The Shadow Game (37 page)

Mikaela Asta swirled a fine Napa Valley white in an expensive tumbler and kicked off her shoes. The hour was late and the West Wing had emptied to a skeleton crew of housekeepers and secret service personnel.

The president reflected on where the scandal that had engulfed her deputy would sit amid the long litany of White House travails.

Morgan McDonald faced life in a federal prison – if his lawyers managed to stay his execution.

Asta had spent the day duelling with the heavyweights of American television. CNN's Wolf Blitzer had hounded her over her claim that she had no knowledge of Big Mac's deception.

She had skilfully argued her innocence, emerging triumphant and with her leadership enhanced. Each interview had pivoted from accusations to acclamation for her dramatic intervention in the South China Sea.

Fox News had hailed her a hero for ‘restoring American pride', while even the liberal media had conceded that she had recast the international order.

Around the globe, the May Day War was being met with a mix of outrage, admiration and dread. That pleased Asta. She had long subscribed to Machiavelli's view that it was better for a prince – or princess – to be feared than loved.

Tomorrow a new vice president would be sworn in; tonight she would bask in the glory of a campaign that defined her as this generation's Iron Lady.

She poured another small glass of wine. Something had been nagging at her and on a whim she reached for her phone and fumbled through her contact list. She dialled the number.

‘Madam President . . . I wasn't expecting this . . . your call. I didn't—'

‘Elizabeth, I need to get something off my chest.' Asta assumed the stern tone of a scolding teacher. ‘Your call to pre-empt my announcement on the South China Sea action broke every protocol.'

Asta could feel the line go cold.

‘What about the protocols – and laws – that were shattered when your vice president engaged in an act of treason with my defence chief?'

A long moment of silence was broken by the president's laughter.

‘You are right. We were both let down by our leading men.'

‘I suspect not for the last time.'

Asta smiled. It sounded like the Australian leader had relaxed.

‘What's the time in Canberra?'

‘Approaching midday, Madam President.'

‘Elizabeth, please, it's Mikaela. By the way, I saw the footage of you tackling the gunman. It was very courageous.'

‘It's funny. I don't remember even thinking about it. I saw his gun, heard the shot and the next thing I remember is hitting the ground. Instinct, I guess. I trained as a fencer.'

‘Well, now the world knows you're a fighter.'

‘As they do of you, Mikaela.'

Asta paused before responding.

‘The world is a dangerous place, Elizabeth. I would like a fighter on my side. One whom I can trust.'

‘Our world is more treacherous than I ever imagined,' Scott replied. ‘And trust? That has to be earned, Mikaela. It begins with honesty.'

The Chairman's Lounge was bustling with late afternoon trade as the three men settled into five-star comfort. They'd arrived just after 5pm then spent twenty minutes fighting their way through a conga line of one-time colleagues and enemies, all keen to shower praise and good wishes.

‘Nice.' Harry Dunkley soaked up the luxurious ambience as he eased into a plush chocolate-leather chair. ‘Clearly being an ex–prime minister carries a few perks, even for one as disgraced as you, Martin.'

Martin Toohey passed a champagne flute to Bruce Paxton, then one to Dunkley.

After being feted like rock stars they were in high spirits, but also anxious to reflect on the blur of assassinations and arrests and the rare justice of bad men facing the consequences of their actions.

Across the tarmac, a 737 lazily lifted into the golden wash of the fading day, the roar of its twin engines barely audible through the thick glass windows.

‘So do you have to be invited into this palace?' Dunkley asked Toohey.

‘Yes, Harry. Qantas giveth . . . and Qantas taketh away.'

‘Tell me about it,' Paxton snapped. ‘These bastards bounced me as soon as I got turfed from parliament.'

‘Bruce, I'll sign you in any time. The same goes for you, Harry,' Toohey said, raising his fast-emptying glass in salute.

‘Thanks, Martin, I take back most of what I've said about you.'

The journalist smiled as they clinked glasses. He knew that, like him, the others felt relaxed and safe for the first time in ages, able to enjoy the day without having to glance over their shoulders.

In truth, they were revelling in their momentary fame after seeing Jack Webster and his henchmen charged with multiple crimes. They'd been dubbed the ‘Toohey Troika' by one media starlet keen to get the inside scoop on how they'd turned Australia's Most Trusted into Australia's Most Wanted.

Dunkley scanned the lounge, quietly nodding to some nobody MP who'd once threatened to commit unspeakable acts against him.

Only a few months ago he'd been scamming the streets of Sydney, living each day in a daze of self-pity and delusion. Now he was enjoying the perks of fine living. More importantly, he had recovered something priceless, his dignity.

The journalist turned to the former defence minister. ‘This must feel good, Bruce, after the downbeat digs you've been living in?'

‘Yeah, I guess so, Harry, though I never went in much for all this gilt-edged living. I was always happy dossing down with the common man. Still am.' Paxton motioned round the room. ‘Too many thieves in here, in this town, pretending to do good work when they're really only concerned with one thing: themselves.'

