Modin glanced to his right. Through the rain across the water, he could see the youth hostel housed in the ancient sailing vessel, the af Chapman moored at Skeppsholmen. Beckholmen, Gustaf V, he thought. Beckholmen was located at the southern tip of Djurgården, where three dry docks had been blasted into the face of the rock. The last of these, named Gustaf V, had been built in the 1920s and was the largest, some 220 yards end to end. He drove along the rather chic Strandvägen Boulevard and past the Nybroviken inlet. The directors of Skandia Insurance used to live in this area, in some of the largest, most luxuriously renovated apartments paid for by policyholders.
In the Province of Sweden, people tended to do whatever they wanted, he thought as he crossed the bridge onto Djurgården island, rushed past the pompous façade of the Nordic Museum and followed a bread delivery van along the drenched road. The wipers continued to clack rhythmically. He began to wonder whether it was wise to come here on his own. At this time of night, the area would be deserted. Of course, that was the whole point. He was curious and the person who had sent the text message knew this.
It was three-thirty in the morning. The Gustaf V dock lay farthest away as one turned right onto the bridge to Beckholmen after passing the large entrance to Skansen Zoo. Modin drove across the bridge, then followed the ridge westwards. Nobody seemed to follow him as he drove into the parking lot. The Gustaf V dock was a large hole in the ground. He passed it on his right and stopped at the furthest pier. It had started to rain heavily again, and the raindrops were forcefully hitting the trunk of the car. He turned off the ignition, and the engine fell silent with a sigh.
Modin scanned the area carefully, hesitant to leave the car. This could be a trap.
• • •
The man had a broad back, a strong neck, and was wearing a navy blue military ski mask. It was pulled down over his face, but there were holes for the eyes, nose, and mouth. He was breathing slowly and deeply as he was slouching rather comfortably on the roof of the wharf building at Beckholmen, just opposite Gustaf V. He was holding the edge of the chimney lightly with his gloved left hand and did not seem bothered by the water pouring onto his face.
“Here he comes,” sounded the communication radio in his left breast pocket.
Two searchlights were swinging around the ridge and lit him up. He took the safety off his gun, a Heckler & Koch G3 automatic, and by reflex checked his right hand trouser pocket for the extra magazine. He pointed at his companion with his index and middle finger, indicating the car. His companion, like he himself a man around fifty, was ten yards to his right, near the next chimney. He, too, was dressed in camouflage khaki pants and a black half-length windbreaker. He gave the okay signal by gently raising the barrel of his automatic. The driving rain did not seem to affect the men on the roof. They were squatting motionlessly and knew that they were invisible from the road.
Two other men were hidden on the far side of the road, a little further down the stairs to the dry dock.
• • •
Modin pulled up the collar of his leather jacket and finally left the car. For a while, he stood with his shoulders hunched up, surveying the whole area; he tried to listen but only heard the pattering of the rain hitting the rocks. Through the mist, he could see the Finland ferry on the other side of the water, moored at Stadsgården on the suburban island of Södermalm, from where he had come. Modin walked up to a notice that said No trespassing! Guardians are responsible for their children. The rain trickled down the back of his neck and inside his collar. He ignored it. He adopted an attitude of complete nonchalance, in case he was being observed.
He went up to the dock and looked inside. It was pitch-black—a construction some 50 feet below sea level, carved out of the rock with steps up to ground level. He felt lonely and abandoned. This really isn’t such a good idea, he thought. What the hell am I doing here? Fuck, this is a mistake!
He began to stride back to his car.
From the corner of his eye, Modin saw two men leap from the roof of the wharf building. They landed in the wet gravel just a few feet away from him, straightening up immediately.
“Stop!” one of them called out. His automatic was aimed at Modin’s head.
Staring down the barrel of the powerful gun, Modin froze on the spot. He raised his arms over his head.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked with confidence, but what he felt was fear. He was surrounded by four men that looked like paramilitaries.
