The Last Good Man

by A. J. Kazinsky

“And now the press wants to know why we made a gang of detained anarchists sit on the cold asphalt for a couple of hours. Two of them have apparently developed bladder infections. Do you see the problem here?”

  Sommersted didn’t wait for an answer but simply slipped past Niels in the doorway and left.

  No, goddammit! Niels turned on his heel. This couldn’t be right. There had to be a connection. India. Mumbai. Niels debated with himself as he walked back to Sommersted’s office. He was a police officer. Hired to prevent and solve crimes. It was not his job to make Sommersted happy. The light was still on in his boss’s office. Apparently, the shared responsibility for global warming hadn’t penetrated the Copenhagen police force. Niels went in. The documents were still lying on the desk. Niels was surprised at Sommersted’s carelessness; no doubt it had to do with stress. He found a profile shot of the man from Yemen. Abdul Hadi. And a slightly blurry photograph taken somewhere in Waziristan, a mountainous area on the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan. Niels was not particularly knowledgeable about international terrorism, but he knew that Waziristan was one of the terrorist hotbeds. The Muslim Brotherhood. It was mentioned several times in the documents. Hadi had been in contact with a leading member of the Muslim Brotherhood. It didn’t say how close this contact was, but the fear was that he was a potential terrorist.

  Niels looked up. Nobody was watching him. Everyone’s eyes were directed at the Bella Center.

  He leafed through the file. The Muslim Brotherhood. He ran his eyes over the pages: a political-religious organization founded in Egypt in 1928 by Hasan al-Banna. Their goal was to turn Egypt into an Islamic society, a society based on strict Islamic law, following the same pattern as what had been created on the Arabian peninsula by the Wahhabi brothers. In spite of publicly taking a stand against violence, the organization had been banned many times in Egypt. While in prison during the 1950s, one of its most important members, the now deceased Sayyid Qutb, had written the manifesto Milestones, regarded today as a call to arms for Islamic terrorism. Osama bin Laden’s right-hand man—and the second in command of Al-Qaeda—Dr. Ayman al-Zawahiri had also started his terrorist career as a member of the Muslim Brotherhood. Ever since its founding, the organization had exerted enormous influence and still did, not only in Egypt but in large parts of the Muslim world. The group had been linked to countless terrorist actions, and it openly supported attacks against Israel, which it regarded as the primary enemy. The Islamic Hamas organization in Gaza originated with the Brotherhood. The Muslim Brotherhood was best known for its part in the assassination of Egypt’s president Anwar Sadat on October 6, 1981. He was murdered in retaliation for having reached out in 1978 to the hated Israeli leader Menachem Begin, and for signing the official peace agreement with Israel.

  Niels paused. Then he leafed through some more pages until he found what he was looking for. The report of Abdul Hadi’s travels until he managed to slip into Sweden. There were obvious gaps, though not many. Niels studied the report carefully. It was thought that Abdul Hadi had been sighted on board a train in Sweden. What was he doing in that country? Was Sweden his final destination, or was he traveling farther? He had arrived by plane from Brussels, and before that—it was assumed—he’d made a side trip to India. Niels was surprised. How was it possible that a man who was the subject of a worldwide manhunt could travel freely, going wherever he pleased? It was a well-known fact that international security procedures left a lot to be desired. The public might not know that, but the police did. In spite of massive improvements in the security measures in most of the world’s airports—iris scanners, fingerprints, stricter rules regarding passports and identification documents—the terrorists always seemed to be one step ahead. Or maybe there were so many of them that even though some were caught, others would always manage to slip through.

  Niels discovered that he was talking out loud. “What were you doing in India?” he murmured.

  No answer. Hadi stared up at him from the photograph. Niels recognized his expression. That was how someone looked right before he pulled the trigger.

  “And why are you coming to Denmark?”

  27

  Christianshavn—Copenhagen

  The traffic light on Amagerbrogade wasn’t working.

