Duplicity, p.12
Duplicity, page 12
‘Oh, that’s very nice of you, Jim,’ smiled Gerrard, leering at Verhoeven. ‘Who are you, gorgeous? Have we met?’
‘I’m with them,’ responded Verhoeven, thumbing to her colleagues.
Gerrard smirked at the rebuff. ‘Meredith, can you please give us the latest? You all know Meredith, of course?’ The others concurred.
Bruce opened her leather folder and flicked over a few papers and settled on a data sheet. ‘The current status of the campaign is this. The government is likely to be returned with a fifteen-seat majority – our best result for the last three elections.’
‘Really, that many? How wonderful,’ grinned Gerrard. ‘Now, what is it that you think I need. You were saying?’
‘We want to support your campaign,’ said Verhoeven.
‘Who are you, again?’ Gerrard persisted.
‘Sally is the founder of World Communications and has significant locations throughout Europe and the United States,’ Hancock offered.
‘How nice,’ mocked Gerrard. ‘So tell me, Sally, are you able to communicate with Hancock Media and get them to cease publishing rubbish about my government and begin to expose Peter Stanley for the cheap political fraud and forger of letters he truly is? Are you able to do that, sweetheart?’ Gerrard smiled at her. She took his gaze and stared back. ‘Are you able to use your no-doubt worldly communication skills to get this current stupid media strategy corrected so that you can begin to support my campaign?’ Gerrard beamed a cheesy smile at Verhoeven, making her a little uncomfortable.
‘Andrew, this is not really necessary,’ said Jameson.
‘Prime Minister to you. Thank you, Kerry,’ barked Gerrard without moving his gaze from Verhoeven. ‘Well, Sally? Can you provide any support? Or are you here just to tempt me?’
Verhoeven flushed and looked away. Saying nothing, she avoided the prime minister’s smarmy glare, a little shaken he could be so openly provocative.
‘Prime Minister, as you know, we have been writing pro-opposition pieces,’ stumbled a contrite Hancock. ‘This is what we do, we have to report.’
‘Not sure I was talking to you, Tony.’ Gerrard tossed a withering look toward Hancock.
‘Prime Minister, please be reasonable and accept our mea culpa,’ Jameson said softly, offering his hands up in a surrender.
‘Sorry?’ Gerrard bombastically looked at Bruce. ‘You’re sorry?’ Gerrard mocked Jameson. ‘You want to kiss and make up do you, Kerry? You want to kiss my arse and you think that giving me whatever I want will return our cozy relationship back to normal, is that it?’
‘We’re wasting our time listening to this crap,’ said Buckley, making a move to get up. Verhoeven was quickly to her feet.
‘No, you’re not wasting your time, cowboy,’ sneered Gerrard. ‘I’m wasting mine.’
The remaining delegation struggled to get up and Gerrard beat them to the door. ‘When you come and see me after the election, bring your cheque books, because if you ever expect to laud it over my government again it will cost you big time.’
Gerrard swung the door open. ‘You backed the wrong horse this time, Kerry, you doddery old fool. You’ll need a hefty payout on the result to get a place in the next race. And you, little girl,’ he pointed at Verhoeven. ‘Wear something shorter next time. Now get the fuck out.’
As they left, he slammed the door.
‘Wow, Andrew, that was hot.’
Gerrard turned to Bruce and slowly pulled the towel from about his neck. ‘So, do I lock the door and cool you down, or is this not an appropriate time or place?’
Bruce smiled approval and shifted backwards onto the edge of the table as the prime minister snibbed the door and advanced toward her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DAY SIXTEEN – FRIDAY
Hancock media retained an editorial office in all capital cities and major regional centres throughout Australia, usually in the prime real estate commercial district. Journalists assigned to a city desk were usually found among piles of papers, files and hordes of newspapers cluttering desks and work nooks. Post-it note reminders were strewn about the edges of computer screens, bins overflowed with empty coffee cups, and the odd half-empty bottle of vodka or whiskey was stashed in the corner.
