by Steve Lewis
‘As you said, it can only have been Russia or China and I don’t buy the idea that the timing was a coincidence,’ she said. ‘It’s still our best link to a state-based act of war and time is running out.’
Asta and Big Mac had an enemy they wished to target in mind, but they needed sufficient cause to strike. Their sights were set on China, because both wanted to avenge the humiliation of the retreat of the USS George Washington from the Taiwan Strait.
Asta was tired of pussyfooting around. ‘Start building the case,’ she ordered McDonald. ‘Pull together anything that points to China. The fact that the assassination was so professional proves the killer had military training. Start there, then weave in the Star Wars strike.’
Big Mac shook his head.
‘We have to have a credible motive. Why would the Chinese do it? The Taiwan Strait neutered Jackson. He was their patsy. They would have been happy if he’d won the next election.’
Asta smiled.
‘You surprise me, Morgan. Establishing a motive is the easy part. He who controls the present controls the past and there is nothing the useful idiots in the media love more than classified documents. The best thing about them is that we never comment when they are leaked. Well, not on the record anyway.’
By the sedate standards of the New York Times, the report on the paper’s front page the next morning was breathless.
CHINA KNEW OF SECRET PLAN TO AVENGE TAIWAN STRAIT
Dozens of top secret documents reveal Beijing knew of Pentagon plans to provide military backing to the Philippines and Vietnam to help reclaim disputed islands in the South China Sea.
The covert plan was authorised by the slain president, Earle Jackson. He intended to mount the operation as he pushed for re–˜election, in order to regain the nation’s confidence as commander in chief.
Senior government sources claim the secret plan explains why China is rumoured to be on the verge of deploying warplanes and other military hardware to the islands.
A spokesman for the White House said that it was the policy of the administration not to comment on matters of national security.
One senior White House official, who spoke on condition of anonymity, said the administration was furious at the leak, which has been described as the worst since former government contractor Edward Snowden released thousands of classified documents in 2013.
‘But it might explain why someone would want to kill the president,’ the official said. ‘And the strike against our military satellites could only have come from a foreign power.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Canberra
It wasn’t Canberra’s fanciest hotel, but it was his favourite. The Kurrajong traced its history back ninety years, to when it had served as the residence-of-choice for public servants dragged from Melbourne when federal parliament was relocated in 1927.
Martin Toohey loved its old-world charm, laidback service and its nod to the nation’s political heritage. Here, in room 205, Australia’s sixteenth prime minister, Ben Chifley, died one cold night in June 1951, plunging the young nation into mourning.
Toohey liked to imagine Chifley sitting in front of the open fire, smoking his pipe, something that would get him arrested in this censorious and risk-averse age.
The former prime minister was still moved whenever he thought of the words of Sir Robert Menzies who ended federal parliament’s jubilee ball when he received the news of Chifley’s death, saying, ‘Although we were political opponents he was a great friend of mine.’
Menzies’s fine words testified to the fact that strange alliances were born in the national capital. When Harry Dunkley arrived, Toohey would put him up for a few days in one of the first-floor rooms.
His musing was ended by the blast of a car horn as Linda pulled into the driveway.
Toohey settled into the soft leather seat of the car and knew he wouldn’t have to worry about making conversation for the next twenty minutes or so.
‘Mr Toohey, have I got news for you.’
‘What news, Linda?’
‘That property at Burra,’ his driver said, ‘it belongs to Jack Webster. He spent a fortune on it by all accounts, must be planning to retire there. Guess he can afford it given the pile he gets paid and the fact that he gets his house, his food and his car for free.’
Toohey raised an eyebrow. ‘Spending a fortune on a property just out of town makes him no different from a few dozen senior public servants who I know, Linda.’
She scoffed. ‘Yeah, but name the winery that has security gates, cameras and a fence built for a fortress. That guy must be paranoid. And he’s a creature of habit: goes out there every weekend when he’s in Canberra.’
‘Does he go alone when the Yanks aren’t there?’
Linda gave a knowing wink.
‘Not always.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Canberra
The speaker’s face flushed scarlet as she bellowed to be heard above the din of the gum-green chamber, battling to bring it to heel.
‘Order! Order! The leader of the opposition will cease interjecting or I will expel her under 94A.’
A rampant Labor Party could smell blood and couldn’t contain its animal spirits. When the fight is joined – and the House of Representatives is full – the roar is physical, a battle cry designed to demoralise and overwhelm the enemy.
The target was the wounded prime minister, Elizabeth Scott. Her ‘Knightmare’ blunder had made her a national punchline. Her backbench was the antithesis of Labor’s: the Coalition MPs were mostly mute, busying themselves with paperwork or flicking through iPhone messages as their leader was devoured.
‘Madam Speaker, I was simply reminding the prime minister that any honourable woman should avoid one “knight” stands.’
Labor howled itself sick as Catriona Bailey smirked at her pitiful pun.
