The Shadow Game (34 page)

He sat coiled in front of the two screens as he clenched and unclenched his right hand, a metronome of anger and despair.

Charles Dancer read the
Canberra Times
newsflash on his iPad while watching the prime ministerial pantomime on TV.

As he absorbed the scale of the defeat, his surge of emotion was failure in itself. He had spent a lifetime disciplining his mind and his body, stripping away all feeling in order to focus coldly on each mission. Fear, anger, love – all were weaknesses.

Just one person – Kimberley Gordon – had pierced his armour, awakening shameful desires.

He'd followed the order to kill her without hesitation. But the mission held a sting: in death she had awoken another long-silent voice – his conscience.

Jack Webster had issued the command. Dancer's trust in the defence chief had been absolute. Webster understood the
nature of the world, the extent of its evil, and knew that hard and disciplined warriors were needed to man the gates. Without soldiers like Dancer, chaos would reign.

He stood and rolled his shoulders to shake out the tension. Rage was coursing through his body with every heartbeat and he needed to calm himself so he could think clearly. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

The general had fallen and left his foot soldier alone, vulnerable, defiant.

Soon the trail would lead the enemy to him, but there was time. He would not fail like the others. The standard-bearer would be the last to fall, and his going would be glorious, leaving a blaze of light across the heavens.

The White House was forced to scramble to announce America's confrontation with China in the wake of Elizabeth Scott's loose lips.

Mikaela Asta had been contacting regional leaders to brief them before going public. She was in conversation with the Indonesian president when an aide handed her a piece of paper, detailing the Australian prime minister's pre-emptive strike.

Simultaneously, global wire services began quoting Scott's statement on the confrontation on the high seas.

The US president was furious. She had planned a press conference for 9am, but was now forced into a rapid response.

Her staff began calling the executive producers of America's top-rating television breakfast shows, telling them to clear the decks for a special presidential address to the nation.

It was 0800 and the cameras were ready. Asta checked her notes as an assistant secured a stray hair. This would be the
defining moment of her presidency, played out in front of a global audience.

‘Okay, let's do this.' She nodded to the crew.

As the red light on the camera signalled she was live, Asta knew she had to strike a tone of measured authority and make the case that China was the aggressor.

‘My fellow Americans. In the early hours of this morning, two Filipino navy vessels were the target of an unprovoked attack by a Chinese aircraft carrier. The ships were taking part in a joint exercise with the USS
George Washington
. They were sailing through international waters when they were fired upon.

‘Before any shots were fired the
George Washington
's commander, Admiral Vinson, issued a clear warning to the Chinese warship, the
Liaoning
. This was ignored by the Chinese, forcing the
George Washington
to return fire.

‘Early reports are that ten Filipino sailors have been killed and at least a dozen injured. Only the skill of our naval forces prevented further casualties.

‘I understand that there are Chinese casualties, but I stress we acted with restraint.

‘In light of these events, I have recalled our ambassador from China. The Chinese ambassador to the United States has been given forty-eight hours to leave this country.

‘America is a peaceful nation. For seventy years we have been the guardians of peace in the Pacific. We will not allow China to continue militarising the South China Sea and we will not countenance the daily cyber attacks on US government and industry.

‘China says that it wants a peaceful rise, but its actions do not reflect that. If it wants to play a larger role on the world stage, then it must obey international laws. And it should never doubt that America has the resolve to enforce them.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, there are difficult days ahead. I am sure that we can resolve our differences, and the starting point must be that Beijing shuts down its naval bases on contested islands in the Pacific.

‘I thank you for your time. I wish you a good day and God bless America.'

Meng Tao exploded with rage as he hurled ten pages of text in the air. The president had demanded elegant prose; instead they had delivered pure dross.

‘These words are trash,' he barked. ‘You make me sound like a peasant. You have failed to convey my thoughts. Fix it. You have ten minutes.'

The emperor had gambled and lost. Meng had wagered that America would retreat as it had in the Taiwan Strait, and that he would emerge victorious. His military had failed him.

The Chinese people would soon learn that his promise of global military might was a lie.

Too late, the president realised that he should have heeded the words of his former propaganda minister. Now Jiang Xiu was gone, and Meng was surrounded by peons.

A makeup artist dabbed at his face to remove the shine from his forehead as he prepared to address the nation. The Hall of Purple Light had been turned into a makeshift television studio. Meng strode to the lectern bearing the distinctive red-and-gold emblem of China, took a last gulp of water, and nodded.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, friends and comrades. Today in the South China Sea our aircraft carrier the
Liaoning
was attacked, without warning.

‘The missile was fired by a plane launched from the American carrier, the
George Washington
.

