Duplicity, p.6
Duplicity, page 6
‘You can’t be serious?’ said Stanley, uncomfortably lifting himself with his hands firmly gripping the arms of his chair and then lowering himself.
‘I am deadly serious,’ insisted Wolff. ‘To win government you need to win seats. Your new candidates will do as they are told. Why would these candidates be required to follow a campaign when sitting members do not? If these dills don’t want to toe the party line during an election campaign to win government, why are you holding on to them?’
Stanley looked at Messenger with a crazed look of despair. ‘What do you think, Bart?’
‘I think we should at least get them on to this campaign program, and if they resist, then worry about what to do.’
‘I suggest you get a local printer to produce a manual for every electorate as quickly as possible, today if you can. In the meantime, I will begin mobilising community organisers in each electorate. Once we have each candidate sign off on the operations manual, I will contract the organisers into the local campaigns to manage the candidate.’
‘How much is this going to cost?’ Lester asked.
‘These things are being paid by my employer as a donation to help you win government.’
‘Who are you, again?’ Neilson asked.
‘I’m the specialist in winning election campaigns, which seems to be the missing link here,’ Wolff retorted, shooting a fierce look at Neilson who squirmed slightly in her seat, avoiding his gaze. ‘I have probably worked on more than one hundred campaigns over the last twenty years, so I know what works and what doesn’t. I know, for instance, that releasing policy when the polls weaken will go nowhere,’ provoked Wolff, looking at Jorges.
‘I also know that unless we own the news cycle, we do not get any traction in the polls.’ Wolff got up, snapping his folder shut. ‘Folks, we have much to do and not a lot of time. Let’s meet again in Sydney on Sunday. I expect you to complete the first eight points on my list. If you don’t, frankly, it’s over.’
‘Why Sydney?’ Lester asked.
‘You have more winnable seats in New South Wales. I would have thought it was obvious that working at the campaign coalface is important.’ Wolff didn’t close the door as he left the room.
The room instantly became less hostile and relaxed. Julia Laretsky, who had been smart enough not to say anything during the discussion, moved to the coffee station to calm herself. Wolff had shaken her with his forceful language.
‘Wow, that was exciting,’ Stanley eventually said. ‘I heard he was good.’
‘Do we really want to be subjected to this type of bullying for the next thirty or so days?’ Laretsky moaned. ‘I’m very nervous about this type of operative working for the party.’
‘As far as I am concerned, we need him,’ Messenger responded. ‘He’s given us the campaign blueprint. All we have to do now is build it, then follow it.’
‘You can’t help yourself, can you?’ Stanley laughed. ‘The cliché kid is at it again. If you ever get the top job, you will be pilloried for it.’
James Harper was a despondent man. He hadn’t ventured out of his waterside home since he returned from Melbourne. His daily heavy drinking was worrying his wife who encouraged him to freshen up, have a shave, change out of the exercise clothes he had been lounging around in for days and get out into the electorate. ‘I can’t face anyone at the moment, Shirl. I’m still a little raw about it all.’
Just a week ago, he was the leader of the opposition. Now he was relegated to campaigning in his electorate of McPherson on the Gold Coast, apparently for the greater good of the party. Once a parliamentary rooster, now just a political feather duster, it hurt.
He had been brutally discarded as leader the previous week. His colleagues didn’t support him when he needed them most, and now Peter Stanley would decide his career fate if they won government. Ironically, he was considering a lesser ministerial role for Stanley in any future government he was destined to lead. Stanley and Messenger – both now leaders of the party – were great friends, but like Shakespeare’s Brutus, they were assassins who came for him with a knife to the back.
He retained many friends in the party, a few close supporters and co-conspirators within the shadow ministry and most of his former staff were still employed by Stanley, although the number of telephone calls and texted messages from them were fading. So, almost every day, he did what every savvy politician does and continued to strategically gossip with his network, trying to keep informed about the campaign and the machinations of national politics.
The shrill of his phone disturbed his afternoon snooze on the back patio. He knocked over his empty wine glass as he snatched the phone to quieten it. ‘Hello? I wasn’t expecting to hear from you – ever again. What can I do for you?’
‘Just a few delicious tidbits of information for you to do with whatever you wish.’
‘Oh yes. More fake news, no doubt.’
‘The leader cracked a joke last night with two businessmen.’ The informer laughed a little ironically. ‘The moron called his domestic violence policy home maintenance.’
‘You’re kidding me,’ Harper laughed.
‘No, I’m not,’ the caller chuckled. ‘Plus, get this – he plans to have every candidate and sitting member sign a campaign agreement insisting they do as the party directs them during the election campaign. No exceptions, including you.’
‘He can’t do that. Whose idea was that?’
‘A supposed campaign guru who has been appointed, named Sinclair-Browne. He has been engaged to manage the national campaign. Just thought you’d like to know.’
‘Can I quote you?’
‘Not likely.’ The caller clicked off.
Harper was baffled by the call. Thankful for the information, he was confused as to why the caller was giving it to him. Such a Machiavellian thing to do. Leadership ambition still coursed through Harper, and while others were sympathetic toward him, he toyed with the idea that it was a call from a friend who wanted his return to the leadership. After twenty-five years, the dark art of politics never ceased to amaze him.
