by Heather Rose
‘Sell Bruny?’ I frowned. I had not seen that coming.
‘Well, the three major grazing properties there are now owned by the Chinese. And there’s a Chinese Buddhist centre that’s got planning approval on the hill above the Neck on South Bruny. There are planning applications for five hotels owned by Chinese consortiums at Adventure Bay, Cloudy Bay and at the lighthouse. One of the beaches north of Adventure Bay has been leased to the same company that’s building the huge golf resort up the east coast.’
The one Farris had mentioned. ‘Will those applications be approved?’ I asked.
She nodded. ‘Almost certainly. You have to understand, there are two types of Chinese. The ones who came here to escape the Chinese Communist Party, and the ones working for the Chinese Communist Party—working to roll out the Chinese Communist Party vision around the world. The China Dream. And it feels like the first type is being outnumbered by the second in Australia right now.’
‘Tell me more,’ I said. I could feel a conspiracy theory brewing in the fresh dandelion coffee that had just been delivered to the table.
‘The Chinese are smart,’ said Amy. ‘Do you know they have this long-term vision of China as China One, Africa as China Two and Australia as China Three? They have a population problem and that means they have a food shortage coming at them, unless they start farming elsewhere. Australia has welcomed them. Well, their money at least. We’ve sold them huge tracts of farming land. And Tasmania has especially welcomed them. More of our farming land has been sold to Chinese interests than any other state of Australia.’
‘And the bridge is somehow part of that plan?’
Amy laughed. ‘Your brother signed up to the Belt and Road Initiative. We’ve become part of their plan. The bridge is being built with Chinese steel bought from a Chinese company, and it’s going to be completed by Chinese labour. The loan structure? Nobody’s telling us anything. Commercial-in-confidence. Look at the Chinese Buddhists. They’ve been here for years. They’re part of our culture now. But they film everything.’
I thought back to Jenny Singh and her concerns. ‘Why do you think they do that?’ I asked.
‘They’re tracking us,’ she said. ‘What happens to all that footage? I know we think Chinese and camera are like bread and jam, but they pan across every dignitary, every face in the crowd. You watch. I can guarantee that when the Chinese workers come, the Buddhists will put on a huge celebration. It will be like Chinese New Year. There will be dumplings and fireworks and a Chinese dragon dance. And there will be camera operators documenting every person in the crowd.
‘And you know what makes me mad?’ she added. ‘“Jobs and growth.” The answer to every problem is jobs and growth. Even if the jobs are all cleaning rooms and serving beers. I mean, is that the best we can offer our children? The Silicon Valley types and the financial whizzes, you can bet they want something more for their kids. But the rest of us? Casual labour at a measly hourly rate. No benefits. No security. That’s why the Greens are so committed to a universal basic income trial here in Tasmania. We are the poorest state. It could make such a difference here.’
Amy O’Dwyer reminded me of my daughter: passionate, smart and a product of the twenty-first century. All knowledge was available if you were willing to seek it out. If I had to guess Amy’s primary value set, it would be community, knowledge, family … after that I didn’t know.
She leaned closer. ‘You know, I once put up a dinner with myself at a fundraiser. Master Chin, the head of the Chinese Buddhists, bid for it and he won. So I go and have a very nice dinner with Master Chin and some of his community. When I got home, I found an envelope in my coat pocket that had twenty thousand dollars in it. I rang your brother and told him. Ask him. He’ll tell you. I rang him at eleven pm. And of course I gave it back. But you can imagine how seductive it was. There I am, a few glasses of wine down, in the privacy of my own home, and I discover I’m twenty thousand dollars richer.’
I gazed at her.
‘Amy,’ I said, ‘if there is some kind of organised plan to have a greater Chinese presence in Tasmania, how would the government do that? How would that get past Scrutiny and Estimates?’
‘It already has,’ she said. ‘The Chinese Buddhist retreat on South Bruny, for one. I always say, if you want to spy on people, you do it in full view. If you want to hide, you do it in a city. And if you want to have access, you do it under the guise of religion. The retreat—it’s got an electronic cage around it. Your phone drops out if you stand by the fence. Apparently they’ve put in six satellite dishes. It’s wired to the world.’
