Deceit

by Richard Evans

  ‘Thank you, Mr O’Brien, you have been very generous with your time, I appreciate it.’ Anita stood to leave, and Gordon, ever the gentleman, also stood to wish her farewell and courteously shook her hand. ‘I wish you well in your retirement.’

  ‘Thank you so much, Miss Devlin.’ Gordon resumed his seat, flicked open his newspaper and tried to concentrate on the articles of national importance. The idea of a prime ministerial resignation kept popping into his head; it required further consideration. Considering the time Gerrard had allocated, it just might indicate he was about to announce his retirement. If he did it before the valedictories, then the session would be all about him. That would be typical of the man, always chasing the spotlight.

  Gordon dismissed the idea – Gerrard would never retire so soon after the plane tragedy. Although, what if Gerrard lost the by-elections? Could he ever accept not being prime minister? Perhaps not, but would he retire before he knew the results of the by-elections and be branded a quitter?

  He finished his tea, neatly folded the newspaper, picked up his case and moved off toward the ministerial wing. He wanted to pass the waterfall one last time. The Greens Party, when they had six senators many years previously, periodically linked hands and encircled the pool to chant, whatever it was those strange idealists chanted.

  On this occasion Gordon barely stopped before moving through the glassed tunnel leading to the chamber of the house. The original design of the building had allowed for the speaker to have an uninterrupted view of the senate, and for the president of the senate to overlook the house through the glass doors. Tradition dictated that the two presiding officers should see each other so each knew if the other chamber was sitting. Modern ways and modern design meant that sometimes tradition disappeared into history, tossed aside by those wanting to make their own mark. Throughout his career Gordon had tried to remind elected politicians that their service was for a short time only in comparison to the history of the parliament – they were custodians of its traditions. That was why he was so continually frustrated with Gerrard, a prime minister who had nothing but contempt for the traditions of the parliament.

  The chamber’s door was locked so he took the route through the members’ lounge. It must have seemed like a good idea at the time when architects planned for greater social interaction around the chamber, compared to the cramped quarters of the former parliament house, but unfortunately politicians were rarely seen outside their offices.

  Gordon was now approaching the government whip’s office, the place where party discipline was distributed and legislative business managed for the government. He popped in to have a quick chat with the whip’s clerk Rosie Cameron.

  ‘Are you giving leave or pairing with the opposition for any of your members who may be missing for the last two days, Rosie?’

  ‘No, not allowed to Mr O’Brien, although plenty have asked over the last few days.’

  Gordon thought this unusual, given a number of former colleagues’ funerals had been originally arranged for Thursday and Friday. ‘Thank you, enjoy your day.’

  As Gordon took the fire escape stairs to his office rather than the lift in the next lobby, he began playfully scheming. Perhaps Gerrard was about to retire after all.

  ‘Good morning, Mr O’Brien.’ Paige Alexander was her usual chirpy early-morning self. ‘A Mr Forde from prime minister and cabinet would like you to call him urgently, the number is on your desk.’

  ‘Thank you, Paige, and good morning to you. When is Marjorie expected?’

  ‘She’s already here. She’s over at the travel office regarding a query on travel requests from the PM’s office.’

  The clerk had the authority to approve all travel during sitting weeks because politicians were the responsibility of the house while working in Canberra, not the department of administrative affairs, which looked after them when they were back in their electorates. He didn’t want the responsibility, but it was foisted onto his department many years ago when a travel scandal embroiled a number of ministers and members who were found to be dishonestly rorting the system. Gerrard bumped the responsibility back to the clerk, and let him take the media heat instead of the politicians.

  Gordon dropped his case on the leather lounge and took his position behind his desk, turning on his ornate brass desk lamp as he sat. He didn’t know this Forde chap, so picked up the phone to call him, punching the numbers from the note before him.

  ‘Gordon O’Brien here, how can I help?’

