The Guardian's Legacy

by Luciana Cavallaro

  ‘Why? Am I under arrest?’

  She raised a brow. Nik caught his breath. ‘Non, but it is wise you remain in the city where I can get in touch with you when I need to.’

  ‘I will stay until my grandfather’s found.’

  ‘Trés bon. Bonjour monsieur, and perhaps distract yourself with a little sightseeing,’ she said, as she nodded and rounded the chair. ‘Oh …’ She turned back. ‘Please, may I have your cell number?’ He looked at her perplexed. ‘So I may call you direct.’

  ‘Oh, sure.’ He patted his pockets and fumbled for his phone. ‘I don’t call myself. Didn’t the clerk or receptionist at the police station take my number when I called?’

  ‘I left your number on my desk.’ Sauveterre smiled with an apologetic shake of her head.

  Nik swallowed and turned his attention to the screen on his phone, berating himself for behaving like one of his adolescent students. He keyed in his pin three times before he got it right. He scrolled through the contacts list and read out his number, including the international area code. He caught sight of her blonde hair as it fell across the fine contours of her face when she bent her head to scribble the digits. Nik slipped the phone into his pocket.

  She nodded at him. ‘Au revoir.’

  ‘Au revoir.’ He watched her exit the hotel.

  Nik slapped the side of his head with a hand, annoyed at his reaction to the detective. Quashing further thoughts of the detective, Nik returned to his room to retrieve the pistol and ammo from the safe. Since the law enforcement agencies were more interested in accusing his grandfather than finding him, Nik’s trip to Marseilles had one major purpose: to gather information. The pistol holstered and concealed under his jacket, Nik grabbed his backpack and left the room.

  Back in the main lobby, he asked the concierge for directions to the closest Metro station. He exited the hotel, walked for ten minutes until he arrived at the entrance to the Gare St Lazare station. He entered via the glass doors and headed for a staircase that led him to the underground station. There were people coming and going, a thriving city under the bustling metropolis. To his right were ticketing booths, both manned and automated machines. He approached a bored-looking attendant.

  ‘Bonjour monsieur. Est-ce quel train à Marseille, s’il vous pla’t?’ Nik said, reading the translation from his phone.

  The man’s lip curled. ‘Vous devez aller au Bibliothèque François Mitterrand et vous devez prendre le TGV.’

  Nik did a quick check on his phone and then asked, ‘Donnez-moi un billet, s’il vous pla’t.’

  The attendant rolled his eyes and muttered. He took the money Nik placed in the slot and thrust the ticket through the gap.

  ‘Geez mate, you must love your job,’ Nik said as he picked up the ticket. ‘Pleasant too.’

  With ticket in hand, Nik followed the stream of people down two flights of stairs and into a long, well-lit tunnel. He checked the colour for the train line he needed and veered to the right. As he neared the platform, his scalp prickled. He rolled his shoulders, the uncomfortable sensation not easing. Up ahead, he could see his destination. He resisted the urge to glance behind him as he walked through the archway onto the platform. A line of commuters were waiting for the train; most were busy checking their mobiles, each in a digital world of their own. He threaded his way through the crowd and came to stop a few paces away from the edge of the platform. He shifted his backpack to the other shoulder and scanned his surroundings while he waited for the train to arrive.

  Metres from where he stood were a couple, dressed in casual clothes, engrossed in their map. Something about them struck Nik as odd. The arrival of the high-speed train distracted him as it whistled to a stop. The throng in front and behind him propelled him onto the train. The last few empty seats were snapped up before he made his move. He grabbed the metal pole, as did many other passengers, and planted his feet apart as the train picked up speed.

  Being tall had its advantages, as he looked over the heads of those closest to him. He had an unimpeded view of the carriage. His gaze fell on the couple he had seen on the platform. They were quick to look away. He sized them up. Were they police? Or Interpol or someone associated with the thug?

