The Marmalade Files Read online

  Well, thought Gordon, he was just going to have to put that to one side. He was in need of a helping hand and Dancer was among the very best in the business.

  He’d chosen the Chairman and Yip, a still fashionable place that had been serving excellent Asian-infused plates for nearly two decades. It was a little pricey but Albert, the Chairman’s hunky manager, could be relied on to find a discreet table when asked.

  The night air was brisk but bearable, and Gordon managed to snag a park almost opposite the restaurant. A good omen, he thought, as he spotted Albert through the window.

  Dancer had beaten him by a few minutes and was already seated, glass in hand, when Gordon arrived at the table upstairs.

  ‘Charles, you’re looking well.’

  ‘You too, Kimberley.’

  A short silence ensued as they perused the menu and then ordered.

  ‘So, Kimberley, why this great secrecy? That was a very cryptic phone message you left.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry about that. Look, I want to ask a favour … a purely professional favour,’ Gordon added, a little clumsily.

  Dancer’s expression remained neutral. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, this has to remain hush-hush …’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I am … have been … working with a friend on a certain project … it’s delicate and this is very much on the QT …’

  ‘Kimberley, you can trust me. You of all people should know that.’

  Dancer’s tone was reassuring and after a quick half-glass of riesling, Gordon felt relaxed enough to spill the beans.

  ‘I’m working on Bruce Paxton …’ He halted, sensing a slight shift in Dancer’s usually impassive gaze.

  ‘Go on …’

  Gordon took another sip of wine, thinking that he should be reasonably restrained in what he said. ‘Well, you know as well as I that Paxton has been stirring things up at Defence, particularly as he tries to slash spending. Then a colleague came across some material, old material, which suggests some links with the Chinese. Trouble is, there’s precious little in the records to confirm any history between Paxton and our Asian friends, and my efforts to dig deep into his past have so far drawn a blank.’

  Dancer waited till an approaching waiter had delivered plates of duck pancakes and steamed prawn dumplings before quietly speaking. ‘Mr Paxton does indeed have an interesting past. In fact, I’m surprised that most of it remains hidden in the vault, so to speak.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Let’s just say he features in a few files that I’m aware of … I presume you know what I’m talking about?’

  ‘No, I honestly don’t, Charles.’

  ‘You’ve not heard about the … Marmalade Files?’

  ‘The what?’ Gordon’s surprised look left Dancer in little doubt that he really was in the dark.

  ‘Heavens, Kimberley, I thought an experienced analyst like you would have known all about them.’ Dancer’s voice held a hint of mockery. ‘As you know, in the mid-1980s, early ’86 to be precise, I was given a special role in the Department, a job best described as Fix-it Man for our foreign service. I went largely undercover – an invisible diplomat, if you like.

  ‘I was brought into a small team, just the three of us, reporting directly to the Department Secretary. We took our orders from him and no one else. We were given the task of cleaning up all our diplomatic messes – and Kimberley, as you well know, there have been more than a few. I’m not sure if you’re aware of the incident back in 1996 when the Government of Thailand came very close to making an official complaint over the behaviour of David Bleasdale?’

  Gordon shook his head as he bit into a dumpling.

  ‘Mr Bleasdale spent his years in Bangkok indulging his penchant for underage boys. It had been tolerated at previous postings, but the Thai Government wanted to stamp out the growing number of paedophiles entering the country – and Mr Bleasdale; well, he was among the grubbiest of the lot.

  ‘I had to hot-foot it to Bangkok, arriving in the nick of time to negotiate a truce. We had a fair bit on their envoy in Sydney, a man whose sexual fantasies would test even the most experienced of hookers. Let’s just say the two countries called it a draw.

  ‘It was during this time that I learned of this cache of top-secret files buried deep in the bowels of DFAT.

  ‘They contain the secrets that our government doesn’t want the public – or even you, Kimberley – to know about. These are not mere accidents, either; these are atrocities that plumb the depths. File after file of secret intelligence, some of it ours, some of it from our American or British friends. All of it highly, highly sensitive.

