The Last Good Man

by A. J. Kazinsky

  “Copenhagen Police!” yelled Niels as loud as he could. “Everybody clear the area. Now!”

  More panic. Tourists and parents with little children began pushing and shoving to go back down. Niels could hear someone fall on the stairs. Crying and shouting.

  Niels moved away from the door, but Hadi was gone. He had let the man out of his sight only a moment, but that was enough. Had he slipped past Niels? Had he managed to hide in the crowd and make his escape down through the tower? Niels cursed his lack of attention. The crowd was thinning out.

  Soon only Niels was left. He looked around. He was standing at the top of the world, surrounded by Copenhagen in the grip of winter. He still held his gun. He walked around the platform. There was nowhere to hide. A line of text from his school days kept whirling through his mind: The doctor with the knife directs the squiggles into the heart of King Christian IV. Apparently, a popular misreading of the rebus at the top of the tower’s facade. Why would he remember something like that now? The doctor with the knife. The assassin with the knife.

  Niels caught sight of him at the very last minute. Abdul Hadi launched himself forward, kicking Niels hard in the solar plexus. And again. Making him vomit. Hadi moved around Niels and grabbed him around the throat. He squeezed hard. Niels’s eyes filled with tears. He couldn’t breathe. Suddenly, Abdul Hadi released his grip. Niels gasped for air. He was just about to straighten up when he was flung to the floor.

  Before Niels could figure out what was happening, he felt the muzzle of a gun pressed to his temple, and he heard the reassuring clinking of handcuffs.

  “Not him!” cried a voice. “He’s one of ours.”

  The gun disappeared.

  “Where’d he go?”

  At first Niels could make out only partial sentences, but gradually, he understood. Officers from the intelligence service had arrived. A few policemen, too. One of them helped Niels to his feet and apologized. Another shouted, “What the hell is he doing?”

  Niels looked up. Abdul Hadi had climbed over the fence surrounding the platform and was perched on the old outer railing, ready to jump.

  Niels made eye contact. Only now did the two men get a good look at each other.

  Hadi stared at Niels and then at the abyss below. He had come here to die. There was no trace of fear in his eyes. First he said a few words in his mother tongue. Niels thought it sounded like a prayer. Then he looked at Niels. “Why did you not shoot?”

  Niels approached the railing. “I can’t,” he replied. Abdul Hadi moved closer to the edge.

  42

  Ospedale Fatebenefratelli—Venice

  Sister Magdalena glanced down the hospital corridor before she put on her gloves. Peace and quiet. None of the terminally ill patients was moaning. Yet she always felt guilty when she had to leave; often the other nurses practically had to push her out the door. Today was no different. On the contrary, today was worse. She decided to poke her head in the door of Signora di Barbara’s room one last time before she left.

  Tommaso’s mother looked up just as Magdalena entered the room. “You’re leaving, Sister?”

  Magdalena gave her a reassuring smile, set down her bag, and took off her gloves. “I’m off duty now. But I’m not in a hurry.”

  “I’m so afraid.”

  “Don’t be scared. Death just marks the end of our earthly life.”

  “Not of death. I’m not afraid of dying,” she said, annoyed. It was not easy to feel affection for a woman like Signora di Barbara. Over time Magdalena had learned, but a day’s respite now and then made it easier.

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “That he won’t get the message. Or that he’ll forget about it.”

  “The message? About the eighty cents?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you still don’t know what the eighty cents is for?”

  Signora di Barbara didn’t hear the question. “Is my purse here?”

  “Yes, it’s right here.”

  “Take out my wallet. Put eighty cents in my hand. Then I know that I’ll remember to tell him.”

  Magdalena got out the money. There weren’t enough coins to make eighty cents, so she added one of her own. “Here you are.”

  She put the coins in the old woman’s hand. Her knuckles closed firmly around the three coins.

  “When my son comes to see me tonight, I will remember. Is he coming tonight?”

  “I don’t know. He might be on duty.”

  “The night shift? Well, then he’ll come in the morning. At least now I have the coins, so I won’t forget.”

  “I’ll remember, too,” said Magdalena, stroking the old woman’s wispy gray hair. “I promise.”

  For a moment Signora di Barbara looked content. Magdalena was convinced that the old woman had a few more weeks to live. Most of their patients waited to die until the holidays were over—she didn’t know why. Maybe they wanted to have one last Christmas.

  Sister Magdalena turned off the light. Signora di Barbara put her hand on her chest, clutching the coins.

  43

  The Round Tower—Copenhagen

  Abdul Hadi stood at the edge of the strange building. How had he ended up here? The Danish policemen were having a discussion on the other side of the fence. One of them was pointing a gun at him.

  They were whispering something, but Hadi didn’t understand what they said. He gathered his courage. It would have to end here, even though he hadn’t achieved the justice that he sought. Why had Allah failed him? The police officer who’d had more than one opportunity to shoot him was now climbing over the fence and coming closer. He looked just as battered as Hadi did. Was the policeman smiling?

  “I will jump,” said Abdul Hadi.

  The Danish officer held up both hands so Hadi could see them. “No gun.”

