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  He placed it on the bed as he reached for his BlackBerry, noticing six missed calls – three from the same number. Probably 2UE, he reckoned, Jason Morrison wanting a chat about his scoop. He pushed the curtains back a few feet and unfurled the broadsheet to its full front-page splendour.

  DEFENCE MINISTER IN UNION

  SLUSH FUND SCANDAL

  The Toohey Government has been rocked by a fresh crisis after explosive revelations that Defence Minister Bruce Paxton used a union slush fund, financed by China, in his first election campaign.

  A special investigation by the Australian can reveal Mr Paxton spent at least $80,000 of union money to help him win his seat of Brand at the 1996 election. The funds were paid by a Chinese investment vehicle, Guangzhou Mining. But Mr Paxton appears to have broken electoral laws by failing to properly disclose the source of the money.

  Mr Paxton refused to comment on the allegations. But the Australian has learned the Minister – who has been responsible for a major shake-up in Defence – has been ordered to deliver a full explanation to Prime Minister Martin Toohey by this morning.

  The latest scandal will plunge the government deeper into crisis as it deals with yet another self-inflicted wound. And it comes as the Greens and crossbench independent MPs raise new concerns over the capacity of the Labor administration to deliver on its election promises …

  Christ, thought Dunkley, marvelling at his handiwork. He really had plunged the knife in. He finished reading the splash before turning to the page four and five spread, which featured a graphic detailing Paxton’s sordid dealings with the Chinese beside pictures of Doug Turner and Zheng Wang, tagged as ‘Key players in Paxton scandal’ by a not very creative sub-editor.

  Just then his phone rang. It was Evelyn Shand from the Canberra online desk, part of the early morning crew whose role was to deliver ‘value-add’ to the paper’s daily coverage of national affairs.

  ‘Woohoo, great fucking story, Harry, it’s going off. Twitter is in meltdown and three Opposition MPs have already called for Paxton to stand down … Hold on, this has just come through … from the Prime Minister’s press office – I bet they’re ecstatic with you – the Minister is going to hold a presser in the Blue Room, 9 a.m. What d’ya reckon? Will he walk the plank?’

  Dunkley was pretty sure he would but couldn’t be certain, given the precarious nature of the Toohey Government. One thing was clear, though: Dunkley wouldn’t be at the press conference to twist the blade a little deeper and to bask in the adulation and jealousy of his press gallery colleagues. He’d been at News Limited HQ until late, getting the lawyers to sign off on the final story. And then he’d spent the early hours celebrating. Now he needed to leg it back to the national capital for the critical day two follow-up – and to meet with Ben Gordon to discover what he’d found out that was so urgent.

  It took nearly seventy-five minutes to reach the outskirts of Sydney and the express lanes of the M5 for the trek back to Canberra. The BlackBerry had rung on a nonstop loop of congrats and radio requests. Christ, even Thommo had rung to see if Dunkley would appear on Morning Glory as part of a special Paxton package. He had politely declined.

  It was nearly 9 a.m. and he wanted to listen in as Bruce Paxton fronted the media in Parliament’s Blue Room, the cramped office thirty metres from the Prime Minister’s suite where important matters of state were first relayed to the public via the media.

  Dunkley had only one regret this morning – that he wouldn’t be there, in person, to eyeball Paxton as he tried to put whatever spin he could on what was now a full-blown catastrophe for the Toohey Government.

  August 19, 2011

  ‘Minister, Minister …’ It was Sally Brown, that yappy photographer from Fairfax, imploring him to look dead straight into her lens, her voice a screeching whine above the others. A hundred flashes from a thirsty pack of mongrels.

  Bruce Paxton knew they were ‘just doing their job’, but this morning, with his world collapsing around him, he felt like doing a Hawkie and telling them to fuck off. Caution got the better of him. After all, that outburst would be gold for the TV cameras and he wasn’t about to give up all of his dignity yet.