  Niels didn’t notice that he’d been stopped at the red light for a very long time until the car behind him began honking aggressively. The driver finally drove around him, giving him the finger as he passed. Niels punched in a number on his cell phone and waited. Hannah answered, sounding as if she’d been asleep.

  “Niels Bentzon here. Could I drop by?”

  “Right now?”

  “I’ve had all the information pertaining to the case faxed over to me. And I might as well warn you, there’s a lot of material.”

  “I thought you were leaving on vacation.”

  “It’s quite comprehensive,” he said, ignoring her remark. “Covering all the details. Just like you asked for.”

  No reply. Niels was about to go on, but before he could speak, she said, “Do I have time to take a bath?”

  “I’ll be there in an hour.”

  He ended the conversation, picturing Hannah in the bathtub. Was that why she’d mentioned it? He reached Christmas Møller Square. Part of the area was inaccessible due to a couple of hundred climate activists who were gathering for an unauthorized demonstration. It looked cold to be walking around outside. The demonstrators were moving past the cars, carrying a big banner that said: LAST CHANCE. SAVE THE PLANET. Another one said: NOW OR NEVER. The box with the faxed pages sat on the front seat next to Niels. He opened it and looked at all the typed pages containing information about the murder victims, the crime scenes, and the times of death. Pictures of the victims. Pictures of the strange tattoos on their backs. Niels knew nothing about tattoos, but the images in the photos surprised him. Why would a killer go to the trouble of making such a complicated tattoo on the back of his victims? Tommaso had said they were numbers. Niels couldn’t see it. He thought they looked more like a specific pattern. Some sort of abstract design.

  A gap appeared in the crowd, which was gradually getting bigger and bigger. Niels continued driving across Christianshavn Torv toward the city. In his mind he kept seeing those strange tattoos. They had taken over his thoughts like an invading army, refusing to go away. On impulse, he made a U-turn, headed back the way he had come, and turned left onto Prinsessegade.

  Christiania—Copenhagen

  The shop called Tattoo Art was exactly where he remembered it. Niels had never been inside, but he was very familiar with the rest of the Christiania area. Like most other cops in Copenhagen, he had taken part in patrolling Pusher Street and making arrests. He parked the car and got out to look around. A couple of drunken Greenlanders were staggering about in front of the Nemoland bar. Stray dogs eyed Niels with curiosity.

  He had a somewhat ambivalent attitude toward Christiania, although it was basically positive. The idea that a group of peace-loving hippies, almost forty years ago, had been able to take over an abandoned military area to create a social experiment was something that appealed to Niels. A free zone inside of a major metropolis. A village in the middle of Copenhagen. A different way of living. It was also in Christiania that he’d had some of his best experiences as a young police officer. He recalled being greeted with the greatest friendliness. Where else in the world would a cop be invited inside for a bottle of Christmas beer and rice pudding at four in the morning during the holiday season?

  But the atmosphere had changed during the past ten years. Bikers and immigrant gangs had come down hard, taking over the drug market. The innocence of the hippie era had been replaced by a vicious criminality, with the drug trade now backed by gangster kingpins making big money. Violence and threats had become daily events. It had all come to a head in May 2006, when a nineteen-year-old man was brutally attacked and killed by a group of pushers just outside Christiania. Niels had not been involved in the case, but his colleagues
had been deeply shaken by it. Rarely had they encountered such callous cruelty. The perpetrators, with ice-cold deliberation, had used clubs and iron bars to smash in the skull of the young man. It was an execution, pure and simple. A cynical liquidation meant to instill terror and serve as a warning. The case had made Niels change his view of the free zone. The social experiment had been derailed.

  “Just give me five minutes.”

  The tattoo artist nodded in a friendly manner to Niels, who sat down to wait, studying the man. He looked like some sort of monster, with huge, colorful tattoos covering his body and most of his face. The muscles of his torso were about to burst the tight-fitting T-shirt he was wearing. He had rings through his nose and lower lip.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?” The piercing in his lip gave him a slight lisp.

