The Shadow Game

by Steve Lewis

  It was a small mistake, but it destroyed the whole work. The expensive paper could not be retrieved. It was a tiny augury of the giant blunder China was about to make.

  As he examined the error which spoiled the refined and flowing lines of his morning’s work, he was resolved. He would confront the president once more with vigour and sound argument, seeking to dissuade him from pursuing his present course of action in the South China Sea. He ardently believed in the legitimacy of China’s claims there. All he was asking for was time: taking a slower path to the same end.

  It would be dangerous. Recently their relationship had soured. Though few words had been fired in anger, Jiang sensed that Meng Dada was far from pleased at being challenged.

  He would take the risk, inspired by the Mao quote he had just besmirched.

  ‘Firstly, do not fear hardship, and secondly, do not fear death.’

  ‘No one lectures me, Mr Jiang. No one.’

  President Meng spat the words at his propaganda minister. The two men stood facing each other, neither flinching.

  Jiang had gambled, he knew that. His words had not been designed to provoke the president, but he could not hide his true feelings about the perilous course China was taking.

  He had made his case. He believed it was not a matter of if but when America retaliated. Despite China’s military advances, Jiang argued it was no match for the most powerful military ever assembled. He feared overreaching was about to undo all their achievements.

  ‘Mr President, I am not lecturing you. I am hoping you will see merit in my argument. I only seek to offer you my counsel in order to avoid a ruinous confrontation. We know America is trying to build an international flotilla to block our path to the islands.’

  ‘And we know it is failing. Not even its lapdog Australia will blindly follow it anymore.’

  Jiang did not back off.

  ‘Then it will act alone. All the signs point to military action.’

  The president’s face was twisted with anger and contempt.

  ‘If it does we will confront it with our navy. Again. And it will flee. Again.’

  Jiang shook his head.

  ‘On the high sea our aircraft carrier will be exposed for what it is, a training ship not ready for battle.’

  Jiang’s tone turned to pleading as he searched his leader’s face for some hint of understanding.

  ‘Mr President, all I am asking is that we move more slowly and with less aggression.’

  Suddenly the president reached out and gripped his shoulder, hard. Jiang held his gaze as Meng strengthened his hold.

  ‘I decide when this nation moves and when I do stenographers like you take notes on the history. You make records in ink, I write with my deeds.’

  Jiang drew in the foul air of the president’s breath, stale from the gold-tipped Huang He Lou cigarettes he devoured. He could see spittle on Meng’s chin, and a vein protruding in his temple testified to his rage. The leader cut a much finer figure from a distance.

  Just as suddenly, Meng relaxed his hand, patted Jiang on the cheek, smiled and returned to his desk, taking his seat before looking back at his comrade.

  ‘Mr Jiang, I will think about what you have said. Perhaps I shall talk it through with others, with the premier and ministers. Yes, I should do that, test your assertions and your views.’

  Meng made a note, as if resolved that this was the right course.

  ‘Thank you for your honesty, my friend. Your value to the homeland cannot be overstated. Now I should prepare for my next meeting and you . . . you should go and continue your fine work.’

  Jiang nodded then walked purposefully from the room.

  Perhaps his efforts to persuade the other members of the standing committee would not have been in vain. Perhaps when Meng talked to them, they would no longer be the sycophants they had lately become, interested only in reinforcing Meng’s belief in his infallibility.

  The president rubbed his hands over his cheeks, gently massaging his skin. He picked up the red phone, waited for it to be answered then issued an instruction.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Canberra

  The prime minister’s heart was pounding, her lungs burning, her body screaming for her to stop. So she pushed harder. Elizabeth Scott’s Olympian frame could handle this kind of pain.

  What tormented her was the pain she couldn’t control.

  She had stared down the leader of the free world, rejecting the US president’s plea for Australia to embrace America’s Asian escapade. Scott hadn’t said no, but she hadn’t signed up either, and while she hoped there was time for compromise, she feared there wasn’t.

