The Shadow Game (29 page)

Ryan reached into his pocket and threw a black USB onto the table.

‘With this.'

Dunkley looked at the memory stick and shrugged. ‘And?'

‘This is a record of every crime Webster's committed. Every time he's acted without authority. It's an extraordinary story.'

Ryan turned to Toohey, who was eyeing the USB.

‘Martin, did you know that our Special Forces were used to protect US interests in Nigeria?'

‘No.'

‘Well, it happened on your watch. And Webster ordered it. They were flown in on a plane provided by a US contractor. Bought and paid for by the CIA. Meant no one in the US ever had to answer hard questions in a congressional hearing.'

Dunkley was still sceptical. ‘Where did you get it?'

‘From the only man who could compile it. Another member of the Alliance, Richard Dalton. The late head of ASIO.'

‘Why would he do that?' Toohey asked.

‘Because he was frightened. He'd been tracking Webster's every move. Now he's dead.'

Ryan leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.

‘But that USB holds more than just ASIO's work. Remember that Chinese spy who washed up in the lake two years ago?'

Dunkley nodded. ‘Yeah. He was trying to defect.'

‘Well, he wasn't coming empty-handed.' Ryan picked up the USB. ‘This was taken from his gut. It held thousands of files. Some were easy to crack and translate; the rest took ASIO months. The Chinese took a very keen interest in Webster. And it explains in detail how Beijing recruited our very own Catriona Bailey, recruited and trained her. It also identifies the man who was running her.'

‘Who?' Toohey and Dunkley spoke at the same time.

‘Always had impeccable connections, our Catriona. It was Meng Tao.'

Dunkley whistled. ‘The Chinese president.'

‘Got to hand it to her, she could always spot the people best able to help her,' Toohey said.

Dunkley looked at Toohey and then Ryan.

‘That's a great story, Brendan. But I have one big problem. The last time I trusted you I was destroyed. What was your experience, Martin?'

Toohey nodded. ‘Same.'

‘So I'm not making the same mistake twice. You said that USB had files about Webster. Does it spell out your role in the Alliance?'

Ryan reached for a glass of water, took a sip, then paused. He didn't look up when he spoke. ‘Yes. It does.'

Dunkley leaned forward and took the USB from Ryan's grasp. He pointed it at the politician as he spoke. ‘So, Brendan, if this ever became public you would be toast.'

Ryan didn't respond. He didn't have to.

Dunkley dropped the USB on the table and clapped his hands. ‘Then I want copies of everything. Right now. Call it an insurance policy.'

Toohey smiled and looked at Ryan. ‘Sounds reasonable to me.'

After the barest pause, Ryan nodded.

‘Good,' Dunkley said. ‘Martin, does this Star Wars theatrette have a printer?'

It was a motherlode of treasure. Ryan had left Toohey and Dunkley reading a ream of documents. They'd printed out several dozen and copied the thousands of files onto two USBs begged from the dean. Dunkley tapped a page. ‘This is extraordinary. If I was still in the trade I'd be leading the pack for years.'

The former prime minister held up an A4 sheet. It was one of more than a dozen that had been captured in a keyword search: ‘Burra'.

‘Seems that Dalton took quite an interest in Webster's little Burra venture too. Even planted ASIO technicians in the building teams, called them “plumbers”.'

Dunkley smiled.

‘Didn't you guys do the same thing when the Chinese embassy was built in the '90s?'

‘Well, the Hawke government approved the builders who bugged it. Seemed like a better use of our intelligence resources than planning coups. Oh, by the way . . .'

Toohey reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded yellow-and-white envelope.

‘This is for you. I picked it up at parliament.'

Dunkley checked the address, flipped it over and then tore open one end. Another memory stick slid onto the conference table.

‘Never rains but it pours,' Toohey said. ‘Who do you reckon sent it?'

Dunkley picked up the stick and pondered it for a moment.

‘Trevor Harris.'

‘What do you think is on it?'

Dunkley put it down and looked at Toohey.

‘Something that Jack Webster is willing to kill for.'

The eight officers snapped to attention as Frank W Vinson stepped into the command centre of the USS
George Washington
.

‘Please sit.' The rear admiral pulled up his red-leather swivel chair at one end of a wooden conference table. Two large television screens were at the other, set above a line of digital clocks displaying time zones from Beijing to Washington.

He looked inquiringly at his intelligence officer.

