by Steve Lewis
‘It’s called “The Dreaming”, isn’t it?’ A rich American baritone broke his concentration.
‘Brent, good to see you. I wasn’t expecting you here. I didn’t know that Australian art was your thing. And no, that’s a common mistake; it’s called “The River”.’
The Prime Minister turned to shake the hand of the US Ambassador, noticing at the same time that a small group was gathering on a nearby podium, meaning that he’d soon be required for official duties – the opening of an exhibition of Pacific Rim art.
‘Ah yes, of course, I can see that,’ Brent Moreton said. ‘And I’m no culture vulture, I’ll admit that, Martin. But it pays to fly the flag – particularly when the Office of the Prime Minister requests your presence at the cutting of a ribbon.’
‘Oh, I didn’t know you’d be leaned on to attend this event. Sorry.’ The two men smiled.
‘Don’t worry about it, Martin,’ Moreton said. ‘Besides, I wanted a chance to have a quick chat. About something important.’
‘What’s on your mind? Presumably not the virtues of Polynesian art.’
‘No, Prime Minister.’ Moreton stepped in closer. ‘I wanted you to hear this from me first. The President plans to call you today, at 11am, if that’s convenient.’ Moreton didn’t pause for confirmation.
‘The United States is stepping up military plans for the East and South China seas. We want our allies to back us and, in some cases, share the burden.’
Toohey knew he was about to cop a curve ball from the baseball-loving envoy.
‘As part of the US pivot to the Pacific, the President will invite you to forward-base Australian forces on Guam. It would be a tremendous gesture of support for the alliance. It would open a raft of possibilities for joint training and allow a rapid response to natural disasters.’
The PM had been blindsided. He was still digesting this bombshell when one of his aides motioned to him to join the group on the podium.
‘One minute, Jenny, please.’
He turned back to Moreton. ‘You’re telling me the President will ring me in two hours and ask that Australia send soldiers to Guam?’
‘Well, not soldiers specifically. We were thinking of a squadron of your Super Hornets which are already inter-operable with our forces there.’
‘Well, my friend, we do that and the Chinese will go ballistic. And I use the word deliberately. I have to go now but I can tell you that my initial reaction is a firm no.’
Toohey turned, retrieving a wad of notes from a folder handed to him by an adviser.
Moreton touched the PM’s sleeve, halting his progress. ‘Well, you might like to reconsider that, Prime Minister. Because the President will formally announce his plan for a new Pacific partnership at a press conference in the White House. In four hours time.’
Thirty minutes later, Toohey thundered into his office, hitting a call button with unusual ferocity. ‘George!’
His chief of staff arrived seconds later. ‘Oh good, I’m glad you’re back, I’ve got those papers for the Cabinet meeting—’
‘Forget Cabinet. The United States of god-forsaken America wants us to put planes on Guam to give the Chinese the idea that it’s building a coalition of the willing, just in case they get any funny ideas.’
‘Shiiiitttttt! Where did this come from?’
‘Moreton shirt-fronted me in the Mural Hall; told me Jackson will publicly invite us to help them with the regional heavy-lifting to bolster the US presence in Guam.’
‘And if we don’t?’
‘The public declaration is designed to make this an offer we can’t refuse. It doesn’t pay to piss off the United States. But the Chinese will crucify us. They must know that.’
Toohey closed his eyes and exhaled. He wore the mantle of national leadership with great pride, but at times like these it threatened to exhaust and overwhelm him.
‘The Americans are trying to drag us into war, their war, again.’ The Prime Minister offered his friend a weak smile as he slowly shook his head. ‘George, they’ve got my balls in a vice.’
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Canberra
‘Jia, I’ll be back in a short while.’
Weng Meihui skipped out of the embassy into the Canberra afternoon glare. She was keen to avoid the stares of the Falun Gong protesters across the street and lowered her head as she turned left towards the lake.
Her hands gripped a small bag containing a paperback: Tim Winton’s Cloudstreet. She’d borrowed the novel from a colleague, Xiu Linjiang, to read on the plane from Beijing, taking his word that it contained ‘great insight’ into the Australian character.
How she had enjoyed the foray into the lives of two working-class families, desperate and dirt poor, drawn together by their daily effort to survive. It had reminded her of stories her mother told of growing up in the backstreets of Lhasa, the Tibetan capital, following the 1950 ‘liberation’.
She was returning the book and was keen to see how Xiu had been faring in the month since he’d arrived from the northern winter to work at the new embassy compound, installing communications equipment, he’d told her.
The compound was only four hundred metres from the embassy, but the workers’ accommodation was very different to the luxury Weng enjoyed in her suite. They were housed in dongas and makeshift cabins, and kept under virtual house arrest.
Security had been further tightened since the drowning death of Lin An and the invasion by the Australian union thugs. The workers’ weekly movie night at the embassy had been cancelled and communications with the homeland curtailed.
‘A secure China must come first,’ the Ambassador had told Weng when she’d voiced concerns about the workers’ loss of amenities.
Now she walked up the curved driveway off Alexandrina Drive as a cement-mixer rumbled past. The gates were open and she waved to the security attendant.
