Duplicity, p.9
Duplicity, page 9
Stanley waved his hand and nodded to prompt Sussan to act. ‘My adviser is now distributing a copy of the letter on Gerrard’s own personal letterhead confirming the plan and counselling the tax commissioner that under no circumstances can they afford to make the plan public during the election campaign. The letter is signed by Andrew Gerrard and dated just six days ago.’ Neilson quickly handed copies out from her armful of papers.
‘I call upon Andrew Gerrard to explain himself. I call upon the prime minister to explain to the Australian people why he continues to treat them with disdain and why his secret tax plan is so needed by his government. This plan will obviously hurt the most vulnerable in the community, those Australians who cannot help themselves and who struggle to make ends meet. Gerrard must be held to account to explain his secret tax plan, his deception, and his betrayal of all of us. If Prime Minister Gerrard fails to immediately disclose this monstrous secret tax plan and tell us why he thinks it necessary to increase the burden of tax upon all of us, then he should resign.
‘If Prime Minister Gerrard can’t explain why he continues to treat the community with contempt, he should resign now and allow this election to be a competition between the ethics and standards of transparent government – not the lust for authoritarian power as this outrageous letter confirms.’ Stanley waved the letter high above his head this time.
‘It’s time for a change in how we are governed in Australia. It’s time for the people to take back their parliament. If Andrew Gerrard refuses to provide answers, then he must go.’
The journalists raised their voices to a cacophony to be heard and be the first picked for a question. Wolff took a copy of the letter and left the room, distracted by the shouting. Anita watched him go, wondering if he were the Hyphen she had heard about.
The media conference continued for the next ten minutes with journalists wanting to be heard and Stanley trying valiantly to give them the answers they wanted. Most were sceptical of the letter and demanded the source of the leak for which Stanley stumbled through with hesitant answers trying not to fan the wrong political fire. Abruptly, Messenger stepped forward and tapped him on the elbow, so he swiftly ended the media conference leaving the room as journalists continued bellowing questions.
Anita tried to attract Barton’s eye, but his grim, steely look didn’t move as he ushered Stanley from the room to the safety of secure offices. She now had more questions than answers about the disclosure and still wondered how Harper had a copy. She had a story to write but didn’t know which angle to take, so when she settled by a window in a nearby cosy cafe, she called Cleaver.
‘It’s a political bombshell – the atom bomb of announcements. That’s the only way I can describe it,’ Cleaver said after their pleasantries.
‘I’m sure you’ll write the news, but I’m a little concerned about the opinion piece and need your editorial direction.’
‘What’s troubling you?’ Cleaver asked.
‘The campaign operative was at the media conference, at least I think it was him.’ Anita had guessed correctly. ‘Anyway, if he was there and is such a guru, why would he not have told Stanley to wait to confirm the letter?’
‘It’s way too explosive to wait and they needed to get it on the national television news tonight.’
‘I have it on good authority there was no discussion about it prior to Stanley making the announcement, which may mean the guru was not involved and didn’t endorse the media conference.’
‘I suppose Stanley was making a leadership decision.’
‘But if it is a fake, Stanley is toast,’ Anita said.
‘Why would you consider the letter a fake? It looks real to me,’ Cleaver forcefully said. ‘Gerrard is just as likely to agree to a tax hike as try to hide it before the election. He’s done that sought of thing in the past.’
‘It’s all a little too convenient for me and now I wonder how my source got hold of it.’
‘You know what to do,’ Cleaver demanded. ‘We support Stanley, so write a piece that supports his call for Gerrard’s head.’
‘This could be very wrong, Cleave. I just feel something is missing,’ Anita ran her fingers through her hair, scratching the peak of her forehead, her face twisted. ‘I just don’t think the expert would have approved this announcement, which could mean there may be a political disagreement within the campaign team – that’s the angle I want to write about.’
‘I respect your intuition, but not this time. Write the piece focused on Gerrard’s duplicity and I’ll publish it. Anything else, I can promise you, won’t get printed.’
After her goodbyes, Anita ended the call and began tapping her keyboard. She wanted to run the conspiracy angle but conceded it would never get past Cleaver, or Hancock for that matter. She wanted Stanley to succeed because it would help Barton’s career, but she was confused as to why Stanley puff pieces were relevant when her investigative work was continually rejected.
Messenger never returned her call or responded to her messages.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DAY TWELVE – MONDAY
The front door of the Melbourne Federal Parliamentary Offices in Treasury Place, behind the Old Treasury Building had been roped off to provide enough room for a prime ministerial lectern with an Australian flag on each side of the entrance. Journalists had gathered beyond the rope since being advised a media conference with the prime minister was due, rare in previous election campaigns. They wanted answers to Stanley’s accusations and the PM was going to either resign or initiate a withering attack.
