CHAPTER SIX

DAY TEN – SATURDAY (REMEMBRANCE DAY)

Anita liked to continue her daily exercise regime when travelling. She always tossed her favourite sneakers, yoga pants and a neon top in her bag, and this morning appreciated the streetscape and sights of the exercise trails around the Williamstown peninsula.

Schwabs Galley Cafe was recommended for a light breakfast by Barton, who was waiting for her at an outside table. As she sat, Anita poured herself a glass of water from the carafe, prompting Barton to fold away his morning papers and hand her a menu.

‘Did you walk far?’

‘I followed the coast line from the beach, right around the point to the old Timeball Tower, which was fascinating. Then along Nelson Place past the shipyards until here. It was a great walk, plenty of people out with their dogs and the smell of fresh seaweed was great. I just love it here.’

‘Where did you stay last night?’

‘They have us in the Quest Apartments, just over there.’ Anita pointed to the end of Gem Pier on the other side of the park opposite.

‘Nice.’

‘What do you recommend?’ Anita read through the menu.

‘Everything’s good here, but the frittata is excellent.’

‘I’ll have that then, and some tea. Do I order inside, or is it table service?’

‘They’ll come out. Hey, you look great by the way,’ smiled Barton. ‘Very Sporty Spice.’

‘Oh, thank you. What a charmer,’ said Anita, squeezing his hand and smiling. ‘What’s on your schedule today?’

‘There’s a service at the local cenotaph around the corner at eleven, and then we’re off to Sydney. Gerrard is at the Shrine, so we thought we would do a suburban service – the optics will look good on the news. Community service, connecting with the community, all that sort of thing.’

‘It seems you’re doing a few things differently in the campaign from a few days ago. What’s changed?’

‘Lester has his act together. He’s brought in resources and we’re initiating a community campaign aligned with the national strategy.’

‘Interesting. That’s more diverse than you’ve done in the past. What’s brought this on?’ Anita effortlessly probed, looking over her shoulder for the waiter.

‘Lester has been arguing this type of campaign strategy for a few months and he is keen to engage the electorate at a local level, supplementing the national broadcast message.’

‘Can I quote you?’

‘Yes, please,’ urged Messenger. ‘We have nothing to hide when it comes to our campaign. The election war will be won in the individual battlefields of each electorate.’

‘Nice one, especially on Remembrance Day.’ Anita tapped the quote into her smartphone as the Greek cafe waiter took the order from Messenger. When she had finished her note, she asked, ‘Have you seen Dempster’s column today? Would you like to make a comment?’

‘Here we are having a quiet breakfast together, the sun is out, we’ll chat and laugh and enjoy ourselves and you ignore all of that lovely ambience just to get quotes from me.’ Barton feigned being a little miffed. ‘What ego has she smashed today? Celebrity or another socialite.’

‘Actually, it’s your leader.’ Anita studied Barton to gauge a reaction. ‘Apparently Peter has been a naughty boy, cracking jokes about your policies.’ She only caught a slight flicker at the corner of his mouth, otherwise his face didn’t move.

‘What’s he said?’ Barton casually gnawed his bottom lip, superficially having little interest in what she was saying.

‘Home maintenance.’ Anita was impressed with him as she still could not detect any reaction from her breakfast partner. ‘You are incredible.’

‘Why?’ Barton broke into a smile.

‘I give you what could be a game-changing revelation about your leader and your face does not move. How do you do that?’

‘Why should it be game over? Even if he did say it, and I’m fairly sure he would not have been so stupid, then it is simply a joke and the political caravan moves on.’

‘You don’t think calling your domestic violence policy, home maintenance, is a problem?’ guffawed Anita. ‘You think he can joke about these things and get away with it?’

‘It’s hypothetical – he never said it.’

‘Dempster always has very reliable sources.’

‘Take it from me, he never said it,’ insisted Messenger.

‘You have that political butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth look again.’

‘Anita, he didn’t say it,’ Messenger retorted. ‘You can quote me.’

‘Oh, now you want me to quote you?’

‘He never said it.’

‘Which probably means he did.’ Anita remained a little apprehensive about how this relationship she was keen to explore with Barton was going to work when her prospective boyfriend would always be on the political defensive. ‘What else is happening?’