‘Hello. I am Weng Meihui.’ She flashed her official pass and looked around the busy site, taking in the drilling, clinking, hammering and shouting as a dozen workers laboured in the baking sun.
The attendant looked at her suspiciously, as if he was surprised to see a woman, particularly the Ambassador’s wife.
‘Xiu Linjiang. Where will I find him?’ Weng asked pleasantly.
‘He’s not here, madam.’
‘Where is he?’
The attendant shuffled nervously. Weng sensed something was amiss.
‘Mr . . .’ She checked his pass. ‘. . . Wong. Tell me where Xiu is, please.’
‘Madam, I don’t know. Please, I am just security on this gate.’
‘Where is his room then? I want to return a book.’ She took the paperback from her bag and showed it to him.
He blinked, a nervous twitch. He pointed to a group of huts about eighty metres away. ‘That one at the end,’ he finally said. ‘Upstairs.’
Weng walked into the compound, ignoring the wolfish stares of three labourers who were shovelling dirt into a long trench.
So this is where the union thugs did their business.
She arrived at the two-level cabin and had begun to climb a set of external stairs when an agitated worker came up behind her, asking her to stop.
‘Madam, I don’t think it’s a good idea. Please.’ His voice had a pleading edge.
‘I just want to drop a book off to Xiu Linjiang, the man who arrived here four weeks ago.’
The man’s voice softened. ‘He’s not . . . he’s not here.’ He was clearly nervous.
‘Well, I’ll just drop off the book.’
‘I don’t . . .’ His voice trailed off, as if he was keeping something back.
She kept walking up the stairwell, impatient now to complete her errand. There were two rooms on the upper level, the names of the occupants written in texta on the beige-coloured walls.
Xiu’s name was on the furthest room, along with those of his two room-mates: Dong Mao and . . .
She froze. The third name was unmistakeable. Lin An.
She was starting to understand why the security guard and the worker seemed worried. She entered the room. It smelt of antiseptic. There were three bunks and each had been stripped of its sheets.
Weng placed the book on a bedside table and was turning to leave when she stopped. There was a small wardrobe made from flimsy-looking timber against the far wall. She walked over to it and opened the door.
Empty.
‘Weng. Why are you here?’
His voice startled her. She turned. Zheng Dong loomed in the doorway.
‘That book, Zheng. Xiu lent it to me. Do you know where he is?’
‘He is gone.’
‘Where?’
‘Home, for good.’
‘Why?’
‘The compound has been compromised. His work has been suspended.’
‘And the other one who was here?’
‘Same.’
‘And did either of them know what happened to Lin An?’
‘No.’
‘How do you know, Zheng?’
‘Because I asked them.’
CHAPTER FIFTY
Canberra
Line after line of meaningless code. A jumble of computer-generated hieroglyphics, inverted numerals, symbols and squiggles. None of it, not a single word, made any sense.
Kimberley, give us a fucking break.
Harry Dunkley’s eyes ached as he tried to digest the mystifying mess. He felt like he was in a maze, with all the fun squeezed out.
‘So, what do you make of this?’
He looked forlornly at Mathieson, hoping that her IT expertise would allow them to crack the next nut. She whistled and was wide-eyed in her appreciation.
‘Harry, your friend didn’t want to make it easy.’
‘Yeah. Kimberley never liked to do things by halves. The question is, can you make sense of it?’
‘I can do anything with the right level of persuasion.’ She nudged him light-heartedly. ‘But seriously, Harry, I don’t know. This is a big job and decryption is not my speciality.’
Celia took a sip of Diet Coke. She had a newfound respect for Kimberley, who was clearly more than just a pretty – albeit dead – face.
‘This is going to take serious time, Harry, just to get to first base. Obviously she wanted this stuff deep in the ether.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Canberra
The long table was set just for two. Hewn from a single ancient teak tree, it was made for formal functions, to impress large groups of dignitaries with the size and strength of the new China.
Tonight’s intimate setting only magnified Weng Meihui’s sense of isolation. The Ambassador had insisted on dressing formally for this full moon dinner in a dark suit and tie, a spit of grease in his hair. Weng had thought about wearing a casual outfit but had reconsidered. The consequences of offending him were too great.
She’d spent weeks in this strange country, trying to adapt to its quirky customs and habits. It was hard, dry, confronting, beautiful. She knew she could learn to love this land of open spaces.
But something she could never enjoy were the dinners alone with her ‘husband’. He had demanded they maintain their marital facade, warning her that prying eyes were everywhere.
She was practised in the art of small talk, usually able to beguile even the most boring of men. But Tian was her greatest challenge – tedious, narrow-minded, controlling.
Recently a darker edge had invaded their dinners. He desired her, and that made their relationship increasingly awkward.
His first advances had been amusing as he fumbled to find the words he hoped would entice her to his bed. But his veneer of charm had evaporated when she’d resisted. Privately, he became aggressive and occasionally crude. He could remove all pretence of being the dutiful husband in a moment. And that scared her.
Tonight she would be her charming self. She was troubled by her visit to the compound. Troubled and frightened.
