The Last Good Man Read online

  “It’s so quiet,” he murmured. “Venus. And the Milky Way.”

  The other monks came rushing into the room and leaned over him. But Ling didn’t see them. His hand slowly dropped. He had a smile on his lips.

  “He tried to use the phone.” One of the monks was standing with the receiver in his hand. “To call the Emergency Center.”

  “Ling!” One of the other monks—the youngest, no more than a boy—tried to make contact with him. “Ling. Can you hear me?” No answer. The young monk looked up at the others. “He’s dead.”

  No one said a word. They all bowed their heads. Several had tears in their eyes. The eldest monk broke the silence. “Get Lopön. We don’t have much time.”

  One of the others was going to send the boy, but the eldest monk stopped him. “No, go and get him yourself. The boy has never witnessed this before. Let him stay here and watch.”

  The monk ran off, and the boy looked at the eldest monk. “What’s going to happen?” he asked anxiously.

  “Phowa. We are going to send his soul onward. Lopön will be here in a minute.”

  “Phowa?”

  “Phowa helps the soul onward. Through the body and out through the head. We have only a few minutes to do it.”

  “What will happen if we don’t do it in time?”

  “We’ll make it. Lopön is quick. Come and help me. He can’t stay here on the floor.”

  No one moved.

  “Pick him up.”

  The boy took hold of Ling’s legs. Two other monks came to help.

  They lifted him up and placed him on the bed. He was lying on his side. When the eldest monk tried to roll him onto his back properly, he caught sight of something. “What’s that?” he asked.

  The others came closer to see what he meant.

  “Look. There, on his back.”

  Everyone stood leaning over the dead monk.

  “What is it?” asked the boy.

  No one answered. They simply stood there in silence, staring at the strange mark that had appeared on Ling’s back. It had spread from one shoulder to the other and halfway down his spine. Like a tattoo or a burn.

  Or as if a fire had been burning inside his back.

  2

  Suvarna Hospital—Mumbai, India

  Giuseppe Locatelli had received the e-mail three days ago, asking whether he could help locate an Indian economist who had recently died. Giuseppe wasn’t much interested in complying, but he was eager to get out of India, and he hoped that if he made a good effort at discharging his duties, it might serve as a springboard to a better job at another Italian embassy. Maybe in the United States. That was his dream. Washington, D.C. Or the consulate in New York, which handled everything related to the United Nations. Anything but these stinking streets. So he didn’t hesitate to say yes.

  It was a long and tedious drive even though it was early in the morning. The taxi could make only very slow progress through the teeming slum. During his very first week in India, Giuseppe had learned not to look at the poor. Not to look them in the eye—that was how first-time visitors ended up with a swarm of beggars in tow. But if you kept your eyes fixed straight ahead and remained ice-cold, they left you alone. In India it was a matter of ignoring the poverty when you were out on the streets and waiting to weep until you were alone. Otherwise it would tear you apart.

  The cab stopped. “Suvarna Hospital, sir.”

  Giuseppe paid the driver and climbed out. There was a line of people in front of the hospital. Damned if there weren’t lines everywhere in this country. Lines at the beach, lines at the police station, lines in front of every little clinic that might have a Band-Aid and a piece of gauze. Giuseppe pushed his way through without looking a single person in the eye. Without taking in anything about his surroundings.

  He spoke English to the receptionist. “Giuseppe Locatelli. From the Italian embassy. I have an appointment with Dr. Kahey.”

  Dr. Kahey didn’t seem bothered by the workload. He appeared calm and composed as he spoke about Sardinia, where Giuseppe had never been, as they went downstairs to the morgue. Giuseppe couldn’t help expressing his admiration for the busy doctor. “All those people waiting outside. How do you ever take care of them all?”

  “They’re not here for treatment,” Dr. Kahey said with an indulgent smile. “Don’t worry.”

  “Then why are they here?”

  “They’ve come to show him their respects.”

  “Who?”