‘We finalise all preselections today, which reminds me, have you learned who we plan to run in Melbourne against Gerrard?’

‘A pale stale male as you usually do in most seats?’

‘Oh yes, very funny. Actually, it’s quite the opposite. We have a university professor putting her hand up to run. Of course, she won’t win the seat – no-one can win Melbourne while Gerrard remains in the parliament – but she plans to use it as a case study for her political study programs.’

‘She teaches politics?’

‘She’s an immigrant as well, which is just a sensational story.’

‘If that is the case, I might be interested in doing a piece on her. What’s her name?’

‘Professor Jaya Rukhmani. She’s based at Melbourne University and she supervised part of my PhD.’

‘Where is she from, sounds like Sri Lanka or Fijian Indian?’

‘Actually, she’s from India. She came here around thirty years ago to get married, one of those cultural things.’ Messenger grimaced. ‘Once she had a child, things changed for her and the marriage didn’t last.’

‘I’m not surprised, most of those arranged marriages seem to struggle. What is she, around sixty?’

‘More like early to mid-forties.’

‘Say what? That would mean she was very young when she came here.’

‘Her son never lived with her. I think the father obtained custody when he was around two, maybe. Don’t quote me. I went to his thirtieth birthday celebrations early this year.’

‘I bet she has some interesting stories to tell. How did she end up doing what she’s doing?’

‘Her husband’s family disavowed her. With limited options, she used the welfare system to complete her education, went to university and hasn’t left – now she’s a professor.’

‘Good on her. You’re absolutely right, that is a great story. Is she likely to be preselected?’

‘We don’t normally get candidates wanting to run in Gerrard’s seat, but that doesn’t mean she’s a certainty.’

‘No candidates, no certainty – how does that work?’

‘She is Siddi, from Karnataka.’

‘So what?’

‘They are of African descent and her skin colour is much like she might come from the Sudan.’ Messenger screwed up his face. ‘I’m not so sure the party is ready for that type of cultural diversity.’

‘Can I quote you?’

‘Fuck, no!’ chided Barton a little too loudly, nervously checking about him. ‘Jaya has already accused me of being insensitive to her, so no, don’t quote me.’

‘Enough of the colourful language please, Mr Messenger.’ The cafe owner arrived by his side with their breakfast. ‘We have high standards here.’

‘Ah Parthena, thank you.’ Barton sat back and removed his newspapers from the table. ‘This is my friend Anita, she’s from Canberra.’

‘Are you a politician as well?’

‘No,’ Anita laughed. ‘I’d rather poke my eyes out with a burnt stick.’

‘Ah, just like me. I can’t stand them.’ Parthena poured more water for her clients. ‘Present company excepted, of course, Mr Messenger.’

‘No offence taken,’ laughed Messenger. ‘Tell me, what are the issues worrying you at the moment.’

‘No future for my kids.’ The owner offered cracked pepper from the mill she held under her arm; Anita waved no. ‘The government lets too many immigrants into the country and they bludge on the system. The government makes it too easy for them and who’ll pay the bill? My kids will.’

Barton smiled broadly then sarcastically replied. ‘But you’re an immigrant.’

‘My family came to this country with nothing. We worked hard to establish ourselves. There were no government handouts in those days, not like there are now.’

‘So, we should just stop letting people in? Is that what you want the government to do?’

‘No, of course not. We need immigration to grow, but we don’t need to pay money to them so they can sit around all day.’

Barton shrugged his shoulders. ‘Oh well, this is the system.’

‘Then change the system. You are there, do something. It’s not fair for us taxpayers who work hard and see our taxes being wasted.’

Messenger began to feel a little uncomfortable not knowing how to end the conversation, so he said nothing, smiled and nodded his head.

‘Enjoy your breakfast, I’ll bring your teas out.’

‘She’s a nice lady, but always has a go at lazy immigrants,’ Barton said softly, looking to see if others could hear him.

‘Does she have a point?’ Anita asked.

‘It’s the system. No government will clean it up.’

‘Is she right when she says politicians are too scared to talk about these things?’

‘Talk about immigration policy we’re called racists, or some other derogatory phobic word.’

