The Last Good Man

by A. J. Kazinsky

  Hannah hesitated. She looked at the TV screen. The ambulance hadn’t left the Bella Center. They were bringing Yves Devort out on a gurney. She wondered whether she should tell Niels about the climate negotiator who had collapsed.

  Hannah broke the silence, her voice confident but hoarse. “Niels, what you’re doing . . . it’s just amazing.”

  Her voice wavered on the last word. Amazing. She sensed that she was on the verge of tears.

  “It’s too much of a long shot, Hannah. I feel like giving up.”

  “No, don’t do that, Niels. You’re trying to find a good person. Just one good person.”

  “All I’m finding are their flaws. That’s how it’s been from the very beginning. I look for someone good but find only the . . . bad. The flaws.”

  She could hear Niels breathing as she kept an eye on the TV screen. She had an uneasy feeling in her stomach that reminded her of the time when she and Gustav had a car accident. She was driving. That was what Gustav preferred. To have her behind the wheel while he issued orders. “Slow down, Hannah. Get ready to turn, Hannah.” They’d had a fight that day, as was so often the case, and when Hannah was about to exit the highway, she was going too fast. They ended up in the middle of a farmer’s field, Gustav’s fancy Volvo covered with mud. But just before they veered into the field, at the instant before everything went wrong—in that second when she realized that it wasn’t going to end well—she’d had the same feeling she had now.

  “Hannah?” said Niels on the phone.

  “Yes?”

  “Who are they bringing over here in an ambulance?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out. Are you okay now?”

  “Yes.”

  “You need to go to Section 2142. The Cardiology Clinic. Find Poul Spreckelsen.”

  Niels ended the call.

  Casper looked up from his computer. “I’m going to start on the patients now.”

  She nodded. He was indefatigable. She was watching the ambulance on the TV. It had exited the highway and was headed for the National Hospital. A police escort was leading the way.

  The phone rang again. “Niels?”

  “You’re going to have to help me. I don’t know if I can make it. And you’re closer.”

  He was out of breath. Was he crying?

  “Okay, Niels.”

  “Gry . . . she’s the one. I think it’s her. Over in the surgery wing.”

  “Okay, Niels. I’ll go over there.”

  “Run.”

  Hannah turned to Casper. “I’m going out to help Niels.”

  “Shall I call you if I find any candidates among the patients?” he asked. Hannah looked out the window. Only the very top of the sun was still visible. “No. We don’t have time for any more.”

  76

  Santa Croce—Venice

  Officially, Venice was a shop that was open 24/7, year-round. Princesses and sheiks and politicians and celebrities, from Italy and abroad, were constantly pouring in. The police used practically all their resources to welcome and escort them from their hotels to the Piazza di San Marco and back again. Tommaso couldn’t even remember where the last princess was from. He had accompanied her on a boat along the Grand Canal while tourists stood on the Rialto Bridge, waving. At such moments Venice was nothing more than a Disneyland with better taste and good food. Fortunately, he was supposed to play soccer tonight if he was feeling better. The stadium was all the way out by Arsenale, near the new construction and the shipyard. There was no Disneyland out there. Just an eternally muddy playing field, a rotten stink from the lagoon, harsh light from the floodlights, and a wall of public housing all around.

  Tommaso knew that he should be in bed. Instead, he was headed for the train station, this time wearing rubber boots. What a welcome the lagoon had prepared for the justice minister. He couldn’t be the next victim—Tommaso was convinced of that. The justice minister, Angelino Alfano, was nothing more than Berlusconi’s lackey. Formerly the secretary of the corrupt prime minister, Alfano had been appointed justice minister only to create a network of byzantine laws that would keep Berlusconi out of prison.

  Tommaso walked over the Ponte delle Guglie toward the train station. The shopkeepers had long since closed up their businesses because of the rain, and the streets were deserted. The tourists were holed up in their hotel rooms with wet feet, studying their travel insurance policies to find out if flooding was reason enough to demand their money back.

