The Marmalade Files Read online

  It was close to 10 a.m. and already the wretched tropical heat was festering like a wet blanket of sweat. Just as Turner had said, there were a half-dozen villas, too luxurious for their own good, nestled close to the beach, with sweeping views across to distant shores.

  Third from the left, as you look from the ocean, Turner had said. Dunkley set out along the top fringe of the glistening sands, politely declining the attention of several hawkers. It was only a five-minute stroll to Turner’s white-walled two-storey villa with a roof of heavy clay tile, but in this climate it felt longer.

  Okay, Dunkley thought. Time for rock’n’roll. He was closing in on this yarn, he knew, but it was still proving elusive. Doug Turner was the key; whether he was still willing to play ball would be settled soon enough. Dunkley felt the tingle down his spine he always experienced when a story – a big story – was within reach.

  A paved walkway veered through heady jasmine vines, past a small over-chlorinated swimming pool with recliners scattered around its edge. An outdoor table suggested a late breakfast – several dishes with the oily remains of food, a plunger of coffee and a bowl of tropical fruit cluttered its surface.

  And standing in the doorway, dressed in a silk robe, with thinning hair and a whitish goatee, was Doug Turner. He gave Dunkley an impish grin.

  ‘Welcome to paradise, Harry Dunkley. Nice of you to drop in.’

  August 11, 2011

  It was dubbed ‘Gareth’s Gazebo’, a sneering doff of the hat to Gareth Evans, the former Foreign Minister who reputedly packed two suitcases for his first trip to Canberra: one for his clothes, another for his ego.

  Just a stone’s throw from Parliament House, the headquarters of the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade is officially known as the R.G. Casey Building. Its vast confines are home to more than a thousand of Canberra’s most cunning bureaucrats – and some of Australia’s best-kept secrets.

  On the fourth-floor executive wing, where the Department’s Secretary and his deputies have vast, palatial suites, is the Minister’s office. Except very few Ministers have ever stepped inside it. Evans spent the occasional hour there between his tantrums on the hill, and Alexander Downer once poked his Tory nose inside. But otherwise it sits empty.

  Nearby, in a small airtight room, lie hundreds of carefully bound and numbered files. The existence of this vast treasure of secret intelligence is known to only a handful of senior DFAT officers, along with the Foreign Minister of the day and his chief of staff.

  These are the Marmalade Files.

  Charles Dancer was one of the select few who knew about, and had access to, the files. After all, some of his best work had made its way into the archives. Now, with the bulk of DFAT’s employees winding down after another crazy day of diplomacy and paper-shuffling, Dancer fondled the keypad that would allow him to enter the file room’s secret confines. It was just after 6.30 p.m. and he had promised to update Ben Gordon later that night, over a quiet drink at the Realm. He did not want to disappoint.

  He’d been in the room just a few weeks earlier, performing a specific research task delegated from the Secretary himself. That had been official business; this time he was working without the protection of the Secretary’s authority. It was a calculated risk, one he considered worth taking.

  A row of gleaming cabinets greeted him once he’d been approved by the special security screen, and within a minute he’d removed the file he wanted and placed it on a table to skim its contents. He planned to copy what was needed and then get the hell out.

  ‘Lord, Mr Paxton, you have been a busy boy …’ He flicked through the rich history of a man who’d been tailed, spied on, tapped and surveilled – the very thought always sent a small chill down Dancer’s spine.

  His eyes fixed on a particularly juicy few pages, including several photographs that gave graphic meaning to the phrase ‘compromised’. Nine pages in total, to be copied and then placed back into the file. Everything neat and in perfect order. After all, that was the goal of foreign diplomacy, wasn’t it? To maintain the mirage of stability, to avoid the appearance of confrontation, even when things were turning to shit.

  Charles Dancer, with his decades of hands-on experience, wasn’t about to meddle with the DFAT golden rule. Not now, especially.