I frowned.
‘Let me tell you another story,’ she said. ‘There’re only about a dozen Tibetans in Hobart, but when we knew the Chinese president was coming to Hobart a few years back, we got together. We knew the president had an early meeting at Government House, so we set up on the corner. When he emerged, the first thing he’d see would be the Tibetan flag and photos of the Dalai Lama. We didn’t know how long he was going to be—but ten am comes and goes. Then, at ten thirty, four buses arrived full of young Chinese people. Turns out, two aeroplanes had been chartered from Melbourne for all these young, male Chinese university students, organised by the Chinese embassy. They started unfurling these huge Chinese flags—four or five metres long and two or three metres deep—on these massive wooden poles. Basically surrounded us. We were starting to feel a bit threatened. So I went over and introduced myself to the police, who were keeping an eye on all this. This is before the protest laws, of course, when we were free to do this sort of thing. I told the most senior officer, an inspector, that we were getting jostled. He said, “Well, give me a wave if it gets worse.” Within the next ten minutes, the students were trying to lever us back and we wouldn’t move. The Tibetans were getting pretty angry. I mean, you can imagine why. So I waved to the inspector, and he came over. I told him they were physically trying to move us and telling us we had no right to be here. So he goes up to the ringleader of the Chinese students and says, “Back off.” And the young man says, “No, we’re entitled to be here.” The inspector says, “These people were here first.” And the Chinese leader says, “But they’re being disrespectful. They’re waving the Tibetan flag.” The inspector hitched up his trousers, puffed out his chest and said, “Mate, in Australia you can wave any damn flag you like, wherever you like—now back off.”’
Amy grinned at me.
‘And there’s a photo,’ she said. ‘You can see us totally surrounded by a sea of Chinese. The president went past in his motorcade, and he looked me right in the eye. Me, standing there with my huge portrait of the Dalai Lama. And he knew who I was.’
She paused. ‘That inspector, by the way, is now the chief of police.’
‘But it’s too late,’ she continued. ‘Short of a coup, we’re about to get Chinese workers on the bridge day and night. We’ve already sold or leased our dairy farms and wind farms and beaches. Stanley, and now that huge development at Freycinet. Cruise ships in Wineglass Bay. Our historic landmarks, too. Heritage homes. If they’re not already gone, anything worth having is in the process of going. They’ve done it in plain sight, with government support and, in many cases, with the assistance of the very healthy bank account of the Chinese Communist Party. It’s a juggernaut. Gilbert Farris calls it chequebook colonialism and I think—’
At that moment, a very good-looking Asian man in a dark suit and striped shirt approached the table. Amy looked up and beamed. He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. She blushed. Then she turned to me. ‘Charles Lee, meet Astrid Coleman.’
‘How do you do, Astrid,’ said Charles Lee. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’ He had an American accent. West coast.
‘It’s good to meet you, Charles,’ I said, standing to shake his hand and collecting my bag to leave.
‘Oh, I thought you might have questions for Charles. He’s the communications director for Tourism Tasmania. Started four months ago. And don’t worry, h
e’s not working for the CCP. I had him vetted.’ She laughed, and he smiled.
‘She really did,’ he said.
‘You’re Chinese, Charles?’ I asked.
‘Born in San Francisco. Taiwanese parents.’
‘He’s a McKinsey boy,’ said Amy.
‘Ex-McKinsey,’ said Charles, grinning. ‘Always a sign of sanity.’
‘Between you and me,’ said Amy quietly, ‘Charles is not very happy about the Chinese Communist Party getting so much traction in Tasmania.’
‘I’m just here to sell Tasmania to the world,’ said Charles, holding his palms up.
‘And sometimes being bilingual helps?’ I asked.
He gave me a grin. ‘It does.’
The thick plottened indeed.
‘How do you feel about the current tourism numbers, Charles?’ I asked.
‘My role, as I see it, is to ensure Tasmania remains unique but the industry is also able to thrive. It’s a delicate balance. Acquisition and dispersal.’
