The Shadow Game

by Steve Lewis

  ‘I am a patriot. At all times I have worked in the best interests of this nation and within its laws. This hearing is an insult to me and the men and women who stand the watch.’

  Big Mac’s strident defence divided America’s media. The right-wing cheer squad at Fox News swung in behind him, arguing that he had no case to answer. But the liberals at CNBC and the New York Times demanded the appointment of a special prosecutor.

  The president wasn’t immune either. Appearing at a county fair, Mikaela Asta was peppered with questions about her deputy.

  ‘I have every confidence in Big Mac,’ Asta told reporters, quickly adding: ‘At this time.’

  The next day the Detroit News splashed with a sensational headline.

  FBI PROBES VP LINKS TO JACKSON ASSASSINATION

  A shaky iPhone recording from a local meeting of the National Rifle Association had been anonymously sent to the paper. It showed a member boasting that he had shot Earle Jackson, because he was ‘a coward who betrayed the nation’.

  A crack investigative team had spent a month examining every element of the claim.

  They’d identified the speaker as Leroy Porter, a former Navy Seal sniper who’d served with distinction in Iraq and was credited with the longest range confirmed kill in Afghanistan.

  The reporters found Porter had access to sophisticated weaponry and had developed a serious drug and alcohol dependency. He’d agreed to an interview and not denied the claims in front of two reporters.

  ‘I was following orders,’ he explained.

  They’d initially thought him delusional and handed over the material to the FBI, which had already linked Porter to the vice president’s chief of staff.

  The agency requested that the paper hold off publication until it was ready to move.

  That afternoon America recorded another iconic moment in its colourful and chequered history: the vision of a vice president being led from the White House in handcuffs.

  Morgan McDonald was charged with being an accessory in the assassination of a president, a crime that carried the death penalty. He was also charged with helping to orchestrate a drone strike on the White House and with fabricating reports of an attack on a US military satellite. Every network saturated the airwaves with coverage of Big Mac’s demise and every talking head agreed: the disgraced vice president could not have acted alone. Other heads would roll.

  While the West shook, the East trembled as the rise of the communist power was checked.

  Meng Tao’s humiliating defeat in the South China Sea had shattered public confidence in his leadership and sparked a series of tremors.

  Dissidents hacked into a cable television network and broadcast images of tortured prisoners and anti-government slogans. Fifty thousand people took to the streets of Beijing to protest against the relocation of a chemical plant in the biggest demonstration in a decade. And China’s economy stumbled, with nervous investors wiping one-third off the Shanghai Stock Exchange in a week.

  As his popularity plummeted, the president resorted to the time-honoured tricks of panicked despots.

  The prosecution of Jiang Xiu was broadcast live. The former propaganda minister had been charged with a litany of crimes and blamed for every one of China’s recent setbacks. Numerous senior officials were accused of being part of the ‘Jiang Gang’ and arrests mounted across the Middle Kingdom. Meng released an official statement saying, ‘I am saddened at the betrayal of the People’s Republic by a man I once considered a friend.’ Another high-profile prisoner was Yu Heng, the now disgraced ex-commander of the Liaoning.

  As a desperate president used repression to cling to power, Western scholars speculated that Meng was facing a revolt from within the ranks of the People’s Liberation Army.

  One made a chilling prediction: ‘The next uprising in Tiananmen Square won’t just involve students and it won’t be quashed by the military.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  Sydney

  It had taken one hundred and twenty-four years, but the Labor Party finally had what it had always craved. A martyr.

  On a crisp autumn morning, the comrades gathered to pay homage to one of the toughest individuals ever to sit in federal parliament. In death, Catriona Bailey had achieved what she’d never managed as leader: she had united the party’s many factions.

  Sydney Town Hall was bedecked with images of the former prime minister as the ALP prepared to do what it does best: honour its fallen.

