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The Last Good Man

Page 18

by A. J. Kazinsky


  Niels smiled, but he wanted to get back on track. “So it’s in the Talmud that the thirty-six good men appear?”

  “Let’s call them the righteous men. That’s more correct. Tzadikim means righteous. The thirty-six righteous men.”

  “Why thirty-six? I know that the number eighteen is sacred, but . . .”

  “You’ve done your homework.” Again that wolfish smile. “Eighteen is a sacred number, but why it should be thirty-six—twice eighteen—nobody knows. Although I’ve heard a theory that each of them covers ten days of the year. Thirty-six. Three hundred and sixty. In that case, it probably has more to do with astrology. There’s also something about each of them covering ten degrees of the earth’s surface.” He threw out his arms. “I guess I’ll have to get back to you on that. But I do know that in Jewish folklore, the thirty-six are often called the hidden saints. Lamed-Vovniks, in Yiddish.”

  “But do the good—sorry, the righteous—know that they are the righteous ones?”

  “Sounds like you know more about all this than I do. No, the righteous don’t know that they are righteous. Only God knows that.”

  “Then how can anyone know who they are?” asked Niels.

  “Maybe we’re not meant to know.”

  “Are there always thirty-six?”

  “From what we understand, yes.”

  “What happens if one of them dies?”

  “If all of them die, then humanity is doomed. According to the Kabbalah, even God will die if all thirty-six disappear.”

  “And there are thirty-six in every generation?”

  “Exactly. Thirty-six who together carry the sins and burdens of humanity on their shoulders. Something along that line.”

  “May I ask whether you personally believe in this?”

  The rabbi thought about it. “I like the idea of it. Just look at the world around you. Wars, terror, starvation, poverty, disease. Take the Middle East conflict, for example. An area on earth that contains so much hatred, so many frustrations, that a bomber is always lurking around the next corner, and where checkpoints and walls have become a permanent part of daily life. When I look at such a world from here in my little Danish ivory tower, it’s a very appealing idea that there might exist at least—at the very least—thirty-six righteous people on this earth. Small human pillars to ensure that we maintain a minimum of kindness and righteousness.

  “Are you looking for a murderer?” the rabbi asked suddenly.

  Niels was caught off guard. He didn’t know what to say.

  The rabbi went on, “Or a victim?”

  34

  Helsingør—Denmark

  Hannah’s attempt to toss the empty cigarette pack into the wastebasket failed. Instead, it landed in the middle of the floor. She didn’t get up, just continued to stare at the map and the pages of notes that she’d made. She saw not a hint of a connection between the various crime scenes. Several areas on the map had been largely passed over, while in the Middle East, for instance, murders had been committed in Mecca, Babylon, and Tel Aviv. For a moment she regretted getting involved in this whole thing. Maybe she should call Niels and tell him that she was giving up. This case had nothing to do with her, after all. But something stopped her from doing that. At first she thought it was the system. She knew there had to be some sort of system at work. She just needed to find it. And systems had always attracted her. She enjoyed looking for the key.

  If only she had more cigarettes. If only she had—

  They’re childless. She interrupted her own train of thought. None of the victims had children. Other similarities? She paged through her notes. Religion? No, there were Christians, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, atheists, even a Baptist minister in Chicago. Skin color? No. Age? She hesitated. That could be something. Hardly anything decisive, but right now even small steps forward were of use. All of the victims were between forty-four and fifty. A coincidence? Maybe. That didn’t make it any less interesting. Hannah’s years of experience as a scientist had taught her that what at first glance might look like a coincidence could very well turn out to be quite the opposite. Twenty-one murder victims. All between the ages of forty-four and fifty. And childless. That had to be significant.

  She began putting all the materials in a box. The faxed pages, her notes, the map. Though her plan to go for a drive had been prompted by a desire to buy more cigarettes, she decided to take everything along with her. She tried to contact Niels to tell him where she was going, but he didn’t pick up the phone.

  It was cold as she stepped outside the summer house, but the frosty air felt invigorating. Hannah got out far too seldom. Weeks could pass in which she took only a few short walks down to the water or to the Netto supermarket. The rest of the time she just stayed inside and . . . what? She didn’t know. That was almost the worst part: realizing that days could go by, so many days, when she would climb into bed at night, unable to describe with even a single word how she’d spent her time that day. Maybe it was acknowledging this fact that made the simple act of starting up her car and driving down the gravel road, headed for the highway, seem like a minor revolution.

  35

  The synagogue—Copenhagen

  Niels stood up. An awkward moment followed, as Weizman remained seated. Finally, the rabbi also got to his feet.

  “Do the thirty-six have any distinctive characteristics? Anything that would link them to one another?”

  “Only righteousness. Or goodness, as you called it. Isn’t that enough?”

  Niels hesitated. Not entirely. “Can you tell me the names of any people who have been mentioned as one of the thirty-six?”

  Weizman shrugged. “It’s typical for the topic to come up at funerals. Whenever there’s a need to eulogize someone who has had particular significance for many people.”