“Hands on your head! And I mean now, motherfucker!”
Modin put his hands on his head. He had time to think that this was like an exercise during commando training. His eyes narrowed; he knew he was neck deep in shit.
One of the men went up to Modin and hit him forcefully on the back of the head with the butt of his rifle.
• • •
Modin slumped to the ground, unconscious. The man crouched down and searched Modin’s pockets. He took his wallet, removed his cell, and put these objects in one of his own back pockets. He fingered Modin’s watch but let it be.
Meanwhile, the other men had approached. They carried the unconscious Modin to his Chevy and put him in the driver’s seat. Modin lay there, slumped against the steering wheel with his right cheek. One of the men started the engine and shut the door. Then he went alongside the car and steered it, while the others pushed. The car rolled gently toward the edge of the pier. The windshield wipers continued to swish as the car rolled forward.
The men looked at one another and all gave a short nod. Two of them, on either side of the car, turned outwards, crouched down, and surveyed the scene. One man opened the door and put the gear in drive-mode and closed the door again. The vehicle crept slowly toward the edge.
It was a drop of some ten feet, and the car hit the surface of the water with a splash. It floated for a few seconds; the headlights continued to blaze. Then, suddenly, the car sank with a discreet gurgle and disappeared under the surface. Gradually, the headlights faded in the whirling waters, while the men looked on. Behind them, the needle-like tower of the Gröna Lund amusement park could be seen, now closed down for the season. A brief moment of silence later, one of them, the group leader, pointed with his full arm and shouted: “Return to base.”
The others obeyed.
• • •
Modin’s Chevy pickup sank through the black water—six feet, twelve, thirty—until it landed in the soft sediment.
Modin came to. Cold water was flowing around him and rising quickly; it was up to his testicles already.
Where am I? Below the pier, I suppose. How deep is it? Ten, fifty feet? His thoughts raced. He knew he was underwater, and the car was right side up because he was sitting straight. He felt the wound to the back of his head with his right hand. It did not hurt, but it was warm and damp. He felt no pain anywhere. He was going to survive. That, at least, was his aim. So much more to do. His breathing increased. His eyes became slits and he shut his mouth tight, breathing through his nose.
Got to wait till the car fills all the way up with water, he thought. He tried to keep his cool but could not prevent his right leg from trembling uncontrollably and spasmodically. He could no longer see his hand in front of his face. It was dark, hellishly dark. The problem was finding the right direction. Am I going to die here? He cast aside the recurring thought.
Instead, he tried to think about breathing and swimming to the surface. That was not going to be easy. He had to stay calm; otherwise it was lights out for him. He breathed a little more deeply.
The water was now up to his nipples. He zipped up the jacket to the top and waited. The water reached his chin. He stretched it out. It was getting really cold. Water seeped down his collar and onto his chest. He took one last breath and experienced a sudden flashback.
Prime Minister Olof Palme was making a speech at the political debate congress in Almedalen on the island of Gotland. Palme spoke slowly, over-articulating his words. His speech inspired confidence back then, thought Modin
as the water came up to his nose, his eyes, and his ears until his head grew silent.
A few more seconds now.
Modin suddenly became rational as the water closed in over his head. He had heard that many people drowned in cars because they didn’t wait long enough before trying to get out, using up the energy better spent swimming. He managed to keep calm. The fear of death was gone. Is this how Cats Falk died? He felt he had all the time in the world once the rushing of the water had ceased. He thought he heard the sound of tin plate buckling. He saw nothing, but felt with his hand and found the window handle. He managed to open the side window then squeezed through. His head touched something soft and horrible. He got the taste of mud in his mouth. He was swimming in the filth at the bottom. Ugh!
Keep as cool as a cucumber, my boy, he thought. Do what you must: survive. He let the tips of his toes get a firm hold on the bottom part of the rolled down window. He turned around without losing his grip on the car. The air in his lungs could not help him rise to the surface. The water pressure was too great. He wriggled across the roof of the car and hunkered down.
