Deceit

by Richard Evans

  EPISODE ONE OF THE DEMOCRACY TRILOGY

  DECEIT

  RICHARD EVANS

  First published in 2018 by Impact Press,

  an imprint of Ventura Press

  PO Box 780, Edgecliff NSW 2027 Australia

  www.impactpress.com.au

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Copyright © Richard Evans 2018

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters and incidents are the products of the writer’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any other information storage retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

  Author: Evans, Richard

  Title: Deceit / by Richard Evans

  ISBN: 978-1-925384-53-6 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-925384-54-3 (ebook)

  Australian fiction.

  Cover Design: Working Type, www.workingtype.com.au

  Internal design: Working Type

  For Julia

  Your ideas and good humour have made it fun.

  PROLOGUE

  EIGHT MONTHS EARLIER …

  The two ageing politicians sprawled in the leader’s soft leather chairs; old friends, comfortable with each other after a slow, four-course dinner in the adjoining dining room. They were enjoying the pungency of expensive cigars, smoke spiralling toward the high ceiling. Both had a tumbler of Irish whiskey, preferring the smooth, refined taste to the harshness of the scotch usually imbibed by the philistines they ruled over.

  ‘I can’t do it.’ The prime minister stretched his long legs across the heavy coffee table, easing away a pile of books and magazines, his head dropping back onto the green leather. ‘It’s a generous offer, but I can’t.’

  ‘You have nothing to fear, my friend, there will be no trouble for you.’ The president blew smoke toward the ceiling. ‘It’s timing; there’s nothing criminal in this.’

  ‘I suspect pocketing a secret commission might be judged criminal.’

  ‘Consider it a gift from me. No-one will ever know.’

  ‘I can’t be certain of that – and you can’t either.’ Prime Minister Gerrard sipped his whiskey and flushed it over his tongue.

  ‘Andrew, you worry far too much. These things happen all the time in my country.’

  ‘To be expected then?’

  ‘Exactly.’ The president sharpened his tone. ‘All I need to make this happen for you is your bank account – Swiss, of course – and your assurance the money will be released by your government to us before March next year.’

  ‘It’s way too risky.’

  ‘You should have little fear; trust me. Legislate the money, and perhaps tie it to a condition we start construction immediately. Transfer the funds, we start site works, and then you let me do the rest. You will have no involvement, I can assure you.’ Surriento took a small swig of whiskey. ‘You get your detention centres, and we provide jobs to many thousands of my people. It’s a win-win for our countries – and us.’

  ‘I suppose I could appropriate the money and release it to you before March, but I’ll need strong evidence of your government’s approval for the build well before then.’

  ‘It can be done.’

  ‘I would much prefer to see site works begin before we release any money.’

  ‘It is possible.’

  Gerrard drew deeply on his cigar, pondering the deal. The president flicked a lump of ash onto the plush woollen carpet.

  ‘What, you can’t reach the ashtray?’

  ‘No problem, rub it in, it’s good for the carpet, just as this arrangement is good for you and me.’ The toothy salesman’s grin prompted a sly smirk from the prime minister.

  ‘You dirty bastard.’ Gerrard slowly shook his head, considering the offer. ‘I can’t just let you have four billion dollars with nothing to show for it.’

  ‘Then don’t give me the entire amount; we can do it in stages.’ The president began reeling in his catch. ‘If you are so worried about how this works, then let’s do it in four stages. Four hundred million down before March next year, then one billion for each of the next two years, with a final payment of one point six billion on completion. Just think, in four years you could retire on a high.’

  ‘I reckon if I can convince my colleagues to approve the money in the forward estimates next month, that will leave me enough time to get legislation through both houses of parliament later in the year for the first tranche of ten per cent to be paid, possibly enacted by February next year. Is that enough time to begin work on the first centre?’

  ‘Of course, my friend, more than enough time. Once you legislate, we can start ground works, and once we have the money, you will have your money. Simple as that. We can clear it to you within days of each payment.’

  The president knew he was close to a deal: ‘You know you deserve it; you have worked hard and sacrificed much. This money will help with your retirement.’ The president sat forward, sliding his tumbler toward the prime minister for a refill, knowing silence in these moments was a powerful tool for a negotiator.

  The prime minister splashed a handsome dram into his friend’s tumbler. ‘When do you need to know?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘The parliament is too finely balanced, and a few of my junior colleagues hate your lot. It may be tricky getting the Appropriation Bill through. We’re okay for numbers in the senate, but the house of reps may be a struggle given your insistence on murdering some of our finest citizens.’

  ‘Drug traffickers deserve to die.’

  ‘You know that, I know that, but the great unwashed don’t like their own facing a firing squad in the jungle.’

  The president picked up his glass, rolled it between his hands and pondered for a moment. ‘So, you’re telling me, if I do a deal on your two citizens, you will approve the money?’

  ‘No, I’m not saying that at all, but it might be helpful.’

  ‘You get state-of-the-art detention centres in my country and you want me to breach my own laws?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Amir, you know this project will be good for your economy, and it will shut the fucking humanitarians up. We both need this project.’

