“Inside somewhere. Everything’s in a hell of a mess at the moment. Obama’s here.” Niels smiled and patted the man on the back. The officer shook his head. “It’s hard to say whether the Secret Service is running the show or we are,” he told them. Show, thought Niels. Perhaps a better description of things than his colleague knew. The demonstrators were being kept back by a nine-foot-high fence. They stood on the other side, looking like refugees from the Russian Revolution: clad in black, frozen, and harmless. Those considered potentially dangerous had been locked up while Obama was on the scene. All those who had a real chance of breaking through the fence.
Sommersted was standing in front of the TV cameras and reporters, a relaxed smile on his face in spite of the questions being hurled at him. Why were the demonstrators forced to sit on the pavement for so long? Why weren’t the police better prepared? Demonstrators taken to the hospital. Police brutality. Sommersted’s smile seemed to get bigger with every accusation leveled at the Copenhagen Police. Finally, he held up his hands, as if trying to stop a runaway train. “Right now five of my officers are in the ER. Three of them have serious concussions. One of them has a broken nose and jaw. They were struck by iron pipes. But of course, I regret the fact that a few of the demonstrators might have suffered a minor bladder infection from sitting on the cold pavement.”
He paused for effect. Suddenly, all the reporters seemed like children, and Sommersted the only adult in the crowd. He put on a sympathetic smile for the cameras. “It’s the primary responsibility of the Copenhagen Police to ensure that the world leaders can meet safely and without interference here at the Bella Center. Our secondary responsibility is to make sure that as few demonstrators as possible are injured—even though they’re attacking us with bricks and worse. But that is the order of our priorities when it comes to security. Any questions?”
Scattered murmuring. The reporters were feeling repentant. Sommersted was an expert at pacifying members of the media. As the last questions ebbed away, Niels pushed through the crowd. “Sommersted?”
The police chief looked at Niels in surprise. “Bentzon? That was a good job you did, catching Abdul Hadi.”
“Thanks.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation?”
“I know you’re busy,” said Niels, ignoring the question, “so I’ll make this brief.” He pulled Hannah forward. “This is Hannah Lund, a researcher at the Niels Bohr Institute.”
Sommersted looked at Hannah in confusion. “Niels Bohr?”
“Actually, a former researcher,” Hannah managed to murmur before Niels went on.
“The international homicide cases—good people being killed? Remember that? It turns out that the murders are being committed according to a complex system that’s apparently connected to an ancient religious myth.” Niels could hear how strange this sounded, and he came to a standstill. A group of Chinese delegates wearing suits began jostling him. What they lacked in height, they made up for in numbers. Niels continued, “Is there someplace else we could talk? This will only take a minute.”
Sommersted glanced around, taking fifteen seconds to consider whether to listen to Niels for the minute he had requested. “All right, go ahead.”
“Okay. Hannah?”
She cleared her throat and spent a full five seconds looking Sommersted in the eye. “At first we thought the distance between each murder was approximately three thousand kilometers. But it’s much bigger and more complicated than that. The system, I mean. You see, at first the numbers didn’t make sense. But then I removed all the water, the oceans, and shoved the landmasses together. You have to imagine the surface of the globe consisting only of land—”
“Gathered at the South Pole,” Niels interjected.
“The South Pole?” Sommersted asked.
“Exactly. The way the continents looked a billion years ago. The supercontinent of Rodinia. It’s a little hard to explain everything in only thirty seconds, but here goes: If we place the thirty-four crime scenes on the twelfth, twenty-fourth, thirty-sixth, and forty-eighth parallels, then”—Hannah glanced at Niels before she continued—“they form small circles or shells and . . .” She came to a halt.
Niels took over. “In short, there are two locations left: Copenhagen and Venice.”
Not a word from Sommersted. The seconds ticked past.
“Venice?” Sommersted looked from Hannah to Niels and back. “Venice? I went to Venice on my honeymoon.”
His sarcasm was wasted on Hannah. “What does that have to do with this?” she asked.
Niels took over again. He cleared his throat and spoke louder to be heard over a message in English being broadcast over the loudspeakers throughout the entire conference center. “Tonight,” he said, “or rather, this afternoon, when the sun goes down just before four—”
“At three thirty-seven P.M.,” Hannah interjected.
Niels went on, “At three thirty-seven P.M. a murder will be committed either here or in Venice.” People were starting to look at them. Those who understood Danish, that is. Reporters, with their press credentials hanging around their necks on black cords advertising Nokia.
“In Venice the sun will set in less than four hours. Here it will set in three. We don’t have much time.”
64
Ospedale Fatebenefratelli, in the reading room—Venice
Tommaso could remember the location where every single murder had been committed. Even the first ones. Tanzania, Peru, Brazil. He had used a pen to mark them on the map he had ripped out of the children’s atlas. With an X-Acto knife, he had removed all the water. Then he had pushed the continents together to form one piece. Even with the naked eye, he could see how it all fit together.