For travelling journalists, they were assigned hot desks, usually a small workstation with computer cabling for the laptop but no fixed network telephone. Anita normally avoided the facilities, preferring a cafe or an outside cosy table to work far away from nosey colleagues with their constant social interruptions and inane conversations about family and children.
Sydney was turning on a typically humid November day, and although Anita normally fought the need to work inside, she surrendered to the increasing muggy heat and retired to the relief of air-conditioning. Her choice of cargo pants and sneakers would have her melting fairly quickly in the morning humidity.
She had been on the phone to Cleaver in Canberra questioning why her recent columns were not being published. They had disappeared into an abyss of editorial delay after being sent to the owner for his approval, receiving zero response. She was getting no quality feedback from anyone, speculating that Hancock’s editorial direction to pump Stanley’s tyres remained the newspaper’s strategy.
Exasperated, she said, ‘Just let me know what’s going on.’
‘Hancock hasn’t given me any direction on these articles.’ Cleaver worked to placate her. ‘I’ve had them legalled and they look okay with minor edits, so we’re ready to go.’
‘Does Hancock want me to continue to investigate Sinclair-Browne or not?’ asked Anita, annoyed by the continued avoidance of a direct response from her editor. ‘I’ve tracked a similar campaign operative to a Queensland election a few years back, when there was an unexpected result. Apparently, a Simon O’Brien was the leading campaign operative then, but I’ve been given a description that seems similar to our man. No photos though.’
Cleaver gasped a strong draw from his cigarette. Holding his breath he asked, ‘How did you manage that?’
‘You know those things are bad for you, don’t you?’
‘So, they say.’ The editor blew out the smoke, sounding as if he was blowing a balloon. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘I have my sources and I tap into them whenever I want this type of information.’
‘You’re doing a great job with Stanley.’
Cleaver blew out again so heavily into the phone that Anita felt as if she could smell it.
‘No, I’m not, so stop mocking me,’ sighed Anita, exasperated by the regular patronising of men with power. ‘I’m just sick of this constant delay when I know there is a story to be had.’
‘Anita, look. There are times when we go hard and times we need to back off,’ said Cleaver. ‘This is one of those times. Just step back a little on the style and tone of what you’re writing.’
‘I can’t stand dishonesty, you know that,’ Anita moaned. ‘It’s what drove me to the corruption story on Gerrard in the first place. I still think we should have published that story. It’s the same now. I can feel it, Cleave, there’s something going on and I think Harper is behind it.’
‘What does your boyfriend say?’
‘For heaven’s sake, how many times do I have to tell you, he’s not my friggin’ boyfriend,’ barked Anita. She hesitated to calm herself and took a long draught of water from her bottle. ‘Anyway, he knows nothing, and even if he did, he wouldn’t tell me.’
‘Who’s paying this Hyphen chap?’
‘I’m yet to find out. I’ve sourced it to a printing company out west of Sydney, but I’m yet to see any connection with its proprietors and politics.’
‘Do they have investors?’ asked Cleaver. ‘Maybe there is a connection there?’
‘I’ve looked at the government company registry. On the surface it offers nothing,’ Anita responded. ‘It does list a Michael Buckley as a director, but he’s not listed on their website.’
‘Buckley?’ Cleaver was surprised. ‘Nothing to do with the Buckley family?’
‘Who are they, some eastern suburb socialites?’
‘Quite the opposite,’ scoffed Cleaver. ‘The Buckley family own the Northern Territory and most of far-north Queensland. I’m surprised you don’t know them.’
‘Country business is not my business.’
‘They run cattle and have the major share in live beef exports into Asia. They also have international assets. South America, I think.’
‘So why would they invest in a small printing plant in western Sydney?’
‘I don’t know, but you could find out, couldn’t you?’ Cleaver chided.
‘I suppose so, but why bother if the boss is too damn lazy to read my stuff?’
‘Anita, if you want a move to television, I would suggest you put more effort in. And can you have a look at the Gerrard campaign?’
‘Why don’t I check out his local campaign. I hear the candidate is doing some interesting things on the ground?’
‘Like what?’ Cleaver seemed distracted and Anita felt it.
‘They’re working on a documentary. I thought I’d write a column on it.’