  “If you were to name any of them?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure that my guess would be any better than yours. But as Jews, we often look back to the Second World War for examples. Oscar Schindler. The resistance fighters in the occupied countries. The individuals who prevented the total decimation of the Jewish people. But as I said, your guess is as good as mine.”

  A couple of black-clad men wearing hats came in, greeting Weizman.

  “I have a meeting in a few minutes. Have I helped at all?”

  “A bit. Thank you for talking to me.”

  The rabbi accompanied Niels to the door and shook hands with him. “Now you’re only two handshakes away from Hitler,” said the rabbi, holding on to Niels’s hand.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “At a conference in Germany, I once interviewed an officer who worked for Hitler. When I shook his hand, I thought, Now I’m just one handshake away from Hitler. So now you’re only two handshakes away from evil, Niels Bentzon.”

  Niels’s hand was starting to feel hot in the rabbi’s grasp.

  “Maybe it’s the same thing with goodness. We’re never far from what’s good. And that’s inspiring. Just think about Nelson Mandela. A man who changed an entire country. Like Gandhi. Or your Jesus.” The rabbi smiled. “They say that in South Africa, everybody has either met Mandela or knows someone who has. Nobody is more than a handshake away from the former president. It doesn’t seem like such a far-fetched idea that it takes only thirty-six people to keep evil at bay. Just remember that all the upheavals in world history, both good and bad, were initiated by individuals.”

  He released Niels’s hand.

  The light was piercing, the cold insistent. At least Niels had a feeling of being back in his own world. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. The image of Hitler was still with him. He stuck his hands in his pockets as he tipped his head back and looked up at the synagogue. He felt a faint vibration through the lining of his jacket—his cell phone. When he took it out, he saw that Pastor Rosenberg had tried to call him six times.

  “This is Bentzon.”

  “Rosenberg here!” He seemed to be gasping for breath. “I th
ink there’s a man here, trying to break in.”

  “Are you at the church?”

  “Yes. I’ve locked myself in my office. But the door has a glass pane.”

  “Are you sure somebody’s there?”

  “I think I heard someone kick in the front door.”

  “Have you called emergency 112?”

  Noise on the line. Maybe he dropped the phone.

  “Rosenberg?”

  The pastor was back, whispering. “I can hear him.”

  “Stay where you are. I can be there in—”

  Niels looked down the street. The traffic was at a standstill. He considered calling for backup but changed his mind. Every second counted. He took off running.

  “I’ll be there in three minutes!”

  36

  Dark Cosmology Center, Copenhagen University

  It was paradoxical that the building housed the offices of international scientists doing research into the dark matter of the universe, since the Dark Cosmology Center was brightly illuminated by exterior lights. Hannah got out of her car. The years since Johannes died, Gustav took off, and her promising academic career waned had not left a single trace on the building. The thought was at once alarming and uplifting. She took the cardboard box from the backseat and went inside the institute. A couple of young scientists or students passed her on the stairs; they barely looked at her. Hannah went up to the third floor, where her old office had been. The floor was deserted. It was the lunch hour. She walked down the hall to her former office, paying no mind to the nameplate on the door. Without knocking, she went in.

  Even though only a second passed before she made eye contact with the young male researcher sitting at the desk, she noticed that she felt right at home again. Everything was familiar—the smell, the sounds, the rather stuffy but homelike atmosphere. A couple of posters on the wall were the same. The bookshelves on the walls were where they had always been.

  “Excuse me?” said the young researcher. “Do we have an appointment?”

  Hannah continued to survey the room. A photo of two little girls. A drawing hung up over the computer. In a child’s scrawl, it said: To Daddy from Ida and Luna.

  “Are you looking for someone?” he asked.

  “This is my office.” The words flew out of Hannah’s mouth.

  “There must be some sort of misunderstanding. I’ve had this office for over two years now.” He stood up, and she thought he was angry. But he held out his hand and said, “I’m Thomas Frink. A doctoral student here.”

  “I’m Hannah. Hannah Lund.”

  He studied her as if trying to place her name. He seemed about to figure out who she was but then had doubts. “What is it you’ve written about?”

  “Dark matter.”

  “I’m doing research on cosmic explosions.”

  “Thomas, have you got a minute?”

  Hannah recognized the voice coming from behind her. An elderly man was standing in the doorway, his shoulders hunched, his back stooped, his eyes displaying a childish expression.

  “Hannah?” The aging professor looked at her in astonishment. “I thought you were—”

  “Holmstrøm!”

  He nodded and gave her an awkward hug. He’d gotten thicker around the middle. He looked at her sternly. “Before you tell me what you’re doing these days, I’d advise you to think twice. Because it had better be something damned important to make up for the fact that you’re no longer here at the institute.”

  “It’s a long story.” She held up her hands. “How are things with you?”

  “Okay, except for the fact that we’ve had to deal with cutbacks. The money is going to environmental programs now. All you have to do is call up the minister in charge of funding for research and whisper the word ‘climate,’ and it doesn’t even matter whether it’s at three in the morning, you’ll have millions.” He laughed. It was clearly something he’d said many times. “The money is in climate research. That’s just how it is.”

