Duplicity, p.25
Duplicity, page 25
Distracted by her intent to look across the street to the building entrance to see if the man was about to enter, as she turned the corner, she almost collided into pedestrians scurrying about. She didn’t notice the man in black waiting for her who stepped out from an alcove forcefully manhandling her off the street and into a recessed doorway of an abandoned store, thrusting her hard up against a wall. Panting from her run, Anita was now choking for air as the man squeezed his hand firmly around her throat, digging into skin. Pushing her against the wall up on to her toes, forcing her to gasp and look down her nose at him, his eyes squinting with effort as he stared back.
‘Why are you following me?’ Wolff hoarsely whispered.
Anita struggled to speak. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m your worst nightmare, lady, if I ever see you again.’
‘Please … you’re choking me …’ Anita struggled to say as she felt his squeezing fingers dig deeper into her throat. Her hands were gripping his wrist, rapidly trying to lever his fingers away and attempting to kick or knee him but needing to keep balance as he pushed her higher. Her frantic attempts to stop him were fading.
‘If I ever see you again, I will do worse than choke you.’ Wolff was nose to nose, staring into her eyes. ‘Do you understand?’ Anita couldn’t answer. Wolff squeezed her throat tighter. ‘Do you?’
‘Yes.’ Anita’s voice whispered as she gulped and gasped for breath. Her hands were scratching at the man’s fingers trying to relieve pressure, but she could not budge the tight grip. ‘Please … I can’t breathe.’ It was the last thing she could remember.
What seemed like moments later, Anita was aware of a woman bending over her asking if she was okay. She was lying crumpled among papers and rubbish in the corner of the doorway, her bag still slung on her shoulder. The woman helped her to her feet and asked again if she needed medical aid.
It hurt to speak as Anita struggled to get the hoarse words out. ‘I’m okay, thank you.’ The woman helped her to a kerbside iron bench seat, and she was grateful for the assistance. Anita took a bottle of water from her bag, uncapped it and tentatively sucked in a mouthful, unsure if it would hurt when she swallowed. It did.
‘What happened? Were you assaulted?’ the woman asked. ‘Shall I call an ambulance?’
‘No, I’m okay. I must have fainted, but I feel fine now.’ Anita wanted to be left alone to collect her thoughts. ‘I appreciate your kindness, but I’m okay now, really.’
After staying a few more moments the woman left reassured Anita was recovered. Anita looked around wondering if the man could still see her. Her throat was sore and she gently rubbed her thumb and finger along her voice box. She took another drink and looked about, still nervous about seeing the man. She never wanted to see him again – ever.
She brushed down her trousers and straightened her jacket, then took another mouthful of water. It still hurt to swallow; she tried to clear her throat, which also felt uncomfortable as she coughed.
She thought about going across the street into 106 and demanding an answer to her assault claim but thought better of it. What was she to say, a campaign worker tried to kill her? No, she had a story to write about the protest and wanted to link this mercenary thug she assumed accosted her with the Mercantiles. Her revenge would be with her words.
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.
