CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

DAY THIRTY-THREE – MONDAY

Forty minutes into the federal police presentation, Prime Minister Gerrard was cranky and increasingly agitated. He was restless and angry, tired of seeing photos enlarged onto the screen of rioting youths, firebombed businesses and what the police were calling anarchy in the streets. He had been invited to return to Melbourne for the presentation and either ignored, or failed to grasp, the enormity of the challenge before local police and wondered why he was wasting his time.

‘Why is this a federal issue?’ snapped Gerrard when another victim of violence was flashed onto the screen. ‘The local police need to restore law and order, not the feds. The local hospitals are a state government responsibility – not the feds.’

‘This is turning into an election issue, Prime Minister,’ advised Miles Fisher sitting behind him.

Gerrard scoffed. ‘No-one else in Australia gives a stuff about Melbourne, trust me.’

The police commissioner was a little uncertain what to say and began speaking before having to clear his throat and start again. ‘Prime Minister, there is no relief from the chaos we’ve had to deal with this last week. Our investigation has determined that it is strategic and well organised and seems to be escalating within your electorate.’ The commissioner paused for a moment. ‘We need a statement from you.’

‘Why would I want to make a statement and take pressure off the state government morons?’ sneered Gerrard. ‘This is a local law and order issue and has nothing to do with me. Let the state government fix it.’

‘You’re the local member,’ suggested Miles.

‘So, what? If they want to wreck their own neighbourhood let them, nothing to do with me,’ Gerrard responded sharply. ‘It’s not my community, I only come here to vote.’

‘Sorry Prime Minister, you don’t live in the electorate?’ asked the perplexed commissioner.

‘Just like many fine upstanding politicians who rarely live in their electorates, most preferring to live in up-market suburbs. Some even forget they own investment property in their electorates, although in most cases it wouldn’t be much of an investment,’ responded Gerrard. ‘I live interstate – in a government-owned property.’

‘We have to say something, Prime Minister,’ encouraged Miles. ‘This issue could impact your local vote.’

‘You fucking moron, Miles, haven’t you learned anything over the years?’ Gerrard dismissed his adviser, then added. ‘If I speak then it becomes a national event and it gets blown up out of all proportion by the media into a racial debate. As it stands, this is contained to Melbourne and has yet to get the national prominence it would if I were to comment,’ justified Gerrard.

‘If I speak it will raise the profile to a national debate then it would affect the national vote, and I can’t afford that. I secured more than seventy per cent of the primary vote at the last election, this may cost me ten per cent, but no more. I know my people.’

‘The ones you never see?’ provoked the commissioner.

Gerrard frowned and didn’t respond before standing to leave. ‘Let me talk to a few people and I’ll try and calm things down, but don’t expect a public comment.’ He walked to the door. ‘I’ll be back in Sydney this afternoon. Call me if you need me.’ Gerrard and his adviser were gone.

‘We need you, Prime Minister,’ muttered the commissioner to his colleagues.

Gerrard stormed from the building, jumping into the waiting government car with his adviser running to get into the front seat. ‘Get me Jameson, will you, Miles.’ When the car was on the freeway to the airport, Miles passed back the connected phone call. ‘What the fuck do you think you are fucking doing you fucking moron?’ barked Gerrard into the phone. ‘Call off your fucking dogs otherwise I will make it my goal in life to ensure you never get the things you want from the government or anyone else again.’

‘What are you talking about, Andrew?’ whispered Jameson, a little anxious about the vitriol of the shouting prime minister.

‘Call off your dogs in Melbourne and stop this anarchy you’re stirring up, otherwise I will pull your fucking eyes out of your head. You will never know when it is coming, but if you don’t do this today, then it will be before fucking Christmas.’

‘Andrew, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Just fucking do it!’ shouted Gerrard before throwing the phone back at Miles. He gazed out the window as his driver rushed through traffic.

