“Take it easy. I’m not blaming you for anything.”
“You lied to me.”
“I did?”
“I thought I was working in an official capacity when I translated all those documents that you asked me to read.” She gestured toward the wardrobe. “Do you have any idea how many hours I spent doing translations for you? Both to and from Italian and English?”
“You’ve done a great job. But you didn’t mention anything about . . .” He pointed to the wardrobe.
“They didn’t ask.”
“Good, Marina.”
“Is it true what they’re saying? That you’ve gone off the deep end?”
“What do you think?”
Marina straightened up and made an obvious attempt to evaluate Tommaso’s mental state. He smiled. He needed her to get hold of the package from China for him. “Stop looking at me like that,” he said.
“They say it’s because of your mother.”
“Ask yourself who you should believe. Me or the commissario?”
She considered the question. Marina was a sensible woman. He’d personally chosen her as his secretary. The mother of three, shaped like a barrel, with a heart of gold, and even more important: She spoke English. The language was like linguistic saffron in official Venice—very few were fluent in English, and those who were could command high wages. Marina’s mascara was smearing. He handed her a tissue and gave up waiting for her to answer his question. “Could you find me a cardboard box? I’m going to take the case documents home with me. And then if you wouldn’t mind doing one last favor for me.”
She nodded. “All right.”
“This is important, Marina. More important than you or me. When the commissario gives you the package from China and asks you to send it back, don’t do it.”
She was once again giving him an obedient look. That was what he wanted.
“Instead, you need to send it to the person who has this cell phone number.” He handed her the napkin on which he written down the number.
“Who is this person?”
“A police officer in Copenhagen. A man who is also working on the case. Maybe the only one now that I’ve been fired.”
“How am I going to find out who he is?”
“Call the number and ask him. Or send him a text message and ask for his name and address. Then send him the package. In a diplomatic pouch. That will be faster.”
16
Offices of the Red Cross—Copenhagen
Good people, you said?”
Niels couldn’t tell whether Thorvaldsen was flattered or upset.
“All the murder victims were good people?”
“Yes. You know—pediatricians, human rights activists, aid workers. People in your line of work.”
“The humanitarian business. You’re welcome to use that term here.”
Niels looked around at the impressive office. Danish Design furniture. Wegener. Børge Mogensen. Genuine Persian carpets. Huge picture windows. A large framed photograph of Thorvaldsen flanked by Nelson Mandela and Bono, possibly taken on Robben Island.
“Who else is on the list?” Thorvaldsen asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Your list. Who else are you going to warn?”
“I’m afraid that’s confidential,” Niels told him.
Thorvaldsen leaned back with an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “The police department’s list of all the good men in the realm. I suppose I should consider it an honor to be included?”
Niels didn’t know what to say.
Thorvaldsen went on, “Why do you think there’s a connection between these murders? Couldn’t it just be a coincidence?”
“Sure, that’s possible. But we’re not involved in the actual investigation.”
“Then what are you involved in?” He gave a wry smile, so as not to seem skeptical. But it was too late for that.
“Just think of it as a warning light. A very small one. In case anything out of the ordinary occurs. A break-in. Vandalism. Anything like that. And then give me a call. I assume you haven’t received any threats over the past couple of years, have you?”
“Constantly.” Thorvaldsen nodded. “My ex-wife’s lawyers have been threatening me day and night.”
There was a knock on the door, and the secretary came in, carrying a coffeepot and cups.
“I don’t think coffee is going to be necessary,” Thorvaldsen said, giving her a sharp look. “We’ll be done in a minute.”
Niels saw it at once. She’d made another mistake. Her boss wasn’t happy with her. He felt a need to come to her rescue. “Just one cup would be great. Thanks. In return for all the coins I toss into the Red Cross collection cans whenever you’re doing a fund-raiser.”
The secretary poured him a cup, her hands shaking slightly.
“Thank you,” said Niels, looking up at her.
