The Mandarin Code

by Steve Lewis

  Blake paused for a moment to allow Jackson to absorb the brief before continuing. ‘China is mobilising its considerable assets: military, financial and virtual, opening the way for serious retaliation. I believe they will rub up against their neighbours to test our will. They might even be looking for an opportunity to roll back economic and social reform under cover of a “national emergency”. We could be playing right into their hands. They sense we are weakened by a decade of war and economic decline. Sir, they are looking for an excuse to demonstrate that they are the rising global power.’

  The Secretary of State tagged in, determined to pressure Jackson into relenting.

  ‘We urge you, Mr President.’ Henry Wilenski leaned forward to press home his appeal. ‘Make it plain, today, that you do not intend to proceed with the next steps of your currency declaration. Make a statement saying you won’t be imposing tariffs and restrictions on Chinese goods. You can make a credible argument that your warning has been heeded and that talks should come before any more action.’

  Jackson rose to his full 6 feet 3 inches and slammed both hands on the desk. ‘Except that’s not what I said. I said I would impose tariffs on Chinese goods within ninety days of the declaration if China did not lift the value of its currency and level the goddamn playing field.’

  He turned his back on the group and looked out the window, the defiant gesture of an insecure man.

  ‘Mr President, that would not be wise.’ Wilenski was pushing hard. ‘This will not help American workers and it threatens the peace at a time when we are in no shape to fight.’

  Jackson raised his hand and turned to eyeball the group.

  ‘I need to think about this,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk again tomorrow. That’s all for now. Thank you, gentlemen.’

  Dismissed and disgruntled, the group shuffled out.

  As the door closed, the President picked up his phone. ‘Lesley, get Big Mac on the line.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Canberra

  They ran squealing down to the lake’s turbid waters, a tangled knot of excited children, two-dozen playful pups and their handlers. The year six class from Birchgrove, a smallish public school in Sydney’s inner west, was on its annual pilgrimage to Canberra.

  Fuelled on fast food and pre-teen adrenalin, they’d spent the morning at Questacon, mixing fantasy with science. It was now time for a picnic lunch on the shores of Lake Burley Griffin before continuing to the National Museum.

  ‘Slow down and be careful. Maddie, watch the muddy banks,’ a teacher bellowed.

  Several errant boys were creeping stealthily towards a bushy thicket by the water’s edge, intent on slipping from their handlers’ gaze, courting those moments of freedom every schoolboy yearns for. Corey, a tousle-haired blond with attitude beyond his years, spotted it first. Half-submerged, the body was maybe ten metres from shore. Corey called his mates over to make sure he wasn’t imagining things. From the bank, they couldn’t see a head or even a pair of feet, but there was no mistaking that this was a corpse. Playtime was over.

  The senior teacher called the police as the others shepherded the children away, comforting several distraught girls. A small crowd was gathering, drawn by human fascination with the macabre, wanting to catch a glimpse of the body in the shallows.

  Ten minutes later the police arrived, two constables who donned waterproof clothing and set about their work, all purpose and professionalism. Their first task was to ensure they were not the victims of a hoax, then, if necessary, to call for assistance.

  Aidan Steele, with five years experience in the ACT Policing branch of the Australian Federal Police, took charge initially, working with his junior colleague, who answered questions from a Canberra Times reporter. Steele had never before seen a body in Burley Griffin, but he was familiar with the lake’s unfortunate habit of giving up the dead: the headless body of ’79; the female torso washed up near Scrivener Dam in ’93; the Nigerian diplomat whose corpse was found in 2005, bloated and disfigured, a homicide that remained unsolved.

  He cast his eyes over the still water. What was it about this drowned landscape?

  Like the capital, the lake was placid on the surface, but beneath its coffee-coloured water lurked hidden danger. The remnants of the eucalypts that once crowded the Molonglo riverbanks before the dam was built lay in wait below the lake’s smooth skin: a trap for the unwary and the foolish.