  ‘Yes, but if we don’t get initial funding by next March, we won’t be able to do it.’ The president had his own deadlines and financial needs.

  ‘You mean if you don’t get your money, you won’t do it.’

  ‘I have my own troubles, my own projects that need to be funded.’ The president took a larger draw of his whiskey, swallowing hard, stifling a small reflux before the liquid and vapours disappeared. Suddenly he felt hot and prickly, wiping his brow with his palm as the whiskey coursed through him. ‘I won’t deny it will help me, as it will you. I just can’t release drug traffickers for no reason.’

  ‘Let me give you a reason. I will approve the four-billion-dollar project on the day you grant them clemency. Not a pardon, but clemency from the death penalty. Let the fuckers rot in jail as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘I can’t; I would lose the next election if I were to do that.’

  ‘Okay, so we agree to disagree.’ The prime minister could sense a deal was at hand.

  ‘I can’t, Andrew!’

  ‘So this idea of money was just talk – you had no intention of really doing a deal.’

  The politicians sat quietly, not knowing who had the upper hand in the negotiations. The prime minister, almost asleep with his eyes closed and breathing heavily; the president smirking ever so slightly in recognition of his friend’s efforts to force a winning play.

  ‘H
ere’s an idea,’ the president said finally, drawing his friend from his sham slumber. ‘What say I allow an appeal on the first payment, this then runs for two years, and if I am re-elected, I recommend clemency when the final payment is made.’

  ‘No, my friend. Just the agreed clemency is no longer on the table. The deal now is – you also agree to release them from that hell hole you call a jail when you receive the final payment, then I will consider your plan to embezzle appropriated funds from the Australian government.’

  ‘Clemency and then a pardon?’ the president scoffed. ‘So if I agree to this new outrageous demand, you will get me my money?’

  ‘Our money,’ the prime minister said, swinging his legs off the table and leaning forward, his tumbler held out in anticipation of a toast.

  The president leaned forward and clinked the proffered glass. ‘Best you get yourself a bank account, Mr Prime Minister.’

  ‘To a long and prosperous partnership.’

  The president brought his glass to his lips, but did not drink. With a barely perceptible smile, he recalled his actions of the morning: he had already decided to grant clemency to the two Australians stopped at Jakarta international airport twelve years earlier with ten kilos of heroin strapped to their bodies. Now he could reverse his decision, leaking it to the media to demonstrate he was tough on crime, adding further political gravitas to his re-election campaign in two years’ time. He loved his Australian friend like a brother. Their wives were friends from university, and he didn’t like taking advantage of him, but this was business – and in his culture, business was never personal.

  The prime minister lay back and drew heavily on his cigar, mouthing smoke rings as he slowly exhaled, reflecting on his new-found wealth. It would be a richly deserved legacy for his years of service and sacrifice. ‘I’ve been in this damn business for nearly forty years, and I still don’t have much to show for it.’

  ‘In my country, it is expected our leaders will be looked after. This is the problem with you Australians – you should embrace the political culture of Asia.’ The president smiled, his fat cigar stuck in the side of his mouth. ‘It is only a small amount to start with, but it will grow and be ready for when you retire. When will you retire, by the way?’

  ‘I am thinking I might do one more term, maybe two. Margaret still has it in her head to relocate to France.’

  ‘Perhaps there will be room for us as well. Can you imagine both of us retired in the south of France?’

  ‘That’s where the shysters go, I suppose. It’s an attractive thought, I must say.’

  ‘Get this deal done on time before March next year, and you will be halfway there, my friend.’

  CHAPTER ONE

  MONDAY 4.25 PM

  It wasn’t unusual for an October storm to hit the coastal city of Newcastle, but the hammering rain belting the corrugated roof of the makeshift airport office troubled Fred Rocher. He needed to be back in Canberra for meetings, and his pilot seemed nervous about flying in the conditions – the smaller the plane the more nervous the aviator, he supposed.

  His parliamentary colleagues had been bunkered down in the small, cosy shed – optimistically called a waiting room by Hunter Air Services – for a little under an hour, with no sign of urgency from the inattentive staff, who were working in a much more salubrious shed next door.

  Rocher was obliged to get his colleagues back to the national capital the following day to vote on important legislation. The prime minister had insisted on pushing through legislation-approved seed funding for a state-of-the-art offshore immigration detention centre to be built on the Indonesian island of Ambon, the first of similar centres planned throughout the Indonesian archipelago. He wanted it to pass both houses of parliament before the Christmas break because a four-hundred-million-dollar payment to the Indonesians was required as soon as possible to kickstart the project. The government held only a two-seat majority in the House of Representatives, so every vote was important, and Rocher knew he and his colleagues were needed to ensure the bill passed successfully so it could be sent to the senate for ratification.

