The Mandarin Code (15 page)

Canberra

‘No queue jumpers, Dunkley.'

The journalist turned to be greeted by the greasy smirk of John Bossini.

It was 8am, a terrifying time for an old-school print journalist to be charging into the working day. But Harry Dunkley was on the hunt for a good yarn and his source, a chief of staff to a Cabinet minister, had suggested an early-morning ‘off-the-record' chat.

Dunkley hadn't expected a coffee queue snaking around the cramped interior of Aussies Cafe and spilling outside. Fifteen minutes for a flat white and now this, stuck next to a former Liberal minister who'd been forced to walk the plank after being caught out fiddling his entitlements.

Like many retired parliamentarians, Bossini continued to suck on the teat of public generosity, supplementing his indexed pension with work as a ‘strategic consultant' to several of Australia's best-known blue chips.

The two eyed each other suspiciously.

‘Harry, good to see you're still standing. By the way, I've told you I don't like you calling me “the disgraced former minister” every time I'm mentioned in your columns. It's not good for me or the Liberal Party. I'm federal vice-president now, you know.'

Christ. It's too early to engage with scumbags.

‘Ease up turbo. Tell you what, John – I'll ask Wikipedia to change its description of you, the one that goes, “Bossini's fall from grace came after he was forced to pay back $25,000 for wrongly claiming entitlement while taking his family on a vacation to Disneyland”.'

‘Oh, and this from a reporter who invents so-called Cabinet “leaks” and then has the audacity to put an exclusive tag on it. Spare me mate, spare me.'

Dunkley sighed and turned away, sizing up the queue and calculating how many minutes of his life would be spent with this lowlife. His eyes wandered around the unique parliamentary nook.

Aussies sat at an intersection of corridors in the secure area of Parliament. It was an epicentre of deal-making and, like a small airport lounge, a hub for people on the move.

The cafe's lease included a roped-off area with room for a dozen tables inside. Weighty steel-and-glass doors opened to an attractive courtyard where patrons could enjoy their coffee al fresco. Lovely at the moment, but only the bold ventured out in sub-zero winter temperatures.

Today, with the circus in full swing, every table was occupied. Lobbyists mingled with political staffers who ogled pretty young parliamentary aides who giggled at security hulks who glanced menacingly at anyone straying into their orbit. Journalists circled like starved seagulls around any minister trying to steal a few minutes of peace.

Aussies' owner was Dom, a first-generation Italian–Australian who invariably sported a brightly coloured Ralph Lauren polo-shirt. Dom was Parliament's father confessor, privy to the secrets of caffeine-needy staffers and MPs. He was as trustworthy as a vault, and the searching questions he occasionally lobbed showed a deep knowledge of politics.

The queue had barely moved and Dunkley toyed with the unthinkable.

The Trough?

No, Dunkley would rather skip coffee than retreat to the staff cafe on the other side of the building. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He took it out. There was a message full of cryptic promise.

‘Ten minutes. Usual place.'

It was another source, a trusted source, who only mentioned ‘usual place' when he had something juicy. Dunkley abandoned his miserable companion.

‘Well, great to see you, John. Keep up the good work for democracy.'

Bossini scowled.

Dunkley fended off a few barbs from his gallery colleagues as he meandered through the crowd towards the Members' Hall, texting his coffee date. ‘Mate, your turn to stand in the queue. I'll join you in twenty.'

After fifty metres, the corridor Dunkley was following widened to an expanse that bridged the gap between the House and Senate chambers. At its centre was a square pool made from a single piece of South Australian black granite. High above, a skylight revealed the massive flag flying above the Parliament, its image reflected in the glossy blackness of the pool.

Dunkley chuckled as he recalled the Parliament's architect explaining the thinking behind the small pond.

The sound of water trickling through the pool prevents the conversations of Members of Parliament from being overheard.

Except it was a thoroughfare. There were better places to share secrets.

Dunkley walked to a little-used lift, just past a glass walkway that led to the Senate chamber. The doors slid open and he hit ‘M'.

Fifteen seconds later, a mechanical voice announced ‘Mezzanine' and he stepped into one of Parliament's legendary spaces.

Few people ventured to the meditation room to meditate. Few even knew where it was. A small plaque declared the room was set aside for religious observance or quiet reflection. But most came here for illicit sex.

Several cubicles offered a measure of privacy, and Dunkley walked towards the furthest one. He contemplated a dubious stain on the blue lounge within, wondering if a DNA swab would link it to any minister.

A minute later, the lift doors opened again. He tensed then relaxed as a familiar shape emerged.

Brendan Ryan dumped himself on the lounge beside Dunkley. Over the years he'd morphed from a source for the journalist to almost a friend. He was finally in the job he'd always craved, Minister for Defence. Time was short.

‘No notes, no tape. Just memorise.'

Jesus. Who's been fucked over now?

‘NSC met half an hour ago. Earlier this morning, just before curfew finished, air traffic across Australia went down. Planes were flying blind, international and domestic. It could have been a disaster but thankfully all landed safe. No one else in the media knows. It's all yours.'

‘You're kidding? How long was it . . . air traffic . . . down?'

‘According to Airservices, it was thirteen minutes. Exactly.'

‘And there was no warning?'

‘That's not the way it works when you want to launch a cyber-attack.'

‘What?'

‘A cyber-attack, Harry. An act of aggression. C'mon, get with the agenda. Looks like someone in Beijing has decided that hacking into the PM's emails was just a warm-up.'

Dunkley glanced at Ryan, noticing a steady tap of his index finger. For a seasoned political assassin, he seemed tense.