  “The votes in the next election, too,” added Thomas Frink, glancing at his computer screen.

  “The climate.” Hannah gave Holmstrøm a solemn look. “People worship the wrong gods.”

  “What gods?”

  “Themselves.” She smiled.

  A momentary silence fell over the room. A silence screaming to be filled.

  “You’ve brought along a box?” Holmstrøm nodded at what Hannah was holding.

  “Yes.”

  He waited. No doubt expecting her to say something about the contents.

  Instead, she asked, “Do you know whether the lecture hall over in the old building might be available?”

  37

  City Center—Copenhagen

  Niels turned down the pedestrian street of Købmagergade. The last thing he’d seen was a parking attendant slipping a ticket under his windshield wiper.

  “Hey!”

  Niels collided with a man, knocking his overflowing shopping bags onto the pavement. Niels didn’t have time to stop and apologize. The street was bursting with all the preparations for the holidays: Christmas decorations, crowds shopping for gifts, everyone looking stressed. He turned off at the building housing the university theology department, ran down the narrow passageway, and emerged into a calmer part of town. He glanced at his cell. Rosenberg was calling again.

  “What’s happening?” asked the pastor.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m still in my office.” Panic hadn’t taken over. But it soon would. Niels could tell by the way the pastor was breathing.

  “Where’s the man now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where did you see him?”

  “Inside the church. When will you get here?”

  Niels was now running along Skindergade. He heard a loud clattering sound on the line. “Rosenberg?”

  More commotion. Questions were flying through Niels’s mind. Why the pastor? There were so many others who were more well known.

  “Are you still there?”

  “He’s got a knife in his hand. Oh, God. Is this the punishment?”

  Niels could hear somebody pounding on a door. He tried to run faster. “Out of my way!” he shouted to people on the sidewalk. “Police! Let me through!”

  He ran down another passageway. A poor choice. He elbowed his way through the crowds. Rosenberg was still on the line. Niels could hear him mumbling something about punishment.

  “Are you almost here?” the pastor shouted.

  “Yes. In another minute. Find something to defend yourself with.” Niels imagined the pastor picking up his Bible. “Are there others with him?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so. I think he’s alone.”

  “What about inside the church? Are there any other employees in the building?”

  The pastor didn’t reply. Niels could tell by his irregular breathing that he was listening to something.

  “Do you hear something?” asked Niels, gasping for breath. “What’s happening now?”

  “He’s going to break the glass in the door! He’s about to get in!”

  “Is there any place for you to escape?”

  “There’s the bathroom. But—”

  “Go inside and lock the door and wait for me!”

  The pastor stayed on the line.

  A huge truck appeared out of nowhere, blocking the way. “Fuck!” Niels slammed his hand against the side of the vehicle.

  “Okay, I’m here.” Rosenberg was clearly in a state of panic now. “I’m in the bathroom.” His voice had dropped any attempt to remain dignified. He sounded like he was on the verge of collapse. “I’ve locked the door. But it’s easy to break open.”

  “What about the window? Is it closed?”

  “Where are you? Where are you?”

  “I’ll be there in one minute. Tops.” Niels was lying, but one of the most important tools for a crisis negotiator was hope. Always give the hostages hope. Even if it was a soldier lying in the mid
dle of the green zone in Helmand province in Afghanistan, his body riddled with bullets and both legs blown off, it was essential that the soldier be told that there was hope. Even if telling a lie was the only way to do it.

  The phone went dead. The lifeline had been cut.

  “Rosenberg?” Niels raised his voice. As though it would do any good to shout into a phone when there was no connection.

  Niels could see Helligåndskirke now. The sight of the beautiful church tower gave him the impetus he needed to run the rest of the way. He crossed the street. A young mother on a bicycle yelled and gave him the finger. Niels didn’t blame her. As he jumped over the low wall next to the church, he touched his Heckler & Koch to make sure it was where it should be. The same sentence kept echoing through his head.

  I’m going to be too late. I’m going to be too late.

  38

  Niels Bohr Institute—Copenhagen

  Carrying the cardboard box under her arm, Hannah jogged along Blegdamsvej until she reached her destination: the old Niels Bohr Institute. She stuck the key in the lock. It still worked, and she thought that maybe there was something symbolic about the fact that she had never turned in her key. Had she been subconsciously holding open a little door to the world of research? The door closed behind her with an almost inaudible click. As she stood in the vestibule of the old building, she looked around. She saw the famous photo of Niels Bohr and Albert Einstein engrossed in an intense conversation, hurrying along the cobblestone streets on their way to the Solvay Conference in Brussels in 1927.

  The idea for the institute had originated with Niels Bohr. He had provided the financing and single-handedly laid out the framework for how the institute would function. It opened in 1921, and in the following decades the institute became the center of the world on research in theoretical physics. It was said that during those years it was impossible to differentiate Niels Bohr the man from the Niels Bohr Institute. That was where he and his family lived. That was where he worked. Teaching, doing research, and holding conferences for the world’s leading physicists. Whenever Hannah looked at pictures from those days, they almost took her breath away. She wondered how many Danes even realized what brilliant scientists had walked these halls.

 

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