  Dr. Kahey gave Giuseppe a surprised look. “The man you’ve come to see. Raj Bairoliya. Didn’t you notice that all those people were carrying flowers?”

  Giuseppe blushed. He hadn’t seen anything. He’d stared straight ahead, fearing any eye contact that might make him a target for beggars. Kahey went on in his characteristic singsong Indian accent: “Bairoliya was one of the closest advisers to Mr. Muhammad Yunus, the inventor of microloans. Do you know Mr. Yunus?”

  Giuseppe shook his head. But of course he’d heard of microloans—the loans had made it possible for thousands and thousands of people to start small, innovative businesses.

  “Yunus was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 2006,” said Dr. Kahey as he pulled out the drawer holding the body of the deceased economist. “But they could just as well have given it to Bairoliya.”

  Giuseppe nodded. The doctor moved the sheet aside. The dead economist looked peaceful. His face was ashen. Giuseppe recognized the color from his grandmother’s wake. He cleared his throat and explained that he would call the Italian police authority who had sent him here.

  “Sure, sure.”

  He punched in the number on his cell phone. It was answered immediately. “Tommaso di Barbara?” he asked.

  “Sì.”

  “Giuseppe Locatelli. Chiamero dall’ambasciata a Mumbai.”

  “Sì. Sì!”

  “As you requested, I am now standing next to the body of Mr. Raj Bairoliya.”

  The man on the phone sounded agitated and as if he had a cold. “His back. Can you see his back?”

  Giuseppe turned to the doctor, who had stepped aside to have a smoke. “The Italian authorities are asking about his back.”

  “Ah. You want to see the mark.” Kahey shrugged and set his cigarette on the windowsill. “Perhaps you can tell me what it is.” He gave Giuseppe an encouraging look. “You’re going to have to help me.”

  Giuseppe held his cell in his hand, not sure what to do.

  “We have to turn him over.”

  “Call me back,” the man on the phone commanded before disconnecting.

  “Come on. Don’t be afraid. He won’t hurt anyone. On three. Ready?” Dr. Kahey laughed as Giuseppe grabbed hold. “One, two, three!”

  The body fell onto its side, with one arm hanging stiffly off the edge. Giuseppe Locatelli stared in amazement at the dead man’s back. A mark stretched from one shoulder to the other.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  3

  Polizia di Stato—Venice, Italy

  Tommaso di Barbara had been waiting for the call all day. He’d done practically nothing but sit and stare at the phone as he nursed the first symptoms of the flu. And now the call had come through—at a hell of an inconvenient moment. Tommaso glanced at his phone as his boss studied him with an accusatory expression.

  “And you don’t know anything about it?” demanded Commissario Morante. “A package requested from this station, sent by diplomatic pouch from China?”

  Tommaso didn’t reply. He wondered why Morante was at the police station today. Usually, he put in an appearance only when there were important visitors. Tommaso had an unpleasant feeling that his days at the station were numbered.

  The commissario persisted: “Are you sure? Someone used official channels to get the Chinese authorities to send the package with the cassette. Via Interpol. Without my knowledge.” The commissario’s breath smelled of Chianti and garlic.

  “My shift starts now,” replied Tommaso, evading the question
.

  He got up and fled outside into the rain.

  The wharf that led from the police station to the police boats was the first part of Venice that prominent guests to the city encountered. After being transported over from the mainland, they were received by Commissario Morante, then escorted through the old police headquarters, which had once housed monks, and out to the Grand Canal along the police wharf. Tonight there were no guests. Only rain. Tommaso jumped down into the boat and tapped on his phone to retrieve the last missed call.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Tommaso again. Are you still there?”

  “Yes. Yes!” Giuseppe Locatelli sounded distressed.

  Tommaso swore. This damn rain. It was impossible to hear anything. He pressed his hand over his other ear and strained to listen.

  “I’m still in the morgue.”

  “Did you turn him over?”

