“Abdul?”
“Yes.”
“Welcome. I’m Mohammed. Your cousin.”
Only then did Abdul Hadi notice the resemblance. The oval face, the hair that wouldn’t last long on his head. The thick eyebrows. Abdul smiled. It had been years since he’d seen his mother’s brother. His uncle had been granted asylum in Sweden almost twenty years ago, and since then he’d had several children. One of them was standing in front of him. Looking well nourished, relaxed.
“They feed you well.”
“I’m fat. I know that. My father complains about it, too.”
“Please give him my greetings and convey my respects.”
“I’ll do that. Let me carry your suitcase.”
They headed for the exit.
“Why isn’t your father here to meet me?”
Mohammed seemed to be searching for the right words.
“Is he ill?”
“No.”
“Is he afraid?”
“Yes.”
Abdul shook his head.
“It doesn’t matter that he’s not here. We are so many. An entire army. A sleeping army,” said Mohammed.
“Yes. A sleeping army. But it’s not always easy to awaken its soldiers,” Abdul told his young cousin, who had eaten so well from the riches of the West.
A package was lying in the backseat. Abdul chastised Mohammed for leaving it there in plain sight. Not only was the sleeping army overweight, it was also careless.
“It’s just photographs,” Mohammed defended himself. “The explosives are in the trunk.”
Abdul studied the pictures of the church. He didn’t recognize it. “Are you sure this is the right one?”
“Positive. It’s one of the most famous churches in Copenhagen.”
Then Abdul saw some of the same pictures he’d found on the Internet. Including Jesus on the wooden cross. It bothered him that the figure would be destroyed in the blast. But it wasn’t really Jesus—it was just an image, nothing more than an image. The execrable and unceasing attempts of the West to create images, figures, and drawings of everything that was sacred. Nativity plays, carvings meticulously shaped out of wood to depict scenes from the Bible. Statues and paintings. It never ended. The people of the West tried to use images to convince themselves; it was what they had always done and still did. These days the images were nothing more than advertisements for their lifestyle. Not like Hadi and his people, who could sense the divine inside of themselves. They didn’t need to hold it out in front of them. He looked at the figure of Jesus again. A childish conceit, he thought.
“We’ve loosened the screws.” Mohammed pointed at the basement window visible in the photograph of the church. “It took us three nights to do it, but nobody saw us. We’re sure about that. All four screws are loose. All you have to do is push up the window.”
Abdul Hadi’s stomach growled. It had been hours since he’d had anything to eat other than the peanuts the stewardess had given him. His thoughts returned to her briefly: her blond hair, her hand touching his. But he couldn’t think about her without seeing his dead sister. And the boy his father had run over. Two lives. It had cost two lives for him to be sitting here now. It was only right that he should repay the debt. It was pointless to think about the stewardess. How he wished that she hadn’t smiled at him. At least not in that way.
13
Polizia di Stato—Venice
The package lay on the table. Very likely the only recording of what had happened when one of the murders was committed. It had been almost impossible to obtain, but he’d managed it.
Tommaso di Barbara rubbed his eyes and then looked at the small, neatly wrapped package on the conference room table. He had tracked down plenty of victims, but he hadn’t come up with any leads for finding the killer.
Commissario Morante had apparently decided not to come alone. Tommaso could hear their footsteps out in the hall. Official footsteps marching in time. A unified tempo is fine in music but appalling when applied to the human gait, thought Tommaso. When people march in step, it’s because they’re going about something too brutal to do alone. The door opened. The commissario sat down, and before even looking at Tommaso, he poured glasses of water for himself, the personnel manager, and the man from the mainland, who was a stranger to Tommaso. Di Barbara made an effort to look as healthy as he could, given that he had both a fever and a headache.
“That was some night. With the glassblower’s widow,” said the commissario.
“Has she confessed?” asked Tommaso.
“Yes. Early this morning. She waited to do it until a priest was present along with Flavio.”
“Was it because of a life insurance policy?”
“No, there was no life insurance.” The commissario cleared his throat and then changed the subject. “Tommaso, I’m now going to ask you for the last time.”
“Yes,” Tommaso hastened to reply.
“Yes?”
“I was the one who contacted the Chinese authorities. And got them to send the tape. It may contain information of great importance.”
The commissario raised his voice: “Without authorization, you used official channels to send warnings to Kiev, Copenhagen, and a long list of other cities.”
Tommaso stopped listening. He wondered how the commissario had found out about that. Somebody must have squealed. Or else they’d been keeping an eye on him for longer than he’d realized.
Tommaso again attempted to explain. “As I’ve been trying to tell you, these murders have been following a specific pattern, and we haven’t seen the last of them.”
Silence. Someone cleared his throat.
“But Tommaso,” said the commissario, “you contacted our embassy in Delhi and had them send a man to Mumbai to look for evidence.”
“Not evidence. An Indian economist had been murdered.”
The commissario went on as if Tommaso hadn’t spoken. “You asked the Chinese authorities to hand over material to us. And you’ve been in contact with Interpol.”