Anita sat at her computer in a quiet Italian cafe in Lygon Street, staring at the screen. She had a story to write but was missing a piece of the puzzle. Who was the Hyphen? Nothing could be found on social media, not even LinkedIn. She had searched everywhere. She doodled in her notebook and pushed arrows to names and companies. She was missing a link yet didn’t know where to look.

She had doodled a dollar sign representing the Mercantiles at the top of the page, with a list of the probable companies associated with them. It was a guess, but she wondered how close she may be to the total number of members; she had confirmed at least seven so far. She rested her fingers at the base of her throat as she looked at her stick man and the lines squiggled from it connecting the opposition, Hancock and the recent addition of Rukhmani. She wrote the word Hyphen beneath it, with a question mark. Who was he?

‘Did you enjoy that, love?’ a waitress began clearing away her half-eaten food.

‘Yes, it was beautiful, thanks,’ said Anita, paying little attention to the waitress.

‘Then why didn’t ya eat it all?”

Anita looked up a little surprised. ‘I wasn’t hungry.’

‘Sore throat, have ya?’

Anita gently stroked a finger along her neck, conscious of the heavy bruising. ‘I had a little trouble.’

‘Best ya leave him then, love. Men are no good, trust me.’ She began to move away after clearing the table of the dishes. ‘They never change.’

Anita watched her go. She mused on her words that seemed harmless enough but stimulated an imaginative worm in Anita’s mind. Men never change. Maybe this is not the Hyphen’s first campaign, but any search just doesn’t bring him up.

‘Wanna ’nother tea love, or would ya like a coffee?’ Anita looked up and smiled, unsure if it was an intrusion or good service. ‘Come on, you’re workin’, it’s a tax deduction.’

‘Sure, I’ll have a cafe latte, thank you,’ smiled Anita. What a strange thing to say to upsell. What’s a coffee got to do with tax?

Anita continued to doodle and linked the Hyphen stick figure to the Acclaim Printing Company with a line back to Hancock and another line to the Mercantiles. Tax? The tax system would absolutely have the Hyphen in it, so Anita pondered how he would be paid. Surely, his expense would be paid by the opposition and they would treat the money from Acclaim as a donation for tax purposes.

Anita searched Google on her phone looking for the printing company. She sourced the contact number and pushed the connect button.

‘Good afternoon, Acclaim Printing Company. How can I help?’

‘Accounts payable please.’ Anita didn’t like assuming someone’s identity but needed information. When the clerk answered she said, ‘Hi, it’s Sussan Neilson from the Conservative Party in Melbourne, I’m trying to invoice money for the sponsorship your company is paying us, and I wonder who I make it out to?’

‘What donation are you referring to?’

‘Apparently, you are sponsoring a campaign consultant we have working with us and I want to pay him.’

‘I was under the impression we were paying the consultant directly, let me check the ledger.’ Anita felt an ethical twinge of guilt wash through her, but she was about to get a connection for the Hyphen, maybe. ‘Yes, I have the account up now, Sussan. It seems we have already advanced him three hundred thousand in two payments so far. I’m to expect more expense, apparently.’

‘Just to make doubly sure, is the person you are paying a Jack Sinclair-Browne?’ Anita grimaced. Did she push too far?

‘No, the person we made payment to was Jonathan Wolff. Has he not been consulting to you?’

‘Oh Jonathan? Well, that explains it then. Thanks for letting me know. Sorry to trouble you.’

What a fluke, an absolute fluke. Anita couldn’t believe her luck and quickly tapped the name into her search engine. To get the actual name of the Hyphen was just the clue she needed to piece the puzzle together. Her enthusiasm was flattened immediately as nothing of interest came up on the first three pages. Over fifty listings in LinkedIn, a character in a book called The Assassin’s Creed and entries for renown composer beginning to outnumber any other entry by the time she got to page six.

