The Shadow Game (23 page)

They hunted in the shadows. Their headquarters were virtual, their operations ultra-secret, their preferred target vulnerable government agencies.

They whispered through highly encrypted networks, managing to outrun and outsmart the cyber police. Every assignment was different, every outcome the same.

A common routine was to send a document via email. Embedded within the PDF was custom code, undetectable and lethal. The email would bypass security checks before lodging at the destination. There it would lurk patiently, sometimes for months, until the bomb was detonated.

Then it would unleash its hidden code, exploiting a previously unrecognised system vulnerability, usually within Adobe Acrobat. Quietly the code would migrate into the Windows Explorer process, at the same time disabling antivirus software.

The infection would spread. As the host searched the internet, reaching out through legitimate connections to random files, it was unwittingly unpacking and strengthening an army.

Periodically the invader would read and parse hidden code from a hacked webpage as data ricocheted back and forth across encrypted systems. Emails, usernames, passwords and other network tools needed to execute the attack would be extracted. Files on a network share would be poisoned and other users infected. The army would strategically position itself across the network, marching up the ranks towards the IT manager, moving closer to a zero day attack.

Once the network was breached, the manager's account would log into the area's domain controller. Hashed passwords would be extracted, then ‘brute forced' offline. The malicious code would then masquerade as the ‘administrator' of the domain controller. New accounts would be created, further compromising the system.

More network information would be exfiltrated. A domain account would then be able to log into the back-up server as an administrator. The back-up system would be altered, but only slightly. The system would believe it was duplicating certain files, but instead they would be empty.

On zero day minus one, all beaconing systems on desktops would self-wipe and delete, with the exception of the target endpoint. A logic bomb would be planted on a small number of servers that would, in a week, reinstall some malicious code. Then, these systems would also self-delete, minimising the footprint and the chances of being caught.

On zero day, the target would be watched, and when it was time an innocuous document would be replaced with another, one that would ultimately throw the hand-grenade over the trenches.

The auditor-general's office was pristine in the early morning light. His personal assistant had arrived early to tidy up some basic admin before the daily mayhem, fussing with his diary notes before settling in to read his overnight email.

Most would be routine requests or briefing updates and she hummed a familiar tune as she dipped into his inbox.

Boring. Boring. A note from PM&C. Dull, dull . . .

Oh! The invitation was glossy black and white, stylishly designed and presented. She enlarged it to fit the page, admiring the Art Deco lettering and illustration. For the past five years the auditor-general had received a personal VIP invitation to the Cancerians Ball. He'd been a key supporter since ovarian cancer robbed him of his wife.

This event was a must. She delved deeper into the PDF to check for dates and other logistics.

The Hyatt Hotel. Five-star elegance. August 22. Black-tie, of course. Sequins, fur, feathers. How lovely. He would probably book his usual table of ten; she made a note to check. The RSVP closed on June 30. A silly date, what with the end of financial year and all. Still, the Cancerians Ball was an important occasion raising funds for a worthwhile cause.

She closed the file and moved onto the next email, from some nobody in Human Services. She stifled a yawn, then quickly checked her appearance.

Any moment he would stroll through the door, a model of public service efficiency, oblivious to the fact that his über efficient PA had unwittingly tripped the switch on a time bomb.

Jiang Xiu paused as he studied his handiwork. The early morning ritual acted as a balm, the effortless grace of the brushstroke offering respite from the stresses of leadership. He loved calligraphy, an art form that had risen in an epoch when China ruled the world.

He visualised the next stroke, dipped his brush in the oily liquid and gently tapped off the excess ink.

As he began an elegant curve his hand slipped, the brush sullying the Xuan paper. His discipline had deserted him. He had not been able to empty his mind of its burdens. Jiang put the brush down and stepped back to consider the error.

It was a small mistake, but it destroyed the whole work. The expensive paper could not be retrieved. It was a tiny augury of the giant blunder China was about to make.

As he examined the error which spoiled the refined and flowing lines of his morning's work, he was resolved. He would
confront the president once more with vigour and sound argument, seeking to dissuade him from pursuing his present course of action in the South China Sea. He ardently believed in the legitimacy of China's claims there. All he was asking for was time: taking a slower path to the same end.

It would be dangerous. Recently their relationship had soured. Though few words had been fired in anger, Jiang sensed that Meng Dada was far from pleased at being challenged.

He would take the risk, inspired by the Mao quote he had just besmirched.

‘Firstly, do not fear hardship, and secondly, do not fear death.'

‘No one lectures me, Mr Jiang. No one.'

President Meng spat the words at his propaganda minister. The two men stood facing each other, neither flinching.

Jiang had gambled, he knew that. His words had not been designed to provoke the president, but he could not hide his true feelings about the perilous course China was taking.