  George Street was cordoned off as large crowds formed ahead of the ceremony. Bob Hawke, a little stooped but with his silver mane still glistening, was received like a hero, and the applause rang louder when Paul Keating walked into the historic building.

  A few minutes later Martin Toohey arrived to a polite, but noticeably less than enthusiastic, reception.

  In a rare display of bipartisanship, the Liberal prime minister received a rousing welcome. Elizabeth Scott had been lionised for her heroism – and her poll numbers had soared.

  Just minutes before the service began, Brendan Ryan arrived in a COMCAR to find his path blocked by a wall of media.

  His resignation from the seat of Batman, which he’d narrowly won just a few months earlier, had shocked pundits. Ryan had rehearsed his lines well.

  ‘What happened to Catriona vividly demonstrates that politics exacts a heavy toll and life is short,’ he said solemnly. ‘I want to spend more time with my beautiful wife and young child.’

  The cemetery on the edge of town was near empty. Rows of neat headstones stood under a blazing sky while the nearby Barrier Highway rumbled as a B-double rig departed Broken Hill, bound for Adelaide.

  She scooped a small handful of dirt from the hard ground as she stood above the pit marking his grave. The preacher had never met her brother, whom she had not seen for twenty years. She had once loved him, but now realised she had never known him.

  Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ . . .

  She felt sorrow for his death, but anger at the shame he had brought to the family. Most of all she was pleased that her parents were not alive to experience this humiliation.

  . . . the Father of mercies and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction . . .

  The preacher nodded to her. She sprinkled a fine coating of red dirt on the coffin.

  ‘Remember, man, that you are dust, and unto dust you will return,’ she whispered.

  Miriam Dancer wiped the soil from her hands as she walked from his grave. She would leave it unmarked.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  Canberra

  The pale grey carpet had witnessed a thousand nights of history and excess. A jumble of red and blue partitions broke up the large office space. Posters of sporting deities and crude cartoon offcuts lined beige walls.

  Perched on a swivel chair that was refusing to behave, Harry Dunkley stabbed at a keyboard and looked out across a hundred empty desks. The once proud Canberra Times resembled the journalistic killing fields, legions of reporters discarded on the edict of short-sighted Sydney bean counters.

  Still, Dunkley couldn’t complain. He’d been treated like royalty since his appointment as Special Correspondent, and his daily parade of scoops was being syndicated across the Fairfax stable.

  Tonight he’d already punched out an 1800-word feature revealing how Jack Webster had hot-wired his Burra retreat by siphoning off wads of Defence money to install a secure and direct link to Washington.

  He’d also revealed that Burra was connected to a cyber warfare centre at HMAS Harman on Canberra’s south-eastern fringe. The high-tech naval intelligence facility – run by a member of Webster’s elite Reconnaissance Liaison Branch – had been the source of the recent cyber attacks against the Commonwealth.

  One of the few remaining sub-editors was giving Dunkley a hand on a special weekend report that would detail Webster’s many other crimes and misdemeanours. Among a long list, the defence chief had staged the Press Club bomb hoax to burnish
his leadership credentials.

  The journalist was polishing the lead when his phone rang for the umpteenth time that night.

  He’d been avoiding most calls as they were mainly requests from one-time press gallery ‘mates’ desperate for a drink and a catch-up.

  But it was late and he was still hoping his ex-girlfriend Celia would get back in touch, so he answered.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Harry? Harry Dunkley?’

  The voice was somehow familiar and resonated with authority.

  ‘Yeah. Who’s this?’

  ‘We met some years ago, briefly in Washington, then more recently in Canberra, the night of the News Limited Awards. I think you received a commendation.’

  Jesus.

  Here he was in this lifeless newsroom, the time was half-past dead and Rupert Murdoch was on the line.

  ‘Mr Murdoch, hi. Um, sorry about that little misunderstanding at The Australian.’

  ‘Forget that. We need to talk.’

