The Last Good Man

by A. J. Kazinsky

  She rummaged through the pages until she found the ones referring to the Russian. “He’s number thirty-one.”

  “And?”

  “There’s also a number thirty-three and thirty-four. Russell Young in Washington, D.C., and Raj Bairoliya in Mumbai. But maybe it didn’t stop there. And there are gaps in the number sequence earlier on.” She looked at the map. “We have Chama Kiwete in Olduvai Gorge in Tanzania as number one. Maria Saywa in Peru is number six. Amanda Guerreido in Rio de Janeiro is number seven. Ludvig Goldberg in Tel Aviv is number ten. Nancy Muttendango in Nairobi is number eleven. There are lots of gaps. So where are they?”

  “They may turn up later,” Niels suggested.

  “Did you know that Olduvai Gorge is the site where the first known human beings were found? That was where number one was murdered. Chama Kiwete.”

  Niels gave her a bewildered look and shook his head. “It’s possible that the marks with the numbers weren’t always noticed. Or that the cases weren’t reported. There are countries so plagued by civil war and famine that they don’t have time to pay attention to murders. So we can’t rule out that a doctor or aid worker might have dropped dead in Somalia or elsewhere.” He couldn’t tell if she was listening or not.

  “But that Tommaso di Barbara seems like a very thorough man. How on earth did he get hold of all this material?”

  Hannah stared at the world map with the twenty-one X’s showing all the reported murders. An array of fates. A world of murdered people swathed in the smoke from her cigarette. She was completely absorbed. She was talking to herself out loud, almost intoning the words: “Cusco, Rio, Tel Aviv, Nairobi, Johannesburg, Chicago, Thunder Bay, McMurdo, Beijing—”

  “What about the dates of the murders?” Niels interrupted her.

  “Seven days between each of them. As far as we can tell.” She stared at the map. “Seven days between murders.”

  “Are there other similarities regarding the chronology? Were the murders committed at the same time of day?”

  She hesitated, putting out her cigarette in a saucer. “It’s hard to tell. Only a few of the murder reports list a specific time.”

  “Could they be in alphabetical order?”

  “Just a minute.”

  “What?”

  A minute passed. Hannah was sitting so still that Niels thought she looked almost like a wax figure from Madame Tussaud’s.

  At last she said, “Sundown. I’m almost sure of it.” She leafed through the pages. Niels was on the verge of losing patience when she said, “The murders were committed at seven-day intervals, always on a Friday, and in all likelihood at the moment when the sun set in the respective location. That’s how it looks to me.”

  “So what does that mean?”

  No reply.

  “What about the distances between the crime scenes?” he went on. “Three thousand kilometers. Does that fit?”

  Still no answer. Niels sensed that his remarks were disruptive, but that didn’t stop him. “Hannah. The three thousand kilometers . . . Or do you see any other connections?”

  She raised her head. “I don’t understand where the part about good people comes from, now that we’ve reviewed the material on all the victims—at least those we have reports for. Even though there’s a preponderance of doctors and aid workers, not all of them were working to help others, not by a long shot. The Israeli was a schoolteacher and was once a soldier.” She shook her head and changed tack. “What was it the Italian said about the Bible?”

  “The thirty-six righteous people. It’s apparently a Jewish myth.”

  “This is the first time I regret not paying more attention in religion class. What’s the myth about?”

  “I don’t know.” Niels shrugged. “I don’t really think it’s a viable lead.”

  “What would you consider a viable lead? Just so I understand your priorities.”

  “There’s no logic in how the victims were chosen. It would be easy to point out people who have accomplished much better things.”

  “I don’t know about that. But look at the map.” She threw out her hands. “The locations don’t seem to make sense, either, but we think there must be a connection. The question isn’t whether it makes sense to us.”

  Niels looked at the map. She was right. The question was whether it made sense to the murderer. Hannah sat down in front of her computer. “Thirty-six righteous men—isn’t that what it says in the file?” Before Niels could find the page, Hannah was in the process of reading the entry in Wikipedia: “Tzadikim Nistarim. It means the ‘The Hidden Righteous Ones.’ God’s good men on earth. Some people believe that if even one of them is gone, all of humanity will be doomed.”

