by Steve Lewis
‘You have the old membership list. Ben pieced together the current one. By his reckoning the Alliance is now led by Jack Webster.’
‘Webster? The defence force chief?’
‘Yes. And it’s an impressive list. Also on it is Brent Moreton, the serving US Ambassador, the Secretary of Foreign Affairs and the heads of ASIS and ASIO. Oh, and one Labor politician, Brendan Ryan, the Defence Minister.’
The list fell on Dunkley like a slap that snapped him awake. His eyes cleared as he saw how the jigsaw pieces assembled into a picture. It confirmed what he had suspected since his polling story had been disavowed. He’d been lied to, done over, to stop him from exposing this powerful cult.
‘Trevor, you’ve taken a risk. Now I’m about to take one. To do something I’ve never done before. And that’s reveal a source. Brendan Ryan was behind the story that broke me.’
‘I suspected as much.’ Harris nodded. ‘But thanks for the vote of trust.’
Dunkley caught his breath as he glanced around the cafe. A table of tradies was engaged in banter about women, cars and beer. Two young office workers held hands as they shared a pastry and the first shy blushes of a relationship.
Australians who worried little about how their country worked. Imagining in their apathy that the people they voted for ran the nation.
And in their midst, two outcasts drawn together by the murder of a friend that pointed to an extraordinary conspiracy. If they stood up and shouted what they knew they would be considered insane.
Yet Dunkley knew in his bones it was true. That everything he had believed in, right until that moment, was a myth.
The journalist rubbed his eyes and tried to compose himself.
‘How do they work?’ he asked.
‘Harry, you have no idea how deeply embedded our defence and intelligence community is with America. You’re a well-informed man, but did you know that B-52s based in Guam regularly fly training missions to the West Australian desert and drop live bombs? And did you know that the distance from Guam to that patch of Australian sand is the same distance as Guam to Beijing?’
Dunkley shook his head. It was news to him.
‘Well, the Chinese know. And what do you think they make of that? And do you really have any idea what Pine Gap is used for? Among other things it watches every missile launch and nuclear test from North Korea to India. It’s a vital cog in the US war machine.’
Harris kept glancing about as his voice dropped to a whisper.
‘For all intents and purposes the Australian defence establishment is an outpost of the US. Our generals and admirals like it that way. They call it interoperability, but it’s really integration. China knows that. Is it any wonder they question our politicians who claim we can be an ally of the US and not pose a threat to them?
‘Most of the time all our defence establishment has to do is nudge the government of the day into line. Buying US military equipment. Ensuring that we can’t operate with anyone else. Telling politicians that we need to go to war for “alliance maintenance”. And governments, for the most part . . . well, they are happy to comply. Even to think it was their idea.
‘But sometimes the establishment needs to make a radical intervention, like in ’75. And right now the Alliance is feeling so threatened it’s decided to declare war against its own.’
Harris reached under his chair for his green shopping bag and removed a document, placing it in front of Dunkley. It was marked AUSTEO.
‘Jesus, Trevor.’
‘Indeed, Harry. Read it.’
The cafe had emptied out, but Dunkley glanced around before he turned the cover sheet and exposed a three-word heading: THE LUSITANIA PLAN.
The document outlined how a ‘false flag’ operation could be mounted in cyberspace. The plan was to stage a series of attacks on one nation’s infrastructure routed through a third country in an attempt to hide the adversary’s true identity. Potential targets included dams, electricity grids and traffic systems. But three specific targets leapt out: air-traffic control, banks and mobile phone networks.
‘Shit!’ Dunkley could feel the blood pumping in his temples as he struggled to digest the document’s explosive implications.
‘Harry, the attacks on Australia might not be coming from China. Maybe the Alliance is trying to shunt the government back into line. If Toohey believes China is the adversary, that forces him back into the arms of America . . .’
Dunkley finally realised the role that he’d been playing in this great game. He wasn’t a journalist. He was their stooge.