Thorvaldsen asked, “Are you going to offer me police protection?” He seemed to have moved from no longer feeling flattered to getting a bit scared.
“We haven’t reached that point by any means,” said Niels. “The threat level is minimal at the moment.” He gave Thorvaldsen a reassuring smile. He knew full well that such a remark would cause the opposite of the intended reaction. It wasn’t the word “minimal” that the man’s subconscious would fasten on to. It was the phrase “threat level.” If somebody was worried about various diseases, it didn’t help to read about them, no matter how rare the illnesses might be; on the contrary, that would merely feed the person’s anxiety. Niels suddenly felt an inexplicable urge to punish Thorvaldsen. To give his subconscious a few extra morsels to chew on in the nights ahead.
“Even though the murders were carried out with extraordinary cunning, at the present time there’s no reason to believe that Denmark will be the next target.” Niels smiled at the secretary again before she left the room.
“Then why are you sitting here talking to me?”
“Timely precaution.”
“If you consider that my life is in danger, you need to ensure my safety.”
“Not as the threat level now stands. If it should change, we will of course take the necessary measures. Until that time, you should just—”
“Take it easy?”
“Precisely.” Niels looked out the window. The view was of Fælled Park. A fine layer of frost had settled over the grass and trees, making them look like part of an old painting whose colors had faded.
An uncomfortable silence ensued. Thorvaldsen’s dissatisfaction was like a physical presence in the room. So Niels was not surprised when the man sighed and prepared to launch into a lengthy diatribe.
“Now, look here. I spend every waking hour of my life rescuing people in need. According to estimates, our drinking water project in East Africa alone has saved tens of thousands of lives, not to mention the attention that the Red Cross has focused on the disaster in—” He stopped short, apparently realizing that Niels wasn’t listening. “The least we can expect in a situation like this is a little help from the authorities.”
“I can give you my phone number. As I said, you’re always welcome to contact me.”
“Thanks, but I know the phone number for the police!”
Silence again descended. Niels stood up. “So, feel free to call me. Just keep an eye peeled for anything unusual.”
“Sure. Great. Say hello to Amundsen at Amnesty International for me. I assume he’s next on the list. Ask him whether we should hide out together—in his summer house or mine.”
Niels nodded and left the office.
Don’t worry, Thorvaldsen, thought Niels as he rode down in the elevator. You’re in no danger. He took out the list. The list of all the good men in the realm, as Thorvaldsen had dubbed it.
He purposely crossed out Thorvaldsen’s name.
17
The Copenhagen suburb of Lyngby
God knows what they need all this square footage for, thought Niels as he turned down one of the residential
streets. Not a soul in sight. Parked in front of all the huge houses were the small cars belonging to the wives. This evening the big cars would return home and park next to them.
The brass plate on the front door, which was painted a dark Bornholm red, had only one name: Amundsen. Number two on the list. There were sounds from inside the house. Footsteps going up and down stairs. Unsteady footsteps. Niels rang the bell again and then followed up with a resounding knock on the aging wooden door. There was a huge dent in the middle of the panel, as if someone had tried to kick it in. Niels was getting impatient. “Come on, open up.”
He glanced back at the street. No witnesses. With his finger, he flipped open the mail slot and caught a glimpse of a naked young woman running upstairs. Somebody was whispering, and Niels stood up at the very moment the door opened. The man had youthfully blond hair that reached almost to his shoulders. And clear blue eyes. “Can I help you?”
“Christian Amundsen?”
“Yes?”
“Niels Bentzon. From the Copenhagen Police. I went to see you at the Amnesty offices, but they told me you had called in sick today.”
Amundsen stared at Niels in confusion before replying. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly say that I’m sick. Everybody needs a day off once in a while. Does this have something to do with my car?”
“I also tried to phone. May I come in for ten minutes or so?”
“What’s this about?”