  This morning he had gathered his staff and personally delivered the painful message of his resignation. There had been stifled tears from the long-term faithful, and then the slow walk to the gallows with just his press secretary by his side. It was the most painful experience that a Minister of the Crown could face: the public shame, the sense of being fed to the lions. And that gnawing feeling that someone, somewhere along the line, had betrayed him. That really hurt.

  He strode with all the purpose he could muster into the Blue Room and took up his position behind the lectern. A wall of faces met him from a bare few metres away. The room was crammed, despite it being an ungodly hour for journalists. He’d given a press conference in this same room just a few short weeks ago but that time only a handful of reporters, all of them Defence correspondents, had bothered to turn up. Now a smell of blood was in the air.

  ‘Well, I’m glad to see my popularity is on the rise,’ he said, mustering something like a smile. A few reporters laughed, though his attempt to lighten the mood had clearly not gone down well with two of the PM’s overbearing media handlers who both shot him a death-stare from the back of the room. Fuck ’em all, he thought.

  Adam Tracey handed Paxton a sheet of handwritten notes, speaking points to work from as he announced why he was about to take one for the team.

  ‘Right folks, ready to roll? Good. This morning, I have tendered my resignation to the Prime Minister as the Minister for Defence.’

  An audible gasp went up around the room, although it should not have come as a surprise. A few reporters tried to break in with questions, but Paxton silenced them with a defiant black-gloved gesture.

  ‘I have done this not as an admission of guilt, but to protect the government, this good government, from these defamatory allegations, allegations that I plan to vigorously contest. The simple facts are these. Before I entered Parliament I was employed as a senior union official, charged with improving the lives of many working men and women who relied on a strong and resourceful union to protect them from the claws of greedy bosses. I did my job as best I could, and with passion, winning many a battle against employers who thought they were immune from the laws and statutes of this country; who thought industrial relations was a bad joke. We taught them otherwise, and of that I am immensely proud.

  ‘Now, in relation to the specific allegations made by the Australian, let me say this. Yes, I was involved in helping to facilitate Chinese investment into Australia, including Guangzhou Mining, which, I might add, has employed thousands of Australians and paid hundreds of millions in taxes since we … er, since it started operations here.

  ‘But – and I must emphasise this strongly – any suggestion that I profited personally is sheer bloody nonsense.’

  Paxton halted, taking a sip of water and scanning the room to gauge the mood. It remained hostile. He continued.

  ‘I considered it the wise thing to do to resign from the Ministry and take my place on the backbench while I fight these allegations. The Prime Minister reluctantly agreed. Finally, I would like to say that in the years I have held this portfolio, I have sought to strengthen the security of this country while also implementing some very necessary reforms to the structure of the Defence forces. These I am immensely proud of, and I hope my successor, whoever it should be, can continue this good work in the best interests of the nation and taxpayers. Thank you very much.’

  And with that sign-off, ex-Minister Paxton swept out of the room, leaving a dozen reporters flailing as they tried to get just one of their questions answered.

  Paxton might have gone from the Ministry, but there was still plenty to play out, plenty to pursue as the press gallery, like a rapacious school of piranhas, moved in to pick this carcass to the bone.

  August 19, 2011

  From the early hours of
the morning the Coalition’s shock troops had been carpet-bombing the airways, decrying the latest Toohey Government scandal and demanding an early election.

  The hard-Right’s warrior queen, Emily Brooks, had been on to the ABC’s News Radio from the moment Marius Benson arrived at work. An interview was put to air just after 6 a.m.

  ‘This government is a sick joke and a disgrace – it has to go. The Prime Minister must sack his Minister then drive to Government House and sack himself,’ she fulminated. ‘The people of Australia deserve better than this motley rabble, this poor excuse for a government. The Coalition is ready to take over, and the people are demanding it. The time for change is now.’

  It took a few moments for Benson to be able to break into the diatribe.