  Hadi looked down at the street. He lost all desire to take somebody else with him in death. Normally, he wouldn’t have cared, but from up here, all the people below looked so innocent. If he moved a little to the left before he jumped, he wouldn’t hit anyone.

  “One question!” said the policeman.

  Abdul Hadi looked at him.

  “Do you have a family?”

  “I did this for my family.”

  The officer stared at him, uncomprehending. “Is there anyone you’d like me to call?” he asked. “Remember: I’m the last person to see you alive.”

  Abdul Hadi edged away from the policeman. Why is he asking such strange questions? he thought.

  “Your last message. What is it?”

  A last message? Abdul Hadi paused to think. “I’m sorry” occurred to him. He wanted to apologize to his sister. Because she was never allowed to grow up. Because he had lived all these years. It seemed so unfair. And he wanted to apologize to his eldest brother. Because Abdul Hadi hadn’t been able to avenge his death. His brother had wanted nothing more than to seek a better life. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Nor had his little sister. She was innocent, too. How clearly he could see her face. His brother and sister were ready to receive him. He was certain of that. He was looking forward to seeing them again.

  The policeman moved nearer. He was whispering to Hadi. “I won’t close my eyes. Do you hear me?” The policeman reached out toward him. “I’m your last witness.”

  It was now that Abdul Hadi should jump. Right now. He looked up toward his Creator, toward the deceased members of his family who were standing ready. It looked as if the sky were already sinking down toward him. Then the sky split open, and snow started to fall, first on the Danish officer, then on Hadi, and then it continued on down to the street below. Millions of tiny pieces of white sky, dancing in circles. People on the street looked up and the children cheered. Abdul Hadi heard a loud click from the handcuffs as they closed firmly around his wrists.

  44

  Niels Bohr Institute—Copenhagen

  The old wooden floors creaked and groaned as the institute’s largest globe was rolled along the corri
dor. It was so big that Hannah didn’t have to bend down to push the sphere; she could walk along behind it as if maneuvering an unwieldy baby carriage. A splinter of wood flew into the air as the globe struck a door frame. Two young researchers returning from lunch had to jump aside in the narrow passageway so as not to get rolled over.

  “Hey! Watch it! Do you have a driver’s license for that thing?” one of them inquired with a laugh.

  “I just need it to measure something.” Hannah didn’t slow down. She heard one whisper to the other that she was apparently a bit crazy: “Her name’s Hannah Lund. She used to be one of the best, but then . . . something happened to her.”

  “So what’s she doing here now?”

  The rest of their words were drowned out by the noise of the rolling globe. Hannah turned the corner and headed for the lecture hall. She worried that the globe might be too big to go through the door, but it just fit. She took out of her pockets the rolls of aluminum foil that she’d found downstairs in the kitchen next to the cafeteria. She began wrapping the globe in foil. She worked purposefully and efficiently. Then she taped the continents that she’d cut from the map onto the globe. But she didn’t put them in their familiar positions. Instead, she gathered them around the South Pole and then used a marker to draw on the X’s. They were now arranged in an entirely different formation. She looked at the planet. She stood there for a long time, staring, until she broke her own silence. “The world hasn’t looked like this since the dawn of creation.”

  45

  Helligåndskirke—Copenhagen

  Here, you’ve earned it.” The pastor set a glass on the table in front of Niels and then poured one for himself. “That was a close call.”

  The golden liquor stung Niels’s mouth, and a pink sheen was visible in the glass when he set it down again. His mouth was bleeding. At least he hadn’t lost any teeth, and his nose wasn’t broken.

  “You’d better drop by the ER.” Rosenberg was trying to appear calm.

  Niels recognized the way he was behaving—a classic response for someone who had been subjected to a life-threatening situation. The victim either fell apart completely and did nothing to hide his feelings, or he reacted in the opposite way: “Good Lord, there was nothing to it. Everything is fine.” The latter response was typical of men.

  Niels didn’t reply. His jaw and cheekbone on the left side of his face ached. His knee was sore. And his pulse refused to slow down.

  The church office looked like a combination meeting room and living room, with a touch of day-care center. A box in the corner contained baby rattles and LEGO blocks. The bookshelf behind the pastor was bulging with black leather-bound books.

  “So why you?” Niels discovered that he’d said his thoughts out loud.

  Rosenberg shrugged.

  “How does he choose his victims? Or rather, how did he choose them?”

  “Might have been a coincidence.” The pastor downed his drink and immediately poured himself another.

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “More?”

  Niels held his hand over his glass, studying the pastor. He could tell the man was lying; he just didn’t know why.

  “I don’t understand this.” Niels’s tone of voice was affected by his damaged face—it sounded more nasal—but he wanted to put pressure on Rosenberg. “I have no idea why a madman would be going around the world killing good people.”

  “Stop saying that part about good people,” the pastor said. “I’m far from good.”

  Niels ignored him. “One thing is certain. This was definitely not a coincidence. Just the opposite.” He caught the pastor’s eye and refused to look away. “You were specifically chosen to die today. You personally. Just like all the others. And I need to find out why.”

