The Shadow Game (20 page)

The afternoon was bleak enough for dying. What had begun as a perfect blue sky day had suddenly turned. The sky was now violent purple and a brisk wind had whipped up white caps on the lake.

Harry Dunkley picked up the pace to fend off the cold. He'd dressed lightly and for the past few hours had been cosy enough as he'd pored over old newspaper reports on the Australian Warfare Destroyer program at the National Library. He had been absorbed by his reading and was now running late.

There were six hundred metres to navigate to Old Parliament House, the low-rise building that had served as the ‘temporary' home for the national legislature from 1927 to 1988. Dunkley loved its stripped-back Classical architecture and internal intimacy. In this place the nation's political story was writ large: the scandals and drama, the affairs and tantrums, the Dismissal and the tragedy of Holt.

He bustled up the stairs several minutes after 4pm, feeling guilty and cold.

Benny Hadid had chosen the venue, the prime ministerial suite at the heart of the Museum of Australian Democracy, which now inhabited the gracious old building. Dunkley arrived slightly out of breath to an empty room. Great, he thought, here's me practising my apology and he's late too.

Dunkley was wary of the strange little man, having so recently been burnt by trusted contacts and still carrying the scars, but he was keen to know why Hadid wanted to see him again. What else had he uncovered?

From somewhere nearby, the recorded voices of an ancient protest offered a soundtrack to the clutter of offices and cubicles that had once been home to Whitlam, Fraser and Hawke. Dunkley peeled back the blinds of an old-fashioned sash window to peer out at the Aboriginal Tent Embassy that had been established on Australia Day 1972 as a gesture of Indigenous defiance.

He wandered around the room to stand in front of the prime ministerial desk. A single Australian flag sat a little off-centre behind the large teak table, upon which sat an old-fashioned circular-dial telephone. A comfy-looking leather chair marked the seat of power for the leaders of yesteryear. Dunkley wondered what secrets this room had witnessed.

‘A throne fit for a king, hey Harry?'

Dunkley froze. He recognised the voice, as unexpected as it was unwelcome. He turned slowly and two words came coldly to his lips.

‘Charles Dancer.'

The wiry spy stood languidly in the doorway. The smile on his face held a hint of menace. The last time they had met, Dancer had held a gun to Dunkley's head and admitted to killing Kimberley Gordon.

Dunkley wrestled with his emotions, hoping that his face and voice would not betray him. He desperately wanted to launch himself at this man but knew from bitter experience that he was no match for him physically.

As ever, Dancer was dressed impeccably in a well-cut dark suit, set off by an immaculate white shirt and bold tie. He looked every inch the polished senior public servant, but Dunkley knew that was a lie, like everything about the man.

‘It's okay, Harry, I'm just here for a friendly chat with an old friend.' Dancer's tone was faintly mocking.

‘Skip the lies, Charles. Why are you following me?'

‘Oh Harry, don't be so dramatic. Like you, I have come to worship in the cradle of our democracy,' Dancer said, his arms gesturing theatrically around the room.

‘Come,' he continued, beckoning Dunkley and disappearing into the hallway.

Dunkley followed, at a cautious distance. After a few steps he entered a larger room through a thick door held open by Dancer. There was no sign, but Dunkley knew this was the Cabinet Room. It was a relatively modest space dominated by a square timber table with a hollowed-out section in the centre.

‘Whitlam had this room extended in 1972 to accommodate his expanding Cabinet,' Dancer explained, as if escorting Dunkley on an exclusive private tour.

‘They soundproofed it, right at the time his Cabinet was leaking like a sieve. But, typically for Whitlam, they did a half-arsed job.'

Dancer pointed to an inlaid ceiling.

‘Up there, Harry. The people who now run this place did some renovations a few years ago and guess what they found? The old press gallery was above this room and they found cigarette butts in the ceiling. The journalists literally had an ear right into the Cabinet.'

He turned to face Dunkley. ‘You would have loved working here: all those juicy secrets to uncover; holding errant politicians to account – the noblest of causes, eh?'

‘What's your point?' Dunkley felt a chill rush through him as Dancer stepped closer.

‘You know, the thing about this place, Old Parliament House, is that they knew when to shut her down, to move on up the hill. They preserve the history, of course, or a sanitised version, at least. After all, history has always been a subjective glimpse into the past. Your history, Harry, is littered with the remnants of failure—'

‘And unfinished business,' Dunkley cut in.

‘Yes, Harry, and best to keep it that way. Shut it down. Move on.'

‘Are you threatening me, Charles? Again?'

Dancer looked up once more at the ceiling.

‘Mid-year, 1967. Holt was prime minister; it was a few months before he disappeared. His government was leaking like a rusty bucket too. One reporter, some nondescript type, was getting
scoop after scoop, beating his rivals and thoroughly infuriating dear old Harold.

