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  Banking executive David Mapleton is working in his Sydney office when he receives a phone call from wealthy business and newspaperman Charles Reynolds. Charles would like Mapleton to join his covert organisation, The Hammer. Reynolds has grown impatient with the failures of the United Nations and other government agencies, and has assembled a group of people who may be able to bring some justice to what he sees as a corrupt body politic. Mapleton has the necessary financial and educational background required by Reynolds, but is he ready for an unknown and dangerous reality that will cause him to re-evaluate himself, his country and his ideals?

  The story in this novella is told by David Mapleton, contrasting his deepening involvement in The Hammer’s activities with periods of introspection. Moving between Australia and Europe, Hammerhead also examines the difficulties that come for David and his two companions, Thérèse Sablon and Anton Partl, as they negotiate what Mapleton calls ‘My violent, improbable world.’

  With the growing incongruities that culminate above the waters of Sydney Harbour, this tale of fantastical intrigue finds a contemporary parallel for the moral and political uncertainties of the post-9/11 era.

  Cover photo by Alex Holderness

  HAMMERHEAD

  Peter Nicholson was born in Waverley, New South Wales, Australia in 1950. He was educated at Armidale Teachers College and Macquarie University.

  He has previously published A Temporary Grace (1991), Such Sweet Thunder (1994) and A Dwelling Place (1997).

  His first fiction, Fast Forward, a contemporary story set in Sydney’s urban milieu, was published in A Temporary Grace.

  peternicholson.com.au

  Also by Peter Nicholson

  A Temporary Grace

  At The Water’s Edge

  Fast Forward

  Views To A Bridge

  Such Sweet Thunder

  Shadow Of A Doubt

  Prometheus

  S.S. Snakebite

  A Dwelling Place

  Speech To A Mountain

  Notebook

  New Affection, New Noise

  HAMMERHEAD

  Peter Nicholson

  WOLLSTONECRAFT PRESS

  For Philip

  The characters, events and businesses in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First published in 2011 by Wollstonecraft Press

  © Peter Nicholson 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without prior permission in writing. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  First edition

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

  Nicholson, Peter, 1950–.

  Hammerhead

  ISBN 978-0-9871505-5-4

  Dewey number A823.4

  Printed and distributed by Palmer Higgs Books Online

  www.phbooks.com.au

  HAMMERHEAD

  I

  Under Surveillance

  II

  My Violent, Improbable World

  III

  A Traveller Over Antique Lands

  I

  Under Surveillance

  I had shot upwards, brilliantly, from the taut bow of youth. But now I was bored with my job.

  I’d traded on my Rhodes Scholarship long enough, a sort of not-growing-up, an embarrassment. Thirty-five years had winged through me so quickly. And people said I was too young to have earned my executive position. Talking to others, whether in the office or on Facebook, I no longer believed anything I said.

  Here, at the height we bankers deign the correct vista for our imperium, I gazed down at the city. What a melancholy prospect. Crowds shuffled forward, oblivious to the machinations going on above them.

  The history of Sydney was an epic of corruption, contained and now tethered, but always ready to break out at the least provocation. Some of my friends spoke to me about ethical investing. I didn’t have the heart to explain to them that every dollar was built on blood. If people knew what had gone on in the Rum Corps days, or why the State Parliament lower chamber was called a bear pit, perhaps they would have had a clearer idea of how we got to where we were. But people usually don’t want to confront the awkward, contrarian facts of the matter. If some glacier was melting a bit more than usual in the Northern Hemisphere, they could go and visit a rainforest in Queensland and get in touch with ecological roots, but political realities left most citizens cynical and thus detached from governmental processes.

  Well, I was tired of life, and very tired of myself. My father was ill and my sister’s marriage was in trouble. Her son, my nephew Chris, wasn’t coping. How could I have known what was about to hack its way into my life. The very ordinariness one always takes for granted was going to be sundered. There were no prophetic intimations, no pricking of thumbs.

  Just as the rose-violet hour of Sydney’s late afternoon settles through the harbour, over buildings and bridges, the decision to separate, to join, or to die, reaching its limit of longing: this was my moment too, where you might hallucinate what could not possibly be true. In that shadowy place, amongst discarded wishes and fruitless pursuits, when one could imagine the original bush and sandstone, bays and quays emptied of ferries, yachts and cruisers, the pleasure seekers, the indolent swimmers—suddenly, I was up against it all.

  A phone call, not a wrong number, at the edge of shimmering water.

  ‘David? David Mapleton?’

  No introduction? Rose-violet fell to evening’s pure purple.

  ‘This is Charles Reynolds here.’

