The Mandarin Code

by Steve Lewis

  The union chief yelled into his mobile. ‘Trojan Horse is go, go, go!’

  The tarp covering the tipper was thrown back and twelve fearsome organisers leapt into action. Two ran to the gates and held them open while the rest fanned out across the compound.

  Once the gates were secured a small convoy appeared from a hundred metres away, led by Channel Nine’s live links van. Harry Dunkley was in the next car with a News Corp photographer.

  Hall waited until the cameraman was out of the Nine van and rolling before he grabbed the loudhailer. It squealed into life.

  ‘This site has been declared black!’ he yelled. ‘We believe there are serious breaches of occupational health and safety on this site and we’re here to ensure that’s rectified.’

  A few Chinese workers tried to intervene but they were hopelessly outgunned.

  A chant broke out from the brothers who had unfurled a giant CFMEU banner and were standing defiantly under its proud sail.

  ‘Aussie jobs! Aussie jobs! Aussie jobs!’

  Dunkley spotted a tough-looking Chinese national on the edge of the melee. He was dressed in a suit and talking into his mobile.

  ‘Ray, take a few pics of him, please,’ the reporter called to his snapper.

  He edged closer, determined to try and ask a few questions while the union bovver boys were playing havoc with the bewildered Chinese workforce.

  ‘Hey, mate! You got a moment?’

  The tough guy shot Dunkley a lethal look with his jet-black eyes. Then he saw the snapper and turned and walked quickly into one of the half-finished buildings.

  After thirty minutes of mayhem, Hall called the union members together for one last show of strength. And a pic fac for the cameras.

  ‘We, the CFMEU, will never allow standards to be compromised. Too many workers have been hurt, even killed, in the ACT during the past few years due to lax occupational health and safety standards. The Chinese Government should get this message: You play in Australia under our rules.’

  The dirty dozen cheered and offered some last-minute fist-shaking for the cameras. Then they climbed aboard the tipper. A sandy-haired thug tilted his head to the skies and began to sing.

  The workers’ flag is deepest red

  It shrouded oft our martyred dead . . .

  Just over a kilometre away, Martin Toohey and George Papadakis watched as the protest played out on Sky. They’d brushed off a minister’s tap at the door as they sat engrossed in the Prime Minister’s office.

  ‘Do you think he knows that China actually has a red flag and that it’s already a workers’ paradise?’ Papadakis asked.

  ‘I think the irony is lost on him.’ Toohey couldn’t recall when he had last enjoyed Sky’s political coverage so much.

  ‘The Chinese won’t be happy about this,’ Papadakis said.

  ‘George, how can we be held responsible for the actions of a militant union?’ Toohey couldn’t suppress a laugh. Victories had been few and far between. ‘Believe me, the CFMEU will be happy to take all the blame . . . and the credit. They’ll be printing T-shirts with “Hall’s Heroes” stamped on them before the end of the month.’

  Papadakis shook his head in admiration. ‘So, Prime Minister. The Senkakus have come to Yarralumla. Nice work.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Canberra

  The clip of shoes on the hard polished floor announced the arrival of Chinese Ambassador, Tian Qichen, in the R.G. Casey building. He was greeted by a junior official waiting at the reception desk.

  ‘Mr Joyce is expecting you, Ambassador.’

  Tian offered a weak smile and nodded for the underling to lead the way. He was in no mood for banter. In his briefcase was a démarche: the highest form of official complaint from a foreign embassy to a host government. He’d been instructed to hand-deliver it to the Secretary of the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade and to protest in the strongest possible terms against the invasion of Chinese sovereign territory by union thugs. Australian–Sino relations were at their lowest ebb since Catriona Bailey had delivered a lecture in Mandarin to Peking University students lamenting the treatment of Tibet.

  In his fourth-floor office, DFAT secretary David Joyce, armed with an official statement from the Prime Minister’s office, gazed through expansive windows to Parliament House, just up the hill, as he waited for the diplomat.