  There was no pulse. Steele reckoned the body had been submerged for more than a few hours. He also knew police procedure; it was time to call in the top dogs.

  Within the quarter-hour, six of the ACT’s finest had arrived and had begun to take statements from witnesses.

  Four hours later, the initial forensic examination had been completed, the body having been gently hauled from the lake by the ACT water police.

  The body was an Asian male, likely aged in his thirties. Of slender build, he was clothed in plain trousers and a lightcoloured shirt. A pair of joggers weighed down his spindly legs. And that was it. An initial search had turned up nothing else – no wallet, no ID, no jewellery or other personal items.

  The task now fell to the morgue for a thorough examination of the body and to the water police for a sweep of the muddy inlet.

  Steele gazed out over the lake, its quiet waters now empty. He shook his head before turning to his colleagues.

  ‘Christ, it’s a funny old place to be seeking asylum.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Beijing

  Alone in his sanctuary, Jiang Xiu cradled a mug of green tea in one hand as he tapped an ink block with a favoured brush. A Chinese melody drifted in the background, a hymn of praise for the plum blossom of spring. Thick walls offered protection from the city and its suffocating barrage of sound, and he savoured the serenity of his early morning ritual, a rare respite from the burden of leadership.

  In five days he would turn fifty-six, still young compared to the dinosaurs who stained the party’s upper ranks. Curmudgeon communists, he called them.

  For the past six months, Jiang had headed China’s propaganda agency. His appointment as minister was part of a coup that had seen a number of his nationalist comrades elevated to the helm of the ruthless political machine that would rule this vast ambitious empire for the next five years. Dubbed the ‘Magnificent Seven’, the Standing Committee of the Political Bureau of the Communist Party of China Central Committee had the destiny of 1.35 billion people in their grasp. They would not disappoint. And they would not relent.

  Unlike many of his contemporaries, Jiang had started with nothing but the unbridled love of his mother. He was no princeling, no Maserati-driving poseur who’d leveraged the family name to earn his wealth. He despised nepotism, a cover for the weak and lazy. He had gained power through cunning and intellect, and through a fierce political drive first unleashed as an undergraduate at Jilin University, studying economics and international management. He’d garnered plaudits from party elders for his organisational skills, but he was also a keen student of China’s compromised history, and was determined to forge a new era for the Middle Kingdom, to place it on its rightful path to global supremacy.

  Now, in his small studio in House No 2, near the centre of Beijing, he dipped his brush into a pool of oily black liquid. Two blank sheets of paper were set several feet apart on a long timber bench. On each, stone blocks were placed to keep the paper from ruffling.

  With the first touch, his brush skimmed a white sheet and left a perfect stain of black.

  Like dancing, rippling ribbons . . .

  He loved calligraphy’s effortless grace, each stroke a link to the past. And with each practised touch, Jiang recalled the words of his master: ‘Deviation from the model is a failure.’

  It was a dictum that applied to all of nature and politics. He had dabbled in Western philosophy and was struck by the parallel he saw with Plato’s theory of forms: that this world was merely a copy of a perfect one. Jiang believed a universal template existed and his r
ole as a politician was to make China the best replica of the model. Any deviation was a step towards chaos.

  The traditions of calligraphy spanned several thousand years. Each character had its appointed place, set within pre-ordained boundaries. It was much like his expectations for China.

  The only Western figure he respected, other than Plato, was Napoleon, a rare military leader gifted with great insight. ‘Let China sleep, for when she wakes she will shake the world,’ the French general had said.

  China would certainly shake the world, as it had done through the ages, if Jiang could shake it awake. In the sweep of history, the West walked in the shadow of China’s majestic past. China had gunpowder when the peasants of the West were still hurling stones at castle walls. All of mankind’s great achievements had been conceived here, in the Middle Kingdom.

  For a millennium China was the greatest civilisation on earth. The envy of the world.