  I sat up in my chair. Not that Charles Reynolds. He was one of the wealthiest men in Australia, not to say the world.

  Someone was trying me out with a tall story …

  Silence at the other end.

  ‘David? Are you there? We have been discussing you. People tell me you are one the experts on the subject of international money exchange.’

  Who was ‘we’?

  ‘Would it be possible for you to see me tomorrow night? Enid and I are going to the opera. They’re doing Meistersinger. I have a ticket ready for you. A very good seat, I can assure you. Do you know Meistersinger? A great work, a great, great work. Well, shall we say tomorrow night. My driver can pick you up at four-thirty. I have your address.’

  Why me? I rummaged around in my now thumping head for a possible reason.

  After blurting out an answer, I tried to muster my usual manner, but couldn’t. I was apprehensive. Excited too. I guess I was flattered. To calm myself I turned on my office television. The news bled the carnage we’d all become so used to. And the former Brit cabinet minister, Dame Enid Hartnell, was visiting the old colony for business opportunities, whatever they were. Enid? As in ‘Enid and I are going to the opera’? She liked getting her own way and had a bruising manner. But she’d done good things when in office, something a lot of politicians couldn’t rise to after all the promises.

  However, I was still trying to work out why Reynolds would want to see me.

  Home, Jeeves, and, since Jeeves was me, I descended in the glass-lined lift, after saying my goodnights. How odd I was—the philosophy graduate who had got into economics. Sitting in the car, concrete barriers surrounding me, I stared at my hands.

  A bad night’s sleep followed by more brooding, and I was still no closer to having any ideas as to why I was being summoned.
In the shower I scrubbed hard, as if I was taking off a layer of skin. I knew things would be different after tonight. The cologne stung my skin.

  In the bathroom mirror I thought I saw myself. Fairly tall. Dark hair, just a few flecks of grey. A short haircut so I didn’t have to worry about expensive styling products. One of my girlfriends said I looked like a wolf—sharp features, a bit distant and dangerous. I tried to keep fit with running and exercise, so I was trim. But if I closed my eyes I found it hard to picture myself. Sometimes I seemed a blank.

  The car called for me at four-thirty precisely. I looked spruce in my evening clothes, wearing a pair of stylish silver cufflinks I’d won years ago at some tennis tournament.

  The driver brought me to Reynolds’ place, an immense pile by the harbour, but done out tastefully with colonial antiques and contemporary Australian paintings.

  Then, at the turn of a room overlooking the harbour, you could have knocked me over with a whether. Whether to leave immediately and never look back, or front up to something big, bigger, biggest. Because there before me stood Dame Enid Hartnell, the person I’d seen on television yesterday. Dame Enid now sat in the House of Lords. She had a reputation for political savvy and verbal headkicking skills that made toast of her political opponents.

  Hartnell was a power dresser, and looked good with it, diamonds setting off her blue eyes and emerald green suit. She made a point of never dressing in the clothes of the famous couturier with whom she shared her surname. She had the fiercest stare, the kind that asks questions and answers them in a moment. Yet I thought I detected the pragmatism that can come after hardness, when the way forward has been worked out through years and sacrifices, when acceptance has come of the way things must be.

  ‘So this is the man!’

  Hartnell scrutinised me.

  I said something pompous. I had developed the bad habit, when speaking, of turning my colloquial thinking into self-important business rhetoric. I would have to do something about that.

  ‘Do sit down. We have a few moments before we have to go. I don’t want to miss that glorious opening chord.’

  Dame Enid dropped a folder onto the lounge next to where I’d become a kind of insubstantial sculpture, all sweat and thinking.

  ‘Read that.’

  I hesitated for a moment before opening the folder.

  Before me was the most incredible scenario. Here was outlined the premise for the organisation I was being asked to join, together with a précis of some proposed operations during the next few years. At the end was an acceptance form I was told to read carefully. They would give me some time to consider this invitation.

  The harbour seemed to surge, my identity slipping through its glassy shards.

  I was left to contemplate my fate, time cracking and compacting, rushing forward.

  But I would join, I knew. And I would do it gladly.

  The enormity of what I’d read was still registering as the third act of Meistersinger began. It was hard to believe the audacity of it all. I couldn’t help but admire the spirit behind the conspiracy—for that is what it was. This was true subversion, not the usual vanilla antidote.

  As the music concluded, world’s best intentions spun through me like quicksilver. The storms of applause at curtain fall mirrored my state, the state you get into before you realise apprehension should bring caution, detachment.

  ‘So David, did you enjoy that performance? It’s Roy’s favourite work you know. Unfortunately, he can’t be with us tonight.’

  Even though I would now be a member of The Hammer, as it was clearly named on the first sheet I’d seen when I opened that folder, I was not, of course, aware of Charles’ private life.

