It was just after midday on Wednesday that I first heard whispered advance publicity of the exciting new political blockbuster, "Kevin's Eleven".

During a discussion with a Labor right-winger about something entirely different, he mentioned as an aside that Kevin Rudd's supporters in Caucus would amount to "eleven, at the most".

Later that afternoon, I bumped into a left-winger, who alluded to the "eleven or so" Caucus members who might back the Foreign Minister in any leadership putsch.

What was with the number eleven?

By the next day, I was hearing that eleven Rudd supporters had actually staged a secret meeting to plot Rudd Redux together. In one - particularly excitable - version, Mr Rudd himself had appeared before the meeting, like Joan of Arc.

No-one could really be quite clear on where the meeting had occurred. Or who was at it, for that matter.

On Thursday morning, the Canberra Times ran this story.

By Thursday afternoon, the Kevin's Eleven theory was being spread confidently by Liberals.

And the trailer is pretty compelling; a retired con, possibly played by George Clooney, gets the gang back together for one last blag. Kevin, the lead character, is fighting against the odds. Irascible yet charming, he's lost everything, yet has the audacity to attempt the seemingly impossible.

The problem is the cast list.

And as I phoned around looking for anyone who had it, I found that nobody really did. And the thing about journalists phoning around on these stories is that the phone calls themselves become supporting evidence for the rumour.

Someone who's heard vaguely about the Kevin's Eleven meeting turns out to have heard about it because they just had a cup of coffee with someone you phoned three hours ago to see if they'd heard about the Kevin's Eleven meeting.

When there are a bunch of journalists phoning around, as there was yesterday, the vapour trails from those conversations can begin to coalesce into quite a convincing mirage.

Phil Coorey, a hardworking journo who is one of the best-connected in Canberra, reports in the Herald that: "rumours swept the party yesterday that a group of MPs had gathered for drinks in a colleague's office on Wednesday night, crunched the numbers and concluded Mr Rudd would receive 11 votes out of about 100 caucus votes. While versions of the supposed meeting varied, no one disputed the numbers. ''There's no serious plan or challenge at this point in time,'' said one MP. The chatter about Mr Rudd added to a difficult day for Labor."

Nobody likes to be thought to be in the dark about these things, so when you ask, they might say that they've heard something about it, but aren't clear on the details, thereby sustaining the impression that there might be a story there, but it's incredibly top-secret.

And then they phone and ask their friends if they've heard anything, and then those people ask around, too. And nothing is more tantalising to politicians in tense situations or journalists monitoring tense situations than the suggestion that there might be something top-secret going on that hardly anyone knows about.

In a situation like the Government's in at the moment, nervous energy tends to express itself in paranoia and gossip. And even the most improbable theories of possible insurrection - even the most wildly crazy ones - can't one hundred per cent be ruled out any more, can they?

Because a year ago, everyone who swore black and blue that there was nothing going on turned out to be wrong. And so, Julia Gillard's challenge to Kevin Rudd one year ago contributes, in this small but significant way, to the rumours abounding now.

Incidentally, number crunching at this level is a rather imprecise science anyway. If - as has been occurring this week - the counting is actually being done by Gillard defenders rather than Rudd supporters, if can have the effect of verballing the putative rebel leader.

"Beer and guesswork" would probably describe it better. If you are "doing the numbers", the most inflammatory thing you can do is actually telephone someone and ask them outright if they would vote for Kevin Rudd. To do so would be to raise the stakes significantly, from "number crunching" to "canvassing".

So the sorts of people whose names end up on these lists are generally there because they were supportive of Mr Rudd a year ago, or because they're grumpy about not being promoted, or because they've expressed dissent in other ways. Some names mentioned to me this week: Nick Champion, who was opposed to last year's challenge. Graham Perrett, who was conscripted to the Gillard cause but felt great remorse. Senator Claire Moore, who was sympathetic to Mr Rudd at the time of the challenge. Janelle Saffin, who has waged a spirited and outspoken campaign to change the Government's position on live exports. Andrew Leigh, the ACT MP who is friendly with Mr Rudd and who challenged Sharon Grierson unsuccessfully for a Caucus committee chairmanship a while back, collecting nine Caucus votes and thereby the faint tinge of rebellion.

Those to whom I spoke were surprised to hear themselves speculated about as possible insurgents.

"I will walk backwards to Cunnamulla if there's a challenge," Mr Perrett said.

"I support incumbent prime ministers, and believe in the long haul, not panic," said a frustrated Mr Champion.

"Why am I in a party with such a capacity for idle speculation, nervousness, and cack-handed intrigue?"

Apparently, a small group of right-wingers gathered in deputy whip Chris Hayes' office on Wednesday night and idly chatted about who might be susceptible. Were they "the meeting"? Maybe they were - who knows?

Today, it's all pushed along further by the Daily Telegraph's front-page picture of Julia Gillard and Kevin Rudd walking along with expressions of obvious mutual discomfort.

The pictures are great, and confirm the bleeding obvious: Here are a pair who for well-documented reasons cannot bear one another. A picture of them sharing a tandem bike-ride; now, that would be surprising.

As I left Parliament on Thursday night, I ran into Anthony Albanese, manager of government business, and one of the smattering of Cabinet ministers who remained loyal to Mr Rudd until the last.

"Where's all this 'Kevin's Eleven' stuff coming from?" I asked him. "Why do I keep hearing the number eleven?"

(Of course, the possibility that Albanese himself might be cast as Kevin's wily, safe-cracking security expert had not escaped me)

He looked at me wearily.

"You keep hearing it because you heard it from two people, and then you called two people, and they told ten people," he said.

I think he's probably right.

Annabel Crabb is ABC Online's chief political writer.