The Mandarin Code (13 page)

Nguyen digested the news and what it meant. Less than a minute after viewing the newsflash she was on the phone to her boss. After seven rings his croaky and cranky voice barked: ‘This had better be good.'

She wasted no words. ‘Boss, ten Chinese fishermen have raised the red flag over the Senkakus.'

Three heartbeats later Adrian Carmody was wide awake. ‘I'm on my way. I'll call the Secretary.'

An hour later the DFAT crisis centre was alive with a dozen senior officials poring over each shard of news. Secretary David Joyce had called in the PM's chief of staff. Around the globe similar departments were abuzz, no matter the time zone.

George Papadakis was dressed in a tracksuit and wore the expression of a man who believed international and domestic events were conspiring to make his life hell. And he was beginning to take it all personally.

Joyce's mood was grimmer than usual. He was studying a cable and muttering. ‘The bastards, do they really think we are fools?'

‘So, what do we know for sure, David?' Papadakis and Joyce had been friends for years and Papadakis wasn't fazed by his mate's dog days.

‘We know that ten Chinese fishermen went ashore on the largest island just before 3am, Beijing time.' Joyce hadn't lifted his head from the cable he was reading. ‘The island is called Uotsuri Jima by the Japanese and Diaoyu Dao by the Chinese.'

Joyce put down his papers, took off his glasses and looked at the line of clocks on the crisis centre wall.

‘If the timing seems odd, George, consider this. The fishermen announced on social media that they had taken the island within minutes of landing. They were well-organised because Reuters had a newsflash out inside five minutes. That meant it lobbed into the US just after 2pm. Very decent of them. It ensures that every network has plenty of time to make sure it leads the evening news.'

He handed his friend the cable he had been studying. ‘Here's a one-page summary of the story so far.'

The brief began with an official statement from Beijing. The People's Republic did not sanction the actions of the fishermen but its leadership ‘understood the genuine affront that all its citizens felt at the illegal occupation of Chinese land by a foreign power'. The government could not be expected to contain ‘the nationalist zeal' of a handful of its people.

It would work with the fishermen to try to get them to quit the island voluntarily, as a demonstration that China was a good international citizen. But China's claim over the island stood and the incident only served to highlight the need for a rapid resolution.

It didn't wash with the Japanese, or anyone else, who knew that, at the very least, the occupation had an official sanction.

The Japanese statement fairly shook with rage as it castigated China for an ‘act of aggression'. It called on the Chinese Government to remove the fishermen within forty-eight hours and carried a barely disguised threat: ‘Japan does not rule out taking unilateral action to bring this invasion of its territory to an end.'

By contrast, the US State Department had issued a tempered response, calling for calm. It trotted out its long-held line: that the US did not have an official position on who owned the islands.

However, America recognised that Japan administered the islands and that any attack on them would trigger the US–Japan bilateral security pact.

‘But this isn't an attack or an official act of the Chinese Government, is it, David?' Papadakis had some admiration for China's deft hand.

‘That's the beauty of it,' Joyce said. ‘The fishermen have asserted China's claim and given Beijing distance from it. Of course their government sanctioned it and, probably, organised it. But we can't prove that. So now the ball is in the court of Japan and, most importantly, the US. What they do next is crucial.'

Joyce had served in China and had risen to become Ambassador to the United States. Papadakis thought him the pre-eminent Australian diplomat of his age. This is what Joyce was the master of, looking at the pieces on the chessboard and analysing what was going through the players' heads. Then calculating a perfectly executed move of his own.

‘And, George, never forget that any government, dictatorship or democratic, is also playing to a domestic audience. This move is also an exercise in stirring Chinese nationalist sentiment, and focusing it outwards.

‘Most people in the West don't understand how important public opinion is in China. They see a dictatorship and imagine it has absolute control over the masses. It doesn't. Tiananmen Square proved that public anger can turn inwards, on the government.

‘So the role of the skilled propagandist is to harness and direct the people's mood. And whoever is the brains behind this knows his audience well. These fishermen will become national heroes and this cause will be elevated to the top of the nation's agenda. That will force the weak-kneed in the Chinese administration to side with the hard-liners. They have stirred the hornets, and they're headed our way.'

Papadakis looked at the wall map of the East China Sea with a growing sense of dread. ‘So how will the US respond?'

‘That is tough. My guess is State will want to fartarse around drafting crafty statements while the Pentagon will demand a measured but proportionate and decisive response. And in the mix will be Republican firebrands in and out of Congress who think that a proportionate response is to nuke Beijing. The question, George, is what will you do?'

‘Try and stay out of it.'

Joyce's face hardened.

‘You might be able to buy a few weeks but you can't keep doing that forever, George. This is a tough choice but the US is our ally. China is testing us. You might think that you can walk the tightrope between these powers but you can't.'

Papadakis thought of the months that had gone into his plan to dig the Toohey Government out of its electoral hole. It relied on Chinese finance. He just needed to nurse that deal to the other side of the election. He needed to buy time.

‘Is it weak to want peace? Our country's prosperity, your kids' jobs – they depend on peace and doing business with China. We need to use our unique position to urge China and the US to see that escalating this dispute is in no one's interest. The bloody Yanks started this whole mess anyway when that redneck idiot in the White House declared China a currency manipulator. Why kick a fucking hornets' nest?'