‘Yeah, sounds good. I have to go, see you.’ The phone went dead.
‘And so ends another unfulfilled discussion with my editor,’ Anita said to no-one, tossing her phone on to her workbench.
‘Sounds like you need a drink.’ The voice of Bernie Brereton drifted over the grey partitioning. ‘Shall we go out for one?’
‘Bernie, it’s eleven o’clock. A little bit early, wouldn’t you say?’
A head appeared above her, full of grey hair and twinkling blue eyes, although a little bloodshot. ‘It’s never too early, and besides, it’s after midday in Auckland.’
‘I could go for a coffee, does that suit you?’
‘I’ll have a wine and you can have a coffee, let’s go.’ Anita caught up with her scruffy colleague at the lift foyer. ‘Do you ever wear anything else other than those bloody sneakers?’
‘They’re comfortable, and I can’t stand wearing high heels, not to work at least.’
‘Good job then. Too many girls think it’s looks that get them ahead in this business.’
‘I’ve never met any girls who think that,’ smiled Anita. ‘Mind you, I don’t get to meet too many girls in this organisation.’
‘Good thing too.’
‘Bit of a misogynist, are you?’
Brereton raised an eyebrow and shook his head, punching the ground floor button and dragging a cigarette from a crumpled pack he pulled from his mustard linen jacket. As soon as they were outside he lit up, sucking it deep into his lungs and stirring a significant coughing fit. ‘I’ve got a cold,’ he gasped, as he saw Anita’s look of reproach. ‘True.’
Anita ignored him and walked on. ‘Let’s go to the quay and sit by the water,’ Anita suggested. ‘It’s a bit hot here.’
‘A bit far to walk for a drink, don’t you think?’
‘Come on, it’s only a block. The fresh air will do you good.’
Brereton started spluttering again with a wet cough. ‘That’s what I’m worried about.’
The colleagues eventually settled into a shady outside table by the Museum of Contemporary Art, Brereton insisting on the smoking section. With views directly to the Opera House and the towering bridge to the left, the sun could turn the harbour into a delight for the weariest, most cynical journalist. The coffee and glass of red arrived quickly and they pondered what to say after their convivial small talk dried up. Brereton lit another cigarette, saving his lighter by using the end of the butt.
‘I was a little surprised you didn’t know the name Buckley,’ Brereton said, clearing his throat before sipping on his wine to taste its quality. ‘They not only own most of the export cattle business in Australia, but the old man also has holdings in Argentina, Canada and Texas. Not only that, he has significant abattoir holdings throughout Asia and recently announced plans to move into Europe.’
‘As I said to Cleaver, I’m no country business queen,’ Anita sipped her coffee. ‘I specialise in politics and policy.’
‘Well, again, that surprises me you don’t know the name.’ Brereton took a large mouthful of wine, swished it and swallowed, seemingly enjoying the immediate effect, before taking another large gulp almost draining the glass. ‘Buckley’s been active in politics for years and commands a lot of clout in Canberra.’
‘Ultimately the minister makes the decisions, driven by the department. This Buckley chap would just be another voice among all the other lobbyists.’
‘You’re kidding me?’ mocked Brereton. ‘I thought you were the gun investigative political journalist?’
Anita was a little taken aback. ‘What are you saying?’
‘What I’m saying is this.’ Another long hard suck on the cigarette almost saw the end of it. ‘The government might think they manage policy, and they probably do on social services and community care programs such as education and health, but it’s the big dollars that control the economy, not the politicians.’
‘Are you saying the Buckley family runs Australia?’ Anita scoffed. ‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘I didn’t say old man Buckley runs the country, but he belongs to an exclusive group that does.’
‘How come I don’t know about it?’ Anita asked. ‘Come to think of it, how do you know about it?’
‘I’ve come across them a few times, but I’ve been warned off,’ Brereton said, draining his glass and calling the waiter for another. ‘Bring two please.’
‘I said I didn’t want one, thanks Bernie.’
‘It’s not for you, love.’
Anita looked at her colleague and considered his comments. ‘What do you mean you’ve been warned off?’
