The Mandarin Code

by Steve Lewis

He was still astounded by the silence of this place, its proximity to nature, so different to the relentless noise of the city that he knew.

  He motioned to the two men behind him who were labouring with the body. Another carried a plastic shopping bag, its contents heavy. They shuffled fifty metres to a trench that would form part of the foundations of the embassy’s administrative wing.

  The body was dumped next to another and the plastic bag thrown in alongside. The interrogator rubbed the aching knuckles of his right hand as he nodded to the men. Concrete flowed down the slipway of the mixer as a worker expertly guided the grey liquid over the small pile of human remains.

  The half-dozen men looked at the interrogator only for instructions. Otherwise they steadfastly avoided his jet-black gaze and busied themselves with their appointed tasks.

  He smiled as he lit a cigarette. Fear. He could not smell it mixed with this sweet night air or see it in the shadows that shrouded the faces of his peons.

  But he knew it was there because they knew what he had done.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Canberra

  Martin Toohey took a break from the mountain of paperwork piled on his desk, looked up and shook his head. Again.

  Burnt orange.

  Which genius in the Department of Prime Minister and Cabinet had chosen this catastrophe in ‘contemporary furniture’ to grace the most important office in the land? The four leather armchairs and one long lounge looked like they had been retrieved from the set of a tacky ’70s sitcom.

  The decor was another symbol of the hung parliament. If Labor had a clear majority, Toohey could have banished the monstrosities. But with his government under constant surveillance, the cost of a replacement suite would be splashed across the Murdoch tabloids. So he was snookered. Even the green leather chesterfield chosen by John and Janette Howard would have been preferable.

  Maybe not.

  It was close to midday and the first pangs of hunger prompted thoughts of lunch. But the poached salmon would have to wait. Toohey was expecting a VIP visitor.

  A quiet knock signalled his arrival. His long-serving PA opened the door.

  ‘The Ambassador to see you, Prime Minister.’

  ‘Thanks, Barb. Please show Brent in.’

  Brent Moreton had landed in Australia several years earlier and had quickly forged a reputation for telling it as it was. Or as the Americans wanted it to be. A charmer nonetheless, his Savile Row suits marked him as one of the sharpest dressers in Canberra’s competitive diplomatic community. Moreton was highly regarded on the social circuit and his dinner invitations stretched out almost a year.

  ‘PM, nice to see you. The President sends his regards.’

  ‘Thanks, Brent. How’s the family? You were taking the boys up to Sydney for a weekend the last time I saw you.’

  ‘Yeah, and man, didn’t we have some fun? Not sure that Luna Park is used to seeing a bunch of security guys talking into their wrists, though.’

  The two men had forged a solid relationship despite their different world views. Both were professional advocates for their respective causes and when from time to time conflict between the Toohey Government and the US arose, they were mature and sensible enough to work through it.

  But the challenges were growing. China and America were amping up the rhetoric to a level not seen since the end of the Cold War. The Republicans had won the White House and President Jackson seemed to be taking his cue from the Tea Party loonies who believed in guns, God and slashing government. His foreign policy was an extension of his domestic tub-thumping – his decision to declare China a currency manipulator was just the most significant of several early blunders.

  And China was increasingly combative, pushing out its elbows. Testing its growing power and the will of the United States to confront it. Some think tanks had begun to speculate that conflict between the two powers was inevitable, and might occur sooner rather than later.

  Toohey was trying to chart a middle course: needing Chinese dollars and the security of the US alliance.

  ‘The Switzerland of the Pacific,’ one Canberra-based analyst had sneered.

  Above all, the PM wanted to avoid being pushed into making an impossible choice between two rival powers. That made talks with the two nations’ envoys a delicate dance between raindrops.

  While Moreton had been appointed by Barack Obama, and expected to be replaced in time, he was first and foremost a loyal servant of the Stars and Stripes. He was a former marine and had effortlessly fallen into step with the new administration and its determination to adopt a tougher stance in relations with China.