  Finally, he caught sight of the station. Santa Lucia. The wide stairs, eagle’s wings, and horizontal lines, remnants of the fascist era that Tommaso’s father had once supported. A past that was always on the verge of entering into the present. Carabinieri, the military police, stood on the stairs. One of the officers stopped Tommaso. “I’m from the police,” he told the man.

  “ID?”

  Tommaso rummaged in his pockets in vain. He had turned in his police ID. “I can’t find it.”

  “Then you’ll have to wait,” said the officer. “They’ll be out of here in ten minutes.”

  The fucking military police! The regular police couldn’t stand the carabinieri, with their sleek uniforms and gleaming boots. Tommaso went around the back way. The road past the church led up to the freight office, and there was no guard on duty. He paused, then heard the train pull into the station with a roar announcing its arrival. There wasn’t much time left. In a moment someone would be murdered here at the train station. Unless he could prevent it.

  77

  The National Hospital—Copenhagen

  3:26 P.M.

  Hannah wasn’t running, even though that’s what Niels wanted her to do. She still had that feeling—the sense of imminent death. “Excuse me,” she said to an orderly passing by. “Where is the surgery wing?”

  “You need to go down one floor. It’s all the way over at the other end,” replied the man, holding the elevator door open for her.

  “Thanks.”

  She stood in the elevator next to the orderly. She attempted a smile for the sake of the patient in the bed, but it didn’t amount to much. There really was no reason to smile. Hannah knew that the system was right—that the likelihood of her calculations being wrong was one in several million. She’d been able to locate thirty-four coordinates with great accuracy. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

  “You should get off here,” said the orderly. “And head back in the other direction.”

  “Thanks.”

  Hannah began jogging, but the increase in pulse just provided fodder for her internal calculator. Thirty-four murders. Located with godlike precision. Two were still missing. Hannah was sure of that. She was also convinced that there was nothing they could do about it. It was as if they were at the mercy of the system. It felt like they were fighting to prevent two plus two from equaling four. Or fighting to prevent the car from ending up in the field that time with Gustav—contrary to all the laws of nature.

  3:28 P.M.

  Niels turned the corner, the sound of Mahler’s Third Symphony guiding him. The surgery wing was deserted, but it had an aura of clinical cleanliness. As he raced along, images of people from the past two days whirled through his mind: Amundsen from Amnesty International. The lives he’d saved and the one he was in the process of destroying: his wife’s. Niels thought about her innocent expression and her cheerful, clear blue eyes as he said hello to her in the entryway. She wasn’t the least suspicious. She loved her husband and had the greatest faith in him. And Pastor Rosenberg. Was it right to sacrifice one person in order to save twelve? Rosenberg knew the answer. He had made the wrong decision. But Niels still liked the man. Thorvaldsen was the only one he didn’t care for. He was a little too convinced of his own goodness. And he clearly was a tyrant to his co-workers.

  The doors to the operating rooms were all closed. In the past, churches used to engender this feeling of being in contact with the beyond; nowadays operating rooms were the sacred halls. So Niels didn’t find it surprising to
hear such beautiful music. Operating Room 5. A red light was on above the door. No admittance.

  Niels opened the door a crack and saw that some sort of surgery was under way. A team of doctors, nurses, and surgeons all working intently. A woman strode over to Niels. “You’re not supposed to be in here!”

  “I’m from the police. I’m looking for Gry Libak.”

  “You’ll have to wait until the surgery is over.”

  “No, I have to talk to her now.”

  “We’re in the middle of an operation! What are you thinking?”

  “I’m from the police.”

  “No unauthorized personnel allowed in here,” she interrupted him. “Not even the police. You need to leave!”

  “Is she here? Gry Libak? Are you Gry?”

  “Gry just left. And now you really have to leave. Or we’ll file a complaint tomorrow.”

  “Left? Is she coming back? Is she off duty?”

  “I’m closing the door now.”

  “One last question.” Niels stuck his foot in the door.

  “I’m going to have to call security.”