  “Which we can hereby confirm.” Niels smiled.

  Hannah went on, “Others say that all thirty-six have to die before humanity is doomed. Here’s the link where you can read about it.” With quick, childishly formed letters, she printed out the reference for Niels: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tzadikim_Nistarim.

  “That’ll take me an hour. Isn’t his name Weizman?”

  “Who?”

  “The head rabbi at the synagogue on Krystalgade.”

  “But you can read about it here.”

  Niels got up. “It may be that most of the world gets its information from Wikipedia, but . . .” He stopped. He felt embarrassed, there was no doubt about it—as if he were a Škoda parked next to a Ferrari. Maybe that was why he sounded so annoyed when he continued. “But to solve a murder, we need to go out into the world.”

  He gathered up his things and placed them in a small briefcase. His pen, cell phone, appointment book, and notes. His eyes fell on the name Abdul Hadi. Niels took out his notebook and found what he’d written about Abdul Hadi. “The murder in Mumbai. When did that take place?”

  Hannah paged through the case material. Niels went over to help her. “You wrote the date on the map.”

  “Oh, right.” She located the X marked in India. “Raj Bairoliya. He was killed on December twelfth. Is something wrong?”

  “No, it’s probably just a coincidence.”

  “A coincidence?”

  “I’ll call you later.” Niels was on his way out the door. Hannah said something to him, but he didn’t hear what it was. He had only one thought in his head. Abdul Hadi was in Mumbai on December 12.

  Hannah watched Niels’s car as he drove down the road. Again she looked at the license plate: II 12 041.

  “That can’t be a coincidence,” she told herself.

  32

  Ospedale Fatebenefratelli—Venice

  Eighty cents.”

  Tommaso’s mother had not slept well during the past two hours. Each time Sister Magdalena had looked in on her, she was mumbling in her sleep. But now the sister heard for the first time what Tommaso’s mother was actually saying. “Eighty cents.”

  “Why do you say that, Signora di Barbara?”

  “He must not pay the eighty cents.”

  “Who must not pay it?”

  “My son.”

  The old woman tried to free her arm from under the covers. Magdalena helped her, and Tommaso’s mother grabbed her hand. There was still some earthly strength left in her body.

  “You must tell him.”

  “All right. What should I tell him?”

  “Tell him he must not pay the eighty cents.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because then he will die.”

  “Where will he die?”

  The old woman shook her head.

  “What is the eighty cents for?”

  Tommaso’s mother was on the verge of tears as she replied, “I can’t see it.”

  Sister Magdalena nodded. This was what often happened. People who were dying could see through a crack into the future and the afterlife—but never the big picture, only fragments. Signora di Barbara fell asleep again. Maybe in her dreams, she’d be able to see a more precise picture of what it was her son mustn’t buy. Plenty of things cost eighty
cents. Pasta. Milk. An espresso. Magdalena went back to her office and called Tommaso’s number. He didn’t answer.

  33

  The synagogue—Copenhagen

  It looked like a fortress.

  That was Niels’s first thought as he climbed out of his car on Krystalgade and looked at the synagogue surrounded by a high fence. Black wrought iron. Two civilian guards stood at either end of the street, stamping their feet on the pavement to keep warm. No doubt hired by the Jewish congregation. The graffiti on the wall explained why: FREE PALESTINE NOW! And underneath: THE WAILING WALL—THE PALESTINIANS ARE WAILING. Niels thought about all the resources that would be freed up if that ancient conflict could be resolved. Recently, there had been a debate on the radio about whether half of the open marketplace in Copenhagen called Israel Square should be renamed Palestine Square. Of all the conflicts on this earth, it was the Israeli-Palestinian dispute that was easiest to export.

  Niels pushed the button on the intercom and waited. “Niels Bentzon from the Copenhagen Police,” he said.

  “Just a moment.”

