The Marmalade Files (9 page)

It was just over three hundred paces from the press gallery lair of Harry Dunkley to the office of Terry Burden, the Clerk of the House of Representatives. A quiet and fastidious man who had given thirty years loyal service to the Parliament, Burden carried more secrets than a Catholic priest.

He was scrupulously non-partisan, a trusted soul whose counselling was frequently sought by politicians of all stripes. He sometimes joked that he was a cross between Lifeline and Legal Aid. He was part historian, part psychologist … and keeper of one of the most sensitive documents in the House, the Register of Members' Interests.

The bound volumes, maintained in neat alphabetical order, contained vast reams of information about every member elected to the House of Representatives. No one, not even the Prime Minister or his retinue of Ministers, was exempt. And every MP was required to regularly update her or his pecuniary interests,
providing details of hospitality received, family trusts liquidated and shares bought and sold. For any journalist prepared to sift through a mountain of information, it was a potential goldmine. And Dunkley was prepared to do the hard yards.

It was a Monday morning and Parliament had finally taken its winter break, so things had quietened a fair bit. Even the initial fuss about Catriona Bailey's collapse had died down now she had been in hospital for some weeks with no change. Finally Harry could focus on the Paxton mystery.

He had made the requisite appointment to pore over the register. And he'd asked for a specific folio from a specific date – the N-O-P-Q folio from 1996. He had a hunch, but he needed some proof. It was too soon to start making calls that would only set hares running.

Burden's assistant, a nosey parker known ironically as Susie the Discreet, carried the bound material out to the Clerk's anteroom, where Dunkley was waiting. Five minutes was all it should take, he hoped. Leafing through the fifteen-year-old document, he quickly found the entry he was seeking, a few lines that gave some credence to his embryonic theory.

The property had been sold just after Bruce Paxton had entered Parliament, as Dunkley had expected. Now he needed to find out where the money had come from to buy it. And that would take time even the reduced daily grind of work wouldn't allow. So, after he knocked off the Newspoll splash for tomorrow's paper, he was taking four weeks leave.

As regular as a metronome, Justin Greenwich would wake early every second Monday with a knot deep in the pit of his stomach.

The Opposition leader's press secretary knew that, later that day, a short walk from his Parliament House office, the
Australian
's political editor, Harry Dunkley, would receive several pages of raw data that could make or break political careers. Eventually, Dunkley would call Greenwich to give him a heads-up on the numbers. Then it was Greenwich's grim duty to relay them to Scott. And she didn't take bad news well.

For two months, Newspoll had been a horror story for Elizabeth Scott and the Coalition she led. The slide had begun after a disastrous overreach by Scott. A Channel Nine story by Jonathan Robbie had shattered her credibility, revealing she had groomed a Finance Department official, Michael Hamilton, to give damaging evidence against the government at parliamentary hearings.

Hamilton was a Liberal mole who had been funnelling information to the Opposition for years. But, typically, an impatient Scott had pushed him hard and Hamilton grew reckless, handing over highly sensitive material on a financial rescue package for building societies in the wake of the global meltdown.

An internal investigation flagged Hamilton to the Australian Federal Police. While they watched he continued to shovel out information to Scott. But it got worse when, in his eagerness to please, Hamilton fabricated some facts to implicate the Prime Minister in dubious dealings with a building society based in Toohey's electorate of Corio.

In what Greenwich saw as a cruel twist, Robbie broke the Scott–Hamilton link on April Fools' Day. It caused a sensation.

Scott wasn't responsible for the fraud, but it didn't matter. Perceptions are everything in politics. The media crucified her and the story refused to die. The Coalition had been ahead of the Government in the polls but its primary vote dropped five points after the story aired. That was nothing compared to what happened to Scott's personal rating – it plummeted twenty points in a fortnight.

One thing that had surprised Greenwich at the time the story broke was how Scott had insisted on seeing the Prime Minister to personally apologise. Greenwich had gone with her but all staff were banished from the room. He didn't have to cool his heels in enemy territory long because the meeting was over in less than five minutes. Scott had been visibly upset when she emerged from Toohey's office.

Greenwich's BlackBerry rang.