Life or death now, rise up slowly, he was thinking.
Modin was pretty sure that the car was standing on its wheels in the mud. That’s what it had felt like when there was still air in the car.
He raised himself slowly to his full height and stopped for a second. He stretched, took aim and pushed downwards as hard as he could. Arms above his head and holding his thumbs tightly. He glided upwards like a torpedo.
• • •
A black Dodge van was leaving the wharf at Beckholmen. The car was rolling smoothly forward and all that could be heard was the muffled sound of the engine. The car had remained parked for a few moments but the surface of the water was still. Nothing had come up from the seabed.
It was three forty-five in the morning. Time to go. The operation had been a success. The four men took off their ski masks and looked at one another. They each had their rituals when an operation had been pulled off. That was as it should be. One would go on a drinking binge. Another would shrug his shoulders and regard the incident as a necessary measure. Another was busy looking down at the floor. No one said anything.
The car drove at high speed through Djurgården and over the Djurgården Bridge onto the mainland. The driver made sure that they were soon lost in the maze of the city streets. The sound of an ambulance siren could be heard in the faraway district of Östermalm. This did not disturb their calm. Modin was dead. Mission accomplished. All they heard now was the rain.
• • •
Modin shot up through the water. He tried to relax yet stretch out as much as possible. It felt like forever. He could feel his heart in his chest. His eyes were open but he saw nothing, his mouth was open but he tasted nothing. He must have been underwater for two minutes. He did not dare to make any more swimming strokes for fear of losing his direction. That could mean death.
He felt something firm and rough in the dense darkness of the water. The pier! He was still holding his breath. The lack of oxygen was extremely painful. He followed the rough surface of the pier and prayed he was still swimming upwards. Just a little longer. Then new air. He broke the surface with a splutter. Ice cold water ran out of his ears. He still couldn’t see anything. But there was air.
Breathe deeply!
He inhaled and exhaled for a full minute while clinging to an old car tire that was fixed to the pier. His head was spinning, his body hung limply from his arms. His throat was dry. Little by little he began to look around. Behind him, he could see the Finland ferry. He recognized the pier quay at Stadsgården on the opposite side. The water was still up to his chin. There was no risk he would be seen. Warmth flooded his body. A feeling of joy filled him when he saw that there was no one at the pier watching him. All was still.
This is what it feels like when you defy certain death, he thought in a moment of exhilaration. He had experienced the feeling before and recognized it. This is the last time I’m doing something like this! he decided. He climbed up over the tire with the help of a rusty chain. Once he had reached the pier walkway, he collapsed and passed out.
CHAPTER 5
SÖDER HOSPITAL, STOCKHOLM, WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 30
“Hi Bergman,” Modin said.
Modin was lying between sheets belonging to the Stockholm Health Authority in a single room at the Söder Hospital in Stockholm. A week had passed since a couple of port workers had found him lying frozen and unconscious at the wharf.
“You look terrible!” Bill Bergman looked sadly at his friend. “I took time off work when I heard the news that you’d woken up from your coma. I’ve brought you some chocolate. How are you, old friend?”
“Just a little dizzy,” Modin said. “It was no accident, Bergman. Don’t believe that for a minute. It was…”
“Take it easy! You need to get some rest.” Bergman gripped Modin’s shoulder to prevent him from trying to sit up in bed. “This was a close call. You’ve been out for a whole week. If they’d brought you in much later, I’d be speaking to a coffin now.”
“Yes, so they say. I feel I’ve gotten some much needed rest,” Modin said, smiling. “It was no accident, Bergman, do you hear me?”
“Alright, so what was it then, Modin?” He took a chair and sat down at the bedside.
“Attempted murder, Bergman. I don’t remember all of it, but someone knocked me out with a rifle. Next thing I know, I wake up at the bottom of the sea. They must have pushed the car over the edge of the pier. They were ice cold; military I think, four of them.”
