The Marmalade Files Read online

  It was devastating.

  Sam Buharia forensically examined the paper to ensure there was not a single fingerprint on it that could lead back to him.

  No. Job done. A perfect crime. And the cunt wouldn’t see the week out.

  August 15, 2011

  It was one of Canberra’s finest days, the crystal-cut clarity of the sky guaranteed to lift your spirits from the depths of winter. Unfortunately for Ben Gordon, he was locked in the confines of Defence’s most secure facility and felt only the artificial climate of recycled air and harsh neon lighting. Adding to Gordon’s grey mood, his ambitious boss had placed a series of files on his desk with firm instructions. ‘I need answers by COB.’

  Usually such an edict would be enough to stimulate his analytical brain into trying to solve whatever problem had been placed before him. But today he couldn’t keep his mind on the job. Instead he was captivated by the unfolding mystery surrounding the pasts of Bruce Paxton and Catriona Bailey, pasts that, he was sure, were about to explode into the present.

  And today there had been a significant development. Even Gordon’s colleagues were intrigued by a smallish article buried in the world pages of the New York Times, quoting senior Pentagon sources who, according to the Times, were miffed by reports that Australia was about to pull back on the flagship Joint Strike Fighter program. One quote, in particular, stood out. ‘A number of recent decisions by Minister Paxton raise the question of his commitment to ANZUS.’

  In diplomatic terms, it was a definite shot across the bow. It was rare for US sources to be directly critical of a close ally like Australia. Something big was going on. He didn’t know what it was, but Gordon was now sure that he and Dunkley were close to the epicentre.

  It reminded him of the blunt message the Americans had sent in the lead-up to the dismissal of Gough Whitlam in November 1975. The head of the CIA had told his Australian counterpart that the US wanted Whitlam gone. Gordon was no raving leftie, but he could still recall his outrage and anger when, as a novice in the intelligence arena, he had first been alerted to the CIA’s involvement in the Dismissal.

  Why wasn’t this on the history syllabus? Surely the Australian people were not so supine as to completely ignore this shameful episode?

  For a while, Gordon had become obsessed with the issue, particularly after reading of the show trial of Christopher Boyce, the American who was sentenced to forty years imprisonment after being convicted of spying in 1977.

  Boyce had learned that Pine Gap – the communications facility located in the Northern Territory that America had promoted as a joint facility with Australia – was in reality a CIA project. Incredibly, Boyce – whose misadventures were later turned into a film, The Falcon and the Snowman – claimed to have CIA cables outlining plans to dispose of the Whitlam Government for fear that it would close Pine Gap. The CIA was profoundly concerned by Whitlam’s socialism and his wooing of China.

  Eventually arrested for leaking information to Russia, Boyce was thrown into jail and never given the chance to explain why the US would betray one of its closest allies.

  Gordon had studied the case carefully and considered it the most egregious act of interference by a foreign government in Australia’s sovereign affairs. He could almost recite word for word Whitlam’s lament to Parliament after the Dismissal: ‘It is precisely because America is our principal ally that Australia must be satisfied that American agents are not acting in a manner contrary to our interests as a nation. Are we to let an ally get away with something that a rival would not be allowed to get away with? Alliances are not strengthened by covert operations or by condoning or covering up such covert operations.’

  They were masterful and prescient words and they came flooding back as Gordon contemplated what he’d uncovered in the past few weeks – and what he suspected still remained hidden in the vault of secrecy.

  Despite every keystroke at DSD being logged, Gordon was so enraged at the thought that the Americans were meddling in domestic politics – again – that his usual caution had cracked. He’d spent the last few hours trawling through the DSD’s super computers looking for clues, but had sought to cover his tracks by embedding his searches within existing DSD projects.

  When the end of the working day loomed, Gordon snapped back into official mode. He sent his boss a quick email promising he’d deliver the answers she wanted first thing in the morning.

  For now he had more pressing matters to deal with.

  Late that evening, logging on to his personal email account at home, Gordon hit the keyboard with a ferocity that surprised him, tapping out a few sentences to his friend.

  Charles, starting to look like shades of ’75 here. What do our friends in DC think they are up to? Do they REALLY believe they can get away with it? Again! This is not the action of a friendly nation.

  Kimberley

  He hit send, watching the email disappear into the ether, before closing down the computer for the night. It was late and he was planning an early start tomorrow.

  A few kilometres away, in a small brightly lit room, two men carefully monitored their PC screens. Just after 11 p.m., they logged a short email.

  Charles, starting to look like shades of ’75 …

  August 15, 2011

  Elizabeth Scott gazed at the ocean and breathed in a long draught of the chill salt air. The moon hung full and low, skimming light over the waves as they rolled towards Manly.

  The crazies will be out tonight, she mused, sending me mad messages. Immediately, she tried to erase the image from her mind. She needed to think clearly and not about one of the thousand pieces of ephemera that crowded political life. No one, except those who had done the job, could ever imagine it. The workload was crushing, relentless and largely thankless. Constituents, local branch members, businesses, donors, colleagues, the media – everyone wanted a piece of you. No, everyone demanded it. And believed your time was theirs by right.