‘You suspect China was behind this?' Dunkley asked. ‘What proof have you got?'

‘Harry, we ain't 100 per cent, but the view around the room – in the NSC – was that China's the most likely culprit. Oh, and Harry, because I know you are super-careful in checking detail and fact, you might like to know that Tom Heggarty, head of ASIS, reported an increase in cyber-attacks by China since the US declared it a currency manipulator.'

Dunkley was trying to break it down into a series of mental dot points, wishing he could write down a few notes.

‘Brendan, this is dynamite. I'll work on it during the day, file for tomorrow's paper.'

‘Mate, this is a twenty-first-century attack; you live in the 24/7 era. No, this is for your digital readers. They've got to get something for paying their subscriptions to Rupert. A lot of planes were involved and you can't be sure this story won't break elsewhere.'

Dunkley weighed his options. He hated publishing online without verifying every last fact. He could fight, but Ryan might give the yarn to someone else.

No, he'd knock this into shape and file asap, much as it pained him to give his competitors entree to the story before the evening presses rolled into action.

An hour later,
The Australian'
s website splashed with a stunning exclusive.

CYBER-STRIKE: AUSTRALIAN AIRSPACE UNDER ATTACK

Urgent investigations are under way into a suspected cyber-attack that shut down Australia's air-traffic system for thirteen minutes this morning.

The Australian
can reveal that Prime Minister Martin Toohey hastily convened a meeting of Cabinet's National Security Committee to consider the unprecedented assault.

It is understood the Melbourne-based centre that controls the southern air space across Australia went ‘black' just before 6am.

Several figures in the NSC – including Thomas Heggarty, the head of Australia's overseas spy agency, ASIS – are understood to have pointed the finger at China as the most likely source of the attack.

A spokeswoman for Mr Toohey refused to confirm that NSC had even met. But another member of the top-level security committee confirmed Cabinet ministers and intelligence heads had been called to the meeting around 7am.

One senior source, familiar with the NSC discussion, said, ‘There was real fear in the room, and all roads lead to Beijing.'

Canberra

‘Steady on the powder, love, you'll have me looking like a drag queen.'

Bruce Paxton was his usual gruff-and-grumble self, but he had a soft spot for the ABC's makeup artist.

The former Defence Minister had stepped into the press gallery bureau to be interviewed – and the ABC was buzzing on a high-octane loop of commentary sparked by Harry Dunkley's story.

Reporters were pumping out reaction to the extraordinary news that Australia's air-traffic control system had been attacked.

The call had gone out for talking heads and Paxton was happy to oblige as it allowed him to fill two of his favourite roles – discussing national security and pissing on Labor's bloated carcass.

He was still a member of the ALP, but in name only. Paxton had recast himself as a dissident. He was now Mr Dial-a-Quote and his bareknuckle assaults made even Mark Latham sound like a voice of restraint.

‘Hi Bruce.' As Paxton entered the studio, ABC News 24's political editor, Lyndal Curtis, looked up briefly from her notes. ‘We'll go live in two minutes.'

Paxton sat impassively as a small team fussed around the studio, wiring him up while makeup gave his face a final dab. When it was time to play ball, he would not disappoint.

‘Lyndal, the cyber-security white paper the Toohey Government released in January was a sad joke. It offered no new money to fight on the twenty-first-century frontline and simply rebadged programs that were already funded.'

Curtis shot back.

‘So you are blaming the government for this?'

‘My oath, I blame them. I wanted Defence to focus less on its big-ticket toys and more on the main game. Cyber-hacking and warfare are real threats. All Martin Toohey wants from Defence is to strip out a couple of billion to prop up his Budget. And he put Brendan Ryan in charge – what a mistake! He's a diabetic in a lolly shop. Ryan spends too much time sucking up to Washington and not enough looking after our national interest, Lyndal.'

Paxton was on a roll and Curtis lobbed another inviting question.

‘Do you believe, as the national security team is reported to believe, that China is responsible for this?'

‘Look, if you believed everything the brass said about China it would be banged up for dressing up as a dingo and taking Azaria Chamberlain. It could have been anyone, and remember, this is a cyber-attack, not hacking, which is usually the Chinese go. The point is we need better defences and we don't have them.'

Curtis shifted tack to the standoff in the East China Sea.

‘Well, on that, you won't get a cigarette paper between me and the PM, Lyndal.'

Paxton had long argued that it was high time Australia rethought its alliance with the United States and had been critical of Japan's determination to isolate China. The future, as he saw it, was for Australia to draw back from the US and encourage it to share power in the Pacific.

‘I see that the Prime Minister has said that Australia has no view on the ownership of the islands and has urged all sides to act with care and solve the problem diplomatically.'

Paxton leaned forward and tapped his prosthetic left hand on the oval table.

‘Let's not forget who started all this, that Tea Party tool Earle Jackson. He decided to base his presidency on an ill-conceived attack on China using US financial clout. I think the Chinese have every right to respond. In any event, this fishermen's convention on the Diaoyu Islands is not sanctioned by Beijing.'

‘You mean the Senkaku Islands,' Curtis corrected him.

‘No I don't.'

It was some of Paxton's finest work. He ambled into the bureau feeling chuffed. As a sign that his handiwork had hit a nerve, the hallway outside the ABC was crammed with journalists from other networks, desperate for a Paxton grab they could call their own.

He was happy to repeat the performance but kept it tight. A ComCar was waiting on the other side of Parliament to whisk him to another appointment.

Fifteen minutes later, he'd arrived at the Thai embassy in nearby Yarralumla. He usually baulked at diplomatic functions but had struck up a good relationship with the new envoy. And a decent feed was on offer.