The new Parliament House replaced the classic 1927 building in 1988 and was cunningly designed to look like it was half buried under a grassy hillside. I don’t think the Australian public would be too fussed if someone brought in a fleet of bulldozers and finished the job, especially if they locked all the pollies inside before firing up the machinery.
In deference to the 40 kph speed signs, Pergo dropped the ute back to eighty, hung a left at the top of the hill and roared up to a driveway marked MEMBERS OF PARLIAMENT ONLY. We zoomed past all the high-security carpark checkpoints like they didn’t exist, and less than twenty minutes after hitting the Canberra runway I was inside the Defence Minister’s office.
Rupert Hall-Smith was in a very big chair at a very big desk, head down, reading the contents of a folder. He studiously ignored me. Pergo was the only other person present. I timed out the three minutes in my head. The Boy’s Own Book of Office Power Plays says that three minutes of ignoring a visitor to your office establishes dominance.
Right on the one-eighty count the Minister glanced up, having demonstrated who was top dog. I wondered if I was supposed to roll over on the carpet and put my legs in the air. He closed the folder and stared at me. He looked even worse in the flesh than he had on TV the night before.
‘And who exactly the fuck do you think you are, Murdoch?’ he said slowly.
Great, so it was going to be one of those meetings.
Rupert Hall-Smith did an excellent line in intimidation. Maybe it’s in the job description. I remembered the pathetic spectacle in a recent Senate Estimates hearing when high-ranking, be-medalled defence force personnel were forced to sit uncomfortably close to the Minister, as if they were at a headmaster’s interview with their mums. You could see them praying they wouldn’t give a wrong answer and find themselves demoted and out in the carpark washing the bastard’s car.
‘Hands off means hands off, Murdoch,’ Hall-Smith said. ‘Mr Pergo showed you my directive, yet you seem unable to understand simple English. The matter of that tanker and the USS Altoona is now out of your hands. It’s over and done, do you understand me?’
I understood perfectly. News of my visit to Priday had obviously reached the Minister’s office already.
‘And the missing nukes?’ I said.
The Minister’s face twitched. ‘I can assure you, I have it on the authority of the highest levels of the American government that the Altoona was not carrying nuclear weapons.’
If it was the highest levels of the American government they would have said ‘nuke-u-lar weapons’. My personal theory on the non-proliferation of atomic weapons was if you couldn’t pronounce the word ‘nuclear’ correctly, you shouldn’t be allowed to have any.
‘So all the warheads the ship wasn’t carrying are fully accounted for?’
‘I’ve spoken on this, Murdoch. I’m not getting into a discussion with you.’
‘Fine. Then all you have to do to get me off this case,’ I said, ‘is send a signed minute on your ministerial letterhead addressed to me as acting Director-General. Just put it all in writing and everything will be dandy.’
The Minister smiled pleasantly, which was a bit disconcerting. ‘No, Mr Murdoch, all I need to do to get you off this case is to terminate your appointment, effective immediately. And that’s what I’m doing. You are returned to your previous position and pay scale forthwith.’
Damn. Much as I wanted out of the top job at D.E.D., there was no way I was giving up on the investigation now, and this was going to cramp my style somewhat.
‘Furthermore,’ the Minister continued, ‘the Honourable Gwenda Felton is your new head of department.’
Struth. The Honourable Gwenda Felton, Companion of the Order of Australia and former Member of Parliament, was generally regarded as having the compassion of Vlad the Impaler, the dress sense of Bozo the clown, and the subtlety of one of Marshal Zhukov’s World War II Red Army artillery barrages. It was also universally agreed that she was dead from the neck up. What the Honourable Gwenda Felton did have going for her was loyalty. When the Prime Minister said jump, all the party faithful asked how high, except for Gwenda who rushed out and got herself a trampoline.
Having made a total hash of her last three portfolios, without career consequences, Gwenda had recently been forced to resign her seat in parliament after an unfortunate incident involving refugees, a talkback radio shock-jock, and a comment she made when she thought the microphones were turned off. Even in a government whose code of conduct was so slackly enforced that clocking the Leader of the Opposition with half a house brick during question time would only get you a smack on the wrist, Gwenda had to go.
