"You're going to love this!" Eeva said.
It was late morning, two days later, and a strong wind blew over the seawall and through a line of squat palm trees, the only barriers between her and Cal and the Mediterranean. The pebble beach below stretched away for miles in a long crescent, with the beachside hotels and restaurants hugging the wide boulevard, Le Promenade des Anglais, all the way to the airport. Eeva wore a black tank top covered by a light blue windbreaker and the wind wiped at its hem except where it was pinned in place by her large turquoise purse, the one with the Navajo geometric design. Cal kept meaning to ask how she'd come across the design and wondered if there was a story or just inspiration.
Meanwhile, he tried not to shiver as the same wind flowed around his jacket but bit at his nose and ears. The wind forced him to hold the brim of his gold Florida State ballcap.
They were on a pedestrian walkway that ran parallel between the beach, where a line of historical hotels hugged the road, each a different pastel color, and stood like a permanent audience for the line of sedans cruising slowly down the promenade. Overhead a seagull cried and then joined its feathered brethren on the ground to dodge the feet of pedestrians in search of an early lunch. This spot marked the eastern end of the famous beachfront, the coast from there transforming into a rugged stretch of rocky formations, with the exception of a few narrow beaches carved into the stony shore and the Port where the Kosatka was berthed. In fact, they'd passed the superyacht on their way to their present spot, and he'd resisted the urge to snap a photo of the Kosatka as they passed.
Frank wouldn't be happy about that, but Frank wasn't much happy at all since Cal had pulled back the investigation. Cal didn't care.
Let sleeping dogs lie, and Russian gangsters, too.
Besides, he was on an official date with a beautiful woman. Why ruin it with spook bullshit? And—no—they weren't an official couple, and they hadn't even kissed, but MJ had given him permission to be open to the idea. Baby steps, she had texted him when he said they'd enjoyed their first dinner and planned on doing some sightseeing together. Their destination today was Castle Hill, looming three-hundred feet above them now, as it towered over the Port and all of central Nice, and as it had when the Ancient Greeks picked this very coast to settle however many years ago.
In front of them now was the massive Hotel Suisse, pastel red with faux white columns, and it hugged the base of Castle Hill right above the sea. The hotel in Paris had been similar, but with a white facade, and Molly had been enamored by the classical architecture. It looks old and new at the same time, she'd said. Here, the Hotel Suisse had little balconies for each room where Moll' could have set up her easel and painted the Mediterranean all day or a night scene with an alabaster beach curving away to the horizon under a French moon. Cal craned his neck past the Hotel Suisse and up the rocky slope behind where the view promised to be even more spectacular.
"How do we get all the way up?" he asked, squinting against the sun.
To answer, she took his hand and pulled him across the street towards the hotel, but instead of entering, they continued around the side of the building where an outdoor stairway climbed a massive stone wall, switching back on itself as the stairs climbed higher and higher.
"That's a lot of stairs," Cal said. His bad knee hurt at the thought.
"Not as many as you'd think," Eeva said with a wink as she pulled him onward, "we're taking the elevator."
She walked past the stairs, Cal following, to an inconspicuous opening in the stone wall, where large letters above the opening read Ascenseur du Château in an art deco script. Through the opening was a long, white tunnel burrowing directly into the hill and it had a low, arched ceiling. Other people also walked the tunnel, coming or going like ants, and she pulled him inside to join the crowd. Eeva acted as his personal tour guide, reciting facts and history like she was the retired history teacher, and he was the student.
He didn't mind one bit.
Castle Hill rose straight up from the beach, three-hundred feet into the air, she said, although Cal smiled when she used the metric measurement, and caught the eye of the Ancient Greeks as they explored distant shores. They built a small fort on the plateau, where a natural spring bubbled up to the top and allowed the Greeks to turn the hilltop into a formidable defensive position.
A village at the base of the hill turned into a city.
"The Greeks called it Nikaia to honor one of their gods."
"Their goddess of victory," Cal nodded. They were halfway down the tunnel and Cal wished it would go on forever. "Nike, we call her now. Like the shoes."
Eeva laughed.
"Well, the name stuck," she said, "and now we call her city, Nice."
"Huh!" Cal hadn't made that connection before. His skin tingled with the history of it all, the very reason he moved to Europe—well, and Frank he supposed—and, well, escaping Florida, too. He shook away the thoughts.