She searched through the first twenty pages before she found an entry from thirteen years earlier with a reference to a bloodless coup d’état in an obscure Paraguayan province. It seems a man named Wolff was implicated in a successful conspiracy to overthrow the local provincial government. It was reported he was arrested and held for two months before being exonerated by the president of Paraguay.

Anita hastily tapped in detail and searched for further information about the coup. Local farmers had been complaining about climate change laws impacting cattle grazing rights and no matter what they did, the local politicians and police would not act to help reduce the increasing presence of political demonstrators impacting the farmers’ livelihood. The farmers had an opportunity to export premium beef good enough for emerging world markets such as China, but the protestors and other eco-warriors had convinced a town mayor and the provincial legislative congress to listen to their concerns about the overuse of land for cattle grazing.

The farmers eventually received increased protection from police when an unexpected change of the provincial government redirected policy to safeguard the farmers’ land holdings. Anita zeroed in to the province and the industries supporting its population. She found beef production had more than tripled over the last decade since the change of government. Additional processing plants now employed a substantial number of local citizens, significantly reducing unemployment and providing economic growth for the region. Anita searched for a listing of the cattle producers and one of the twenty-two names stood out. Top End Cattle.

‘Fuck me.’

‘Is that a request or a direction, love?’ smiled the waitress as she cleared Anita’s cup.

‘Sorry? Oh, no, I was talking to myself,’ a scattered Anita responded as she quickly collected up her computer, notes and bag.

Wolff was resting in his room, working through his plan for the evening’s anarchy. Tasks had been assigned to his groups of disparate youths; keen for money, they were prepared to do anything to earn it. He focused the insurrection within the federal electorate of Melbourne, sheeting home responsibility for the violent troubles on the man everyone was beginning to blame – Andrew Gerrard.

The plan was simple enough, but multifaceted in its delivery. Deliver as much mayhem and street theatre as possible to align any subsequent media outrage and debate with the government’s failure on immigration. The ultimate strategy was to get the message out, calling for a temporary pause on all immigration with advocates calling for an immediate review of immigration policy.

His rent-an-urban-warrior concept came from a previously successful campaign in Spain that convinced the government to change policy on migrant workers. The Spanish Mercantiles wanted amendments to temporary visa conditions allowing only skilled migrants into the country. This increased skilled workforce caused competition for jobs within the local workforce, which subsequently pushed wages down. Paradoxically, the change in government economic policy attracted increased investment from international companies entering the market because of cheap labour, allowing greater work opportunities and prosperity for the locals.

His social trolls were highly active in foreshadowing violence, and the campaign was scaring people. Social media was explosive with comments from people emotionally triggered by the wild commentary and expressing fear for the wellbeing of the community. Twitter messages were targeting the blame on the prime minister by focusing on him living in Sydney and not caring about what was going on in his electorate. Tonight, the plan was to focus on greengrocers and nail bars in the region of Fitzroy.

Other trolls praised Rukhmani for her leadership in bringing the community together and recommended support for her campaign so the electorate could pass a judgement vote on the lack of government action. For those Neanderthals still resisting Twitter rage, Wolff was planning a mail drop overnight at various high foot-traffic areas, pasting walls with posters calling for a change of government at the coming election.

The police struggled to contain the nightly demonstrations and the milling gangs of youths looking for trouble. They never seemed able to identify where violence would be created next; it was as if the gangs knew police strategy and steered clear of their patrols. The police were forced to take an assertive policing strategy, arresting benign innocent protestors who came out onto the streets each night supporting harsher immigration laws or conversely supporting an open borders policy. Either way, the chaos theory was gaining traction.

Wolff recognised the number on his phone when it displayed.

‘Wolff?’ a familiar voice whispered.

‘Hey, boss. How’re you doing? Do you like the campaign so far?’

‘Let’s end it tonight. Keep the media trolls and the local campaign active but stop the violence.’

