Wolff dropped his leather backpack on a chair and sunk into a soft leather couch at Jameson’s swanky Melbourne office high above the casino.

‘When I’m working, I like to move fast, so if it doesn’t fit in the bag it doesn’t come,’ Wolff smiled. ‘Did you pick a winner today?’

‘I never bet, I just collect.’

‘Nice philosophy.’

‘It pays the bills.’ Jameson presented Wolff with soda water and took his whiskey to collapse in the lounge chair. ‘Thanks for coming down, we are keen to make this change of government happen and you’re just the guy to do it for us.’

‘Always willing to support you, Mr Jameson.’

‘And you did a great job for us in Queensland.’

‘Beautiful one day, perfect the next.’

‘Especially with a change of government,’ Jameson smiled broadly. ‘What do you know about Stanley and his mob?’

‘Not much. I would have thought James Harper had the best chance of winning an election, but this Stanley bloke and his new leadership cronies are hard to get an angle on at the moment. I suspect there isn’t much government experience in their team?’

‘You’re right about that. They have a major headline speech on domestic violence tomorrow at a sporting club out at Mulgrave, here in Melbourne, so let’s hope they get traction. Hancock is already primed to promote them,’ Jameson said softly. Coughing a little, he took a swig of his whiskey.

‘I’ll observe their strategy over the next few days and give you a report on what we’ll need. I’ve already spoken to a number of community contacts to begin to get feet on the street. So, we’ll be ready to go probably Monday if you give us the green light.’

‘How will that look?’

‘We’ll begin with community rallies – town hall–type meetings, in the most winnable electorates. Each with the same message, saying the same things every day in every electorate.’

‘Every day, that’ll be tough.’

‘This election against a headline act like Gerrard can only be won at the grassroots. Using Twitter and other social channels will help generate momentum, but it’s talking to the masses in the suburbs that will change votes. Our people will be in the audience at meetings, providing vocal support and encouragement to give the perception of a growing community movement. Social media coverage of the rallies will rapidly create a political movement, potentially influencing voting patterns across Australia. But it needs community organisers, and we will need at least one hundred and fifty-five, one for every seat.’

‘Do you have those sorts of resources?’

‘I can recruit both agitators and organisers, who are easy to mobilise, especially if there’s money involved. It’ll be up to them to get their own volunteers. By election day we should have a reasonable movement at the voting booths, which will influence voters as they arrive.’

‘How much will this cost us?’

‘Plenty, but it’s not the money, it’s the positive outcome we want. We all want good government, don’t we?’ Wolff smiled.

Jameson took another swig of whiskey, declining an immediate response.

‘Do we need any muscle?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought so, but it’s a little too early to say. Let me assess the campaign before I give you an answer. Just make sure Stanley’s mob keep any stuff-ups out of the media. I can only do so much – if they’re useless campaigners, I can’t do anything to help them.’

‘We want Gerrard gone – do what you have to do.’

‘I haven’t let you down yet – or for that matter your international colleagues – have I?’

Jameson smiled and slightly shook his head.

‘Trust me, Mr Jameson,’ Wolff leaned forward and engaged Jameson deeply in the eyes. ‘I’ll ensure Gerrard won’t be prime minister of this country after the election,’ said Wolff menacingly.