The Mandarin Code by Steve Lewis

Cocos Island, Bamaga and Shoal Bay. Every one of them will be compromised and the Chinese could listen to every call from Hobart to Broome.’
    The Defence Chief finally spoke. He was horrified. ‘The range of our Jindalee over-the-horizon radar is a lot more than 3000 kilometres. Imagine what China could do? Jesus, they could monitor every RAAF and Qantas take-off and landing. And we plan to base more troops and more kit up north.’
    â€˜And more marines,’ Moreton chipped in. ‘They could monitor every movement, every joint exercise.’
    Dalton saw the platform as an evil ark. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘when ASIO is asked for coordination comments for the Cabinet debate, we’ll red flag it as a grave security risk.’
    â€˜Don’t be so fucking naive, Richard. You won’t be asked. None of us will be.’ Webster was on his feet. ‘This government is paranoid about high-level leaks and with good reason. Who among us would trust anyone in that Cabinet? Toohey won’t talk to any but a select few before announcing this sell-out to China as a done deal.’
    â€˜So if they won’t seek our advice, what are our options?’ Dalton asked, reflecting the frustration of the room.
    Webster was staring out the window as the lake caught the last glow of the sunset. He turned back to the room, placing a hand supportively on the Ambassador’s shoulder. ‘This can never be allowed to happen.’

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
    Canberra
    Gnarled fingers danced over a battered keyboard, attempting to coax a must-read yarn from a tangled mess of background material, off-the-record quotes and join-the-dots supposition.
    Harry Dunkley had sold this exclusive hard, providing his editor with the barest of outlines, promising to file early enough to allow News Corp’s lawyers time to hook their claws into his copy.
    It was a four-coffee-down sort of day. The time read 3.07pm on his MacBook Pro and Dunkley figured he had an hour, maybe one and a half, of scribbling and polishing before he’d hit ‘send’.
    This was no run-of-the-mill yarn. Not the usual ‘scoop’ hand-delivered by a press secretary patsy on behalf of some malicious MP intent on inflicting damage on a colleague or enemy. Or both.
    Dunkley had taken delivery of plenty of ‘exclusives’ that had fallen off the back of the proverbial truck. Words repackaged to appear on the front page the next day. All very neat and tidy. Thanks for the scoop. Now fuck off.
    He stretched and scratched a left shoulder that was itchy and dry, much like the weather on this smouldering Canberra day. He checked a notepad, flicking through several pages of shorthand. He’d negotiated a verbatim quote from a ‘senior intelligence source’, and this was critical to getting a legal tick without his copy being gored to death.
    His hand massaged a face that hadn’t seen a razor for forty-eight hours.
    Dunkley liked to joke that he had a good head for print. He wasn’t interested in joining those prima donnas who pranced around Sky News or ABC News 24, seeking to build their profiles as ‘political analysts’. One day, the press gallery might well be one giant TV studio. Journalists would be wandering around with cameras strapped to their heads, delivering commentary in real time. Every story would be 140 characters long.
    The ether was already full enough of bullshit. This was what he lived for. The thrill of the chase, the scent of a big splash that would cut through the vapid nonsense that passed for news these days.
    Okay, now for the lead. Plenty of drama, plenty of grunt, make it tight, and make it sing.
    The body of a man dragged from Canberra’s Lake Burley Griffin has been identified as one of a small army of workers flown in to build China’s new embassy.
    All the workers on the highly secretive building are Chinese nationals travelling on diplomatic passports and the site is