The Mandarin Code (42 page)

‘Forty minutes ago a delegation of Labor MPs came to my office, led by the Foreign Minister. They had a petition bearing the names of thirty-six party members calling for a special Caucus meeting to be convened next week, for a spill of positions and a leadership ballot.

‘It is my prerogative as leader to call a ballot at any time. I have decided that this matter should be resolved today. These are serious times. We face serious domestic and international challenges. The Australian people deserve stability. The ballot will be held at 7pm.'

Toohey ignored the cacophony as he left. He walked back through his office suite and was met by George Papadakis, carrying a folder of briefs.

‘Shouldn't you be on the Opposition's payroll?'

It was four minutes to Question Time. Harry Dunkley had intercepted Toohey as he emerged from his office. He'd been camped outside, knowing that the PM would take that route to the chamber.

The Australian'
s disgraced former correspondent had been gunning for the government for months. Now he'd overreached and been benched. As far as Toohey was concerned, it was a tiny shard of light in an ocean of darkness.

‘I have to speak with you PM, it's urgent.'

‘Mate, I don't have time to speak to you.'

Toohey was walking fast and George Papadakis was heaving along beside him. An AFP officer was eyeing Dunkley suspiciously, ready to step in if the journalist pushed too hard.

‘Martin. You need to hear this. You've been set up. It wasn't the Chinese behind those cyber-attacks, it was the Americans.'

The Prime Minister stopped and fronted Dunkley. ‘Sure, mate, sounds completely logical. If I haven't made myself clear, I don't trust you or that shit sheet you used to work for. I'm not interested in anything you have to say.'

Suddenly two metres of close personal protection stood between the Prime Minister and Dunkley.

Question Time was in full fury as Dunkley pulled up a chair at a near-empty Aussies. He stirred his flat white, gazing at the televised theatrics playing out just a few hundred metres away.

A weakened Toohey was in no position to exploit the Opposition's leadership change. Every question lashed the raw wound of his collapsed China gas deal.

‘My question is to the Prime Minister. Can he tell the House where he will find six billion dollars a year to fund his mental health plan now that the Chinese have abandoned his misguided attempt to underwrite it by selling off the farm?'

The troops were in full voice, urging their new leader, Bruce Landry, into the fray. Across the aisle, Labor MPs stewed in sullen silence. In a wide shot of the House they could be seen huddled in conversation, working out the numbers for the ballot that would come within hours.

Dunkley always thought Question Time's mock outrage played as a satirical take on the famous opening from
A Tale of Two Cities
. Here the government saw the nation as enjoying the best of times, while the Opposition viewed it as the worst. The truth lay somewhere in between.

For Dunkley though, these were pitiful days.

He glanced at his watch. It was nearly 3pm and the sedate Senate Question Time would be finishing soon. Dunkley contemplated how he might approach the man who had lied to him. The once trusted source who had destroyed his career.

The journalist hadn't thrown a punch in anger in years, but thought maybe that would be a good way to start. He thought better of it as he approached the Defence Minister leaving the Senate chamber.

‘Why did you do it, Brendan?' Dunkley's voice was soft, cold fury.

Ryan waved away his senior adviser and turned to front Dunkley.

‘Mate, I thought the golden rule in journalism was to always check a story with multiple sources. What happened?'

‘Fair point. Maybe I should be punished for that. But usually the starting point isn't a Cabinet minister lying to my face. I've always trusted you, Brendan.'

‘Well, more fool you. Mate, you've been playing in the big league for a long time. You should know better than most that sometimes we do things that damage people. So be it. There are more important things than your front-page splash.'

Ryan jabbed a finger close to Dunkley's chest.

‘You live for the thrill of the chase, Harry, and you don't mind who you fuck over to get a story. How many people have
you
hurt? How many careers have
you
destroyed? You thought you were doing the right thing. So did I. My job's to defend the nation and I take it seriously.'

‘So I was a threat and you eliminated me.'

‘If you say so. But try and get this past your ego. It's not about you. It's much bigger than you. Now I'm busy, mate, and I don't have time for has-been hacks.'

Canberra

The black Citroën appeared just after 6pm.

Harry Dunkley tensed as the greyhound-sleek figure of Charles Dancer emerged, camouflaged in the mundane suit of a bureaucrat. The spook checked his letterbox for mail, then slipped inside.

Dunkley waited five minutes, trying to steady his nerves. The path to the front door was paved with brick, a meander pattern diagonally laid across the metre-wide passage. A black metal door-bell waited to be chimed. Dunkley didn't hesitate.

He stiffened as the bell clanged. A surge of adrenalin drove up his heart-rate, his right fist clenched white.

The door opened. Dunkley lunged. Dancer swayed like a boxer, let the blow pass and then pushed hard between Dunkley's shoulder blades. The journalist slammed into the cold tiles. As he rolled, a foot crashed on his chest, pinning him to the floor. A gun was trained on his face.

‘I've been expecting you, Harry. And yes, it's loaded.'

Dancer sat, imperious, opposite the journalist, a fourth-generation Glock 17 on his lap.

‘Didn't I say to you once before that you were out of your depth?'

Dunkley was hurting. His mouth tasted of blood, his hip and left knee ached. He wondered whether he'd broken his wrist, but wasn't about to give his adversary the pleasure of knowing.