Elizabeth Scott had resumed her seat in the middle of answering a question as the speaker sought to calm the chamber. A two-metre-wide table separated her from Bailey, and Scott marvelled at her opponent. Close up, Bailey looked like a horror movie fiend: a pale and wizened witch on a motorised broomstick, her bloodstream filled with the drugs that kept her alive, all pumped through a heart made of ice.
Bailey caught Scott’s gaze and mouthed ‘You’re dead’ as she dragged her thumb across her throat.
It hurt because it was true. Scott had a fingernail grip on power. She led a divided and weak government, hamstrung by its mistakes and unable to garner the confidence of the people. If she kept trailing in the polls and her demoralised backbench could settle on a credible alternative, she would inevitably face a leadership challenge.
The clip of Scott’s heels echoed off the glass walls of the walkway from the chamber. Question Time was mercifully over and Scott was already mentally rehearsing the next encounter which she knew would be just as bruising.
She turned left onto the wooden floor of the Members’ Hall. The vast expanse at the heart of Parliament House was her favourite part of the building, but she was too lost in her worries to admire it now. Head down, she strode to the Cabinet Room.
The attorney-general’s face was frozen between astonishment and rage. Andrew North was a South Australian who had a colourful turn of phrase and a high-camp delivery. For once he struggled for words.
‘You can’t . . . I mean . . . what were you thinking?’
‘I was thinking of the security of this nation, Andrew.’ Scott had decided simply to declare her hand and slap down resistance from the weak men in her Cabinet. ‘The Japanese build the best conventional submarines in the world. Making them in Japan will save billions and the Chief of the Defence Force recommended it.’
The attorney struggled to regain his composure.
‘With all due respect to the CDF, he is not a politician and there are serious political considerations.’ There was nothing flamboyant in North’s tone now; Scott could see he was simmering with rage.
‘Thousands o
f South Australian jobs are tied up at the Australian Submarine Corporation. And can I remind you that already your flat-earth, laissez-faire approach to Holden has ensured car manufacturing will shut down in my state.’
North held up the Cabinet-in-Confidence brief on the submarine plan before theatrically dropping it on the table. Scott had taken a risk by not circulating it before the meeting, but had wagered that Cabinet anger would be easier to handle than a pre-emptive leak.
‘Is it your goal to lose every South Australian seat?’
‘Don’t be a drama queen, Andrew,’ Scott snapped. ‘Pick up the brief and read it properly. There will still be plenty of ship-building jobs in Adelaide. More than there are now, in fit-out and maintenance. Even guaranteeing that is against my better judgement because, frankly, I wouldn’t trust the ASC to build a canoe.’
The defence minister shuffled in his seat and cleared his throat. Scott knew this Western Australian would be weighing the ever-declining iron ore price in every word of his advice. His state was already suffering from a slowdown in Chinese demand.
‘I think we all agree on that, although no one would ever be daft enough to say it publicly.’
His tone darkened as he continued.
‘There are two deeper issues. This is a captain’s call that commits $30 billion on our biggest ever defence build. You have made a mockery of Cabinet and due process. But it’s worse than that. The Chinese will see a Japanese build as a strategic alliance with a hated East Asian rival. Make no mistake, Prime Minister: China will view this as an act of aggression and feel compelled to retaliate.’
Scott gazed around the table at the sullen group.
‘I understand the complexities, and forgive me if I have trampled on the niceties, but I think this is manageable.’
The prime minister had built her pitch around appealing to the national interest, but she feared parochial considerations would trump her. This would be a hard sell for any leader, but near impossible for one with no political capital.
‘Our message is simple.’ Scott struggled to suppress the pleading tone in her voice.
‘We want the best sub at the best price and our sole aim is protecting the legitimate maritime interests of the largest island on Earth. It is a defensive play, not directed at any country.’
She looked at each minister in turn as she pressed home her case.
‘All we need to do is take our time, work out our strategy and then communicate effectively both to the Australian people and the Chinese. It can’t be that hard.’
The attorney-general rolled his eyes and let out a pantomime sigh.
‘You’re right, of course, PM. Because we have done all that so well in the past.’
He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
‘And, dear leader, with you at the helm, what could possibly go wrong?’
Scott ignored the jibe and closed her folder. The meeting was over.
‘The first thing is to ensure that not a word of this leaks until I hit the “go” button.’
Scott stood, rested both hands on the table and leaned towards the attorney.
‘Can we at least manage that?’
As Scott walked across the corridor from the Cabinet Room to her suite, she consoled herself by reflecting that such an unpleasant day could not possibly get worse.
Her personal assistant intercepted her in the entrance lounge, wearing a cat-just-messed-the-floor look.
‘Emily Brooks would like a word.’
‘Perfect, yes, why not.’ Scott threw up her hands, scattering top secret briefs from her folder. ‘Bring in the Jim Jones Kool-Aid and we’ll make a party of it,’ she said, as she slammed the door to her office.
Brooks was a head taller than Scott, standing an imperial six feet in her stockings. In heels she towered over many men and most women. She dressed impeccably, but her wardrobe consisted almost entirely of pants suits in navy blue and black. She kept her hair long, often tying it back in a ponytail, and dyed it just a shade above charcoal.