‘You need them to come, and you need them to travel around the state?’
‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘So, although Amy doesn’t want to acknowledge it, the bridge is a key part of that strategy. The ferry is romantic. Nostalgic even. But it’s not fulfilling the needs of the passengers. The queues are too long. We need more efficient dispersal. And reasons for people to travel.’
‘We need higher-value tourism and lower numbers, in my world,’ said Amy. ‘Which makes people in government, and the industry, a little nervous.’
Charles smiled at her the way people who are newly in love do. Or maybe most people looked at Amy that way. She was ridiculously beautiful.
‘So how did you two meet?’ I asked.
‘We sat next to each other from LA to Sydney. It was serendipity! Charles was on his way to start this job,’ said Amy. ‘I’d been to see my grandparents. We are a Qantas romance.’
I wondered how JC felt about this relationship.
Amy appeared to hear my thoughts. ‘I think it’s making your brother’s government a little nervous. Afraid I’ll turn him into a greenie.’
‘And is she?’ I asked.
Charles laughed a little uncomfortably. ‘Of course not. But I love it here already.’
‘Me too,’ I said. ‘It’s home.’
It startled me, that. Was Tasmania still my home? It felt like the place had swallowed me whole. I was in a movie I’d never imagined. Roger Deakins was in charge of lighting—the epic skies, the marbled seas. Scorsese was in charge of direction—the family intrigue, the cast of character actors. But who had the plot? And, if it was a movie, someone was sure to die before that bridge was finished.
It was Friday again. I sent a text to Stephanie saying I’d be on Bruny. I caught the last ferry. Max was right. I love a mystery. Amy was right. If you want to spy on people, sometimes it’s simplest to do it in full view.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
December 1st and a large white Christmas tree had been erected in the lobby. Tinsel and baubles were strung along the reception desk. The whole crazy thing seemed to start earlier every year, and come round faster. I greeted Michelle, the early-morning regular on the front desk, and swiped myself through. Then I rode the elevator to the tenth floor, where JC and his team had their offices. Here too a Christmas tree had been situated in the waiting area, this one smaller, dark green and heavily adorned in gold. The meeting with the Chinese delegation was scheduled for 9 am. It was just after 7 am. I took care of some paperwork and emails in my office, then emerged at 8.45 am.
Frank Pringle was adjusting his tie in a mirror in reception.
‘You arrived early,’ he said.
‘I did, Frank. No rest for the wicked.’
He looked a little wired, Frank. Maybe it was a post-gym flush, or maybe it was a little white powder to start the day.
Moments later, two swarthy men with receding hairlines and pinstriped suits came through the doors from the lift lobby. One was the federal Minister for National Protection, Aiden Abbott, who had been in that first meeting I’d attended the day after I’d arrived. Aid-n-Abet—the most powerful man in Australia bar the prime minister. Some said even more powerful. Basically, anything that happened on Australian soil, or in surrounding waters, or wherever he chose to focus his gaze, was part of his portfolio. Abbott’s aide looked so like Abbott that I could only assume he’d been hired specifically for that reason. The man on his heels was Barney Viper, deeply conservative federal Tasmanian senator and puppet master of the Tasmanian Liberals; JC’s Maker, so I was told.
Viper had a trowel-shaped face with large teeth, a pallid complexion and an unsavoury reputation as a bully. He had also been blessed with a voice that belonged to a cartoon hyena. He was accompanied by Gavin Plumb, Tasmanian Minister for Infrastructure, who was almost as fat as JC but only half his height. Max called him Tweedle-Plumb. Forgive me if I don’t seem to like politicians, family aside.
The last to arrive were the Chinese. An older man in a dark suit and red tie was introduced as Gao Enzhu. He was accompanied by a younger woman, May Chen, and a young man whose name was simply given as Edwin. It seemed the older man was the representative of the Chinese government, and Chen and Edwin were aides but I immediately pegged May Chen as secret service. Edwin too. May Chen was the sort of lean, serene Asian beauty designed to reinforce all those stereotypes men had of Asian women. But I glimpsed a tattoo on the underside of her wrist, and when she held out her hand to me, her eyes were warm.
