CHAPTER SEVEN

DAY ELEVEN – SUNDAY

The opposition strategy team assembled as agreed in the Sydney Commonwealth Parliament Offices in Bligh Street, with Christopher Hughes looking forward to meeting the campaign guru he had been told so much about.

Hughes, the rakish Member for Warringah, knew he needed to contribute to the national campaign to be seen as a leader of substance. He was patient, as it was only a matter of time before he would be asked to be leader. If not for the unfortunate quirk of fate of the horrific plane crash killing parliamentary colleagues, his plan to snatch the leadership from James Harper in the new year would have been achieved.

Stanley was the compromise candidate when Harper tripped up over parliamentary arrangements and unexpectedly called for a leadership ballot, but he wasn’t expected to win the election so his plan to take the leadership early next year was still in play. His time to be leader would come, he just needed to be patient and not be saddled with too much damage from this losing election campaign.

‘Okay colleagues, let’s start with current polling numbers.’ Stanley began the meeting.

‘Does it matter?’ interrupted Wolff from the far end of the table. ‘The only poll that matters is the one on polling day.’

‘As leader, I think it might be a good idea to learn where we are after the first week. Does everyone agree?’ Everyone else seemed to agree. ‘Andres, do you have the overnight results?’ Wolff sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair, not happy wasting time.

‘Leader, the results are encouraging, but we continue to be weak in an important demographic. The preferred prime minister results are tracking the same. It seems voters want to get rid of Gerrard but results from the focus groups indicate they’re yet to know who you are.’ Jorges flicked through his results. ‘On a two-party preferred basis, we are one point ahead, which if replicated on election day we could just scrape in. We plan to do more marginal seat tracking over the next few days to determine if we are having any traction in those seats.’

‘What is our weakening demographic?’ Stanley asked, half expecting the answer.

‘Women.’

‘Which category?’ asked Stanley, breathing in heavily through his nose.

‘Leader, it’s all categories, I’m afraid.’

‘So, we’ve lost women?’ asked Hughes, exasperated. ‘We have lost women to a misogynist pig?’

‘I suppose the domestic violence policy can now be called, home renovation,’ jibed Wolff flippantly.

‘Sorry, who are you?’ Hughes demanded, switching his gaze to the end of the table.

‘This is Jack Sinclair-Browne. He is a political campaign consultant generously seconded to us by the Acclaim Group,’ Lester said.

‘And they are?’ Hughes asked, still looking at Wolff but getting no response.

Lester relieved the tension between them. ‘They are a major contributor to the party and do most of our printing and posters. Jack joins us from a recent campaign in the States and has had some Australian experience.’

‘Had any wins?’ Hughes didn’t avert his gaze.

‘A few,’ Wolff replied, his dark eyes now engaged with Hughes. ‘Never had a loss as a result of my methods or strategy and I don’t intend to have my first with you lot.’

‘Well, based on these figures, your first-time loss could be a sure thing,’ Messenger interrupted the showdown. ‘Let’s move on, to try and increase our chances, shall we?’

‘We’ll get the women back,’ Julia Laretsky said. ‘The joke getting into the media didn’t help, but we’ll get them back.’

‘Yes, I wonder how that happened?’ queried Stanley, then quickly added. ‘After our meeting the other day, Jack distributed a list of activities. Harry, can you give us an update, please?’

‘We have distributed the campaign management agreement to all new candidates. They have all agreed to sign and do as we request.’ Lester hesitated for a moment. ‘The sitting members are another matter. All the backbench agreed, but we are struggling with some in the shadow ministry.’

‘When do nominations close?’ Wolff asked.

Lester looked to Sussan Neilson, who responded, ‘Wednesday, 5 pm.’

‘Well, you have twenty-four hours to get their agreement or you disendorse them.’

‘That’s a little extreme, don’t you think?’ questioned Hughes, looking to Stanley.

‘You weren’t at the meeting the other day when we agreed the process,’ retorted Wolff.

‘To be absolutely accurate, we didn’t actually agree to a process of disendorsement,’ Messenger offered.

‘I’m here to win this election for you,’ Wolff said sternly. ‘Currently, on those figures, you are well behind …’

‘We are one point up,’ Jorges interrupted.

Wolff looked fiercely toward Jorges who bowed his head and quickly averted his gaze. ‘On those figures you will not win, trust me. You’ve lost women and they are not likely to come back. They don’t know you or what you stand for, so they’re not going to vote for Stanley.’

‘I can raise those ratings over the next few weeks,’ insisted Stanley.

‘Your speech in Melbourne the other day was dreadful.’

‘It was well received.’