  ‘But surely the resignation of a Minister will be enough. What will you do if the government carries on?’

  ‘Shadow Cabinet has voted on this, Marius,’ Brooks thundered. ‘We will deny a pair to the Foreign Minister and block every piece of legislation. In the national interest we will shut this government down until it does the decent thing.’

  ‘With respect,’ Benson said, ‘your leader, Elizabeth Scott, has repeatedly refused to back that tactic. Has she had a change of heart?’

  ‘I’m quite certain she sees the sense of it now,’ Brooks said.

  Scott was scheduled to make an appearance on Wakey Wakey just after seven. She was equally strident in calling for an end to what she called ‘the incompetent and illegitimate Toohey Government’.

  ‘If the Prime Minister does not call an election will you deny a pair to the Foreign Minister?’ asked the all-too-pretty male presenter.

  Scott paused. Her staff had told her that Brooks had already been out trying to paint her into a corner. They were split on how she should respond. But Scott wasn’t.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘There has to be some grace in public life. I will not deny a pair to a woman on life support. It would be monstrous … I cannot lead a party that does not observe the basic rules of human decency.’

  The Opposition leader had drawn a line in the sand. She would not concede to the demands of Brooks and her hard-Right cronies. Scott had finally found the point beyond which she would not compromise. There were some things in politics that were beyond partisanship, that required the human spirit to soar above the bloodthirsty demands of the party machine.

  She had set the scene for a showdown with Brooks at the joint party room meeting on Tuesday. She had made her choice and now the party would have to make its decision: back her or sack her.

  August 19, 2011

  For nearly two hours, the radio had played a steady symphony of Bruce Paxton the Musical. The ABC had predictably gone wall to wall after the shock of the Paxton resignation, calling in its political hotshots to interview anyone they could get their hands on. The high-rating commercial stations, 2GB and 2UE, had devoted large chunks of their morning line-up to the scandal, too. That great court of public opinion – talkback radio – was in overdrive, with the punters evenly divided on whether Paxton should have walked the plank.

  Dunkley had raised the temperature on the scandal during several radio interviews by phone while on the road, telling Neil Mitchell on Melbourne’s 3AW that there was ‘potentially more to come’. He’d regretted the comment immediately.

  ‘What sort of stuff do you still have?’ Mitchell had asked, a reasonable question from the broadcaster, but in truth Dunkley didn’t know. He could only imagine and hope Ben Gordon had some dynamite in his kitbag. It had sounded like it on the phone yesterday. But Dunkley didn’t know because he’d barely spoken to Ben in weeks. Journalism was a selfish business, but he’d make it up to his friend, his collaborator on this grand tale.

  The shimmering haze of Lake George, flanked by a trail of giant wind turbines on its eastern edge, told Dunkley he was a half-hour from Canberra. The trip down the highway had flown, the adrenalin rush from the Paxton resignation acting like a turbo-charge for the small four-cylinder car he was driving. Several times, he had felt like winding down the windows and shouting into the wind ‘I AM FUCKING ALIVE’, but the temperature had roared out its warning, and he timidly withdrew.

  Now, as a sign said Canberra was just forty kilometres away, he reached for his BlackBerry and hit speed dial for Ben Gordon. It rang loud and clear six or seven times, before a strange voice barked out a gruff ‘Hello’.

  ‘Ah, who is this?’

  ‘Senior Constable Waters, Chris Waters. And who might you be?’

  Dunkley’s mind was racing. He checked to make sure he’d rung Ben’s number. Yes, he had. Okay, keep it together.

  ‘I’m a friend of Ben Gordon’s … is everything all right?’

  ‘You wanna tell me your name?’

  ‘Harry … er, Harry Dunkley. Is everything all right?’

  ‘Mr Dunkley, the Australian, right? I think it wise we meet, in person. You’re in Canberra?’

  ‘Not yet. I’m about twenty, twenty-five minutes away, depending on traffic.’

  ‘I’m in Woden, the main police station. You know where we are?’