  If they didn’t get what they wanted the threats were never far away: ‘Won’t vote for you’, ‘Will challenge your pre-selection’, ‘Will tell the media’ – or the new narcissism: ‘Will write about it on Twitter’.

  Scott was used to high-pressure jobs but found politics suffocating. You could never lash out in public, no matter how rudely you were treated, or how idiotic the complaint. The mask was always on, and it chafed. She feared that one day she would forget how to remove it.

  She could still be herself on this porch, looking out to sea, when the rest of the family was asleep. She had loved this house from the moment she saw the ocean. There were more expensive houses in her electorate of Warringah, with panoramic water views towards the city. But Scott was drawn to the top of Bower Street, nestled between the sea and North Head National Park.

  The ocean was her escape. In moments of despair she could feel her spirits rise as she was drawn into the uncluttered vastness of it.

  She took another sip of red wine and lit another cigarette: something else she kept from the world in this absurd, censorious age. She had smoked since her senior years at Abbotsleigh – it was her one vice and she wasn’t about to give it up, so she hid it. As she hid so many things.

  ‘Why am I doing this to myself?’ It was not the first time she’d asked the question but, right now, the answer was more remote than ever. She had given up her freedom to be locked in the spotlight of the most thankless job in public life: Opposition leader.

  From day one, everyone had questioned her motives.

  ‘Only wants to be PM,’ was the default assessment. She’d been branded selfish, power-mad, dictatorial, heartless, politically inept and uncaring by people who knew nothing about her. She barely bothered to read opinion pieces any more, so rote had the abuse become. And the cartoons. From the moment she stepped into politics she had been drawn wearing a tiara, with a silver spoon in her mouth, or dressed in a ballgown. That she had largely made her own wealth never seemed to matter. She came into public life as a spoiled rich girl cliché a
nd she feared she’d never shake the image.

  Yes, she was ambitious and that was never going to be sated in business. She was a nationalist and believed fiercely that Australia wasn’t a lucky country. It had made its own luck and that luck would run out without good leadership. She had ideas and knew she could make a difference, if she ever got the chance.

  But now that chance, like the night tide, was ebbing. Scott had made so many compromises that even she began to wonder if what people said about her was true: that there was nothing she wouldn’t do to get to the Lodge.

  And when she got there what would be left? A shell, echoing a cacophony of conflicting voices she had mimicked to talk her way to power.

  She recalled one of the lines from her favourite play, A Man for All Seasons, where, in a debate between William Roper and Thomas More, Roper says he would cut down every law in England to get at the Devil.

  ‘Oh?’ said More. ‘And when the last law was down, and the Devil turned ’round on you, where would you hide, Roper, the laws all being flat?’

  In her six years in politics she had only met one person who really understood the terrifying dilemma of trying to balance conviction with the pursuit of power. He recognised something of himself in her, understood her conflicts, and knew she was a good person. Different from him, but good. It mattered so much to her that someone knew.

  And the connection had been so strong it frightened her. But she couldn’t talk to him anymore. Politics was killing all the things that she loved. She wondered if it would kill her. That, one day, she would sit on the porch, looking out to sea, and not be able to remember who she was.

  2007

  They’d been engulfed in silent uncertainty as the taxi drove them back to the Embassy Motel all those years ago.

  It was a short fifteen minutes from the Elbow Room and they were both lost in the thoughts and emotions of the last hour.

  Elizabeth Scott glanced at Martin Toohey as the passing Adelaide Avenue streetlights tracked across his face. He was a decent man; flawed, as she was, but decent. She hoped he saw that in her.

  They climbed the stairs to their second-floor rooms, which the hotel’s staff, as usual, had ensured were next to each other.

  Scott didn’t want it to end – for the brief, flirtatious moments of understanding to evaporate into another lonely night in an empty hotel room.

  She dropped her keys. Toohey swept them up and turned to her. He stepped in and was closer than he needed to be. Much closer.

  He put the keys in her hand and closed it, wrapping his fingers around hers. He stared into her eyes and Scott again felt that expectant tingle that had evaded her for years.

  ‘Well … er … it’s … it’s been just great. You are great. I can’t tell you how important tonight was, how … how it felt to … well, just talk.’ Toohey seemed to be finding it hard to focus; he seemed almost nervous.

  ‘It was.’ She didn’t budge, didn’t make a move towards the door. Half of her screamed, ‘Ask me! Just ask me!’

  ‘Well …’ He shuffled on the spot. ‘Early morning and everything. I should get some sleep. So should you … Not that you need it, you look just … just great.’

  ‘You too. Goodnight.’ She kissed him on the neck, turned without looking back, opened the door to her room and walked in. Alone.

  She rested against the door and heard the click of his door closing. Surely, she thought, this is the moment when I feel good about myself, when I congratulate myself for being faithful.

  ‘So why do I feel so empty?’ she said out loud. She surveyed the dreary decor and sighed. ‘If this is what victory over sin feels like, God, then it’s little wonder you lose so many battles.’