‘When you play with the big boys and they want to manage you, then best you do what they ask.’
Brereton pulled another cigarette from his packet and lit it, coughing again when he drew it deep into his lungs.
Anita scoffed, ‘Rubbish, you’re a killer dog when it comes to getting a story. I wouldn’t have thought you would be frightened of anything.’
‘At my age, the only thing that scares me is not having a job.’
‘What are you saying? Has Hancock threatened you? Over what? Why would he do that?’
‘Let’s see. Why would Tony Hancock, and before him his father, want to stop me from exposing his business cabal?’
‘Rubbish. That wouldn’t be right.’
‘Ask yourself this. How come I’ve never got off the news desk?’
‘Because you’re lazy and a drunk,’ Anita grimaced at her unkind retort.
Brereton ignored the verbal slap. ‘Maybe so, but I was like you once,’ he gulped another mouthful of wine. ‘I was eager and keen to get ahead, just like you. I discovered a story about old man Jameson, to do with a gambling deal he was trying to execute in Macau. Apparently, he wanted to build a major casino complex with a significant residential and office tower. He was implicated in manipulating the approval process with certain government officials – apparently money was being left in hotel rooms for certain guests of his casino when they transited in Hong Kong. When I tried to get the yarn published, the whole tower came crumbling down on me.’
‘What happened?’
‘I was sent to Vietnam as Hancock’s correspondent. Not for the normal two years – I spent ten in the lousy, stinking place. Cost me my family and I discovered things an addictive personality should never discover. No wonder I have a relationship with alcohol.’
‘Why didn’t you leave?’
‘Hancock’s old man threatened me. He told me in no uncertain terms that if I left the company or spoke to anyone about the Macau deal, I would never work again.’ Brereton gazed out into the water. ‘I tried to leave, but no-one would touch me. I even went overseas to try and get work, but it seems there are these same pathetic exclusive networks everywhere. The Australian group is related to other fucking business groups around the world all doing favours for each other. So, if I wanted to write, I was their man forever. Downgraded to obituaries and shipping news. That’s why I’m lazy and a drunk.’
‘Rubbish!’ Anita didn’t know whether to believe him or not.
‘You’re idealistic, I get that. You want everyone to do the right thing, I get that. But you need to look a little deeper into the political system than you’re currently doing to find out how it really operates.’ Brereton sucked more smoke into his lungs and spluttered it out. ‘You did a good job on Gerrard, and what did you find? Corruption and fraud. It’ll never get published; I can guarantee you that. Just remember, there are folks who can hurt you. Be careful.’
‘Hurt me, how?’
‘You’re looking at how.’ Brereton opened up his arms and bowed. ‘Why do you think Hancock has sat on your stories?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘The cabal, my dear, the fucking cabal.’
‘Why?’
‘My guess is that you’re probably close to something they’re managing, and they don’t want you to expose them.
‘Who’s in it, this cabal?’
‘It changes. I reckon there are about ten, maybe twelve. Not sure who, but I reckon Hancock would be in it. Buckley and Jameson for sure. Those three are definitely in the group. It’s like a secret society. They believe they’re doing good for the country but ultimately, they’re only ever looking out for themselves.
‘They have some weird name that I can’t recall, but the Merchants sounds familiar, or maybe I’m confusing it with something else. They seem to be up themselves a bit and overstate their influence. I mean, why wouldn’t you be arrogant if you thought you ran the country. Check the files, and you’ll always see those three together with the prime minister at major business events.’
‘This is rubbish. The politicians run the country, not some flakey business group.’
‘Don’t kid yourself, love. They manipulate campaigns and when they do, they get their priorities attended to.’
‘Rubbish. What examples have you got?’
‘Years back, in Queensland, when the entire country was against a new coal mine, what happened?’ Anita shook her head. She hadn’t heard of it. ‘Let me tell you. Even though the media, the local first nation tribe, environmentalists, celebrities and even the king expressed a view to stop the development, what do you think happened? Gerrard approved it. His mate Allan Connell got the approval to develop the mine and he made a fortune from it. He’s another one, I’d wager.’ Brereton drained his second glass and took up the third. ‘Mind you, it’s been an economic bonanza for Queensland and created thousands of jobs. Who would have thought?’
