‘Bonjour monsieur. Name and room number, please.’
‘Bonjour. Zosimos, room 425.’
The attendant checked his list and placed a tick by his name. ‘This way, please.’
‘May I have a table in a quiet corner please?’ asked Nik.
‘I’ll see what is available, monsieur.’
Inside the restaurant the chocolate-coloured seats, brown curtains, dark timber and heavy red hues mirrored Nik’s sombre mood. Few tables were empty, and the hotel guests ranged from young to old, including several family groups. The clanging of cutlery and clink of china seem to compete with the drone of voices and the bustle of waiters clearing tables, dancing around the guests with practised ease, did not lessen Nik’s concern for his grandfather’s absence. The maître d' led him to a quieter spot in the dining room.
He pulled the chair out and waited until Nik sat. ‘Enjoy your breakfast.’
‘Merci beaucoup.’
Nik’s stomach growled in anticipation as the smell of fried food wafted around him.
‘Bonjour, monsieur, café ou thé?’ asked the slender, dark haired waitress.
‘Un café s’il vous plat.’ The waitress poured the coffee into the cup. ‘Merci.’ The girl smiled and moved on to the next table.
The faint, bitter aroma of the watery brew perked Nik up a little. With another mouthful, he headed for the breakfast bar and chose two croissants, maple syrup, and a glass of orange juice. He wondered again where his grandfather was and why he wasn’t at the hotel.
After a serving of scrambled eggs and bacon, another croissant and a second cup of coffee, Nik returned to his room and brushed his teeth. He grabbed his camera, checked the room key was inside his wallet, picked up his backpack, slipped his laptop inside and hung the “Please clean room” sign on the door on his way out. At the information desk, he asked for a map and directions to the Louvre.
On exiting the hotel, he turned left and merged with other pedestrians. It was a mild and sunny day, perfect for walking the historic streets. It was the end of the European summer and tourists still swarmed Paris. The locals wore chic clothing, and the sightseers wore comfortable casual apparel with footwear suited for a day of walking.
At the traffic lights, the roads were heavy with vehicles, large and small. He crossed over onto Rue du Havre, then to Rue Auber, where he came to the Palais Garnier at the Place de L’Opéra. Nik stopped to take pictures of the palatial opera house, with the sun glinting off gilded-winged copper figures atop either side of the facade. Sitting on opposite sides of the dome was Pegasus, and in the middle, a statue of Apollo. Embossed reliefs decorated the front of the building, and Corinthian columns filled the central section, with dedications to composers and artists. Nik had the camera in his hand but took no more photos.
Another time he would have admired the majestic building, but his grandfather’s continued absence and lack of contact concerned him. As he recommenced walking, his thoughts turned to the mysterious author of the note. Who would send a courier to deliver an envelope with no address or signature?
He continued along Avenue de L’Opéra, ignoring the windows of the high fashion boutiques, chocolatiers, small convenience stores, souvenir shops and ice cream parlours. Nik stopped. He could see the Royal Palace and knew the Louvre wasn’t much further, the traffic becoming denser the closer he got. In the last conversation with his grandfather, Papou had sounded excited, as if he’d found what he was looking for. Maybe that’s why he wasn’t at the hotel. He knew where the coin was and he was negotiating with the person who had it.
With that in mind, Nik continued his journey to the famous palace, recalling the one time he visited the Louvre he had lingered in the antiquities wing, his favourite section of the museum. The experience made for great lessons to teach his students the history of the incredible statues, wall friezes, pottery and ceramics, and of the ancient civilisations that created the treasures. Visiting museums was one of his passions. Today, his trip to the famous museum was for another purpose.
He joined the multitude of people at the intersection, waiting for the traffic lights to change and cross the road. The blood in Nik’s veins charged as if a relentless bull was marking its territory. The crowd surged forward, propelling Nik headlong into bodies jostling for space. Reaching the other side of the road, he hung back, while the others hurried onwards.