  ‘David, we’re having drinks back at my place and I want you to come. Yes?’

  I didn’t need to answer.

  You quickly acclimatise to power, and it wasn’t long before I felt an unreasonable familiarity with these two people who, until recently, were no closer to me than the dark side of the moon.

  After some banter, we settled down to observe Sydney Harbour in all its magnificence, the Opera House sails a dream on the horizon.

  Charles spoke.

  ‘David. There is a group of us who are tired of the way politics is working, or failing to work, I should say. We can’t wait any longer for governments to do the right thing and we have decided to take matters into our own hands. The International Criminal Court can go its way and we will go ours. We are not being naive about the difficulties involved. But, with the removal of just a few people, we think we will be serving the greater good. Please! Don’t quote Gandhi at me. We are looking for those who are well-motivated. We know your background. I hope it won’t annoy you too much, but we’ve had to go carefully into your past. Your financial credentials are impeccable. We are only in our second year, so our operations are still something of a stretch for us just now, and we need all the experience we can garner. We are sure you are the right person for a group like ours.’

  Then the Dame intervened.

  ‘The Hammer wants to seek out those who are abusing power. The United Nations is hopeless. Enough is enough.’

  I was startled by Hartnell’s oracular tone.

  ‘We have a group of retired ministers, some former security people, and so forth, and we are building up expertise in other areas. We have decided that you would be someone who would be able to help us with our finances. But it is no good thinking of joining us if you’ve got ‘Thou shalt not kill’ running around in your head. You must appreciate that. You get paid well, but the main motivation must be that you want to help, unlike that awful European Parliament! We will be the hammerhead shark in the filthy ocean of corruption that comprises our present sorry state. My dear boy, it’s time to put your philosophical ethics on hold. For the moment. You may know that hammerheads tend to swim in schools, unlike other shark species. We are gathering our own special school to pursue those who are destroying the freedoms so many laid down their lives for. Behind the half-truths reported on the news lies a brutal reality. And we have to be equal to that reality. Do you understand? The Hammer is a beast that must bite.’

  At which point the phone rang and there were mysterious dialogues.

  But how could I get ‘Thou shalt not kill’ out of my mind?

  I couldn’t.

  While the phone conversation continued I had a chance to study the Aboriginal rock art that constituted part of the living room wall, such things being possible in the old days when someone didn’t think twice about sending in a contractor to remove indigenous art from its sacred space.

  When Reynolds rang off he spoke before I had a chance to raise objections.

  ‘Yes. I wouldn’t do that today. I have changed from the kind of person I used to be. I want to do something useful with my money, and this organisation is the best way I know how to do that. Perhaps I can return the rock at some time in the future. I’d like to. But I’ve other things on my mind just now, as you can see.’

  I liked their attitude, and I wanted to do something good in the world too, rather than just make money for a bunch of people I couldn’t respect. So, there was little vacillation in my decision to join.

  I was congratulated by Charles.

  We all had a celebratory drink.

  But then the Dame clenched my hands. They hurt.

  ‘Not a word to anyone, David. You understand that, don’t you.’

  Back home I felt exhilarated.

  This was incredible. But incredible things happen, don’t they. My life was beginning to resemble the mucky metafiction I’d been passing idle hours with recently, moving on the cusp of plausibility. But we were different to those information guerillas whose aim was to achieve transparency in our understanding of political processes. Our actions (the word ‘our’ was now mine) were centred in geography, not anonymous servers. Ironically, we certainly would not want virtual hacktivists spilling the beans about our organisation.

  Charles told me to be
ready for a flight to Germany in two weeks. I had to finish up at work, which I did cheerfully. When my colleagues asked what I was doing I told them I’d had an offer from an overseas company but I couldn’t say anything more about it for the moment. Used, as they were, to the unpredictable movements of executives in the banking world, they did not question me further, being preoccupied with getting on themselves, for which I could not blame them. While I packed my things on my final day there was another of those demonstrations about the World Bank in the streets below, blaming them again for the catastrophes wrought by some of the very same people we hoped to disenfranchise. I wanted to tell them that we were going to cut through wasted years and diplomatic stalking.

  Flying at the front of the plane brought content, especially so when you were looking forward to new challenges, casting off stale habits.

  Charles was travelling with his partner, Roy, who was quiet, observant. Roy hadn’t been at the opera and I’d only been properly introduced to him as we were boarding.

  I tried to engage Roy in small talk, champagne making this forbidding exchange seemingly warmer. Roy, no doubt, had seen it all before and was not terribly impressed by the person sitting near him. It was hard getting through his resistance.