‘Everyone wants peace, mate.' Joyce was bent on trying to get Papadakis to make a stand. ‘And I think we will have peace but it won't be easy as the big powers come to a settlement. But we can't allow China to keep throwing its weight around with its neighbours or there will be no end to it. No one respects weakness.

‘Leaving aside who started it, my advice is to fall in behind the United States when it decides to act. The Chinese are not going to stop doing business with us in the long run. They need us as much as we need them.'

‘Your advice is noted but it's the short run that worries me.' Papadakis picked up his notes and started heading for the door. He wasn't about to be backed into a corner by Joyce. He took another pace then stopped.

‘Before I brief the PM, what's our own intelligence telling us?' he asked.

Joyce frowned and ran his hands through what remained of his hair.

‘There's a Collins class submarine in the area and it can see the camp set up by the fishermen,' he said. ‘Hopefully it can also see the subs from China, the US and Japan that no doubt are there. The waters around that island will be like Hoddle Street at peak hour. The last thing we want is for a sub that we claim only patrols Australian waters to surface two hundred nautical miles off the coast of China.'

Papadakis groaned. ‘Don't say that, David. Knowing our luck we'll have rear-ended a Chinese sub by lunchtime.'

Canberra

Edward ‘Ted' Spencer adjusted the black Jawbone on his wrist, rubbed a sore calf muscle and drew in several long breaths.

Fourteen minutes. Flat chat.

That was today's challenge.

Like most spooks, the Deputy Director-General of the Australian Security Intelligence Organisation was a fitness junkie, as proud of his physical prowess as he was of his intellect. Every second morning, close to 5.30am, Spencer would make the gruelling trek up Mt Ainslie, a couple of kilometres east of Civic, Canberra's city centre. The uphill route was 2.2 kilometres – a winding path that climbed 250 metres in elevation.

A light breeze tripped around the back of the Australian War Memorial.

Spencer inhaled deeply once more then pushed his 44-year-old body into a steady breathing pattern as he prepared for a jog that was as much mental therapy as physical exercise. The spymaster didn't have the luxury of indulgent lunchtime runs around Lake Burley Griffin, like so many pen-pushers. Instead he would flog himself till he cried, so that by the time he reached the peak, he would be gasping for oxygen.

But that was okay; he lived by the maxim that pain was weakness leaving your body.

The first hint of sunrise was lifting the gloom as Spencer made his way through three gates, getting into stride. He passed two women with a pair of eager labradors, and one of the excited dogs veered across his path without warning.

‘Morning,' he said curtly.

He was nicely into rhythm now, softly mumbling a tune from his youth as he climbed the first set of stone steps, taking them two at a time, before reaching the first corner. An older man in a rugby jersey was on his way down, the two nearly colliding in the semi-darkness.

‘Whoa . . . sorry.' Spencer was making good ground despite feeling as though he was running an obstacle course. He was nearing the end of the middle section that stretched over five hundred metres or so. The lights of Canberra Airport came into view, flickering in the distance.

He turned into the final stretch, a punishing kilometre that culminated in a series of killer stone steps. Ignoring the pain and a twinge in his left knee, he left the steps behind and leaned into the final climb – a twenty-metre path to a metal barrier.

He'd made it, although not as fast as he would have hoped for. Fourteen minutes and twenty-three seconds.

He quietly chastised himself as he gulped the fresh morning air. He grabbed at his sides, gingerly making his way towards the large flat area that offered a stunning view across Canberra's parliamentary triangle to the Brindabellas on the horizon.

The city sparkled, its streetlights illuminating a maze of arteries just coming to life. He lapped hungrily from a water tap, careful not to swallow too much. His breathing was returning to normal. He stretched and contemplated a quick set of twenty-five push-ups on one of the four timber tables placed along the concrete strip.

He stopped. Something wasn't right.

Spencer's eyes scanned to the right, then to the left, then straight ahead. At first it appeared nothing was amiss. Then he gazed upwards, his eyes fixing on the aviation beacon that sat on top of a high metal pole. It was out.

Bloody hell.

He checked the time: 5.50am. The approaching rush hour meant that a dozen or so planes would soon be arriving or departing from Canberra Airport. And while he wasn't sure of the navigational role performed by this beacon, Spencer decided to alert the crew at Airservices Australia.

He reached for his mobile, which he carried at all times, and called into the National Operations Centre at Airservices HQ in the Alan Woods building, near the heart of Canberra's CBD. He knew a few of the overnight staff, including the supervisor Gary McDonald, a veteran of the aviation bureaucracy.

After four rings, McDonald answered, abruptly.

‘Ted, good to hear from you.'

‘Gary, the beacon on top of Mt Ainslie, it appears to be—'

‘Mate, forget the beacon. The whole fucking show is down.'

Canberra

Martin Toohey scratched absently at a prickly chin and adjusted his Geelong jersey, upping the pace slightly and silently enjoying the laboured breathing of his walking companion. The Prime Minister was halfway through his daily constitutional, a brisk thirty-minute walk, and was determined to make every step count.