  Joyce had known Tian for years. He’d performed his professional duty by welcoming the Ambassador to Australia with a Sunday evening barbecue at his Forrest home. He quite enjoyed his company.

  But the Secretary knew this encounter would be bruising.

  ‘Ambassador, very nice to see you. I hope you and Ms Weng are enjoying your first weeks in our country.’

  Tian said nothing but placed his black briefcase theatrically on Joyce’s desk and flicked its two locks open. Reaching inside, he removed a letter. A single sheet of paper was embossed with official Chinese Government letterhead.

  ‘Mr Joyce, I am sure you are aware of my government’s strong displeasure concerning yesterday’s events. They were unacceptable. Needless to say, they have done nothing to help negotiations over a free-trade deal.’

  He glanced at the official letter as if seeking guidance.

  ‘The embassy site is contaminated; its role has been compromised. The Chinese Government is demanding another block of land suitable for our new building.’

  Joyce had his own piece of paper, stamped with the Australian crest and signed by Martin Toohey. He decided to match Tian’s theatrics and read some of it aloud.

  ‘The Prime Minister says he regrets the incident and notes that the “actions of the workers were not sanctioned by anyone in government”. But as a Labor prime minister he understands “the genuine affront that all decent union officials” would feel at what they saw as “illegal work practices on Australian soil by a foreign power”.’

  The Ambassador immediately recognised the wording. It was almost a carbon copy of the language used by Beijing to describe the occupation of the Senkaku Islands by the Chinese fishermen.

  Joyce lowered the paper and looked over his half-moon glasses at Tian.

  ‘As for the land, Mr Ambassador, that is not within my gift. I will pass on your request to the Prime Minister and the National Capital Authority. But you should be aware that diplomatic land in the capital’s dress circle is in short supply.’

  The Ambassador responded carefully. ‘I came to Australia hoping to build on our excellent relationship, one that has proved very beneficial. The Prime Minister’s announcement on the gas deal was evidence of this deepening friendship.’

  ‘And we want to continue to enjoy a good relationship,’ Joyce said. ‘But, to be frank, some in our government believe that the recent attacks on our aviation and banking systems originated in China. If so, they would not be the actions of a friend.’

  Tian looked out at the Parliament building, its enormous flag stretched full in the late afternoon breeze.

  ‘It is ironic, Mr Joyce. If what you say is true about the invasion of our embassy, then this truly is a land where the workers run the government.’ He turned back to the Secretary. ‘I thought that was my country, not yours.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Canberra

  Our man in Canberra Dunkly on fire. Must be in line for Gold Walkley. About time.

  The fact Rupert Murdoch had misspelled his name couldn’t dent Harry Dunkley’s pride at featuring in a tweet from the great man. The reporter had been delivering a regular supply of white-hot scoops for the Oz. Earning a commendation from News Corp’s global chief was icing on a very tasty cake.

  Harry had almost morphed into the very thing he loathed – a celebrity journalist – and was in fierce demand with voracious television and radio networks, always on the lookout for new talent. He’d become a darling of 2GB with the Sydney radio station’s hosts clamouring to have him on their programs to buttress the network’s ‘Fortress Australia’ mentality. Alan Jones h
ad even asked him to front a ‘Buy Back the Farm’ campaign he was planning to launch the following week, an invitation Dunkley had politely declined.

  Jones had then dangled a bigger carrot.

  ‘Harry, I’m backing a new party – Australia First – that will run candidates in every electorate at the September election. C’mon, you can be part of this – even become prime minister,’ Jones had told him over tea and cucumber sandwiches at his apartment overlooking Circular Quay.

  Again, Dunkley demurred.

  But it was true that public opinion was turning. The Lowy Institute’s annual poll on Australian global attitudes showed that the nation was becoming more suspicious of China.

  Dunkley’s stories were tapping into the lizard-brain fears of Australia. Old prejudices stirred. The internet was alive with the worst of the human spirit. Dark anonymous forces had established a blog with a subtle title: ‘The Yellow Peril’. Its motto? Revive White Australia.