  “Yes. It’s—”

  “Talk louder,” shouted Tommaso. “I can’t hear you.”

  “He has a mark. It looks completely crazy. Like a . . .”

  Tommaso broke into the silence. “Like a tattoo?”

  “Yes.”

  Flavio and the new man from Puglia came running through the rain. They were on the night shift with Tommaso.

  “Can you take some pictures with your cell phone?” asked Tommaso.

  “Yes. But I’ve also brought along a camera. As you requested in your e-mail.”

  Tommaso thought fast. If he had interpreted the boss’s mood correctly, he might not have much time left at the station. Not enough time to wait for photographs to travel by snail mail from India.

  “Take pictures of his back with your cell. Do you hear me? This is an urgent matter. Take pictures showing his whole back and also some close-ups—as close as you can get without losing focus.”

  Flavio and the new colleague opened the door and stepped into the cabin of the boat. They said hello to Tommaso, who nodded.

  “Did you understand what I said?” asked Tommaso.

  “Yes,” said Giuseppe.

  “And send them to me as an MMS.”

  Tommaso ended the call. He dug a bottle of pills out of his pocket and took two without any liquid other than his own spit as he tried to figure out how he could have gotten the flu. Maybe he’d caught it from somebody at the hospice. The nurses and nuns who took care of his mother were in constant contact with illness. The thought of his dying mother sent a pang of guilt through him.

  Santa Lucia train station—Venice

  The man’s passport said that he came from Guatemala. It was the thinnest passport Tommaso had ever seen: nothing more than a small piece of paper folded in half. No space for seals or visas, just a dingy photograph of the owner, who looked like a Mayan Indian, and a few dubious official stamps from an equally dubious authority on the other side of the Atlantic.

  “Poco, poco,” replied the owner of the passport when Tommaso asked if he spoke Italian.

  “French?”

  He didn’t speak that language, either. The man knew only a little English, which was far from Tommaso’s strong suit. But Tommaso was not the only one in Italy who didn’t speak English. Not even his English teacher in school could speak the language properly. On the other hand, French had been pounded into the heads of the students. Tommaso would have preferred to learn English, but by now it was too late, he thought. If you’re over twenty-five, it’s too late to learn anything new. That was what his father had taught him. And when you’re over thirty, you need to become your own doctor. Tommaso’s father, who had never left Cannaregio in Venice, died because he refused to seek medical help when he began having problems with his lungs. Now Tommaso knew: Fathers shouldn’t talk so much. He also knew that in many ways, he was a tired copy of his father.

  Tommaso straightened up and caught sight of his own reflection in the window of the train compartment. Normally, he would have seen a sharp, clean-shaven face with penetrating eyes, hair sprinkled with gray, and a firm jaw. Tonight he looked like he should be home in bed. Tommaso was the first to admit that his good looks had been a hindrance to establishing any sort of stable relationship with a woman. There were simply too many temptations. But not in the past couple of years, since he’d reached his mid-forties. Not that his appearance had changed appreciably, but people around him had changed. They’d gotten married and were enjoying the pleasures of settling down. Tommaso told himself almost every day that he ought to find himself a wife. But that’s probably not going to happen tonight, he thought as he again caught sight of his reflection.

  “Grazie.” Tommaso nodded to the Mayan from Guatemala and stepped out onto the platform.

  He immediately checked his cell phone. No new messages. No photo files. Tommaso looked at the train station clock. Tuesday, December 15, 2009. 1:18 A.M. He knew it could take several minutes, sometimes even several hours, for a message to reach his phone from Asia. Their intelligence services delayed the signal so they could check what was being sent in and out. They diligently monitored everyone’s conversations.

  “Flavio,” Tommaso called to his colleague. “Flavio!”

  The three of them were the only ones on the night shift, which had started in the rain seventeen minutes ago. Police headquarters was located down the street from the train station. They knew that the train from Trieste arrived at one-thirty and often carried illegal immigrants from Eastern Europe, seeking their fortune in the West by working for lousy wages in some miserable kitchen.

