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waste-watch campaign and the CDF and his sidekicks don’t like it one little bit. The shouting matches, I am reliably informed, have been doozies.
    â€˜As for the third gentleman in your photo … he has a passing resemblance to Xiu Jeng, the former Chinese Ambassador to Washington … but I would have to check that one more thoroughly.’
    Dunkley was perplexed, but tried not to show it. He had been hoping Gordon would provide the missing pieces, but now he could see that the jigsaw was much bigger than he’d thought, and even more intriguing.
    Gordon halted and locked eyes with Dunkley in a way that said he meant business. ‘Look, Harry, I don’t know exactly what you’ve got – hell, we don’t even know who gave you the Paxton photo … but, believe me, there’s a rich history there. Our Defence Minister friend is in the sights of quite a few players in this city, make no mistake about it. And if some of the bigwigs around town catch up with him, he could be toast.’
    â€˜What do you mean, toast?’ Dunkley was sceptical. Paxton might be a professional scumbag, but he was no fool. He had outwitted many people over the years to advance his career and given the finger to all those who’d deemed him too thick to make it in the caged ring of Federal politics. Dunkley had spenttoo many years up close and personal with some of the most conniving minds in the business to ever doubt Paxton’s ability to survive.
    â€˜Harry, you haven’t lost your cynicism, I see. Fair enough, doubt me if you like, but Mr Paxton, as this photo suggests, is in the sights of some very powerful people. And the fact that you have it means they want him gone. We need to find out who we’re playing with. You mind if I borrow it for a few days?’
    â€˜No worries,’ Dunkley nodded. ‘I’ve already scanned it into our system and I was going to ask you to keep it in your safe.’
    â€˜Sure.’
    Dunkley felt the tingle of excitement that always came when he was on to a big yarn. And having Ben’s help was a godsend. After all, if he couldn’t trust Ben Gordon – aka Kimberley – a friend he’d known for nearly thirty years, and a man who wore the sharpest dresses in Australian intelligence, well, then who could he trust?

June 18, 2011
    The morning sun was just visible through a thick fog as the prime ministerial car – C1 – approached the main entrance of Canberra’s public hospital, the vanguard of a small procession that included two Parliamentary Secretaries and a clutch of advisers. Despite the hour, a gaggle of journalists was on hand to form a loose guard of honour.
    The bulletproof glass distorted the outside world but Martin Toohey recognised several straightaway. ‘Christ, those bloodsuckers …’
    Across from the main entrance, a half-dozen satellite trucks were parked on the hospital grounds, beaming live footage of the Prime Minister’s arrival to a national audience. Although it was Saturday, the networks had been broadcasting since 6 a.m. and would carry on for hours yet, trying to turn a moment of hard news into a continuous reel of infotainment.
    The problem, as always, was pictures. Before the PM’s arrival there was nothing to actually see, except the network talking heads and people coming and going from the hospital.
    The crews had been told that Toohey would have nothing to say either on the way in or the way out. What they would get in several hours of broadcasting was one shot, endlessly repeated, of several white cars pulling up and the prime ministerial entourage solemnly proceeding into the hospital, ignoring the media demands.
    But that was not the point. In the world of twenty-four-hour news, what was happening was often secondary to ‘being there’. Each of the three networks and two twenty-four-hour news channels had their best-known anchors perched on stools or standing