The Shadow Game (24 page)

Benny Hadid's right foot was tapping like a madman's, eight to the bar, a measure of jangled nerves. It was just after 7am and the Australian National Audit Office was creaking to life. He had already absorbed two hundred milligrams of caffeine, and he studied the shake in his hands as he booted his PC into life.

He slid open a desk drawer and searched for a blue-and-white box. Flipping it open, he pushed a pill into his palm, then hesitated. The Xanax would calm the panic, but its side effects were brutal: a loss of appetite and overwhelming sadness.

He had to work, though, so he popped the pill into his mouth, washing it down with another black coffee.

For the past week he'd barely slept and the sharp angles of his face were accentuated by a darkness that spread like cheap mascara beneath his eyes. As usual, he was dressed impeccably: a crisp white Eton shirt finished with Mulberry cufflinks, a Zegna
suit woven from fine wool. The expensive clothing hung loosely on his coat-hanger frame.

The pitch of the pressure had risen as he'd applied the finishing touches to his secret dossier. He had two hours to finish it. It was his best work and it was bulletproof. After a final polish he would present it to the auditor-general, with whom he'd requested a meeting. The findings could not be ignored and would set wheels in motion that would run down Jack Webster.

He mentally ticked off the work that still had to be done. The audit of the $8.5 billion Air Warfare Destroyer program had been immense and complex. Hadid had forensically pieced together a string of suspicious transactions. He'd chased down every dollar, checked and rechecked critical data entries and calibrated the language of his report to reflect the seriousness of the key findings.

The audit office would red flag the project, the police would be called and it would unleash a political shitstorm.

His screen opened to the familiar ANAO log in. He quickly typed his username and password, cursing quietly as he hit an incorrect key.

The machine flared open to a desktop with a neat row of icons, each of them an important work avenue.

Hadid had hidden the report deep in the audit office mainframe. He had also sent a copy to CDC2, one of the three Commonwealth data centres located around Canberra. The centres were giant hubs that collected the trillions of gigabytes sent daily through the 882-kilometre ‘dark fibre' network known as ICON. The ANAO had been an early signatory to the Intra Government
Communications Network, which now had links to nearly ninety agencies, including key defence and intelligence bureaus.

Hadid contemplated another coffee as he opened the report's folder. He sped through some preliminary remarks, scribbled a few notes on a pad then jumped to the main game: ‘Air Warfare Destroyer Program. Overall Conclusions.'

His body skipped a beat and his world began to collapse.

His mouth parted in silent horror as he absorbed what was before him. Someone, something, had been in the file, changing and deleting large sections of it.

‘Jesus.' He rubbed his eyes, blinking hard, grabbing at the mouse, scrolling down the page, looking for some sign of forced entry. None.

He backtracked, saved the file to the shared drive, then reopened it. The same. His right hand trembled as he searched for the contents page. Deleted. The Introduction. Deleted. Recommendations. Deleted.

Two years of his life. Deleted.

He retraced his steps from yesterday. He'd worked on the file till 7pm, then headed home for a meal and an early night. Then till now: twelve hours. He scrolled through the file's properties, searching for a clue. Nothing. Then he went back to the Word document, reading carefully to try to get a handle on exactly how much had been changed.

‘Morning, Benny.' A colleague had arrived at his workstation next door. ‘Um, mate, you all right?'

Hadid lowered his head, then squeaked out a barely audible ‘No'.

The results were horrendous. Months of painstaking work, sifting through layer upon layer of Defence bullshit, checking every dollar, every balance sheet entry, and it had all been deleted or substantially amended.

The audit into one of the most expensive procurements in the history of the Commonwealth was now useless and the criminal's footprints had been erased.

But Benny Hadid wasn't the only officer in the auditor-general's department with a problem and his wasn't the only Commonwealth agency under attack. News was filtering in of other agencies that had lost reams of work. Back-up files had been deleted too, and teams of technicians were scrambling to limit the damage.

Hadid slowly shook his head as he listened to the auditor-general briefing the executive team on the fallout from the cyber attack. The agency's IT manager had confirmed that key files had been destroyed or severely damaged, internal back-up systems had been erased and the fallback – the Canberra Data Centre computers – had been infected. Hundreds of thousands of hours of irreplaceable work was gone for good.

That other public servants had also lost precious work was of little comfort to Hadid. He was convinced the entire attack had been aimed at him.

He felt the buzz of his mobile phone, pulling it from his pocket as the screen lit up.

Walk to your desk. Answer the landline.

There was no number ID.

He did as instructed, weaving through the office, the ring of his phone getting louder as he neared his desk. Suspiciously, he scanned the room, but he was alone.

He eyed the receiver for a few seconds. Finally he reached down to pick it up. ‘Hello?'

Silence. Nothing but the faint hum of the air conditioning.

Then a calm voice spoke.

‘Walk away from the AWD audit, Mr Hadid. Walk away and don't look back.'

‘Let there be no doubt. This is one of the most significant cyber attacks in the history of the Commonwealth.'

Jack Webster towered over the lectern in the theatrette on the bottom floor of R1, the epicentre of the Russell Offices Defence complex.

‘We are still assessing the damage. Usually the government would make no comment, but this attack has compromised Centrelink's database. As you would be aware, the agency holds highly sensitive personal and financial details of many Australians.'

The Australian
's defence correspondent, Brendan Nicholson, fired a question.