  The public address system crackled to life and a disembodied French voice announced the name of the next station. Nik checked the poster of tributaries of coloured lines above the door and noted there was one more stop before he reached Gare du Lyon. He stayed put as passengers disembarked and the next group got on board. A seat near him was empty and he sat on it, clasping his bag on his lap. It was not long before the voiceover broadcasted the next stop. He remained seated as the flow of commuters disembarked and boarded. Nik stood when he saw a woman carrying a child and pushing a pram. He gestured she should take his seat.

  ‘Merci beaucoup.’ She beamed at him. He nodded and returned the smile.

  The next stretch was longer than the first two. Nik observed the couple had moved further up the carriage. When the train came to a halt, he helped the woman with the pram get off and followed her out. She thanked him again.

  ‘No trouble at all,’ he said.

  ‘English?’ she said, putting the toddler in the pram.

  ‘No, Australian.’

  ‘Trés agréable! Very nice. Welcome to Paris. Where are you going?’

  ‘Marseilles for the day. I don’t suppose you can tell me which way I need to go?’ Nik gave her half a grin as he pointed at the various exits.

  ‘Bien sûr.’ She pointed to a group of travellers who were heading towards a lengthy flight of stairs. ‘Follow them up to the main concourse, and there you will see the departure times for Marseilles.’

  ‘Merci beaucoup!’

  As Nik said goodbye, he noted the couple hovering a few metres away, their attention once more, focused on the map. He followed the commuters up the staircase, and when he reached the top, he stepped across to read the signboard for departures, turning his body to face the way he had come. The couple appeared, glanced in his direction and turned to go the other way. With long strides, Nik caught up with the commuters who had disembarked from his train and weaved his way into the group. Just as he stepped onto the train to Marseilles, he peered through the glass to see the couple hurrying towards the train. The sliding doors closed before they could embark.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The train slowed as Nik gazed out the window. Buildings and trees lined the way and then vanished as the carriage plunged into the tunnel. The fluorescent lights flickered on as the train headed further underground. Five minutes later the train came to a halt and the automated female voice announced their stop: Saint Charles. Nik slipped his backpack over his shoulder and moved with the rest of the commuters.

  The platform was humming with the voices of the hundreds of people alighting or boarding the sleek TGVs. Sunlight streamed in from the A-framed windows, bathing the silver and blue trains. The heat of the sun and railway lines swamped the enormous space, giving the impression of an oversized sauna. Nik headed to the information booth, asked for a map of the city and directions to the old port. The woman behind the counter, effusive in her cheerfulness to help, highlighted the port and the most direct route. She even gave him names of places to eat.

  ‘Merci beaucoup!’ He smiled at her.

  He marvelled at the station. It was not any different from an airport with its souvenir shops, clothing stores, bookshops and cafés, polished floors and waiting areas teeming with people. With map in hand, Nik left the station. Outside, he stopped on the paved walkway, the main road mere metres away. There were access roads for taxis, buses and a site for car rentals.

  This is what we need back home! he thought, and he pulled out his mobile and took a few photos. He checked the map and decided to walk. He knew it may take him an hour or more, but he wanted to use the time to think. He needed to plan what to do once he located the store his grandfather last visited, and figure out who was following him.

  The buildi
ngs resembled those in Paris, and the few contemporary high-rises looked out of place among the grand baroque and medieval structures. He would have liked time to explore the city and visit its museums, but he had come to find out what his grandfather had discovered here and what caused his disappearance in Cologne. To his left stood a cathedral erected on a hill. He checked the map: Notre-Dame de la Garde.

  Nik followed the streets marked out by the helpful attendant. She had highlighted a scenic path to the port. The roads ran straight, triangular, perpendicular and circuitous. The haphazard street formation suggested that not much thought had gone into the planning and layout of the city. These were features of Europe that Nik loved: the antiquity and hidden beauty within.