‘You talked about GOS and you said it meant gross overseas spending – it actually means gross operating surplus. You’re speaking on policy settings you haven’t the foggiest notion of what they mean.’ Wolff leaned into the table on his elbows. ‘The more you speak, the more voters will know you haven’t the character nor the intellectual capacity for the role of prime minister. My expectation is that you will fall further back on the preferred prime minister’s rating and won’t recover. It will only take one more stuff-up by you over the next few weeks to end the campaign – and if that happens, I’m out of here.’

‘So, you think we will lose?’ asked Hughes. ‘Not much confidence from a guru.’ He anxiously chuckled, looking at the others for support.

‘I still reckon you can win, but only if you do as I say and disendorse those politicians who do not want to sign a campaign management agreement.’

‘What has signing an agreement got to do with campaigning?’ Hughes insisted.

‘Discipline, and I can tell you this party doesn’t have it.’ Wolff sneered his response, looking at Hughes with disdain. ‘I can assure you the government certainly does.’ Wolff looked around the table for a sign of disagreement. ‘You will win this election at the grassroots, not at the headline-grabbing national broadcast level where Gerrard prefers to play. You will win by developing a people movement for change in every electorate expedited by community organisers who I have appointed and stand ready to go, but only if every candidate is committed.’

‘Have we finalised all the candidate preselections?’ Laretsky asked.

‘Settled yesterday,’ Lester confirmed.

‘Did we manage to convince a member of the ominous task of running as a candidate against Gerrard?’ asked Hughes.

‘We did,’ advised Neilson. ‘And she’s a beauty.’

‘That’s a rather sexist thing to say, Sussan. I’m surprised by you,’ Laretsky said. ‘What’s her looks got to do with it?’ Hughes and Messenger swapped glances, rolling their eyes. Wolff dropped his head, breathed deeply and exhaled loudly, gently rubbing his scar.

‘I meant to say she is a great candidate.’ Neilson pulled a profile from among her papers. ‘I have no idea what she looks like.’

‘Then I am sorry for my remarks.’ Laretsky shifted in her seat. ‘Please give us an overview.’

‘She is a professor of politics at Melbourne University, an immigrant from India, and a single mother.’

‘Does she meet constitutional requirements?’ Hughes interrupted.

‘Yes, we have checked, and she is clear,’ Neilson confirmed.

‘Then that’s a plus – let’s move on,’ Wolff encouraged.

‘A profile like that might be able to raise our vote in Melbourne,’ offered Stanley. ‘She won’t win, of course, but if we keep Gerrard busy on his local campaign it may help the national effort.’

‘Being a migrant is a terrific advantage as it will undermine this idea that we are bigots and racists,’ Hughes offered. ‘How old is her child?’

‘He’s thirty. I went to his birthday earlier this year,’ Messenger offered.

‘An older single mother, then?’ queried Hughes. ‘Nice one, that ticks a few boxes for us.’

‘Well no, she is actually around forty-three, a child bride, a cultural thing apparently. She was my supervisor for my thesis.’

‘People, can we stop with the chitter chat, we have a campaign to win. Let’s get to more important news.’ Wolff forcefully interrupted, moving the meeting back to the agenda.

Key messages and themes were strategically discussed and developed over the following eight hours. A revised policy release strategy was linked to a workable media plan and the production of local campaign materials agreed. Tasks were allocated with Wolff insisting on deadlines being kept. It was also agreed to disendorse all recalcitrants who refused to sign the campaign agreement. Wolff called an end to the meeting at five by packing up briskly. He left the room knowing he had plenty to do and instructions to give to his community organisers.

As the meeting was breaking, a staff member slipped into the room and passed a plastic file to Stanley with a large red sticker marked confidential. He didn’t open it immediately, preferring to say goodbye to his colleagues and confirming the next full meeting in Melbourne on Wednesday.

When the room was quiet, he opened the file and read the letter. Not completely convinced, he read it again, and then yet again before punching Sussan Neilson’s number into his phone.

‘Sussan, can you call a press conference please, and we should do it within the hour. I want to make sure it gets on the evening news.’

‘What’s it about boss, shouldn’t we stick to Jack’s plan.’

‘Stuff Jack’s plan!’ barked Stanley. ‘I’m the leader and I’ve just been leaked news from the government that will guarantee us the election.’

Ferries came and went as Anita Devlin set herself up at an outside table overlooking Circular Quay. Working her smartphone, she made notes, preparing for the following day’s editorial column. She was looking forward to her dinner later with Barton, who was supposedly trapped in a strategy meeting in the Bligh Street parliamentary offices. Her phone pinged an email arrival and she opened up a message from James Harper.

Harper sought reassurance of total confidence if he were to send her startling evidence of a government conspiracy. Anita thought the request fascinating – it was an odd thing to ask. Confidentiality protocols between politicians and journalists existed to protect everyone who wanted to dance in the cabaret of political secrecy.