  “Sure. Thanks. Black.”

  The tattoo artist disappeared into a back room, leaving Niels on his own.

  The shop was clinically clean. In that sense, it reminded him of a doctor’s office. The walls were decorated with pictures of tattooed people. Dragons, snakes, women, and abstract designs. Several of the posters had Japanese characters underneath. Or were they Chinese?

  “It’s believed that people in Japan were tattooing themselves over ten thousand years ago. Pretty cool, huh?”

  The tattoo artist was back. He handed Niels a cup of coffee. “They were called the Ainu. They tattooed their faces.”

  Niels gave him an inquiring look.

  “Mummies with tattoos have been found in China. So it’s not exactly a modern phenomenon.” The man laughed.

  “Have the same techniques always been used?”

  “The techniques have developed over time. There are examples of ancient cultures that rubbed ash into open wounds. The Vikings used rose thorns. You have to suffer for beauty.” Again that shrill, lisping laugh.

  Niels smiled politely. “So what do you use today? From a purely technical standpoint?”

  “Take a look.” The tattoo artist nodded toward the machine used to make the tattoos. “There’s a needle inside that tube. When you turn it on, the needle moves up and down, approximately a thousand times a minute. It’s fucking awesome!”

  “And what does it spray in?”

  “It doesn’t spray in anything. It inserts different-colored ink. The tattoo pigments are made up of water, glycerine, and tiny little crystals. Foreign bodies in all the colors of the rainbow.”

  “That doesn’t sound healthy.”

  “Are you getting cold feet?” He smiled wryly. “Your coffee isn’t healthy, either.”

  “But foreign bodies?”

  “A few people develop problems. Sometimes the body tries to get rid of the crystals. That’s not much fun. In rare cases the pigments can get into the lymphatic system, make their way into the lymph nodes and then into the bloodstream. But come on, I’ve never had any problems. And I should know what I’m talking about.” He lifted up his T-shirt to display an impressive—and frightening—dragon head. “Do you want one like this? It really turns chicks on.”

  “No, thanks. But I’d like you to take a look at something.”

  The man watched with surprise as Niels pulled out a photograph from the pile of faxed pages. “What’s that?” The tattoo artist looked with interest at the victim’s back. “Is that the kind of design you want?”

  “Can you tell me anything about this tattoo?”

  “Tell you anything?”

  “About the pattern. What is it? How was it made? How much time would it take to make something like that?”

  The man didn’t speak. Just stared at the photo. Then he said, “Come with me.”

  The back room was a whole different world. It looked like the home of a junkie. It was strewn with needles and dirty ashtrays. A half-empty bottle of whiskey stood on a filthy table. A puppy was asleep in a basket. The dog woke up and stared at Niels with interest.

  “Do you want to buy him? He’s an American Staffordshire terrier. He may look sweet right now, but make no mistake, in six months, he’ll be able to kill a full-grown horse.”

  “What about the photo?” Niels said, nudging him back on track.

  “Oh, right.” The man sat down on the edge of a rickety table and turned on a lamp. “Let me tell you, people show up with the weirdest pictures of what they want tattooed. The other day a guy came in with a picture of his lover’s vagina. He wanted to have it tattooed right above his dick so he could look at it while he jerked off.”

  Niels cleared his throat. The tattoo artist got the hint and fell silent as he studied the picture.

  Niels looked at the man. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but at least some sort of reaction. Which he didn’t get. Nothing happened. The tattoo artist didn’t say a word.

  “So what do you think?” asked Niels at last.

  “Where did you get this?” The man didn’t take his eyes off the photo as he broke his silence.

  “Can you tell me what it’s supposed to be?”

  No answer. Niels tried again. “What is it?”

  “I have no idea, but . . .”

  “But what?” Niels was having a hard time remaining patient. “Say something. How long would it take to make that tattoo?”

  At last the tattoo artist raised his head and looked at Niels. “You’re mistaken. This isn’t a tattoo. At least I don’t think it is.”