  La Canebière, the primary thoroughfare of Marseille, had several of the oldest and grandest buildings, of which only the facades remained. Hotels and cafés lined the way to the port; the bright and vibrant awnings jutted out onto the walkways to encourage passers-by to stop, sit and enjoy a cup of coffee. Nik’s nose twitched at the briny air and he felt the fresh breeze: he was close. He crossed the main road and came to a stop. Big and small fishing boats nestled and bobbed on the water alongside yachts, most of them more extravagant than their working cousins. The rectangular port ran the length of what was once a natural bay.

  He checked for traffic and crossed over to join the many pedestrians on the port side. He had memorised the address for the store: behind Quai du Port, close to the home of Jules Verne. The smell of fish grew stronger as he walked along the port. He spotted an older man accompanied by a younger one, hauling crates of fish off their boat and onto the dock. Nik cut across Quai du Port, his attention on a bar. He had a snack on the train and little to drink, and now his empty stomach rumbled. The maître d’ led him to a seat by the window and gave him a menu.

  He placed his backpack on the floor by his feet, sat back and stared out the tinted glass to the port. He saw two familiar figures. They slowed as they neared the bar. Nik observed them, as they paused for a few minutes. He thought they’d enter the establishment but instead, they stood at the entrance for a few minutes longer, and then moved away. A coincidence, he thought. But he did not believe in chance occurrences, especially given the disappearance of his grandfather, the interest from Interpol, the visit from the menacing Eastern European and the innuendos voiced by Detective Sauveterre.

  He was certain they were the same couple he had spotted back at the Gare St Lazare station in Paris. He knew they were following him. Why? And who did they work for? Either they were officers of Interpol or the police. He discounted any attachment to his mysterious visitor and the perpetrator who kidnapped his grandfather, given their approach was more direct. He touched his front jeans pocket for his wallet, the coin mixed with other change. It may not be the safest spot for a valuable and hunted item, but he guessed that hiding it in plain sight was the securest place, as no-one would expect it to be there.

  The waiter arrived to take his order and left with the menu. When Nik glanced outside again, he saw the couple standing on the other side of the road, appearing to be interested in the yachts. Two men approached them, and they chatted and looked over at the bar. Minutes later, the couple left, while the men stayed.

  Nik tapped a repetitive beat on the table as he made a mental note of what the newcomers looked like and their clothing. He assumed Interpol had sent them. Right from the outset, Janssens suspected his grandfather and now possibly him, of illegal malfeasance. Or could they be police officers?

  Nik glanced down at the surface of the table. He contemplated the historical information, theories, concepts and the sage voice of his grandfather. But none of what ran through his mind helped to identify who would be after the coin. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath and exhaled. Who and why now? he asked himself.

  The sounds of cutlery clinking against china, the tinkle of ice dropping in glasses and people chatting faded to a dull hum. He blew through his nostrils, frustrated at not being able to figure out the answer, except for the Eastern European connection. That’s where he need to focus his search. The waiter returned with his drink. Nik sat back, even more determined to find his grandfather.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Nik left the bar and headed further down the street. Tour buses and mini trains filled with tourists chugged past, their cameras clicking every second. Heads turned one way then the other, taking verbal cues from their personal digital translators and guides.

  He arrived at the Hotel de Ville, turned right, walked a few metres and made a left. At the corner he stopped, hoisted the backpack to his other shoulder and noticed the two men standing next to the traffic lights. The pedestrian light blinked on, but they did not cross the road. Though they were a fair distance away, their presence was an ominous reminder of the precariousness of his freedom.

  He slowed as he neared Jules Verne’s home, and as much as he would have enjoyed the opportunity to look around, he kept walking. At the end of the block, he glanced at the signage over the doorway obscured by a leafy olive tree: the Musée Des Docks Romains. The double doors, the glass panels obscured by red and white advertising, if he hadn’t checked the map, he would have walked past. Nik pulled open the door and entered. The cool blast of air-conditioning and sounds of muted voices greeted him. He paid his fee and took a map and headset.