She quickly tapped a response, reminding Harper of her ethics and confirming anything he said would never be disclosed. Moments later, she received a blank email from a benign Gmail address with an attachment. She then received a message from Harper confirming he sent it and to open it. When she did, she immediately rang her editor in Canberra.

‘Cleave, I’ve just received information from a senior source who has provided me with a strangely odd letter signed by Gerrard.’

‘What does it say?’

‘Gerrard is going to increase the GST rate immediately after the election.’

‘You’re kidding me?’ Cleaver exploded. ‘This is dynamite!’

‘Do you want a copy?’

‘Sure, flick it over. I’ll have a look at it and ask the legal boys to consider it.’ Cleaver was curious. ‘What does it actually say?’

Anita quickly swiped the file to a new email and pushed the send button. ‘I just sent it to you. It basically says Gerrard is demanding Treasury establish a task force before Christmas to rapidly deal with drawing up legislation to increase the tax rate from ten per cent to fifteen. It’s addressed to the tax commissioner and signed by Gerrard, dated six days ago.’

‘What’s it on?’

‘The PM’s letterhead.’

‘This may change the whole game. I can’t see Gerrard surviving this, the punters will go crazy.’

‘If it’s genuine,’ Anita remained sceptical. ‘I wonder how my source could have got access to this, and why would he give it to us and not Stanley.’

‘Maybe you can ask him.’

‘How do you mean?’ queried Anita.

‘There is notice from the opposition for a five-thirty media conference. Are you near the parliamentary offices?’

‘At the Quay. I can make it, if I leave now.’

‘Ask Stanley about the letter. Ask if he has it, and if he does, he may want to comment. If he doesn’t, then disclose you have a copy and ask for a response. Let’s get a reaction from them. Get going,’ directed Cleaver. ‘I’ll give Hancock a call.’ The phone went dead.

Anita packed up, paid her tab, slung her leather bag over her shoulder and trekked up the hill to the secured government building. As she was making her way, the phone buzzed with a call from Barton Messenger.

‘Hello gorgeous, where are you?’

‘Stanley has just called a press conference, I’m on my way to Bligh Street.’

‘He’s done what?’

‘Your boss has called a press conference for five-thirty,’ Anita was surprised. ‘You don’t know?’

‘No. We just finished our strategy meeting and I was coming to see you,’ Barton was disappointed. ‘I’d better go back, see you there.’

‘Perhaps we can catch up after the media conference,’ Anita pushed her luck. ‘Any surprises during your meeting?’

‘No, everything was set out and we have a clear media strategy. I must admit, this wasn’t part of it.’

Again, this surprised Anita. ‘What does he want to talk about, do you think?’

‘If I knew I wouldn’t be telling you. Bye.’

Anita finished her call and quickly scurried to the building, navigating tourists on the congested footpath. When she finally reached the crowded media conference room there weren’t any available chairs so she positioned herself at the back, keeping clear of cameramen and lighting assistants. Other media people followed her in, squeezing into available spaces along the walls. Messenger walked in, checked the rostrum, then left. Sussan Neilson entered, fiddled with the backdrop, repositioning the five Australian flags draped to add a patriotic tone, then stood to the side. She held a bundle of papers in her arm that seemed like photocopied documents.

Anita scanned the room and wondered who the mysterious gentleman was at the back standing with arms crossed. He wasn’t loaded down with pad or bag and was elegantly dressed in black trousers, black shirt and black jacket. With a tanned complexion, his shaved head revealed what appeared to be a rather vicious scar across his scalp. He didn’t seem to fit into the scene, and she hadn’t noticed him around the campaign before.

Stanley stalked into the room. Messenger followed, positioning himself behind and to the right of the leader who took his place at the rostrum. Anita thought Barton looked too stern and serious. She tried to attract his eye to give him a relaxing smile, but he seemed focused on being in the moment.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming on such short notice,’ Stanley began talking to the assembled media pack. ‘Everything set? Okay?’ Last minute recorders were placed among the tagged microphones at the top of the rostrum. Stanley took a calming breath and then looked straight to the cameras at the back of the room. ‘I recently received startling evidence proving Prime Minster Gerrard—’ Stanley waved a sheet of paper like a flag. ‘—has a secret plan to significantly increase the rate of the goods and services tax upon re-election, effective immediately after the new year. The evidence delivered to me less than an hour ago confirms the Gerrard government, if re-elected, will bypass legislation and the parliament and increase the GST tax rate by regulation, ignoring the legislated requirements of seeking approval from all state and territory governments for any amendments to the tax.’

Anita now knew she had a copy of the letter Stanley was quoting and pondered why Harper had given it to her. How did he get it?