  Scott tried to convince herself that asking Asta to delay had been reasonable, that the risk for her nation was immense. But the nagging truth was that she was being blackmailed by Beijing.

  She was trapped between the hammer of the United States and the anvil of China.

  As she turned towards the heights of Red Hill, the laboured breathing of her trailing security detail drew a rare grin.

  Each of her close personal protection team had been ordered into special training. But they would never be fit enough to keep pace, as every morning Scott was motivated by her own yardstick: to outrun her ‘wardens’. Because the prime minister felt she was a prisoner.

  Every minute of every day she was monitored, watched, followed. Her home was a compound behind high walls and CCTV. A camera was trained on her desk at parliament. And when she ventured outdoors, her AFP detail swung in behind her. Public events were a three-ring circus: cameras recording every action, boom microphones snaring every word.

  On the rare occasions she met with friends at a restaurant, security perched nearby and social media published every mouthful.

  Then there was the mind cage. From the moment she was sworn in as Australia’s twenty-eighth prime minister, she’d been urged to curb her small-l worldview to avoid alienating the dinosaurs who believed the Liberal Party still belonged to them. Like an actor she was tutored to remember lines crafted by B-grade scriptwriters who claimed they were in tune with ‘the punters’. In truth, their ‘instincts’ were honed by focus groups and professional pollsters.

  More than once, Elizabeth Scott had felt she was playing the lead in Canberra’s version of The Truman Show.

  As Scott neared the summit of Red Hill she paused at a lookout to check on the progress of her detail. Fifty metres in arrears. A new record. She smiled and turned back to the view.

  The rising sun lit the stainless-steel flagpole over Parliament House and shimmered across the lake. Mount Ainslie rose eucalypt green in the distance.

  The capital lay before her, glorious, enticing, intriguing. Deadly.

  It was 9pm, the fag end of another dismal day. Curled up on a lounge in her suite, Scott was leafing through a file, registering the tedium of another agricultural dispute, this one over sugar. The protectionists in the Coalition were seeking a retreat to the past. Again.

  Her working day had begun with a media grilling over the most recent poll to show her government heading for oblivion, the latest in a very long line.

  She’d delivered the rote defences, but she didn’t believe them herself. If things didn’t improve she would lead the Coalition to an epic defeat; that is, if her colleagues didn’t dump her first.

  Her mobile pinged with an unfamiliar pulse, someone sending a confidential note on Confide. She grabbed the phone, touched the message and five orange bars appeared.

  It was a welcome invitation.

  Hi.

  I know you’re in the building.

  Need to talk. Urgently.

  Shake the cops.

  And let’s pray for your soul together. At 9.30.

  Scott barely paused before replying.

  I’ll be there.

  She packed away the file and checked the time. A few minutes to freshen up. Her private bathroom was an oasis of tiny luxuries. The PM brushed her hair and touched up her makeup. Leaning in
to the mirror, she thought the lines around her eyes and on her forehead were getting deeper. This job was ageing her. She sprayed a hint of Joy on her neck.

  Scott walked briskly from her suite. As she passed the security post, the lone guard sprang to his feet.

  ‘Prime Minister, are you going somewhere?’

  ‘To stretch my legs,’ she said, motioning for him to sit. ‘Do me a favour, don’t rat on me to the AFP.’

  ‘Well, PM, if anything happens . . . it’s my job.’

  She patted his hand reassuringly.

  ‘I’m taking a short stroll inside the most secure building in Australia. There are police with automatic weapons outside. I’ll be fine. Twenty minutes.’

  ‘Okay ma’am, but please, no more than that.’

  She turned left and walked along the ministerial wing’s blue carpet then swung right into a wide corridor, her high heels echoing on timber.

  Fifty metres later she was in the heart of Parliament House: the Members’ Hall that separated the two chambers. The churn of the fountain at its centre was accentuated by the emptiness of the building. The quaint idea was that it would mask private conversations, but there were better places for clandestine meetings.