‘And, Trevor, if every attack is reported as coming from China, then a government that didn’t act would be seen as weak on national security. The people would turf it out.’
Dunkley knew he had been played by Ryan. But there was one other who had hung him on the hook.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Canberra
A red wall topped with gold-rimmed black tiles and a sliver of blue sky formed the background of Yue Minjun’s famous painting. But it was the stark foreground that had first drawn Elizabeth Scott’s attention.
Eight identical Asian men were divided into two groups of four. Those on the right were stripped to their underwear, while the others trained invisible rifles on them.
Scott loved Chinese contemporary art, but it was the title that really appealed: ‘Execution’.
The print hung in her parliamentary office, a stark reminder of her brutal dispatch as Opposition leader.
She pondered tweeting a picture of it today, as her executioner, Emily Brooks, took her place up against the wall. The aborted attempt to fix the numbers on the mental health vote had buried her.
But there could be no gloating in public and precious little in private. Scott had assumed the rebirth of her popularity would guarantee the return of the Opposition leader’s mantle. Her party had other ideas.
‘The troops see you as too left wing.’ The South Australian Liberal MP Steve Pitt had been walking the corridors. The ballot was at 11am and things looked terminal.
‘How many by your count?’
‘Twelve.’
That tallied with her own assessment, and she was shocked by how risibly low it was. She had loudly declared she’d be a candidate, so there would be plenty of humiliation to go around this day.
Scott wondered again why she didn’t quit.
‘Out of the eighty-eight Liberal MPs and senators, only twelve will back me. Who are the other seventy-six morons voting for?’
‘They want someone new. And after experimenting with a wet from New South Wales and a dry-as-dust Queenslander, there’s a strong mood for a Victorian. The one thing everyone keeps telling me is they want “a safe pair of hands”. Bruce Landry seems the most likely.’
Scott shook her head. ‘The guy’s a cardigan-wearing dill. My twelve-year-old labrador has more energy and appeal.’
‘Well, maybe we need a drover’s dog.’
The routine slaughter of Opposition leaders is much like putting down a sick kitten: unfortunate, but ultimately a kindness.
Before the suffering ends, though, there are media rituals that must be observed. Political death is a spectator sport in Australia and approached with the anticipation of a footy grand final.
The commercial television breakfast programs had moved their anchors to Canberra for the day, setting up marquees outside Parliament. Sky and ABC News 24 had been cycling politicians, journalists, analysts and anyone else who could string a sentence together through their studios. The major print bureaus had rolled their Sydney and Melbourne-based heavy hitters into town, and when they weren’t crafting portentous opinion pieces, they were acting as network commentators. Radio talkback was filling the airwaves with chatter.
Security in Parliament House had been relaxed to allow cameras and journalists access to a junction of corridors about fifty metres from the Opposition party room. The burble of live TV and radio crosses echoed through the building.
Excitement w
as rising. There was speculation, growing by the minute, that two leaders might fall before this day was done – something unique in the one hundred and twelve years of Federation.
Martin Toohey was resisting a call for a Caucus ballot. But a rumour was circulating that a petition was being organised for a leadership spill.
Ten minutes before the Liberal Party ballot, the first MPs and senators began running the media gauntlet.
Then the combatants arrived, faces fixed, acolytes in tow, to a barrage of shouted questions.
‘Ms Scott, Ms Scott, do you have the numbers?’
‘We’ll see.’
Bruce Landry had firmed as the favourite. Dull, but solid as a rock. He also had recent, real-world business experience, chairing a Victorian water business and turning around its fortunes.
Given it was a state-owned corporation and Landry had donated his board fees to charity, the job fell well inside the rules for MPs.
‘Mr Landry, can you win it?’
‘Whatever happens, I hope it’s for the good of the party and the country.’