  Niels got up and went over to the window. The office was on the second floor. A redemptive white blanket of snow had settled over the street. On the rooftops, the cars, and the benches. A group of police officers was standing on the street below. Two of them had taken up position near the car where Abdul Hadi was sitting in the backseat with both hands chained to an iron ring on the floor. This far and no farther. The intelligence officers had already debriefed Niels and Rosenberg. They would not be allowed to discuss what had happened. Laws pertaining to terrorism. Ongoing investigations, preventing more attacks, and so on. Niels knew full well that not a single word about the incident would ever be mentioned anywhere. It had never happened. Only in Denmark’s most secret archives could anyone read about the incident. Archives that not even the Danish prime minister was able to access. Niels was familiar with the new laws regarding terrorism. They had driven a wedge between knowledge and information on the one hand and the Danish population on the other. Censorship. It was nothing short of censorship.

  When Niels turned around, he noticed a shadow cross Rosenberg’s face. His shoulders were slightly hunched. The reaction, thought Niels. Here it comes. He’s going to fall apart now. He’s realizing that he was only seconds away from being cut open by a madman. That means he’s vulnerable.

  “Do you have family that you can stay with tonight?” asked Niels.

  The pastor didn’t answer.

  “I’d be happy to arrange for you to talk with a psychologist. If that would help.”

  Rosenberg merely nodded. An awkward moment passed. Niels could tell that he wanted desperately to talk. To confess. It was part of his nature. “Of course, don’t hesitate to call me if—”

  “You’ve got it all wrong.”

  Niels stood very still. Waiting for it.

  “You’ve got the wrong man.” Rosenberg’s voice sounded deep and far away. As if coming from some other place.

  “What do you mean?”

  Silence.

  “What do you mean by the wrong man? That man tried to kill you.”

  “He’s not the one.”

  “You do know him, right?”

  Rosenberg hesitated. Then he nodded, his eyes fixed on the table. Niels sat down.

  46

  Niels Bohr Institute—Copenhagen

  Physical pain was a good sign for a researcher. It was a sign that the person had been sitting too long in the same position, hadn’t had enough to eat and nothing at all to drink. Those were the things that a scientist forgot when a breakthrough was imminent. Some of the male researchers called it “discovery labor pains.” Hannah ignored the fact that her back was aching and her stomach grumbling as she typed into the search field: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Pangea_animation_03.gif.

  She stared with fascination at the brief animation showing the movement of the continents. They looked like they were sailing, with North America, South America, and Asia each moving in a different direction. Once again she looked at her own notes. It was so beautiful. So simple, so obvious.

  “Hannah? Is that you?” The secretary looked up from her screen in astonishment as Hannah came into the office.

  “Could I borrow your phone?”

  “How are you? You haven’t been here in ages.”

  “My cell phone is upstairs in my old office.” Hannah stopped to take a real look at the woman. “Solvej?”

  “How are you, Hannah?”

  “I just need to make a call. It’s important.”

  Hannah picked up the receiver as she took out Niels’s card. Solvej smiled, shaking her head.

  “Hi, Niels. It’s me. Call me back when you can. I’ve discovered something really remarkable. Something . . . I mean . . . it’s so beautiful. The system. And I know where the other murders were committed.” She put down the phone and stared at the secretary. “It has to do with a series of murders that have been committed all over the world. I’ve been in touch with a police officer who’s looking for—” She came to a standstill.

  “For what?” Solvej asked.

  “I’ve been trying to see if I could figure out some sort of system, and I think I have,” Hannah went on.

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  �
��Are you all right, Solvej? I remember that your husband was ill.”

  “Yes, he had cancer. But he’s fine now. He still has to go in for regular checkups, but we think he has it beat. What about you?”

  “Gustav left me.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. I think it must be ten years ago that I last saw him up here. He was picking up Frodin. They were going to Geneva.”

  Hannah looked at Solvej. She’d always liked the secretary. She was the institute’s mother. Solvej got up and calmly came over to Hannah to give her a hug. “It’s good to see you again, Hannah. I’ve never understood a thing that goes on in that head of yours, but I’ve always been very fond of you. Don’t hesitate to call if there’s anything you need.”

  Hannah nodded and left the office.

  47

  Helligåndskirke—Copenhagen

  This time Niels didn’t hold his hand over his glass when the pastor offered to pour him another drink.

  “His name was Khaled Hadi. Abdul Hadi’s brother.” Rosenberg hesitated. It was a different man sitting in front of Niels. Gone were the smiling eyes, the childish demeanor. His voice was deeper. As if it were coming from the depths, from the place where he was going to speak the truth. “Do you remember the photos? The ones you saw in the church basement?”

  “Of the refugees you were hiding?”

  “Yes. You made a remark about one of the pictures. You said there were more than twelve people in it.”

  Niels nodded.

  “You were right. There were fourteen.”

  Niels let him set his own tempo. Past experience with interviews and interrogations had taught him to appreciate the pauses. The pauses were the run-up for deciding on a more interesting choice of words once all the standard phrases and rehearsed replies had been used.