The Shadow Game

by Steve Lewis

  ‘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.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  Canberra

  ‘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.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  Canberra

  It would be celebrated as one of Australia’s most memorable tabloid headlines.

  BUNGA BUNGA AT BURRA BURRA

  Sydney’s Daily Telegraph had whipped itself into a frenzy over the sordid escapades of Jack Webster and his harem of nubile accomplices.

  The sub-head left nothing to the imagination.

  Big brass caught with pants down

  Without crediting Dunkley, the paper had reprinted the photo of a handcuffed Webster being dragged into a black van. It had conveniently got its tabloid paws on a high-definition video of a sex romp, recorded by the secret cameras Webster had installed inside his fortress.

  The footage of Emily Brooks, starring in all the wrong ways, had gone viral.

  While the Sydney tabloid was predictably lurid, The Australian cleared five pages to dissect the fall of Australia’s military boss at a time of global crisis. The broadsheet was torn on whether to lead with the arrest of Webster or the exchange of fire between America and China.

  In the end it married the two in a headline blasted across the entire eight columns of its front page.

  WEBSTER FALLS AS WORLD REELS FROM MAY DAY WAR

  But they were all playing catch-up to Dunkley who had documentary proof to back every explosive claim – and an apparent hotline to impeccable contacts.

  As the morning papers were being opened, the Canberra Times’ ace correspondent was on the move again, filing an online story with the smoking revelation that one of Webster’s high-priced escorts was just sixteen.

  Dunkley also reported that Brooks had been questioned by police, but released without charge.

  Dunkley had largely left the sex romp to the tabloids and focused instead on the political charges the Liberal powerbroker had to answer. He quoted high-level sources claiming there was a secret plot by Brooks to recruit Webster to parliament to topple the prime minister.

  Dunkley wrote that Brooks and Webster had been conspiring to release ‘concocted information’ suggesting that Scott had commissioned the infamous Brooks sex tape.

  ASIO had examined material purporting to show the PM’s involvement, but declared it fake, he reported.

  ‘There is no gutter too low for Brooks and Webster,’ the source told the Canberra Times.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  Canberra

  The Glock was reassuring, its familiar weight nestled into the left side of his chest, the holster strapped around his shoulder, pulled in tight.

  He looked up at the sky. The morning was sombre and grey, threatening rain. Above th
e parliament, the Australian flag rustled in a slight breeze.

  The forecourt was alive, ready to formally welcome the Japanese prime minister. It was 0955 and the official party had assembled in front of the main doors. The former prime minister Martin Toohey was a special guest.

  The warrior scanned the crowd. The head of the AFP’s Close Personal Protection Unit – a friend – had been thorough. Uniformed and plain clothes agents mingled with the onlookers and he mentally mapped their positions.

  He’d called last night and his friend had welcomed the offer: it would be good to have one more set of eyes.

  Across the forecourt, five cannons stood poised to fire a 19-gun salute for the Japanese leader. The Federation Guard was assembled in neat ranks, awaiting inspection. He knew there was not a single round in any of the gleaming chrome-plated magazines on their L1A1 Self-Loading Rifles.

  Two Australian Federal Police officers stood at a distance of twenty metres either side of the official party, armed with Heckler & Koch G36 NATO battle rifles. And these ones were loaded.

  He blended with a cluster of staffers and media standing just behind the official party. He glanced at his watch. Precisely 1000. The bollards at the right corner of the courtyard lowered, allowing Shinzo Abe and his entourage to drive the short distance to the waiting dignitaries.

  Dressed in a dark suit, the beaming Japanese leader emerged to be greeted by Elizabeth Scott in a flattering blue dress. She introduced him to the official party before the acting Chief of the Defence Force guided him through the ranks of the Federation Guard.

  As the Japanese anthem began, the warrior drifted closer. When the first strains of ‘Advance Australia Fair’ sounded, he placed his hand over his heart, his fingers resting on the gun beneath his jacket.

  There was a command from the edge of the forecourt. The first of the cannons roared.

  He saw the blaze from the muzzle and the puff of smoke as the second boom sounded.

  Shot number 3. Without fuss, he moved a few paces nearer.

  The target was in sight. Shot number 4.

  He reached into his jacket and gripped the Glock’s handle, pushing open the release on his Kydex holster as the fifth shot fired.

  It was time. As the sixth shot roared he pulled the Glock from the holster, stepped in front of the dignitaries and fired.

  As the second bullet ripped through the target’s skull, his ribs were crunched. He hit the gravel hard, but rolled to his feet, gun in hand. Screams rang out as someone yelled ‘Everybody down’. To his right, a rifle cracked twice.

  Charles Dancer had always wondered what death would feel like.

  ‘It is my sombre duty to announce that the Leader of the Federal Opposition was pronounced dead at Canberra Hospital a short time ago.’

  Elizabeth Scott bore the evidence of Australia’s first federal political assassination. Her dress was torn and smeared with blood and a bandaged elbow showed where she’d struck the ground.

  ‘Many things divide us in politics. Most are trivial. Australia is a great nation because we settle our disputes with arguments, not weapons.

  ‘That changed today. We are the poorer for it, but great nations are not dictated to by events. They meet challenges and overcome them.

  ‘Whatever our differences, Catriona Bailey was a great Australian and a visionary leader of her party. She will be accorded every honour.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this was the act of a lone madman. Charles Dancer had served as an Australian diplomat. At this stage we have no idea what his motivation was and I will not speculate.