‘Maybe you should try and bring the conversation into the public domain and talk about these issues, especially if there are strong views. I suspect the electorate would appreciate it.’

‘Yeah maybe,’ sighed Barton as he picked up the first section of his toasted club sandwich. ‘Have your breakfast.’

Anita looked at him, wanting to change the tone as she unwrapped her cutlery from the paper napkin. ‘This Indian candidate is a great story; can you give me her contact details or should I get them off Lester?’

‘Best you go through him but wait until she is confirmed as our candidate.’

The frittata flavour was hitting the spot and Anita squirmed a little in her chair as she always does when her tastebuds are excited by good food. ‘This is fantastic, would you like a taste?’

Barton ignored the question but then asked, ‘Do you think I’m a racist?’

‘What a strange thing to ask.’ Anita stopped eating and gazed at him. ‘Why would you ask such a thing?’

‘Jaya got me thinking about it. She says the privileged white community doesn’t grasp the realities of the daily struggle for ethnic minorities and therefore we are inherently racist. Not deliberately, but we just don’t see the system as those with colour see it.’

‘White privilege assumes race is class based, but I would argue it isn’t. There are plenty of white people who don’t get access, such as women,’ suggested Anita.

‘I assume what Jaya means is that because I’m a white male, the system I was born into was a majority construct and therefore I have no idea about the struggles of others, consequently I’m privileged.’

‘Well, you’re not a bigot, I know that. It’s a bit harsh to call you a racist for not having empathy. I don’t call you sexist because you have no idea what I want,’ smiled Anita.

‘I don’t know,’ worried Barton. ‘Maybe she has a point. She certainly has a point within the history of the parliament, it has been mostly a dominate, white-male institution.’

‘I’m not sure the dominate culture needs to continually feel guilty about so-called privilege.’

‘I’m not sure about that, maybe we do,’ said Barton.

‘Boy, you really are being philosophical this morning.’

‘I just get the feeling there is a gap within the community no-one wants to fill, and we just continue to categorise and create division. It’s awful the way we can’t discuss issues these days without being called phobic of something or someone.’

Anita decided to change tact a little as she finished her breakfast. ‘I feel a little sorry for Stanley.’

Barton sipped his recently arrived tea and looked at her. ‘Why would you say that?’

‘I think he is going to be a little out of his depth as leader.’ Anita closed her knife and fork and sat back in her chair patting her lips with her serviette. ‘It’s questionable if he ever wanted to lead the party, and only last week he would have been happy for Christopher Hughes to have been elected. I’m not sure he’ll be able to handle being prime minister.’

‘The party room didn’t want Hughes.’

‘I’m not sure Stanley has the ticker to face Gerrard.’ Anita prodded a little harder. ‘This joke thing, true or not, is just an example of the political system getting ahead of him. He’s just seems too nice to be a political leader.’

‘Maybe you’re right, but he’s all we have at the moment. I think the election result will be close, and if we win, he’ll make a fine prime minister.’

Anita worked a little more to get where she wanted to go. ‘The campaign just seems a little out of control. If you are going to Sydney today, why wouldn’t you go earlier? Surely there is a cenotaph in a community in Sydney? Why go to one here when you would have had the coverage in Sydney.’

‘Lester’s following a plan.’

‘The Hyphen’s?’ Anita just tossed it out there.

‘Yes.’ Barton stopped briefly before quickly recovering. ‘And we have other strategic points of view that have been part of the planning process for a number of months.’

She had what she wanted so changed the subject to Barton’s favourite. ‘When do you think we can have dinner together?’

‘Tomorrow? I know a nice little place in Bondi, we have an afternoon strategy meeting, but dinner would be great.’

‘I’ll look forward to that but now I have to go. I have an article to write,’ Anita said, quickly finishing the last of her tea and bouncing to her feet.

‘Have a great day, gorgeous,’ said Barton, as Anita leaned in to kiss him on the cheek.

‘Thanks for breakfast, I’ll buy you dinner, okay?’ She knew he would be watching as she walked away; she contemplated doing a few leg stretches in the park for him but reconsidered. Not yet, he wasn’t ready. She had more important things to think about than teasing Mr Messenger. She now had a campaign operative confirmed by one of the inner sanctum. She looked over her shoulder to check if he was watching and he waved.