  “It’s not a tattoo?”

  The man shook his head and got up. “The lines are too fine. Besides, there’s a lot of white among the other colors. White is almost never used in a tattoo.”

  “If it’s not a tattoo, then what is it?”

  The man shrugged. It wasn’t his problem.

  28

  Helsingør—Denmark

  The frozen fields were deserted and lonely. The trees lining the horizon looked like skeletons. An explosion of gray. A beautiful sight if melancholy had taken up residence in your heart. Otherwise, it was just dreary, and the only thing to do was to escape—as Kathrine had done.

  Niels had the road all to himself. He was driving fast. Then he turned off the highway and onto a gravel track. This time he parked right in front of the house and climbed out of the car, holding the box under his arm.

  Before he could knock, he caught sight of her down on the dock. She was standing in the same place as before. He walked down to the water.

  Hannah didn’t turn around. “I thought you were leaving on vacation.”

  “It got postponed. Are you catching anything?”

  “There are no fish in this lake.” She turned around and looked at him. “Although people claim it’s filled with fish.”

  “They’re not biting?”

  She shook her head. “They can probably smell this.” She held up her cigarette. “I’m only out here fishing because it’s part of a bigger scheme of things.”

  “Scheme of things?”

  “It involves doing things that I never did while my son was alive.”

  No hint of tears in her voice. Her composure remained unchanged, and that scared Niels. When people who seemed cold and reserved finally broke down, it happened with terrible ferocity, and they often tried to take other people along with them. That was something he knew from firsthand experience.

  “I know it’s cold in here.” She turned up the thermostat. “That was one of the last things Gustav said before he left for Canada. ‘We need to get the furnace fixed,’ he told me. And then he was gone.” She didn’t sound bitter. She was merely making an objective statement. “So you’ve brought me a whole bunch of murders?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it too strong?”

  “The coffee? No.”

  “I prefer it as thick as tar.”

  Niels opened the cardboard box. Carefully, he set the stack of papers on the coffee table.

  “And these came from Venice?”

  “From Tommaso di Barbara. The police officer you talked to on the phone. He sent the pages by fax this morning.”
Niels sat down on the sofa in front of the table.

  “Have you read all of them?”

  “I skimmed through them a bit. It’s a detailed account of everything that’s known about all the victims. What sort of lives they lived, what jobs they held, and what their accomplishments were. And, of course, everything about their deaths. Time, place, and the circumstances. It’s . . .” Niels leafed through the pages until he came to the last one. “A two-hundred-and-twelve page report on life and death. Some of it was translated from Italian to English by using Google. But not all of it.”

  “Great.” She gave him a brief smile.

  “First I want you to take a look at this.” Niels pulled out a picture showing the back of one of the victims and placed it on the table.

  “What’s that?”

  “Vladimir Zhirkov’s back. All the victims have some sort of mark on their back. A tattoo or a symbol of some sort.”

  “The same symbol?”

  “I think so. Tommaso said they’re numbers, but I can’t see it.”

  Hannah squinted. Maybe she was skeptical. Or maybe surprised. She pulled out a drawer and found a pair of reading glasses, +1.5 power with a Statoil logo on the frames. The price tag was still on them. She studied the photo. “Are you sure they all have something like this on their back?”

  “Yes. Here’s another example. The back of Maria Saywa from Peru. Murdered on May twenty-ninth of this year.” He placed the picture of Maria Saywa on the table next to the picture of Vladimir Zhirkov. Even though the images were dark, the marks could definitely be seen.

  Hannah was holding a magnifying glass. It had come from the same drawer as the glasses, along with an unmistakable smell of marijuana.

  Niels studied her. The arch of her nose. The tiny little hairs barely visible on the back of her neck. Niels’s eyes kept roaming, and Hannah ran her other hand along her throat, as if she could feel his gaze on her. Several seconds passed. Or maybe it was several minutes. Niels shifted position impatiently. A few swans were making a ruckus out on the lake.