Loneliness overwhelmed him. All the oxygen seemed to have been sucked out of the room, or at least out of him. The phone rang again. He let it ring several times as he tried to pull himself together. He took a deep breath. He needed to sound positive. “Hi, sweetheart!”
“It’s been a long time since anyone called me that.”
It took Niels a couple of seconds to identify the voice. Hannah Lund. The astrophysicist.
“Sorry. I thought it was my wife calling.”
“I know I shouldn’t be calling you this late. It’s an old habit from my days as a researcher. Back when I couldn’t remember whether it was night or day. Do you know that feeling?”
“I suppose so.” Niels could hear how exhausted he sounded.
“Your murders have been keeping me awake.”
“My murders?”
“I’ve been giving them a lot of thought. Could we meet?”
Niels glanced at the clock. Just past two A.M. His alarm clock would go off in less than four hours. “I’m going on vacation. To South Africa. I’m catching a plane early in the morning.”
“I’ve been wondering if there might be some sort of system,” said Hannah. “I mean, if there might be numbers and distances that follow a specific pattern.”
Niels tried halfheartedly to stop her. “But we’re not involved in the investigation.”
“Have you thought about it?”
“Thought about what?”
“A system. Maybe we could figure it out.”
Niels went over to the window. The streets were dark. “You mean prevent the next murder from happening?”
“Of course, I’ll need all the available information and data. But you must have a file on the case.”
Niels was thinking. About Kathrine. “As I said—”
“You’re not involved in the investigation. I understand. All right, I’m sorry for disturbing you, Niels Bentzon.”
“That’s okay. Good night.”
“Good night, sweetheart.”
She hung up the phone.
25
Kastrup Airport—Copenhagen
Thursday, December 17
It’s one of the world’s oldest civilian airports, built on a grassy meadow outside of Copenhagen. Europe’s best-preserved airport in the years immediately following World War II. While most other airports had been heavily bombed, someone had held a protective hand over Kastrup. Higher powers? Coincidence? Or a result of the policy of collaboration with the occupying German forces?
“Did you say the international departures terminal?”
“Yes, please. Terminal three. I’m in a bit of a hurry,” said Niels.
The sharp winter sun never rose high enough in the sky to keep it from glaring right in the eyes of the drivers. Niels put on his sunglasses, which were intended for Africa. He looked at the sky: a beautiful, clear deep-blue sky. An Airbus was taking off. Niels tried to suppress a growing feeling of nausea. Every year more than 260,000 planes took off from or landed at Kastrup. Millions of people arrived at the airport or departed from it. Niels had read all the facts. He was familiar with the statistics. He knew that when he got out of the cab in a moment, he ought to breathe a sigh of relief. The most dangerous part of his journey would be over. But the knowledge had no therapeutic effect on him. On the contrary.
“You’ll be lucky if there’s no delay.” The cabdriver stopped the car. “My cousin was supposed to leave for Ankara yesterday. He’s still sitting out here waiting.”
Niels merely nodded, staring at the wing-shaped building of glass and steel looming in front of him. The climate conference was causing massive flight delays. For the eleven-day duration of the conference, Kastrup was the absolute hub of the world. As far as he’d been able to tell from the Internet, his flight wasn’t affected. Most of the heads of state had already arrived. Some had even come and gone.
As soon as Niels entered the departure hall, he began to sweat. He went to the men’s room. Swallowed a couple of pills and splashed cold water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. His face was sickly pale. The pupils of his eyes were big and shifting nervously, his expression tense.
“Are you okay, mister?”
Niels looked at the man in the mirror. A short, pudgy man from southern Europe with a friendly face.
“I’m fine. Thanks.”
For a moment the man didn’t move. Just long enough that Niels felt like telling him to quit staring. Finally, he left.
More water. Niels tried to get control of his breathing. He almost managed it, but then he was interrupted by another voice. This one coming from a loudspeaker.
“Last call for passenger Niels Bentzon, traveling on board SAS Flight 565 to Paris, departing at eight forty-five. Boarding at Gate eleven.”
The fact that he had to change planes in Paris wasn’t making things any easier. He would have to go through the whole hellish process twice.
Niels closed his eyes. Tried to shift tactics. Up until now he had been trying to pretend that nothing was happening. Now he tried the opposite. Tried to ground himself in the present moment. Telling himself to focus and act sensibly. Allow himself to feel the fear, fighting it out with common sense and statistics. Millions of people were always sitting up there in the skies. Good Lord, all he had to do was the same thing they did: sit in an airplane, have a cup of coffee, watch a movie, maybe doze for a while. Accept the fact—maybe even savor the idea—that we’re all going to die. That didn’t help. It wasn’t the plane or death that frightened him. It was the notion of leaving Copenhagen.
Niels dried his face with a paper towel, took a deep breath, and tried to muster his courage. Then he left the restroom and headed for the gate. On his way through the almost deserted departure hall, he had an image in his mind of a condemned man taking his last steps toward the gallows. He decided that he would have preferred to be executed than go on board a plane.
“Thank you. Have a good trip.”