  Moreton had rung Toohey to lock in this meeting. The two men had blocked out forty minutes from their busy schedules. Moreton opened, smoothly shifting to a business-like tone.

  ‘Prime Minister, thanks for making the time so quickly. I wanted to bring you up to speed on events. The President has been ringing several world leaders – David Cameron, Angela Merkel, Shinzo Abe – and he would like to speak with you this evening.’

  The Ambassador paused as if searching for the right tone.

  ‘We are concerned about the direction Beijing is heading. The new Chinese leadership seems determined to test its power. It’s as if we have gone back to the bad old days before Deng got his hands on the political and economic levers.’

  Toohey began his practised tightrope walk.

  ‘I’m not sure I share your pessimism, Brent. We’ve had two ministers – senior ministers – visit China in the past month. Their feedback has been quite positive. The Trade Minister actually believes we are closer than ever to a free-trade deal, and that would be terrific not just for us but for this part of the world more generally.’

  ‘It would be quite a coup, I grant you that, Prime Minister. And yet China shows little interest in being part of our bid to free up trade across the entire region through our Trans-Pacific Partnership.’

  Toohey knew exactly what the Chinese thought of that, another exercise in the US writing the rules and expecting Beijing to follow them.

  ‘Well, we support it and are optimistic that China will too, one day,’ Toohey lied.

  The main game was yet to unfold and he left space for Moreton to fill.

  ‘We’ll see,’ Moreton said. ‘I’m not sure I share your optimism. But one thing is clear: what China is spending its money on. Its military. It admits to lifting defence spending 11 per cent this year to $120 billion. We think it’s much more than that.’

  Moreton had his brief well-rehearsed.

  ‘Their J-20 program is well advanced; the prototype stealth fighter they’ve been developing at Chengdu is not on par with ours, but it ain’t far behind. China’s air capability has moved ahead in leaps and big bounds.’

  The Ambassador reached for a cup of tea, grimacing slightly at its heat, before continuing.

  ‘Our intelligence isn’t as definitive on China’s submarine program but, Martin, they are putting together a very nice fleet. The Taiwan Strait is getting very crowded and they aren’t pleasure craft out for a Sunday paddle.’

  Toohey was trying to recall his latest briefing on the relative strengths of China’s and America’s military machines. Infuriatingly, he couldn’t remember specifics but he did know Uncle Sam was well ahead. Toohey wanted to inject some common sense into the debate.

  ‘Brent, you and I both know China is miles behind the US when it comes to military capability. You – the US – spends what? More than four times what China outlays on defence. Right now your country accounts for just under 40 per cent of the world’s military spending. Even if they are hell bent on catching up, it would take decades.‘

  Moreton leaned forward, determined to make his friend understand.

  ‘Martin, they don’t need to spend what we do right now to be a threat. They just have to have the kit to push out into the neighbourhood and push us back across the Pacific. And this new leadership is something else; it is much more aggressive than we expected. And not
just in the real world. You have no doubt read the latest Five-Eyes briefs on China’s cyber-espionage activities?’

  The Ambassador left the words hanging, knowing Australia’s genuine concern about the threat posed by Beijing’s cyberthieves. The Prime Minister’s own emails had been stolen by the Chinese, and Toohey had only learned of this when the US alerted Australia to the audacious intrusion.

  ‘We are entering a new phase in our relationship with China.’ Moreton said. ‘President Jackson is very concerned by the latest briefings.’

  Toohey was worried about activities on both sides of the Pacific.

  ‘Frankly, Brent, I am more than a little concerned by the tone out of Washington. Declaring China a currency manipulator was a mistake. It would be better if your President let the calmer heads in his national security team prevail, rather than being dictated to by the Tea Party. It would be wise to take a step back on that. If China feels boxed in, it will retaliate. You are handing them a reason to do so. Stop yelling at China and start talking to it.’