‘Sir, the
Liaoning
passed through the southern end of the Taiwan Strait an hour ago,' Lieutenant Commander Gillian Bradford said, as a map on the right-hand screen pinpointed the Chinese carrier strike group.

The left-hand screen displayed a close-up image, tagging each Chinese vessel.

‘Its strike group includes four Luyang-class destroyers: the
Guangzhou
,
Wuhan
,
Xi'an
and
Changchun
. There are also two
frigates, the
Xuzhou
and
Huangshan
, and a Shang-class nuclear-powered attack submarine.'

Vinson closely studied the formation. Something vital was missing.

‘Where are the supply ships?' he asked.

‘That's the intriguing bit, Admiral. There are none.'

Their absence was telling. Despite the billions poured into the People's Liberation Army Navy, China had been unable to forge a strike group that could sail far from port because it lacked logistics ships.

‘Can they resupply the strike group from the Spratlys?'

‘Perhaps from Mischief Reef, but their stores are limited,' Bradford said. ‘Whatever they have planned, they can't stay at sea for long.'

Vinson pondered the mismatch. He had studied the
Liaoning
's Admiral Yu Heng and respected him as a thoughtful commander.

Right now he would be a worried man. His ships were no match for the American strike group, and the planes he carried could only fly short distances with a full complement of weapons.

The Stars and Stripes held another ace. The Pentagon had developed electronic and signals intelligence that would take China a generation to match.

Since the height of the Cold War, America had been filling space with spy satellites. Among the most secretive of these aerial networks was the Naval Ocean Surveillance System.

The twinned low-Earth-orbit satellites, code-named
Intruder
, scooped up signals from every warship at sea and beamed them to four ground stations positioned strategically around the globe:
in Germany; at Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean; just north of the Misawa Air Base in Japan; and at Vandenberg Air Force Base in California.

America had also spent billions developing technology to analyse the operating frequencies and transmission patterns of every warship on the planet.

The positional and fingerprint data could be married, then relayed within minutes to any US warship, anywhere on the globe.

It was akin to placing ankle bracelets on naval adversaries and gave American commanders a complete real-time picture of everyone in their battlespace.

In Vinson's mind it was instructive that these were the satellites that were hit by laser fire on the day President Jackson was assassinated. If the Chinese were planning a confrontation at sea, Beijing knew it had to take out America's huge intelligence advantage.

That strike had failed. So wherever the
Liaoning
sailed, Vinson would see its every move, while he would lurk in Yu's blindspot.

Elizabeth Scott held her mobile to her ear. ‘You're absolutely certain? The Brisbane Club. What date? What time?'

The prime minister scribbled notes as she listened intently. ‘Thanks.' She ended the call, glancing at the time before dialling her EA. ‘How long? Okay, thanks.'

The meeting had been called at short notice. He was due in five minutes. She summoned her chief of staff. ‘I don't want to be disturbed. At all.' She pointed to a CCTV set in the ceiling. ‘And switch that off.'

Right on time, Jack Webster, in full military regalia, his chest festooned with medals, strode masterfully into the prime ministerial suite.

The PM realised she'd never seen the Chief of the Defence Force in civvies.

His every public moment was an opportunity to boost his status and ego.

‘Please have a seat.'

The CDF nodded, dropping his hat carelessly on a coffee table before sitting at ease on the unfortunate burnt-orange lounge that some genius in PM&C had chosen to grace the prime ministerial office.

‘I was surprised that your diary secretary called my executive assistant,' he said. ‘You usually text or call me personally. And she must have misheard because she said you were ordering me here.'

‘I was. You do recall that I am the prime minister. You answer to me.'

‘I have never questioned it, and frankly, Prime Minister, your tone surprises me.'

Scott ignored the hint of aggression.

‘Who do you think is leaking information from the National Security Committee, Jack?'

‘Do you have to ask? One of your colleagues, as ever.'

‘It's a breach of the Crimes Act.'

‘I know, and no one will be happier than me when you jail the attorney-general.'

Scott rose from her chair.

‘I don't think it's the attorney,' she said softly, stepping towards him. ‘I think it's you.'

His face flushed with anger as he, too, rose to his feet.

‘That is an outrageous accusation.'

Scott didn't flinch.

‘No. It's the truth. Worse, my chief military adviser has pushed me into buying Japanese submarines in haste, bypassing all the usual procurement guidelines, triggering an unnecessary confrontation with China.'