‘How bad?'

‘Depends.' Dunkley's voice was friendly and Greenwich knew he was trying to soften the blow. ‘The primary vote is basically stable on 39. But of course that still gives Labor a lead on two-party preferred, 52–48.'

‘Don't toy with me, Harry,' Greenwich's voice quavered. ‘You know there's only one thing she cares about. How is she tracking on personal satisfaction?'

‘Ummm … satisfied, 21 per cent; dissatisfied, 62 per cent.'

Greenwich's hands were sweating so much he could barely write and his brain struggled to digest the figures.

‘Jesus wept. What? Down four points on last fortnight?'

‘Yes.'

‘Down four points on what you said was the lowest rating of any Opposition leader in Newspoll history?'

‘Yes, it's bad.'

‘What's the splash?'

‘Well, the splash is something else. But on Scott we have a breakout reviving the famous
Bulletin
front page on Howard.'

‘What … “Why does this man bother?”.'

‘Well, to be accurate: “Why does this woman bother?”.'

‘Harry …'

‘Yes, Justin?'

‘I hope you die a lonely, slow and painful death.'

‘You have a good night too, mate. See you about.'

The sweat from Greenwich's palms had made a small damp spot on his pad, smudging some of the figures. But he could not erase the horror of what they meant.

With the right leader the Opposition should be well ahead of the weak Toohey Government. But these numbers held only one message: Elizabeth Scott wasn't that leader.

Scott was in the adjoining office, waiting for her press secretary to deliver the numbers. He looked at his pad again and picked up his mobile. His fingers fumbled with the tiny keyboard as he punched out a text message. Then he grabbed his bag, hitting ‘send' as he scurried for the door.

He was in the corridor when a familiar voice echoed down the hallway.

‘You are JOKING! Justin, get in here. NOW!'

And for the first time in many years, Greenwich broke into a sprint as he made for the exit.

The two-car convoy, sleek BMWs with darkened windows and reinforced exteriors, snaked up the steep driveway. It approached the circular drive with military precision, coming to a halt just a few steps from an imposing front entrance. Three men wearing dark suits and even darker don't-fuck-with-me stares quickly stepped out of the vehicles.

It was Rambo-style, over-the-top, and Brent Moreton, the newly arrived United States Ambassador to Australia, loved every GI minute of it. He checked his Seiko Velatura – a personal gift from the President – and stepped out into the brisk Canberra air. ‘Good evening, sir.' The concierge at the Commonwealth Club was unerringly polite.

It was a Monday night, June 6, and Moreton was meeting with the Alliance for the first time.

Ambassador to Australia was a mid-level posting by Washington standards, a chance for Moreton to work with one of
America's closest and most trusted allies – even if it was a country that most Americans had never visited and knew little about. Moreton had accepted the job with little hesitation, viewing it as a stepping stone to a more exciting and important posting – or possibly as an entree to a seat in Congress.

He'd struck up a firm friendship with the British High Commissioner and found the work satisfying but hardly intoxicating. Relations between the superpower and its Pacific cousin were in good shape, despite the occasional flare-up over trade and business issues. Until now.

Moreton walked briskly along a thickly carpeted corridor before entering a discreetly luxurious sitting room overlooking the club's garden, with views through to the lake. Three men were waiting, one in military regalia, the other two in crisp business suits, each of them cradling a beer or glass of wine.

‘Ambassador, so very nice of you to come to our little gathering.' Jack Webster, Chief of the Defence Force, ushered Moreton into the private room and offered him a drink. Air Chief Marshal Webster, a thirty-year veteran of Defence, had met the Ambassador a number of times over the years, mostly in Washington where the two would sometimes cross paths during the Australian–American Leadership Dialogue and other bilateral talkfests.

They were both men of patrician bearing who shared a mutual love for their flags; both were dyed-in-the-wool patriots for the cause.

‘Ambassador, I think you know Tom …'

Thomas Heggarty, Director-General of the Australian
Secret Intelligence Service, offered an outstretched hand. ‘Good evening, Ambassador, glad you could make it.'

‘Hello, Tom, you're looking prosperous as always.'

