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  So Thérèse was trustworthy. She hadn’t mentioned a word of this connection to me. But a tender gesture by the Greek as he turned to speak to her indicated perhaps a more-than-usual secretarial involvement. As nothing comes unaligned in this world, I couldn’t really be too surprised. I could well understand Thérèse’s attachment, if that’s what it was. The divisions of joy were many.

  That was a momentary distraction. Dame Enid was still in feral rhetorical flight.

  ‘And we now have Roy, dear Roy, who gave so much service to The Hammer, murdered in Frankfurt. It is shocking that we have lost one of our best operatives in this way.’

  Roy was an operative? He had given me a convincing impression of being a somewhat detached music lover. But Roy, it seemed, was one of their most effective agents. If Enid’s eulogy was to be believed, he’d been essential in implementing the drowning of a French tycoon off the coast of Sardinia a few weeks back, a creep who had been supplying arms to one of Africa’s worst dictators.

  I thought back to my conversation with Roy in the plane. How naive I must have seemed, even though I knew I was being summed up for Charles’ benefit.

  Dame Enid was leaning forward, her voice rising to a crescendo, banging her right fist onto the table to emphasise each point she was making. Hartnell hardly needed a text to read from. She was in the grip of an inspiration, finally reaching an impassioned conclusion.

  I knew what we were involved in was unlawful, but such a consideration could not be allowed to predominate here. Democratic sovereign states had the right to defend their territory and people. We had seen them do that spectacularly and effectively in recent times. Our group, a kind of fight club for a just world, was different. We were a mixture of political types, idealists, and I knew from my own experience that if ideals could survive your thirties, then they were real. We would leave the talk about ethics for others. Youth wasn’t always wasted on the young if you could learn from your past inaction and immaturity.

  My proposed introductory talk somehow got lost amid the general proceedings. As the distinguished heads disappeared into the dark I went out onto the balcony of the conference room to observe the last effulgence of a grandiose sunset. How beautiful the world was, how splendid were human aspirations. I was inspired. And then Anton was standing next to me, a conspiratorial hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Charles would like you to do something for him. Think about it.’

  Roy had been travelling to Vienna to participate in an operation there, not just for aesthetic pleasure. Now Charles wanted me to help out with a smallish part in this operation.

  This unexpected turn of events flummoxed me. It was my understanding that my input was to be giving financial advice and getting money to the right places so that The Hammer could operate effectively. I knew there was a limit to what we could achieve. We had to be careful not to take on enterprises beyond our capabilities. Vast amounts of currency were involved, and it was going to take all my expertise to organise things so that not too much attention would be paid to bank account fluctuations.

  I must admit I was somewhat vexed by Anton’s continental charm, which he laid on in suffocating slabs, since the implication behind the ever-so-polite manner was that a negative reply wouldn’t be taken lightly.

  ‘Anton, I had no idea this was in the wings. Why hasn’t Charles told me about this himself?’

  ‘David, I am but a messenger.’

  The orange curlicues of sunset looked like congealed blood, and I was suddenly in a mood to split wood. Anton, who had seen every variety of human behaviour, simply shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘It’s a compliment David. He wouldn’t have suggested you if he didn’t think you were ready.’

  The logic was there, but what if … It was all very well being a financial whiz kid—well, hardly kid anymore—but to take part in actual operations seemed a big leap, even for my ego.

  ‘Of course you’d have help. We wouldn’t put Androcles in front of the lion by himself.’

  I was in a funk over this about-face by Charles and said I’d think about it.

  Anton was silent.

  I strode off.

  On my thirtieth birthday, which now seemed too long ago, I’d decided to try to take life a little more seriously, but not entirely. I knew some people who took life seriously all the time. But neither their cogitations nor their conversations changed the world. I tried to take people as they were and not expect them to be like myself, which I see happening all the time in marriages, and other relationships too. Their foibles and uncertainties, their secret intensities and pleasures, were best regarded ironically. I guess the lesson was not to allow the irony to pass over into contempt.

  The following morning, I tried to get my thoughts straight about what Anton had said while I had my coffee. I guessed I could get involved in a small way.

  I rang through to Anton and asked him to come around before lunch.

  Then I busied myself with other matters. My father was getting worse and I hadn’t spoken to him for over a week, so I called to see how he was.

  His voice sounded thin, and he was depressed. He had been an important member of the business community and was used to being in charge, a control freak even. But now he was learning death was the control freak of all time, and he didn’t like the competition. I spoke to Dad for quite a while. I also spoke to Mum. She sounded resigned. I couldn’t say anything about what I’d been up to, Roy, or any of that. I felt guilty, but how could it be otherwise.

  They said they wanted to see me and asked when I’d be home. Then it struck me that I really had no idea what I’d be doing tomorrow, let alone in a month. How odd that at this time in my life I should be in free fall.

  Why this confusion? This passion at obscure moments? Or obscurity at passionate moments? Now I felt, against all reason, I’d been called to do something useful in the world. How that usefulness would get through to others I hadn’t yet figured out.