Tommaso had closed the door to the reading room, but he could hear voices out in the corridor. He stared at the childish handiwork lying on the table. A world cut up into pieces and then put back together. Outdoors a siren had started up its lament. It took a moment before it occurred to Tommaso what the siren portended. Only when he stepped over to the small window and saw the Venetians rushing for home did he understand. The city would be flooded in a few minutes. The water in the canals would rise soundlessly. He looked again at the map he had destroyed. It was as if the water in the lagoon were now seeking revenge because Tommaso had removed the seas from the map.
Nonsense.
It was high season for flooding in the lagoon. Several times a week the people of Venice had to pull on waders and rubber boots, barricade their doors, and seal up the cracks. He should be going home, too. Or maybe he could call his downstairs neighbor and ask him to put up the planks. Thinking about using the phone reminded Tommaso of the message he’d received from Denmark. Again he tried to call the Danish woman who had left the voice message. No one answered.
Tommaso’s mother was lying in bed just as he’d left her. Alone. Tommaso had a headache, and his back ached. A nurse walked past.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Could I trouble you for some painkillers?”
The nurse looked at him and smiled. “I’ll get the doctor.”
She was gone. The hospice was deserted, with only a few essential staff members present—and the patients, of course. The rest had dashed home, as everyone always did when the waters began to rise. Some of them to reach the mainland, others to protect their homes.
“I can’t find him at the moment.” The nurse poked her head in the door again. “But I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”
“Thanks.”
She looked at him with a sorrowful expression. “I spoke to Sister Magdalena a little while ago.”
“The sister spent a lot of time with my mother, and I’m very grateful for that.”
“Sister Magdalena is on her way over here.” The nurse smiled. “In spite of the flooding. She said it was important. She said not to leave until she talks with you.”
Tommaso had a hard time imagining what could be so important.
“Are there are other family members
on their way here?” the nurse asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“Maybe you’d like to go over to the church and light a candle for your mother.”
“I might do that.”
“If you do, I’ll let Sister Magdalena know that you haven’t gone far.”
Tommaso smiled, and then his Catholic upbringing made him get to his feet. Of course he would light the candle that his mother would use to navigate her way through purgatory.
He stepped outside the main entrance. The Venetian lion was carved into the stone next to the marble pillars that bore the weight of the old building’s roof. The lion looked angry. The square in front of the hospice was already covered with a quarter inch of water. The church wasn’t far away. Tommaso’s feet would get wet, but there was nothing to be done about that. He needed to light the candle, even though Sister Magdalena had said he shouldn’t leave the hospice until she spoke to him. She, if anyone, would understand the importance of lighting a candle for the dead. The fires of purgatory weren’t going to wait because of a little flooding.
“Signor di Barbara.”
Tommaso saw the old monk.
“Are you leaving?”
“Just to light a candle for my mother. What about you?”
“I won’t be gone long. Our cardinal is arriving with the justice minister,” replied the monk, his face lighting up at the thought.
“At the train station?”
“Yes. I’ll be back soon.”
The monk pulled his cowl over his head and set off—well prepared, with big rubber boots just visible under his long robe. For a moment Tommaso felt free. Completely free. Free from standing at attention, wearing his dress uniform, and taking part in one of the police chief’s endless welcoming ceremonies; free from visiting this place, this hospice. He was free. With the money from the house . . . if he sold it . . . no. It was too early to think about that. He hadn’t even lit a candle for his mother yet. The feeling of freedom was replaced by guilt, and he raced off toward the church.
65
The Bella Center—Copenhagen
Are we under arrest?” asked Hannah after they’d been sitting for a long time inside a shed normally used by workmen.
“Of course not.”
Niels caught sight of Sommersted through a window that was sealed shut. The police chief was crossing the square in front of the demonstrators, moving past the line of delegates from NGOs and members of the press who were waiting to pick up their credentials. When the police chief reached the shed, he yanked on the door handle so hard that Hannah jumped. He closed the door behind him, seething with ill temper. “Thanks for waiting,” he told them.
“Now, listen,” said Niels, “I know it sounds crazy.”
Sommersted sat down across from them. He tugged on the bottom of the bulletproof vest he was wearing, revealing a few tendrils of gray hair on his chest, reaching up toward his throat.
Niels went on, “As I was trying to say, the murderer is acting according to an ancient myth about the thirty-six good people who keep the world going. Do you know it? We can even calculate the location of the next murder. We know the precise coordinates, and everything points to the National Hospital.”
“The National Hospital?”
“Mathematics never lies. The long and short of it is that we need to evacuate the hospital.”
They were interrupted as Leon opened the door. “He’s on his way out.”
“Are they done?”
“I think they’re just taking a break.”
“Thanks, Leon.”
Leon caught Niels’s eye before he shut the door again.
“You gave me an assignment,” Niels began. He straightened up and tried a new tactic. “I contacted a number of so-called good Danes and warned them. Because of one of the names on the list, I happened to get in touch with Hannah Lund.” Niels glanced at Hannah and then turned back to Sommersted. “You have to realize, Sommersted, that this woman is a genius.”