  The city council had built the museum around the remains of Roman commercial warehouses. In the centre, in situ, were over thirty large urns, or dolia. A few of them were intact but most were damaged, the bottom halves having stood up to the test of time. The virtual translator informed him the ceramic vessels had been used to store wine or oil. Along the walls and behind glass petitions were various objects sealed in a hermetic environment: the history of maritime trading from the period of Ancient Rome 600 BCE to 400 CE. Nik took his time as he studied amphorae of assorted shapes and sizes, hardware fittings, anchors, scales, mosaics and coins. On his way out, he purchased a book that would be a useful resource for his teaching collection. He half expected his shadows to follow him, but they hadn’t.

  Next door was an antique store. A bell tinkled against the doorframe as he entered. The smell of old trinkets, books and furniture was a stark contrast to the clean sterile air of the museum. Behind the counter, a grey-haired man looked up from his magazine.

  ‘Bonjour.’

  ‘Bonjour.’ Nik nodded at him. He surveyed the range of knick-knacks and pieces of furniture – wardrobes, china cabinets, chairs, desks – the shop is crammed with goods, and the assortment of chairs interspersed wherever there was space. Wooden shelving contained a variety of items – china ware, ceramic and metal statuettes, toys, ornaments, boxes, an assortment of brooches – and coins were locked in a free-standing cabinet, arranged alongside jewellery. He was drawn to a range of ceramic wares. Few of the smaller ones resembled those he had seen in the museum. He picked up a green and black rounded sphere, the top and bottom squared, about the size of a baseball.

  ‘Excusez-moi monsieur, is this a weight measure?’

  ‘Oui, Romain.’

  Nik raised a brow. ‘A replica?’

  ‘Oui, yes,’ the man replied.

  Nik looked for a price. ‘How much?’

  ‘Fifty Euro.’

  Nik placed the ball back on the shelf and went to inspect the coins. While he had been researching Aphrodite’s coin, he was surprised at the wealth of information published on the history of minting. He scanned the shelves until one caught his attention.

  ‘Monsieur, may I have a closer look at a coin?’

  The man pursed his lips and with a great sigh, heaved himself off the stool. He shuffled over, fumbling for the keys he held on a fob. He inserted a tiny skeleton key that reminded Nik of a key his mother used for her 1950s china cabinet. The older man glanced up at him.

  ‘Which one you wish to see?’

  ‘That one.’ Nik pointed.

  The man picked up the coin and handed it to him. ‘This coin was
from Carthago Nova, not long after Scipio Africanus fought Hannibal.’

  ‘Is it authentic?’

  ‘Oui.’ The storekeeper nodded.

  ‘How much for the coin, and do you have a certificate of authentication?’

  ‘It is two hundred and forty-seven Euros. I have a certificate for the coin.’

  Nik grimaced, shook his head and gave the coin back. ‘Thank you for allowing me to see it.’ He turned to leave, had second thoughts, and pulled out his mobile phone. ‘I wonder if you could help me?’

  The older man straightened and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Can you tell me if this gentleman came into your store sometime last week?’ Nik showed him a picture of his grandfather. The man’s jaw worked back and forth as he gave a cursory glance at the photo.

  ‘Many customers come,’ he said, turning his back on Nik.

  ‘Of course, thank you for your time.’ Nik left the store. He slid the mobile into his pocket and paused for a few moments on the footpath. The storekeeper’s body language was off, he thought, and his instinct told him the man had lied. The question was why?

  Nik was no closer to finding his grandfather, but he knew Iasos came to Marseilles, and probable he ventured into this store. But without firm confirmation from the shop’s owner, Nik had to rethink his plan. It was time to return to Paris and conduct further research into shops of the various cities his grandfather visited.

  Nik returned to the hotel a little after six in the evening and saw Detective Sauveterre sitting in the lobby. She rose from her seat as he neared. The last thing Nik wanted was a thousand questions, but he tried not to show his irritability at her presence.

  ‘You are working late, Detective Sauveterre. Shouldn’t you be home with your family having dinner?’

  ‘I am, how you say, “tying up loose ends”,’ she replied.