  The ‘to do’ at the top of The Hammer’s list was Shevchenko, a Russian long resident in Paris who’d been selling armaments to terrorists. As often proved to be the case, the worst criminal minds came dressed in outwardly respectable sheep’s clothing. There was a conventional business front, behind that the usual violence.

  Shevchenko would be in Vienna the following week and I was to help corral the offender to a particular shop. Others would administer the benediction.

  This seemed easy enough. Since Roy was to have been the deus ex machina here, I had unexpectedly inherited the mantle of this job, though job was a peculiar word to use for what was going to be murder.

  I looked at a photo of the swarthy face, the sparkling eyes, the black hair swept back dramatically from the broad forehead. This face could have been a politician’s, an actor’s. That it belonged to one of the worst criminal minds this side of the Danube was bad enough. That Shevchenko had to perish seemed hard too. But the world would never be whole. Soon enough there was malice and unreason. And this man was contributing to a disease we at least wanted to ameliorate. I understood that. I approved of it. The third millennium had arrived and we were still trampling in filth. Our monkey feet sometimes got into the branches and we looked at the stars. But not for long. The Hammer had finished with the usual compromises, the pious declarations of intent at the UN. You couldn’t expect everyone to confront what was happening, and we all knew our organisation had to stay secret for that reason. I belonged on the right side of the equation, and I hadn’t felt that so fully before. I swayed slightly on my feet at this sudden rush of emotion, then leant against the wall of my room. Anton looked at me, smiling.

  He told me what I had to do: stop Shevchenko and ask for directions to Saint Stephans—a gormless tourist abroad. Which, to a certain extent, I was. Anton suspected Shevchenko was already onto us. It was impossible to know, either way.

  Anton made it clear that I was not to embroider my role. I was to make a request at an approved time in a designated place. That was all.
r />   Simple enough.

  Anton left me with a bear hug, laughing. He laughed in a way that implied he had a kind of wisdom. I wondered whether Anton was wise, or just adept at the right sort of reprisal.

  We remaining operatives stayed to go over details. There were five of us, and I saw how expenses could mount up so quickly.

  There was a sudden downpour outside. Rain blew furiously against the windows. More bad weather, one of life’s predictables. The planet’s climate seemed to be out of alignment, beyond what the systems normally configured, and now we had to live with the consequent storms, floods, mudslides, droughts, bushfires and general not-niceness. Gaia was in a bad mood with the human race, and sacrifice was demanded. So, whether accidentally or not, thousands perished. And one more was to perish soon, but not through a freak of weather.

  Vienna. We arrived early in the morning and there were mists hanging over the Ringstrasse. I felt a kind of voluptuousness standing before the Upper Belvedere Palace. My usual sedateness evaporated as I looked over the porcelain in the Silberkammer or walked through the Hofburg gardens. Vienna was my kind of city, and surely the sound of the Wiener Philharmoniker was all the proof needed that perfection existed.

  The marble staircases, the Hoffmann glassware, those gorgeous Klimts. The erotic temperature was certainly higher in Vienna, and I felt my aesthetic wanderlust ready to break forth as I sampled yet another palace, gallery or church. I was particularly taken by Canova’s tomb for the Archduchess Marie Christine von Sachsen-Teschen in the Augustiner Church. The doorway at the base of the pyramid there tempted with its intimations of transcendence. And I happened to see it while a choir was practising Mass for the following Sunday. The combination of the music and Canova’s white marble temporarily carried me off on what I could really only describe as a high. No drugs were needed to do it, just the genius of the heart.

  But we weren’t here for music listening or slumming in monuments. And so we had to go carefully over the details of our operation. Anton warned us the slightest divergence from our plans could lead to our demise.

  The day for our operation arrived. All this talk about disaster scenarios had made me nervous. Anton said it was good to be that way because nervousness kept you keen, which I knew was true.

  Shevchenko walked briskly down the street, certain, almost joyful one might say. I walked towards him.

  ‘Excuse me please. Could you …’

  And before I finished my sentence, his hand gripped my shoulder.

  ‘Of course. You want to know where the Stephansdom is? Everyone wants to go there. Come with me. It’s only a little distance from here. You are very close to it already.’

  And with that he dragged me with him as confusion flooded through the stonework, up my spine.

  ‘You know, I don’t go to the churches any more. They are very nice, but once seen … I’m here on business. In your case I’ll make an exception. You are …’

  ‘I’m a tourist. From Australia.’

  ‘Australia. Yes. I know it well. You have a lot of land, not many people. You need more people, less swimming and kicking.’

  Less swimming and kicking? What on earth was he going on about?

  ‘You spend too much time looking at people swimming and people kicking balls. You need ideas, lots of ideas. Books and ideas.’

  Perhaps I agreed with him.

  All the same, I was annoyed, but couldn’t show it.

  The pace of his steps increased. His energy was intimidating.

