“Assistant?” She refused to take the phone. “What are you talking about?”
“Just tell me what he’s saying. That’s all.”
“No.” She sounded quite adamant. Even so, she took the phone from him. “Oui?”
Niels studied her as she talked. He couldn’t tell how fluent she was in French, but she spoke quickly and seemingly without effort.
“He’s asking about the number murders.” She held her hand over the cell and looked at Niels.
“The number murders? Are those numbers they have on their backs? Is he sure about that? Ask him to explain.”
“Did you say your name was Bentzon? He wants to know your name.”
“Bentzon. Yes.” Niels nodded. “Niels Bentzon. Ask him if there are any suspects. If there are any particular . . .”
She pressed her hand to her other ear and moved a little farther away.
Niels fixed his gaze on her. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the cat slowly approaching. He sat down and let the cat sniff at his hand. His attention shifted to the photograph of Hannah and her son. And then to the small bookshelf where a photo album lay open. He went over to look at it. Six pictures told the whole story. Hannah—maybe ten years ago—holding some sort of research award in her hands. Smiling proudly. She was young and beautiful and radiant with life and ambition. The world lay at her feet. And she was well aware of it, savoring the moment. A couple of pictures of Hannah and Gustav. An extraordinarily handsome man of about fifty. Black hair combed back. Dark eyes. Tall and broad-shouldered. Without a doubt a man with plenty of female admirers; open to flirtatious glances, tempting offers. A photo showing a pregnant Hannah. She was standing arm in arm with Gustav on the Brooklyn Bridge. Niels looked at the picture more closely. Maybe he’d become too much of a policeman—sometimes he got sick and tired of the role—but he couldn’t help noticing that while Hannah was looking right at the camera, Gustav’s eyes were directed slightly off to the side. What was he looking at? A beautiful woman who just happened to be passing by on the bridge?
Then two pictures showing Hannah alone with the boy. Where was Gustav? At some conference? Off somewhere, tending to his career as an international scientist while his wife and son stayed home? The last photograph was from the boy’s birthday. There were ten candles on the cake, and Johannes had been written in frosting. Hannah and a couple of other adults were sitting around the boy, who was about to blow out the candles. Niels looked at the scene. It was one of those pictures where the person who was absent had the strongest presence. Gustav.
“He was talking about an old myth.” Hannah was standing right behind Niels as she handed him the phone. Had she noticed that he was looking at the photographs?
Niels turned around. “Myth? What sort of myth?”
“Something about thirty-six good people. From the Bible, I think. I didn’t catch all of it. But don’t you think it’s fascinating? Most of the murders were committed approximately three thousand kilometers from one another. That’s why he contacted your office. Apparently, it’s three thousand kilometers between one of the last crime scenes and—”
“Copenhagen,” Niels said, interrupting her.
For a moment they simply stared at each other.
Hannah watched as Niels backed his car out of the driveway. She was still holding his business card in her hand. For a second she was blinded by the headlights. Then she caught sight of the license plate on his car: II 12 041. She took a ballpoint pen out of a drawer. Niels was driving away; maybe she was mistaken. A pair of binoculars lay on the windowsill. She snatched them up and ran to the kitchen window, where she adjusted the focus to see more clearly. There it was. She was right. II 12 041. She wrote down the number on the back of Niels’s card and felt the tears well up in her eyes.
21
Cannaregio, the Ghetto—Venice
Bentzon . . .”
Tommaso di Barbara set down his cell phone on the edge of the balcony and looked out across the dark city. He tried pronouncing the whole name: “Niels Bentzon. Who are you?”
While the rest of Venice died when evening arrived, and the restaurant employees rushed to catch the last train back to the mainland, the Ghetto remained lively. Most of the city’s population lived in the streets surrounding the old Jewish quarter. Tommaso stood on the balcony. Sirens wailed. In half an hour the water would rise. He was tired. Didn’t have the energy to go downstairs and put up the wooden planks over the doors. On the sidewalks below, his neighbors were busy. The small wooden planks were carefully being placed between the rubber strips on either side of every door.
“Tommaso!”
His downstairs neighbor who owned the beauty salon was calling to him. Tommaso waved.
“Didn’t you hear the siren?”
“Yes, I’m coming.”
The neighbor cast a concerned look in his direction. Tommaso suspected that the man had already heard about his suspension. It was very likely. Tommaso didn’t care. In Venice everybody knew everything about everyone else; in that regard, it was like a country village. They also knew that his mother was dying. Especially the neighbors, since his mother owned the entire building. Soon it would belong to Tommaso, and they were worried that he might sell the place to some rich American.
“I’ll do it for you,” shouted his neighbor. “Where have you stored the planks?”
“Under the stairs.”
Tommaso put out his cigarette in a potted plant and went back inside his apartment. Only a single lamp was on. He was headed for bed. His brain needed to rest. But on his way through the living room, he stopped to look at the wall. He had already started pinning up the case material on the south wall. Photographs of the victims. Both men and women. Their eyes, their faces. The world map with the arrows, showing that in some ingenious way, the crime scenes were connected. The dates. All the details about everything having to do with the case. Tommaso stood and stared. Fascinated and mesmerized. Above all, frightened.