‘It's the right call. The Soryu are the best option. And the Americans want us to seal that deal.'

Like the class fencer she was, Scott lunged at the opening.

‘That's it, isn't it, Jack? Pleasing the Americans. Always doing Washington's bidding. But you don't work for them; you work for me . . . or do you just work for yourself?'

Webster bristled. ‘This is absurd.'

‘Really? What were you talking to Emily Brooks about at the Brisbane Club?'

For a moment Webster was blindsided and Scott recognised she'd scored a hit.

‘We met by chance. I am constantly talking to politicians, from all sides.'

‘A chance meeting that went for an hour.'

‘What are you accusing me of, Prime Minister?'

‘Of conspiring with the enemy.'

‘Bullshit.'

‘If you want my job, you'll have to resign from the one you have now.'

Webster picked up his hat.

‘This demeaning conversation is over. I will try to forget it ever happened.'

Scott stepped in front of Webster, blocking his path.

‘Air Chief Marshal, I am not asking for your resignation, I am demanding it.'

The CDF's face boiled with rage and for a moment Scott feared he might strike her. When he spoke his voice was cold and deliberate.

‘If you want me gone you'll have to sack me but it would be the final act in your pathetic career.'

Scott moved to her desk and picked up a sheet of paper.

‘Your resignation letter. Sign it.'

Webster moved close, towering over her.

‘And I will say you sacked me after I discovered you were compromised by the Chinese, that they recorded your illegal surveillance of a colleague for rank political gain. That the prime minister of Australia is whoring herself to Beijing.'

Scott's face was ashen.

‘Have you been following me, Jack? Bugging me?'

Webster put his hat on, and pushed past the prime minister. He turned his head slightly and spoke over his shoulder.

‘You are going to announce that you are sending an Australian frigate to join the US-led flotilla in the South China Sea. You have forty-eight hours. Or you can deliver your own resignation to the governor-general.'

Elizabeth Scott had glimpsed her own mortality. She stood frozen, staring at the door.

In the cut-and-thrust of the corporate world, Scott had played
as tough as anyone. But here the stakes were not measured in profit and loss or sharemarket movements; they were measured in careers.

Scott's was now on the line.

She slumped back into her lounge chair, ignoring a nagging desk phone. Instead she reached for her mobile, scrolling through a list of names.

‘Hi. I need you here. Now.'

‘Martin.' She bounded across the room, threw her arms around him and held him close for a few seconds.

‘Elizabeth, you'll ruin my reputation as a hard Labor man. Try to recall we are mortal enemies.'

She pushed him back and smiled.

‘Comrade.'

‘Now you're just being silly. What's so urgent?'

Scott walked to her desk, distractedly picking up her handwritten notes that recorded the defence chief's deceit.

‘You were right about Webster. He's hatching a plan with Brooks to put him in the Lodge.'

Toohey nodded. ‘It might just work. Webster has the profile, and the public adores him. And Brooks knows she can sell it to your colleagues because it would be their best chance of hanging onto their seats. As I learned, that's all they care about.'

‘I know, I know, but it gets worse. Much worse. Webster knows something that could blow me away.'

‘Like what?'

Scott put down her notes and rolled her shoulders, before turning her back on Toohey. When she spoke, her voice was barely audible.

‘Webster knows that I was the one who brought down Brooks using the sex tape.'

‘Really?'

She turned to face Toohey, but could not look him in the eye.

‘The Chinese know too.'

‘Jesus, Elizabeth, you've grown in my estimation. You've mastered black ops. They say you can judge a person by their enemies. You've hit the jackpot.'

Scott slumped onto the lounge.

‘Maybe I should just resign.'

‘Elizabeth, if you resign, he wins. We can't allow this mongrel to keep taking out prime ministers. That is the real crime.'

Scott sighed loudly. ‘Yes, but what can I do to stop him?'

Toohey's grin was the tonic she needed. ‘Prime Minister, I'm already working on something. You trusted me; now I'm trusting you.'

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a USB.

‘This is Webster's death notice. Read it carefully and when the time comes you'll know who to share it with.'

He pointed to her iPhone.

‘Don't go anywhere without that and don't let your staffers answer it. Sometime soon you'll get a text from a number you don't recognise . . . It will begin “Embassy Motel” and you'll know
it's from me. When I call, you'll need to act immediately. Will you promise me that?'

Scott thought for a moment. There were few options.

‘Sure. What will you want me to do?'

‘Send in the cavalry.'