  The convoy glided east along Canberra Avenue, the lead vehicle proudly flying the ensign of the Australian Defence Force. The six vans and cars turned right into HMAS Harman, slowing as they approached the security checkpoint. The boom gates rose and they drove to the western perimeter of the complex, pulling up outside a distinctive sharp-edged building plastered with satellite dishes and antennae.

  An officer in green service uniform stepped from the lead vehicle, his shoulders displaying the gold-and-red insignia of a lieutenant general. The acting Chief of the Defence Force marched fifteen paces and pressed an intercom buzzer.

  The speaker crackled.

  ‘This is a secure naval facility. You do not have permission to enter.’

  ‘This is a Defence complex,’ the general barked. ‘I am the ranking officer here, and everywhere else. Open the doors.’

  A moment later, the acting CDF entered the building, followed by a dozen federal and military police. After passing through several layers of security, the squad descended two floors, emerging into a spacious high-tech hub. One wall was lined with screens displaying maps and targets, while half a dozen cyber warriors toiled at their workstations.

  One woman sat at a monitor set hard against a large glass partition. Her face was bathed in the blue glow cast from a supercomputer in an adjoining room. She looked up as the police fanned out and the general stepped forward.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this operation is being shut down. You are to stop what you are doing and step away from your computers. That is an order.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  Washington

  Mikaela Asta swirled a fine Napa Valley white in an expensive tumbler and kicked off her shoes. The hour was late and the West Wing had emptied to a skeleton crew of housekeepers and secret service personnel.

  The president reflected on where the scandal that had engulfed her deputy would sit amid the long litany of White House travails.

  Morgan McDonald faced life in a federal prison – if his lawyers managed to stay his execution.

  Asta had spent the day duelling with the heavyweights of American television. CNN’s Wolf Blitzer had hounded her over her claim that she had no knowledge of Big Mac’s deception.

  She had skilfully argued her innocence, emerging triumphant and with her leadership enhanced. Each interview had pivoted from accusations to acclamation for her dramatic intervention in the South China Sea.

  Fox News had hailed her a hero for ‘restoring American pride’, while even the liberal media had conceded that she had recast the international order.

  Around the globe, the May Day War was being met with a mix of outrage, admiration and dread. That pleased Asta. She had long subscribed to Machiavelli’s view that it was better for a prince – or princess – to be feared than loved.

  Tomorrow a new vice president would be sworn in; tonight she would bask in the glory of a campaign that defined her as this generation’s Iron Lady.

  She poured another small glass of wine. Something had been nagging at her and on a whim she reached for her phone and fumbled through her contact list. She dialled the number.

  ‘Madam President . . . I wasn’t expecting this . . . your call. I didn’t—’

  ‘Elizabeth, I need to get something off my chest.’ Asta assumed the stern tone of a scolding teacher. ‘Your call to pre-empt my announcement on the South China Sea action broke every protocol.’

  Asta could feel the line go cold.

  ‘What about the protocols – and laws – that were shattered when your vice president engaged in an act of treason with my defence chief?’

  A long moment of silence was broken by the president’s laughter.

  ‘You are right. We were both let down by our leading men.’

  ‘I suspect not for the last time.’

  Asta smiled. It sounded like the Australian leader had relaxed.

  ‘What’s the time in Canberra?’

  ‘Approaching midday, Madam President.’

  ‘Elizabeth, please, it’s Mikaela. By the way, I saw the footage of you tackling the gunman. It was very courageous.’

  ‘It’s funny. I don’t remember even thinking about it. I saw his gun, heard the shot and the next thing I remember is hitting the ground. Instinct, I guess. I trained as a fencer.’

  ‘Well, now the world knows you’re a fighter.’

  ‘As they do of you, Mikaela.’

  Asta paused before responding.

  ‘The world is a dangerous place, Elizabeth. I would like a fighter on my side. One whom I can trust.’

