The Mandarin Code (10 page)

Jiang had studied the faces of his six comrades, trying to gauge whether his argument was cutting through. Two places to his left, Wu Weifang had coughed to indicate his intention to speak.

‘My young friend is getting ahead of himself.' Wu was the oldest member of the Standing Committee and his opening remark was designed to make Jiang sound like an impulsive teenager. Wu was in charge of anti-terrorism and national security and despite his age was considered to be the most liberal of the magnificent seven.

‘China must not make the mistake of the West and rush into battle, as the United States did in Iraq and Afghanistan. Patience is our ally. Daily we are growing more powerful but now is not the time to provoke a conflict. What if we misjudge? If we are forced to retreat, this Standing Committee will lose face and credibility early in its tenure. We should push back, of course. But let's temper our response and bide our time.'

‘Age does bring wisdom . . . for some, Comrade Wu.' Jiang had locked on the elder statesman, his words laced with sarcasm. ‘But we have waited for more than a century. Generations of our countrymen have lived and died in humiliation. I do not intend to join them. If we listen to you, we will be debating for another hundred years.'

It had been a risky play. Wu was highly regarded. But Jiang judged that others shared his impatience to demonstrate China's strength. His intention was to snatch power by isolating dissenting voices. He made his move.

‘I believe that these extraordinary times demand the President's leadership.' He'd spoken slowly, turning to each member of the Standing Committee. ‘I propose we establish a new National Security Committee which will direct the military and the police, with the President as its chair.

‘Its aim will be to focus all our energies on responding to this unprovoked act of aggression. The committee would, of course, include Comrade Wu, as it will absorb his responsibilities. I propose that I be the third member because to prevail we will need to harness and direct the nationalist sentiment of our people.'

No one had spoken as the committee digested the audacious bid to strip Wu of his responsibilities and to hand unprecedented power to the President.

Wu had turned and pleaded with his leader.

‘Comrade Meng, what is proposed is unwise. It is best that the seven of us deal with these matters and keep the arrangements that have worked so well for our predecessors . . .'

The President had silenced Wu with a dismissive wave of his hand.

‘I believe Comrade Jiang's proposal shows a wisdom well beyond his years.' Meng's words had been a deliberate rebuke to Wu, and acted as a warning to any committee member swayed by his argument.

‘We did not provoke this confrontation, the Americans did. This new President is determined to humiliate us, to contain our growth. If we step back, America and its lap-dog Japan will step forward. Wavering will be seen as weakness: by our enemies and, as importantly, by our people. The question is are we, are you, strong enough to seize this opportunity. I propose we vote on Comrade Jiang's proposal. Right now. And I support it.'

The President had raised his hand and searched the room for compliance. Jiang's hand had joined his leader's, and had been followed by the Party Secretary's. And, as the tension in the room had risen, slowly, so had a fourth hand. The chair of the central committee for Discipline Inspection had completed the majority.

Jiang had smiled, the long hours of preparation had not been wasted. Wu's voice would mean nothing on the new all-powerful National Security Committee, as he and the President were of one mind. This committee's plans would be settled before it met.

And when it acted, the world would shudder.

In the early evening, Jiang met President Meng. Alone.

‘Have you organised the next steps as we discussed?' Meng asked.

‘Yes, sir.' Jiang pushed a piece of paper across the desk. ‘This is a map of our proposed expanded air defence identification zone. As you can see it covers the Diaoyu Islands. We will demand that any commercial or military planes that intend to fly through it lodge their flight plans with us.'

‘The Americans will have to test it.'

‘I believe they will. We will be ready.'

‘But there will also be other steps, on the water?'

‘Yes, sir, as we discussed. But, of course, not by us.'

‘We must be careful. We cannot afford a full-scale confrontation with our more powerful enemy. Instead, my friend, the assassin's mace is our weapon. We do not need to defeat the giant in battle but to wound and neutralise it.'

Jiang nodded. The President continued.

‘And call the North Korean Ambassador. I am sure Korea can be a useful partner in this enterprise.'

‘Of course, sir. Anything else?'

The President searched his younger comrade's face. He had been expecting some news on another project and took the fact that the information had not been forthcoming as a bad sign.

‘Zero Day. How is it progressing?'

Jiang looked down at his papers, as if seeking a file note. He'd expected the question but had hoped for better news before briefing his leader.

‘It is proceeding, sir,' he eventually said. ‘But you know better than anyone that it is our most sensitive program. We have an operational issue that has yet to be resolved. We are moving more slowly than we'd hoped, but I am confident Zero Day will proceed. As planned.'

The President sensed some hesitancy, but decided against pressing further.

‘Very well, Mr Jiang. Remember, a tiger moves with stealth-like steps. We must leave no trace. No trace.'

Canberra

His eyes were piercing and black; his face, flanked by a crop of luxurious grey hair, bore a hint of a smile and a poise that carried across more than two hundred years. Joseph Banks was a man of wealth and influence, a child of the Enlightenment, whose innate intelligence was evident in this masterful portrait.

‘What do you think of him, Harry?' Charles Dancer spoke with soft appreciation, not turning to face the journalist but keeping his gaze on the painting on the National Portrait Gallery wall. ‘He was one of the true fathers of this nation. He invested his wealth without rancour and was a man of intellect and vision.'

Harry Dunkley tilted his head to suggest he was appreciative rather than baffled.

‘He was a giant of his age.' Dancer turned sharply, his gaze as intense as that of Banks. ‘And so superior to the pygmies who rule us now, don't you think?'