  Then a familiar rage surged. Jiang’s face tightened. He gripped his brush hard.

  The fall. The great indignity.

  The West’s interruption of China’s ascendancy was an outrage. And it awaited punishment for the century of humiliation that began in 1839 with the First Opium War. The West and its brutal lackey Japan had brought China to its knees – shackled, humbled and impoverished. It had been on the long march back since 1949.

  Jiang flinched. Some memories were hard, painful, personal.

  His mother had been celebrating her fifteenth birthday in her Nanking home in December 1937 when the Japanese invaded. They had stolen her childhood as they raped her. She witnessed the massacre of countless innocent Chinese, butchered by that evil force. She had spent every birthday since in mourning and her suffering and memories were seared on her son’s soul.

  She had forged Jiang as a warrior, and he had spent his life readying for war.

  Two lines, refined and flowing, perfectly intersected . . .

  He had disguised himself, playing the role of an acolyte of Deng Xiaoping, a market liberal. But he believed that the Chinese economy had to be managed like a bird in a cage, allowing the centrally-planned system to define its limits. Yes, the cage could be made larger and, occasionally, other birds might be let in, but the bars ensured order.

  China’s growth, and the yearning of its fast-growing middle class for greater freedoms, had to be tightly controlled. The delusions of those who believed China could take its place at the helm of the new world order while relaxing its iron grip enraged him. Who were they, these free-market liberals preaching discredited Western ideals? The emergence of the internet had allowed this Western infection to spread. With Jiang’s guidance the Politburo would tame those who believed the future of China was more entwined with Coca-Cola and McDonald’s than with Mao and the State.

  Swift running script, an infinite power . . .

  Leaders often need a crisis to precipitate decisive action and the 1997 Asian financial meltdown, which hit China hard, had offered Jiang – then a rising star within the Communist Party – the first opportunity to rein in those who sought to mimic the West. The shadow capitalism that China had pursued meant that many of its banks tottered as the meltdown struck. Jiang had been given responsibility – and unfettered power – to right the creaky financial system.

  It was a challenge that he took up with relish. He was dubbed the ‘Dragon Titan’ for his zealous pursuit of regional officials who thought they could continue to operate with autonomy.

  Smooth top-down vertical lines, mellow like pearl and jade . . .

  After three years, he’d been rewarded with appointment to the Party’s finance committee, a high-level role that gave him access to the upper echelons of the Politburo. He was determined to impress.

  Jiang had soon been charged with running one of China’s biggest state-owned companies, and he became a familiar name to the bankers from Wall Street and London who’d initially expected the same riches they’d milked by flogging off lazy, capital-starved enterprises from the former Eastern Bloc. But while Russia and its Soviet allies were easy pickings for these vultures, Jiang was formidable.

  He married a sharp economic brain with determination and dogma. He championed the workers, arguing that China had a responsibility to ensure that its most vulnerable had the same rights as those who, through accident of birth or other connections, had risen to the top.

  A curved arc, flexible and vivid . . .

  He was centre stage as China made giant strides to catch the West. He became associated with a group of conservatives, the ‘New Left’, who were convinced that the greatest threat was not from outside forces, but from those within the party who wanted China to become a pale imitation of America and Japan.

  He was an ultra-nationalist who believed the adoption of Western ideas poisoned his country. Now he was able to make change. And exact revenge.

  Not since its imperial glory had China possessed the wealth and the power to strike at a weakened foe. He would need resolve, but he was not alone. Other key figures on the committee shared his view. Oh, and that fool in the White House had opened the door. President Jackson’s declaration that China was a currency manipulator represented an opportunity to push back. Hard.

  The challenge was to take the Chinese people with him. To harness their sense of nationalism and direct their anger towards the West. Once that began he would pour oil on the fire. He would not stop until China emerged victorious.

  And if the world had to be torn asunder and remade, then so be it.

  Jiang stood back and admired his work. His brush dripped, glistening black, as he soaked up Mao’s revolutionary edict.