  ‘Mr O’Brien, I have had a request from foreign affairs to confirm details of the parliamentary program for the remainder of the week.’

  ‘Why would you have such a request?’

  ‘I am not at liberty to say, sir. Suffice to say, it is a procedural matter concerning a member establishing an overseas finance investment account. Before the account can be opened, we are required to add the details to the member’s disclosure statements before adjournment this week. So, when might that be?’

  ‘We expect the house to adjourn before 4.00 pm on Thursday. Does that help you?’

  ‘Yes it does, thank you.’

  Gordon was a little unsure of what to make of the call as the government bureaucracy was forever trying to justify itself. Why would the department want to know a parliamentary program for a member’s disclosure statement?

  Gordon was more interested in his new theory on what might be going on in the government than any wayward politician trying to open an international bank account before the end of the parliamentary term. He pushed the hands-free call button and punched in the numbers to connect him with his colleague, the black rod of the senate Nigel Nelson, much younger than Gordon and, he sometimes hoped, more than just a colleague.

  ‘Gobby, how are you? Nice to hear from you.’ Nelson was loud and rambunctious, but Gordon was never offended by his nickname. ‘How’s your last week progressing?’

  ‘Not bad, Nigel. Listen, I was talking to a journalist this morning who suggested to me the prime minister might resign tomorrow. Have you heard any gossip?’

  ‘You are kidding me, right? I haven’t heard a damn thing. No-one ever tells me anything. What weight do you place on it?’

  ‘Did you hear the PM speak on the condolences the other day? He was almost brought to tears when he talked of Fred Rocher. He seemed to suggest life meant much more than hanging around this place.’

  ‘Is that all you’ve got?’ scoffed Nelson.

  ‘I have it on good authority the government has cancelled all leave, and the PM insists on all ministers being present in the chamber tomorrow prior to valedictories and question time.’

  ‘Your idea is starting to sound a little more interesting.’

  ‘And the strangest thing just happened. Someone rang me from PM and C, asking me about this week’s program, apparently to have a member’s disclosure statement adjusted. It seems a member wants to open an international bank account and to do so, they have to disclose it before it is approved.’

  ‘Gerrard’s wife has always been a Francophile – I read it in some women’s magazine.’ Nigel was always a great source of information about pop culture. ‘I think it was in September, I was at the dentist, and surprised they had an up-to-date magazine instead of those tatty things they normally leave in the waiting room.’

  ‘So the Gerrards could be retiring and going off to Europe on an extended stay,’ Gordon sighed. ‘Gosh, I hope so.’

  ‘I don’t think you have much hard evidence in among that lot, Gordon,’ Nelson chortled. ‘But I like the idea of them rushing off overseas if he does retire.’

  ‘So you’re not convinced?’

  ‘No, but I’m happy to start a rumour.’

  ‘Will the senate have my stimulus package legislation done and back to the house this afternoon?’

  ‘Afraid not, ol’ boy. The government has moved it into committee and we won’t get onto it until this evening. They’ve scheduled a late night.’

  ‘Why are they doi
ng that? It’s straightforward, surely they can see that.’

  ‘It’s to do with extra allowances for sitting late. It’s the old ploy to draw out more bonus pay for their staff, who no doubt will sit around until late.’

  ‘Unbelievable. Let me know if you get any further information about it, please.’ Gordon smiled, leaned forward and said quietly, ‘No need to mention the retirement thing to anyone.’

  ‘Right you are. Let’s have lunch on Friday, if you’re free of course.’

  ‘That would be nice, thanks Nigel.’

  Marjorie Earle walked in with files and papers to sign as Gordon pushed the disconnect button. ‘Sorry, Gordon, but Richard has referred these to you, given you are still the senior officer. He’d like you to sign them – he sees no trouble with the applications.’

  Marjorie had international travel requests with her. There were some thirty requests for the clerk to formally consider and approve, which Gordon’s assistant had already scrutinised.