The first time Nik had seen the former palace of the French kings, he hadn’t expected it to be so large. The area it occupied was three times the size of the Melbourne Cricket Ground. Exhaust fumes from the buses, taxis and cars entering and exiting the double-arched entrance marred the experience. Nik picked up his pace and moved past the stink of the emissions blanketing the entryway. He donned his sunglasses when he emerged, the white stone walkway blinding under the sun’s reflective rays.
On his right, he saw the large roundabout and the triumphal arch; the gateway to the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel and Tuileries Garden. He kept walking, the crunch of stones underfoot leaving puffs of dust in his wake. His gut twinged. Soon he’d find out who this person was and why they wanted to meet. And whether it had something to do with Papou.
He stopped for the traffic to pass, and studied the glass pyramids, surrounded by pools, the largest housed the entrance into the museum and accompanied by three smaller ones, each positioned to create light shafts for the museum’s collection. He took in the crowds of people mingling in and around the main square of the palace. There wasn’t a spare bench to sit on, and many people were moving in all directions taking photos.
Once the traffic cleared, he marched towards the pyramid and upon entering, headed for the staircase that led to the main reception below ground. The area was spacious and although there were lots of people, he found it easy to navigate.
Nik purchased a ticket, picked up a map and downloaded the audio guide app. He checked to see which floor and room held the Code of Hammurabi. He glanced at his watch. Thirty minutes until he would meet the mystery person. Via a staircase, labelled ‘Richelieu’, he reached the ground floor, and ascended another set of stairs to the level called ‘Levant’. It led to the Near Eastern Antiquities collection. He didn’t want to be too far from where he had to meet this mysterious individual.
He opened a pocket on the backpack, pulled out his earbuds and plugged them into his mobile. He scrolled through the museum’s app for the audio: the French-accented English directed him to the winged, human-headed bull. Nik spent the next twenty minutes moving from room to room, studying the artefacts and listening to his personal guide.
He made his way to the Code of Hammurabi and searched for the audio. The basalt stele in the shape of an index finger stood just over two metres high. Nik walked around it examining the cuneiform script the ancient scribes etched on the surface, from top to bottom, written in the Akkadian language. On the other side, with the outline of the fingernail, there was a depiction of the king receiving the laws from the sun-god Shamash. He listened to the narration explaining the contents and significance of the code, and squatted to examine the ancient script.
‘An extraordinary example of judiciary power, yes?’
Nik looked up, and stood. He pulled the earbuds out and studied the brown-haired, short wiry man standing at his side. His accented English was not French.
‘It was a clever and shrewd move of the king to govern the masses,’ said Nik.
The man nodded. ‘Yes, King Hammurabi understood the need to establish a set of laws to maintain control and ways to seek justice.’
‘King Hammurabi also realised how important it was to show his benevolence and jurisdiction by placing these codes in towns under the control of Babylon. An effective legal tool and one modelled by many cultures,’ Nik mentioned. He rolled the earbuds between his thumb and fingers.
The man looked at him. ‘Where is your grandfather?’
Nik paused. ‘What are you talking about?’ The man appraised him. Nik’s gut tightened.
; ‘Come now, don’t be coy. We’ve been tracking your grandfather for the past week. He’s been asking questions he shouldn’t.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Interpol.’
‘Show me your credentials.’ First his grandfather’s peculiar absence, and now this man showing up for a friendly chitchat made Nik wary.
The man reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a badge. He held it out. Nik examined the picture and name on the ID.
‘This could be a fake. With today’s technology, anyone can produce one of these.’
‘That is true, but the badge is authentic.’
‘I will need more proof than your word,’ said Nik. ‘I want to talk to your supervisor.’
The man frowned. ‘You are overreacting.’
‘Much like a stranger demanding the whereabouts of my grandfather. What would you do if you were in my situation?’ asked Nik, narrowing his eyes.
‘Bon. Just a moment.’ The man reached into his pocket, took out his mobile and placed a call. He spoke in rapid French, his gaze never leaving Nik’s. He held out the phone to him. ‘My commanding officer, Monsieur Dufort.’