  When the enemy advances, withdraw; when he stops, harass; when he tires, strike; when he retreats, pursue.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Canberra

  The trembles. The slightest of trembles. George Papadakis studied his hands for the telltale sign that one of the most powerful men in the nation was as nervous as a sixteen-year-old at a school formal.

  He switched on his iPad, flicked to that journal of torment. It was nudging 6am and today marked the first Newspoll of the year. An election year. The numbers would not be a surprise because Papadakis, the Prime Minister’s chief of staff, was always given a preview the night before the results went public. It was how The Australian interpreted the raw data that really mattered. How the views and prejudices of 1200 voters were spun, twisted, beaten up and spat out would dictate the sort of day that Martin Toohey and his minority Labor Government would have.

  Every radio and television station, every two-bit ‘analyst’ with a Twitter handle, would be waiting to wring Newspoll for every last drop. For just over two years, the broadsheet had used the fortnightly measure of the national pulse to persecute Labor. If the numbers fell, the Oz would boldly predict an imminent move against Toohey, despite there being no viable alternative. No change would be dubbed ‘flat-lining’, conjuring images of a government on life support. A miraculous rise was a ‘dead-cat bounce’ that briefly masked Labor’s long-term, irreversible decline.

  Since the last election The Australian had not written one positive word about the minority government that had survived despite the conservative cliques’ ceaseless predictions of its imminent demise. The paper had glossed over the fact that the government’s legislative agenda had scarcely missed a beat as Toohey deftly herded the hundred and fifty cats in the House of Representatives to relative order.

  But as the online edition downloaded, Papadakis knew the latest numbers would tell their own devastating story without the paper applying the mix-master.

  He plunged a half-cup of caffeine down his throat as he digested the horror.

  TOOHEY HITS HISTORIC LOW

  Support for the Toohey Government has crashed with Labor’s primary vote slumping below 30 per cent for the first time in Newspoll history.

  Toohey, Papadakis’s political soul mate, would be dead but for the fact that his only possible challenger, Catriona Bailey, remained stricken
in a Canberra hospital eighteen months after being felled by a stroke during an interview on the ABC’s Lateline.

  The bastards at the Oz blithely ignored this inconvenient truth and kept including Bailey in their ‘preferred prime minister’ poll.

  In further dire news for Martin Toohey, bed-ridden Foreign Minister Catriona Bailey remains an overwhelming favourite, out-ranking the Prime Minister as preferred leader by 44 per cent to just 17 per cent.

  Mongrels.

  The only sniff of good news was Emily Brooks’s continuing struggle to gain traction. The Opposition leader was paying a price for denying Bailey a parliamentary pair after her stroke stopped her attending Parliament. Focus group testing showed Brooks rated as cold and heartless. Voters were turned off by her calculating approach and Tory grandees were murmuring that she’d have to soften her steely exterior.

  The big winner in the poll was ‘Other’ which had climbed to 20 per cent as voters turned away from the major parties.

  Papadakis glanced out at the courtyard.

  Who can blame them? We are our own worst enemy.

  The Toohey Government had been the gift that kept giving for the press gallery. Any success was always trumped by spectacular own goals. Among a raft of contenders, the most extraordinary was Bruce Paxton’s fall from ministerial grace. He had failed to declare that his first election campaign – way back in 1996 – had been funded in part by China Inc. That bombshell had nearly undone them.

  Paxton, a one-time ally of Toohey, had initially accepted his demise, taking his place among the wasters and plodders on a surly backbench. He was thrown a few parliamentary crumbs and, for the most part, played the loyal footsoldier. But his mood changed when Toohey made it clear he would not be reinstated.

  He’d first sounded off to Lucy Gibbs, an ambitious press gallery newbie. Her story ‘Paxton Marks Toohey a Fail’ was the first of many. Now he routinely threatened to resign from the Labor Caucus to sit on the crossbenches as an independent.