Dancer left the question hanging, inviting a response.

‘Charles, I didn't realise you were such a student of the arts.' Dunkley filled the void. ‘The dark arts maybe, but not fine arts.'

‘Very droll, Harry. I wanted you to soak up the history. You need to be able to put everything I'm about to tell you in perspective.'

Dancer gestured at the painting. ‘Banks was a guardian of his age as we are guardians of this age, keepers of an ephemeral flame. Our role is to hand on a better nation. To look to the long term, for the common good. Not to be captives of the moment, of the latest fad.' He spoke with quiet resolve. It was nearing 10.30am and the gallery was yet to fill with the bustle of tourists and locals.

Dancer clearly loved this place. Dunkley, too, was fond of the gallery, but the work that moved him was on the other side of the room. ‘Come with me.' It was his turn to reveal his favourite.

There, in the middle of the back wall, were two bronze busts by Benjamin Law, commissioned in the mid-1830s. The first, of an Aboriginal man, was as proud and sure as the image of Banks.

‘Wurati, the chief of Van Diemen's Land.' Dunkley stood close to the bronze, wondering what the man had been feeling and thinking when the piece was set. Wurati's face bore no trace of the pain to come.

‘His people would be all but exterminated by “visionaries” like Banks. And beside him is another.' Dunkley stepped across to stand beside the bronze of a woman.

‘This is his wife, Trukanini, long thought to be the last of her people. Benjamin Law cast Wurati first, regal and strong. But the statue of Trukanini, made just one year later, is very different: downcast, tragic. She knows what the white man's arrival means. Maybe that realisation was dawning on the artist, too, that the nation Banks envisioned would be built on the bodies of another people.'

Dancer had viewed the busts before, but he studied them and their inscriptions afresh.

‘True, Aboriginal dispossession is the Original Sin of settlement. I am sorry for that,' he finally said. ‘But it was inevitable. If it had not been us it would have been the French, the Dutch or the Germans. History does not stand still, Harry. The lesson from your art tour is that powerful people survive, and the weak are enslaved or murdered. I don't intend to be on the side of the weak.'

Dunkley wasn't sure about Dancer's agenda. But he needed to settle one of his own.

The death of their friend Kimberley had brought the two together. They'd forged a working bond and shared a grudging respect. But Dunkley suspected the relationship was as flimsy as the Toohey Government's grip on power.

‘Why didn't you return my calls?' Dunkley challenged the diplomat. ‘You promised to help track down Kimberley's killer. You know I can't do it on my own.'

‘Harry, please, let it go.' Dancer was examining the next portrait. ‘It's a futile quest. It wasn't a single person who killed Kimberley, it was the ideology of an evil state. You should never have got her involved; neither of you was equipped for the task. You were innocents wandering into a war.'

Their conversation was interrupted by the giggling of a nearby couple.

‘Let's go for a stroll, Harry.' Dancer led Dunkley into an adjoining gallery.

‘So why did you call now, Charles?'

Dancer fronted a portrait of Lachlan Macquarie, a man described in his native Scotland as the ‘Father of Australia'.

‘Harry, I have wrestled with this . . . with what I'm about to tell you. My career has been about protecting the realm, without the public knowing about it. Almost everything I've ever done will never be known, recorded only as a part of this nation's large library of secrets.

‘That is as it should be. Unlike you, I believe that nations need secrets. Bismarck knew that the sausage grinder of the state was best kept from public view. Traitors like Julian Assange would be jailed if I had my way.'

Dancer turned to face the reporter. ‘But when a state is led by fools, sometimes the people need to be stirred. It's now clear that this government is not just incompetent, it's dangerous.

‘It's blinded by Chinese wealth and intellectually crippled by its determination to stay in power. It can't be moved by wise counsel behind closed doors because the only thing that motivates it is public opinion. So the public needs to be jolted awake, to be warned that it's sleepwalking into disaster.'

‘What “disaster”?' Dunkley's voice held a sniff of annoyance.

Dancer was examining a poorly constructed painting of the brilliant but headstrong explorer Matthew Flinders.

‘This government has absolutely no idea what it is dealing with and how dangerous its rise is. It foolishly believes you can separate Chinese commerce from Chinese politics. But it's bartering with this country's soul. It's betting that there will never come a time when we will have to choose between prosperity and our traditional security pact with the United States.'

The passion flared in Dancer's eyes.

‘China can never be a true and trusted friend, not now, not ever. Each step towards it is a step away from our real friends. And into a very dangerous future.'

He had stopped pretending an interest in the art and had turned all his attention on Dunkley, taking a step towards the journalist. His voice became more intent.

‘You know that now, Harry. Kimberley's death has taught you that much. If anything it's perhaps given you a perspective you never had. I've been reading your opinion pieces. They've been very good.'

‘Well thanks, Charles.' Dunkley stepped around the intelligence officer and continued to inspect the Flinders portrait. ‘We at
The Australian
always aim to please the powers that be. And that only occasionally includes governments of the day.'

‘Of course you do.' Dancer's laughter echoed around the empty room. ‘And I can see that the government's feelings towards you are just as mixed. Anyway, let me tell you a story. Off the record, of course, and with absolutely no trace back to me.'

The reporter nodded, and the two men kept walking. The ancient code – between a source and a scribe – would be honoured.

‘Thank you. Okay. Harry, did you hear about the body that was dragged out of the lake four days ago?' Dancer didn't give the reporter time to respond. ‘He was an Asian man, aged in his thirties, and he had no ID.'