‘I’m with them,’ responded Verhoeven, thumbing to her colleagues.
Gerrard smirked at the rebuff. ‘Meredith, can you please give us the latest? You all know Meredith, of course?’ The others concurred.
Bruce opened her leather folder and flicked over a few papers and settled on a data sheet. ‘The current status of the campaign is this. The government is likely to be returned with a fifteen-seat majority – our best result for the last three elections.’
‘Really, that many? How wonderful,’ grinned Gerrard. ‘Now, what is it that you think I need. You were saying?’
‘We want to support your campaign,’ said Verhoeven.
‘Who are you, again?’ Gerrard persisted.
‘Sally is the founder of World Communications and has significant locations throughout Europe and the United States,’ Hancock offered.
‘How nice,’ mocked Gerrard. ‘So tell me, Sally, are you able to communicate with Hancock Media and get them to cease publishing rubbish about my government and begin to expose Peter Stanley for the cheap political fraud and forger of letters he truly is? Are you able to do that, sweetheart?’ Gerrard smiled at her. She took his gaze and stared back. ‘Are you able to use your no-doubt worldly communication skills to get this current stupid media strategy corrected so that you can begin to support my campaign?’ Gerrard beamed a cheesy smile at Verhoeven, making her a little uncomfortable.
‘Andrew, this is not really necessary,’ said Jameson.
‘Prime Minister to you. Thank you, Kerry,’ barked Gerrard without moving his gaze from Verhoeven. ‘Well, Sally? Can you provide any support? Or are you here just to tempt me?’
Verhoeven flushed and looked away. Saying nothing, she avoided the prime minister’s smarmy glare, a little shaken he could be so openly provocative.
‘Prime Minister, as you know, we have been writing pro-opposition pieces,’ stumbled a contrite Hancock. ‘This is what we do, we have to report.’
‘Not sure I was talking to you, Tony.’ Gerrard tossed a withering look toward Hancock.
‘Prime Minister, please be reasonable and accept our mea culpa,’ Jameson said softly, offering his hands up in a surrender.
‘Sorry?’ Gerrard bombastically looked at Bruce. ‘You’re sorry?’ Gerrard mocked Jameson. ‘You want to kiss and make up do you, Kerry? You want to kiss my arse and you think that giving me whatever I want will return our cozy relationship back to normal, is that it?’
‘We’re wasting our time listening to this crap,’ said Buckley, making a move to get up. Verhoeven was quickly to her feet.
‘No, you’re not wasting your time, cowboy,’ sneered Gerrard. ‘I’m wasting mine.’
The remaining delegation struggled to get up and Gerrard beat them to the door. ‘When you come and see me after the election, bring your cheque books, because if you ever expect to laud it over my government again it will cost you big time.’
Gerrard swung the door open. ‘You backed the wrong horse this time, Kerry, you doddery old fool. You’ll need a hefty payout on the result to get a place in the next race. And you, little girl,’ he pointed at Verhoeven. ‘Wear something shorter next time. Now get the fuck out.’
As they left, he slammed the door.
‘Wow, Andrew, that was hot.’
Gerrard turned to Bruce and slowly pulled the towel from about his neck. ‘So, do I lock the door and cool you down, or is this not an appropriate time or place?’
Bruce smiled approval and shifted backwards onto the edge of the table as the prime minister snibbed the door and advanced toward her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DAY SIXTEEN – FRIDAY
Hancock media retained an editorial office in all capital cities and major regional centres throughout Australia, usually in the prime real estate commercial district. Journalists assigned to a city desk were usually found among piles of papers, files and hordes of newspapers cluttering desks and work nooks. Post-it note reminders were strewn about the edges of computer screens, bins overflowed with empty coffee cups, and the odd half-empty bottle of vodka or whiskey was stashed in the corner.
For travelling journalists, they were assigned hot desks, usually a small workstation with computer cabling for the laptop but no fixed network telephone. Anita normally avoided the facilities, preferring a cafe or an outside cosy table to work far away from nosey colleagues with their constant social interruptions and inane conversations about family and children.