  ‘Prime Minister Abe is safe, and after discussion he has agreed that his trip will proceed as planned.’

  As Scott turned to leave the press conference, a reporter yelled out, ‘Prime Minister, you tackled the gunman. Are you a hero?’

  She stopped for a moment.

  ‘This isn’t about me.’

  PORTRAIT OF A KILLER

  The page-one profile of Charles Dancer spilled to page five, and ran to nearly three thousand five hundred words.

  Among a host of explosive claims, Dunkley reported that Dancer was an active Australian agent who’d answered directly to the disgraced former defence chief, Jack Webster.

  Recruited straight from university to the Australian Secret Intelligence Service, Dancer had caught the attention of the up-and-coming air force officer in the late 1990s.

  In 2000, Webster had penned a secret report, arguing that the emerging threat to the West was Islamic terror and it demanded a unique response. He recommended the establishment of a cross-discipline unit drawn from the Special Air Service Regiment, Special Forces and intelligence agencies.

  They would be the nation’s licensed assassins.

  Soon after 9/11, the plan was ticked off by the defence minister without reference to the prime minister. Dunkley explained that this was unusual, but not exceptional: it gave the leader deniability. The only people in the know were the minister and his four defence chiefs.

  The ultra-secret Reconnaissance Liaison Branch was born and Dancer was one of its first recruits.

  Quoting ‘Air Chief Marshal Jack Webster’s personal files’, Dunkley detailed Dancer’s many missions and his unique qualities.

  The agent’s psychological assessment showed he was a patriot with exceptional intelligence. It cautioned that he was ‘driven by rage’, but that neatly fitted with the purposes of the unit, because ‘he will carry out any order’.

  At the end of the long feature, Dunkley had insisted on a special and unusual tagline: Research by Trevor Harris. May he now rest in peace.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  Canberra

  ‘Yes mate, yes mate – might be getting ahead of ourselves, though. Are the unions on board?’

  The powerbroker’s animated conversation reached Harry Dunkley’s ears as he opened the Labor MP’s office door.

  Brendan Ryan motioned for Dunkley to enter, then signalled he needed a little more time.

  ‘Well, check it out. We’ll need ’em before we get serious.’

  The MP dropped his phone on the desk and clapped his hands.

  ‘Ding dong, the wicked witch is dead. Now maybe we’ll get a decent leader.’ He winked. ‘Bit of support coming my way.’

  Dunkley placed his iPad on the coffee table as he took a seat.

  ‘Glad to see you’re not overcome by grief, Brendan.’

  Ryan laughed, shuffled out from behind his desk and slumped onto a leather lounge.

  ‘Come on, Harry, everyone hated Bailey. The game is wide open now and the comrades are talking about generational change.’

  The journalist laughed. ‘Downer was generational change. People in here are always talking up generational change. But nothing really changes.’

  Ryan was insistent. ‘You know me. I could make a difference.’

  Dunkley met his eye. ‘You’re right. I do know you.’

  He opened his iPad and handed it to Ryan.

  ‘I was wondering if you could have a read of a story I’m working on.’

  ‘Sure.’

  The story chronicled the exploits of a Labor leadership aspirant who was part of a secretive shadow government called the Alliance. The cabal comprised senior defence, intelligence and political figures. For years it had been manipulating Australian governments to march in lockstep with the Stars and Stripes. Its mastermind was Jack Webster, who’d orchestrated a series of cyber attacks on Australian government agencies that had been attributed to the Chinese and had contributed to the fall of the Labor prime minister Martin Toohey.

  An ashen-faced Ryan put down the device.

  ‘I’m thinking of going to print tomorrow. What do you reckon, Brendan?’

  Ryan lumbered to his feet. ‘I helped you nail Jack Webster—’

  ‘Only because you thought Webster was going to kill you,’ Dunkley responded. ‘Nothing before that bothered you.’

  ‘Webster was a demagogue who used the Alliance for his own
ends,’ Ryan shouted. ‘And don’t pretend this nation doesn’t face real threats and needs a powerful friend.’

  ‘You know, Brendan, I don’t doubt that. But I prefer to leave our foreign policy to the democratic roll of the dice.’

  Dunkley picked up the iPad.

  ‘So do I press send or delete?’

  Ryan’s face hardened as he spat out his words.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Genuine change. It’s time for you to spend more time with your family.’

  The Labor hard man’s bravado evaporated as he collapsed back onto the lounge.

  Dunkley stood to leave. ‘You once told me that defending the nation was your most important job, and that you took it seriously. Well, Brendan, so do I.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  The fallout from Harry Dunkley’s reporting ricocheted around the world.

  Powerful men who had thought themselves immune to prosecution began to tremble.

  Daily, the journalist revealed the names of the mandarins in the Five Eyes intelligence community who’d been conspiring against their own governments.

  In London, the head of MI6 was hauled before the Intelligence and Security Committee of Parliament to answer claims that he had been acting without proper authority.

  The Director of the Canadian Security Intelligence Service was arrested and charged with breaching the nation’s Official Secrets Act.

  Across the Tasman, New Zealand’s chief spy was stripped of his office after he was found to have acted against the national interest.

  But the biggest scalp was in Washington, where the vice president was hauled before the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. In front of a packed congressional hearing televised live, Morgan McDonald delivered a tour de force, railing against the liberal media and its ‘endless undermining of the state’s ability to protect itself’.

  In a moment played and replayed on American primetime, the flint-hard career politician was captured slamming his fist into the table as he hollered his defiance.