The flight attendant, brimming with confidence, gave him her best professional smile and allowed him to enter the aircraft. No one paid any attention to him. No disapproving glances because he’d arrived so late. Everyone was busy with their own thoughts. Niels found his seat and sat down. Calm and composed, he stared at the seat in front of him. Everything was fine. He was in control. His breathing was almost normal. Maybe the pills were working after all.
Then he caught sight of his hands resting in his lap.
They were twitching as if being jolted by electricity. And the sensation was spreading. He could feel it. Spasms slowly crept up his arms to his shoulders, across his chest, and then down to his diaphragm. All sound around him disappeared. He looked about in panic. A little girl, maybe five years old, turned to stare at him with childish fascination. Her lips were moving. He heard what she was saying.
“What’s that man doing, Mommy?”
He saw the young mother hush her daughter. Telling her to stop looking at him, not to pay him any mind.
Niels stood up. He had to get out. Now.
He was about to throw up. And he was sweating again. He staggered down the aisle as if he were drunk but doing his best to hide the fact. He fought to maintain his dignity in an impossible situation.
“You can’t leave the aircraft, sir.” The stewardess who had greeted him a moment ago was staring at him. Her smile was a bit more strained.
Niels refused to stop. The plane was shaking; the engines had started up.
“You can’t—” She looked over her shoulder.
A steward came rushing up. “I’m sorry, sir, but you need to return to your seat.”
“I’m a police officer.”
Niels continued along the aisle. He was only a couple of yards from the door.
“Did you hear what I said, sir? I need to ask you to go back to your seat.”
He took hold of Niels’s arm. Quietly and calmly. Displaying an admirable patience. Niels roughly shoved him away and grabbed hold of the door handle.
>
“Now, look here.” The steward again. Still trying to be patient.
Niels took out his police ID. “Copenhagen Police. I need to get off the plane.” His voice quavered.
Someone whispered to the stewardess, “Go get the captain.”
“I need to get off!” Niels shouted.
Utter silence. The other passengers were all staring at Niels. The steward looked at him. Maybe there was a trace of sympathy in his eyes.
Then he nodded.
The wheel on his suitcase was crooked, and Niels had to fight to keep it rolling in the right direction. He swore under his breath. It had taken forever to locate his suitcase and get it off the plane. The baggage handlers had made it plain that they weren’t happy about the extra work he had caused them.
Niels finally gave up. He stopped and picked up his suitcase. Then he found a table and sat down to have a beer.
An uncomfortable seat. The nausea wasn’t quite gone. He wasn’t in the mood for alcohol; he just wanted to feel better. He wished he were dead. Why couldn’t he have stayed on the plane? He wanted to phone Kathrine, but shame was holding him back.
A new chair, this one much more comfortable. A proper seat designed for long periods of waiting. Niels couldn’t remember changing places. He was holding his cell phone in his hand. Kathrine. “Beloved Kathrine. I’m not giving up.”
She would have to make do with a text message.
He looked out the enormous windows. A Boeing 737 effortlessly took off from the tarmac.
Half an hour went by. Maybe more. Planes landed and departed. People headed off on their travels, people arrived. Businesspeople, tourists, representatives of nongovernmental organizations, government officials, climate negotiators, politicians, journalists, members of various environmental organizations. Niels studied them. Some seemed already tired and discouraged; others were full of hope and anticipation. All of them were in motion. Going from one place to another.
While he was simply sitting.
Niels got up and went over to the line in front of the Alitalia ticket counter. He wasn’t consciously thinking; his brain had stopped. Everything had been erased. All the thoughts he’d had about this trip, all the carefully executed preparations, all the statistics. What use were they now? What good had they done him?
“Excuse me, are you Italian?” he asked in English. Niels was as surprised by his words as the young man he had addressed.
“Yes, I am.”
“Could you make a phone call for me? It’s urgent.”
Niels didn’t give him time to reply, just punched in the number on his cell and handed it to the man.
“Ask for Tommaso di Barbara. Tell him to fax over everything he has on the case to Niels Bentzon. Here’s the number.” Niels pointed to the number on his business card.
“But—”
“Everything!”
26
Police headquarters—Copenhagen
Niels? I thought you were on vacation.” Anni glanced up from her computer screen, but she didn’t look as surprised as she sounded.
“Maybe later.” Niels threw out his arms. “You said it was here.”
“What?”
“The fax from Venice.”
“Oh, right.” She stood up.
“You don’t have to get up.” Niels tried to stop her. “I can get it myself.”
She ignored what he said and moved past him. Niels was annoyed. Anni’s curiosity was legendary and usually rather charming. But not at the moment.