"So, the Greeks built this tunnel?" Cal asked as they were nearing its end, where the line of people condensed in front of a small elevator door.
"Oh, no," laughed Eeva. "That would have been the Nazis."
Of course.
The Nazis had occupied every city along the coast of France in their attempt to turn Europe into a fortress. Cal knew this, not just from history, but also from Grandpa Mac.
Eeva explained that the Nazis had excavated the tunnel so they could hollow out the same vertical shaft that forced water up to the natural spring. Cal marveled at the engineering but shook his head at how the German forces had taken something natural and beautiful and had destroyed it for the purposes of war.
Typical.
The elevator was a cramped box, and Cal had to squeeze next to Eeva after they entered along with a younger couple and their young son. He thought he overheard a snippet of conversation in German (but it could have been Dutch), and Cal smiled at the irony of history. Cal and Eeva's shoulders and arms pressed together, physically the closest they'd ever lingered, and when she didn't move away, he didn't either. Then his stomach dropped as the elevator rushed upwards through metric tons of solid rock, following the path of ancient spring water and Nazi artillery.
The elevator did not open at the plateau at the very top of Castle Hill, but about half-way up and onto a viewing platform that showed the blue horizon of the sea spreading out before them. Cal wanted to stop and admire the view, but Eeva pulled him along with a smile, up a small flight of stairs built into the hill, and down a path towards another circular space with even more spectacular views. The red clay rooftops of Old Nice were visible in the distance, where the Ancient Greeks had built their village between the hill and a river, and Cal remembered again the old postcard sitting on the mantle of his and Frank's apartment; the one his granddad had sent home from the war.
"My grandad was here before," Cal said to Eeva. "In Nice, I mean. You mentioned how the Germans occupied the city during the war. Well, Grandpa Mac helped liberate the city." He pointed over the iron railing of the viewing platform towards the center of Nice where a large Ferris wheel rotated slowly above the rooftops, so distant that it looked like a scale model. "That's Place Masséna—I think—and the 743rd Tank Battalion parked right there on August 30th, 1944. Grandpa was just nineteen years old."
All of that history pushed up the rocky slope and washed over him like a wave hitting the hill. When he looked away, Eeva was staring at him with the wind whipping her hair about her face.
"See?" she said. "I told you the first day we met on the tram, with those—what did Frank call them—those bad actors following me. I told you that Americans are the good guys, and— maybe not every American ever—but you, Cal, come from a long line of heroes. I see that in you."
Cal's response was trapped in his throat.
"Come on," she said and led him away.
A smooth path ramped upwards the rest of the way, through switchbacks and stairs when the path grew too steep. Cal's old baseball injury started to flare like an angry Samuel L. Jackson daring him to take one more goddamn step—but then they reached the plateau.
Cal checked his wristwatch, and it was a little before noon.
There were grassy fields, a cafe with a parking lot, and enough trees that he couldn't see the entirety of the hilltop. Somewhere, he'd read that there were foundations of an old castle—thus the name, Castle Hill—and not the Greek fortress or a Nazi bastion, but the ruins of a military citadel that stood for hundreds of years before it was conquered and destroyed by France in 1705. Cal could only guess its location, though, as the trees and crowds of visitors blocked every sightline. In fact, if he hadn't just climbed a hundred steps, he wouldn't even have believed he was on top of a giant hill.
"It's bigger than I thought," he said, "and more crowded, too. It's pretty, though."
"Just wait," Eeva smiled and then seemed to notice the crowd, too. "It's the Carnival."
"The crowd?"
"The opening parade is this weekend. These are the early birds," she said, waving generally at the other visitors, "staking their claim on hotels and rental houses before the situation gets totally out of control."
"It gets crazy, here?"
"Yes! The city doubles in population for the last two weeks of February. That square where your grandfather parked his tank? That's the stage for the flower battles and the night parades."
"Flower battles?" Cal raised his eyebrows.
"You'll see!"
"It sounds like winter in my hometown, when retirees from the northern states flock to Florida for a few months to escape the snow. All at once there's a wait for every restaurant and every parking spot is taken."
"It's just like that, but the Carnival is worth it. You'll see!"
"You keep saying that."
"Well, you will."
"What about that big Ferris wheel? Frank says it stays up until the end of the Carnival. He keeps joking that he's going to take me."
Eeva narrowed her eyes playfully and said, "Would you rather go on a Ferris wheel ride with Frank or with me? Keep in mind there is only one correct answer to that question, mister."