  Dunkley fretted about the extreme end of this debate. In every interview he repeated the mantra that he was ‘not anti-China’. But in his reflective moments he was pleased to be at the vanguard of those sounding the alarm over the rise of the communist nation and the shift of power from West to East.

  And when he was honest with himself, he knew what was driving him.

  They killed Kimberley.

  He tugged a jacket over his shoulders and put a protective arm around his girlfriend as they left the Dendy cinema in Civic. It was closing on 9.30pm and Celia Mathieson had insisted on seeing the latest Ryan Gosling flick, an escapist fantasy that he’d found vapid.

  ‘I liked it, Harry. Yeah, it wasn’t War and Peace, but so what?’ Celia suggested a quick bite at one of the restaurants along Bunda Street, but as they peered into Wagamama they saw the staff putting up the ‘Closed’ sign. It was an all-too-familiar scenario in the national capital, which still lacked the big-city vibe of Sydney, Melbourne, even Brisbane.

  Still, the silken touch of Celia’s blouse as they strolled along the spine of this pretend CBD was compensation enough. Their relationship was still in its early phase: a few movies, a nice dinner, a picnic on the lake, several overnight stays in her Kingston apartment and a handful in his untidy pad.

  Tonight offered similar promise.

  ‘What about a drink, Cel? Cube should be open.’

  ‘Ooh, you are being adventurous, old man. Didn’t think you liked gay bars?’

  ‘Ease up. I’m not your typical boring middle-aged hung-up male.’

  She stopped and swung in front of him, blocking his path as she hooked a long lingering kiss on his lips. ‘We’ll see about that, Harry.’

  He was entranced, caught in her web, exposed to the prying eyes of a city that traded on gossip.

  Right then and there, though, the rough-and-tumble journalist, the ace scribe whom Uncle Rupert thought was God’s gift, couldn’t give a flying fuck.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Canberra

  The pink brush with ivory inlay swept across her raven-black hair, fixing every strand in place. A whiff of perfume – musky vanilla – roused a memory. Her first time with Bruce, some three decades ago . . . they had been so young, and hadn’t known how precious and fleeting that gift was.

  In the confines of her room, Weng Meihui dabbed on makeup with the skill of an artisan and frowned. She turned on a harsh light and directed its glare towards her slender throat.

  She was in her early fifties and still alluring to men. But this southern light troubled her. It revealed too much, highlighting every hint of age.

  Weng was unsettled.

  How long will I be of use to them?

  The State had raised her, schooled her, trained her, employed her, housed and cared for her. She was lucky; she’d been chosen for her intellect as much as her physical appeal. And she had repaid their faith, every time, without question.

  No man was her hero, and she was no one’s servant. She was flint-tough, sharp-minded and had used her quick wit more than a few times to escape difficult situations.

  There were two soft knocks at the door. ‘May I come in?’

  He was here. Her consort. Her partner. Their choice. Tian Qichen entered without waiting for her response.

  ‘I was pleased when I heard that you would be accompanying me to Australia. How are you enjoying this place?’ he asked.

  She was unsure how to answer. After all, it had only been a matter of weeks and the assignment, still in its early stages, was not without its challenges.

  He sensed her hesitation and stepped in to break the silence.

  ‘Your mission with the parliamentarian has gone well. Beijing is pleased.’

  She smiled.

  Of course they are.

  ‘Yes, I am quite happy that he decided to sit as an independent in the federal parliament.’

  ‘Did he take much convincing?’

  She hesitated. There were things that she needed to keep to herself.

  Yes, he was a willing accomplice.

  He repeated the question. ‘Did he take much convincing?’ He’d moved closer, bringing with him a faint smell of mint and wax.

  ‘No, not much at all. He understood that sitting as an independent would allow him to leverage that position and to put pressure on the Prime Minister. And remember, he is no special friend of the Americans,’ Weng said.

  ‘No, of course not. Not a special friend.’