JC emerged from behind the closed door of his office at 8.55 am accompanied by two members of staff. He was wearing a navy double-breasted suit that only enhanced his impressive corpulence. I noted a silver dragon tiepin on his blue tie. The dragon appeared to have glowing ruby eyes. I wasn’t sure this was such a good choice in the present company, but maybe it had been a gift from a previous Chinese delegation.
A small forest had been felled to achieve the polished panels, table, sideboards, chairs and parquetry floor of the premier’s boardroom. Myrtle, sassafras, blackwood, Huon pine. Even the large video screen, upon which an artist’s impression of the completed bridge was hovering, had a timber surround. On the boardroom table was a silver platter of large Tasmanian-shaped biscuits, iced and topped with hundreds and thousands.
JC took his place at the head of the table with the view out over the river behind him. A mistake, I thought. First, he was partly in silhouette. And second, it was so enticing to look at the sparkling river and not at my brother.
It was the sort of day Tasmania does well. A little breeze was catching on the river’s surface, sending the morning light into paroxysms of pleasure. A few white clouds decorated the vivid blue Southern Ocean sky. It was a day that looked as if all would be well. Julian of Norwich, a nun who had taken a man’s name, as was customary at the time, had immortalised these words: All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.
If only it were true. Still, the words had been like a mantra through the devastation in South Sudan, the horrors of Myanmar, the ravages of Mosul, the savagery in Nigeria, the brutality in Turkey and … all shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.
I drew my thoughts back into the room. JC was waxing on the significance of this meeting. He had our father’s wavy fair hair that had greyed to silver and the same grey eyes. He hadn’t always been a big man, JC. As a teenager, he’d been a rower, tall and well-built. Even into his thirties, he’d been fit. This morning he was articulate, charming, and a little dull. The benevolent leader with the best interests of his people at heart.
There it was again. Altruism. It was only ever a short step between believing you are the right leader to believing you are the only leader for your people. Mussolini in Italy, Hitler in Germany, Putin in Russia, Trump in America, Erdogan in Turkey, and now the Eternal Fragrant President of China. Left or right, it didn’t matter. We can rattle off a few bad women leaders over the years, but the list
of deplorable men has been endless.
Frank Pringle took over from JC to walk everyone through the current status of the investigation into the bombing. There were a couple of leads but nothing concrete and no arrests. Apparently ASIO was now involved. Interpol, too. I would have thought there had been ASIO agents here since day one, assessing the scene, but I said nothing.
‘The federal police think it unlikely it was done from a Tasmanian base,’ Frank said.
Next, Tweedle-Plumb went through the logistics of the foreign workers. Their accommodation would be at a recently decommissioned refugee camp. The camp was out of town and surrounded by a six-metre cyclone-wire fence topped with razor wire. There was twenty-four-hour surveillance. The federal police were contributing extra security to bolster the Tasmanian resources, but it was hoped it wouldn’t be needed.
There was a short interchange between the older Chinese man, Gao Enzhu, and May Chen.
‘How much resistance are you expecting?’ May Chen asked in her Oxford English.
Viper spoke. ‘None. That’s why Doctor Coleman is here. We have employed her to ensure any dissent is nipped in the bud. Historically, Tasmanians are a peaceable people. That’s why Cadbury built its empire here in the early 1900s. Yes, we’ve had our share of protests, but they were drummed up by radical leftists. Ridiculous short-sighted protests by economic vandals. But the Tasmanian people want this bridge completed. The latest poll shows that overwhelmingly. Up another eight per cent since the bridge was bombed. Protesters are almost entirely made up of Bruny shack owners and channel residents. And the Greens. They’re no match for this government.’
May Chen translated this and the older man spoke. She listened and then said, ‘We think it would be unwise to underestimate the potential loss of public sympathy for the bridge—following the bombing—when Tasmanians are faced with a foreign workforce being bussed through Hobart to the bridge every day. Also, we must consider those working onsite. Such a sight, with foreign workers, has never before been seen in Australia.’