Deceit

by Richard Evans

  ‘And what was your recommendation?’

  ‘I recommended to him to retain the status quo.’

  ‘Good man, Gordon. I knew I could depend on you to do the right thing.’

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister.’

  ‘Is everything else in order?’

  ‘As far as the funerals and memorial services go?’

  ‘No. That’s not my priority at the moment. Are we sitting next week? I want to be sure we do.’

  ‘Why is this so important to you, Prime Minister?’ Gordon was a little surprised by the request.

  ‘I have government business to complete and the Immigration Appropriation Bill needs to move through the parliament before the recess. We were going to bring it into the house tonight for a vote tomorrow.’

  ‘This surely can wait until next year, Prime Minister. The money is not due until March, so there is plenty of time.’

  ‘Listen here, Gordon, my government has made promises to the Indonesians and we need to release funds this year,’ Gerrard’s voice was louder. ‘Do not stop this bill from being passed next week, do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister.’

  ‘Good work. Goodbye Gordon.’

  On the second floor of the senate wing, in the Hancock Media offices within the parliamentary press gallery, Anita Devlin worked at her desk, tapping at her computer surrounded by notes and papers. Her filing system was uniquely hers, and she abused anyone who touched anything or disturbed its order. She had her most controversial stories clipped and pinned to the walls like trophy wallpaper. Various coloured sticky notes were stuck to the sides of her computer screen with phone numbers and information that could not be filed.

  ‘Hi,’ Messenger stood at her cubicle waggling two wine glasses, tapping an opened bottle on the frame.

  ‘What can I do for you, Barton? I’m just a little busy at the moment.’ Anita didn’t spend long looking at him and turned back to her computer keyboard. ‘Who let you in?’

  ‘I wanted to apologise for storming off, and I thought you might like to share a drink with me.’

  ‘I’ve got to finish this last piece, I’m on a deadline.’

  ‘I can wait.’ He assumed he was welcome and took a chair beside her desk. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’ve had to do four obituaries.’

  ‘Bummer.’ There was no room for glasses and bottle on her desk, so he put them carefully on the floor.

  ‘It’s been a little distressing. What do you think will happen?’

  ‘Well, there is a cornucopia of opportunities.’

  Anita stopped typing and looked at Messenger with a wry smile. ‘Cornucopia? Not just opportunities, but a cornucopia of opportunities?’

  ‘Yes. Do you forgive me?’

  ‘I need to talk to you anyway. Pour me a drink and I’ll send this off.’

  ‘Yes ma’am.’

  A flick of a few keys and she was done. ‘So, what do you think will happen?’

  Messenger poured as he spoke. ‘Well, I actually know what will happen. I’ve already spoken with the leader. Basically, nothing. We have by-elections proposed for next February and we will continue as normal next week. We have the rest of this week off, a memorial service on Friday, and come back for legislation next week.’

  ‘You couldn’t expect him to do anything else. I’ve read the PM’s release, and it seems the most appropriate course of action.’

  ‘Cheers.’ They both said together as they clinked glasses.

  ‘My only problem with all that is that we have the numbers now, so why not use them?’ Messenger took a generous mouthful.

  ‘The government will get them back in March after the by-elections, surely.’

  ‘Not if we prorogue the parliament and call a general election.’ ‘

  That’s an interesting suggestion, an early election …’ Anita sipped and studied the politician at her desk. ‘Surely Harper would not allow that. He has already agreed not to take any action that will disturb the current parliament.’

  They sat quietly for a moment. Messenger swigged his wine, wrestling with something he wanted to say. ‘If we change the leader, then it could be game on.’

  ‘Can I quote you?’ Anita picked up her pen and flicked to a new page of her notebook.

  ‘Ease up, Anita, I’m only joking,’ Messenger said. ‘Not everything I say should be taken literally, politically speaking of course.’