She got the usual golden handshake, lifetime use of the honorific, and the promise of the next available cushy public service appointment. How Hall-Smith could justify making her Director-General of an intelligence service in these days of a war on terror was hard to fathom. Then again, she pretty much terrorised everyone who worked for her.
‘I think D.E.D. will benefit from a new broom,’ the Minister said.
‘A new broom can be very useful for sweeping things under the carpet.’
‘Very droll, Murdoch. ’
‘Look, the official line might be that the two warheads don’t exist, but everybody in this room knows they do and that they’ve been stolen, and that people are dead because of it. Nothing you do to me can change the facts, so somebody better find those nukes and find them fast, because if they go off you won’t have a broom big enough to clean up that mess.’
The Minister’s face turned a strange shade of purple. He looked like a man whose blood pressure was in the high triple digits and climbing.
‘Now, if you’ll excuse me,’ I said, ‘I need to shower and frock up. I’ve got a birthday party to go to.’
It was just a short walk down the hill to the Hyatt. I still had plenty of time to check in and freshen up, and I was confident my luggage would be in the room and the rental car in the carpark. The Com Car driver would know better than to screw with Pergo, that was for sure. I wondered why I didn’t have that kind of smarts.
Working for Gwenda Felton was going to be interesting. I couldn’t wait to tell Julie but I decided to save it for when I got back to Sydney, since I really wanted to see the look on her face.
But it was the look on Hall-Smith’s face that occupied me most as I headed up the drive to the Hyatt. The Minister was running scared and that had me worried. When the people who are masters at putting the frighteners on the rest of us get edgy, maybe it’s time we all got nervous.
TWELVE
It took a very long, very hot shower to get the Minister’s ire out of my pores, but by 7.45 I was all glammed up and ready to party. I splashed on some Geoffrey Beene Grey Flannel aftershave, grabbed the rental car keys from the concierge, and stepped out the front door of the Hyatt into a media scrum.
The journos and photographers were focused on the steady stream of luxury cars dropping off a series of handsome, elegantly dressed, bejewelled couples. From the plates on the limos I deduced there was a diplomatic reception happening, and I hoped the Hyatt bouncers would manage to chuck out the last of the drunks and the strippers before I got back from my night on the tiles. I knew how much the Corp Diplomatique liked to party; some nights they were still hitting the mineral water as late as 10.15.
A limo glided to a stop right in front of me and a muscular bloke in the passenger seat jumped out to open the door for the Japanese ambassador and his missus. The lady was beautiful, petite and delicate, swathed in silk and pearls, and as she smiled for the press pack a couple of camera flashes went off.
‘Murderers!’
It was a woman’s voice, almost right in my ear, and it scared the crap out of me. Immediately afterwards, a great stream of red liquid arced upwards and then down towards the ambassadorial couple. A bodyguard stepped in front of the ambassador’s wife and copped the liquid full in the chest as a barrage of camera flashes lit up the driveway.
‘Whale murderers!’ the voice shouted again.
So that was the story. It was whales, not fox or sable, that the protest was about. And I could smell it now, not blood, paint – red plastic paint. But there was no mistaking the symbolism.
The Japanese couple were whisked into the hotel while security and the press pack closed in on the paint thrower – a woman in her fifties with long white hair and dressed like a rich hippie. She looked familiar. The journos were shouting over each other, and all the questions started with ‘Miss Gaarg, Miss Gaarg…’
So it was the famous Artemesia Gaarg, reclusive multi-billionairess, philanthropist, and champion of the world’s whales. There was quite a little press and security scrum developing around me, so after quickly checking for paint splashes on my dinner suit, I headed to the car. Right now the last thing I needed was another bunfight.
The rental Toyota was in a front parking bay, and as I unlocked the door I looked back at the mêlée outside the hotel. Flashes were still going off and I could just make out Artemesia Gaarg as she shouted anti-whaling slogans at the TV cameras.