Her face was handsome but stern, and as she’d aged lines from a lifetime of frowning had hardened it. She wore dark shadow around her deep-brown eyes which gave her a menacing countenance. Scott had dubbed her rival ‘Morticia’.
‘Elizabeth.’ Brooks swept into the room and Scott noted, again, that she never referred to her as Prime Minister.
‘Another masterful performance in Question Time today. A few more days like that and we’ll be able to fit the next Coalition party room into a Mini Cooper.’
Scott didn’t bother to offer Brooks a seat. This meeting would be brief.
‘I know about the dinner, Emily. Do you really think you can round up every powerbroker for a tea party at the Wild Duck on a sitting night and word won’t get back to me?’
When Brooks smiled, just enough of her teeth showed for her to look fiendish. Scott wondered if she practised in the mirror.
‘We weren’t trying to hide, dear. I want you to know that I am coming for you. I want it to be the last thing in your pretty head when it hits the pillow each night and the first thing on your mind each morning. If I had a candidate who could walk without his knuckles dragging on the floor you would have been gone this week.’
Scott wasn’t intimidated by Brooks, but she knew the threat was real.
‘Well, you don’t have anyone and you are too . . . how can I put this delicately . . . bruised by your exotic personal life to stand against me yourself. Puts you in a bit of a . . . bind, doesn’t it.’
Brooks took a step closer to Scott, who didn’t flinch at the approach. Scott had the build of the athlete she was, which gave her a physical confidence that matched her intellectual ego.
‘My dear Elizabeth . . .’ Brooks lifted a strand of Scott’s hair and rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger as she looked down on her, ‘. . . if things don’t improve, then six months from now you will lose your job to an empty chair.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Beijing
The underling was perched nervously on the chair, hands folded and head lowered.
For the past fifteen minutes Meng Tao had been absorbing her brief, flicking quietly through the pages. The president’s face was serious, studious, impassive.
He looked up for a moment and she immediately dropped her gaze. He could see the strain on her face, but gave nothing away.
Finally, he placed the folder on the table, drumming his fingers on it while studying an ornate vase on his desk. He nodded briefly and spoke without looking at her.
‘You may go.’
She rose, bowed, and as she left the room Meng could see a patch of sweat staining the back of her shirt. He smiled. The peon had done as instructed. Her treatise was tailor-made for his plans.
America had been further weakened by the loss of its leader, and the female president had inherited a demoralised country with a broken economy, the underling’s report declared. It had a host of enemies, within and without, that consumed its energy. A new force had risen in the Middle East from the ashes of old battles, seeking to spread its malign theology. It waged war in the real world and recruited in the virtual, raising an army of jihadists aching to murder infidels and apostates on a frontline that stretched from Baghdad to Baltimore.
Europe was a disaster. The union that it had created to ensure the continent never again soaked its soil with the blood of its youth had proved a double-edged sword. Its unity was a sham. Too many voices meant too much compromise. Its single currency had crippled weak economies and crisis meetings had become routine as it tried in vain to bandage a financial system that was bleeding from every pore.
The chancellor’s decision to open Germany’s doors to Syrian refugees had seen a tide of humanity wash across the continent. Borders were being rebuilt as razor wire was strung across frontiers. The dark heart of the far right was beating again. Nationalism was stirring; old grievances were being disinterred.
A formida
ble, familiar foe was rising to Europe’s north. A long-despondent Russia was rediscovering its Soviet-era pride under the leadership of its flint-hard president, Vladimir Putin. He was calling NATO’s bluff, proving to the world – in Crimea and East Ukraine – that the West was a fraud: all talk, no action.
All the evidence in the analysis pointed to one inescapable conclusion: weak-willed and internally divided democracies crumbled when confronted with an adversary that knew what it wanted and was willing to fight for it.
At the very moment China had risen confidently to its feet, the West was on its knees.
‘Sir, your next appointment . . .’ The secretary’s voice rang through the phone intercom.
‘Yes, send him in,’ Meng replied.
The president was emboldened. For the past two years, since the Third Plenum of the 18th Communist Party Congress, China had taken decisive steps to reclaim territories that were rightfully hers.
The Middle Kingdom’s shadow of power was lengthening across the Pacific, and the United States was being covered in its shade. The world’s axis was tilting, of that Meng had no doubt. America’s so-called pivot towards Asia had ended in humiliation under its former leader.
Finally, after decades of stagnation and faltering steps towards her destiny, China’s new Long March was into its stride.
Meng was ready to take the next, decisive step. But one irritating detail troubled him. His propaganda minister had been a steadfast ally for the past several years, the president’s most trusted confidant. Yet in recent months there were signs his conviction had begun to waver.
Meng breathed out slowly, following his doctor’s orders to strive for rhythmic harmony in his body and his mind.
The door opened to Jiang Xiu.
‘Mr President.’
‘My friend, have a seat. Tea?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
Jiang sat by the president’s desk as Meng lifted a beautifully proportioned but unadorned brown teapot made by the legendary potter Shi Dabin. He poured his colleague a cup and Jiang took a sip as he waited for Meng to speak.
