The Marmalade Files (28 page)

It was 3 a.m. and John James Hospital was switched to silent. The night staff went about their work, all quiet efficiency. In dim rooms medical machinery softly hummed as patients dozed between rounds of routine monitoring.

In Room 43, Catriona Bailey was ignoring the hour, keeping watch as a battery of screens relayed unfolding world events. On CNN, Israel's Prime Minister was addressing a press conference. Bailey dashed off a Tweet cautioning him against a pre-emptive strike on Iran's nuclear sites.

The Foreign Minister was by herself, but never alone, plugged into the outside world through a phalanx of wires and modules, plotting and scheming while the national capital slept.

She turned next to finessing the finishing touches on her latest 8000-word piece for
The Monthly
. In typically overblown prose the essay, ‘Renewing Labor', mapped out a path for her shattered party. She traced its fall to the malign influence of factional
bosses and union warlords and said there was now no choice but to hand it ‘back to the people, where it belongs'.

What Labor needed most, now more than ever, she argued, was courageous leadership. By the man – or woman – made for the age. As usual, in closing she threw in a religious allusion. ‘A prophet is not someone who can see the future,' she wrote. ‘It is someone who sees the present, with perfect clarity.'

She grinned, internally.
She
was the perfect political prophet for the global 24/7 internet age. Unsleeping, all-seeing and hardwired into the virtual universe. This little effort would set the cat among the pigeons nicely.

Bailey now saw her life in Messianic terms. She had been crucified by the party, and been laid in the tomb. She had appeared to be dead – but was not.

The fuel that coursed through her veins and sustained her was revenge.

And she would rise. Again.

The quiet ambience of the Tulip Lounge, a smart boutique bar in Manuka, was the perfect tonic for a spent Harry Dunkley.

He collapsed into one of the feather-soft couches and thumbed through a generous cocktail menu, searching for something a little more serious than a Fluffy Duck. He finally reached a list of imported ales, most of which he had never heard of.

But this wasn't just a social outing. He was waiting for a contact.
The
contact. In two decades covering the gory spectacle of national politics, there were few people he trusted more.

He and the contact had an unwritten agreement – Dunkley would call only in times of crisis. The last time the two had talked was a little over a year ago when Dunkley rang to confirm a tip that Labor was preparing to dump Bailey as Prime Minister.

The journalist glanced at his watch, confirming that his contact was late. He was always late. But Dunkley wasn't going anywhere. He was searching for answers and suspected this was
his best means of getting them. No one was better connected in Canberra, whether it be about the factional plays in Labor, the latest manoeuvrings within Defence or the musings of the US administration.

Almost an hour after the agreed appointment, the untidy figure of Brendan Ryan shambled up the stairs.

‘Sorry, I was held up,' Ryan said, sweeping up the drinks menu with one hand as his other plunged into a bowl of salted nuts.

‘No problems, mate. You've had a bit on lately.'

‘Yeah, you might say that. You can't accuse us of making politics boring.'

‘Yep, you guys are good for journalism.'

They shared a small laugh and chased down the waiter.

The odd thing about Ryan, Dunkley mused, was that he was usually a vault. But once persuaded to talk, he seemed to enjoy it – and was a trove of information.

‘Do you reckon you can hold on, with the numbers in the House the way they are?'

‘Well, right now Simmo is talking to that grubby Queensland Liberal, trying to persuade him to break ranks. He might do it too, 'cause he won't get preselected again.'

‘But surely you can't win another election? You're gone – it's just a matter of time, isn't it?'

‘Never make bold predictions, Harry, you know that. If we can endure, we can turn this around. Sure, mate, it's like trying to land a spaceship on a snowflake, but that's the plan. And this new Liberal leader, she's a nasty piece of work … mate, in time people will grow to hate her.'

Ryan paused. ‘Sorry about your friend, Harry.'

‘Thanks, mate, that's really why I'm here.'

‘I know.'

‘How much do you know?'

‘More than you, but not everything, not by a long chalk.'

‘So tell me about the Yanks. It's been suggested they were behind the leak that destroyed Paxton. Are my sources solid?'

Ryan took a slow sip of beer. ‘The Americans were concerned, mate. And they had every right to be. Our own people were deeply concerned. Washington might have sped the process up, but Paxton, well, he was gone from the moment he hooked up with that Tibetan girl – again. Harry, we simply can't afford a Defence Minister, with unfettered access to such sensitive information, so deeply compromised.'