"Careful, now," Cal teased. "I think he's already getting jealous of you."
"Honestly?" Her eyes were wide.
"No, not really," Cal continued, but then hesitated. "I don't know, it's weird. He's encouraged me to go out with you, but at the same time he seems suspicious. He's like a cat: purrs one moment and then claws the next. I've known him forty-five years and I still don't always know what he's thinking."
"But you know what he's feeling," Eeva said. "I've seen you two together. You're, what do they say? In sync. Maybe you don't know the words he's thinking, but he can't hide from you that something is bothering him."
"An acute observation," Cal said.
"So, what's bothering him?" she asked. "He really can't be jealous that you're spending time with a woman, can he?"
"No," Cal agreed. "that's not it. I think he's worried."
The view looked northeast and down into the Port of Nice hundreds of feet below. Nice was built like layers of a cake with the city on the top level—the rooftops like velvet icing—the tram tunnels and ancient river buried in the middle, and then the bottom level saved for the beaches and marina. To the north, a bright-red tram emerged from a tunnel in the middle layer and slowed to the station overlooking the Port and Cal smiled. It seemed like it'd been a year since his first day in Nice.
The marina was lined with boats made miniature from their elevation, and even the large superyachts docked along the western seawall looked like toys. South of the marina there was a long, concrete jetty like a slender finger southeast into the sea. It was a breakwater designed to protect the port from waves and storms, and it extended like a fortress wall in the water, with craggy rocks on the seaward side and a short lighthouse at the very tip. A thin road stretched like a ribbon on top, connecting the lighthouse back to dry land. Several small boats sailed around the extended breakwater and its lighthouse, either sailing into the brilliant blue Mediterranean or puttering their way home.
He closed his eyes and inhaled the sea salt, still strong on the wind even at that elevation. One hand kept his ballcap in place against the wind while the other leaned against the metal railing separating them from the edge of a very steep slope. The wind whispered in his ears and caressed his skin softly. It was cold, but welcome. When he opened his eyes again, he found Eeva watching him.
"It's simply beautiful up here," she said.
"I was trying to think of another word, more elaborate," Cal said with a chuckle. "But beautiful about sums it up."
Their eyes met.
"It's funny," Cal said as he broke eye contact and pointed down to the Port. "We just walked past there, what, an hour ago?"
"And that yacht looked so big up close," Eeva said. "It looks like a toy from up here." She was pointing at the Kosatka.
"I wonder who owns it," said Cal, knowing full well that it was the Russian gangster, Marat Solonik. "Whoever it is, he's what we call a lucky son of a bitch in America."
"An õnnelik pätt, we would say," said Eeva with a hint of mischief. "A lucky bastard."
Cal smiled and said, "Perhaps I'm the õnnelik pätt today!" except he butchered the words.
Even Eeva's laughter made him feel lucky to hear it.
"Do you want to see who's onboard?" she asked, "Maybe we can spot the õnnelik pätt." Before Cal could wonder how, Eeva pulled her phone from her large turquoise purse and spread her fingers across the screen to zoom in more and more. Cal pressed close beside her to see.
"Nice phone, Eeva!" Cal said as the image on her screen kept zooming in and then sharpening before she zoomed in again. The deck of the yacht was clearly visible, if slightly pixilated, including a deckhand who was dangling a lit cigarette over the railing.
"Thirty-x zoom, baby!" she boasted. She panned her camera slightly and the image jumped dramatically. She adjusted the camera with careful movements and scanned the side of the yacht, revealing two rows of heavily tinted windows. The wheelhouse windows were not as tinted, probably so that the pilot could have better visibility, and inside they could just make out what looked like a shirtless, fat man, all other details obscured by distance and lighting. He was pacing the room and only appeared in the window every few seconds.
They exchanged glances and giggled like teenagers.
"There's our lucky bastard," Eeva said.
"I wonder who he is?"
What Cal was really wondering was if this was Marat Solonik. After Niles had shared the name with the rest of the Garden Gang—discovered via Jonathan's search through Nice business and port registries—Cal and Frank had scoured the internet for a face to match the name. Frank called this "OSI", short for open-source intelligence, and explained that the world wide web was, indeed, sticky, and that all sorts of useful information got trapped forever online where resourceful spiders could find and exploit it.
But there were no OSI pictures of Marat Solonik to be found. He was either very careful or not a big enough bug to get caught in the sticky strands of the online web. Likely both.