‘Oh, really?’ queried Wolff, gently caressing his scar. ‘We planned to have a car fire tonight; we got one the other day from the wreckers and were going to blow it up outside the local police station.’ Wolff laughed at the thought.

‘End it. Now!’ barked Jameson.

‘Consider it done, Mr Jameson.’ The phone went dead. Wolff tossed it on his bed. Looking out the window he surveyed Fitzroy, the battleground for votes – but not tonight.

The front yard didn’t look inviting – strewn with large dirty plastic tubs, a rusting bicycle frame, waist-high, out-of-control wild grass looking for a harvester not a mower, and an impressive Harley Davidson in the driveway. Jaya hated doorknocking for votes and only persisted because Wolff insisted that she share herself with the community. Everyone who came to the door was very polite, but she never left a front door thinking she had achieved anything, let alone secured a vote. Some residents bluntly responded to her doorknocking with a rude ‘Go away’, but she didn’t know if this response was because she was a political candidate or if they didn’t like her colour.

She had discussed these rejections with Robert Wong over a quick sandwich and a bottle of water an hour earlier, arguing racism thrived behind most doors of suburban Melbourne. Wong hotly disagreed and said, ‘Just because people didn’t like you doesn’t mean they’re racists. Maybe it’s your beaming smile they don’t like, or your clothes, or your hair, or even your politics.’ He argued it was too easy to call out racism if people didn’t like what you said. Jaya thought she might add an extra mark to his next assignment for bringing her back to the reality of political discourse.

The textbooks she’d read never covered real-time campaigning where the reality of grassroots politics met the voters; most books were strong on political theory and heavy with reference citations, but very weak with relevance to politics on the street. For instance, experts never explained the anxiety felt by a candidate walking up to a stranger’s front door to talk to whoever lurked behind it. Anything could happen, and for Jaya, most things did.

She learned it was better to be cautious when approaching an open front entrance with a wire door the only protection from whatever prowled inside. Savage snarling dogs had killed her enthusiasm over the last few weeks and she always listened intently for the fearful sound of scampering paws on bare floors.

As always, Jaya placed her sneakered foot at the base of the wire door of the Harley house and gently knocked on the wire doorframe, expecting a pit bull to stir into action. It wasn’t a dog that scared her this time but a Siamese cat that flashed down the passageway and leapt straight toward her head. She squealed loudly as she ducked away from the door, fearful of the cat coming through the wire. When she recovered her poise, she straightened to find the cat still pinned to the door, its extended claws stuck through the wire. A massive hairy man came to the door. Filling the entire opening, he politely apologised and pulled the cat from its capture, tossing it back down the hall.

‘What can I do for you?’ the man asked.

Breathing deeply, Jaya took a few moments to recover before responding. ‘Hi, my name is Jaya Rukhmani. I’m standing for the seat of Melbourne at the election next week, and I would like your vote.’

‘You know something lady, you’re the first politician to ever come knocking on my door,’ smiled the man. ‘So sure, I’ll give you my vote.’

‘Can I leave you a brochure?’ Jaya said, holding up a card.

‘Sure, be happy to read it,’ said the man, unsnibbing and then opening the wire door, then taking the card from her. ‘What are you going to do for me?’

Jaya didn’t know how to respond to the request and suddenly became more nervous, if that was possible, and took a cautious step back. ‘What do you mean?’ she gulped.

‘When you get to Canberra, what are you going to do for me?’

She breathed out heavily, a little relieved, ‘I’ll be your voice.’

‘Do me a favour then.’

‘If I can, I will.’

‘Tighten up the laws on Indian immigrants. We have too many coming in – and keep the kooks out as well.’ The man smiled. ‘What did you say your name was?’

‘Jaya Rukhmani.’

‘Well, Jaya, good luck and just keep those fucking Indians out of the country.’