‘Charles, I've met some liars in my time but no one like you.'

‘Oh? How have I deceived you, Harry? I showed you Bruce Paxton was corrupt and dangerous. You proved he was. I've shown you that China is a threat. That's beyond doubt.'

‘Maybe, Charles. But you never mentioned the Alliance. Not once. It took our friend Kimberley to discover that.'

‘Tell me what's wrong with a group of patriots looking at the long game? Yes, I work for them and I'm proud of it. They're the generals and I'm their footsoldier.'

‘But whose side are you on? Australia's? The United States'?'

‘Both. Don't kid yourself like some neophyte. We need the US, much more than it needs us. These are the most dangerous days of our lifetime. China threatens everything.'

Dunkley probed the inside of his cheek and felt a gash where his teeth had cut the soft inside flesh of his mouth.

‘And you're prepared to bring down a government. A prime minister. To lie and scheme, just like your bosses have been doing, for what? Nearly fifty years.'

‘No, Harry.' Dancer's voice was firm. ‘I've made you an agent of truth, alerting the Australian people to the threat. This government's fate is now in their hands.'

‘What about the Lusitania Plan? Lives were threatened. Is that the work of a patriot?'

‘No lives were in danger. We just showed a glimpse of the future. And make no mistake, our man in the lake, Lin An, was trying to warn us about the country he was fleeing. That embassy is a wormhole. China has tapped into our Five Eyes intelligence. Their stooge Catriona Bailey opened the door. There's a war going on, Harry, and the front line is here.'

Dunkley cursed himself as the reality of how badly he'd misread Dancer sank in.

‘I've been your pawn.' Dunkley's admission was barely a rasp.

‘You've played your role to perfection. And what do we do with pawns? We sacrifice them for the chance of victory.'

‘Who else have you sacrificed? Kimberley?'

Dancer's arrogance wavered. He lifted the Glock with his right hand, as if he needed a shield.

Dunkley took a risk. ‘Charles, I thought the three of us were working as a team.'

Dancer's control was faltering.

‘She should have kept her investigation to Paxton's Chinese links. That was her job. Her duty. That's what we expected her to do.'

‘But she didn't. You couldn't control her. She was an individual and asked uncomfortable questions. Like who would want Paxton eliminated?'

Dancer's hand betrayed him with the slightest of trembles.

‘And now I wonder who would want to eliminate
her
?' Dunkley pointed at Dancer. ‘Maybe you.'

Dancer stood and began to prowl the room, shifting his gun from hand to hand, avoiding eye contact with his captive.

‘We are at war, Mr Dunkley.' His voice was harsh. ‘The enemy is clear. Kimberley was never satisfied with accepting things as they are. As with her body, she forced them to fit her warped ideal. Her judgement was clouded. She threatened the project.'

Dunkley pushed harder. ‘She threatened you. Confronted you with what you are. And you killed her.'

Dancer stopped. His head dropped and he inspected the gun in his right hand.

‘I did.' The admission came as a shock, to Dancer as much as Dunkley. The killer turned to the journalist and his eyes shone deadly with hate and fury.

‘Every day I feel the guilt of that. But it was my duty. People die in wars.'

Dancer pulled back the slide on his pistol, dragging a bullet from the magazine into the handgun's chamber.

‘And, Harry, never forget who got her involved. I pulled the trigger, but you loaded the gun. You didn't care that helping you compromised her. You were chasing the only thing that's ever mattered to you. A front-page story.'

Dancer aimed the Glock at Dunkley.

‘Now you are a threat. And my job is eliminating threats.'

Dunkley could see the fragility behind Dancer's facade. A man who hated himself and took out his rage on real and imagined enemies. But that was precisely what made him deadly. Dancer's masters used his self-loathing as their weapon.

Dunkley did not doubt his life was in the balance. A shudder of terror swept through him and his heart pounded. But he was surprised by the strength and defiance in his voice.

‘Go on, kill me too.'

The spy dropped his hands.

‘I don't have to kill you. You're already dead. No one will ever believe another word that you write. And you have no pages to write for.'

The truth of Dancer's words stung.

‘I don't need a paper to expose your evil. I'll publish on the web. Everything I know. Everything.'

Dancer laughed, a rich baritone of ridicule, before throwing the Glock onto the lounge.

‘And then, Harry, you'll be just another nut job on the internet.'

Canberra

‘It's a lovely view, isn't it, Brendan?'

The soft croak of her voice was nearly unrecognisable.

Catriona Bailey gazed out the window of a Senate office overlooking the lake. Her body had withered. She looked brittle, her skin like crushed paper, her hands reduced to tiny movements.

A battered rag doll in a motorised wheelchair.

Yet to Brendan Ryan she loomed as a grisly succubus. In his worst nightmares, the Labor warlord never dreamed he'd be having this meeting.

So this is what it's like to bargain with Satan.

Her left hand pushed a lever and an electric motor whirred as Bailey moved to face the Defence Minister. Her body might be broken but her eyes were a blaze of steel and resolve.

These eyes that had been her resurrection.

‘They tell me you find it difficult to speak for long,' Ryan ventured.

‘The tracheotomy did a lot of damage. I can talk for about five minutes. Then I have to stop.'