Finally, Emily Brooks appeared. Alone. An act of defiance from a woman who’d been subjected to so much humiliation and ridicule. Determined to show her spirit was unbowed, she smiled as she passed the salivating media pack, camera motor drives clattering through five frames a second.
‘Is it over, Ms Brooks?’
‘While there’s life, there’s hope.’
Justin Greenwich absorbed the broadcast, transfixed, camped in the Opposition leader’s office.
‘Say what you like about Emily Brooks, she makes Thatcher look like Tinkerbell.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Canberra
It was like walking onto the set of Gone with the Wind. Sweeping lawns cut by a circular driveway led to a grand Georgian-style manor, replete with white-latticed windows set in a red-brick facade.
Bruce Paxton half-expected to see Scarlett O’Hara promenading on the lush grass.
The United States embassy had been built to evoke the best of America on foreign shores. Its grace. Its beauty. Its power. Since 1943, it had stood near the symbolic heart of the national capital, a few hundred metres from Parliament. Like the nearby Israeli embassy, its perimeter walls were heavily fortified. Two uniformed marines guarded the entrance, day and night.
Every Fourth of July the embassy’s manicured turf hosted hundreds of guests. But today, on the spot where hot dogs and Budweiser were usually served, two men sat in deep and private conversation.
John Kowalksi stubbed out his cigarette on the sole of his shoe and turned to face his Australian friend. ‘Bruce, I’ll say it bluntly. Why should we fly your Chinese mistress to the United States?’
Standing just over two metres tall, Kowalksi was the defence attaché, a former Navy Seal who’d served with distinction in the first Gulf War. He was also the sole liaison with Australian defence officials and had forged a robust working relationship with Paxton during his time as Defence Minister.
‘Well, just think about this, John. The wife of a Chinese Ambassador defects to your God-fearing country, armed with a heap of useful material for you to sift through. I would have thought that was a prize worth having,’ Paxton answered.
‘That’s what I’ve always liked about you. You’re a hopeless liberal, but you do have an eye for the main game. There’ll be lots of red tape. Your government won’t take kindly to the removal of a Chinese diplomat against the wishes of Beijing.’
Paxton smiled. ‘John, this is one occasion when it’s better to beg forgiveness than ask permission. Can you do it?’
‘Well, Bruce, my Mom used to like to quote Jesus. “Anything is possible for those who have faith.” I’ll have an answer by close of business.’
At 7pm, Paxton fired off a text message to Weng.
Forster St. Hire car. 6.30pm. Tomorrow.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Canberra
The ABC’s chief of staff, Simon Johnson, was the first to see the alert drop into his inbox. He yelled over the clamour of the newsroom. ‘Prime Minister. Courtyard. 1.50.’
The bureau had been busy writing obituaries for Emily Brooks, profiles of Barry Landry, cutting grabs for radio and TV stories and pumping out online copy. Editors were scouring for vision that evoked the drama of the moment.
For a few seconds everyone stopped as the significance sank in. It was 1.40pm and a prime minister under siege had called a snap press conference scheduled for ten minutes before Question Time.
The mid-afternoon sun scorched the prime ministerial courtyard and journalists crowded into a small oasis of shade. The camera crews laboured in the harsh sunlight, sweating under their heavy equipment as they prepared for Martin Toohey’s arrival.
A podium, badged with a silver Australian crest, stood before two heavy timber and glass doors. Australian flags hung either side of it, each displaying a hint of the Union Jack and all of the Southern Cross.
A security guard pushed open the mighty doors and a perfectly groomed PM stepped into the glare.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, thanks for coming. I know it’s hot, this won’t take long. I’m going to make a statement and won’t be taking questions.
‘Forty minutes ago a delegation of Labor MPs came to my office, led by the Foreign Minister. They had a petition bearing the names of thirty-six party members calling for a special Caucus meeting to be convened next week, for a spill of positions and a leadership ballot.
