The Shadow Game (11 page)

This was a meeting so covert that not a single foreign affairs official knew it was taking place. It was scheduled for a time when both prime ministers were supposed to be asleep. And the layout at Blair House meant that no one outside would be alerted to the strange proceedings by an unexpected late-night arrival.

Just four people were present at the meeting. Two prime ministers and two defence force chiefs. Their mission was to cut a deal to spend $30 billion of Australian taxpayers' money on a fleet of twelve Japanese-built submarines. Defence usually spent years identifying which kit to buy. This deal would be sealed in hours.

Prime Minister Shinzo Abe wrote a note in Japanese and Scott penned one in English. The Blair House photocopier churned out one copy of each. Then they were exchanged and countersigned.

An exhausted Scott shook the hand of a leader who was determined to restore Japan's martial power and forge a chain of alliances to counter an increasingly aggressive China.

‘So we are agreed,' she said. ‘This project will be driven out of our offices. No one will breathe a word without the express permission of the other. This will take a lot of finessing behind
the scenes in my country, Shinzo. The ship-building states will be up in arms. Literally.'

Abe chuckled. He hadn't shown a hint of emotion in two hours of tense negotiations, but now he beamed with enthusiasm.

‘You are not the only one with domestic dramas, Elizabeth. The Diet and the bureaucracy will scream about handing over Japanese cutting-edge technology.'

‘They are the best subs we can get for what we need; Jack has convinced me of that. In the end that is how we should judge these things. Beyond that, our mutual ally, as you know, is utterly determined that we should strike this deal.'

‘Yes, they want the message to be heard loud and clear in Beijing that powerful regional partnerships are being built in response to the dragon's aggression in the East and South China seas.'

Scott picked up her copies of the agreement, carefully folding them before handing one to Webster.

‘And that's another reason we need time. There is a very delicate dance through a Chinese minefield lying ahead of us.'

Jack Webster's body was pulsing with energy. He had just helped broker a historic deal that was in the best interests of his country and the world. This was much bigger than buying a fleet of subs; it was the beginning of a formal military alliance with Japan, a new counterweight to the rising power of China.

It was 3am, Webster had just over thirty hours left in Washington and he wasn't about to waste any of it sleeping. The
coming day would again be filled with meetings, so these precious few hours before dawn were his.

He hailed a cab to Dulles airport to meet a very special friend, a New York financier who'd grown bored after making his first billion.

Morgan McDonald had introduced Webster to him four years ago. They'd struck an immediate friendship based on mutual self-interest: one was always in the market for military friends; the other had rapidly developed a taste for a billionaire lifestyle he imagined he deserved.

After one too many whiskies in a discreet restaurant in Tokyo, the forty-year-old Harvard dropout told Webster he craved illicit excitement and had developed an interest in gun-running. Webster lapped up the details. It was big business: worldwide arms sales were approaching $100 billion and the United States had cornered fifty per cent of the market. But Jack's new friend's transactions were all off the books. Over another round of whale sashimi and matching sake, he told Webster that mostly he acted as a US broker, dropping weapons into places even the CIA wouldn't go – and that brought him protection that money could not buy. ‘Nosy government officials can't touch me,' he'd slurred. ‘It just takes a single phone call and any inquiries are terminated.'

The gun runner's latest venture was arming the Kurds in their fight against Islamic State. Webster thought it was a noble cause, unlike many his friend had been involved in. America was supplying the cash and the weapons, but couldn't do it through official channels because it risked alienating Turkey, which
feared the rise of a well-armed and expansionist Kurdish state on its border. So the agent had been called in.

Tonight he was offering Webster a three-hour jaunt in his private Boeing 727: a joy flight over the Atlantic and back to Washington – complete with the kind of cabin service airlines don't provide.

It was a peculiar talent of the US security agencies: creating their own gridlock.

Elizabeth Scott could have strolled the few hundred metres from Blair House across Lafayette Square to the Chinese president's hotel in a matter of minutes.