‘Maybe he was up there, sitting right on top of the Cabinet Room, eavesdropping on every delicate conversation. So the Cabinet set up a fake debate on a hot topic and our intrepid journalist fell for it.'

Dancer turned a hard gaze on Dunkley.

‘He was turfed to the wolves, just like you, Harry. Went off to a quiet retirement, never to be heard of again. Better for everyone, I would suggest.'

He smiled and spoke patiently, as if to a child slow to learn.

‘You should have realised by now, Harry, that you can't hide. I see everything you do, know everyone you meet. You can let this drop. You can walk away. I gave you the chance once before. This is your last chance, I guarantee it.'

He strolled casually out of the Cabinet suite, brushing against Dunkley as he turned, leaving the former journalist anxious and alone.

Dunkley's fingers were trembling as he reached for his iPhone, scrolling through numbers before hitting green. After a few rings Benny Hadid answered, offering an immediate apology.

‘Sorry, Harry, did you get my text?'

‘No.' Dunkley's voice was cold and flat.

‘I should have called, but I was about to leave when I got hauled in to see the boss. Something unexpected. Can we meet in a couple of hours perhaps?'

Dunkley felt like he was part of a jigsaw, a foreigner in a place he once knew well. He'd been rattled by Dancer's unexpected
appearance and his relief at hearing Hadid's voice was tempered by suspicion. It confirmed what he had suspected: he was being tracked. How much could he trust Hadid?

‘Why don't we meet at the Kurrajong?'

‘I'd prefer somewhere a little less public.'

‘Okay, I'll grab my car and pick you up outside the Burbury at five thirty. We can go for a drive.'

There was a pause before Hadid offered a quick, ‘See you then, Harry.'

Would he turn up this time? Dunkley wondered.

Dunkley raised his finger to his mouth as Hadid opened the car door, signalling for him to be quiet. He punched the start button on the CD player and Van Morrison began singing about the bright side of the road. ‘If only,' Dunkley thought.

He weaved the car up the familiar slope of Mount Ainslie, remembering the many frosty mornings that he'd nearly killed himself jogging to the summit. The first shadows of night were falling across Canberra as they reached the top; street lights flickering to life below.

Dunkley pulled up and got out. Dropping his mobile on the front seat, he motioned for Hadid to do the same, then walked purposefully towards the stone stairs that led down to a lookout with a large map explaining Canberra's layout set atop an angled pedestal. There was no one in sight.

‘You're making me nervous, Harry.'

‘Just call me cautious.'

Hadid was carrying a briefcase and wearing his oversized coat. As before, his shoulders were in motion as if he had a small colony of creatures living just beneath his skin that he was trying to shake out. He was clearly agitated.

Dunkley couldn't afford to feel sympathetic.

‘I had an unwelcome visit, Benny, from a man who once threatened to kill me. He came in your place.'

The auditor's face fell.

‘Do you think he knows about me? About my work?'

‘Obviously. I'm wondering about that too. Wondering if I can trust you.'

Hadid pulled his coat tighter. ‘Well, Harry, I've taken a huge risk talking to you. I'm only here because something is not right.'

He propped his briefcase on a stone wall and slipped out several A4 pages that were stapled together.

‘This is a summary of the work I've been doing secretly on the Air Warfare Destroyer and the missing billions. Apart from me you are the only person with a copy. I'm giving it to you because I'm getting more concerned that it will never see the light of day.'

Dunkley contemplated the document.

‘Why's that?'

Hadid nervously traced his finger over the map of Canberra.

‘On the phone I told you that my boss called me into a meeting just as I was about to leave the office.'

‘Yeah.'

‘He asked if I was still working on the AWD brief.'

‘And what did you say, Benny?'

‘I lied, said I wasn't.'

Suddenly the quiet public servant forced his hands through his comb-over then clutched at the sides of his head, his body rocking in the rhythm of a deeply troubled man.

‘Harry, he didn't believe me. He told me to drop it, to do my day job. And in not so many words he gave me a clear message: tread carefully. I think he's genuinely concerned about what I'm doing and who I'm taking on.'

‘Why do you say that?'

‘As he led me out of his office, he put his arm around my shoulders, pulled me in close and whispered two words: “Jack Webster”.'

The hand-painted sign marked the end of an era. Kingston's only video store was closing down, a victim of the sprint of technology. Crudely scribbled, the ‘Last Days' placard offered movie titles at $2.50 each, or an even better bargain: five for ten.

Harry Dunkley slowed as he passed the scruffy shopfront. Wasn't it just yesterday that the video machine had signalled the beginning of a grand new era of home entertainment? His dad had typically chosen the Beta version, redundant almost as soon as it was unwrapped.

Then the DVD had killed off VHS. Now digital streaming was murdering the disc.

Consumers rejoiced at this new world where entertainment was always at their fingertips. But the great liberation had introduced a new form of slavery.