  ‘Just a little further. Let’s go to the top! I haven’t been there for years. You can see over to the Wienerwald on a clear day. Well, I must say, I’m looking forward to this.’

  Still he tramped forward.

  What to do now? I dare not look behind me, for fear of revealing the others. As we neared the cathedral I saw him staring at me. His obsidian eyes drilled. None of this was supposed to happen.

  We reached Saint Stephans—it was still early in the morning—and Shevchenko decided to give me a potted history of the church. He took me from one section of the cathedral to another, giving me a manic rundown of each particular feature. Though I found this performance entertaining, I had to stay alert.

  Without pausing he told me we should enjoy that view from the top of the steeple. We were soon at the base. We had to climb the stairs as the damned lift wasn’t working.

  Round and round. He walked up the steps nimbly, sometimes two at a time. My head started to whirl. But he went on. I wanted to rest, but couldn’t afford to stop.

  Finally, I leaned against the wall at the top of the steeple, gasping for air. Shevchenko looked warily between me and the view. I didn’t know where this situation was leading.

  He took out his mobile phone and turned from me. I could not hear what he was saying. He stood there, hunched.

  Then with a sudden motion, he came up to me and placed a piece of paper in my coat pocket.

  ‘Don’t lose that.’

  He repeated himself, savagely.

  ‘Time to go, my friend.’

  And Shevchenko was off.

  For the moment, I was too tired to follow.

  But I had to stay with him. I knew that.

  I could hear his footsteps below me. My face was covered with sweat. What was I doing in this place when I should have been sitting in my office in Sydney?

  But then—no noise. Absolutely no noise. I stopped and heard only the anchor of my heart crashing away in my chest.

  I went on, down three more spirals, only to find Anton withdrawing a knife from Shevchenko’s body. The dying man caught my eye, reaching in the direction of my coat pocket. Then he fell back.

  My imploding narrative swirled around the red rim of collapse, grim histories cascading through me.

  ‘We have to get out of here immediately,’ Anton almost whispered.

  He pushed me in front of him, and we got to the bottom of the staircase just as a school excursion was planning an ascent. Children and teacher were in for the nastiest surprise.

  Anton was annoyed with me, I could tell, but the thing now was to get away to our home base.

  Back in my room, I doused my face and back with water, my body like an anvil that needed cooling. And what steel had been forged in me today. I felt stronger, harder.

  Once I’d composed myself I went to see Anton. We were staying at a house in the countryside, a placid lake and snowcapped mountains in the distance. We had to mark time here, just in case. Anton was still displeased, but when I protested I hadn’t even had a chance to activate our plan he calmed down.

  ‘At least this will send a message to those contemplating more illegal arms deals.’

  Charles rang me and said he understood my situation, but that perhaps I’d best not take part in any more operations of this kind. Though annoyed, I understood his point of view.

  So really, my job would be just like my old one, only done in strange surroundings rather than familiar ones.

  I went back to my room, fell on the bed and was asleep almost immediately.

  And then I dreamt of silver and porcelain. I was being entertained by Empress Maria Theresa. I was the guest of honour and a special meal was prepared for me. Anton and Charles were at the far end of the table. They raised their glasses to me and I could hear Charles saying, ‘No more preemptive strikes. Ha!’

  I woke.

  It was two in the morning. Why had my nice dream finished? Then I remembered the paper Shevchenko had given to me. I’d been so traumatised by the day’s events I’d forgotten this desperate last action. I rushed to my coat and thrust my hand into the front pocket. I drew out a folded piece of paper. I opened it up and saw what appeared to be a Parisian post office box number along with bank account deposit information and a key taped to the piece of paper. Late as it was, I immediately rang Charles and told him about this information.

  How could Shevchenko have had all this ready? And how did he know what was going to happen to him? Or was he ready for all
eventualities? Perhaps he was in trouble with his mob; maybe there was a fatal disease in the wings. There were too many questions I couldn’t answer.

  Only old. The phrase came to me. I was only old. And the previous day had made me much older. I stood still for a moment, then went to the window. The moon was shining in a clear sky. I must have stared out of the window for at least half an hour; me, unlikeliest amalgam of George Smiley and Austin Powers.

  At a late breakfast I had everything going; bratwurst, yoghurt, lots of fruit juice, bread, coffee.

  Anton joined me, as did the others, for a debriefing. I felt fully one of the intriguers now. But I was not yet accepted as one. I was still regarded as a Johnny-come-lately.

  They didn’t exactly blame me for what had happened. And I’d never asked to be included in their carryings-on. I reminded them I’d been employed for my financial skills. They agreed I’d utilised these satisfactorily. I really only cared what Charles thought. If he liked what I’d done, then that was good enough for me.

  We had to get back to Munich tomorrow, out of the way of possible informants. But I needed to let go of the wild energy surging through me. After lunch, hat and sunglasses on, I went walking in the crisp air. The climate was bracing and I felt better.