  Flavio stepped out of the rain and under the platform’s steel roof. He had to shout at Tommaso to make himself heard over the noise. “We’re letting them go.”

  “Why?”

  “Suicide on Murano.”

  “Suicide?”

  “Or murder. Out on those islands, it could be either.” Flavio blew his nose hard three times and then stuffed the tissue back in his pocket.

  Tommaso took another look at his cell phone. Still nothing from India. Am I afraid of what I’ll find out? he asked himself on his way down to the boat. Almost every other time, he’d been right. A couple of months ago a body was found in Hanoi. Dead in the same way. With the same mark. Also a humanitarian.

  Before Flavio turned the boat around in the canal, Tommaso noticed that the lights were on in the commissario’s office. Tommaso knew only too well what that meant. Commissario Morante was moving heaven and earth to find out who had convinced the Chinese authorities to send the package with the cassette. Soon he would know—the commissario was a thorough man—and he would also know that Tommaso had used Interpol to send warnings to a number of European police departments. Including the one in Copenhagen.

  4

  Copenhagen, Denmark

  Icy-cold hours in the Nordvest district of the city.

  The rain was drumming on the roof of the police car in a relaxed, monotonous pattern. The drops were getting heavier. Soon the rain pouring down on Copenhagen is going to crystallize and land on the ground as soft snow, thought Niels Bentzon. His fingers shook as he tried to pry the next-to-last cigarette out of the pack.

  Through the foggy panes, the world around him was like an impenetrable veil of water, dark with shifting lights from the cars driving past. He leaned back and stared into space. He had a headache and thanked the higher powers that the team leader had asked him to wait in the car. Niels didn’t care for Dortheavej. Maybe it was because of the area’s particular ability to attract trouble. It wouldn’t surprise him at all if it wasn’t raining in the rest of Copenhagen tonight.

  Niels tried to recall who had taken up residence here first. Was it the Islamic religious community or the occupants of the Youth House? The two groups both served as an open invitation to troublemakers. Everyone on the police force knew it. A call on the police radio from Dortheavej in Nordvest meant a bomb threat, demonstrations, arson, or general mayhem.

  Niels had participated in raiding the old Youth House; almost every police officer in the country had been called in. It was a b
ad business, and he hadn’t liked the way things played out. Niels had ended up in a side street where he tried to pacify two very young men wielding very big clubs. Niels was struck on the left arm and in the lower rib cage. Hatred had streamed out of the two youths, a supernova of frustrations directed at Niels. When he finally managed to knock one of them to the ground and get him cuffed, the young man began screaming the ugliest epithets right in his face. His accent was unmistakable. The kid was from northern Sjælland, probably Rungsted. A child of wealth.

  Tonight it wasn’t angry youths or Islamists who had brought him to this street. It was a returning soldier using surplus ammunition on his own family.

  “Niels!”

  Niels ignored the pounding on the car window. He still had three fourths of his cigarette left.

  “Niels. It’s time.”

  He took two deep drags before he stepped out into the rain.

  The officer, a young guy, looked at him. “Great weather, huh?”

  “What do we know so far?” Niels tossed his cigarette butt on the ground and made his way past the police barricade.

  “He’s fired three or four shots, and he has a hostage.”

  “What do we know about the hostage?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Are there children?”

  “We don’t know anything, Niels. Leon is in the stairwell.” The officer pointed.

  Tuesday, December 15, 2009

  Fuck you!! That was what some honest soul had scratched into the wall above the names of the residents. The stairwell was both a wreck and a testament to the political decisions of the past few years: Save Christiania, Fuck Israel, and Kill the cops. That was as much as Niels had time to read before the rusty front door slammed shut behind him. It had taken only seconds for him to get soaked through.

  “Is it raining?”

  Niels couldn’t tell which of the three officers on the stairs was trying to be funny. “The third floor, right?”