No one could shed light on the fate of Lin An’s room-mates. She’d discreetly sounded out a secretary who made travel arrangements for the workers from China. ‘I know nothing, Madam Weng,’ was the curt reply.
A curtain of silence had fallen. The State was capable of much. She suspected the men had been brutalised, but why?
Had they, too, sought to escape the compound? Were they even now hiding in this bland city?
‘Good evening, Mei.’ His sudden appearance startled her. He reached for her hand and gently squeezed it.
‘Good evening, Qichen. It’s nice to see you. How was your day?’
‘Productive, my dear. Productive and satisfying. We are making good progress on the latest trade talks despite some difficulties over Australia’s defence ties.’
He motioned to the butler. ‘A whisky, neat, and wine for Ms Weng. Now.’
Weng had not planned to drink alcohol, but did not contradict the Ambassador. She was after answers. Wine would at least help lubricate the conversation.
‘And you, my dear, what have you been doing with your time today?’ Tian asked the question with a slight smile.
How much has he been told?
‘I had a good day. The plans for the exhibition are progressing well and I had coffee with several other partners. Miss Lindwall from Britain, and Mrs Toffey from Canada. Nice women and, like me, fairly new to this city.’
‘Ah, that is good, that is good. Yes, the diplomatic community likes to look after their own. We are all strangers together, I guess.’
Tian contemplated his whisky. He looked back at Weng, took a step toward her. ‘And you paid a visit to the compound, I hear.’
‘Yes. The architecture is very nice.’
‘The architecture? I had no idea of your interest in building design . . .’
‘It is something I have been intrigued by . . . for some time. . .’ Weng was stumbling. He was toying with her. She felt herself blushing.
He motioned to the table. ‘Shall we?’
Weng took her place, the butler pulling her chair out from the table.
‘Thank you.’ Her smile masked an inner trembling.
Tian lifted his chopsticks and sampled an appetiser of salmon and rice. He ignored the offer of wine and fixed his gaze on Weng.
‘Mr Zheng tells me you have an interest in Mr Xiu and his whereabouts.’
‘He lent me a book. I was returning it. An Australian book, Cloudstreet.’ Weng tried to sound calm and conversational.
Tian dragged a thin bone from his mouth, placed it on the side of his plate.
‘I sent a cable to the Office today about your visit to the compound. The Commander will ring tomorrow on the secure phone.’
Where is this heading?
She nodded as she gripped her wine glass. A clatter from the kitchen startled her. A slight sweat stained her neck.
‘You know . . .’ Tian considered his words. ‘There is a good opportunity for us to make something of the next few years, together here in Canberra. The task is to follow the instructions we have been given. I don’t recall you being asked to become an inquisitor, my dear.’
She tensed as he leaned towards her.
‘I could make life here very difficult for you, Mei. Or very good. It is your choice, my beloved wife.’
She had known too many men like Tian. When they couldn’t get what they wanted through charm, they used blackmail. Or violence. They deluded themselves that this was power, when their desperation for sex made them weak.
Weng had spent her life gathering loose words from these men and knew her power over them. They swelled with pride after a conquest and paraded like pumped-up peacocks. And they talked.
White light from the full moon washed through the room. Tian lit a cigarette and blew smoke across the bed. He looked satisfied with himself. Smug and pompous.
‘My dear, would you care for a drink?’
‘Yes, a cognac would be nice.’
‘Of course.’
Weng smiled at his absurd nakedness as he strut
ted across the room and poured two drinks from a shell-shaped bottle. His weak chest, pot belly and reed-thin arms and legs were obscene in the moonlight.
No doubt you think you’re handsome, pig.
The brown liquid jiggled in the glasses as he returned to bed.
She leaned on his arm. ‘I was just returning a book, you know. My curiosity got the better of me.’
Tian gazed out the window at the moon. ‘It is best not to ask questions about things of which you know little.’
‘Of course. I was just concerned.’
Weng knew she was on very dangerous ground. Tian’s desire was tinged with contempt and when, inevitably, his lust was sated her life would be expendable. Those who sell their souls have always looked down on those who sell their bodies. She hoped her meek response would invite an answer that his arrogance could not resist.
‘Those men failed in their duty. Lin An escaped and threatened the entire operation. An operation vital to our state. Known only to a trusted few.’
Her fingertips traced a line down his face.
‘You must be one of the trusted few to be in charge of this very important mission.’
He snorted proudly. He was content.
She pushed a bit harder. ‘And those men? What happened to them?’
‘They are gone.’
‘Home?’
‘No, just gone. Anyone who fails in this mission will meet the same fate.’
Tian turned to face her.
‘And that includes you and me. Our leaders were displeased by the attack on the compound. We considered aborting the project but there is no sign our enemies know what we are doing. The rewards will be great.’
‘What rewards?’
The Ambassador gently ran the back of his hand over her breasts, sweeping upwards. His fingers rested on her neck. And tightened.
‘You understand so little. You steal small secrets one at a time from feeble men. My mission is to know everything. That building will be our gateway to the West, to everything that they know. And Mei, we are already in.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Canberra
The voice was steeped in ’60s soul and drove through the earbuds. She loved Adele, this British chanteuse who sang of fickle hearts and fractured relationships.