  ‘You want another example? Years ago, one of our senior guys in Malaysia, a nasty little shit called Tim Hinton, went troppo. Succumbed to the flesh pots of Kuala Lumpur – not the first man to do so, but he had a tendency to mix violence with his carnal pleasures. Two women ended up in hospital, one needing some serious reconstruction work. He was “let go” after the Malaysians threatened violence of their own.

  ‘You want to know about Mr Paxton, of course. Let me set the scene for you …’

  Gordon already knew a fair chunk of the story but he was keen to hear it again, from an expert.

  Paxton had first travelled to Beijing in 1980 as part of a Young Labor delegation, a regular trip for up-and-coming ALP stars. The delegations had become an annual event after Whitlam opened diplomatic ties with the Communist state in 1972. Day-long ventures to the Great Wall, evening drinking sessions with some of the Politburo’s more promising cadres, and the chance to learn about China’s rich history and forge closer ties despite the political differences. But for some members of the Labor family, the emergence of China from its economic slumber also represented a golden opportunity to do business in the way they liked best – corruptly.

  On his second visit, in 1982, Paxton had met some young Communists keen to forge closer ties with the West and to learn more about Australia and its awaiting opportunities.

  ‘Kimberley, Bruce Paxton is a nasty piece of work. He is also, in my view, completely devoid of moral scruples. He would sell his mother to make a profit. Over the years he has been tailed on his trips to China, and not just by us …’

  Dancer’s voice trailed off. He was willing Gordon to ask questions – clearly he didn’t want this to be a one-way street.

  ‘What sort of things did he get up to?’

  ‘You name it. Paxton didn’t mind experimenting. We followed him to Taipei a few times, kept track as he went from one brothel to another. The Chinese weren’t dumb; we suspected they planted a few hookers of their own – Paxton obviously couldn’t tell the difference between a communist and a capitalist between the sheets.’

  Gordon was beguiled by the story, but there was still no loaded gun. He was hoping Dancer could open the door to more.

  ‘Charles, that’s quite a tale. I guess I have one burning question – who do you have to fuck to see these Marmalade Files?’

  Dancer clasped his hands before his chest, like a priest in the confessional, and fixed Gordon with a seductive stare.

  ‘I think I might be able to help you there.’

  August 8, 2011

  It was a small footnote in the history of the Vietnam War, but for Doug Turner and his brothers in arms it still carried a special significance – even forty years later.

  On the morning of 21 September 1971, troops from Australia and New Zealand were combing the steaming jungles of Vietnam near the village of Nui Le, on high alert for their nimble enemy, when they stumbled into a Vietcong stronghold. Despite calling in US air power, a protracted battle resulted in the deaths of five Australian diggers. Three of those soldiers were left on the battleground for hours as their comrades fought a desperate hand-to-hand battle. They may well have been left behind for good but for the heroics of two New Zealand troopers who ignored the enemy fire to retrieve the bodies.

  ‘They were fucking heroes and now both of them are d
ead. One of them passed away just a few weeks ago; I got word from his brother who also served in Vietnam. The other sadly took his own life in ’95 – he’d suffered for years and eventually, well, he just couldn’t go on …’

  Turner’s voice was quivering, this emotional flight into the past clearly taking its toll. ‘And you know what? They got diddly squat from their government, too. Sound familiar? Of course it does – those bastards across the ditch treated their vets just as shabbily as those pricks in Canberra.

  ‘I reckon the Australian people should hear about these heroes, don’t you, Harry? So here’s the deal. You get your newspaper to write this up – and I’m not saying it has to be a long piece, just a good one – and I’ll give you chapter and verse on my little mate … what do you think?’

  Dunkley needed little convincing, particularly as Turner held all the aces when it came to Paxton.