Sydney was turning on a typically humid November day, and although Anita normally fought the need to work inside, she surrendered to the increasing muggy heat and retired to the relief of air-conditioning. Her choice of cargo pants and sneakers would have her melting fairly quickly in the morning humidity.
She had been on the phone to Cleaver in Canberra questioning why her recent columns were not being published. They had disappeared into an abyss of editorial delay after being sent to the owner for his approval, receiving zero response. She was getting no quality feedback from anyone, speculating that Hancock’s editorial direction to pump Stanley’s tyres remained the newspaper’s strategy.
Exasperated, she said, ‘Just let me know what’s going on.’
‘Hancock hasn’t given me any direction on these articles.’ Cleaver worked to placate her. ‘I’ve had them legalled and they look okay with minor edits, so we’re ready to go.’
‘Does Hancock want me to continue to investigate Sinclair-Browne or not?’ asked Anita, annoyed by the continued avoidance of a direct response from her editor. ‘I’ve tracked a similar campaign operative to a Queensland election a few years back, when there was an unexpected result. Apparently, a Simon O’Brien was the leading campaign operative then, but I’ve been given a description that seems similar to our man. No photos though.’
Cleaver gasped a strong draw from his cigarette. Holding his breath he asked, ‘How did you manage that?’
‘You know those things are bad for you, don’t you?’
‘So, they say.’ The editor blew out the smoke, sounding as if he was blowing a balloon. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘I have my sources and I tap into them whenever I want this type of information.’
‘You’re doing a great job with Stanley.’
Cleaver blew out again so heavily into the phone that Anita felt as if she could smell it.
‘No, I’m not, so stop mocking me,’ sighed Anita, exasperated by the regular patronising of men with power. ‘I’m just sick of this constant delay when I know there is a story to be had.’
‘Anita, look. There are times when we go hard and times we need to back off,’ said Cleaver. ‘This is one of those times. Just step back a little on the style and tone of what you’re writing.’
‘I can’t stand dishonesty, you know that,’ Anita moaned. ‘It’s what drove me to the corruption story on Gerrard in the first place. I still think we should have published that story. It’s the same now. I can feel it, Cleave, there’s something going on and I think Harper is behind it.’
‘What does your boyfriend say?’
‘For heaven’s sake, how many times do I have to tell you, he’s not my friggin’ boyfriend,’ barked Anita. She hesitated to calm herself and took a long draught of water from her bottle. ‘Anyway, he knows nothing, and even if he did, he wouldn’t tell me.’
‘Who’s paying this Hyphen chap?’
‘I’m yet to find out. I’ve sourced it to a printing company out west of Sydney, but I’m yet to see any connection with its proprietors and politics.’
‘Do they have investors?’ asked Cleaver. ‘Maybe there is a connection there?’
‘I’ve looked at the government company registry. On the surface it offers nothing,’ Anita responded. ‘It does list a Michael Buckley as a director, but he’s not listed on their website.’
‘Buckley?’ Cleaver was surprised. ‘Nothing to do with the Buckley family?’
‘Who are they, some eastern suburb socialites?’
‘Quite the opposite,’ scoffed Cleaver. ‘The Buckley family own the Northern Territory and most of far-north Queensland. I’m surprised you don’t know them.’
‘Country business is not my business.’
‘They run cattle and have the major share in live beef exports into Asia. They also have international assets. South America, I think.’
‘So why would they invest in a small printing plant in western Sydney?’
‘I don’t know, but you could find out, couldn’t you?’ Cleaver chided.
‘I suppose so, but why bother if the boss is too damn lazy to read my stuff?’
‘Anita, if you want a move to television, I would suggest you put more effort in. And can you have a look at the Gerrard campaign?’
‘Why don’t I check out his local campaign. I hear the candidate is doing some interesting things on the ground?’
‘Like what?’ Cleaver seemed distracted and Anita felt it.
‘They’re working on a documentary. I thought I’d write a column on it.’
‘Yeah, sounds good. I have to go, see you.’ The phone went dead.