He had printed out the last photographs that he’d received from India, showing the back of the dead economist. Raj Bairoliya. The pictures of deceased family members that his mother had hung on the wall had been forced to give up their places for others who had died. Dead people who were more important. Deaths that had a certain significance—Tommaso was sure about that. Because there was no coincidence about these deaths. The victims were linked in some way, he just didn’t know how. And he couldn’t get anyone else to take up the investigation. They weren’t interested. He’d called Interpol a few months ago and was transferred a hundred times until he was finally connected to some bewildered woman. She listened halfheartedly and asked him to send in a report. Three weeks later he had received a reply. The case had been assigned a number. They would look into it as soon as that number came up, but he should count on it taking about eighteen months for that to happen.
Eighteen months. This matter couldn’t wait that long. Next to the picture of the dead man from India, Tommaso pinned up the photo of a dead lawyer from the United States. Russell Young. Number 33. Raj Bairoliya was number 34.
22
Police headquarters—Copenhagen
Night. The best time at police headquarters. Only the cleaning staff quietly moving around, emptying the wastebaskets and dusting the windowsills. They never touched the desks—there was too much paperwork cluttering the desktops.
Niels sent his report to the printer. He had included the list of everyone he’d contacted, stating that they had all been informed and warned. Timely precaution. The two most important words for modern police chiefs.
The printer had run out of paper. He found a partial ream and spent twenty minutes figuring out how to insert the paper. He was trying to focus his thoughts on Kathrine, but he kept thinking about Hannah.
The reception area next to Sommersted’s office was as neat and tidy as the man himself. Niels decided to place the report on his boss’s desk instead of on the secretary’s desk, as was customary. He wanted to
make sure that Sommersted saw it. And acknowledged that Niels had passed the test to confirm he could still be trusted.
There was only one case file lying on Sommersted’s desk. On the cover it said: Confidential. Top Priority. Niels had an urge to place his report on top of it, because otherwise Sommersted might never read it. How important could that other file be, anyway? He opened it. Not to snoop but just to find out if it would be all right to put his own report on top. Suspected terrorist. Landed in Stockholm yesterday. From Yemen. Changed planes in India. Mumbai. Linked to terrorist activities of last year. Possibly on his way to Denmark. Niels leafed through the pages. There was a blurry photo of the terrorist, taken with a surveillance camera outside the American embassy in Cairo. The Muslim Brotherhood.
Niels placed his report next to the file folder. Not on top. Then he turned off the light and murmured: “Goodbye. Have a nice vacation.”
23
Southern Sweden
Disturbing sensory impressions. First the stewardess. Now the snow outside the train window. It had been years since Abdul Hadi had last seen snow. Back then he and his brother had gone skiing for the first and only time in Lebanon. They spent half of their monthly allowance on the train trip and rental fees for the ski equipment. On their very first time down the slope, they both fell. His older brother injured himself rather badly. He couldn’t move his arm, and for several days Abdul Hadi was forced to assist him with the most intimate activities. Helping him take off his pants. That sort of thing. They couldn’t afford to go to a doctor, and they were ashamed. The only money they had came from Yemen, from their family. The funds were meant to pay for their education so they could one day take over the task of supporting their family members.
He felt a hand land solidly on his shoulder.
At the sight of the man’s uniform, Abdul Hadi got nervous. Almost panic-stricken. He looked at the other passengers. The woman seated next to him took out her ticket, and finally, he realized what was expected of him.
“Sorry,” he mumbled in English.
The conductor punched his ticket and continued through the train car, although he glanced back twice. Both times he fixed his gaze on Abdul Hadi’s nervous eyes. Hadi got up, grabbed his bag, and headed for the toilet. It was this type of incident that could ruin everything.
He pulled on the door handle. The toilet was occupied. Maybe it would be better if he stayed in his seat. Maybe it would look suspicious if he moved. The conductor came back, passing Abdul Hadi without a glance. It was only when the man reached the end of the car that he hastily looked over his shoulder as he spoke with a colleague. The colleague turned to look at Abdul Hadi. He’d been noticed. There was no reason to think otherwise. But they had no idea why he had caught their attention. Only that he seemed nervous and was behaving suspiciously. Shit! It was all because he’d been taken by surprise. Because the conductor had touched his shoulder. And because he was an Arab. That was why the conductor was calling the police. Abdul Hadi was convinced of it. He would do the same in the man’s place.
The train was slowing down, and a voice announced that they were arriving at Linköping. Abdul Hadi remembered that it was the one stop before Malmö. The yellowish light from the train station reminded him of the bazaar in Damascus. But the harsh light was the only thing that reminded him of the old streets lined with vendors in the Middle East. Here, he saw a few people in the station, which was clean and cold, with scores of signs offering information. He tried to spot the conductor. He needed to make a quick decision. Some of the passengers were getting off. If he stayed on the train and the police arrived, he wouldn’t have a chance.