  Dunkley kept his voice calm, despite his rising alarm.

  ‘Yep, opposite the shopping centre, the newish building. I’ll see you hopefully in half an hour.’

  Dunkley hung up and wondered what on earth Ben had got himself into.

  August 19, 2011

  Even while Bruce Paxton was singing his death hymn, journalists were receiving a short email from the Prime Minister’s media office.

  Media alert. Courtyard. 10 a.m.

  The PM’s courtyard in the full grip of a Canberra winter was a desolate, grey place; an empty square of concrete where even the sun refused to go. So there was method in George Papadakis’s madness, scheduling a presser there. He would keep the press waiting until they couldn’t feel their feet and hands, then send the PM out. Twenty minutes in they would want the ordeal to end as much as the nation’s leader did.

  Martin Toohey and his inner circle of trusted advisers – Papadakis; senior political guru, John Foreman; legal expert, Sarah Franklin; plus his useless media adviser, Dylan Blair – had spent close to two hours war-gaming for the press conference, pausing only to watch the train wreck that was Bruce Paxton’s resignation.

  ‘So, George, what’ll be the first question?’ Toohey asked.

  ‘When are you going to resign?’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘PM, I fucking know.’

  ‘Do we have a good answer for that?’

  ‘Depends on how you define good.’

  ‘What about we run through all the bills that have successfully passed through Parliament?’ offered Blair.

  ‘Dylan,’ Papadakis said, ‘do us all a favour and go down to Aussies and tell Dom we’re going to need lots of coffee.’

  ‘I’ll have a long black,’ said Toohey.

  The PM turned to the rest of his troops. ‘Seriously, what’s the answer? Has he broken any laws?’

  ‘Don’t think so, PM. The AEC has a three-year statute of limitations on election donations – section 315 – and this happened nearly fifteen years ago,’ said Franklin, who was delighted to have an answer that offered a veil of legal cover.

  ‘But there is no statute of limitations on being stupid and, let’s face it, corrupt.’ Toohey stared out the window. ‘Still, the loss of a Minister does not – and should not – mean the loss of a government. In our system we hold power as long as we hold the confidence of the House. And we have the numbers.’

  ‘There’s still a question mark over that, PM,’ Papadakis said. ‘The Coalition’s lunar Right is threatening to deny Bailey a pair. If that happens then we’re in a much tougher place. You know Scott as well as any of us. Will she hold on that?’

  ‘Who knows, and it’s not today’s main problem, although it’ll come up in the litany of second-order issues we face.’ He had a guilty flashback to their last meeting and regretted, again, his vicious parting words to her.
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  ‘Still, today we are the government. We have lost a Minister, we have to admit fault on that. But we will not cut and run from government just because it’s hard. Government is supposed to be hard.

  ‘And let none of you forget, the Labor Party is the party – the only party – that takes the tough decisions for the national good. We can’t let the Tories take the low road to glory, as they always do. We don’t shirk the difficult reforms, the ones that Hawke and Keating, and even Gough, made as they tried to craft a better Australia. So … what’s my opening line going to be?’

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thanks for coming.’ Toohey scanned the miserable array of badly dressed journos and wondered why he always said that. As if they wouldn’t come to feast on the carcass of his government.

  ‘As you know, the Defence Minister has offered his resignation and I have reluctantly accepted it. It is a profound disappointment. However, Mr Paxton agrees with me that his behaviour, no matter how long ago it occurred, is not compatible with the standards I demand from my Ministers. I recognise this is a blow for my government. But let me make myself perfectly clear. I intend that this government will go full term.

  ‘Any questions?’

  The Prime Minister was buried in a cacophony as a dozen gallery journalists all yelled at once, hoping to get in the first question, sensing this was a press conference where blood would be spilled.

  Toohey picked out the man he knew would get straight to the point, the appalling Jonathan Robbie, the headkicking number two from Channel Nine.