She stepped back from the door, smiled and left with a small, thankful wave. As she walked back along the path she almost broke into laughter from relief, not quite believing the reality she had just put herself through with the Harley rider. He wants to stop Indian migration and he was telling an Indian to do it. She wondered what the heck had she gotten herself into with this political nonsense if that biker boy was a typical voter.

Wolff punched the numbers into his phone and waited for a pickup. ‘Hi Jaya, I need to talk to you about an event I want you at tonight. There’s going to be a public demonstration against racism and I’ve got you on the speaker’s list.’

‘You know I don’t like those things; they scare me.’

‘It’ll be good publicity – Indian girl calls for halt on immigration to stop racism.’

‘That sounds bizarre, are you kidding me?’

‘No, I’m not. Look, I’ve written a speech that I’ll send to Robert,’ said Wolff. ‘Just stick to the key messages. Tell them you’ve spoken with many of the rioters and you’ve calmed them down.’

‘But I haven’t.’

‘That doesn’t matter – tell them you have and that you’ve negotiated an agreement to stop the demonstrations.’

‘I can’t promise that,’ snapped Jaya.

‘Yeah, you can. Just don’t go into any detail.’

‘So, you’ve stopped the riots, is that it?’ asked Jaya. ‘What did you have to promise?’

‘Nothing,’ said Wolff. ‘They’ll listen to you tonight. Tell your story and talk about people ripping off the system through the fraudulent visa application system. You’re not suggesting banning it, just deferring it, slowing it down.’

‘Will they shout me down?’

‘As I said, I’ve written a good speech and I can promise you they’ll be clapping,’ assured Wolff. ‘I’ll have people there to support you. Keep working hard.’

‘Cleave, I think I have a good story.’ Anita was excited to be pitching it.

‘Let’s hear it, and it had better be good.’

‘You may recall I’ve been following the campaign guru with the Stanley team. I’ve been able to dig up more information on the Mercantiles, a business group, which to my reckoning appeared for the first time in politics around two hundred years ago. They’re now an exclusive group of twelve private business owners very active in policy and influence with governments all over the place.’

‘I thought you said this story was good, sounds a little repetitive to me.’

‘Just be patient, okay. I reckon the Mercantiles are running the Stanley campaign driven by an operative known as Jonathan Wolff.’

‘Wait up,’ queried Cleaver. ‘I thought you said this guru had a hyphenated name?’

‘He’s working under an alias.’

Cleaver blew a small raspberry of disbelief. ‘Are you making this up?’ His tone suddenly changed. ‘I hate it when you do this, Anita.’

‘No, I’m not kidding,’ snapped Anita, taking a deep breath before continuing. ‘Wolff is a hired gun and works on their behalf in the shadows with election campaigns all over the place. I’ve tracked him to campaigns in South America, the States, the UK and Spain.’

‘Is that all?’ Cleaver was yet to be excited.

‘That’s what I’ve been able to find so far,’ said Anita referring to her notes. ‘In every campaign, while yet to be confirmed, he has represented special interest groups linked in some nefarious way.’

‘What are you saying? All these mysterious campaigns are linked in some way to the same special interest group?’

‘Yes.’

‘What proof do you have?’

‘The Mercantiles are members of various international groups either individually or collectively.’

‘This is beginning to sound like one of your conspiracies,’ Cleaver sighed. ‘What sort of groups?’

‘I suppose there are no guarantees with any election, but it seems they’ve had considerable success in establishing real economic growth for the country or region they get politically involved in, which is bizarre.’

‘What are we talking about?’

‘Mining, energy, food production, IT, and in Jameson’s case, gambling interests.’

‘Kerry Jameson?’

‘Well, it was his father first and now it’s Kerry. Over the last forty years the expansion of his international gaming interests always followed a change of government or community campaign supporting gambling.’

‘Really? You have proof of that?’

‘It’s circumstantial, but compelling, wouldn’t you say?’ questioned Anita.

‘You think this group is involved in this federal election?’

‘Most definitely. More than that, they’re running everything in the opposition’s campaign.’