He had to get off. He jumped off the train, clutching his bag in his hand. Fuck! The backpack containing the photos of the church. And the explosives. It was lying under his seat in the train compartment. He was about to jump back on board when he caught sight of the conductor talking on a phone as he looked for Abdul Hadi. For a second they stood and stared at each other, separated by a distance of no more than six feet. The mindless henchman of the law, wearing a uniform and cap. The man had no idea what sort of society he was slaving away to uphold. A society built 100 percent on the exploitation of others, on racial prejudices and hatred.
Abdul Hadi turned and ran. The conductor saw him take off and began shouting. Abdul Hadi increased his speed. He ran down the steps that led underneath the tracks and emerged in front of the station building. The train hadn’t left the platform. He had to go back. Because of the photos of the church. And the explosives. Otherwise his plan would be discovered.
He started running back. Maybe he could jump on the rear of the last train car. Get hold of his backpack and then pull the emergency brake to make his escape.
It was too late. Abdul Hadi reached the platform just as the train pulled away.
Minutes of stunned disbelief. Seconds that weighed on him. And shame. Everything was ruined. He had failed. Abdul Hadi opened his bag to look for his diary, which held his cousin’s phone number. By now he had hurried through the town until he reached the other side because he figured they would be searching for him. Everything was jumbled together inside his bag. He pulled out several pieces of paper and saw that they were actually the photographs of the church. He couldn’t recall when he had moved them from his backpack. It took a few moments before he realized that all was not lost. He no longer had the explosives, but he did have the photos. They wouldn’t have any idea what his intentions were; they didn’t know his plan.
24
Carlsberg silo—Copenhagen
Whenever Niels couldn’t sleep, he would get up and read. Preferably some boring book or a day-old newspaper. Wine helped, too, but hard liquor always gave him heart palpitations. He hadn’t even opened the bottle of cognac that Anni gave him for his fortieth birthday.
Tonight he just lay in bed. Sleep refused to come. He lay there staring into the dark. His suitcase was packed and ready, his passport and ticket were lying on the table. He had ironed a shirt for himself and hung it on a hanger. He’d made all the preparations. The only thing left for him to do was stare up at the smooth cement ceiling and wait for six o’clock, when he needed to leave. He closed his eyes and tried to envision Kathrine’s face. Her eyes. So filled with enthusiasm whenever she talked about her work. The slightly childish dimples that she did her best to hide. She often laughed with her hand held in front of her mouth. Her temperament was always so mercurial. The curve of her cheekbones. Her slender nose. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t put all her features together. He imagined disconnected details that kept bumping into one another, obstructing and preventing any unified picture from emerging.
With relief, he heard his phone ring.
“Hi, sweetheart. I was just lying here thinking about you.”
“Did you take the pills?” Kathrine sounded stressed. Tense and nervous. But also filled with anticipation.
“I took a few. I’ll take some more in a minute.”
“Turn on your computer,” she said.
“You want to make sure that I actually take them?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I’ll show you.” Niels turned on his computer. It took a moment. Neither of them spoke as they waited.
“Hi,” he said when he saw her on the screen. She was sitting in her usual place. Niels sometimes felt as if he knew that room—almost eight thousand kilometers away—better than any in their own apartment.
Niels took two pills. He hoped he wasn’t approaching an overdose. He’d barely scanned the label on the package. “So. Are you satisfied?” He sounded a bit grumpy even to himself.
“You don’t believe they’ll work.” The words practically shot out of her mouth.
“What do you mean?”
“Fuck! I can tell by looking at you, Niels. You don’t believe in them. How hard can it be? Just think of how many people suffer from some sort of phobia. They take a few pills, and then they’re back in business!”
“That’s what
I’m doing. I’m trying.”
“Are you trying hard enough, Niels?”
Silence. He hesitated. Was there a latent threat in her voice? A hint of this is your last chance in her tone? He couldn’t get that notion out of his head. Plenty of emotions were foreign to him, but paranoia was not one of them.
“It was one of the first things I told you when we met. That I have a hard time flying.”
“That was a hundred years ago!”
“Do you remember what you said? That it didn’t matter, because I was the whole world to you?”
“A thousand years ago!”
“Those were your very words.”
“We have no children, Niels. And we’ve never been farther away than Berlin together.”
Niels let that pass. He’d always been bad at arguing. Especially with Kathrine.
“Take a look at this, Niels.” She pulled down the neck of her shirt to give him a glimpse of one of her breasts. “This is hard on me, too. I need intimacy. It’s biology, you know. I feel like I’m withering away.”
“Kathrine.” Niels didn’t know what to say. Sometimes the right tone of voice was enough. But not at the moment.
“I want you here tomorrow, Niels. You . . .” Her voice broke. “If you’re not here tomorrow . . .”
“What?”
“I can’t promise anything much longer, Niels.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t! What the hell are you talking about?”
“You heard me. You have to be here tomorrow or else I can’t promise anything. Good night, Niels.”
They stared at each other. She was on the verge of tears, but she fought to hide her distress.
Then she cut the connection.
“Shit!” Niels had an urge to fling his wineglass at the computer screen, but he restrained himself. As always.
The Last Good Man Page 12