  August 11, 2011

  The bank of television screens in the Prime Minister’s press office was blasting out a nonstop barrage of Bailey Mania – in the long winter break it was the only political story filling the void. Brendan Ryan and George Papadakis, two of the most powerful men in the country, stood impotent, shaking their heads in awe at the power of a political zombie who was tearing the heart out of their government. And at the ability of the media to keep talking about the same story for weeks.

  Transfixed, they watched as a small demonstration outside John James Hospital was beamed on each of the four TV screens. A beautiful young girl in a wheelchair, wearing a GetSet! pullover, was demanding that Catriona Bailey be allowed to continue in her job.

  ‘My name’s Lydia Ainsworth and I know what it’s like to have people discriminate against you because you are differently abled,’ she said. ‘I think the Toohey Government now has a great opportunity to show leadership. Catriona Bailey has clearly proven she is still capable and she can communicate. She should be allowed to stay on as Foreign Minister.’

  ‘Won’t that pose a few fairly significant practical difficulties?’ asked an ABC journalist. ‘I mean, she can’t leave hospital. Which means she can’t attend Parliament or Cabinet and can’t travel.’

  ‘That’s old-think,’ snapped Ainsworth. ‘That’s can’t do. Technology is the great leveller. Cate can communicate. The world can come to her. She can be a symbol for all the differently abled: we can all aspire to the dignity of work, if we are only allowed to. And if Toohey won’t let that happen then it is a second betrayal. A greater betrayal than when he backstabbed her so he could become Prime Minister. He would be betraying all of us as well.’

  ‘Sweet Mother of Jesus take me now,’ muttered Ryan. He turned to Papadakis but he was interrupted by an explosion of expletives from the next office.

  ‘Fucking flaming bull’s tits and rat’s cocks!’ The Prime Minister stormed though the door, incoherent with rage. ‘Did you see that shit! If I sack her now it’ll be like clubbing a one-flippered harp seal cub to death.’

  ‘Or boiling a three-legged baby panda in tar,’ Ryan offered.

  ‘You’re not helping!’ roared Toohey. ‘You two are supposed to be the geniuses – what do I do?’

  Both Ryan and Papadakis were, for once, lost for words. The void was filled by the voice of GetSet!’s Jamie Santow, who had stepped up to the ABC microphone, exuding his all-too-familiar moral superiority.

  ‘I think there is little left to say after those stirring words from Lydia,’ he said, then continued for another twenty minutes.

  ‘The gauntlet has been cast. Will Martin Toohey take up the challenge?’

  ‘I fucking hate that opportunistic little prick.’ Toohey was seething.

  ‘Maybe we’re looking at it the wrong way,’ Papadakis said.

  ‘There’s another way of looking at this other than it being one of the largest shit sandwiches in Australian political history?’ Toohey said.

  ‘I’m with the PM,’ Ryan shrugged. ‘Except it isn’t just a shit sandwich, it’s a whole bain-marie full of turds.’

  ‘We’ve been preparing for a by-election we probably can’t win,’ Papadakis said. ‘If we lose it, we lose government. But if, out of the vast generosity of our spirit, we keep Bailey, then the weight is back on the Coalition. They have to offer her a pair and we keep our majority in Parliament. Imagine the outcry if they took advantage of Bailey’s stroke to try and take control of the numbers in the House.’

  ‘What if they say the country is ungovernable and they’re doing it in the national interest?’ Ryan said.

  ‘Scott is a small-l liberal. She wouldn’t do it. It would make her
look like a monster and she’s already got an image problem. It would kill her with her socially aware support base.’

  ‘But what does it buy us?’ Toohey seemed to have calmed down. ‘We’ve already been compromised at every turn. This minority government is killing us. Everyone wins but us. All we get is three years of taking it up the arse followed by an eternity in Opposition. Why should we try and hold on?’

  ‘It buys us time. We survive,’ Papadakis said. ‘Something will change.’

  ‘It better,’ said Ryan.