‘It is my prerogative as leader to call a ballot at any time. I have decided that this matter should be resolved today. These are serious times. We face serious domestic and international challenges. The Australian people deserve stability. The ballot will be held at 7pm.’
Toohey ignored the cacophony as he left. He walked back through his office suite and was met by George Papadakis, carrying a folder of briefs.
‘Shouldn’t you be on the Opposition’s payroll?’
It was four minutes to Question Time. Harry Dunkley had intercepted Toohey as he emerged from his office. He’d been camped outside, knowing that the PM would take that route to the chamber.
The Australian’s disgraced former correspondent had been gunning for the government for months. Now he’d overreached and been benched. As far as Toohey was concerned, it was a tiny shard of light in an ocean of darkness.
‘I have to speak with you PM, it’s urgent.’
‘Mate, I don’t have time to speak to you.’
Toohey was walking fast and George Papadakis was heaving along beside him. An AFP officer was eyeing Dunkley suspiciously, ready to step in if the journalist pushed too hard.
‘Martin. You need to hear this. You’ve been set up. It wasn’t the Chinese behind those cyber-attacks, it was the Americans.’
The Prime Minister stopped and fronted Dunkley. ‘Sure, mate, sounds completely logical. If I haven’t made myself clear, I don’t trust you or that shit sheet you used to work for. I’m not interested in anything you have to say.’
Suddenly two metres of close personal protection stood between the Prime Minister and Dunkley.
Question Time was in full fury as Dunkley pulled up a chair at a near-empty Aussies. He stirred his flat white, gazing at the televised theatrics playing out just a few hundred metres away.
A weakened Toohey was in no position to exploit the Opposition’s leadership change. Every question lashed the raw wound of his collapsed China gas deal.
‘My question is to the Prime Minister. Can he tell the House where he will find six billion dollars a year to fund his mental health plan now that the Chinese have abandoned his misguided attempt to underwrite it by selling off the farm?’
The troops were in full voice, urging their new leader, Bruce Landry, into the fray. Across the aisle, Labor MPs stewed in sullen silence. In a wide shot of the House they could be seen huddled in conversation, working out the numbers for the ballot that would come within hours.
Dunkley always thought Question Time’
s mock outrage played as a satirical take on the famous opening from A Tale of Two Cities. Here the government saw the nation as enjoying the best of times, while the Opposition viewed it as the worst. The truth lay somewhere in between.
For Dunkley though, these were pitiful days.
He glanced at his watch. It was nearly 3pm and the sedate Senate Question Time would be finishing soon. Dunkley contemplated how he might approach the man who had lied to him. The once trusted source who had destroyed his career.
The journalist hadn’t thrown a punch in anger in years, but thought maybe that would be a good way to start. He thought better of it as he approached the Defence Minister leaving the Senate chamber.
‘Why did you do it, Brendan?’ Dunkley’s voice was soft, cold fury.
Ryan waved away his senior adviser and turned to front Dunkley.
‘Mate, I thought the golden rule in journalism was to always check a story with multiple sources. What happened?’
‘Fair point. Maybe I should be punished for that. But usually the starting point isn’t a Cabinet minister lying to my face. I’ve always trusted you, Brendan.’
‘Well, more fool you. Mate, you’ve been playing in the big league for a long time. You should know better than most that sometimes we do things that damage people. So be it. There are more important things than your front-page splash.’
Ryan jabbed a finger close to Dunkley’s chest.
‘You live for the thrill of the chase, Harry, and you don’t mind who you fuck over to get a story. How many people have you hurt? How many careers have you destroyed? You thought you were doing the right thing. So did I. My job’s to defend the nation and I take it seriously.’
‘So I was a threat and you eliminated me.’
‘If you say so. But try and get this past your ego. It’s not about you. It’s much bigger than you. Now I’m busy, mate, and I don’t have time for has-been hacks.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Canberra
The black Citroën appeared just after 6pm.