“Start from the beginning, and take it slowly. What sort of military?” Bergman was irritated. Mostly because he was uneasy.
“After I left you in the middle of that night, I got this a message, asking me to come out to the Gustav V dock at Beckholmen,” Modin said. “So I go, and was attacked out there by four fucking lunatics in masks and military kit, carrying automatics. What a dream, eh? And I’ve still got a lump on my head.”
“This won’t be over tomorrow morning. You’re going to stay here for some time, maybe a couple of months. You’ve got to rehabilitate properly,” Bergman said.
“Why is that?” Modin asked as a bed was being wheeled along the corridor outside. Modin recognized the sound. He’d been in the hospital often enough to know that patients who had to stay for extended periods of time were pretty serious cases. Those that could breathe, stand, and walk on their own were sent home.
“Fuck knows. You’ve eaten too much shit.”
“Get out of here, no one can lie for months at a stretch in a hospital bed. It costs too much.”
The hospital was one of the biggest in Stockholm and was located near the southern shore of the large Stockholm inner city island of Södermalm, which had once been a working class area. Large parts of Söder, as the locals called it, had been gentrified and turned into the Notting Hill of Stockholm, with chic apartments and boutiques. Yet Söder was still picturesque and had its charms, at least Modin thought so. Still, the thought of staying here for months troubled him greatly.
“You ought to give the Security Service a ring and get them to assign you a bodyguard, Modin,” Bergman continued. “This has got to be connected to whatever it is you saw in the files in the Security Service archives.”
“I looked at the files of the Palme murder. But nobody knows what I looked at. I was alone in there.”
“Well, if you’re right, and it was an inside job by Special Ops, then they probably don’t care what you really saw. They won’t take any chances. They’ll just assume you’ve seen too much and act accordingly. Christ, I’m scared, Modin. You’ve done it his time. You’ve bumped into the wrong guys, that’s for sure. It was just pure dumb luck that you survived. They will try to silence you once and for all. Maybe you’re not even safe staying at this hospital.”
“Oh, knock it off, dude,” Modin said. “They’re not going to be barging in here to kill me. This isn’t Hollywood, Ber
gman. We’ll have to keep our eyes wide open for a while, that’s all. But I would like to know who tried to have me swim with the fishes. Didn’t even know we had assassins in this country. I agree, though,. they wanted to send us a clear message—don’t poke your noses where they don’t belong. Or else.”
“What d’you mean ‘us’ and ‘your noses, plural’?” Bergman asked. “Don’t get me involved, please, thank you very much.”
Modin turned his head to the right and gazed out the window. He was in heaven. It was blue. The city was gone, sunk below the windowsill. No black water. The air was high and clear, full of oxygen, and there was as much of it as he wanted. He felt like getting out of bed and inhaling at the open window. The doctor would not approve. It was autumn, and sick people should stay under the covers.
Suddenly he felt weak again. He wanted to change the subject. “And how are you, Bergman? Do you miss Astrid?”
“Obviously. But I can handle it, because I know she’s alive. But Ewa thinks her daughter is dead. She suffers in ways I cannot even imagine.” Bergman snapped open a bar of chocolate and broke off a row of squares. “Do you want some?” Modin nodded and reached for the piece Bergman offered. “Even I don’t know where my daughter is or who’s looking after her, and that’s tough enough already.”
“You have to keep your yapper shut about what happened, Bergman. Otherwise, Astrid’s life will be in danger, indeed. She’s doing fine, she’s being cared for. Elli’s taken care of that. Astrid has started school over there, and made a few friends. She’s happy. I talked to Ellie a few days ago,” Modin lied. “Just hold out a bit longer. We can fly over and see her as soon as I’m better. Her life and health are, after all, the main things, aren’t they?”
“Yes, you’re right, of course. I’d just like to tell Ewa that she’s alive. I can’t cope with her desperation.”
Enemy of the State Page 4