  August 12, 2011

  It held the same appeal as eating one’s greens, attending Mass or getting the cane on a winter morning. Once a week, Martin Toohey was obliged to sit down with Randal Wade, all thanks to the accord he’d signed to keep his government afloat.

  But it had quickly become the mark on his weekly calendar that he dreaded – the ordeal of having to endure lengthy sermons from a pretentious twat with a Messiah complex.

  The PM believed that Wade and other moralising hypocrites had arrived in an era tailor-made for their brand of fast-food activism. Elizabeth Scott had been right; the demise of Christianity in the twentieth century meant the West was adrift. With no agreed set of values, it now ricocheted from one daft idea to the next, driven by the winds of emotion. Today, the only measure of what was good was what felt good.

  The profound irony was that the Greens despised Christianity yet their brand of politics mimicked religion: their followers were the New Puritans, on a relentless quest to rid the West of its many vices. And, stripped to its core, their creed, like the Puritans’ of old, was deeply misanthropic. In the end the Greens believed people were a pestilence on the face of the earth.

  And, despite all their posturing as champions of the oppressed, the Greens represented the richest and whitest people in Australia. They hated everything about the working class: their jobs, cars, houses, choice of food, sports; their drinking, smoking and gambling. So the Greens determined to legislate these vices away, or make them really expensive.

  Without the burden of having to run a country Wade could take the moral high ground in every argument. And he paraded his virtue on the platforms of the public broadcaster, particularly ABC local radio.

  The PM was in the middle of writing himself a memo to ‘call Mark Scott and threaten to cut ABC funding … again’ when George Papadakis knocked.

  ‘Mr Wade is here,’ Papadakis said, with that cheese-eating grin he wore when he knew he’d spend the next thirty minutes watching his old friend being tortured.

  ‘Martin!’ Wade flounced across the room with his hand extended. ‘I’m sure you look forward to our chats as much as I do. They are always so fruitful.’

  ‘Sure,’ Toohey said. ‘Sit. What’s on your mind?’

  ‘Well, I don’t need to tell you how upset the community is about the decision to restart live cattle exports, Martin. I have never seen so many emails.’

  ‘I agree a lot of people are upset,’ Toohey said, emotionless. ‘But emails are no measure of how the community feels.’

  ‘I don’t believe what we saw in those Indonesian slaughterhouses was at all complex. It was clearly animal cruelty, and you obviously agreed because you shut the industry down. And I supported that.’

  ‘We overreacted,’ Toohey shot back. ‘Our advice was to move slowly, to shut some abattoirs, not the lot. But, driven by you, and our own Left, we made a mistake … again.’

  ‘And saved many animals from being treated cruelly, Martin. Your first call was right. Those cattle have feelings and desires. What really is the difference between them and us?’

  ‘The fact that I can understand how stupid the statement you just made is, and a cow can’t.’

  Papadakis shifted in his seat, just enough for Toohey to recognise that his friend was sending him a ‘calm down’ message.

  Wade was taken aback by a tone he had never heard from Toohey before and he dialled up his own passion. ‘Some of us believe you restarted something as evil as the slave trade,’ he said.

  Toohey wrestled with his temper. ‘Only someone who believes human and animal life are equivalent could say that. And to be consistent you would then have to demand an end to all slaughter of animals for food everywhere. So you want me to ban the eating of all meat, Randal?’

  ‘Of course not. Don’t be absurd.’

  ‘I’m not being absurd. But, mark my words, once we close the door on live exports then the militant vegetarians behind that campaign will turn their attention to the domestic meat market. How’s the new vegan regime going by the way?’

  ‘Never felt better, you should try it. In time, I believe many more people will discover the benefits of not eating meat. And, no matter what your excuses, I am reintroducing my bill to ban live exports and I expect you to support it.’

  ‘I won’t be doing that. We’ve had this discussion; the matter is settled.’ Toohey glanced at Papadakis. His expression did not change but his chief of staff got the message. Papadakis had often said that the Greens were never satisfied with compromise and always returned to the well for more.