James Harper was no computer graphic expert but considered the final result of his work good enough to fool most people, especially political clowns like Peter Stanley. He had worked through his design on Adobe and after printing it a few times to check placement, he reproduced the graphics on quality paper stock and, except for one small yet significant difference (the telephone number had one digit out of order), the prime minister’s official letterhead, complete with coat-of-arms, was surprisingly convincing yet an obvious fake.

Harper created the forgery by copying the prime minister’s formal letter he had received during the previous week of parliamentary sittings, which validated their arrangements agreeing to no formal votes in the House of Representatives chamber. Legislation for a Christmas bonus for taxpayers was combined with funding for an immigration centre on the Indonesian island of Ambon and agreed to pass the parliament without any opposition obstruction. His agreement with the prime minister had cost him his leadership, and the irony in the plan he was hatching amused him.

The next stage of his scheme was to compose a fraudulent letter addressed from the prime minister to a senior adviser. Harper scribbled notes about various contentious policy issues, briskly crossing out those he considered too unbelievable. He needed something authentic and worthy of the prime minister’s attention. Wasting money is always an issue with the electorate and the media jumps at any evidence of unfunded government policy so he centred a dollar sign on a page and whisked lines from it, writing ideas.

Handouts, hospital insurance, capital-gains tax, reduce social welfare, increase education, reduce education, cut defence, increase immigration … the issues kept rolling out for Harper as he wrote them beside a whisked line. The one he kept connecting with was the idea of a tax increase. Harper supposed the idea that the government had a secret plan to increase taxes after the election was credible and provocative enough to gain attention. A secret deal to increase the rate of tax to pay for – he wasn’t sure.

Harper drafted his first letter then rewrote it, and then wrote another. He scratched out words and tightened syntax, crafting a message that would deceive those who read it. He wanted the message to sound official with the prime minister’s arrogant style, using specific jargon. Once he had completed yet another draft, he thought it was good enough to print on the fake letterhead. He slipped on light white cotton gloves so he would not leave evidence before positioning the paper in the printer and clicking the print button.

To add further credibility to the forgery, Harper scanned a copy of the prime minister’s signature from a letter advising of a parliamentary memorial for his colleagues killed in the recent plane crash. The paradox was that the tragic crash had led to the agreement between the leaders to take no formal votes during the last week of parliament.

He smiled as he scanned the signature into his computer software and connected it to his signature printer. The machine, used by many savvy politicians, allowed letters to appear personally signed – thousands of standard letters could be produced quickly. Harper placed his Mont Blanc into the machine, positioned the fake letter and pushed the green button. The letter addressed to the tax commissioner on formal letterhead signed by the prime minister was complete.

Harper then deviously dropped the letter onto the carpet a few times to give it a look of wear, rolled it up then straightened it, and tossed it around his desk until it looked well-handled before carefully inserting it into a benign A4 envelope ready for posting. Keen for the letter to be in Sydney the following day, he couldn’t rely on traditional postal services that didn’t operate weekends so drove to Brisbane to a Pack and Send freight outlet.

‘I would like to send this envelope to Sydney, when can I expect it there?’

‘We can get it there tomorrow for you, but there is a weekend premium. Otherwise it will be Monday.’

‘I’m happy to pay the premium. What time, morning or afternoon?’

‘Late morning is the best we can do. Could you fill in this docket, setting out the delivery address, and I’ll get the process moving.’ The clerk began firing up her computer. ‘Could I have your name, please?’

Harper hesitated slightly, quickly pondering what to do. ‘Keating, Paul Keating.’ He smiled at his choice of the former prime minister’s name that the clerk didn’t recognise. Maybe she was too young. He continued filling out the delivery address form.

‘Address?’

Harper hesitated again then made something up before also providing a false telephone number – there was zero evidence to link him in the order trail.

‘How do you want to pay for this Mr Keating, card or bank transfer?’

‘Do you take cash?’

The clerk paused then looked up. ‘You don’t have a card? We normally prefer not to take cash.’

‘I only have cash. How much is it?’

‘Let me quickly work that out for you.’ Fingers flicked across the keys of a calculator. ‘That’ll be one hundred and twenty-three dollars, which includes GST.’