The station was practically deserted. The open office plan, the flat screens, the ergonomic office chairs, the new desks that could be raised and lowered, expensive Scandinavian Design models, all seemed better suited to an advertising agency than a police station. But was there that big a difference? Niels had started to doubt it. Marketing terms like “image protection” and “brand identity” were heard more often at their meetings than good old-fashioned police terms. Their superiors had become celebrities. The police chief had become such a media darling that only stand-up comics and pop stars could compete with him. Niels had no idea why. The police force had become one of society’s most important political battlegrounds. Countless investigations were testimony to that fact. The police reform of 2007 had provoked more headlines than all of the recent tax reforms put together. Every third-rate politician whose spin doctor had whispered in his ear that it was important to take a stand in the debate could reel off even in his sleep a rock-solid opinion about everything pertaining to the police. Even if the politician’s knowledge of police work was based solely on a few episodes of Miami Vice.
“Just wait till you see the fax.” Anni gave Niels an excited look as she opened the door to the computer room. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
The computer room didn’t have much to do with computers. In fact, it was the only place at headquarters—aside from the restrooms—that didn’t contain a single computer. So its name was a common source of amusement. But the space did contain printers, fax machines, and photocopiers, and it was filled with the smell of leftover chemicals, ozone, and toner dust that unquestionably produced nausea and headaches after only a few minutes of exposure.
“There it is.” Anni pointed. “As thick as a phone book!”
Niels stared. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but certainly not a stack of several hundred pages.
“What’s it all about?” Anni tried to make her interest sound casual.
“It’s just material for a case.”
“Well, it can’t be an ordinary case.” She tried not to smile. “Does it have to do with the climate conference?”
“Yes.” Niels gave her a solemn look, thinking that no matter what came out of the climate conference, no matter the results of the efforts made by the world’s leaders to save the earth from going under, it would not be in vain. Because without the advent of the climate meeting, Niels wouldn’t have been able to keep his secretary from talking about this fax.
“Is there a box I can use?” Niels looked around.
Anni handed him a cardboard box filled with printer paper. He took it without a word but with a growing sense of guilt about the fact that Anni had become like a surrogate mother for him. Niels emptied the box and filled it with the faxed pages. He managed to glance at a couple of the pictures. Forensic photographs from an autopsy. Strange marks on the back of the body. A list of the murder victims. In China and India.
“Look at her dress. Aren’t they due to arrive tomorrow?”
Anni was looking at a small TV screen. Barack and Michelle Obama emerging from Air Force One someplace on the globe.
“She’s got quite a rear end. Is that supposed to be sexy?” Anni asked, turning to Niels.
“I guess. If you’re into that sort of thing.”
Michelle Obama waved from the stairway, obviously used to this type of scene. Who was she waving to? The huge cadre of security agents? Barack Obama stepped onto the tarmac and shook hands with a bald man, presumably the American ambassador in whatever country they were in. Niels couldn’t take his eyes off Obama. There was something sad in his expression in spite of the big smile. Niels had noticed the same thing the very first time he saw Obama on TV during a debate with Hilary Clinton. A trace of something sorrowful. As if he harbored some doubt about his goals. Not about his will to carry them out, to create a better world. But he seemed to doubt whether the world was actually ready.
A light was on in Sommersted’s office, which surprised Niels as he emerged from the computer room. He set the box filled with the faxed pages on the floor, using his foot to shove it under a desk so nobody would see it. India and China. They were the last two murders on the list from Venice. Hadn’t that terrorist also been in India?
“Watch yourself,” he heard Anni warning him. “He’s in a foul mood today.”
“Isn’t he always?”
Niels knocked on the door and went in. Sommersted was standing next to his desk, still wearing his overcoat.
He seemed to be looking for something.
“Yes?” He didn’t bother to look at Niels. “I’m on my way out the door.”
His tone of voice was hostile. He was clearly a man under pressure. A man who hadn’t gotten enough sleep in a long time and whose head was filled with horror scenes of potential security disasters during the conference.
“About that man from Yemen who’s wanted—”
“Stop!” Sommersted held up his hand.
Niels chose to ignore it and went on. “I couldn’t help seeing the report yesterday. And I happened to notice his most recent destinations.”
“What? No.”
Sommersted’s thoughts were someplace else. That much was obvious. He was out at the Bella Center. Out among all the heads of state he was supposed to keep safe.
“There’s a connection with the case from Interpol.”
“Bentzon.” Sommersted sighed. He was a beast of prey who had decided to give his quarry one last chance. “The Hadi case is top-secret. It’s not your concern. We don’t need to start a panic right now, for God’s sake. Can you imagine it? The combination of highly trained terrorists in Copenhagen with all the world leaders gathered out on Shit Island?”
“I’m not entirely positive,” said Niels. “I’ll admit that. But I do have my suspicions.”
“No!” Sommersted gave up any attempt at self-restraint and raised his voice. “Forget it, Bentzon. Leave it to the others. Do you realize how many presidents and prime ministers will be out at the Bella Center in a couple of hours, expecting me to protect them? Brown and Sarkozy! The whole bunch of them. Even a madman like Mugabe has a right to expect not to be shot through the head while he’s visiting Wonderful Copenhagen! Extremists, terrorists, mentally ill lunatics. They’re all waiting for me to make a mistake.”
“But . . .” Niels had already given up, but he made a last-ditch effort to get through to his boss. He was brutally brushed aside.
The Last Good Man Page 13