But the Yanks had insisted on a motorcade that stretched the entire block from 17th Street to 16th Street, turning what should have been a simple walk into a half-hour melodrama.

The prime minister's patience was already in short supply as she'd managed barely three hours' sleep.

Truth be told, Scott was also nervous: there was a lot resting on this meeting with Meng Tao.

The view from the president's suite at the Hay-Adams was majestic, taking in the White House, Lafayette Square and St John's Church. Scott wondered what it was like for a Chinese leader who aspired to take America's place as author and arbiter of the world's rules to wake up and look out over the capital of his rival's empire.

Despite Scott's apprehension she soon found herself at ease with the communist leader. Meng was charming and businesslike, and most of their business was good news.

While China's growth was slowing, its demand for Australian resources was still high by historic standards. The free trade deal had been settled after a dozen years of often tortuous negotiations. Both countries were now happy with the terms.

Scott had just one uncomfortable issue to raise and she avoided it until the end.

‘Mr President, we appreciate China believes it has extensive claims over the South China Sea,' she began, registering a slight change of expression on Meng's face as she waited for her translator to catch up.

‘Australia does not take sides in territorial disputes, but we urge that there be no unilateral action, nor coercive action, and that all sides act in accordance with international law. We would, of course, be concerned by the artificial expansion of islands and the possibility that they might be used as military bases.'

Scott had managed to relay her entire agenda on the islands in three sentences. She would leave it to the foreign minister to do the hard policy yards at a later date.

Meng was silent for an uncomfortable age. When he responded it was in a measured tone. But his gaze had turned icy and his translator's words seemed more clipped.

‘The most important expectation we have is that we need to respect each other's collective interests, accommodate any concerns and nurture a mutual trust. In this area, I have to point out that what Australia has done in terms of the South China Sea has jeopardised that mutual trust.'

As the president continued, his translator appeared to struggle, as if his finely tuned diplomatic mind could not cope with his
master's directions. He did not translate the next sentence but seemed to ask for a clarification.

A dismissive flick of Meng's hand silenced the translator. The president turned to the prime minister and spoke.

‘Madam Prime Minister.' Meng's English was perfect, with an accent that could have been minted in Oxbridge.

‘Enjoy the embrace of the United States while you can; she clearly wants the world to know that you and the
Riben gou
are kept in the same kennel. But she is an old mistress who demands much but can offer little comfort in the future. The world is changing, returning to a truer order; soon you will have to make a choice. Do you cling to your past or embrace your future? Choose wisely.'

With a cursory nod, the president stood and swept into an adjoining room with his entourage in tow, leaving behind a group of bewildered Australians. Scott raised an eyebrow at her translator.

‘Well, I got most of it, but what does “
Riben gou
” mean?' she asked.

The translator looked shocked.

‘Literally, “Japanese dogs”.'

The arrivals hall was modern, gleaming and near empty. It was just after 11am and Martin Toohey had arrived on a Qantas Dash 8 from Sydney, the small plane touching down a few minutes late after skirting turbulence near Lake George.

A half-billion-dollar makeover had transformed Canberra Airport into one of the nation's finest. The only thing missing was the passengers to justify its claim to be an international gateway.

Toohey was returning to the capital for the first time in nearly a year, and he'd called ahead for his former COMCAR driver who was now hustling for Silver Service. He spotted her immediately, holding court in a huddle of chauffeurs waiting on VIP fares.

They hugged and a familiar scent of stale nicotine closed over him.

‘Linda, how wonderful to see you! How the hell are you?' Toohey asked, noticing the dark circles beneath her eyes.

‘Mr Toohey, very well. Good of you to drop in on us.' Her smile exposed yellowing teeth, while a husky voice suggested overworked lungs.