Another scoopful of nuts disappeared into Ryan's gaping mouth, before he continued.

‘I don't know if he ever told the Chinese anything useful, but it doesn't really matter. That fucking fool was threatening our nation's ability to defend itself. He wanted to cut back Defence spending, not increase it. And this at a time when we need to be expanding our military. We have to prepare, Harry, for future conflict – a war with China which, in my judgement, is inevitable. Our people had been dragging their feet on Paxton for nearly two months. Give the Americans credit, mate, they know how to finish the job.'

Dunkley digested the explosive information, realising he'd taken the wrong fork in the road. ‘So I missed the big story. I followed the money and found a crook.'

‘Well, that's still a story. It's just not the most interesting one. And it had the desired effect. So thanks. Your country salutes you.' Ryan mockingly raised his glass before finishing his beer, looking for a waiter to order another.

‘But weren't you concerned that getting rid of Paxton might bring the government down?'

‘No, mate. We don't need Paxton as Defence Minister, we just need his vote in the parliament. Of course it was bloody embarrassing, but it was essential to secure the defence of the realm. Some things, my friend, are beyond politics.'

‘Does the Prime Minister know about this?'

‘No.'

Dunkley signalled a waitress and ordered two more beers, before turning back to Ryan.

‘Who killed Ben?'

‘I don't know for sure, but I – we – suspect the Chinese.'

‘Jesus, Brendan, that's just bullshit. What possible reason could they have?'

‘I can't prove this but we suspect the Chinese were on to your friend and his little, er, theory. About Bailey.'

Ryan carefully scanned the surrounding lounges, before lowering his voice and continuing. ‘Do you remember the phone call from Ben last week? He said to you that there was something else he had to tell you. “Something unbelievable about Bailey.”'

Dunkley was stunned. ‘Mate, how do you know that?'

‘We were listening, Harry, and clearly we weren't the only ones. We didn't move against Ben because we wanted him to
help you. From the start we knew he would. That's why you got the photo. And Harry … I know you're wondering, but we've got it back, safe and sound where it belongs.'

‘What was Ben going to tell me about Bailey?'

‘Well, he did say “something unbelievable”. And he was dead right. Didn't you ever think that the reason we gave for shafting that bitch Bailey was a bit thin? What? That she was a crazy control freak who was hard to work with? We've had maniacs in office before and lived with them. Name a PM who isn't hard to work with. Ask Gary Gray about Captain Whacky. Sure, Bailey was riding low in the polls. But if that was the reason for killing a Prime Minister, well then Toohey would have gone months ago.

‘Don't forget our main problem in that abortion of an election campaign was that we couldn't explain to the Australian people why we dumped our leader. We were just lucky that Scott was such a lousy politician or the Coalition would have hosed us.'

Ryan moved in close.

‘We got rid of Catriona Bailey because she's a …
spy
.'

Dunkley wore a what-the-fuck expression that could have been seen clear across the lounge.

‘Harry, you look startled, but let me go on. She was recruited by the Chinese when she was a language student in Hong Kong in the early 1980s. Honkers was a rich breeding ground then for the Commies. And they really hit the jackpot.

‘All the time that Bailey was working her way up through Labor ranks, building her contacts in Washington, she was also feeding intel back to Beijing. She pretended to take a hard line against China on human rights, but she was always acting in
their interest. It was a convincing performance too. We – us and the Americans – only found out when it was too late.'

Dunkley struggled to absorb this impossible information. It was as if Ryan was speaking another language.

Outside, the orderly nature of the Canberra evening continued, a steady procession of public servants returning to their neat homes after another day performing the tasks necessary to keep the Commonwealth of Australia ticking over. No more, no less.

‘I don't have any evidence that the Chinese killed Ben,' Ryan continued. ‘But I do know that no one on our side did. I think the Chinese intercepted Ben's call to you, panicked, and decided to act.'

Ryan fell into silence and Dunkley didn't know how to fill it. Finally, he spoke.

‘Well, that's the most extraordinary tale I ever heard, Brendan. But I could never write it … unless I turned my hand to fiction.'

‘Why not mate?'

‘Because … nobody would ever believe me.'