  ‘Of course. You are a politician, after all.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MONDAY 10.55 PM

  The prime minister’s car rolled into Yarralumla, his official Canberra residence, gravel crunching as it moved slowly to the portico. Gerrard smiled, pleased with what he saw; there had been an extremely negative public reaction to his decision to upgrade the governor-general’s residence and move in himself. He used the need to host international dignitaries as the reason for the redevelopment, but many insiders reported it was the loss of the republican vote at the referendum that motivated a vengeful prime minister.

  ‘The president has the White House. The British prime minister has Chequers,’ Gerrard explained during an interview. ‘We need a similar stately building for our nation’s leader, not a rundown shoebox like the Lodge.’

  Gerrard wanted the Australian people to know exactly who was running the country, even though they had voted for the retention of the antiquated constitutional monarchy. ‘If the governor-general wanted improved living quarters, let the King pay for renovations. She is, after all, his representative.’

  The prime minister directed the governor-general to vacate the heritage-listed house and heavily renovated the property, ignoring the public and political outcry. He wanted a grander residence, so he moved the governor to a much smaller residence in an obscure Canberra suburb.

  A small administration wing was added to house the estate’s management, providing accommodation for the prime minister’s staff. He also insisted his wife Margaret had her own staffed office within the wing. Essential house staff lived in separate quarters over the expansive garage. One or two staff had children who were sometimes seen, but never heard, within the main compound.

  It was a chilly night. Spring in Canberra was colourful and attracted many thousands of tourists to the renowned Floriade. The weather was normally pleasant at this time of year, but this October day had been unusually chilly and Gerrard shivered as he left the car. His butler had anticipated his arrival, having received advice from the security gatehouse as the prime minister’s car swung into the residence. He opened the large, heavy white door and took the prime minister’s briefcase as he entered.

  ‘Thanks, Edmond. Is Mrs Gerrard still up?’

  ‘No sir, she retired around thirty minutes ago. Would you like anything?’

  ‘I’ll have a shower and take some brandy to bed. Pour two. I’m sure madam would like one.’

  Gerrard walked through the darkened marble hall to the stairs and padded up the thick woollen carpet to his suite. He had insisted on a separate retreat with a private dressing room and bathroom, so as not to disturb his wife. It was a secure private retreat with a comfortable lounge fitted with all modern communication devices and cable television, and served as a soundproof anteroom to the bedroom. This was the area of the house in which he felt most secure. No-one but Edmond ever entered, not even Margaret, his wife.

  Gerrard entered the dressing room and kicked off his shoes. He hung up his Zegna jacket and draped his trousers carefully over a chair, tossed his shirt and socks into a cane basket and entered his bathroom, turning on the shower with the pre-set temperature. He walked into the vast marble cubical and stood under the broad stream of water. He insisted on a waterfall stream shower as opposed to the little shower heads so common in hotels; small units were good for small people, but not for him. As he soaked under the warm stream he removed his underpants, soaped them with his imported French body wash, and washed away any evidence – he had learned over the years to be careful.

>   Ninety minutes earlier, Speaker Bagshaw had not arrived at his office at the agreed time and Gerrard phoned her office insisting she attend an immediate meeting to discuss the tragedy. Bagshaw obeyed and arrived at nine forty-five with Gerrard already two glasses into a bottle of French champagne.

  ‘You can’t be serious, Andrew,’ Zara said, as he passed her a sparkling flute and resumed his seat with Bagshaw sitting on the other side of the desk. ‘This is not a time to celebrate.’

  ‘It has been a trying time for all of us over the last few hours, especially for you and me. I thought we should talk about what to do next, and at the same time have a relaxing drink.’ Gerrard raised his glass. ‘Cheers, in memory of our sadly departed comrades.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Bagshaw took a mouthful. ‘I have decided not to reopen parliament until next Monday. We should then have a few days of condolences.’

  ‘Bullshit, we will,’ Gerrard almost spat the words as he sat up, slapping the desk with his open hand. ‘We open for business as soon as we can. I want a few things through before Christmas, and we only have a week to do them.’