He was happy to be back, genuinely happy. It had taken a long while to summon the desire to return to Canberra after he'd been punted by his Labor comrades. One of the consolations would be catching up with Linda. She knew Canberra, its intrigues and dark secrets, better than anyone. She was tapped into the city's best intelligence network: the VIP drivers who shuttled parliamentarians and captains of industry from the airport to Parliament House and beyond. Linda traded in gossip, and plenty of it.

‘Help you with your bag, Mr Toohey?'

‘No thanks. I'm not that far over the hill yet,' he replied with a grin, turning towards the exit sign.

They walked briskly to the underground carpark where Linda's Holden Caprice was nestled among a fleet of Mercedes and BMWs.

Toohey nodded appreciatively. ‘At least someone's buying Australian.'

‘Yeah, got it for a good price too, Mr Toohey, from a buddy who went belly-up.'

She scooped up his bag and placed it in the boot before theatrically opening a rear door, but Toohey had other ideas.

‘No, I'm riding shotgun in the front, to keep an eye on your erratic driving.'

She smiled. ‘Suit yourself, you're paying the tab.'

He settled in for the short drive to his hotel, admiring the outline of an overhead bridge taking shape on the airport's western fringe. ‘Jesus, that's going ahead at a pace, Linda.'

‘Yeah, the local government's doing a good job, for once. And your old union mates are behaving themselves.' She glanced his way. ‘For now.'

‘Always the cynic. So, what's been happening in the national capital? What have I missed?'

She smiled knowingly and for a while it seemed she would not answer his question, driving silently as the lake came into view. They navigated Kings Avenue Bridge, and crossed into Barton. She hit the brakes at a set of traffic lights then abruptly turned towards him.

When she spoke it was in a soft, conspiratorial whisper.

‘Some strange shit, Mr Toohey, some very strange shit.'

‘Like what, Linda?'

She sniffed, as if sizing up how much to tell him.

‘Well, seems we're top of the pops for some brash Yanks. Twice in the last month they've come in on a private jet – from New York, I think. Half a dozen of them, all tanned and impeccably dressed. Too much money, and very few manners. Strange thing is, they haven't been staying at the Hyatt or the Realm. I'm told they've been living it up out at Burra . . . Well, here we are, Mr Toohey, the Kurrajong.'

‘Thanks, Linda.' Toohey waited for her to continue, but she was done. ‘Burra? Do you know where exactly in Burra?' Toohey wondered what the Americans could possibly find to do in the hamlet of hobby farms that lay fifty kilometres south of Canberra.

‘Nope, but I can ask around. Beris has been bragging about the money she's been getting from them. Reckons they're bigger tippers than most.'

‘Who's Ber . . . Oh, never mind. Linda, if you could find out some info that would be terrific. Now, you'll pick me up out the front here at 6.15pm, right?'

‘Of course, Mr Toohey. Look forward to it. Enjoy your day.'

‘You too. And Linda, it's great to see you again, it really is.'

‘Prime Minister Scott, how lovely to see you.'

She turned at his voice, radiant in black Armani, her chestnut hair a touch shorter than he remembered. Her grey-blue eyes sparkled with a wickedly playful light. A pair of silver pearl studs adorned her ears.

As Elizabeth Scott held out her hand and smiled, the deep oriental notes of her perfume washed over him.

‘Martin, I heard you were coming tonight. Well, I guess some of this handiwork is due to you.'

The prime minister motioned around the Anzac Hall, recently refurbished as part of a major upgrade of the Australian War Memorial, timed to coincide with the centenary of the Great War. The AWM's director, Brendan Nelson, had assembled a stellar cast for the opening of the new First World War Galleries and had personally rung Toohey with an invitation.

The former PM could hardly say no. He had approved the funding, and he wanted an excuse to return to Canberra anyway.

‘Come on, Martin, let's take a quick look at G for George,' Scott whispered.

The Lancaster bomber, one of the War Memorial's most popular exhibits, had a mighty history, flying ninety bombing missions over Europe and being damaged more than twenty times by enemy fire during World War II. Somehow it had survived the torment of German Messerschmitts and had landed, forever, in this pantheon of Australia's military past.