  Gordon flicked open the first file: ‘Callaghan, off to Europe and Ireland, probably to see his family.’ He signed and then went to the next file and the next. ‘Kelly, going to Brazil for a greenhouse conference – now that’s a waste of time and money.’ He continued going through the files and signing where he was required. Smith, off to India for bilateral meetings. Butler, visiting Canada; Sierowkoski, meeting his wife in Japan; the Morans off to Africa; Gerrard to Zurich; Baldwin, off to China like Ronaldson; Cartwright to Norway for a parliamentary meeting of members to the International Parliamentary Union.

  Gordon suddenly stopped signing and flicked back to a request for Mrs Margaret Gerrard to fly to Zurich on Thursday. ‘Marjorie, did Richard check this trip?’

  ‘Which one? I think he checked the veracity of all of them.’

  ‘Mrs Gerrard is travelling on Thursday, on a private trip to Zurich.’ ‘She can’t do that?’ Marjorie queried, surprised by Gordon’s tone, as if the travel request were unusual. ‘Doesn’t the prime minister’s wife have a personal allowance to travel internationally?’ Marjorie was now looking over Gordon’s shoulder trying to see the previously unseen.

  ‘She does, but I still need to approve it and this seems unusual, given it has an open return.’

  ‘Richard phoned the prime minister’s office and apparently she’s undecided as to whether she should go to Paris before she returns.’

  ‘Good for her, Francophile indeed.’ Gordon closed the file and passed it on and signed off the remaining files. ‘Can you get me Anita Devlin, please. I’ll speak to her when I finish these.’

  ‘That’s the girl from Hancock Media?’

  ‘Yes, and I suspect she’d be most pleased to hear you calling her a girl.’ Gordon smiled.

  ‘You know what I mean. At our age every one is a girl, or a boy for that matter.’ Marjorie laughed.

  Gordon finished the last file, leaving Marjorie to scoop them up and set up his call from her office. It didn’t take long before Gordon was speaking with Anita.

  ‘Miss Devlin, I want to apologise for snapping at you this morning. I should have been more willing to discuss your rumour about the prime minister, but I wanted to reassure you, I do not expect the prime minister to announce his retirement tomorrow as you implied.’

  ‘Why do you say that? How can you be so certain?’

  ‘His wife is off to Europe tomorrow. I wouldn’t expect her to be doing that if her husband was pulling the pin as leader, so to speak.’

  ‘I suppose so. Where’s she off to?’

  ‘I didn’t tell you this, but she’s travelling to Zurich.’ Gordon didn’t have a chance to say goodbye before Anita hung up. ‘Now, perhaps you can piece something together and call yourself an investigative journalist,’ Gordon said to himself.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  WEDNESDAY 11.30 AM

  Barton Messenger was waiting patiently for his shadow cabinet colleagues to arrive for the daily strategy meeting to discuss question time. This was the theatre of the parliament and television news grabs were always taken from this hour-long session. All members of the parliament attended, and the prime minister would no doubt be keen to shove the political knife into the opposition – as he had done almost every day he was in the chamber since being elected prime minister.

  The media’s forensic review of every question time meant it was vital for the opposition to prepare a coordinated assault on the government. The strategy team met each day to consider prominent political issues, write questions, determine who would ask them, and discuss parliamentary tactics before the usually combative sessions in the parliament. Not for the faint-hearted, these sessions were nevertheless a political stage for the ambitious.

  By signing the no-vote agreement with Prime Minister Gerrard, James Harper had foregone any opportunity to use opposition numbers against the government. It meant the opposition could not move any censure motions or seek a vote of no confidence, tools they had used effectively during question time before.

  Harper had asked his colleagues for a moratorium on attack questions, preferring to respect the solemnity of the house as it struggled with the loss of their colleagues. Barton was a little more keen for a fight than his colleagues; he preferred to confront the government on issues that were important in the electorate, and would shed a positive light on the opposition in the media.