Nik took the phone. ‘Monsieur Dufort.’
‘Ah Monsieur Zosimos, bonjour. I understand you have doubts regarding Monsieur Janssens. I can guarantee he is an Interpol officer,’ the deep baritone voice said.
‘How can I be sure what you’re saying is genuine? For all I know you have colluded with each other and fabricated this story,’ said Nik.
The voice on the line hardened. ‘Monsieur Zosimos, I appreciate your scepticism, but I do not have the time to allay your reservations. Trust who we say we are and answer Monsieur Janssens’ questions. Now I wish to speak to my officer.’
Nik handed the phone back to Janssens.
‘Oui?’ Janssens’ eyes flicked to Nik as he spoke, and then to the floor. He hung up. ‘Your grandfather, where is he?’
‘I don’t know, he didn’t check into the hotel. Why is Interpol interested in my grandfather?’
‘The places he visited, why did he go there?’ asked Janssens, not answering Nik’s question.
‘Why does any tourist visit Europe?’ responded Nik. ‘Tell me what is going on, and what does this have to do with my grandfather?’
Janssens tapped his leg with a hand and squinted at Nik. ‘Let’s sit and have a coffee.’
They went down two flights of stairs to Napoleon Hall, where there was a café. Coffees in hand, the two men sat at a table in the busy food court. The scene resembled the League of Nations in one confined space, with a multitude of languages spoken, and the din like a passing train.
‘Where is your grandfather?’
‘I don’t know,’ repeated Nik, exasperated. ‘We were to meet at the hotel but he never showed. What aren’t you telling me? Has something happened to him?’
‘He disappeared in Cologne.’
‘What? Disappeared? How? I don’t understand.’ Nik paled.
‘We were following him to the train station in Cologne, and he vanished.’
Nik sat immobile and silent. The noise in the café felt as if waves were crashing against his skull. ‘Why were you following him?’ He asked, sitting back, arms folded against his chest.
‘The locations he visited are under surveillance.’
‘Why?’
‘They are neo-Nazi fronts. But you knew that.’ Janssens leaned closer. ‘Are you a sympathiser, a financial supporter for the neo-Nazi movement?’
‘What?’ Nik recoiled. ‘No!’
Janssens took a sip of his coffee. ‘Then what are you and your grandfather doing here?’
‘I’m a schoolteacher here on a holiday and joining my grandfather to see sites.’
‘You didn’t come together. Why?’
‘I was teaching.’ Nik frowned. ‘And my grandfather flew out earlier.’
‘Why did he visit those stores?’
‘Is this an interrogation?’
‘No, we’d be in our office if it were.’ Janssens drummed his fingers on the table. ‘When will you be meeting your grandfather?’
Nik squinted at Janssens. ‘I was to meet him when I arrived at the hotel. Are you going to keep asking me the same question for which I have no answer?’
Janssens ignored his question. ‘How long will you be staying in Paris, or Europe?’
‘I will need to contact the police in Cologne concerning the disappearance of my grandfather, and decide what to do from there.’
Janssens tossed back the last of the contents in his cup and stood. ‘If you hear from your grandfather, please contact me.’ He placed a card on the table. ‘Au revoir, Monsieur Zosimos.’
Nik reached across the table and picked up the card. It was white framed by a thin blue border, with the Interpol logo on the left corner and the inspector’s name, Milo Janssens, centred and in black print. Underneath was his mobile number.
Nik watched as the inspector melted into the crowd. Terrible thoughts of his grandfather being kidnapped, or worse, killed, ran through his mind. Nik shoved the business card in his wallet. It was time to return to the hotel and make calls. The conversation he dreaded was the one with his parents.
Chapter Thirteen
Nik spent the next few hours on the phone to the police in Cologne. After he answered their questions about where his grandfather had journeyed, why he was in the city, and when was the last time they spoke and for how long, the police issued a bulletin to their officers with photos of his grandfather. By the end of the phone call, Nik’s head was swimming, which made the conversation with his parents more difficult.