‘How are they running everything?’ mocked Cleaver.

‘They’re running Stanley’s campaign, driving policy announcements and managing his media. That’s why you rarely see him out and about now.’

‘He’s also a goose, which could be a reason.’

Anita ignored the provocation. ‘They set up Rukhmani with a controversial racist speech then sacked her. But here’s the curious thing, they are now running her campaign as an independent.’ Anita flicked further into her notes. ‘Then the opposition announces the big lie about Indonesia, which was the Mercantiles’ idea, I’m sure of it. I also reckon they facilitated the immigration anarchy we’ve seen on the streets in Melbourne. The demonstrating is the work of this chap, Wolff. I’m convinced of it. There’s no doubt in my mind they want Gerrard to lose the election, but to ensure he leaves the parliament, they want him to lose his seat as well.’

‘What’s this about Ruki whatever her name is?’

‘They set her up with a speech about immigration, critical of government policy. Stanley had no option and was forced to sack her, but coincidentally, it was after the declaration of the polls, which meant it was too late for them to select another candidate to replace her,’ Anita paused for a moment. ‘I suspect they thought it would show Stanley as a strong, fearless leader, politically above all the racist accusations flying around. Anyway, they dumped her, but intriguingly, this Wolff chap is now advising her campaign, which has clicked up a notch.’

‘Sounds like wild speculation to me.’

‘You know what is really remarkable, Cleave? I found out who’s paying Wolff.’

‘Who? Don’t tell me it’s one of the group!’ Cleaver said mockingly with a laugh.

‘Worse than that,’ Anita said, pausing before going on. ‘It’s Hancock.’

‘Bullshit,’ was the immediate response, then, ‘No way that’s right.’

‘There is a complex web of deceit associated with the ownership of the printing company paying this chap Wolff, but I’ve discovered the majority owner is Hancock, or at least his media group.’ Anita waited for a response. It took some time coming.

Finally, Cleaver said, ‘Are you sure about these allegations? Can you confirm with solid evidence?’

‘I have evidence and confirmation from the conservatives that Wolff is operating under an alias, that he is paid by a Hancock company, which probably explains why we have gone soft on Stanley. And I’m certain he’s leading the management of their strategy.’

‘Do you have him linked to Rukhmani?’

‘Yes, I have them together at a demonstration in the city and I’m certain the street demonstrations and isolated rioting is instigated by Wolff. It’s the same methods he’s used in other elections.’

‘And you have evidence he is paid directly by a company in our media group?’

‘I have that evidence confirmed directly from the company,’ Anita referred to her notes. ‘They have so far transferred three hundred thousand dollars to him and they’re expecting more payments in the next few days.’

‘Write everything as you know it to be, put a conspiracy line around the immigration issues. We can tie it to Gerrard’s deal with Indonesia. Part two of the story, as you’ve just explained it, can focus on the campaign operative, linking this chap Wolff to the Mercantile group and other work he’s done.’

‘I can do that, when do you want it?’

‘I can’t guarantee we’ll run it before the election, but it could make a great two-part feature,’ Cleaver advised. ‘Oh, and one other thing, leave any reference to Hancock out of it.’

‘Cleave, I can’t do that.’

‘I’m not asking you; I’m telling you.’

‘But I can’t withhold the truth.’

‘That’s bullshit, Anita,’ Cleaver snapped. ‘It’s what we do. We run stories that suit us, you know that – and outing Hancock will not suit us.’

‘That’s not fair, Cleave. Hancock is up to this neck in this and for our own credibility, it needs to be exposed – for my credibility.’

‘If you don’t do as I suggest, the story will never be published – and you’ll never work in the media again, trust me.’

‘Wolff? It’s Hancock. My journalist is on to you.’

‘How close is she?’

‘She has you named, knows who’s paying you and has you in the Rukhmani campaign.’

‘Thanks for letting me know.’