Contemplating what to do with the information, he stepped back into the house and padded to the kitchen for a cooling glass of water. He pondered his media contacts as he scrolled the list. Who would love to receive this type of information? Who would do the most reputational damage to Stanley with this exclusive? Who would give him a little payback with this information leaked to them?
He looked at his list and zeroed in on two journalists who could do the job for him without having the information come back to bite him politically. One was a political lightweight, yet paradoxically an award-winning gossip columnist, the other an investigative journalist.
He called Mila Dempster first, a whippet-smart celebrity journalist who had grown to become a celebrity in her own right. She had a reputation for trashy stories and revelations penned for various publications. Now employed at the national broadsheet, she won a Walkley award for a story that no-one could ever fathom how she discovered it.
Legend has it she was given a strategic gossip piece on a celebrity who had fallen on hard times and was assigned to search for a scandal. What Mila uncovered was the plight of young male refugees in western Brisbane who had fallen foul of overenthusiastic celebrities organising drug- and alcohol-fueled sex romps. The exposé lead to arrests and further police inquiries into a predatory network of highly respected men involved in drugs, pornography and the procuring of children for salacious activities. She went looking for gossip and came out an award winner.
‘Hello James, darling. So sorry to hear the terrible news about your leadership last week.’ Mila always spoke with a high-toned aristocratic English accent, which was rather eccentric as she had not yet travelled to England. ‘It must be terribly distressing for you and your family, darling. I feel so sorry for you. Is there anything I can do?’
‘Can I give you information totally off the record that should only be considered background?’ Harper always insisted on the secrecy code when speaking to journalists.
‘Of course, darling, total anonymity, as always.’
‘Stanley released his domestic violence policy yesterday.’
‘Yes, I saw that darling. I expect to see more AVOs from my celebrity sisters in the future, and a good thing too.’
Harper ignored her commentary and got to his point. ‘Within hours he was making jokes about it.’
‘How can you make a joke about domestic violence?’
‘You can’t, unless you call it – home maintenance.’ Harper smiled as the words came out.
‘He said that?’
‘Within hours of the announcement. He was with two businessmen. Not sure where exactly, but it was in Melbourne.’
‘Are you sure, darling? It doesn’t sound like Peter?’
‘Let’s put it this way – if I’m wrong, you can expose me as your source.’
‘Courageous thing to say, darling. But because you do say it, I tend to believe you.’
‘I shall leave it with you then.’
‘Thank you, darling. Let’s catch up for drinkies when you’re next in town. Now, promise me you will?’
‘After the election, I promise. Good luck, Mila, bye.’ Harper ended the call.
One more call then his work would be done for the day. Harper scrolled through his contacts until he found Anita Devlin.
‘Hello Anita, Jim Harper here.’
‘Hi Jim, this is a nice surprise.’ Like any political journalist, Devlin enjoyed being kept in the loop, especially when politicians rang with news they thought she could use. Anita was challenged by the ethics of it all but understood that sourcing information from senior politicians was an essential part of the exotic daily dance of politics, especially when they want to undermine colleagues and weaken their party’s policy. ‘I must say, I’m sorry with what happened last week. I know no-one was expecting it, you did such a great job as leader.’
‘Your boyfriend wasn’t expecting it?’ joked Harper.
‘Well,’ she was quick to respond. ‘On the record, he isn’t my boyfriend, but off the record, I’m working on it.’ Anita smiled then disarmingly added, ‘You were never available, Jim,’ laughed Devlin.
Harper appreciated her humorous retort and chuckled. ‘Am I able to give you some information as background. Can I be confident it doesn’t get back to Messenger?’
‘You can always be assured I protect my sources.’
‘No pillow talk?’
‘We’ve only shared a Chinese dinner and pillows are yet to be seen, so no, Jim, your confidentiality will be protected.’
‘What I’m about to tell you may intrigue you, but you can’t share it as it could reveal my source. You could dig further and perhaps confirm the information yourself, if you know what I mean?’
‘I would never compromise Bart like that Jim; you must know that. If I need information, I’ll go find it elsewhere.’
‘That’s what I like about you, Anita, an ethical journalist with the desire to dig and investigate.’
‘Thank you. Now what have you got for me?’
‘What would you say if the opposition leadership team were about to embark on a new campaign strategy by managing all one hundred and fifty-five seats from head office?’
‘I would say politicians do not like to be corralled by anyone.’ Anita quickly began to take notes after stretching for her notepad.
‘I have it on very good authority that the party have appointed a campaign expert, and this is his first direction. He has insisted on them doing it, no exceptions.’
‘How good is your source?’
‘From the inner sanctum.’
‘What are they planning to do?’ Anita wrote quickly as she framed a storyline.
‘They’re planning on insisting all candidates and sitting members sign off on a strategic performance management agreement for their local campaign. This will require each of them to execute exactly the same strategy in every electorate, every day. As I said, no exceptions.’