At first his father was speechless, but when the realisation hit, he got angry at the French constabulary for the false accusations. When he calmed down, he called his father an old fool for travelling on his own. After the call, Nik went out for a walk; he needed air and to clear his mind. Hands thrust into the pockets of his navy sports blazer, he wandered down a few streets and sat at a vacant table outside a café. A waitress appeared within minutes and took his order. He sat there for an hour contemplating what to do, and how his grandfather would address the predicament if the situation were reversed.
Nik returned to the hotel and thought about calling relatives in Greece to ask whether Iasos was there, but he knew Interpol would be listening. He needed to get another phone, but how was he to purchase one without being seen?
He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out the coin. His hand tingled as the coin sat in his palm. The sensation travelled up his arm. Whether it was his emotional reaction to the coin, Nik recalled his grandfather’s warning at being tempted by the unusual properties of the coin. Of its power to coerce and influence the mind. But Papou was missing and Nik needed to do something. He couldn’t sit around and wait for the local constabulary to find his grandfather. Goodness knows where he was and who had him or whether he was still alive. Nik closed his eyes and tapped his forehead with a fist.
He opened his eyes and stared at the coin. I must use the coin to help Papou, but how did Herodotos make it work?
Nik studied both sides of the coin and lifted it up to the light, almost willing it to reveal its secret. If he visualised home, would it take him there? He stood up, trying to remember what Papou had said about what happened when Herodotos dropped it.
He closed his eyes, pictured the secret bunker at his grandfather’s house, stretched out his hand and dropped the coin. He held his breath for a second, waiting, and then opened his eyes. He let out a heavy, disappointed sigh. He was still in the hotel room. He picked up the coin.
Scratching the back of his head, Nik moved the coin between his knuckles, thinking what to do next when the coin slipped through his fingers. He lunged to catch it, watching as it rotated towards the floor. He stuck his hand out and caught the grey metal object. A white flash blinded him and the air cracked like a whip. For a fleeting moment Nik felt as if his limbs were wrenched in opposite directions, that his arms and legs were being
torn from his body. Then his arms pitched over his head as he was sucked feet first into a maelstrom. The sensation reminded him of the water-tube rides at the aquatic park, except there was no water and he was moving faster. His heart pounded against his rib cage and his breaths came in sharp gasps.
It felt as if he were hurtled through the air without a parachute. He didn’t think the journey would end. With a thud his feet struck a solid surface, the jolt of the impact tipped him backwards and his head hit the floor. He lay there, willing himself to open his eyes. He couldn’t remember closing them. The pain in his head pounded and his breathing was harsh and loud in the stillness. Nik clenched his fist, the knuckles taut, the coin biting deep into the palm of his hand.
He lay on the floor a while longer until his heart and breathing returned to normal. Almost. Nik opened his eyes and his mouth watered, bile rising. He sat up and blinked as he glanced around the familiar room. How did he end up here? In his house? His books sat in a pile on the coffee table, just as he had left them. He tried to recall the last thing he thought of before the coin fell from his hand, but it eluded him. He stood and wobbled, clutched his head and winced. He waited for the pain to abate and with a trembling hand, stowed the coin in his pocket.
He ran his tongue over his teeth. His mouth was as dry as the rug on the lounge floor and he went to the kitchen to get a drink of water before heading to the safe concealed in his bedroom. He punched in the code and withdrew money for public transport and the spare set of keys for his house and to his grandfather’s place. Nik left the house, feeling a bit wobbly on his feet, but grateful the coin worked and hoped when he used it again, the landing and side effects won’t be as dramatic.
While Nik waited at a bus stop a few streets from his place, he made a mental checklist of what to do. An hour and half later, new mobile in hand, he arrived at his grandfather’s house and let himself in. He hurried into the bunker and glanced at the monitors, then stopped to take a better look. Nik peered at the screens and took a photo with his mobile. He would need more time to analyse the new information the computer program processed.
The Guardian's Legacy Page 9