‘As self-righteous as ever, Bruce,' Toohey chipped in, offering a broad smile to his mate. ‘What about your entitlements? Has Finance finally sorted them out? I'm reliably informed the department had a bomb put under it.'

‘Yep, things are looking good on that front, Martin, no doubt thanks to you.'

‘You heard from the clerk?'

‘David rang me today to confirm the petition to reverse my expulsion from parliament. I'm not sure whether it's a help or a hindrance that Elizabeth Scott and the new opposition leader are co-sponsoring it. I'll be relieved when it's done, but it ain't the most important matter in my little world right now, not by a long shot.'

Paxton gazed out the window as another aircraft lifted in a graceful arc towards the heavens.

A respectful silence fell over them, broken when Toohey softly spoke. ‘You think you'll manage to track her down, Bruce? Hong Kong's a massive place.'

‘Yes, I think so, mate. She's family, right? I've got to find her. What are we if not the heritage of the past searching for a better future?'

‘Very poetic,' Toohey said appreciatively. ‘Hemingway?'

‘No, cobber, Bruce fucking Paxton, shitkicker laureate.'

The three men laughed heartily, their mirth eventually interrupted by a Qantas steward. ‘Your boarding pass, Mr Paxton.'

He nodded and gathered up his travel bag and paperback, a proud man embarking on a mission to track down a daughter he'd never known, a precious link to the only woman he'd ever truly loved.

‘Well boys. Showtime.'

He embraced Toohey, then Dunkley; solid embraces that lingered, that said all that needed to be said.

‘I hope he finds her.' Toohey looked solemn.

‘Yeah, me too,' Dunkley said, but he was absorbed in his own thoughts. His daughter had telephoned and asked to meet him in Sydney.

‘Martin, a simple yes or no. Did you contact Gaby?'

The former PM looked sheepish. ‘Might have.'

‘I wondered how she got my phone number.'

‘Well, as Bruce said, family is important.' Toohey fell into silence, gazing out at the lengthening shadows.

‘You okay?' Dunkley inquired, placing his hand on his friend's arm.

‘I am. Just got a bit on my mind, that's all.'

‘It's been a tumultuous time, I grant you that.'

Toohey fiddled with his glass as if pondering what to say. ‘That phone call on the drive out here, that was from the prime minister.'

‘Jesus! Not offering you a knighthood?'

Toohey chuckled. ‘No mate, they've been consigned to the dustbin, thank God. No, Elizabeth wants to see me. To talk about a job and a few other things . . .'

His voice trailed off, but the slight blush on his handsome face said it all.

Dunkley was genuinely pleased for his friend.

‘Remember when you dragged me out of the lock-up? You said you were motivated by redemption and revenge. Well, you got your revenge, but much more importantly you redeemed all of us. You're a good man, Martin Toohey, and in the opinion of this atheist, you deserve a sainthood.'

Toohey smiled, then caught the journalist in a bone-jarring hug.

They were interrupted by the steward. ‘Mr Dunkley, your flight is boarding.'

The journalist picked up his leather satchel, a long-ago gift from Gaby that he'd carried in good times and bad.

‘You've got lots of offers, Harry. What are your plans?'

‘Not sure. But you know, for a long time I always put my career first. This time I won't be making any decisions until I've had a good chat with my daughter.'

He turned to leave, then stopped.

‘Rupert wants to fly me to New York, you know.'

The two men roared with laughter as they walked through the Chairman's Lounge. As the sliding doors opened, Dunkley placed his arm around his mate's shoulder and offered a conspiratorial whisper.

‘You never know, Martin, I might just write a novel.'

Over the course of crafting our three novels, dozens of people have volunteered advice, helping us research and write these political dramas. Some have allowed us to formally acknowledge their support while others prefer to remain in the shadows.

Firstly, we'd like to acknowledge our magnificent editor Amanda O'Connell, who has managed to kill our darlings without crushing our spirit. Madeleine James helped sharpen the final draft of this novel. Thanks Maddy.

Mary Rennie, Anna Valdinger and Jeanne Ryckmans helped steer us through to publication, never losing patience.

Shona Martyn, Australia's publishing dynamo, took a gamble on this odd couple of Australian journalism, and has been a steadfast supporter from go to whoa.

We couldn't have written
The Shadow Game
and its two predecessors without the wise and generous counsel of many experts. In particular we would like to acknowledge Hugh White, Alastair MacGibbon, Dr Carl Ungerer, Ben Turnbull, Rob Woods and Rear Admiral (Ret) Brian Adams.

Many others were generous in reading draft chapters, and giving constructive feedback.

Finally, we want to give thanks to many politicians, staffers, senior public servants, members of the defence and intelligence agencies, both here and in the United States, who enthusiastically offered ideas and corrected draft chapters when they veered too far from the truth.

For the record, we have kept a detailed log of every conversation,

every email, every text. Be afraid.