  ‘Doug, I’m no expert on military matters but I reckon this is a story of real appeal, particularly for the national broadsheet. I’ll need to get some contact details, see if we can speak to their relatives, that sort of thing. Are their wives still alive?’

  ‘I can get you all of that.’

  ‘Great, then I reckon we have a deal, mate.’

  The story did have appeal. The Australian had been one of the few mastheads to campaign in favour of the Vietnam veterans when it seemed the nation was engaged in collectively snubbing their deeds, and the Defence editor loved the outline Dunkley sent, believing it would make a good Saturday read.

  The die was now cast. All Dunkley had to do was conduct a few interviews over the phone, sketch out a 500-word colour piece and make sure the paper published it – hopefully in the first half-dozen or so pages, and preferably a right-hander.

  The following Saturday, squeezed between a double-page spread on the current contagion felling global markets and a fluffy piece of nonsense on the latest marketing fad to target Gen Y’s spending habits, a longish article was published on page 7. It was headed ‘Forgotten Kiwi Heroes: The Vietnam Vets Who Risked All For Aussie Mates’.

  A pictorial montage of the two men – taken several years ago, before their descent into ill-health – accompanied the story, which carried the byline Harry Dunkley. It was a long way from his usual sniping political fodder, but he suspected it might turn out to be one of the most important pieces he’d had published.

  This morning he’d received a short email from Doug Turner.

  Harry, an outstanding piece. I got to tell you, it brought a tear to this old digger’s eye – and I’m not sentimental. Okay, my friend, you kept your end of the bargain and I will keep mine. How soon can you hop on a plane to Asia?

  August 8, 2011

  Randal Wade rose from his seat with his hands parted in a priestly gesture, a political holy roller fuelled by the heady octane of the crowd. These are my people, he thought. Never before had Q&A’s live audience delivered a standing ovation and the young Greens leader felt an electric exhilaration as the love of the mob washed over him.

  Wade was used to the adoration of the inner-city whingerati but tonight’s response was extraordinary. But then so was his performance.

  He was a regular on the Q&A panel and when the discussion turned to live animal exports, Wade knew he was on a winner. Even the beef farmers admitted the treatment of cattle in some Indonesian slaughterhouses was beyond the pale. But the shocking images of animal cruelty shown by Four Corners had traumatised city-dwellers already completely disconnected from their food sources.

  A massive, well-coordinated cyber-cry had demanded an end to the trade and the weak Toohey Government had immediately capitulated, without thinking through what that meant for the diplomatic relationship with Indonesia and an industry that employed thousands in northern Australia.

  The Greens had failed in a bid to have Parliament ban the trade for good and Wade had been discussing that when he received a question from an audience member.

  ‘I applaud your plan to end live cattle exports, because it is as evil as the slave trade,’ she said. ‘But if exporting cattle to be butchered is wrong, why is it right here? Murder is murder. Isn’t it time that we arrogant humans stopped treating other life forms as ours to exploit? Shouldn’t we end animal cannibalism everywhere? And wouldn’t that also cut greenhouse gas emissions?’

  ‘You make two very good points,’ Wade began. ‘But we have to move a step at a time. Much of the rest of the community is not as enlightened as you and it will take years of careful and patient education before they see the truth in your words.

  ‘But you pose a great moral question for all of us. And I intend to show leadership by rising to the challenge. From tonight I will never again eat the flesh of animals. I intend to become a vegan because it’s the right thing to do: right for us; right for our planet; and right for our brother and sister tellurians.’

  The crowd began applauding wildly and cheering. The passion even took Wade by surprise. As the audience rose to its feet he rose with it.

  ‘We humans are guilty of terrible arrogance. We must change. We must de-industrialise and de-capitalise. We must start to right-think and right-act. All animals are equal and none more equal than others. We have fought to end racism and sexism. The next great challenge is anthropocentrism. Ending the enslavement of non-human animals is the next great liberation. We humans are only a small part of Gaia.’