He had made his case. He believed it was not a matter of if but when America retaliated. Despite China's military advances, Jiang argued it was no match for the most powerful military ever assembled. He feared overreaching was about to undo all their achievements.

‘Mr President, I am not lecturing you. I am hoping you will see merit in my argument. I only seek to offer you my counsel in order to avoid a ruinous confrontation. We know America is
trying to build an international flotilla to block our path to the islands.'

‘And we know it is failing. Not even its lapdog Australia will blindly follow it anymore.'

Jiang did not back off.

‘Then it will act alone. All the signs point to military action.'

The president's face was twisted with anger and contempt.

‘If it does we will confront it with our navy. Again. And it will flee. Again.'

Jiang shook his head.

‘On the high sea our aircraft carrier will be exposed for what it is, a training ship not ready for battle.'

Jiang's tone turned to pleading as he searched his leader's face for some hint of understanding.

‘Mr President, all I am asking is that we move more slowly and with less aggression.'

Suddenly the president reached out and gripped his shoulder, hard. Jiang held his gaze as Meng strengthened his hold.

‘I decide when this nation moves and when I do stenographers like you take notes on the history. You make records in ink, I write with my deeds.'

Jiang drew in the foul air of the president's breath, stale from the gold-tipped Huang He Lou cigarettes he devoured. He could see spittle on Meng's chin, and a vein protruding in his temple testified to his rage. The leader cut a much finer figure from a distance.

Just as suddenly, Meng relaxed his hand, patted Jiang on the cheek, smiled and returned to his desk, taking his seat before looking back at his comrade.

‘Mr Jiang, I will think about what you have said. Perhaps I shall talk it through with others, with the premier and ministers. Yes, I should do that, test your assertions and your views.'

Meng made a note, as if resolved that this was the right course.

‘Thank you for your honesty, my friend. Your value to the homeland cannot be overstated. Now I should prepare for my next meeting and you . . . you should go and continue your fine work.'

Jiang nodded then walked purposefully from the room.

Perhaps his efforts to persuade the other members of the standing committee would not have been in vain. Perhaps when Meng talked to them, they would no longer be the sycophants they had lately become, interested only in reinforcing Meng's belief in his infallibility.

The president rubbed his hands over his cheeks, gently massaging his skin. He picked up the red phone, waited for it to be answered then issued an instruction.

The prime minister's heart was pounding, her lungs burning, her body screaming for her to stop. So she pushed harder. Elizabeth Scott's Olympian frame could handle this kind of pain.

What tormented her was the pain she couldn't control.

She had stared down the leader of the free world, rejecting the US president's plea for Australia to embrace America's Asian escapade. Scott hadn't said no, but she hadn't signed up either, and while she hoped there was time for compromise, she feared there wasn't.

Scott tried to convince herself that asking Asta to delay had been reasonable, that the risk for her nation was immense. But the nagging truth was that she was being blackmailed by Beijing.

She was trapped between the hammer of the United States and the anvil of China.

As she turned towards the heights of Red Hill, the laboured breathing of her trailing security detail drew a rare grin.

Each of her close personal protection team had been ordered into special training. But they would never be fit enough to keep pace, as every morning Scott was motivated by her own yardstick: to outrun her ‘wardens'. Because the prime minister felt she was a prisoner.

Every minute of every day she was monitored, watched, followed. Her home was a compound behind high walls and CCTV. A camera was trained on her desk at parliament. And when she ventured outdoors, her AFP detail swung in behind her. Public events were a three-ring circus: cameras recording every action, boom microphones snaring every word.

On the rare occasions she met with friends at a restaurant, security perched nearby and social media published every mouthful.

Then there was the mind cage. From the moment she was sworn in as Australia's twenty-eighth prime minister, she'd been urged to curb her small-l worldview to avoid alienating the dinosaurs who believed the Liberal Party still belonged to them. Like an actor she was tutored to remember lines crafted by B-grade scriptwriters who claimed they were in tune with ‘the punters'. In truth, their ‘instincts' were honed by focus groups and professional pollsters.

More than once, Elizabeth Scott had felt she was playing the lead in Canberra's version of
The Truman Show
.

As Scott neared the summit of Red Hill she paused at a lookout to check on the progress of her detail. Fifty metres in arrears. A new record. She smiled and turned back to the view.

The rising sun lit the stainless-steel flagpole over Parliament House and shimmered across the lake. Mount Ainslie rose eucalypt green in the distance.

The capital lay before her, glorious, enticing, intriguing. Deadly.

It was 9pm, the fag end of another dismal day. Curled up on a lounge in her suite, Scott was leafing through a file, registering the tedium of another agricultural dispute, this one over sugar. The protectionists in the Coalition were seeking a retreat to the past. Again.