‘Can you tell us how many Centrelink files are involved?'

‘I'm sure we can get you all the numbers, Brendan, but do the maths. From memory, there are two and a half million aged
pensioners and almost a million people on Newstart and Youth Allowance . . .'

Five kilometres away, Harry Dunkley took an air swing at the television screen. He was angry, but not surprised.

‘This is total bullshit.'

Jack Webster was sounding like the pompous knight that he was, detailing a cyber attack that had hit almost every Commonwealth agency, including Defence.

He had been sent out by a weak defence minister to try to explain the magnitude of the attack and minimise damage to the government.

Dunkley didn't buy it for a moment. Webster was ramping up the attack for his own political ends. Dunkley had seen this shell game before and that time he'd been the dupe.

It had been his path to ruin. He had written a series of front-page exclusives detailing multiple Chinese cyber attacks on Australia. Each one had been fed to him by Charles Dancer. And each one had been launched from Canberra on Webster's orders.

The operation, dubbed the Lusitania Plan, had been designed to force the Australian government to lash out at China. Martin Toohey had taken the bait. When Beijing retaliated by pulling out of a multi-billion-dollar resources deal, it was the straw that broke his government's back.

Now Dunkley watched helplessly as history seemed to be repeating itself.

‘Brendan, yes it bears the hallmarks of a state-sponsored attack.' Webster's jaw was set like an Easter Island statue as a half-dozen reporters vied for the follow-up.

Mark Kenny from Fairfax got the nod.

‘CDF, the Chinese apparently stole millions of files in their recent cyber attack on the US government. Did this attack come from China?'

‘It's a good question, Mark. I don't have a precise answer for you yet. What I can tell you is that we will find out and pursue whoever committed this act of war.'

‘War?' Kenny shot back.

‘What would you call it, Mr Kenny? Millions of dollars' worth of damage has been done, sensitive information stolen. An attack on a nation, be it through conventional weaponry or cyber warriors is an act of war, at least in my eyes.'

The defence chief leafed through a sheaf of papers before continuing.

‘As you know,' Webster intoned, his words carefully chosen for the television audience, ‘I have long pleaded for more investment in cyber security. There are many agencies using the ICON network that don't encrypt their files. Perhaps more than half. That is unacceptable.'

The ABC's Jane Norman interjected.

‘Are you criticising the government, Sir Jack?'

‘That is your commentary, not mine. Now, ladies and gentlemen, if you'll excuse me I have a meeting to attend and the prime minister does not like to be kept waiting.'

Dunkley slapped his right fist into his open left hand.

‘Trevor, this is laughable. Webster's about as credible as a street market hawker. I can't believe he's getting away with it. Again. We can't let him—'

‘Harry, for fuck's sake, shut up. Please.'

Slumped on a lounge chair, Trevor Harris raised his hands in supplication. An hour earlier he'd been told of Benny Hadid's admission to Hyson Green, the private mental health facility at Calvary Hospital. Details were sketchy, but Harris believed the breakdown was linked to his dealings with Dunkley.

‘Come on, Trev, you don't buy that China cyber bullshit – do you?'

Harris was in no mood for a Dunkley lecture. The former journalist had reverted to type: everything revolved around him. The chase, the story, the scoop – no matter how much collateral damage he caused.

Hadid was just another body on the pile.

‘Harry, for once, just once, think of someone other than yourself. Seriously, mate, Hadid has been admitted to a psych ward. You . . . me . . . we helped to push him over the edge.'

Dunkley felt a twinge of remorse, but rallied.

‘C'mon, that's unfair. Benny was already chasing Webster and wanted him to answer for his crimes just as much as we do.'

‘No, Harry. As
you
do. You pushed Benny, just as you're now pushing me. Your return draws a target on everyone you meet.'

Harris stood and took a few paces before turning to face Dunkley.

‘Mate, you leave a trail of destruction and broken relationships every time you get involved with Jack Webster. Look at the tally.
You asked Kimberley Gordon for help; she gets murdered. You enlisted your former girlfriend and she gets death threats. Bruce Paxton lost his seat and now Benny Hadid is in the nuthouse.'

The torment was written on Harris's face as he dropped his head into his hands.

‘And me.' His voice quavered as he spoke. ‘Since I helped you my life has collapsed. I'm entombed in this fetid little hole. I know they're hunting me. I defend myself as best I can, barricade the doors, spend my days peering through the curtains.'

When Harris looked up his eyes were moist.

‘Harry Dunkley, you are a dangerous friend.'

They fell into silence as Dunkley looked around at the clutter, the piles of books and unwashed dishes, the flotsam and jetsam of a once vibrant life. When he spoke it was with quiet resolve.

‘Webster started this war, not me. There were no conscripts on our side; we were all volunteers. Webster used me. And he used you too, right down to you telling them where to find Kimberley on the night she was murdered. That was why you reached out to me. Remember? It was your call to help.'

Dunkley stood and grabbed Harris by the shoulders.

‘If we don't fight this guy, we lose. There is only one way for this to end. For you to escape this shithole and for me to get my life back. We either get this megalomaniac or we die trying. We owe it to Benny Hadid, we owe it to Kimberley Gordon, and mate, we owe it to ourselves.'

Harris met Dunkley's gaze, slowly shook his head and sighed.

‘If we're going to do this, we'll do it properly. Get that bloody phone of yours.'