  Tian looked around the room as if searching for something. He turned back to her.

  ‘You have feelings for him?’

  Weng felt a tinge of shame.

  ‘Of course not. This is my . . . profession.’

  ‘And I have always admired you for that. You are very skilled and much respected.’

  He moved even closer and reached out to stroke her hair. ‘You are very skilled . . . and very beautiful.’

  ‘You are kind.’ Weng turned to face him and smiled. ‘But I am getting old and the light in this country does me no favours. Soon my country won’t have any use for me.’

  ‘You are being too hard on yourself.’ He clumsily reached out to grasp her hands.

  ‘Don’t.’ She pulled away, feeling nothing for him, surprised at the cold slap of her voice.

  His face hardened.

  ‘As you wish, Ms Weng.’

  She rose from her chair and looked down as she walked past him to the bathroom.

  ‘Please, Ambassador, close the door on the way out.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Sydney

  The dashboard lights of the Mercedes SLK softly lit Elizabeth Scott’s face as she negotiated the sweep left onto Manly Road. It was late and the call, though unexpected, had been welcome. They’d arranged to meet in a carpark near Orso Restaurant, just off the Spit Bridge and a short drive from her Manly home.

  Scott had come close to quitting Parliament after being dumped as Opposition leader eighteen months earlier. Her husband had begged her to return to business, where she had made her fortune.

  But Scott could not bear admitting failure. She believed she still had plenty to offer and was the best person to lead the Liberal Party, which was being dragged hard to the right by the odious Emily Brooks.

  Redemption in the mainstream had come slowly for Scott, though she’d found to her surprise that she’d been quickly taken up by the luvvies of the Left, who saw her as the civilised face of conservative politics. These were the same people, of course, who had pilloried her every move when she’d actually led the Liberal Party.

  What had really liberated her was being on the backbench. Better still, her willingness to act as a commentator on her party and leader had put her in high demand with the media. Now, eighteen months after her demise, opinion polls showed she was among the most recognised and popular politicians in the nation.

  Scott had learned brutal lessons about politics and she did not intend to play fair. She would exploit her wealth and had engaged a private investigator to comb through h
er rival’s life.

  Now the PI claimed to have hit paydirt.

  Crossing the bridge, Scott turned left onto Parriwi Rd and into the carpark. She pulled up her convertible alongside a smart-looking Ford.

  Thank God someone still buys Australian.

  A middle-aged man limped from the car. His demeanour and clothing bore the unmistakable stamp of the ex-copper. He opened the passenger’s door of the Mercedes and climbed in.

  ‘Very nice set of wheels. I’m obviously not charging you enough.’

  ‘Hah!’ Scott wasn’t in the mood for small talk. ‘What do you have for me?’

  ‘Gold. Pure unadulterated gold.’

  ‘Photos?’

  ‘Better. Video.’

  ‘What? How did you . . .? No, don’t tell me how. Just tell me what.’

  ‘I’ll tell ya, love. I saw some strange shit in my time at Vice down the Cross but this makes Underbelly look like an episode of Lassie.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Canberra

  ‘Welcome to the best Japanese restaurant in Canberra, Harry; great to see you.’

  Akito Mori’s familiar shape framed the doorway. He was officially listed as the counsellor for public affairs at the Japanese embassy but Dunkley suspected he was the station chief for Japan’s spy agency, the Cabinet Intelligence and Research Office, or Naicho.

  ‘Akito, nice to see you too. Sorry I’m late. I hope you got my messages.’

  ‘Don’t mention it, just make sure you sign the visitors’ book. That is the one thing His Excellency cares about.’

  The book lay open on a table in the entrance hall of the Ambassador’s residence. Harry had inscribed his name in it many times. He had become firm friends with the previous Ambassador when the two had conspired on a series of stories that had infuriated Catriona Bailey during her first trip overseas in 2008.

  Ambassador Satoki Tenaka was waiting in the informal dining room, a glass of champagne in his hand. Dunkley smiled as he greeted the diplomat.