  She pressed the button on a lift door near the Senate entrance, then entered and hit ‘M’. The doors opened to one of parliament’s secret nooks: the Meditation Room, a small multi-faith chapel sandwiched between the first and second floors. Few people knew its location. Even fewer went there to pray.

  Scott stepped out to softened lights and a tall, handsome, grinning figure.

  Martin Toohey bowed mockingly. ‘Prime Minister, my party thanks you. Keep up this excellent work and Catriona Bailey will be rolling her wheelchair over your body in a year.’

  Scott returned Toohey’s greeting with a soft punch to his shoulder.

  ‘Thank you, Martin. Screwing up is now part of the incoming government brief. We found your template.’

  Toohey’s laughter was soothing.

  ‘I deserved that,’ he said. ‘Come sit with me for a minute.’

  He took her arm as they stepped into a small booth and sat on a blue-fabric bench. Toohey nodded towards a tiny glass plaque on a window ledge, inscribed with an arrow pointing south-west.

  ‘If you think Allah might help, Mecca is that way.’

  Scott shrugged. ‘High Church Anglican.’

  ‘Pity,’ said Toohey.

  ‘Anyway, my faith has been shaken by experience.’ She looked searchingly at him. ‘How’s yours?’

  ‘My faith was battered by the job, but it survived. Unlike my marriage.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that.’

  ‘Don’t be. It’s better for both of us, and happily Mum didn’t live to see her eldest son facing divorce. How’s Brian?’

  Scott leaned back against the wall and looked at the ceiling.

  ‘Distant. The media might think it’s amusing to dub someone “Denis Thatcher”, but it gets tired very fast. Let’s face it, we were never that close. He rarely comes to Canberra and when I’m not here I’m on the road.’

  Toohey placed his hand on Scott’s, sending a tingle up her arm. This simple act of intimacy brought a lump to her throat.

  ‘Marty . . .’ She paused to compose herself. ‘I don’t know what to do, who to trust. I’ve lost my confidence and that frightens me.’

  Toohey searched her face, as if looking for the scars that came with the office.

  ‘Well, I’m one of the few people who can honestly say I know the feeling.’

  He looked away and when he caught her gaze again there was urgency in his eyes.

  ‘That’s why I came. You’re in more trouble than you think. Your greatest threat isn’t even in your party.’

  Scott tilted her head and frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You said you didn’t trust anyone. Does that include Jack Webster?’

  ‘Well, no . . . yes . . . I mean I did trust him. Without question. But recently I’ve begun to worry about his advice. He’s pushing hard on something, and that disturbs me.’

  ‘Let me guess. He wants you to join a Yank-led pissing contest with the Chinese. Just like he did with me.’

  ‘Martin, you know that I can’t speak about what goes on in the NSC.’

  ‘Well then, let’s deal with the known knowns. Webster’s speech at the Press Club wasn’t just about shoring up his feminist credentials. That guy’s running for office. There’s only one job he wants, Elizabeth . . . yours.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Canberra

  Benny Hadid’s right foot was tapping like a madman’s, eight to the bar, a measure of jangled nerves. It was just after 7am and the Australian National Audit Office was creaking to life. He had already absorbed two hundred milligrams of caffeine, and he studied the shake in his hands as he booted his PC into life.

  He slid open a desk drawer and searched for a blue-and-white box. Flipping it open, he pushed a pill into his palm, then hesitated. The Xanax would calm the panic, but its side effects were brutal: a loss of appetite and overwhelming sadness.

  He had to work, though, so he popped the pill into his mouth, washing it down with another black coffee.

  For the past week he’d barely slept and the sharp angles of his face were accentuated by a darkness that spread like cheap mascara beneath his eyes. As usual, he was dressed impeccably: a crisp white Eton shirt finished with Mulberry cufflinks, a Zegna suit woven from fine wool. The expensive clothing hung loosely on his coat-hanger frame.