‘It was cowardly, unexpected and unprovoked. Because the
Liaoning
was on a peaceful mission our brave flagship did not have its defences in place.

‘Despite this, it managed to return fire, hitting one of the vessels in the aggressor's fleet.

‘To show that China is determined to forge peace in the Pacific, I then ordered the admiral to cease battle and return to port.

‘Yet we cannot let this act of war go unanswered. I have expelled the US ambassador and recalled our envoy from Washington. All diplomatic and ministerial contact with America will be suspended immediately.

‘We will work to resolve this dispute, but we will protect our core interests in the South China Sea, waters that China has held for a thousand years.

‘But, my people, be in no doubt. If we cannot have peace on our terms then China is not afraid to make war.'

‘Congratulations, Harry, you are making world news.'

Martin Toohey shouted the bar as the National Press Club erupted in a late-night ovation for Harry Dunkley. In several hours of frenetic scribbling, the
Canberra Times
' newly recruited correspondent had punched out a front-page lead, a breakout and a piece of commentary.

Every sentence was a revelation and Dunkley's scoops were being reprinted around the globe, mostly without credit. In Australia, too, he was being slavishly copied by all forms of media, which were desperately playing catch-up. Sky News and ABC 24 had called for all hands on deck to pull an all-nighter.

Toohey, Dunkley and Bruce Paxton commandeered a pair of lounges in an alcove, retreating from the crush of boozed-up sycophants and a mess of half-drunk beers and cold savouries.

In his pocket, Dunkley had the Australian equivalent of the Pentagon Papers, a vast trove of Chinese and ASIO intelligence data. He also had thousands of Jack Webster's personal files and Benny Hadid's outline of his forensic audit into the Air Warfare Destroyer project.

Life, indeed, was beautiful.

‘How much have you been able to read?' Toohey asked.

‘A fraction, mate,' Dunkley said as he sipped a mineral water. ‘There are four thousand documents on the ASIO thumb drive alone, along with a couple of thousand pictures and videos. I limited myself to searching for Webster, but there's a rogues' gallery in there.'

‘Speaking of rogues, I can't shake that one image,' Paxton said, throwing some snacks into his mouth, ‘of the last person out the door at Webster's mansion.'

Dunkley agreed. ‘Jesus, that was a shock. It's seared on my brain. Emily Brooks in a black corset and red stilettos.'

‘See, Harry, maybe there is a god after all.' Toohey laughed before raising his glass to Paxton.

‘And we couldn't have done this without you, mate. Well done.'

‘Martin, you know I've always had your back.'

Toohey nearly choked on a mixture of beer and nuts. When he recovered he offered another toast. ‘To the great flawed fucking wonderful democracy that is Australia.'

‘Cheers to that, Martin,' Dunkley said, but his mind was elsewhere.

He turned to Paxton. ‘Bruce, you got a minute?'

‘Sure, what's up?'

‘No, not here.'

Dunkley led Paxton through a panelled door into the Press Club's boardroom. It was lined with photos offering a glimpse into Australia's political past. A roll call of prime ministers hung in a neat row, Martin Toohey's visage frozen in its customary grin.

‘This is all a bit cloak and dagger,' Paxton said, taking in a sweep of the room as he nursed a half-drunk Stella.

‘Yes, mate; I mean no. I don't mean it to be.' Dunkley was fumbling his words. He pointed to a chair. ‘Take a seat, Bruce.'

Paxton was puzzled. ‘What's going on?'

Dunkley sighed, then spoke slowly and deliberately.

‘I did search the USB for one other name: Weng Meihui.'

Paxton's face was sombre. ‘And?'

‘ASIO had been tracking her, as you would expect. There's a note about the night the two of you planned to fly to the United States. And . . . well . . . there is no record of her ever leaving Australia.'

Dunkley stalled, struggling.

‘Bruce, they believe Meihui was killed that night.'

He reached out and rested his hand on Paxton's forearm.

Paxton nodded. ‘I guess I've always known that. But I had to keep searching, just had to. More than anything I just wanted the whole damned truth.'

‘Mate, there's something else . . .'

Paxton drew back. ‘What?'

‘ASIO had files on her going back several decades. Detailed records of every posting, every time she met anyone of import, including you.'

‘Of course they were tracking us. So what?'

Dunkley fiddled with a drinks coaster as he considered how to break the news.

‘Bruce . . . Meihui . . . she had a baby. The father was Caucasian.'

For a long while Paxton said nothing, then asked: ‘When?'

‘She was born in November 1982. You were in Beijing that year, weren't you?'

The union hard man lowered his head. When he looked up there was the hint of a smile.