Until now.
"Can you send me these pictures?" Cal asked, thinking now of Frank. Maybe a little sleuthing wouldn't hurt.
"What about a selfie, too?"
"Absolutely. I'll send it to MJ and show her what a good time her old man is having."
BOOM.
Every bird in the park went fleeing skyward from treetops and the crowd of tourists flinched in unison. The sound hit Cal in the back like an invisible slap. It was the loudest sound he'd ever heard, save for the wall of speakers at the GNR concert he and Molly had attended in 1993. She'd worn a crop top, screamed the whole time, and cried during her favorite song.
Eeva flinched with him but then smiled. "Oops! I didn't tell you about the cannon? They fire it every day at noon in honor of some battle."
Cal recovered and forced a laugh. He checked the time on his Bell & Ross watch, the sun reflecting off its bronze case and charging the green luminescent face that had helped guide Cal through a few murky dives. Sure enough, it was noon on the dot.
"That was God punishing us for snooping on the yacht," he joked.
"Maybe you're right," Eeva said but then froze. "Or maybe it was a warning. Cal, look!"
She pointed past him into the center of the plateau, through a line of trees towards the cafe they'd passed earlier. Hoodie and Goggles hustled across the parking lot, looking this way and that, obviously searching.
"Shit."
"They found us," Eeva said, her voice tight.
But the pair of bad actors hadn't found anyone yet. Their heads swiveled as they stomped their way along the path, but there were just enough trees and distance between them and Cal and Eeva that they hadn't yet been spotted. Assuming, they were looking for Eeva. After the week he spent with Frank keeping tabs on the men and their haunting places, Cal wondered if they could now be looking for him.
Distorted guitar erupted from his pocket as his phone buzzed violently, a miniature concert, as if summoned by his earlier memory. The woody plateau wasn't quite a jungle, but they were being hunted like prey, and right now the extra noise wasn't helpful. Cal cursed under his breath as he untangled his phone from his pocket, fumbling with urgency as Eeva pleaded with her eyes for him to silence the ringing guitar.
It was Frank.
"You're not going to believe this—," Cal said into his phone. He and Eeva moved away from the viewing point and tried to put as many trees as possible between them and their pursuers.
"Cal, listen!" Frank interrupted. "Please tell me you're not actually on top of that hill. The big fucking one with the cannon? I could hear the damn thing from down here!" Frank was breathing heavily like he'd been running.
"Where are you?" Cal asked. "And how'd you know where I was?"
"We're sharing our locations on the app, remember? And I'm trying to get to you!"
Cal did not remember installing a location sharing app, but that was a conversation for a different time. Eeva shook his arm.
"Is that Frank? Tell him those guys are here."
"Frank, those guys are here, our bad actors, and they're looking for us!"
"No shit! Why do you think I'm running up this fucking hill?! I was keeping tabs on the delivery van when it picked up Goggles from the port and then hauled ass up the backside of the hill. Right where your phone says you are. What happened, Cal? How'd they find you?"
"Cal, they're getting closer!" Eeva said beside him, clutching his arm.
They moved away farther from the cafe and the bad actors, but there was no place to go. "I don't know. Maybe they saw us when we walked past the port on our way here. Frank, do you think they're dangerous? What do we do?"
"You get the hell out of there, that's what you do!"
"We're trapped. They'll spot us any moment and there's a goddamn cliff behind us!"
"I'm almost there." More heavy breathing, coming in puffs.
Eeva's eyes were big, two glacial pools in a worried face. "What do you think they're going to do? They're not going to attack us in public, right?"
"They're not going to get close to you, I promise you that." he said, and then into his phone: "Frank, get your ass up here. I'm going to need some back-up!"
"Cal?! Don't do anything stupid—"
He shoved his phone back in his pocket, pulled his ballcap down tight, and then squeezed Eeva's hands, his wedding ring heavy and hard between their fingers. Later there might be a moment to reflect in grief, to withdraw in self-imposed shame, to question if he was ready to move on. But—right then—he had to act. "It's a sacrifice bunt," he said. "Maybe I won't make it to first, but it will send you home."
"I don't understand."
Their touch lingered for a moment, and in a movie, Cal would have kissed her for the first time—and maybe the last—but instead he channeled his inner Frank and pulled away with a wink.
"You will."
Then he was off, and about to do something stupid.
Again.