  ‘I can’t promise we will not have demands for marks of respect and a need to express that in the parliament.’

  ‘Let them do that crap in the Federation Chamber for the entire week for all I care. We will have the Reps open again on Monday.’

  ‘O’Brien is keen for protocols to be followed. It’s his last week, and he wants to ensure the parliament does not carry on business while the voting numbers are skewed against you.’

  ‘He can get stuffed. We work through. Harper has already agreed not to bring on a division.’

  ‘Prime Minister, are you really sure? This could cause some major challenges for us. Nothing could be that important.’ Bagshaw drained her glass. ‘The opposition has the numbers so you can’t afford any divisions – there is no guarantee the opposition would support us. If they don’t support us, they can call a no-confidence motion and we are gone.’

  ‘We must push the Immigration Appropriation Bill through next week. My meeting with Surriento this morning confirmed the government would release the first tranche of funds to Indonesia this year, which would allow work to begin on building the first detention centre. I promised him we would vote on it tomorrow and money would follow immediately after; they are expecting it. Now we have closed the place for a few days, it is absolutely vital that it goes through the parliament next week. We don’t need any crap from O’Brien, or Harper for that matter, and we need to sit next week.’

  ‘Why do you need this to go through? Surely it can wait.’

  ‘Never you mind why, just ensure we get it through without any controversy. I certainly don’t want any votes taken to a division when we don’t have the numbers.’

  ‘What we need is a formal agreement from him not to take a division to count votes.’

  ‘Harper wouldn’t do it, he would be stupid to sign a formal agreement, no-one would.’ Gerrard retained little respect for the opposition. ‘Just make sure we maintain control of the chamber when we are back next week. If there are any problems from Harper, just squash him with parliamentary procedure.’ Gerrard drained his glass. ‘I am relying on you, Zara. This is an opportunity for you to shine and make sure the government gets its first Indonesian detention centre.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’ Bagshaw waggled her empty glass at Gerrard, encouraging a refill. ‘I always do.’

  ‘I remember,’ smiled Gerrard, as he got up from his desk and walked to the expansive leather lounge, beckoning Bagshaw to follow. She refilled her glass from the bottle in the ice bucket and sank into the soft leather lounge close enough to Gerrard to give him permission.

  An hour later, Gerrard was examining his neck and chest for any signs of passion. Satisfied there was no evidence, and smiling at the memory, his long gaze took in his ageing body. He was happy he was still in shape, although when he stood sideways he slapped his protruding stomach, acknowledging he was getting an oldies’ belly. Thin legs, zero arse and a burgeoning belly was the image he’d been fighting against since his days as a talented basketball player. Still, he was pleased with his tanned body – and pleased he was still capable of romancing a woman as he had in his youth.

  He wrapped his underpants in a towel and tossed them in the basket, slipped on an overly large silk robe and walked into his suite. As he did, a gentle tap on the door signalled the arrival of his brandy. Edmond’s timing was impeccable, as always. He took the tray and moved to the bedroom.

  Margaret was propped up among a galaxy of different-shaped pillows, grey hair pinned back off her face and reading glasses positioned on the end of her nose. Age had brought her a mature beauty, and she dressed in a sophisticated style, even to bed. Her long, green satin slip hugged her trim form, the result of constant exercise and care.

  She looked up from her book, pleased to see her husband. ‘Everything under control, darling?’

  ‘Yes, my sweet. I have a brandy for you. I’m glad you’re awake; I need to talk to you.’ Gerrard respected his wife’s opinion and sought it whenever he had unresolved issues that worried him.

  He had been seduced by her when he first heard her laugh, and promised he would always keep her happy and laughing. When they first met he kept her out into the early morning talking about the future and his strategy for the country. She was smitten by his plans and his larger-than-life charismatic nature, and knew before she invited him home for dinner with her parents that she would marry him. Three months later he proposed, and they married twelve months after their first meeting. They had been a formidable political team for the forty-five years since.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘A little upset actually, I insisted Freddy come back to Canberra tonight. I spoke to him when he was in the plane on the tarmac just prior to take-off. I feel responsible … he was a great mate.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Margaret took her drink as Andrew sat at her feet.