Orwellian mass surveillance was no longer fantasy, it was reality. Corporations and the state blurred into a 24/7 version of Big Brother where permission to watch was freely given. By clicking on ‘Agree', people signed away their rights to privacy in the real and virtual worlds.

All ‘they' had to do was sit back and watch you online. Every purchase, every transaction, every step in a shopping mall was traced and recorded. The smartphone had been turned into a tracking and listening device.

The new gold rush was data mining. Facebook decided who your friends should be and tailored advertising to your tastes. Google knew your every keystroke and your darkest desires. In this world of endless surveillance histories were never erased.

Somewhere in this dark web Dunkley needed to find a place to hide.

That was why he found himself in Kingston – next to the DVD store was another relic, a Telstra payphone. He pushed fifty cents into the coin slot and punched out a number.

It picked up after two rings.

‘Who's this?'

‘Martin, it's Dunkley. I had a visitor. We have to talk. In person.'

‘Righto. Let's meet.'

‘Where, mate?'

‘Not at the Kurrajong. Why not out the back of my old place.'

‘Where's that?'

‘Harry, you're an investigative journalist. Work it out. And I'm bringing a mutual friend.'

National Circuit was all but deserted when Dunkley arrived at the rendezvous. High hedges hid the mansions of the diplomats and high-flyers who could afford to live in this wealthy enclave.

He parked fifty metres up the road and ambled to the rear gate of the Georgian-style mansion that had been home to prime ministers for nearly ninety years.

‘The Lodge. Nice touch, Martin,' he said, as he greeted Toohey and another familiar form. He nodded to Bruce Paxton and the two men shook hands awkwardly.

Toohey waved at a guard who'd stepped out from the gate. He waved back as he recognised his former boss.

‘So why here, Martin?' Dunkley asked.

‘Because the front and rear gates of the Lodge are protected by radio signal scramblers that ensure a bomb can't be detonated using a mobile phone. The shadow stretches one hundred metres in every direction. Within that shadow phones won't work and no one can monitor us with listening devices.'

Toohey reached into a plastic carrier bag and pulled out two small boxes. He handed them to his accomplices.

‘Christ, a pager,' said Paxton. ‘I haven't seen one of these since my early days as a union organiser.'

‘It's a modern version of an old idea,' Toohey said. ‘It's alphanumeric. It might be old school but the signal is much tougher to track. Particularly if no one knows we're using them.'

Toohey looked up and down the street.

‘So here's the drill. From now on when we need to talk, we meet. We'll meet where we can't be heard and that's here or out the front of any other building that uses a scrambler. Like the US, British, Israeli, Russian and Chinese embassies. Type a message, leave cars and phones behind. But we'll need to keep these meetings short.'

His two offsiders nodded.

‘So, Harry, what happened?'

‘Jack Webster is onto us; well me, at least. I got a visit from his goon, Charles Dancer. Caught me by surprise while I was waiting to meet my contact from the auditor-general's at Old Parliament House. The warning was explicit . . . and I don't doubt it comes from Webster.'

Dunkley looked over his shoulder at a car that seemed to be passing more slowly than it should. He hoped he wasn't becoming as paranoid as the people he was mixing with in this town.

‘Hadid, the guy from audit, reckons Webster's got his hand in the till. If we could prove that then Jesus Christ couldn't save him. So what have you got, Martin?'

‘Webster's tangled up in turning a property out at Burra into some kind of fortress. He's spending a bomb on it. I'm told the Americans are involved.'

‘Hang on, Martin.' Dunkley felt a surge of excitement as he made a connection. ‘Hadid said Webster had siphoned taxpayer money into a private account. Maybe that's where he's getting the cash for that property.'

Dunkley took the pages Hadid had given him from his jacket pocket and held them so Toohey and Paxton could read over his shoulder.

‘This is a summary of his investigation into the Air Warfare Destroyer blowout. It's a show stopper. We'd need to have more detail, but see, here he notes a bank account that he claims is operated by Webster. More than two million bucks has gone into it.'

Dunkley held out the sheets of paper to Toohey who scanned them then let out a low whistle. When he looked up his face was animated.

‘This could be it, Harry. Remember, Al Capone wasn't done for being a gangster, he was done for tax evasion.'

Toohey turned to Paxton.

‘Mate, are you still talking with your building union comrades?'

‘Martin, the bruvvers are the only people who've stuck with me. They gave me the caravan.'

‘Great, then they can help us track down the builders, whether they're local or not. They'll have some idea what's going on out at Burra. Bruce, you find that builder. And Harry . . .'

‘Yep.'

‘Follow the money.'

Dunkley smiled.

‘And PM, what are you going to do?'

‘What I do best. Find more allies.'

Paxton slapped his good right hand on Toohey's back.

‘Thank Christ for that, because the ranks are pretty thin at the moment for a war with a man who commands the entire defence force.'

Toohey nodded.

‘You're right, Bruce, which is why we're off the grid now. Boys, welcome to the shadow game.'