‘And so ends another unfulfilled discussion with my editor,’ Anita said to no-one, tossing her phone on to her workbench.
‘Sounds like you need a drink.’ The voice of Bernie Brereton drifted over the grey partitioning. ‘Shall we go out for one?’
‘Bernie, it’s eleven o’clock. A little bit early, wouldn’t you say?’
A head appeared above her, full of grey hair and twinkling blue eyes, although a little bloodshot. ‘It’s never too early, and besides, it’s after midday in Auckland.’
‘I could go for a coffee, does that suit you?’
‘I’ll have a wine and you can have a coffee, let’s go.’ Anita caught up with her scruffy colleague at the lift foyer. ‘Do you ever wear anything else other than those bloody sneakers?’
‘They’re comfortable, and I can’t stand wearing high heels, not to work at least.’
‘Good job then. Too many girls think it’s looks that get them ahead in this business.’
‘I’ve never met any girls who think that,’ smiled Anita. ‘Mind you, I don’t get to meet too many girls in this organisation.’
‘Good thing too.’
‘Bit of a misogynist, are you?’
Brereton raised an eyebrow and shook his head, punching the ground floor button and dragging a cigarette from a crumpled pack he pulled from his mustard linen jacket. As soon as they were outside he lit up, sucking it deep into his lungs and stirring a significant coughing fit. ‘I’ve got a cold,’ he gasped, as he saw Anita’s look of reproach. ‘True.’
Anita ignored him and walked on. ‘Let’s go to the quay and sit by the water,’ Anita suggested. ‘It’s a bit hot here.’
‘A bit far to walk for a drink, don’t you think?’
‘Come on, it’s only a block. The fresh air will do you good.’
Brereton started spluttering again with a wet cough. ‘That’s what I’m worried about.’
The colleagues eventually settled into a shady outside table by the Museum of Contemporary Art, Brereton insisting on the smoking section. With views directly to the Opera House and the towering bridge to the left, the sun could turn the harbour into a delight for the weariest, most cynical journalist. The coffee and glass of red arrived quickly and they pondered what to say after their convivial small talk dried up. Brereton lit another cigarette, saving his lighter by using the end of the butt.
‘I was a little surprised you didn’t know the name Buckley,’ Brereton said, clearing his throat before sipping on his wine to taste its quality. ‘They not only own most of the export cattle business in Australia, but the old man also has holdings in Argentina, Canada and Texas. Not only that, he has significant abattoir holdings throughout Asia and recently announced plans to move into Europe.’
‘As I said to Cleaver, I’m no country business queen,’ Anita sipped her coffee. ‘I specialise in politics and policy.’
‘Well, again, that surprises me you don’t know the name.’ Brereton took a large mouthful of wine, swished it and swallowed, seemingly enjoying the immediate effect, before taking another large gulp almost draining the glass. ‘Buckley’s been active in politics for years and commands a lot of clout in Canberra.’
‘Ultimately the minister makes the decisions, driven by the department. This Buckley chap would just be another voice among all the other lobbyists.’
‘You’re kidding me?’ mocked Brereton. ‘I thought you were the gun investigative political journalist?’
Anita was a little taken aback. ‘What are you saying?’
‘What I’m saying is this.’ Another long hard suck on the cigarette almost saw the end of it. ‘The government might think they manage policy, and they probably do on social services and community care programs such as education and health, but it’s the big dollars that control the economy, not the politicians.’
‘Are you saying the Buckley family runs Australia?’ Anita scoffed. ‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘I didn’t say old man Buckley runs the country, but he belongs to an exclusive group that does.’
‘How come I don’t know about it?’ Anita asked. ‘Come to think of it, how do you know about it?’
‘I’ve come across them a few times, but I’ve been warned off,’ Brereton said, draining his glass and calling the waiter for another. ‘Bring two please.’
‘I said I didn’t want one, thanks Bernie.’
‘It’s not for you, love.’
Anita looked at her colleague and considered his comments. ‘What do you mean you’ve been warned off?’
‘When you play with the big boys and they want to manage you, then best you do what they ask.’
Brereton pulled another cigarette from his packet and lit it, coughing again when he drew it deep into his lungs.