  ‘Well, perhaps you should reconsider,’ Wade said. ‘I know you have a big agenda when Parliament resumes. I know you need to deliver some big reforms to show you can govern. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to see any of that jeopardised.’

  ‘Are you threatening me, Randal?’

  ‘Of course not. I’m just saying that this is a core issue for us and we want it fixed.’

  ‘It wasn’t even on your radar until the ABC covered it.’

  ‘We are not kidding about this, Martin. This is deadly serious.’

  Toohey locked Wade in his gaze and willed him dead. He thought of several bitter responses but, out of the corner of his eye, he could see Papadakis silently urging him to keep his cool. He took a deep breath.

  ‘Too bad. We’ve already done this. You put up your bill and got to parade your concern. We opposed it and you had the pleasure of attacking us as heartless animal torturers. Go ahead. Put your bill up again, but, mate, I am telling you now, we will never support it.’

  ‘Then I will have to reconsider some of the other conversations we have had. My base is very angry about this. And I’m personally disappointed, Martin; I thought you’d see reason.’

  There was a long pause as Wade left the room and closed the door. Papadakis broke the silence. ‘Not exactly the way I’d hoped to end the week,’ he said.

  Toohey was in no mood for banter. He drummed his fingers on his notepad for a small eternity as he struggled to regain his composure.

  It was time to fight back.

  ‘George,’ Toohey sighed, ‘I have tried, God knows, to hold this circus together. But that’s it. I’m done being the only one eating shit.’ He picked up his mobile, scrolled through some names and dialled a man who made his skin crawl.

  ‘Sam, it’s Martin. I need your help.’

  August 12, 2011

  This was the moment of truth, a slug-’em-out showdown between two Liberal heavyweights, the female equivalent of Ali versus Foreman. And just like the rumble in the jungle, only one of them would triumph.

  Emily Brooks and Elizabeth Scott sat a metre apart in a corner of the Opposition leader’s office, a plunger of coffee and a tray of biscuits untouched between them. They were hardly friends at the best of times, but this afternoon, in an empty Parliament, the hatred was electric.

  ‘I think you will agree it’s time for a change of tactics, Liz.’ Brooks found it difficult to maintain a façade of respect when she spoke with her leader. She despised Scott’s soft-Left world view and saw it as a cancer on the party. (The only thing she hated more than Scott was the Welcome to Country. That politically correct nod to indigenous history that Catriona Bailey had foisted on Parliament.)

  ‘How so?’ Scott, typically, disagreed with Brooks. ‘We went within one seat of winning an election against a first-term government. That’s the first time that has happened in eighty years. Now the go
vernment is in disarray and we are well-placed.’

  ‘True, but that was all their doing, not yours, Liz. Labor committed the greatest act of self-harm since Federation in killing a Prime Minister six weeks before the poll. And they still won. They formed government. Don’t forget that. And don’t forget that, since then, you have managed what I thought was impossible. Your approval rating is worse than that joke of a PM’s. We should be untouchable, but we aren’t.’

  The blood rose in Scott’s face. She had a quick temper and Brooks could see she had to fight to keep her emotions in check.

  ‘I think we both know how Jon Robbie came by his story, Emily. Scoops are usually delivered in manila folders; you clearly prefer a box.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. And isn’t your highly offensive accusation missing the point? You made a play against the Prime Minister that fell apart in three days. The leak wasn’t the problem, wherever it came from.’

  ‘Get to the point.’

  ‘You’re the problem – you. Your foolish attempt to try and blast out Toohey shattered your credibility. It called your political judgement into question, again. It reinforced all the hesitations that the electorate has about you. I don’t know if you can recover.’

  ‘Are you threatening me? Is this a challenge?’

  ‘No, it’s a warning. This is your last chance. I could get the numbers tomorrow to spill your position; it’s not as if our colleagues are that attached to you.’

  Scott eyed Brooks carefully. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want you to refuse a pair for Catriona Bailey when Parliament returns.’

  ‘You want me to deny a pair to a woman on life support?’