It was quite a well-staged media event, as these things go. The photographers had been ready and waiting for the paint hurling, and even though Artemesia had missed the ambassador’s wife, the incident would be on the front page of every newspaper in the country tomorrow morning, and probably on the international wires as well, proving that what they said in the ads was true – you do get great coverage from a four-litre can of Dulux Wash & Wear semi-gloss.
As I pulled out of the driveway I glanced in the rear-vision mirror, and in amongst the jostling journos and cameras and microphones I caught a quick glimpse of an attractive brunette standing just behind Artemesia – and blow me down if it wasn’t the lovely Cristobel Priday.
The sign outside the winery read RESTAURANT CLOSED FOR PRIVATE PARTY. The carpark was chock-a-block so I parked on the gravel on the edge of the road, and as I rolled to a stop there was a slight pop from the front of the car. When I climbed out to have a look the driver’s side front tyre was hissing softly as it slowly deflated. Bugger. I was all shiny and clean and the last thing I felt like doing was changing a tyre in the dark.
I decided to sort it out later and headed up the pathway to the winery. It was a typically crisp Canberra evening and my exhaled breath condensed to white mist in the cold, woodsmoke-scented air. A beautiful vintage Indian motorcycle was parked right outside the restaurant’s main door. It was a ’47 Chief with the full-skirted mudguards front and rear. Painted all white, the bike was pristine, right down to the leather seat and the thin leather streamers hanging off the handlebars. Damned thing looked brand new, which I knew it wasn’t since they’d stopped making Indians in the early 1950s.
It was warm inside the restaurant. The place had low ceilings and dark wood panelling and looked like a 1930s Bavarian hunting lodge. The smell from the crackling log fires and the aroma of smoked meats added to the effect. All that was missing was a couple of boars’ heads on the wall, some yokels in lederhosen, and Hermann Goering warming his fat arse at the fireplace.
The joint was packed and there was a lot of laughter and the sound of clinking glasses. Candles in brass holders on the tables threw off a warm glow. A quick scan of the room revealed that all the guests were women.
‘Jesus,’ I said. ‘Lezzos by lamplight.’
A tall woman standing at the bar turned around and looked at me. ‘You sucking round for a knuckle sandwich, shit-for-brains?’ she said.
I sized her up. She was wearing tight white leather trousers and a white leather motorcycle jacket over a white silk shirt. The leather looked butter-soft and screamed Italian tailoring. She stood around six feet tall but her motorcycle boots, also white, added another inch or two. A blazing mane of curly red hair, a slender but curvy figure, and a face like an angel completed the picture.
‘Oh yeah,’ I said, ‘and who’s going to give it to me? You and whose sister?’
The woman suddenly reached across and grabbed me. When Gudrun Arkell, five times Walkley Award-winner and doyenne of the Canberra Press Gallery, kisses you, you know you’ve been kissed. There were a lot of women in the national capital who could attest to that.
‘Happy Birthday, Goods,’ I said, disentangling myself from her embrace. ‘And so I don’t put my foot in it tonight, we’re still sticking with that just-turned-thirty story, right?’
Gudrun grinned and used her thumb to wipe a smear of red lipstick from the corner of my mouth. ‘Did you see the bike?’ she said.
‘Couldn’t miss it, babe. It’s bloody beautiful.’
‘Did you know he was restoring it for me?’
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But I know how to keep a secret.’
Gudrun’s dad Morris had spent more than a year working on the bike for her fortieth birthday. Some of the WorldPix guys had brought parts back for him from their overseas assignments. I’d even lugged a gearbox from Holland on one of my trips. Since the Indian Motorcycle Company had been out of business for more than fifty years, original parts were as rare as hen’s teeth.
I’d met Morris Arkell about fifteen years ago when he’d just retired from a career in aircraft maintenance and opened the winery. I was sipping an abrasive young pinot at the cellar door when three dickheads on a winery crawl had started getting stroppy. Just as I was about to go over and give the old pensioner a hand, he deftly dropped the trio on their arses with some moves I hadn’t seen since my days in spy-school self-defence classes. There were multiple bruises, one broken nose and a dislocated wrist. And Morris may have dropped his glasses as I recall. I stuffed the kids back in their car and gave them directions to the closest hospital while Morris opened a rather nice shiraz.