  ‘I needed them for a vote tomorrow, and now we’ve lost them, and the vote.’

  ‘I only spoke to Sonja this morning about his retirement at the next election. She was saying they were pleased to be getting out, and encouraged us to think about it.’

  ‘It all has to end sometime, I suppose.’ Gerrard didn’t want to think about his trusted friend and adviser who had entered parliament at the same election he had. ‘He only had eighteen months to go.’ He took a gulp of brandy to collect himself.

  ‘It got me thinking though, darling. Why don’t we take this opportunity to get out now? To step aside so we can go to Paris.’ Margaret had been suggesting for many months that it was time to think about retiring. ‘This is a great opportunity to do it, you have nothing more left to do and your announcement before Christmas would mean a by-election at the same time as the others.’

  ‘Go easy on the brandy, darling. We’ll win the by-elections and then the general election.’ Gerrard stretched and dragged a large pillow to prop his head as he lay back across the bed. ‘My plan is to do one more term.’

  ‘No, Drew, listen, please darling. If we make a move now, we don’t have to face another two years of speculation. What happens if Harper tries to take over? He has the numbers now.’

  ‘He won’t do it, the weak bastard. He’s already committed to not moving against the government.’

  ‘And you believe him?’

  ‘Harper is a weak prick. He’ll do what he’s told. He won’t want the aggravation.’

  ‘I’m just saying, this is the perfect opportunity. We leave on top and with honour.’

  ‘And go to Paris?’ Gerrard mocked.

  ‘You know we’ve been planning it.’

  ‘You’ve been planning it, darling. We don’t have the money to live in Paris. We live the high life here, but Paris would be very different.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘That could have been you today, darling. You ha
ve done enough. You have rewarded your friends and they have a comfortable life. It’s now time for us.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘Increase the commission from the Indonesians.’

  ‘You must be kidding.’ Gerrard sat up and drained his glass. ‘I’m already very nervous about the deal I’ve done with Amir. This first one was to be a trial.’

  ‘Surriento suggested the deal, so why not ask for more?’

  Gerrard didn’t speak as he considered the proposition. Surriento was a friend, and had counselled him many times on how to personally benefit from the transfer of international funds between governments. Gerrard had not been tempted previously – until this one time over a few too many whiskeys. Still, the secret commission wasn’t enough to fund a retirement in Paris.

  Finally, Gerrard smiled. ‘You have been busy, haven’t you?’ He loved her assertive nature; she always got what she wanted, or rather she got it most of the time, depending on how he felt. He also knew she was a realist. She understood his flaws and knew of his weaknesses and temptations. He smoked too much, he drank too much, and he shared himself with others too much. But he would always come home to her, and that was why she loved him – and why he loved her.

  ‘I’m just saying, he opened the door for you. Why not take full advantage and ask for more? Everyone else does, so why not us?’

  ‘You could be right. Let me sleep on it.’ Gerrard stood and walked to his side of the bed, slipping off his robe and dropping it to the floor.

  ‘What do you think you’re going to do with that?’ Margaret purred, tossed her glasses to the side table, and opened her arms as he slipped into bed beside her.

  Early morning in Canberra is nearly always cold, but Yarralumla’s kitchen was warm from the ovens preparing various treats to be consumed throughout the day, including the usual cooked breakfast for the prime minister. Gerrard sat at the stone kitchen bench, his breakfast always formally presented on a stiff cotton napkin with highly polished silver. A three-egg omelette, Earl Grey tea and a small bowl of fruit, cut to spoon-sized pieces. Toast, with a curled tab of butter in a ceramic dish, and a separate one of jam; different every day. Today was his favourite: apricot.