  Toohey almost immediately regretted the Tea Party line, realising that even if the Ambassador secretly agreed he would be forced to come to his President’s defence.

  ‘We needed to send a shot across China’s economic bow.’ Moreton swiftly manned the President’s barricade. ‘For too long, they’ve been able to get away with using their fixed currency to damage our economy. We will not meekly sit back and allow Beijing to game the system. If they want to enjoy the benefits of the international economic road rules, they should abide by them.’

  With a politician’s instinct for seizing on just those words that served his argument, Toohey grasped the opening offered by Moreton.

  ‘Australia wants everyone to obey the international rules that help ensure the peace, Brent. Because if we keep the peace we can all prosper. And if we accommodate China’s rise we can guarantee the peace. If you attempt to ring-fence it, no good will come of it.’

  Toohey reached for a glass of water, perching it on his knee before continuing.

  ‘Brent, I – we – can appreciate the concerns you may have, but my government believes it is critical that China and the US attempt to forge a more constructive relationship. A true partnership. And that might mean that, occasionally, the US has to step back and give China space to mature. The twenty-first century rests on peace between your nations, and as a friend to both of you, that is our counsel.’

  Toohey knew that the idea of the US taking a step back on anything wasn’t one that had a lot of currency in Washington. But he believed that it was a powerful argument and one he intended to make as strongly as he possibly could.

  The two men had been talking for close to twenty minutes when Moreton lifted the stakes.

  ‘A free-trade deal is one thing. But Washington is very worried that you are about to get strategically entangled with China. Martin, we hear that a massive gas deal that involves effective Chinese ownership of Australian resources will be at the heart of your Press Club address.’

  Toohey was stunned. The China deal was top secret. Just a handful of people knew about the Northern Territory gas hub plan.

  ‘As usual I am staggered by your intelligence.’ Toohey was measuring each word and wrestling with his emotions. ‘That plan is not yet finalised, and if and when it is I will act in the best interests of my nation.’

  ‘Don’t commit yourself to this, Prime Minister.’ Moreton was treading carefully. ‘If you do, it will put us in a very awkward position.’

  ‘Brent, I will promise you just this. I will do what is right for my country. And the party I lead. Labor has always been the party of big ideas, just like your Democrats. We owe our political success to our ability to marry good economic policies with progressive social reforms. That is what I intend doing.’

  Moreton looked unconvinced and Toohey suspected the cable back to DC would be quite something.

  ‘Martin, our relationship – our friendship – has endured for many decades. Australia has always, always, been one of our closest allies, through good and bad. The President will be calling soon and I think our conversation has given you a good flavour of what is on his mind. He treasures this alliance and hopes he can count on you in what may well be difficult times ahead.’

  ‘Always happy to talk.’ But Toohey had run out of patience with the conversation and was keen to begin another with his chief of staff to try to track down the source of this latest damaging leak. ‘And as a friend of America I will repeat the advice I have offered you.’

  The Ambassador had delivered his message and glanced at his Seiko Velatura before continuing. ‘Your government has some big decisions ahead of it, my friend. Now, I must away. Lunch with the Brits awaits.’

  He stalled at the door, and looked back.

  ‘And Prime Minister, don’t forget who your mates are.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Canberra

  This was his daily god moment, an intersection of nature and music, played out in the private amphitheatre of his home.

  Most mornings around 7am, Charles Dancer would sit Buddha-like, meditating, as the Canberra sun streamed in, a soft tune thrumming in the background. The spears of light created a natural kaleidoscope as they played across a row of jade statues, sourced from back-alley dens in Laos and Cambodia. His obsession with the art of Asia was evident in the paintings and portraits that covered the walls, while a custom-made set of shelves tastefully showcased fertility figures, dolls and masks. They were his nod to the romance of the East, a reminder that he – ostensibly a dry-as-dust bureaucrat – had led a life of intrigue.