‘Government is of the people, for the people, and my party is committed to restoring trust into our political system, so long treated with disdain by the prime minister. The information I have confirms Andrew Gerrard does not agree to proper government process, ministerial standards, nor safeguarding legislative direction as he plans to increase the GST from ten per cent to a staggering rate of fifteen per cent. That is a staggering fifty per cent increase of tax on everything Australians buy. If re-elected, the prime minister secretly plans to raise taxes on every purchase, be they consumer or business, all done without the approval of the Australian people.’

Stanley waved his hand and nodded to prompt Sussan to act. ‘My adviser is now distributing a copy of the letter on Gerrard’s own personal letterhead confirming the plan and counselling the tax commissioner that under no circumstances can they afford to make the plan public during the election campaign. The letter is signed by Andrew Gerrard and dated just six days ago.’ Neilson quickly handed copies out from her armful of papers.

‘I call upon Andrew Gerrard to explain himself. I call upon the prime minister to explain to the Australian people why he continues to treat them with disdain and why his secret tax plan is so needed by his government. This plan will obviously hurt the most vulnerable in the community, those Australians who cannot help themselves and who struggle to make ends meet. Gerrard must be held to account to explain his secret tax plan, his deception, and his betrayal of all of us. If Prime Minister Gerrard fails to immediately disclose this monstrous secret tax plan and tell us why he thinks it necessary to increase the burden of tax upon all of us, then he should resign.

‘If Prime Minister Gerrard can’t explain why he continues to treat the community with contempt, he should resign now and allow this election to be a competition between the ethics and standards of transparent government – not the lust for authoritarian power as this outrageous letter confirms.’ Stanley waved the letter high above his head this time.

‘It’s time for a change in how we are governed in Australia. It’s time for the people to take back their parliament. If Andrew Gerrard refuses to provide answers, then he must go.’

The journalists raised their voices to a cacophony to be heard and be the first picked for a question. Wolff took a copy of the letter and left the room, distracted by the shouting. Anita watched him go, wondering if he were the Hyphen she had heard about.

The media conference continued for the next ten minutes with journalists wanting to be heard and Stanley trying valiantly to give them the answers they wanted. Most were sceptical of the letter and demanded the source of the leak for which Stanley stumbled through with hesitant answers trying not to fan the wrong political fire. Abruptly, Messenger stepped forward and tapped him on the elbow, so he swiftly ended the media conference leaving the room as journalists continued bellowing questions.

Anita tried to attract Barton’s eye, but his grim, steely look didn’t move as he ushered Stanley from the room to the safety of secure offices. She now had more questions than answers about the disclosure and still wondered how Harper had a copy. She had a story to write but didn’t know which angle to take, so when she settled by a window in a nearby cosy cafe, she called Cleaver.

‘It’s a political bombshell – the atom bomb of announcements. That’s the only way I can describe it,’ Cleaver said after their pleasantries.

‘I’m sure you’ll write the news, but I’m a little concerned about the opinion piece and need your editorial direction.’

‘What’s troubling you?’ Cleaver asked.

‘The campaign operative was at the media conference, at least I think it was him.’ Anita had guessed correctly. ‘Anyway, if he was there and is such a guru, why would he not have told Stanley to wait to confirm the letter?’

‘It’s way too explosive to wait and they needed to get it on the national television news tonight.’

‘I have it on good authority there was no discussion about it prior to Stanley making the announcement, which may mean the guru was not involved and didn’t endorse the media conference.’

‘I suppose Stanley was making a leadership decision.’

‘But if it is a fake, Stanley is toast,’ Anita said.

‘Why would you consider the letter a fake? It looks real to me,’ Cleaver forcefully said. ‘Gerrard is just as likely to agree to a tax hike as try to hide it before the election. He’s done that sought of thing in the past.’

‘It’s all a little too convenient for me and now I wonder how my source got hold of it.’

‘You know what to do,’ Cleaver demanded. ‘We support Stanley, so write a piece that supports his call for Gerrard’s head.’

‘This could be very wrong, Cleave. I just feel something is missing,’ Anita ran her fingers through her hair, scratching the peak of her forehead, her face twisted. ‘I just don’t think the expert would have approved this announcement, which could mean there may be a political disagreement within the campaign team – that’s the angle I want to write about.’

‘I respect your intuition, but not this time. Write the piece focused on Gerrard’s duplicity and I’ll publish it. Anything else, I can promise you, won’t get printed.’

After her goodbyes, Anita ended the call and began tapping her keyboard. She wanted to run the conspiracy angle but conceded it would never get past Cleaver, or Hancock for that matter. She wanted Stanley to succeed because it would help Barton’s career, but she was confused as to why Stanley puff pieces were relevant when her investigative work was continually rejected.

Messenger never returned her call or responded to her messages.