The Mandarin Code by Steve Lewis Page A

immune from local laws under a deal struck with the Labor Government.
    Little is known of the dead man, Lin An, prompting intelligence officials to voice their concerns that the embassy site might pose a national security threat.
    The mysterious death comes on the back of a spike in Chinese-based cyber-espionage against Australia.
    The Australian has learned that Cabinet’s National Security Committee has been briefed twice in the past six weeks on ‘specific threats’ from Chinese cyber-units.
    And the emails of key government figures, including the Prime Minister, are understood to have been hacked. US intelligence officials alerted their Australian counterparts and provided evidence that China was the source of the attacks.
    Worried intelligence officials have accused the Toohey Government of being ‘asleep at the wheel’.
    The project’s secrecy has also prompted concerns over worker safety. Union and ACT Government representatives are barred from the site and there appears little they can do to ensure no one is injured or killed.
    Jesus, that should get their attention.
    Dunkley sat back and studied his handiwork. Thirty years in the hard news business and he still got a thrill when it all came together, when the usual grind of daily journalism gave way to a big delicious fillet of prime news.
    This was a news story that mattered and could make it onto the international stage. If it wasn’t legalled to death.
    He checked the time: 3.18pm, and there was still no response from the PM’s office. He’d gone to them an hour ago with a series of questions. This was too big a story for him to simply ring the press office at a quarter to six and demand an instant response.
    He rechecked his notepad, wondering if he had missed some vital piece of information. He’d already written around six hundred words. It would bump out to seven hundred, once the flacks in the PM’s office stopped panicking and actually scripted some bullshit response.
    Dunkley’s mobile rang. It was Eleanor Todd, the PM’s hardboiled senior press secretary, who, mercifully, had replaced Dylan Blair six months ago, bringing some much-needed grunt to the role.
    â€˜Hello mate. You calling to invite me to the Lodge for dinner?’
    â€˜Hah, very funny, Harry. You know why I’m calling. Listen, I’m about to send you a formal response but, um, can I ask, off the record, if you don’t want to take a breather on this one?’
    â€˜I don’t think so, Eleanor, not unless you’re telling me I’m completely off track – and I don’t expect you’re about to do that?’
    â€˜No mate, but Harry, we’re dealing with a pretty sensitive matter here, national security and all, and, ah, well it would be nice to be able to walk you through it, the nuances and the consequences, if you go to print. Not me personally, but someone very senior. Maybe the Attorney?’
    â€˜Danny Maiden? You are kidding, Eleanor. In the three years he’s been Attorney-General, he’s barely grunted in my direction. He’s a pumped-up Melbourne rich kid who fluked his way into a senior ministerial role and who now thinks he’s God’s gift to fucking democracy.’
    â€˜I’ll take that as a “no” then. Okay Mr Dunkley, have it your way. Response being emailed to you now. ’
    â€˜Love you too, Eleanor. See ya.’
    Dunkley hung up and waited. He liked Todd, a former senior political reporter who’d brought maturity to the Prime Minister’s office after replacing Blair, who was young, good-looking and rumoured to have bedded more women than were paid-up members of Emily’s List. But who knew diddly squat about actual journalism.
    Half a minute later, he received an email marked ‘Eleanor Todd, Senior Press Secretary, Office of the Prime Minister.’
    â€˜Via Beijing,’ Dunkley joked.
    He opened the email and started reading. She