  Niels waited some more. He read on the plaque that the building was over 175 years old. The twelve distinctive pillars represented the twelve tribes of Israel. “They’ve come a long way, those twelve tribes,” said Niels to himself. The synagogue was set back a bit from the street, giving it a somewhat reserved appearance in comparison to the other nearby buildings. It had been controversial to build a Jewish house of prayer in the middle of Copenhagen. In that regard, things hadn’t changed much since then. But these days the hot topic was whether the Muslims had the right to build a mosque in Copenhagen.

  Finally, the gate opened with a faint buzz. Niels stepped inside, and the gate closed behind him. He was unsure which way to go, but then he heard a voice say, “Over here.”

  A smiling man in his early fifties was coming toward him from the small parking area on one side of the synagogue. Niels immediately recognized the rabbi from the interviews he’d done on TV, with his full beard sprinkled with gray.

  “Niels Bentzon.”

  “Martin Weizman. It’s cold today, isn’t it?”

  Niels nodded.

  “Have you been to the synagogue before?”

  “No, never.”

  The rabbi was still gripping Niels’s hand. “Well, then, I’d like to welcome you. The word ‘synagogue’ just means ‘meetinghouse’ in Greek, so there’s nothing really intimidating about it. Please come with me.”

  They walked around the side of the building. Weizman tapped in a password, and the door opened. “I know it seems like Fort Knox. After the bombing in 1985, we’ve had to tighten up security.”

  Niels remembered the incident. A powerful terrorist bomb that miraculously hadn’t killed anyone but had caused considerable damage, including shattering all the windows of the nursing home behind the synagogue.

  “You just need to put this on.” The rabbi turned around. “It’s our custom.”

  Niels looked with surprise at the yarmulke and then put it on.

  “And your cell phone, please.”

  “Should I switch it off?”

  “Just turn off the ringer. I do that myself. God didn’t say anything about cell phones. He only mentioned sheep and goats.”

  Niels smiled and put his phone on vibrate. Another door. Then they entered the synagogue.

  Niels tried to look impressed because he could feel the rabbi’s eyes fixed on him. His first thought was that it looked like an unfamiliar church.

  “It’s one of Europe’s oldest synagogues,” the rabbi explained. “Most of them were destroyed in the war. In that regard, the Danish Jews were relatively lucky.”

  Niels nodded.

  “Originally, the task of building a new synagogue in Copenhagen was given to the city architect, Peter Meyn.”

  “A new synagogue?” Niels said. “Was there one here before this one?”

  “Yes.” Weizman nodded. “On Læderstræde. But when parts of Copenhagen burned down in 1795, the synagogue was lost. Now, where was I?”

  “Peter.”

  “Oh, yes. Peter Meyn. The city architect. His proposal was considered and found lacking. Instead, the task went to G. F. Hetsch, who was a well-known professor at the Art Academy. His design is what you see here.” Weizman gestured with his hand. “He did a good job, don’t you think?”

  “I thought there would be an altar in a synagogue.”

  “Since we don’t make offerings, we don’t have an altar. We call the platform up there the bimah. It’s there that we pray and read from the Torah. Or rather, sing.” He winked, which surprised Niels. “It requires a bit of skill to know when and how to modulate the intonation. You can’t tell from the text. And over there,” he said, pointing, “is where we keep the Torahs. In the cabinet that faces Jerusalem. It’s called Aron Kodesh or Hekhál. The high point in the service is when the Torah cabinet is opened and the scrolls are unfurled. Ner tamíd is the eternal light, reminding us of the menorah, or seven-armed candelabra, in the temple in Jerusalem.”

  “The Wailing Wall.”

  “Exactly. The Wailing Wall is the only thing left of the second temple. The Romans destroyed it in the year 70. The Babylonians demolished the first one in 586 B.C. But returning to the service: As you can hear, it’s not so different from the Christian church service, except that our weekly service isn’t held on Sunday but on our sabbath, which is Saturday morning.”

  The rabbi took a deep breath and looked at Niels. It was clear that he was used to giving this sort of mini-lecture. Niels knew that he often spoke to school classes visiting the synagogue.