“Because they’re handling a case just like the one in Mumbai! Take a look at the reports. That’s all I’m asking. Listen to what I’m telling you. I was also dumbfounded in the beginning. It was months ago when I first saw the picture that Interpol sent out. In the beginning it was just a body with a big tattoo. Then I started studying the documents. I got Interpol to send me the photos in the original high resolution.”
“You asked them to send you more material?” The commissario shook his head.
Tommaso gave up on him and turned to look at the man on the right, the one who was a stranger. Probably some top brass from the mainland.
“First there was one murder victim. Then there were two. There was another common denominator besides the mark on their backs. They were both involved in helping other people.”
The stranger nodded, looking interested.
“I contacted Interpol, but they said they didn’t want to handle the case. They said it was too minor. So I started on it myself.”
“You started on it yourself?” the commissario repeated, again shaking his head.
“Yes, I did. In my free time. I haven’t shirked any of my duties. I haven’t missed a single shift. I’ve used my own time for the investigation.”
“Your own time! Do you really think this is only about your time? You’ve also used other people’s time. An embassy employee in Delhi, for instance.”
“We have a certain responsibility.”
The commissario chose to ignore Tommaso’s remark and continued, “Tomorrow we’re welcoming a delegation of prominent visitors. The justice minister and a number of judges and politicians. How do you think this will look to them?”
Tommaso swore silently. That was the only thing the commissario was ever concerned about: receiving the plethora of prominent visitors who seemed to pour into the city every other week. Everyone wanted to hold conferences in Venice.
Maybe the commissario sensed that Tommaso had seen through his obse
ssive vanity. At any rate, he changed tactics. “What about the people on the other end, Tommaso? When you send out a red notice, somebody has to deal with it. You’ve alerted people in numerous cities. Ankara, Sligo.”
“And Copenhagen. There’s a pattern.”
The commissario cast a plaintive look at the man from the mainland. The commissario glanced at him every time Tommaso mentioned a pattern. Now the man cleared his throat and ran both hands through his hair.
“A pattern that I haven’t quite figured out yet,” Tommaso went on. “But it’s approximately three thousand kilometers between some of the murder sites. I thought it was only right to warn the police authorities who seemed to be within the danger zone.”
Silence settled over the room. The commissario again looked at the stranger, who sat up straight and spoke for the first time. “Signor di Barbara,” he began, then allowed a brief pause to hover in the air. “We understand that your mother is seriously ill.”
Tommaso frowned. What did that have to do with anything? “Yes?”
“She’s in a hospice. Is that right?”
“Yes. The Franciscan sisters are taking care of her.”
“It can be very difficult to cope when one of your parents is dying. I lost my own mother just last year.”
Tommaso gave him an inquiring look. And then turned to stare at the commissario, who was studying the tabletop.
“Sometimes when we’re feeling stressed about situations that are beyond our control, we throw ourselves into senseless tasks. As a form of mental compensation. A kind of sublimation. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I’m sorry, but who exactly are you?”
“Dr. Macetti.”
“Doctor? A doctor of what?”
“Psychiatry,” said the man, looking Tommaso in the eye before he went on. “It’s perfectly natural and completely acceptable for the brain to produce an excess of activity. That’s actually a healthier reaction than remaining passive. Or becoming depressed. Or turning to drink.” The psychiatrist’s last comments were directed at the commissario, who nodded eagerly.
“So you think I’m going crazy?”
They smiled in embarrassment. “Of course not,” said the psychiatrist. “Your reaction is totally normal.”
Tommaso again focused his attention on the package lying on the table. It still hadn’t been opened.
“Perhaps it would be best if you concentrated on your mother right now,” said the psychiatrist. “And then you could come to see me once a week in Veneto.”
“We don’t even need to use the word ‘suspension,’ ” said the commissario. “That sounds so dramatic. But I’m going to have to ask you to clean out your office and hand in your gun and ID.”
14
Offices of the Red Cross—Copenhagen
The young secretary in the offices of the Red Cross had a nervous air. The nervousness was well hidden behind a mask of friendliness and candid self-confidence, but it was there nonetheless.
“From the police department?”
“Yes. Niels Bentzon.”
A flush appeared at the base of her throat. The change in color was barely visible, but Niels saw it at once. It was the sort of thing he’d been trained to notice.
Police negotiators were ordinary police officers who’d been trained by psychologists and psychiatrists to resolve conflicts without the use of physical force. The very first course that Niels had attended about the secret language of the face had opened a whole new world to him. He and his colleagues were taught to register the tiniest of movements, the ones no one can ever control. The pupils of the eyes, the blood vessels that run up and down the throat. They watched films with no sound. Learned to study faces without listening to the words.
“Mr. Thorvaldsen will see you in five minutes.”
“Thanks. That’s fine.” Niels picked up a brochure about a Red Cross project in Mozambique and sat down to wait in the small reception area.
