The Marmalade Files (17 page)

Carved from solid oak, the Louis XVI table could extend up to three metres in length and was embossed with a four-leaf motif. On a quiet weekend with the sun streaming in, Ben Gordon loved to relax with a cloth and containers of polish and oil, smoothing the table's 1790s perfection and admiring the artisan toil that had transformed rough lengths of timber into a work of elegance and beauty. He liked to recall his favourite Keating story: the Labor PM would keep his Cabinet colleagues and advisers waiting for hours if he'd got into a groove with one of his Napoleonic artefacts. Ah, the sheer bloody indulgence of it all.

Gordon's table had cost a packet, but he considered it the soundest of investments. ‘You don't put a price on something of exquisite beauty,' he would sniff to those friends who questioned the price.

The table served a practical purpose too, when he hosted dinner parties for his small coterie of friends. He loved whipping
up culinary celebrations, experimenting with something he'd seen on
MasterChef
, with its marvellous tang of faux celebrity. But this Saturday afternoon, gourmet experiences were not on the menu. Instead, Gordon was seeking a breakthrough in an increasingly complex project.

Harry Dunkley had been in Perth working on a hunch that he hoped would deliver solid results. ‘I'm making steady progress, I reckon,' he'd told Gordon, less than convincingly, the last time they'd spoken. The two friends had split the workload and while Dunkley was off chasing shadows in the west, Gordon was focusing on the links between Paxton and Catriona Bailey.

He'd arranged a series of papers on the table in careful order, short bios and other material he'd prepared on Paxton and the two Chinese men in the photo.

Somewhere in this jumbled maze were clues – but to what? He still wasn't sure.

Okay, he told himself, think logically. Bailey had been in Beijing at the same time as Paxton, perhaps when the Defence Minister had first met Zhou Dejiang. Was it a chance meeting? Unlikely. The Chinese were masters at placing the right person in the right place at the right time, hoping to trip up their international visitors. But the only clue was pictorial evidence from thirty-odd years ago. What was it about the past that was now shaking the present?

Just lately, the intelligence wires had been buzzing with news of a secret bust in Beijing – a woman named Lillian Chan had been recruited to entice Western diplomats into her lurid web, but instead was caught allegedly selling classified Chinese intel to the
West. She faced a lengthy stint in one of China's stinking rural gulags – a shameful end to what had been a promising career.

Had Paxton succumbed to the soft skin of some other Chinese temptress? There was nothing firm in the files that Gordon had seen, just the odd suggestion here and there of a man whose moral compass had been shipwrecked for many a year.

Gordon was tossing theories around but they all seemed to lead nowhere. His agile brain was blasting out a steady stream of possibilities, but just as quickly he was ruling them out, one by one. He'd come to a roadblock, the dreaded point that every security analyst feared. If Gordon was going to find out what it all meant, he would need help. And that raised an immediate problem.

He knew who to turn to – Charles Dancer, a senior DFAT official, the Department's under-the-radar troubleshooter with access to the very best in intelligence. Dancer was the complete professional and Ben knew him well. The problem? Perhaps Ben knew him a little too well …

 

It had started as a brief fumbling encounter, a Thursday night, late, at the National Press Club in the heart of Canberra's bureaucratic district. The regular blues crowd had shuffled in, joining a throng of public servants, to hear the Wah-Wahs, a decent outfit steeped in Buddy Guy licks, with a small but loyal following. Gordon had shown up around nine, hoping to meet up with some friends, including Annie the Trannie, who was as fond of people-spotting as she was of music. That night did not disappoint – a senior Liberal MP, an appalling man from
Queensland, appeared to be drunk in a corner, canoodling with a young male staffer in an embrace that Gordon suspected would find its way onto Facebook or YouTube within days. Or into that special file held by the Liberal Party Whip.

The NPC was rocking despite the lack of journalists – a fact that never ceased to amaze the management, who'd tried just about every trick imaginable to entice the press gallery into the club.

Three songs from the end, during a solid four-to-the-floor version of ‘Little Queenie', Annie had grabbed Ben and marched him onto the dance floor and straight into the arms of Charles Dancer.

‘Bugger you, Annie,' Gordon thought, though he was secretly pleased to have been introduced to the suave, older Dancer. Even though, despite his name, the man appeared to have two left feet.

A flirtatious relationship had ensued, the two bonded by their unusual lifestyles and penchant for French period furniture. But after a number of years the magic had died and they'd agreed to go their separate ways. There was no hostility, but the few times they had bumped into each other – once at the Dendy during Canberra's annual film festival and another time at the home of a mutual friend – they'd felt awkward.

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.'

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 dead. 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.