The Mandarin Code (30 page)

‘Well, let's have a look, Cel.'

Mathieson pulled a card reader from her computer bag and plugged it into one of her MacBook's USB ports. Then she pushed in the card and called up the Amazon Web Services page on her browser.

Dunkley was always amazed at the speed with which this digital native could navigate a world he found alien.

A few moments later a page opened with two empty boxes in it. The cursor blinked in the top one. Mathieson looked pleased with her handiwork.

‘Okay, so far so good, but we don't know the username.'

Dunkley pointed at the handwritten words on the page. ‘Yes we do.'

Mathieson typed ‘Reg Withers' into the box, and hit the tab. The cursor jumped to the lower rectangle.

‘Any idea of the password?'

‘Not a clue.'

‘Well, you don't get too many chances.'

Dunkley rifled through the book to see if Kimberley had left another handwritten key. There were none.

‘For Christ's sake, Kimberley! I'm not Miss Marple.'

He turned to the front cover.

‘Try “‘dismissal”.'

Mathieson typed in the nine-letter word. ‘The password you entered is incorrect' flashed in red.

‘Bugger.'

‘Next?'

‘What else could it be?' Dunkley slapped his thigh as he rose from the chair. ‘1975? Kerr? Gough? Try “Whitlam” . . .'

Again, the computer flashed ‘The password you entered is incorrect' and this time it added ‘You have one more attempt before this account is locked'.

‘How long will it be locked?' Dunkley looked anxiously at Mathieson.

‘I don't know, depends on how secure Kimberley wanted it to be. Could be five minutes. Could be an hour. Could be a day. Could be forever.'

Dunkley looked skyward. ‘Jesus wept, Kimberley! You could have given us a few more clues.'

‘Well, short of divine intervention, we better make this one work.'

Dunkley tried to put himself in Kimberley's shoes. She knew everything about the Whitlam Government and its dramatic fall.

He turned and went back to the computer, staring at the two boxes that stood between them and Kimberley's trove. ‘Reg Withers' filled the first. A Liberal senator who'd eventually fallen foul of Fraser. A West Australian tough guy. Loved to throw his weight around . . .

Dunkley's face lit up.

‘Cel, try “toecutter”.'

‘You sure?'

‘Yes.'

She tapped out the letters carefully.

T-O-E-C-U-T-T-E-R.

The computer whirred for a second. And then the gates opened.

Canberra

The six ceramic panels sparkled in the artificial light. The ode to an ancient landscape now marked by the furrows of agriculture and scarred by industry ran the width of Parliament's Mural Hall. ‘The River' was Martin Toohey's favourite piece of art in this democratic cathedral, and he found it both humbling and inspiring.

‘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.'

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.'