Anita scoffed, ‘Rubbish, you’re a killer dog when it comes to getting a story. I wouldn’t have thought you would be frightened of anything.’
‘At my age, the only thing that scares me is not having a job.’
‘What are you saying? Has Hancock threatened you? Over what? Why would he do that?’
‘Let’s see. Why would Tony Hancock, and before him his father, want to stop me from exposing his business cabal?’
‘Rubbish. That wouldn’t be right.’
‘Ask yourself this. How come I’ve never got off the news desk?’
‘Because you’re lazy and a drunk,’ Anita grimaced at her unkind retort.
Brereton ignored the verbal slap. ‘Maybe so, but I was like you once,’ he gulped another mouthful of wine. ‘I was eager and keen to get ahead, just like you. I discovered a story about old man Jameson, to do with a gambling deal he was trying to execute in Macau. Apparently, he wanted to build a major casino complex with a significant residential and office tower. He was implicated in manipulating the approval process with certain government officials – apparently money was being left in hotel rooms for certain guests of his casino when they transited in Hong Kong. When I tried to get the yarn published, the whole tower came crumbling down on me.’
‘What happened?’
‘I was sent to Vietnam as Hancock’s correspondent. Not for the normal two years – I spent ten in the lousy, stinking place. Cost me my family and I discovered things an addictive personality should never discover. No wonder I have a relationship with alcohol.’
‘Why didn’t you leave?’
‘Hancock’s old man threatened me. He told me in no uncertain terms that if I left the company or spoke to anyone about the Macau deal, I would never work again.’ Brereton gazed out into the water. ‘I tried to leave, but no-one would touch me. I even went overseas to try and get work, but it seems there are these same pathetic exclusive networks everywhere. The Australian group is related to other fucking business groups around the world all doing favours for each other. So, if I wanted to write, I was their man forever. Downgraded to obituaries and shipping news. That’s why I’m lazy and a drunk.’
‘Rubbish!’ Anita didn’t know whether to believe him or not.
‘You’re idealistic, I get that. You want everyone to do the right thing, I get that. But you need to look a little deeper into the political system than you’re currently doing to find out how it really operates.’ Brereton sucked more smoke into his lungs and spluttered it out. ‘You did a good job on Gerrard, and what did you find? Corruption and fraud. It’ll never get published; I can guarantee you that. Just remember, there are folks who can hurt you. Be careful.’
‘Hurt me, how?’
‘You’re looking at how.’ Brereton opened up his arms and bowed. ‘Why do you think Hancock has sat on your stories?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘The cabal, my dear, the fucking cabal.’
‘Why?’
‘My guess is that you’re probably close to something they’re managing, and they don’t want you to expose them.
‘Who’s in it, this cabal?’
‘It changes. I reckon there are about ten, maybe twelve. Not sure who, but I reckon Hancock would be in it. Buckley and Jameson for sure. Those three are definitely in the group. It’s like a secret society. They believe they’re doing good for the country but ultimately, they’re only ever looking out for themselves.
‘They have some weird name that I can’t recall, but the Merchants sounds familiar, or maybe I’m confusing it with something else. They seem to be up themselves a bit and overstate their influence. I mean, why wouldn’t you be arrogant if you thought you ran the country. Check the files, and you’ll always see those three together with the prime minister at major business events.’
‘This is rubbish. The politicians run the country, not some flakey business group.’
‘Don’t kid yourself, love. They manipulate campaigns and when they do, they get their priorities attended to.’
‘Rubbish. What examples have you got?’
‘Years back, in Queensland, when the entire country was against a new coal mine, what happened?’ Anita shook her head. She hadn’t heard of it. ‘Let me tell you. Even though the media, the local first nation tribe, environmentalists, celebrities and even the king expressed a view to stop the development, what do you think happened? Gerrard approved it. His mate Allan Connell got the approval to develop the mine and he made a fortune from it. He’s another one, I’d wager.’ Brereton drained his second glass and took up the third. ‘Mind you, it’s been an economic bonanza for Queensland and created thousands of jobs. Who would have thought?’