  She threw her coat on the bed. There was a knock and she could have sworn her heart actually stopped beating.

  She opened the door on his goofy smile.

  ‘On indulgence, Madam Speaker, I’m sure there was something else I wanted to say … I just can’t remember what.’

  She threw her arms around him and they kissed. A glow started in her face and spread the length of her body.

  He gently pushed her into the room, closing the door. Tenderly, he brushed aside her hair and kissed the exposed skin. At the hint of his hot breath on her neck, all her nerve endings tightened.

  He undid the tie on her wraparound dress, lifted it off her shoulders and let it drop to the floor. The stubble on his cheek rubbed across her bare shoulders as his hands lightly brushed over her bra.

  She grabbed his tie and pulled him towards the bed. There it was her turn. She unbuttoned his shirt and dipped her head to softly bite his nipples. Then she pulled his pants down and they both kicked off their shoes.

  They weren’t teenagers, there was no hurry. Toohey kissed her breasts through her bra as he softly ran his fingers over her panties. He kissed her neck, shoulders and back, lingeringly, almost lovingly. He unclipped her bra and pushed down her panties.

  He tugged off his own briefs and, rolling her over, massaged her back. He slid his lips the length of her body, lightly brushing her buttocks, thighs and the backs of her knees.

  She turned over, pushed him onto his back and straddled him. ‘This is the way I like it,’ she whispered.

  ‘Me too.’ He arched up to kiss her nipples and reached around to feel the beautiful curve of her back.

  She drove down and those thousand nerve endings exploded. Her body tingled with goosebumps and she threw her head back and gasped.

  ‘Jesus,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Let’s leave him out of this.’

  The night was a blur of passion. Both knew it would be their first and last time together. And neither wanted to leave anything unexplored.

  August 17, 2011

  Like many reporters his age, Harry Dunkley feared the great era of newspapers was coming to a close. Crusading editors who were prepared to send their charges into the field had been replaced by bean counters, hired to prune budgets and slash expenses.

  There were only a handful of heroes left, and more sinners than saints. Christ, there were some days when Dunkley questioned whether there was any principle or honour left in his once noble profession, now controlled by the vapid minds of those who chased celebrity and preferred fluff and polemic over hard news.

  But today, a bright winter’s day in the national capital, Dunkley awoke with a sense that maybe, just maybe, he was about to make history. He sprang out of bed, ignoring the painful call of the cold on his body, leaping fearlessly into a shower before the water had a chance to warm. Some obscure Top 40 hit from the ’80s was ringing in his head, refusing to fade to grey.

  The trumpet blare of A.M. signalled it was 8 a.m. Bruce Paxton, a renowned workaholic who was rumoured to have spent the odd night on his office lounge, would have been at Parliament House for the past few hours, maybe longer, devouring briefs, talking strategy and fending off the latest barbs from his Department. The Defence Minister was in the full throes of his reform agenda, carving large chunks from the military’s bulging arsenal of overpriced kit. Dunkley privately shared Paxton’s zeal for taking on the Defence establishment, but this was not about sentiment.

  As the kettle whistle blew, Dunkley consulted his ‘Private’ government directory, found the Minister’s contacts page and punched the number into his BlackBerry.

  Surprisingly, the phone was answered after a few rings with a gruff ‘Paxton’.

  ‘Minister, it’s Harry Dunkley.’

  There was a long pause. Clearly Dunkley was not the person Paxton was hoping for. ‘Yes, mate.’

  Despite his vast experience, Dunkley was still nervous. He wiped a sweaty hand on a tea towel. ‘I need to speak with you, today, and … er … preferably alone.’

  ‘Well, mate, I’m busy today. Parliament’s in full swing, in case you didn’t realise. Give Adam a call.’

  Adam Tracey, Paxton’s press secretary, specialised in stonewall tactics and was legendary for answering even the most simple questions with,
‘Mate, by way of background, and strictly off the record, I have no comment.’

  No, Dunkley thought, Adam Tracey didn’t need to be part of this assignment. It was time to up the ante.

  ‘Bruce, I need to see you. Today. I know you’re flat chat but these matters can’t wait.’

  Paxton clearly sensed Dunkley’s urgency and granted him twenty minutes of valuable Ministerial time.

  It was nearly a quarter to four and there was still no sign of the Minister. Dunkley mentally paced the small waiting room. He’d pumped himself up, written and then rewritten his briefing notes and memorised the questions that needed to be fired at Paxton. ‘C’mon, Minister,’ he muttered, casting another glance at his watch.

  An approaching swirl told him something was up, a flurry of bodies gliding by in the outside corridor and, finally, Bruce Paxton, Minister for Defence, swept in with two of his fawning advisers. He tensed up when he saw Dunkley, as if he suspected the next half-hour or so would prove as painful as extracting a tooth without anaesthetic.

  ‘Mr Dunkley, give me a few minutes, would you?’ Paxton’s demeanour was pure business. It would need to be.

  Dunkley shuffled in his seat, scanning inside his leather work bag, making sure his A4 notes and small digital recorder were there, for the umpteenth time.