Harper extracted two fifties, a twenty and a five from his wallet and placed it on the counter. ‘Keep the two dollars if you don’t have change.’

‘We don’t and thank you.’ The clerk responded and set about adding the completed form to the outside of the envelope. ‘Mr Keating, all done. You can follow the delivery status with this code on your receipt, which will advise you when it is delivered. It’ll be in Sydney tomorrow.’

‘Thank you so much.’ Harper left the store satisfied his fraudulent scheme would create a major setback for Stanley, it might even be the pivotal moment of the campaign, potentially destroying his leadership. He wanted his party to win government, but he wanted his leadership position back even more. If not immediately, then in time for the next election.

Harper smiled broadly as he got into his car. ‘That should be enough now, James,’ he said as he caught himself in the rear-vision mirror. ‘I can’t do any more. Enough.’

Much later that day, sixty minutes after she filed her column on the conservatives’ new-look campaign strategy managed by a mystery hyphenated man, Anita was waiting for a taxi to take her to the airport when her phone shrilled.

‘Anita, it’s Tony Hancock.’

‘Hello, Mr Hancock. How can I help?’

‘I’ve just read your piece for the morning and I’m a little concerned,’ Hancock said gruffly, unsettling Anita. ‘You say you have reliable sources for this information. Is it your boyfriend?’

‘For starters, he isn’t my boyfriend, and secondly, no he is not my source,’ Anita was a little miffed with the question. ‘And thirdly, I wouldn’t reveal my sources, anyway.’

‘Then where did you get it? I need to know, it’s important.’

‘All I can say is that I was given the information a few days ago and I needed to confirm more of the details before I submitted.’

‘Are you sure the information is correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘No doubt in your mind?’

‘None.’

There was an extended silence and Anita didn’t know what to do as she waved to the arriving taxi.

‘So, you think there are outside sources at play within the opposition party’s strategy and you consider this is a good thing?’

‘They need all the help they can get, Mr Hancock. Gerrard is well ahead in the polls and today’s story on Stanley will hurt him with the female vote.’

‘And this shadowy character you have identified, Sinclair-Browne. Have you met him?’

‘No, but I’m going to pay more attention to the campaign logistics personnel over the next few days to see if I can identify him. If I do identify him, I’ll try and get a meeting with him.’

‘Are you sure about their change of strategy to focus on local community campaigns?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve cited the Harding campaign in the States as a similar campaign that had a positive outcome.’

‘My research on this led me to America. The Republicans had every candidate for a state legislature sign a campaign agreement. I found a copy on the web,’ said Anita. ‘It just sounds very familiar with what I’ve been told. I know Lester didn’t visit the States during the election campaign – I checked his travel records – so they could have sourced this Hyphen chap from that campaign.’

‘And you want to put this out there?’

‘You’re the owner. You wanted me to write good pieces. I think this is a good piece for the conservatives and indicates Stanley has lifted his game.’

‘Let me sit on it for a day, I’ll run it Monday or Tuesday. I want to check a few things first.’

‘You’re the boss.’

‘Have you got anything else?’

‘The opposition is running an Indian immigrant against Gerrard.’

‘And you think this will help them?’

‘No, but it positions them as a party of diversity willing to embrace ethnic communities, which is their new campaign theme, apparently.’

‘Male or female.’

‘Female. She’s a former child bride.’

‘Geezus Christ, will they never learn?’

‘We need diversity, boss, it’s good to have role models.’

‘Okay, whatever. Anything else?’

‘Just one last thing. My private life is a no-go area. I’d appreciate no further discussion on it when we chat.’

‘Are you sure you want to talk to me like that?’

Anita hesitated slightly. ‘Yes.’

‘Fair enough, I won’t raise him again. See you.’

Anita needed to sit down, so headed for the back seat of the taxi, letting the driver place her bags in the boot. She knew her boss had to be told to back off on her personal life but worried her tone may affect her chances of promotion to the promised television gig. Hancock had a reputation for burning staff if they didn’t meet his high standards, but no-one actually knew what his standards were. It was always a guessing game when dealing with him. Why hadn’t Peter Cleaver called her instead?