  Dancer was nudging sixty, an age when most public servants were contemplating retirement, or seeking out a quiet corner of some overlooked agency in which to eke out their time. But Charles was no ordinary mandarin. Officially he was an analyst who worked for the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade. Unofficially he considered himself an invisible diplomat, a senior member of the nation’s spy force paid to find, and fix, the dangers ordinary people couldn’t even imagine. He reported directly to the Secretary, and was one of the trusted few given unfettered access to the government’s darkest secrets.

  Dancer stretched and ended his yoga session. He walked to the kitchen and poured a shot of black coffee, adding two sugars. For the past fifteen years, he’d lived in a bungalow close to the bustling village of Manuka, a few kilometres from the R.G. Casey building that housed a thousand of Canberra’s most cunning bureaucrats.

  He loved the smell of secrecy and conceit that permeated DFAT. They really did consider themselves a special breed, he mused, artisans trained to make gunfire sound harmless.

  Along with many of his colleagues, Dancer had a taste for the good life. He got a thrill whenever he came across a new treasure – an antique shadow puppet, a Chinese ta – while overseas and occasionally would leverage his status to ensure its smooth passage through Customs. His walk-in wardrobe – built by a fireman friend who dabbled in carpentry – reflected a refined taste in clothing. He seldom shopped at home, relying on regular international travel to maintain a steady supply of tailor-made suits and shirts. Recently, he’d experimented with internet shopping and was pleased with his first online purchases.

  Not that money was an issue. A lifetime of living alone, a steady and well-paid job with generous allowances, and the hand-me-down benefits of his parent’s estate (three houses and a mini-horse stud in the Hunter Valley) ensured financial security.

  Dancer had followed a standard path into DFAT’s ranks, graduating from the Australian National University with honours in International Relations, earning a special commendation for an insightful thesis on Australia’s relationship with Indonesia. Hired through the graduate program – Class of ’77 – Dancer was considered a stand-out among the many who, each year, jostle for one of the handful of positions on offer. He’d adapted easily to the culture of the time, had worked hard and been rewarded with a posting to Jakarta after just five years.


  On the surface, he was a boilerplate public servant. Under the radar he had been recruited by the Australian Secret Intelligence Service, and he’d become one of their very best.

  Dancer was fastidious and uber-fit, enjoying long rides on a custom-made Kona that could whip down the narrow mountain trails that flanked the national capital. For thirty years, he’d maintained a steady weight of 85 kilograms, underpinned by an obsession with healthy eating. While his wine cellar was graced with prized vintages, he drank in moderation and considered a hangover to be a sign of frailty.

  On this crystal-cut morning in Canberra, however, the tastes and habits of Charles Dancer mattered little. He contemplated a plastic-and-metal USB that he’d been given by Amanda Wade.

  His mate from the morgue had rung out of the blue. She’d explained, over a glass of wine, about the body in the lake and the visit from the Chinese embassy staff, their clumsy attempt to retrieve the corpse before the investigation had finished.

  What they didn’t know was that a memory stick had been retrieved from his stomach during the autopsy. Wade had used discretion to ensure there was no record of it on the official police file. She’d given Dancer brief details about the man – identified as Lin An – and a copy of the forensic notes.

  According to the Chinese, Lin was a construction worker sent to Australia to help build the fortress-like embassy that was taking shape on the lake’s edge, four hundred metres from the existing buildings. The story didn’t fit though; his pallid body displayed none of the brawn or weathering you’d expect of a labourer exposed to Canberra’s punishing climate.

  Someone wasn’t telling the truth.

  Dancer fired up his MacBook Pro as the voice of Angelique Kidjo flowed from Bang and Olufsen speakers. Her blend of home-grown activism and sultry French vocals always relaxed him.

  The file was encrypted. That reinforced the notion that Lin was not a labourer. Clicking through the unreadable documents, Dancer surmised it would take quite some time before they could be cracked.