  Messenger had previously requested more questions on the illegal refugees, especially the boats from Indonesia, which seemed to be arriving in national waters more regularly, and summer was the season when people smugglers increased their activity. He remained unconvinced that the detention centre strategy with Indonesia would stop the smugglers, and believed it provided little impetus for the government to take control of the borders. He also wanted to attack the government on the failure of the education scholarship scheme in India, exposed by Anita Devlin as a scam; questions needed to be asked.

  The opposition had not asked a question on the economy all week. Consumer spending was tightening, which would justify the stimulus package, but was it enough? Would the cash splash stimulate the economy? He considered the opposition was wasting a perfect parliamentary opportunity to position themselves as the alternate government prior to the campaigns for the eight by-elections.

  Barton sat alone, waiting in the shadow cabinet room, an extension to the opposition party meeting room, tucked down at the end of a corridor in the house of representatives. The government’s party room was in the same corridor, but way down the other end of the building more than two hundred metres away. The government of course had its own meeting rooms for its cabinet, in the ministerial wing. It was a demonstration of the little importance the parliament placed on those not in government. A polished wooden table filled the sectioned-off space, with twenty wooden chairs arranged around its perimeter. The leader’s chair was always at the centre of the table on one side, so as not to be too far from the shadow ministers. The distant ends of the table were left for juniors.

  Barton was considering tactics and what approach to take with his colleagues in the meeting when his phone buzzed.

  CAN YOU TALK? I NEED TO TELL YOU SOMETHING.

  Are you coming to dinner after all?

  CALL ME ASAP. I HAVE SOMETHING FOR YOU … MAYBE

  Is that maybe for dinner, or maybe you have something for me?

  CALL ME WHEN YOU CAN.

  A number of Barton’s colleagues began to wander into the room and take their allocated positions, some with takeaway coffee cups, others pouring a glass of water, so he decided he had enough time to remove himself and call Anita.

  ‘Hello gorgeous, what’s up?’

  ‘You recall my spy caper from Monday, when I was given an envelope containing a cabinet minute?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘The message when I picked up the envelope was “Follow the money”.’

  ‘Have you found it? If you have, are you buying dinner?’

  ‘Smart-arse, there’s no money yet, but if
I was going to hide cash, where in the world would I go?’

  ‘Umm, Nigeria? Or maybe Switzerland?’

  ‘Guess where Mrs Gerrard is travelling to tomorrow?’

  ‘Lagos?’

  ‘She has a ticket to Zurich, scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Well that ends the prime minister’s retirement-speech theory.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She wouldn’t be going anywhere if he was about to resign.’

  Anita hesitated. ‘I think this is part of a plan. I still have a hunch Gerrard is about to announce his retirement and they are setting up their European adventure.’

  ‘That’s a long bow, Anita. She could be going there for a whole variety of reasons.’

  ‘True, but why now?’

  ‘I have no idea. Let’s talk about it over dinner.’

  ‘Raincheck, I’m working tonight. The senate is sitting late.’

  ‘Your loss. Catch you later.’ Barton slipped his phone back into his jacket and returned to the meeting room. As he resumed his seat he asked, ‘Does anyone know why the senate is sitting late tonight?’ A couple of shrugs and shakes of the head – it was going to be another riveting tactics meeting.

  Harper glided into the room and took his place, calling the meeting to order. The whip took notes and the discussion followed the recent benign form of previous days.

  Barton sat opposite the leader, which meant he was in the leadership group but on neither his right hand or left hand; those chairs were left for deputy leader Wilson Campbell and Peter Stanley, the shadow minister for health. Even in the party room, everyone sat in the same seat for every meeting, as if they were part of some psychological experiment.

  However, Barton was pleased just to be at the table. Almost thirty minutes into the meeting he asked again, ‘Why is the senate sitting late tonight? Is there anything we should know about?’