Free The Marmalade Files by Steve Lewis & Chris Uhlmann

smaller, that doubled as storage space, not that he had much of value to store. Belle had done well from the settlement, leaving him with a suitcase of regrets. He treasured an old Olivetti, a gift from his first boss, Peter Shaw, a true legend of old-school journalism. A cigar-chomping womanising free-wheeling rascal who drank himself to death, leaving a legacy of great writing and even grander tales that were still fondly recounted by the old-timers down at the Press Club.
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    The speakers had just finished their cello hum when the BlackBerry heralded a text message from Ben Gordon, snapping Dunkley from his reverie.
    This gets more interesting by the hour, my friend. Let’s stay on it. Kimberley x
    Dunkley refreshed his glass and yawned as he settled further into the stained armchair, familiar and comfortable as an old boot. ‘We’ll do that, Ben, we’ll do that …’

June 23, 2011
    Another day, another sordid chapter of the Bailey media circus. Each small change in her condition, no matter how tiny, was being regurgitated on an endless 24/7 media loop. All of Dunkley’s print rivals were devoting copious column centimetres to the Foreign Minister’s condition. Which meant that he was trapped into feeding the daily beast. Half-heartedly he put the finishing touches to another tedious fifty-centimetre piece on what it all meant for the future of the government, citing two constitutional experts and a former party hack.
    He’d just filed the story when the phone rang, an immediately recognisable number lighting up the screen. Jesus, you again? he thought.
    It was Mr DFAT, the same cultured voice from ten days earlier. ‘Afternoon, Mr Dunkley, trust you are well and, ah, no doubt intrigued by my little present?’
    Intrigued? That was an understatement. Everything about you, mate, even your phone number, could be a lie, Dunkley reflected.
    Gordon had already delivered some solid intel about Zhou Dejiang and Bruce Paxton – dates of their first meeting together in Beijing, records of various times they had met since. On the third man they just had two words: Zheng Wang.
    â€˜Well, nice to hear your voice again, whoever you may be,’ Dunkley said in a mocking tone. ‘You wouldn’t care to reveal yourself, by chance?’
    â€˜Not yet, Mr Dunkley. Some things are best done behind the cloak of anonymity. But I’m interested to find out if you’ve made any progress.’
    What did Mr DFAT want? To damage the Minister? Destroy the government? Or, as had happened before, to set Dunkley up for a fall? Gordon’s warning about the internal jihad against Paxton meant Dunkley needed to be cautious.
    â€˜Well, I was interested to receive a 25-year-old pic of our Defence Minister with a senior official from the Chinese Government … one Zhou Dejiang.’
    â€˜Very good, Mr Dunkley. You no doubt know then that our Mr Zhou is a real charmer.’
    â€˜Yeah, yeah, real nice guy – unless you’re a Tibetan monk.’
    â€˜I see you have a good grasp of the region’s geopolitics.’
    â€˜Well, I’m a journalist, and we’re all bleeding hearts, aren’t we?’
    â€˜In the eyes of some, perhaps. And the other face in the photo?’
    â€˜I’m still working on that.’ Dunkley wanted to give no hint of Gordon’s involvement.
    â€˜The past always points to the future, Mr Dunkley – this case is no exception.’
    And with that little homily, Mr DFAT hung up.
    Dunkley was puzzled by his mysterious informant. In his long experience he had never come across anything quite like this. He was always careful, but knew he had to proceed more cautiously than usual. He was part of someone’s game, but then journalists always are. He just needed a clearer idea of who he was playing with. And what they wanted. He feared it was a deadly game and Dunkley didn’t intend to appear on the casualty