Her working day had begun with a media grilling over the most recent poll to show her government heading for oblivion, the latest in a very long line.

She'd delivered the rote defences, but she didn't believe them herself. If things didn't improve she would lead the Coalition to an epic defeat; that is, if her colleagues didn't dump her first.

Her mobile pinged with an unfamiliar pulse, someone sending a confidential note on Confide. She grabbed the phone, touched the message and five orange bars appeared.

It was a welcome invitation.

Hi.

I know you're in the building.

Need to talk. Urgently.

Shake the cops.

And let's pray for your soul together. At 9.30.

Scott barely paused before replying.

I'll be there.

She packed away the file and checked the time. A few minutes to freshen up. Her private bathroom was an oasis of tiny luxuries. The PM brushed her hair and touched up her makeup. Leaning into the mirror, she thought the lines around her eyes and on her forehead were getting deeper. This job was ageing her. She sprayed a hint of Joy on her neck.

Scott walked briskly from her suite. As she passed the security post, the lone guard sprang to his feet.

‘Prime Minister, are you going somewhere?'

‘To stretch my legs,' she said, motioning for him to sit. ‘Do me a favour, don't rat on me to the AFP.'

‘Well, PM, if anything happens . . . it's my job.'

She patted his hand reassuringly.

‘I'm taking a short stroll inside the most secure building in Australia. There are police with automatic weapons outside. I'll be fine. Twenty minutes.'

‘Okay ma'am, but please, no more than that.'

She turned left and walked along the ministerial wing's blue carpet then swung right into a wide corridor, her high heels echoing on timber.

Fifty metres later she was in the heart of Parliament House: the Members' Hall that separated the two chambers. The churn of the fountain at its centre was accentuated by the emptiness of the building. The quaint idea was that it would mask private conversations, but there were better places for clandestine meetings.

She pressed the button on a lift door near the Senate entrance, then entered and hit ‘M'. The doors opened to one of parliament's secret nooks: the Meditation Room, a small multi-faith chapel sandwiched between the first and second floors. Few people knew its location. Even fewer went there to pray.

Scott stepped out to softened lights and a tall, handsome, grinning figure.

Martin Toohey bowed mockingly. ‘Prime Minister, my party thanks you. Keep up this excellent work and Catriona Bailey will be rolling her wheelchair over your body in a year.'

Scott returned Toohey's greeting with a soft punch to his shoulder.

‘Thank you, Martin. Screwing up is now part of the incoming government brief. We found your template.'

Toohey's laughter was soothing.

‘I deserved that,' he said. ‘Come sit with me for a minute.'

He took her arm as they stepped into a small booth and sat on a blue-fabric bench. Toohey nodded towards a tiny glass plaque on a window ledge, inscribed with an arrow pointing south-west.

‘If you think Allah might help, Mecca is that way.'

Scott shrugged. ‘High Church Anglican.'

‘Pity,' said Toohey.

‘Anyway, my faith has been shaken by experience.' She looked searchingly at him. ‘How's yours?'

‘My faith was battered by the job, but it survived. Unlike my marriage.'

‘I'm sorry about that.'

‘Don't be. It's better for both of us, and happily Mum didn't live to see her eldest son facing divorce. How's Brian?'

Scott leaned back against the wall and looked at the ceiling.

‘Distant. The media might think it's amusing to dub someone “Denis Thatcher”, but it gets tired very fast. Let's face it, we were never that close. He rarely comes to Canberra and when I'm not here I'm on the road.'

Toohey placed his hand on Scott's, sending a tingle up her arm. This simple act of intimacy brought a lump to her throat.

‘Marty . . .' She paused to compose herself. ‘I don't know what to do, who to trust. I've lost my confidence and that frightens me.'

Toohey searched her face, as if looking for the scars that came with the office.

‘Well, I'm one of the few people who can honestly say I know the feeling.'

He looked away and when he caught her gaze again there was urgency in his eyes.

‘That's why I came. You're in more trouble than you think. Your greatest threat isn't even in your party.'

Scott tilted her head and frowned. ‘What do you mean?'

‘You said you didn't trust anyone. Does that include Jack Webster?'

‘Well, no . . . yes . . . I mean I did trust him. Without question. But recently I've begun to worry about his advice. He's pushing hard on something, and that disturbs me.'

‘Let me guess. He wants you to join a Yank-led pissing contest with the Chinese. Just like he did with me.'

‘Martin, you know that I can't speak about what goes on in the NSC.'

‘Well then, let's deal with the known knowns. Webster's speech at the Press Club wasn't just about shoring up his feminist credentials. That guy's running for office. There's only one job he wants, Elizabeth . . . yours.'