The two men smiled, as if sharing a private joke.

David Joyce, Secretary of the Department of Foreign Affairs, stepped forward. ‘Mr Ambassador, you look well, this Canberra climate is obviously agreeing with you.'

‘I don't mind these sub-zero temperatures, David, although Janet is finding it tough to maintain her Texan tan.' There were laughs all round.

‘Okay, let's get down to business.' Webster spoke firmly. ‘I'll call Fred and we'll get the dinner orders happening; after all, we don't want to be disturbed too often.'

‘Correction, Jack, we don't want to be disturbed at all.'

The Ambassador fixed the three men with a look so serious, he could have been announcing a death in the family.

 

The four men took their seats, brushing away a waiter. Moreton clasped his hands and studied them, confident they could be trusted with the intel he was about to deliver.

Webster, Heggarty and Joyce had started meeting regularly at the Commonwealth Club some five years ago, drawn together by a common desire to protect – indeed nurture – the relationship with the United States amid a worrying trend on both sides of politics to forge ever-closer ties with China. Within the senior ranks of the Commonwealth public service, they were known as the most strident supporters of the US relationship and had dubbed themselves ‘the Alliance' as a nod to this.

The Alliance's meetings were shrouded in Freemason-like secrecy. They told no one, not even their wives, of the gatherings, but the serving US ambassador had a standing invitation to attend.

With its lush two acres of gardens and old worldly atmospherics, the Commonwealth Club offered the perfect sanctuary. Sure, it was frequented by other senior members of the public service, but discretion was always honoured and private meetings could take place in its myriad of rooms.

Several days ago, Ambassador Moreton had contacted Webster on his secure private phone line, seeking an urgent meeting with the Alliance. He wouldn't give the reason over the phone, except to say it was of the utmost importance.

Now Moreton began. ‘Gentlemen, we need to establish some ground rules before we start. What I am about to tell you remains within these four walls. It has to be strictly between us four – understood?'

No one demurred.

‘Two weeks ago, I was summoned to DC for what I imagined would be a routine debrief on my first few months in Canberra, the kind of thing that could have been done over a secure line. It was far from it …

‘When I arrived at the State Department, I was whisked through security and taken directly to Assistant Secretary Robert Hinds' office; as you know he's one of Hillary's confidants.

‘Guys, this is where it gets real touchy. Your Defence Minister, Mr Paxton …'

Moreton's voice trailed off as he considered how best to phrase the coming bombshell. He trained his eye on Webster, and cleared his throat.

‘Our government, at the very highest level, fears Mr Paxton is way too close to the Chinese. Given that we share our intelligence with you, this jeopardises us as much as it does you. I have been sent with a very specific message. Fix it or … or your access to our intel ends.'

The three mandarins sat stunned. The Defence Minister was treading all over his Department, trying to make absurd cuts – but Bruce Paxton, a traitor? It defied belief.

And the US was threatening to end what the Australian defence and intelligence agencies treasured above all else: access to the best intel money could buy. Thousands of spies and analysts and a spy satellite network that could read your newspaper from space.

It was one of the lasting legacies of the close friendship between John Howard and George W Bush. At Howard's insistence, in July 2004, Bush had signed a one-page presidential directive to the US Defense Department and the Central Intelligence Agency ordering them to allow Australia access to the Secret Internet Protocol Router Network (SIPRNET) used by the military to store information about intelligence, operations orders and technical data. Until then SIPRNET had a NOFORN (‘no foreign eyes') classification, and that included the British and the Australians.

The US intelligence establishment was flabbergasted and pushed back, refusing to implement the directive for years. In
2006 Howard called his friend again and went public with his complaint, attacking the Pentagon for ignoring a presidential directive.

The barrier was lifted and Australia got access to what was described by former Defence Minister Robert Hill as ‘the greatest repository of information that exists'.

Webster finally spoke. ‘You can't be serious! Paxton's an amateur, out of his depth, but he's not a security risk. What evidence do you have?'

The Ambassador narrowed his gaze. ‘It seems the Secretary of State heard it direct … from your Foreign Minister. Check his past. Fix this. You've got two months or the pipeline will be switched off.'