  “If I understood correctly, you want to talk about Tzadikim Nistarim. The thirty-six righteous men. Often called the Lamed-Vav Tzadikim. We can sit here.” Niels followed him to the back of the synagogue. The rabbi smelled of tobacco. His index and middle fingers had taken on the color of nicotine. Niels gave him a quick summary of the case.

  “To think someone is killing the people who are meant to save us all.” Weizman shook his head. “Madness. Sheer madness. I wonder if this is what we deserve.” He took a deep breath, drawing fresh oxygen into his lungs, and smiled. “So now you want to know . . .”

  “As much as possible. What’s the origin of the myth? If that’s even the right word for it.”

  “If that’s what you prefer to call it.” The rabbi shrugged. “Tzadikim Nistarim. The thirty-six righteous men.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “It comes from the Talmud.”

  “You mean Jewish mysticism? The Kabbalah?”

  “No, no. We don’t need to go there. Fortunately. If we did, we’d be old men before we were done. And above all, mystified.” He chuckled. “We’ll leave the Kabbalah to Hollywood—it’s always good to have that in reserve if they can’t come up with the proper ending for a movie.” Again he chuckled.

  “So, the Talmud?”

  “Yes. The Talmud consists of the oral teachings of the Jews. Commentary to the Torah, which was originally written in Aramaic and not in Hebrew, although the two languages are related. Hebrew was given a rebirth when the state of Israel was established, and it became the official language. Before that time, it was used mainly for prayers and services. But we’re getting away from the Talmud.” The rabbi searched for the proper place to begin. “The Talmud consists of Mishna and Gemara. Mishna refers to the Word of God, exactly as Moses received it from the Lord. Gemara refers to the rabbis’ comments and discussions regarding Mishna. There are two Talmuds: Yerushalmi and Bavli. Judaism is based on Bavli. The Talmud is an extraordinary work in twenty-one volumes, each of which is a thousand pages long. It was compiled after the destruction of the second temple in the year 70. Back then the rabbis were afraid that Judaism would be lost, so they decided to write down the laws and rules for living that formed the basis of Judaism at the time. It’s a work that discusses everything under the sun. Political, legal, and ethical issues. You might call it a record of judicial protocols. How should we
behave? Who is right in various contested cases?”

  “For instance?”

  “Quite banal things.” The rabbi crossed one leg over the other in a calm, deliberate movement. “Let’s say that a man has forgotten his cane at the marketplace and for some reason doesn’t go back to get it until three months later. In the meantime, an old woman has been using the cane. Does she have the right to keep it? Or does it still belong to the man? What does it mean to own something? This might also apply to a piece of land.”

  “The right of ownership?”

  “Yes. For instance, a man leaves his house in order to . . . well, it doesn’t really matter. There could be any number of reasons. War, famine, whatever. When he returns three years later, the house is occupied by other people. Who has the right to live in that house?”

  “It sounds as if there’s certainly enough to consider.”

  “Absolutely. But many of the cases revolve around a basic principle. Once you find a solution to one case, you can draw parallels to a long series of similar cases.”

  “Rather like a modern legal system.”

  “You might say that. The Talmud was written down in the form of discussions among rabbis between the years 100 and 500, in accordance with a particular mnemonic technique. A discursive, associative style built around allegories and parables, which makes the work extremely open to interpretation. Remarkably, each volume begins with a type of proof. The conclusion of a specific dilemma. Very much like we find in mathematics. After that, the path to the conclusion is presented. In truth, it’s often a long and winding path.” Again he smiled. “The Talmud is for people who have a lot of time on their hands. And thick lenses in their glasses.”

  “I don’t. Have a lot of time, that is.”

  “I realize that. If the Talmud had been written today, it probably would have been very difficult to find a publisher. Nowadays, everything has to go superfast. We’re so damned afraid of missing out on something. That’s the very reason that we actually miss out on a lot. Do I sound like an old man? That’s what my children say, too.” He burst out laughing.