Attack the prime minster did from the moment he reached the lectern, ripping into everyone who dared question his integrity. He accused television news departments of bias and demanded why they never sought confirmation from his office before running the spurious allegations against him. Gerrard had been ranting for five minutes – denying the accusation of complicity in developing a secret tax policy and accusing instead the opposition leader of forging the document printed in all newspapers and lambasting the journalists for not doing their work in exposing the fraud.
‘Prime Minister, how can we be so sure the letter is a forgery?’
‘Mr Weideman, you have been in the Canberra Press Gallery now for more than twenty years, and during that time have you ever seen such tosh written on any letterhead associated with any of my ministers?’ Gerrard rhetorically asked. ‘I think not. Those journalists accusing me of this fake news are nothing more than desperate corporate news flakes and should not be anywhere near the serious national media. This rubbish, written by Hancock media today denouncing me and calling for my resignation, is nothing more than fake news and these conspiracy merchants should never be allowed to be treated with esteem by the public ever again. The rubbish written be Anita Devlin was reckless and she should be condemned for damaging the reputation of the tax commissioner, and indeed, me.
‘I demand a front-page apology. I also demand an apology from the opposition leader Mr Stanley on today’s national news broadcasts. I think the people of Australia will now see the opposition for what they truly are – fraudsters and con artists, saying anything and doing whatever it takes to squirm their way into government.’
‘Prime Minister, other than your denial, do you have any other proof this letter is a fraud?’ queried a journalist.
‘Well, yes I do.’ Gerrard pulled a smartphone from his jacket and held it aloft like a trophy. ‘Let me use this simple device to show you what the media should have done when they first received a copy of this obvious forgery yesterday.’ Gerrard then checked the letter and prodded in the numbers, touched it to speakerphone, and placed it as close as possible to the microphones.
‘The number you have called is not connected, please try again.’
‘That is the message you receive when you ring the number on this Stanley forgery.’ Gerrard declared triumphantly with a broad smile, his chest pushed out like a peacock. ‘That same response would have happened to any journalist who bothered to do their job and check the letter’s bona fides. While it is true the numbers are the same as my office, they are in the wrong order, which obviously means this is not my letterhead and the letter is a blatant forgery.
‘Everyone,’ Gerrard then pointed at the journalists. ‘And that means all of you, including every news organisation in Australia that is associated with this corrupt treachery, should be ashamed of yourselves. The people of Australia deserve better from the alternate government than this fraudulent rubbish and their lies.’ Gerrard then looked straight down the barrel of the camera lens directly in front of him. ‘And electors know I would never lie to them.’
A number of journalists spoke at once. Gerrard ignored them, not changing his piercing stare into the camera. ‘I would never do to the Australian people what the leader of the opposition has just done, and I expect a public apology. Today.’
The journalists fell silent, stunned by the revelation and Gerrard’s declaration.
‘Do a better job next time and stop believing fake news,’ barked Gerrard, storming off, returning to his office.
Wolff was admiring the Whiteley, wondering how much it would be worth now if it were on the market. He enjoyed Whiteley’s work and considered him underrated in the labyrinth of modern artists, especially in Australia. More than just a coke head, he thought as he studied the strokes more closely.
‘Mr Wolff?’
Wolff turned to see a tall elegant woman beckoning him. ‘Yes, ma’am?’
‘They will see you now.’
Wolff moved toward her and, before she moved off, engaged her. ‘I was just wondering?’ She stopped and looked at him. ‘How does one get on your dating roster?’
The woman smiled slyly and said, ‘Wait to be asked would be my recommendation. Please follow me.’
Wolff smirked as he followed her. You never know unless you ask was an early mentor’s advice and he always followed that rule. He had more spectacular crashes than wins in his tango of flirtation with women, but he always enjoyed the banter his assertiveness brought to the communication.
Wolff stepped into the room to be welcomed by Jameson and eleven colleagues. He had visited the group in their boardroom many times in the past to discuss services and projects and was never intimidated by the crusty atmosphere of the room with its subdued lighting and dull resonance. He sat and smiled as he looked about familiar faces.
‘We are a little concerned about the prime minister’s media conference and wonder what you might have to say about it, Mr Wolff,’ Jameson whispered forcefully.
Wolff’s smiling optimism quickly disappeared. ‘Sir, it is my opinion Gerrard will not be beaten by Stanley,’ Wolff gravely responded. ‘When I first attended their so-called campaign strategy meeting, I was surprised how little organisation they had within their initial plans. It is hard to describe their lack of preparation and to be fair, they were not expecting the election announcement, but seriously, they are grossly inept. This would normally not be a problem as I can work to fix most things, but Stanley is not prime minister material. He is deadset hopeless.’
‘You can’t win?’ Connell, the mining magnate, asked.
‘We can win,’ asserted Wolff, remaining confident. ‘But, I’m not sure you will want Stanley as prime minister. I’m fairly confident history will record him as the worst if he were to win.’
‘Even worse than McMahon?’
‘Worse. Frankly, if he does become prime minister, I would recommend you quickly take action to remove him and change to another who is more competent, as you’ve done in the past.’