  “Her life is in danger. That’s the only reason I’m here.”

  The doctors had not looked up from their work. Not even for a second. Only now did one of them glance over at Niels. For a moment the only sound was Mahler and the monotonous beeping that meant the patient was alive. Rhythm meant hope, a constant tone meant death. That’s the way it was. A doctor wearing a white mask answered Niels’s question. “You might be able to catch her in the locker room. We’ve been working for twelve hours straight, so she’ll probably take a long shower.”

  “Thanks. Where is the locker room?”

  Niels left the operating room as the nurse said, “Section 2141.”

  Hannah came running toward him. “Niels!”

  “Spreckelsen was a dud. But maybe Gry Libak . . .”

  “Where?”

  “In the locker room. Section 2141.”

  Niels looked at his watch. Seven minutes.

  Section 2141

  3:30 P.M.

  The women’s locker room. Long rows of shiny metal lockers. Narrow benches in between. Not a soul in sight.

  Niels shouted, “Gry Libak?”

  “The names are in alphabetical order.”

  Niels paused to think. They should have started down here. People always hid their personal secrets and sins at work, where their loved ones wouldn’t find them. “Find her locker. Gry Libak.”

  “Then what?”

  “Break into it.”

  “Niels?”

  “Just do it!”

  The padlocks on the doors were mostly for show. Hannah walked down one row. Jakobsen, Signe. Jensen, Puk. Klarlund, Bente. Kristoffersen, Bolette. Lewis, Beth. Libak, Gry. She tugged on the door. Locked.

  Niels was working his way backward through the alphabet. Fiola. Finsen. Ejersen. Egilsdottir. Deleuran, Maria.

  He tried yanking on the door. That wasn’t going to work. He spun around, looking for some kind of tool. Something that could . . . The broom handle! He pulled the broom out of the cleaner’s cart, stuck the handle under the padlock, and twisted. The lock yielded easily and dropped to the floor with a metallic clunk. Hannah was standing behind him, looking desperate. “I can’t get it open.”

  “Here. Use this to break off the lock.”

  Hannah took the broom. It wasn’t really her forte.

  “She’s here!” yelled Niels.

  “Who?”

  “Maria. The woman we couldn’t find. Her clothes are still here.”

  A coat, scarf, shoes. Maria was in the building.

  Taped to the inside of the locker door were several photographs and postcards. A homemade African wallet made of leather was on the shelf. On one of the postcards it said: You’re an angel, Maria. God bless you. Rwinkwavu Hospitals, Rwanda. Niels studied the picture. A beautiful fair-haired woman seen in profile.

  “I saw you,” he whispered. “I saw you.” He turned to Hannah. “It’s her. Everything fits.”

  “Look at the time. We only have five minutes left.”

  Niels didn’t hear the rest of Hannah’s protests. He was already running.

  She stayed where she was, watching him go. What had he told her? That people called him manic-depressive? Manic was an appropriate description of his behavior right now, anyway.

  78

  Santa Lucia train station—Venice

  The first people Tommaso caught sight of were the faithful. Men and women clad in religious robes, either all white or all black. Monks and nuns from the cloisters of Venice. “Who’s arriving?” Tommaso asked one of the nuns. His voice sounded hoarse.

  The train station was blocked off to regular travelers, and all traffic had been halted to allow the procession to be escorted off the train and out to the Grand Canal. “Excuse me, but who are you waiting for?” he asked again.

  The nun gave Tommaso an angry look. He discovered that he was gripping her arm.

  “Would you let go of me, please?”

  “Sorry.”

  He released her arm. The nun next to her took pity on him. “It’s our cardinal.” She mentioned a name, but it was drowned out by all the noise. At that moment the thundering train pulled into the station. Tommaso leaned against the wall. The next victim might be on this train. Had to be on the train. If only he could find the police chief. Warn someone. Anyone. The doors opened. The balding justice minister was the first to step into view. He gave an exaggerated wave to those waiting on the platform. Behind him Tommaso could see the cardinal. He recognized the man from TV. Wasn’t he the one who had voiced the opinion that the Catholic Church ought to recommend the use of birth control in Africa as something that might save at least ten million lives each year?