‘Sounds a little bizarre, but on quick reflection, it probably is a good idea to get everyone on the same page. But even so, it is a little heavy-handed, don’t you think?’ Anita paused for a moment, waiting for a response. ‘When will this initiative be announced?’
‘I know no further detail other than a name of this appointed expert. I must say I know a few good ones about the place, but I’ve never heard of him.’
‘What’s his name then, I’ll do some checking.’
‘It’s a hyphen, do you have a pen?’
‘Yep, fire away.’
‘Sinclair-Browne. I suspect a hyphen name like that would be rather posh and it’ll be Brown with an e.’
‘Sounds English. You have nothing else on him?’
‘No, that’s all I have for you.’
‘Why are you doing this, Jim? This disclosure may not be good for your campaign.’
‘Let’s call it karma, Anita. See you.’
Harper tossed his phone aside, pleased with his work, and returned to the kitchen for a drink, a little stronger this time. Devlin was right, it may hurt his party, but it may just help rekindle his leadership chances.
CHAPTER SIX
DAY TEN – SATURDAY (REMEMBRANCE DAY)
Anita liked to continue her daily exercise regime when travelling. She always tossed her favourite sneakers, yoga pants and a neon top in her bag, and this morning appreciated the streetscape and sights of the exercise trails around the Williamstown peninsula.
Schwabs Galley Cafe was recommended for a light breakfast by Barton, who was waiting for her at an outside table. As she sat, Anita poured herself a glass of water from the carafe, prompting Barton to fold away his morning papers and hand her a menu.
‘Did you walk far?’
‘I followed the coast line from the beach, right around the point to the old Timeball Tower, which was fascinating. Then along Nelson Place past the shipyards until here. It was a great walk, plenty of people out with their dogs and the smell of fresh seaweed was great. I just love it here.’
‘Where did you stay last night?’
‘They have us in the Quest Apartments, just over there.’ Anita pointed to the end of Gem Pier on the other side of the park opposite.
‘Nice.’
‘What do you recommend?’ Anita read through the menu.
‘Everything’s good here, but the frittata is excellent.’
‘I’ll have that then, and some tea. Do I order inside, or is it table service?’
‘They’ll come out. Hey, you look great by the way,’ smiled Barton. ‘Very Sporty Spice.’
‘Oh, thank you. What a charmer,’ said Anita, squeezing his hand and smiling. ‘What’s on your schedule today?’
‘There’s a service at the local cenotaph around the corner at eleven, and then we’re off to Sydney. Gerrard is at the Shrine, so we thought we would do a suburban service – the optics will look good on the news. Community service, connecting with the community, all that sort of thing.’
‘It seems you’re doing a few things differently in the campaign from a few days ago. What’s changed?’
‘Lester has his act together. He’s brought in resources and we’re initiating a community campaign aligned with the national strategy.’
‘Interesting. That’s more diverse than you’ve done in the past. What’s brought this on?’ Anita effortlessly probed, looking over her shoulder for the waiter.
‘Lester has been arguing this type of campaign strategy for a few months and he is keen to engage the electorate at a local level, supplementing the national broadcast message.’
‘Can I quote you?’
‘Yes, please,’ urged Messenger. ‘We have nothing to hide when it comes to our campaign. The election war will be won in the individual battlefields of each electorate.’
‘Nice one, especially on Remembrance Day.’ Anita tapped the quote into her smartphone as the Greek cafe waiter took the order from Messenger. When she had finished her note, she asked, ‘Have you seen Dempster’s column today? Would you like to make a comment?’
‘Here we are having a quiet breakfast together, the sun is out, we’ll chat and laugh and enjoy ourselves and you ignore all of that lovely ambience just to get quotes from me.’ Barton feigned being a little miffed. ‘What ego has she smashed today? Celebrity or another socialite.’
‘Actually, it’s your leader.’ Anita studied Barton to gauge a reaction. ‘Apparently Peter has been a naughty boy, cracking jokes about your policies.’ She only caught a slight flicker at the corner of his mouth, otherwise his face didn’t move.
‘What’s he said?’ Barton casually gnawed his bottom lip, superficially having little interest in what she was saying.
‘Home maintenance.’ Anita was impressed with him as she still could not detect any reaction from her breakfast partner. ‘You are incredible.’
‘Why?’ Barton broke into a smile.
‘I give you what could be a game-changing revelation about your leader and your face does not move. How do you do that?’
‘Why should it be game over? Even if he did say it, and I’m fairly sure he would not have been so stupid, then it is simply a joke and the political caravan moves on.’
‘You don’t think calling your domestic violence policy, home maintenance, is a problem?’ guffawed Anita. ‘You think he can joke about these things and get away with it?’
‘It’s hypothetical – he never said it.’
‘Dempster always has very reliable sources.’
‘Take it from me, he never said it,’ insisted Messenger.
‘You have that political butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth look again.’
‘Anita, he didn’t say it,’ Messenger retorted. ‘You can quote me.’
‘Oh, now you want me to quote you?’
‘He never said it.’
‘Which probably means he did.’ Anita remained a little apprehensive about how this relationship she was keen to explore with Barton was going to work when her prospective boyfriend would always be on the political defensive. ‘What else is happening?’