  The crowd was delirious and Wade ended with a Biblical flourish, a subliminal tilt at the obvious religious ardour on display.

  ‘We must remember that we are no better than the dust that we walk on … Join me. Join me now as we fight to get all animals to the front of the bus.’

  It was an astonishing performance and a brilliant piece of political theatre. But political theatre was Wade’s stock in trade. He never bored himself worrying about how his sweeping statements would work, and what the unintended consequences might be. That was the beauty of being a minor party: power without responsibility. What mattered was saying things that sounded good, because many of the people who voted for Wade just wanted to feel good about themselves.

  And Wade knew how to make people feel good. He had been a brilliant young advertising executive who rose to public prominence through regular appearances on the ABC’s The Gruen Transfer. There he quickly cast himself as the moral voice of advertising, even though he had made millions by conjuring catchy campaigns for junk-food giants. He always appeared wearing a T-shirt with a three- or four-word nod to the latest moral fad obsessing the moneyed, aware elite.

  He joined the Greens and managed to win the Sydney seat of Wentworth on the retirement of a popular small-l liberal. Wade’s genius was an instinctive understanding of the market. He knew commitment to the environment rose in direct proportion to wealth. He understood that the rich loved to parade their concern for the environment because their other worldly worries were so well catered for. And, being wealthy, they wanted solutions they could buy, preferably cheaply and with a government subsidy.

  The people of Wentworth wore their environmentalism like a high-visibility vest by covering the roofs of their vast estates with solar panels and plastering their massive four-wheel drives with bumper stickers supporting whales, forests and koalas.

  Even with double-glazing and a liberal smattering of eco-cars, the denizens of Wentworth still had the largest carbon footprints in the country because, mostly, they projected their environmental concern outwards. Ending global warming meant ending the jobs of poor forest workers in Tasmania, or coal miners in Mackay, or power-station workers in Yallourn, or steel workers at Port Kembla.

  If anyone raised doubts about the justice of that, the good citizens of Wentworth would repeat the mantra that thousands of new ‘Green jobs’ would arise miraculously as old industries were levelled. Trifles like how long the gap might be between the demise of a real dirty job and the emergence of a new clean one, or if the same people would get a job in the same place, did not concern them … because it wasn’t
their job.

  Wade played Wentworth like a violin, championing the concerns of his constituents without demanding any real sacrifice from them. Better than that, he worked to ensure that the State and Federal governments supported feed-in tariffs for solar power – a policy that rewarded the rich and forced up the price of electricity so it was effectively subsidised by the poor.

  His rise did not end there. On his arrival in Canberra he swiftly positioned himself for leadership as the ageing hero of the Green cause stepped aside for a new generation.

  But, as the applause of the crowd died in the ABC’s Ultimo studio, he did wonder if he might have bitten off more than he could chew. Because in the passion of the moment he had made one small but significant slip … he had meant to say ‘vegetarian’.

  And he was desperately trying to remember if vegans ate cheese.

  August 11, 2011

  Small waves danced on black volcanic sands as villagers fossicked for valuable stones rubbed smooth by time and tide. On a steaming Thursday, Harry Dunkley lugged a heavy overnight bag filled with clothes and his journalistic gear along a beach track, cursing his driver for the inconvenient drop-off.

  Dunkley had done only preliminary research on Cucukan, a tiny village hidden away on Bali’s east coast. He knew the local villagers numbered just 150, and eked out a modest living from fishing and small-scale farming. They also served the half-dozen expats who’d made this Balinese hideaway their home: two Americans, a retired Dutch lawyer, the odd blow-in from Britain – and Doug Turner, running from his past.

  The Vietnam veteran had stumbled on Cucukan just over a year ago and had been captivated by its quaint nod to the past. He’d told Dunkley about the goose farmer who daily led his flock along dirt roads, the fishermen dragging in their nets of meagre catch, the traditional dances performed by young girls in ornate costume. He had also given Dunkley instructions on how to find the village.