Sommersted shook his head and looked down at the table, his expression sorrowful. “I can’t protect you any longer, Niels. First you use your free time to visit criminals in prison, and now this.”
“You need to look at the facts,” said Niels. “We know when the crime will take place. This afternoon, when the sun sets at three thirty-seven P.M. And we know the location. The National Hospital. We also have a profile of the next victim. A good person who has no children and is between the ages of forty-four and fifty. You just need to look at the facts.”
Sommersted slammed his hand down on the table. “Facts?” he shouted. “The fact is that I gave you a chance to handle a simple assignment. It was a matter of regaining my trust.” The next second Sommersted obviously regretted his outburst. “No, we’re not going to get into this now, Bentzon. There are more important things at the moment. I’ll see you next week in my office.”
“At least listen to what she has to say.”
“Niels. I’ve just had a background check run on your friend here.”
Hannah looked at Sommersted in surprise, then turned to look at Niels.
“Maybe you should have done the same thing before you came trooping in here with this woman. Here, of all places. Today. Passing right through all the security checks to where Obama and all the others are gathered.”
“What do you mean?”
Sommersted got up.
“What sort of background check?” said Hannah, standing up, too.
Niels looked at them in confusion. As if the two of them shared some kind of secret. “What’s he talking about?” he asked.
Sommersted cast a sympathetic look at Hannah, who exclaimed, “That has nothing to do with this.”
Niels interrupted, “What are the two of you talking about?”
Hannah took a deep breath. Sommersted leaned against the door, regarding her expectantly. “Tell him what you found out,” she said without looking up.
“I wasn’t going to mention it, but since you want me to . . .” Sommersted sounded almost human. “We know that you were a patient in a psychiatric ward. And do you know what that means in my world?”
Hannah was trying not to cry. “But I had lost my child.”
“It means that you’re unreliable. And unreliable people are a threat to security.”
Hannah whispered, “You bastard.”
“What I really don’t need right now while I’m taking care of him”—Sommersted pointed out the window at Obama, who was walking from the building entrance over to his parked limousine—“is unreliable lunatics. Because they’re dangerous.”
Obama waved to the demonstrators. He looked smaller in person. HEAL THE WORLD, Niels managed to read on one of the banners before Sommersted opened the door.
“And now I’m going back to my job.”
Hannah was crying. Sommersted paused in the doorway. Niels looked at him. He knew that all was lost. That he was no longer employed and most likely wouldn’t be hired by any police force in the whole country. He might as well give the last order.
“Get out of here, Sommersted. Goodbye.”
They made the drive back to Copenhagen in silence. Niels was behind the wheel. Hannah looked out the window and was so quiet that Niels began to doubt she was even alive.
“Are you still breathing?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“But I have no idea why.”
Why do we keep breathing? thought Niels. He couldn’t answer that question. Not at the moment.
“Drop me wherever you like. It doesn’t matter to me. Where did you park your car?” For the first time she looked at him.
“Near the café.”
“Oh. Right.”
The café. It was strange how things could change over the course of a day. In the morning Hannah had worn mascara. But by now it had all smeared off. In the morning she had been a scientist in her element. Now she was a psychiatric case.
“Niels . . . I should have se
en it coming. We went too far. I’m sorry about that.”
Niels’s cell phone was ringing. “It’s the Italian police officer.” He handed her the phone.
“What should I say?”
“Tell him that the next murder will be committed in either his city or ours.” Niels pulled over. His cell stopped ringing. He turned off the engine and looked at Hannah. “I don’t know what happened to you back then. But I know you’re not crazy.”
She managed a small smile and shrugged. “Not a day passes that I don’t compare myself to accepted standards of what’s considered normal. I keep a journal. Every time I see a connection, I write it down.”
“What do you mean?”
“My brain. It’s always looking for systems in everything. It has always done that. It’s a supercomputer that never shuts down. From the time I was very young. It’s a curse. At one point it stopped. That was when I gave birth to my son. But then I started seeing systems that didn’t exist.”
“In what way?”
“License plates, for example. I started looking for numerical connections. I still do. I write them down and show them to my psychiatrist. And you know what?”
“No. What?”
“Your license plate. I noticed it when you backed out of my driveway the first time you visited me. It’s II 12 041.”
“What about it?”
“12 04. That’s April twelfth. My son’s birthday. Then there’s the last digit, which is one, and the double ‘I’ at the beginning.”
“I don’t get it.”
“The letter ‘I’ is the ninth letter in the alphabet. So then we have ‘199.’ And if we attach the next number, then we have . . .”
“ ‘1991.’ Is that the year your son was born?”
“Exactly. So there you have it, Niels. I’m always seeing systems. All the time. I saw that system on your license plate in less than a second. Do you understand? It’s a curse. A calculator that I can’t turn off.”
Niels paused to think about what she’d said. “Look at the road.”
The Last Good Man Page 27