‘You look well, Martin. Retirement obviously agrees with you.' Scott smiled as the pair moved out of earshot of the knots of dignitaries.

‘I'm busy, but not entirely content, Elizabeth.' Toohey looked up absentmindedly at the undercarriage of the bomber. ‘I feel I had unfinished business in politics. But I have a few boards and a fair chunk of charity work. I might even find time to write a memoir.'

‘Hah! You too! Well, let me know if you need someone to negotiate a big fat advance. Your story would be worth a bomb.'

They laughed.

‘Yeah, there's a bit to tell . . .' Toohey said, his voice trailing off for a moment. ‘But I still find it hard to put into words what it feels like to be rolled as prime minister.'

He turned to her with an urgent expression.

‘If you aren't careful, Elizabeth, you'll be one of a handful who'll find out just how much that hurts. Be wary of the counsel of those around you. Weigh up whether what they advise is in your best interests or theirs.'

Toohey glanced back to the swelling crowd.

‘There are rats in your ranks.'

Scott, too, looked back at the crowd. It clearly wasn't a conversation she wanted to have and she returned swiftly to the safer ground of small talk.

‘How's Mary?'

‘Ah, not so good, at least with me. We . . . well . . . she's living in Melbourne and I spend most of my time in Sydney.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that, I really am.' Scott gently gripped his shoulder and Toohey felt the small tingle of a pleasant memory.

The Embassy Motel, Deakin, 2007 . . .

‘I think they want us to sit,' she said, breaking into his reverie.

They walked across to the head table. Toohey's search for his name tag was interrupted by a familiar voice.

‘Mr Toohey, so glad you could join us on this auspicious occasion.'

He turned to the imposing figure of the defence chief, resplendent in his military finest. With his service medals gleaming, Jack Webster could have walked out of one of the display cases. His hand was extended and Toohey gripped it firmly.

‘Sir Jack.' Toohey's voice was tinged with barely detectable sarcasm.

‘I believe you're sitting next to me,' Webster said, pointing to a seat. Toohey edged his way around the table, taking his place between the defence supremo and the head of the navy.

‘So how have you been, Martin? How's life after politics?' Webster was offering a bottle of white and a wide smile.

‘Yeah, not bad, not bad at all. Less stressful than fronting the National Security Committee every second day.'

A three-piece female troupe started to pump out an Andrews Sisters tune, urging the crowd to shake off its blue attitude.

Toohey contemplated his wine glass for a moment as the trio got in the mood, then he leaned close to Webster, the scent of rich cologne assailing his nostrils.

‘Tell me, Jack, who approved the Lusitania Plan? Who really launched the cyber attacks that helped sink my government?'

The CDF put his hand to his ear and spoke nonchalantly.

‘I'm sorry, Martin, I missed that.'

Webster placed his glass on the table and turned to face Toohey, lifting his voice to overpower the volume from the stage and signal the start of a new conversation.

‘I hear Harry Dunkley's been released into your care after running amok at News Corp HQ.'

‘You are, as always, well informed, Jack. Yes, he's working for me now.'

‘A bit treacherous, wasn't it?'

Toohey laughed, then glanced briefly at the trio before turning a flat dark stare on the defence chief.

‘Well, I suspect you know a little something about treason.'

Webster's shoulders stiffened slightly but his poker face registered nothing.

‘What do you mean?'

‘You know what they say: one man's terrorist is another's freedom fighter.'

The defence chief picked at an imaginary thread on his coat, then turned his back to the former PM. He exuded the carefree air of the powerful.

‘. . . and now please welcome the Chief of the Defence Force, Sir Jack Webster.'

As Webster stood to walk the short distance to the lectern, Toohey touched his sleeve.

‘Give 'em hell, Jack.'

‘Oh, I'll do that, Mr Toohey, I promise you.'