  ‘Our world is more treacherous than I ever imagined,’ Scott replied. ‘And trust? That has to be earned, Mikaela. It begins with honesty.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

  Canberra

  The Chairman’s Lounge was bustling with late afternoon trade as the three men settled into five-star comfort. They’d arrived just after 5pm then spent twenty minutes fighting their way through a conga line of one-time colleagues and enemies, all keen to shower praise and good wishes.

  ‘Nice.’ Harry Dunkley soaked up the luxurious ambience as he eased into a plush chocolate-leather chair. ‘Clearly being an ex–prime minister carries a few perks, even for one as disgraced as you, Martin.’

  Martin Toohey passed a champagne flute to Bruce Paxton, then one to Dunkley.

  After being feted like rock stars they were in high spirits, but also anxious to reflect on the blur of assassinations and arrests and the rare justice of bad men facing the consequences of their actions.

  Across the tarmac, a 737 lazily lifted into the golden wash of the fading day, the roar of its twin engines barely audible through the thick glass windows.

  ‘So do you have to be invited into this palace?’ Dunkley asked Toohey.

  ‘Yes, Harry. Qantas giveth . . . and Qantas taketh away.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Paxton snapped. ‘These bastards bounced me as soon as I got turfed from parliament.’

  ‘Bruce, I’ll sign you in any time. The same goes for you, Harry,’ Toohey said, raising his fast-emptying glass in salute.

  ‘Thanks, Martin, I take back most of what I’ve said about you.’

  The journalist smiled as they clinked glasses. He knew that, like him, the others felt relaxed and safe for the first time in ages, able to enjoy the day without having to glance over their shoulders.

  In truth, they were revelling in their momentary fame after seeing Jack Webster and his henchmen charged with multiple crimes. They’d been dubbed the ‘Toohey Troika’ by one media starlet keen to get the inside scoop on how they’d turned Australia’s Most Trusted into Australia’s Most Wanted.

  Dunkley scanned the lounge, quietly nodding to some nobody MP who’d once threatened to commit unspeakable acts against him.

  Only a few months ago he’d been scamming the streets of Sydney, living each day in a daze of self-pity and delusion. Now he was enjoying the perks of fine living. More importantly, he had recovered something priceless, his digni
ty.

  The journalist turned to the former defence minister. ‘This must feel good, Bruce, after the downbeat digs you’ve been living in?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess so, Harry, though I never went in much for all this gilt-edged living. I was always happy dossing down with the common man. Still am.’ Paxton motioned round the room. ‘Too many thieves in here, in this town, pretending to do good work when they’re really only concerned with one thing: themselves.’

  ‘As self-righteous as ever, Bruce,’ Toohey chipped in, offering a broad smile to his mate. ‘What about your entitlements? Has Finance finally sorted them out? I’m reliably informed the department had a bomb put under it.’

  ‘Yep, things are looking good on that front, Martin, no doubt thanks to you.’

  ‘You heard from the clerk?’

  ‘David rang me today to confirm the petition to reverse my expulsion from parliament. I’m not sure whether it’s a help or a hindrance that Elizabeth Scott and the new opposition leader are co-sponsoring it. I’ll be relieved when it’s done, but it ain’t the most important matter in my little world right now, not by a long shot.’

  Paxton gazed out the window as another aircraft lifted in a graceful arc towards the heavens.

  A respectful silence fell over them, broken when Toohey softly spoke. ‘You think you’ll manage to track her down, Bruce? Hong Kong’s a massive place.’

  ‘Yes, I think so, mate. She’s family, right? I’ve got to find her. What are we if not the heritage of the past searching for a better future?’

  ‘Very poetic,’ Toohey said appreciatively. ‘Hemingway?’

  ‘No, cobber, Bruce fucking Paxton, shitkicker laureate.’

  The three men laughed heartily, their mirth eventually interrupted by a Qantas steward. ‘Your boarding pass, Mr Paxton.’

  He nodded and gathered up his travel bag and paperback, a proud man embarking on a mission to track down a daughter he’d never known, a precious link to the only woman he’d ever truly loved.