There was no response from the directors. Jameson stared at Wolff, his jaw moving as if rolling dentures about his mouth. Wolff knew to remain quiet when investment news was not as good as expected and options considered.
Finally, Felicity Osman enquired, ‘Just run us through what you’ve done so far.’
‘Well, as I said, they had very little organisation plans in place. They were not focused on the battles in each of the electorates and they were luxuriating in the positive media they had been receiving. If Stanley is to win, we have to change votes in the suburbs of every electorate. It’s a fight we need to do virtually door to door. I’ve established community action groups that partner with the local candidate. In marginal seats we will ramp up this support with more resources, including getting more people active on the hustings.’
‘Who are these people?’ Osman asked.
‘We recruit community coordinators who then pay agitators to engage with various community groups, who in turn promote disquiet within their own groups. The plan is to build resentment against the government, blaming it for everyone’s troubles. They’ve had it good for too long under Gerrard, but now I sense a willingness for change.’
‘What do you need to make this happen?’ Osman began taking notes in her folder, others sat listening quietly.
‘These community agitators will need money, lots of money. The campaign headquarters will need more people, especially talented social media campaigners. We need to bombard social news feeds with information that will influence young voters. Harry Lester has abilities, but he would be a number three in any leadership team I’d run, capable but devoid of any strategic foresight.’ A couple of directors cleared throats as they shifted in their seats, while others shrunk further into their chairs, concerned by the report.
‘I have to say working with this mob is challenging, but it is not impossible to quickly turn them around and get them operating as a cohesive unit. I’ve set up campaign procedures I want done and insisted all candidates and sitting members sign up to it.’
‘Take us through your plan,’ Tony Hancock quizzed.
‘I’m not sure the detail is relevant for this table,’ Wolff said confidently. ‘But to give you a heads up, it might surprise you to learn I’m Marxist by nature. Not in philosophical terms because the system he espoused proved to be a failure, but more in practical application terms. For instance, I understand his teachings as they are applied to community revolution. Marx said if you want outcomes, people must make the move otherwise they resist poor leadership and you achieve no result. Marx was really the first to identify the potential people power.’
‘I’m not sure speaking about Marx excites this group that much, unless it’s Groucho.’ Frank Lowsonne interrupted. ‘We’re very proud capitalists here. We reject socialism outright and Marx is a socialist demagogue as far as I’m concerned. We reject his teachings completely.’
‘With the greatest respect, Marx did not teach socialism, he taught community control. He wanted the people to take control not the capitalists, which paradoxically is the basis of modern western democracy,’ Wolff said, delivering it with confidence. ‘It’s not his socialism offshoots I’m talking about, it’s getting organised at the grassroots, developing a people movement wanting change and voting for what they want. That’s what Marx taught his students to do – to get active in any organisation, including democracies. Lenin and Stalin misunderstood Marx and just did it for their own interests, just like capitalists I suppose,’ Wolff smirked at Lowsonne.
‘Self-interest wins again,’ Lowsonne retorted with a sneer.
Wolff ignored the comment. ‘So, to win this federal election campaign we need a community movement wanting change and that means a strong community campaign in every seat. We should learn from David Cameron, President Clinton and possibly Turnbull in an Australian context from all those years ago. These so-called charismatic politicians concentrated only on their voting base and didn’t worry about mobilising the broader community. They eventually lost support because they didn’t listen to the people. On the other hand, Obama organised communities to respond to his messages and convinced them to come out and vote. That’s what Marx recommended – rally the people on an idea for the future. It didn’t matter if Obama didn’t achieve much, the people loved him, still do.
‘In election campaigns I work with, we mobilise community groups to speak on behalf of the people, and the politicians are there to represent the voice of the people – not their own.’
‘Did you work on the recent Harding campaign?’ Hancock asked.
‘Yes, I did. Why?’
‘One of my journalists recently likened it to the Stanley campaign plan.’
‘Interesting, what’s his name?’
‘It’s a she, her name is Anita Devlin.’
Wolff took a small notepad from his leather jacket, flicked it open and wrote her name as he continued. ‘I believe for every action there is an outcome, either good or bad. Nothing happens without an action, and that is the message I’m getting back about Stanley, he is not a man of action.’
‘So, what is the state of the current campaign?’ asked an anxious Jameson.
‘I have engaged one hundred and fifty-five seasoned community organisers who are briefed and ready to go once I have your agreement. I’ve refined the opposition’s campaign and given them a four-week daily action list leading up to, and beyond, election day. We are ready to go. I just need your approval.’
‘Why do we need to wait?’ Osman asked. ‘Surely we’re running out of time.’
‘I suppose Wolff is waiting for us to make up our mind once and for all if we are committed to Stanley and give Gerrard away,’ responded Jameson.
‘Your call, Mr Jameson. I’m here to serve you.’
‘What do you make of this alleged forgery?’ Lowsonne asked.