  After a hectic day, the group had stretched themselves out across various rickety chairs and benches. A vending machine provided the only amenity, and a poster of sunny beaches partially stuck to a wall provided the only decoration. Each member of the powerful Environment Committee was working diligently, tapping away on social media, reading a book, or flicking through business papers. They’d been up early, travelling from Canberra at 5.30 am, the sky still brilliant with stars and the lush landscape below shrouded in darkness. The ninety-minute flight took them over the Blue Mountains and on to coastal Newcastle to take evidence for a pivotal inquiry into the establishment of a proposed gas facility, the infrastructure of which would affect the region. If the committee approved the project, after hearing evidence from various stakeholders, then it meant jobs for a region struggling with an economic downturn.

  Peter Wilson, the committee’s long-term secretary and delegation manager, had arranged a bus to transport the parliamentary group throughout their highly structured day of meetings and formal hearings. The first meeting had been with the mayor to garner intelligence on the local politics of the controversial issue, and then a working breakfast with the mayor and the elected members of the city council had provided more insight into the mood of the community and their views about the proposed facility. After meetings with city engineers to discuss planning issues and the complex infrastructure requirements, the committee was transported to the university to hear from a professor explaining the principles of coal seam gas extraction and rebutting the myths about it, with only one politician falling asleep during the forty-minute PowerPoint presentation. The committee then returned to the city’s council offices to formally take submissions from residents concerned about their community’s safety and water quality if the proposed facility went ahead, the high-ceilinged room echoing with the amplified voices of concerned and emotional citizens. After a lunch of soggy sandwiches and forgettable, watery fruit juice, the committee took supplementary evidence until three o’clock from mining and engineering experts extolling the economic and social advantages of gas extraction for the region, before leaving for their planned 3.45 pm flight.

  Clouds had started to roll in across the coast during the early afternoon, darkening as they thickened over the nearby mountains, providing an eerily low canopy of cloud cover from the mountains to the coast, lightning flashing high in the blanket of cloud and illuminating through the darkness. What started as a soaking spring shower so typical for the region increased in such intensity during the last hour to build into a wild storm, with no sign of it easing. Gusting wind rattled the building, and the occasional flashes of lightning breaking through the low cloud and accompanying cracks of thunder suggested the storm was travelling slowly, hemmed in by the mountains. The unseen airline staff were yet to venture out of their office.

  ‘Peter, try to see what’s happening will you please.’ Rocher was exasperated by the delay. ‘We need to get going if we want to be back tonight.’

  ‘I’ll try and get hold of the pilot.’

  As Peter stood, the door smashed open, rocking the walls. Pelting rain was driven into the room. A soaking, bedraggled pilot rushed through the doorway, and struggled to close the door against the wind. Peeling off his inadequate raincoat he made his way to the counter, then turned and faced his passengers, raising his voice above the din of the rain smashing on the tin roof.

  ‘We’re not likely to take off until the storm passes, I’m afraid. It seems to have set in over the mountains, and we would need to get above it to have any chance of getting to Canberra. I’m not sure my kite can do that.’

  ‘Not acceptable, I’m afraid.’ Rocher stood and approached the pilot. ‘We need to be back tonight.’

  ‘Hey wait up, Fred.’ Mark English put aside his iPad and walked over, keen to join the discussion. ‘If the pilot says it’s too dangerous, then I
’m with him.’

  English was a government member, and understood the necessity of getting back to Canberra that evening, but his reputation for risk aversion was well established.

  ‘He didn’t say it was too dangerous. He said we need to get above the storm to get over the mountains.’ Rocher was keen to get going. ‘What’s the weather like on the other side of the mountains?’

  ‘Perfect.’ The pilot conceded.

  ‘Well, there you are then, taking off in a storm is much easier compared to landing in one, so let’s go.’

  ‘What do the others think?’ English persisted.

  ‘Not sure they have a vote on this, Mark, but if you insist.’ Rocher moved to the centre of the room to address his colleagues, most of whom had paid little attention to the pilot. ‘Okay folks, listen up. As most of you probably know, we need to be back in Canberra tonight. Well, we government members do at least. We want to leave now, although it’s still raining, but we have a small problem. The storm doesn’t seem to be abating, so no doubt we will need to take off over the coast, go out to sea and do a slow climb to get above it, first the cloud bank and then the mountains. It will absolutely be a rough ride, but no worse than some of you have already experienced, I’m sure, and then it’s smooth flying until Canberra.’

  A crack of thunder rattled the unsecured cupboards, and everyone jumped.

  ‘Christ!’ yelped English.

  ‘What are our options?’ opposition member Nick Trainer asked, a little louder than he would have liked.

  ‘We can get going now and be back around six. We can wait until the storm eases and fly with an unknown ETA into Canberra, or we can stay overnight and fly back on a commercial jet tomorrow morning, but I’m not sure the PM would approve because we will miss a vote,’ volunteered Rocher.

  ‘It isn’t the worst storm I’ve flown in,’ said the pilot, dragging on a cigarette and blowing out a solid stream of smoke. ‘But, I’m always nervous taking passengers up in weather like this. I can tell you, it’ll be worse than any roller-coaster, and I suspect some of you will find it frightening … and some of you will be sick.’