Niels looked at the framed photographs on the wall: Amundsen in Africa, embracing two released prisoners. Amundsen in Asia, standing in front of a prison with two happy-looking Asians.
“That was taken in Myanmar.” Amundsen came into the room.
“You mean Burma?”
“Political prisoners. I spent three years trying to get them released from Insein Prison. It’s one of the most horrific prisons in the world.”
“That must have been a big day.”
“And do you think I was able to get them asylum in Denmark?”
“Not when you put it like that.”
“Finally, the Australian government agreed to take them. After massive pressure from a lot of people, including us.”
The girl whose legs Niels had already admired came in carrying a tea service on a tray. She was now wearing jeans. Tight jeans and lovely red lipstick that suited her smooth black Asian hair. She couldn’t be a day over twenty. The chemistry between her and Amundsen was electric. Niels felt like he was standing in the middle of their bedroom.
“This is Pinoy. She works for us as an au pair.”
“Hi,” she said. “Tea?” A sweet voice, accommodating yet independent.
“Yes, thanks.”
“Pinoy was also persecuted by the authorities. She was sent to prison twice. Even so, we had to give up trying to bring her here as a refugee. Instead, we were able to get her into the country as an au pair. That rule will never be touched. Not as long as the upper classes need their cheap labor force.”
“Getting back to the matter at hand—” Niels began, but Amundsen interrupted him.
“That’s just about the only way we can get anybody into Denmark anymore. We try to help as many as we can.”
Niels let a few seconds pass to allow Amundsen’s excuse to fade. “As I was saying—you don’t need to worry. Just call me if anything unusual happens. A break-in, vandalism, locks that are picked, mysterious phone calls, et cetera.”
“Nothing like that has ever happened to me. It all sounds a bit far-fetched—I mean, the idea that somebody’s going around murdering good people.”
Amundsen jumped at the sound of a car pulling up outside. “That’s the kids. Could you wait a minute?”
Before Niels had time to answer, Amundsen was gone. From the window, Niels could see Amundsen’s very pregnant wife trying to lift two little kids out of the car. Niels cast a glance at the front hall and caught Amundsen’s eye. The Asian girl was standing next to him. She seemed angry. He whispered something to her right before the front door opened. Happy children, smiles, and heartfelt hugs. Niels used the waiting time to examine once again the photographs of Amundsen’s victories. A framed article on the wall announced: Amnesty International saves Yemenis from deportation.
“I’m sorry.” Amundsen stood in the doorway holding a child in his arms. He was a confused man trying to balance his personal urges with all the good that his superego wanted to achieve. Niels smiled at the little boy.
“That’s all right. As I was saying: Call me if you see anything out of the ordinary. And there’s no reason for concern.”
Amundsen took Niels’s card. “I’m not worried. Do you want to know my opinion?”
“Sure.”
“You’re looking in the wrong place.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not in my field that you’ll find the good people. There’s far too much ego and media attention involved.”
“It’s not my job to find the good people. I just have to warn those whom some lunatic might perceive to be good.”
Amundsen hesitated. Then he calmly looked Niels in the eye and said, “Are you sure about that?”
Amundsen was sitting in his home office, alone. The officer had gone. It had not been a pleasant visit. The policeman seemed able to see right through his life. All the lies. Why hadn’t he mentioned the anonymous phone calls? The caller who slammed down the phone in the night? Or the time when somebody threw a bottle at the front door? Amundsen could still hear the crash in his mind. The bottle had shattered into a thousand pieces and left a permanent dent in the door. Among the shards of glass, he’d found the label from the neck of the bottle. Amarula Cream. Amundsen was quite familiar with the brand—a creamy African liqueur, overly sweet and with the picture of an elephant on the label. He’d once gotten drunk on Amarula in Sierra Leone. Or maybe it was Liberia. Could the bottle flung at his front door have anything to do with one of those cases? Sierra Leone—the gateway to hell. Gruesome crimes, poverty, starvation, disease, corruption, mad dictators, and a nonexistent justice system that hampered the work Amnesty was trying to do. It was impossible to avoid missteps when operating in places like that. And missteps bred enemies.