  Someone was clapping. Or was that just the rain on the roof? The police chief appeared.

  79

  Pediatric Clinic, the National Hospital—Copenhagen

  3:32 P.M.

  I’m sorry!”

  Niels didn’t have time to help the woman up. He had collided with her as he came around the corner to the Pediatric Clinic. He glanced into rooms as he passed. At the faces, the nurses. He found her farther down the corridor. Tove Fanø. Maria’s friend. He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her inside a supply closet.

  “Let go of me!”

  He slammed the door behind them. Disposable gloves, bedpans, and sheets. He looked for a deadbolt but didn’t find one. “Where is she?”

  “I told you—she’s not—”

  “I know that Maria is here!”

  The nurse hesitated. Niels took two steps closer. “Do you know what the penalty is for obstructing the work of the police? Do you want to be blamed for her death?”

  She didn’t reply. Niels took out his handcuffs. “Tove Fanø. You are hereby arrested for obstruction—”

  “Go down to the basement, under Department A,” she said. “There are a few rooms down there intended for surgeons who need to get some rest. They’re never used.”

  “What does it say on the door?”

  3:34 P.M.

  Niels met Hannah on his way downstairs. “She’s here. Maria. Down in the basement.”

  Hannah came to an abrupt halt. Niels looked half crazed. She had an urge to stop him. Make him calm down. Right now she didn’t know what to believe.

  “How much time?” he asked, out of breath.

  Hannah looked at her watch with resignation. “Three minutes.”

  “Come with me!”

  “Niels . . . this is crazy.”

  He looked at her. Laughed and shook his head. “You, too?”

  “What?”

  “You think I’m out of my mind, too? Is that what you’re saying?” He grabbed her arm and pulled her into the elevator. “You go left. Look for a door marked STAFF ONLY.”

  The elevator came to a stop in the bowels of the hospital, and the doors slid open.

  Basement, the National Hospital—Copenhagen


  3:35 P.M.

  “What do I do if I find it?”

  Niels didn’t hear Hannah’s question. He was already halfway down the hall. The desperate sound of his footsteps merged with a faint whistling coming from the ventilation shafts.

  Hannah took a deep breath. She really missed the theoretical approach. Ideas. Figuring out the universe without ever going farther than to the local newsstand to buy cigarettes.

  Most of the doors were unmarked. A few promised supplies. STORAGE ROOM B2. RADIOLOGY DEPT./STORAGE. None that said STAFF ONLY. Hannah thought about Søren Kierkegaard. He had spent his entire life in a space no bigger than a few square yards, pacing the floor, possibly taking a short walk out on the street, but always completely engrossed in his own thoughts. It didn’t take a lot of room to figure out the whole world—in fact, it could be accomplished inside of a barrel. STORAGE. SUPPLIES/ANESTHESIOLOGY. She couldn’t hear Niels’s footsteps as she turned the corner, her thoughts filled with philosophers in barrels. The Greek Diogenes—the inventor of cynicism. Cynicism comes from the Greek word for “dog.” Diogenes thought we could learn a lot from dogs. A dog can instinctively differentiate between friend and foe. People don’t do that. They can move in and share an apartment with their worst enemy without even knowing it. Why was she thinking about this now? Sometimes she was simply sick and tired of her own associations . . . Oh, now she realized why Diogenes had popped into her mind: because on occasion he would leave his barrel and dash through the streets of Athens in search of a “real person.” A good person. Diogenes had come to Hannah’s rescue. Like him, she had left her own barrel to find a real human being.

  They rounded the corner at the same moment, Hannah and Niels.

  “Find anything?” she asked. “It’s now. Sundown. It’s three thirty-seven.”

  He whispered, “There it is. It says STAFF ONLY on that door.” He took his gun out of the shoulder holster.

  I wonder what we’ll find. That was all Hannah had time to think before he barged into the room.