The Mandarin Code (23 page)

‘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.'

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.'

Canberra

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 had 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.

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.'