One incident in particular had made an impression on him. Along with the other Amnesty directors, Amundsen had gone to Sierra Leone a couple of years ago. They were going to set up a crisis center for child soldiers. Amundsen had met two boys who were in prison, on death row, convicted of a grisly massacre in their village. One boy had shot his own younger brother, who was ten. The boy himself was twelve. The boy had demanded that the rest of his family be executed. Amundsen had never met anyone who was so alone. The country, the army that had kidnapped him, the social welfare authorities, if they could even be called that, his family—they had all abandoned the boy to his fate. Amnesty had collected over a hundred thousand signatures on his behalf. Amundsen had personally delivered them to the president of the nation’s supreme court. It was a farce. Their courtroom was a hall once used for banquets in an abandoned hotel. The gods only knew where the pitch-black judge had found the ridiculous white wig that he wore. The gods had long since deserted West Africa, leaving behind organizations like Amnesty, the Red Cross, and Doctors Without Borders to clean up this shithole on earth. Their efforts to help were nothing more than snowballs in hell.
The other boy in prison still had the support of his family. He had been kidnapped when he was eight, and he was ten by the time Amundsen met him. He had been trained in two months to be a killing machine. They had practiced on children. They had practiced by shooting other children who had been kidnapped. The boys were either shot by an adult sergeant or learned to pull the trigger themselves. Mike, as this boy was called, had quickly learned the value of drugs and how important it was to dull the senses. Without the drugs, he would have gone crazy and shot himself. Amundsen would never forget his first meeting with the boy. He had expected to encounter a horrible situation, but the reality was far worse than he could have imagined.
What he saw was a boy who had become an addict in order to survive in hell. A little boy, sweating and shaking in his cell, all his thoughts and words focused on getting another fix. Amundsen was in close contact with the boy’s family. Maybe he tried to instill too much hope in them. Both boys ended up being shot in a filthy prison yard. Of course. All stories from Sierra Leone ended in death.
The boy’s mother had reproached Amundsen, saying that he hadn’t done enough and he might as well go home. He could still remember what she shouted after him: “My son’s death pays your salary.”
Amundsen often thought about those words. They had made a strong impression on him. An unfair conclusion, he told himself. He was fighting for them, after all. His job was to instill hope. But the boy’s mother hadn’t understood that, and her words continued to haunt him.
My son’s death pays your salary.
18
City Center—Copenhagen
Niels took out the list again. Severin Rosenberg, he read. The next-to-last name. After him, the only one left was Gustav Lund, the wild card, the mathematician who had won a Fields Medal. It appealed to Niels that the man was a dark horse and not just one of the well-meaning media darlings. It strengthened his sense that the list was trying to locate people who were good, people who had found other ways to help than by participating in climate demonstrations or torchlight processions in Town Hall Square.
Niels hadn’t had time to do much research. What he knew was pretty much the same as what anyone would know from reading newspapers on a regular basis over the past few years. Meaning that on several occasions Severin Rosenberg had offered refuge to individuals who were denied asylum. He was the refugee pastor, as the media liked to call him. Various sectors on the political far right had chosen to direct their hatred at him. Joining them were large segments of the Danish population. But Severin Rosenberg had refused to be cowed; he had stood firm in his belief that brotherly love meant brotherly love. That it couldn’t be interpreted to apply only to people with blond hair and blue eyes. Everyone had an obligation to help people in need. Niels had often seen the pastor discuss his views on TV. Rosenberg gave the impression of being an intelligent but slightly starry-eyed idealist who was willing to go through hell and high water to defend his beliefs. Two thousand years ago he would have been tossed to the lions in the Colosseum, persecuted like the other Christians who believed in sharing both love and earthly goods. There was something a bit naive about Rosenberg. Niels found that appealing.
The Last Good Man Page 9