Thorvaldsen was looking extremely solemn on the front of the brochure. Younger than he looked on TV the other day. Malaria, civil war, and the lack of clean drinking water are some of the greatest threats to public health in Mozambique, he stated in the brochure. Niels put it aside. Mozambique was far away. He could see Thorvaldsen sitting in his office on the other side of the glass partition. He was laughing about something. Niels opened the case file from Interpol and took out a dossier, so he wouldn’t be sitting there staring into space. He looked at the phone number of the Italian police officer who had written up the case: Venice. Strange, but it didn’t look as though any “good people” had been killed in Italy. There was one in Russia, though. Moscow. Vladimir Zhirkov, a journalist and social critic. According to the file, he had died in prison. Niels shook his head. In Russia things were apparently done in reverse order—the good were put in prison while the criminals went free. The Russian authorities stated that the cause of death was a blood clot. So why had Zhirkov ended up on the list of the good people who were murdered? Niels found the answer farther down on the page. The bodies all had the same tattoo. A tattoo in a specific pattern. Had Sommersted mentioned that? Niels couldn’t recall. There was no other information. Well, it didn’t matter, because the case didn’t particularly interest him. Sommersted’s lack of enthusiasm seemed to have infected Niels. Good Lord, a few murders committed in distant parts of the world. So what? Three or four hundred people died in traffic accidents every year in Denmark. Many of them children. And who worried about that? Was there some police officer on the other side of the globe thinking about those traffic deaths right this minute? Hardly. The only thing that interested Niels was the fact that he would soon be on his way to see Kathrine. He was going to toss back those tranquilizers like candy. Enjoy the sun. And not give a shit that the hotel—according to Kathrine—looked like some ugly citadel surrounded by barbed wire and armed guards. He was going to gorge himself on the fabulous food that the hotel’s Filipino kitchen staff cooked for lousy wages. Make love to Kathrine. Enjoy her lovely body. Enjoy the fact that he could reach out to touch her whenever he liked. Forget all about Sommersted and—
“Hello?”
Niels was holding his cell phone in his hand. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d made a call. It was as if his fingers had a will of their own. A circle was drawn around a name on one of the documents in the file. Tommaso di Barbara, then a phone number. Had he put that circle there?
“Hello?” said the voice again.
“Tommaso di Barbara?” said Niels aloud. He probably wasn’t pronouncing it correctly.
“Sì.” The voice sounded tired, dejected.
“This is Niels Bentzon,” he said in English. “I’m calling you from the Copenhagen Homicide Division. I have a report here that says you were the first officer to—”
“Scusa. Parla italiano?”
“No.”
“Français?”
Niels hesitated. He made eye contact with the secretary. “Do you happen to speak Italian? Or French?” he asked her.
“No.” She beamed at him. Seldom had Niels seen anyone look so happy not to speak a foreign language. Or was it because he’d given her some unexpected attention? Thorvaldsen was now on his way out of his office.
“Monsieur? Hello?” said the voice on the phone.
“I’ll call you back later, Mr. di Barbara. Okay?” Niels ended the conversation and stood up.
Thorvaldsen was standing in the doorway, taking leave of his two visitors. “Keep your cards close to your chest. We don’t want to start a media frenzy at the moment,” he said to one of the men, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Are we agreed?”
“There’s a man here from the police asking for a brief meeting with you,” murmured the secretary nervously.
“The police?” Thorvaldsen turned and caught sight of Niels. “Has something happened?”
“No, no.” Niels took a step closer and held out his hand. “Niels Bentzon, from the Copenhagen Police.”
Thorv
aldsen had a powerful handshake and a resolute look in his eyes. He was a man who was used to having other people take him seriously. “The police?” he repeated.
Niels nodded. “This will only take a minute.”
15
Polizia di Stato—Venice
Tommaso wrote down the phone number of the Danish police officer. He felt almost elated in spite of his new status: officially on paid leave. It was the first time in all the months he’d spent on the case that anyone had ever responded. He closed the door to his office. The commissario had given him the rest of the day to write up his report on the glassblower’s widow. Not that there were any problems with the case. It was a simple matter of a confession of guilt. The woman just hadn’t been able to stand the jerk any longer.
His office had a view of the canal and the train station. The furnishings consisted of a desk, a chair, and a small sofa upholstered in imitation green leather. There was also a wardrobe, but Tommaso didn’t use it for clothes. He opened the door to the wardrobe. The commissario hadn’t found it. He was almost certain about that. Otherwise his boss would have mentioned it in the same breath as the suspension. The entire inside of the wardrobe was covered with clippings from the case. Photographs of the victims. Maps of the locations. Bible quotes. Tommaso’s thoughts and theories. He heard footsteps and quickly closed the wardrobe door. He knew they were keeping an eye on him.
His secretary, Marina, had just come into the reception area, looking guilty. Of course—they’d gotten their mitts on her, too. She knocked on the glass door.
“Come in,” said Tommaso.
Marina poked her head inside his office but made an effort to keep the rest of her body in the reception area. “They called from the hospital. Your mother has been asking for you all night.”
“Come on in, Marina.”
She complied, closing the door behind her.
“You told them about what I’ve been working on, didn’t you?”
“What was I supposed to do? The commissario called me last night and asked me to come down to the station. It was past ten o’clock.” She had tears in her eyes.
The Last Good Man Page 8