‘Where is the old bastard?’ I asked.
‘In the kitchen,’ Gudrun said. ‘Annoying Mum as usual.’
Morris and Marta had equally fiery personalities. They’d met in post-war Berlin, where Morris was stationed with a British commando unit and Marta was cooking in the military base kitchen. Even after sixty-odd years of married bliss, there were still days when Gudrun reckoned it was like the war in Europe was still going full tilt. The smoked meats and German dishes that had made the winery’s restaurant famous were from Marta’s traditional family recipes, but Morris couldn’t resist giving her advice. Marta’s opinions on English cookery were well known and not at all complimentary. The restaurant’s kitchen was a famous octogenarian battleground, but the food was always fantastic.
I looked around for Gudrun’s better half. Amy was a Kiwi winemaker who’d taken a job at the winery and fallen head over heels for Gudrun. They made a good couple. I spotted her at a table in a group that included a female senator well known for her outspoken opinions on the sanctity of marriage and family. Amy waved when she saw me, and the family-friendly senator, who had her arm around the shoulder of a brunette in a red bustier, turned white.
Amy came over and gave me a discreet kiss, then slipped her arm around Gudrun’s waist. She was still a bit wary of me, since Gudrun kept telling everyone how we’d once shared a bed for three hot sweaty nights while on assignment. We’d actually been huddled together under the bed, in a hotel room in Baghdad with no air-conditioning and shock-and-awe cruise missiles whizzing past the windows. On the positive side, sharing a room with a stunner like Gudrun had been great for my reputation as a stud. I gave up telling people she was gay when I got sick of watching battle-hardened male war correspondents burst into tears.
‘So what brings you to Canberra, Alby?’ Amy asked.
‘Couldn’t miss the old girl’s thirtieth again, could I?’ I said, winking at Gudrun. ‘And I was thinking of stripping back some furniture, so I wanted to pick up a couple of gallons of your latest shiraz.’
‘Get rooted, Alby,’ Amy said.
‘Not round here
tonight, I won’t.’
‘Hey, you two, be nice,’ Gudrun said.
Amy was sensitive about her wine but she knew I already had my name on a dozen cases of her shiraz. That particular drop had gold medals in its future, no doubt about it.
‘So, what do you think of my outfit, Alby?’ Gudrun said. ‘Amy had it made specially, to go with the bike.’
‘It’s fantastic, babe,’ I said. ‘You look good enough to eat.’ It was a comment that resulted in a rather awkward silence.
‘I’ll leave you two to catch up,’ Amy said.
As she headed back to the table, I yelled after her, ‘Tell the senator I’m off duty. Her secret’s safe with me.’
The senator gave me a weak smile and then I added, ‘Until I want something.’
‘I get the feeling you might want something from me,’ Gudrun said. ‘Nice and all as it is to see you.’
I nodded. ‘Fancy a moonlit walk through the grapevines with your old Uncle Alby?’
‘I’ve had some seriously creepy offers in my life, Alby, but that one really takes the cake.’
‘Bloody bike dyke,’ I said.
‘Career public servant,’ Gudrun retorted.
She always was better than me when it came to name-calling.
A full moon was lighting up rows of recently pruned vines that cascaded down the gentle slopes of the vineyard.
‘Any idea what’s happening in Defence?’ I said. ‘The Minister seems a bit twitchy.’
‘This wouldn’t have something to do with that little kerfuffle on the harbour yesterday, would it?’
‘Maybe,’ I said.
‘Can’t help you much, Alby. Something has definitely scared the horses, but I can’t even get a whisper. All my usual sources in the department have clammed up. That prick Pergo has everyone terrified, and not just in the Russell Hill complex.’
With the government’s policy of falling like a ton of bricks on public servants who openly disagreed with it, or whistleblowers who felt a duty to leak stories that the great unwashed might have a vested interest in knowing about, a lot of journalists had given up on sources lately and were just regurgitating what was in the press handouts. Gudrun was old-school, though, and she understood that in politics the lack of a story was probably a story in itself.
Sensitive New Age Spy Page 8