  The pitch of the pressure had risen as he’d applied the finishing touches to his secret dossier. He had two hours to finish it. It was his best work and it was bulletproof. After a final polish he would present it to the auditor-general, with whom he’d requested a meeting. The findings could not be ignored and would set wheels in motion that would run down Jack Webster.

  He mentally ticked off the work that still had to be done. The audit of the $8.5 billion Air Warfare Destroyer program had been immense and complex. Hadid had forensically pieced together a string of suspicious transactions. He’d chased down every dollar, checked and rechecked critical data entries and calibrated the language of his report to reflect the seriousness of the key findings.

  The audit office would red flag the project, the police would be called and it would unleash a political shitstorm.

  His screen opened to the familiar ANAO log in. He quickly typed his username and password, cursing quietly as he hit an incorrect key.

  The machine flared open to a desktop with a neat row of icons, each of them an important work avenue.

  Hadid had hidden the report deep in the audit office mainframe. He had also sent a copy to CDC2, one of the three Commonwealth data centres located around Canberra. The centres were giant hubs that collected the trillions of gigabytes sent daily through the 882-kilometre ‘dark fibre’ network known as ICON. The ANAO had been an early signatory to the Intra Government Communications Network, which now had links to nearly ninety agencies, including key defence and intelligence bureaus.

  Hadid contemplated another coffee as he opened the report’s folder. He sped through some preliminary remarks, scribbled a few notes on a pad then jumped to the main game: ‘Air Warfare Destroyer Program. Overall Conclusions.’

  His body skipped a beat and his world began to collapse.

  His mouth parted in silent horror as he absorbed what was before him. Someone, something, had been in the file, changing and deleting large sections of it.

  ‘Jesus.’ He rubbed his eyes, blinking hard, grabbing at the mouse, scrolling down the page, looking for some sign of forced entry. None.

  He backtracked, saved the file to the shared drive, then reopened it. The same. His right hand trembled as he searched for the contents page. Deleted. The Introduction. Deleted. Recommendations. Deleted.

  Two years of his life. Deleted.

  He retraced his steps from yesterday. He’d worked on the file till 7pm, then headed home
for a meal and an early night. Then till now: twelve hours. He scrolled through the file’s properties, searching for a clue. Nothing. Then he went back to the Word document, reading carefully to try to get a handle on exactly how much had been changed.

  ‘Morning, Benny.’ A colleague had arrived at his workstation next door. ‘Um, mate, you all right?’

  Hadid lowered his head, then squeaked out a barely audible ‘No’.

  The results were horrendous. Months of painstaking work, sifting through layer upon layer of Defence bullshit, checking every dollar, every balance sheet entry, and it had all been deleted or substantially amended.

  The audit into one of the most expensive procurements in the history of the Commonwealth was now useless and the criminal’s footprints had been erased.

  But Benny Hadid wasn’t the only officer in the auditor-general’s department with a problem and his wasn’t the only Commonwealth agency under attack. News was filtering in of other agencies that had lost reams of work. Back-up files had been deleted too, and teams of technicians were scrambling to limit the damage.

  Hadid slowly shook his head as he listened to the auditor-general briefing the executive team on the fallout from the cyber attack. The agency’s IT manager had confirmed that key files had been destroyed or severely damaged, internal back-up systems had been erased and the fallback – the Canberra Data Centre computers – had been infected. Hundreds of thousands of hours of irreplaceable work was gone for good.

  That other public servants had also lost precious work was of little comfort to Hadid. He was convinced the entire attack had been aimed at him.

  He felt the buzz of his mobile phone, pulling it from his pocket as the screen lit up.

  Walk to your desk. Answer the landline.

  There was no number ID.

  He did as instructed, weaving through the office, the ring of his phone getting louder as he neared his desk. Suspiciously, he scanned the room, but he was alone.

  He eyed the receiver for a few seconds. Finally he reached down to pick it up. ‘Hello?’