“No. I have sponsors who wish Sweden well. If I do good things for the country, they’ll pay. And yes, I’ve still got my credit card and I intend to do more things for the good of my country. To start with, bring me a bottle of spirits properly filtered, Kent E. I feel like getting drunk this evening. Do you want to join me? Sweden’s footing the bill.”
An older man, rather round-shouldered and with a large head, walked past the bar toward the exit. Modin stared at him for quite a while. He looked familiar.
“Wasn’t that Ingo Swanson, the former Prime Minister?”
“Sure was. A distinctly upscale type of guy.”
“And what’s he doing out here?”
“He lives over on the west side of Singö, three miles north of here. Brings his better half here now and again and drinks himself silly. On a few occasions, we’ve had to stop him at the pier, for safety’s sake, and order a taxi. Then he really gets pissed off. To tell you the truth, we’re more worried about the nice boat. He’s a good chap really, friendly, loves to talk. Likes his gin and tonic.”
“Quite,” Modin said.
He got up and rushed out after the old man. Kent E continued to polish glasses behind the bar. He enjoyed standing there, looking out over the room, surveying the scene and trying to make contact with people. Modin saw in the corner of his eye that Kent E pushed his dyed, fair-colored hair behind his ear. Then he went outside.
CHAPTER 8
Anton Modin returned a short while later and saw that three fishermen from Åland had arrived in the meantime. They were large, noisy, and drunk. One of them had a huge potato nose, the other two were just tall and fat. A happy and loud bunch of guys, they were sitting down at the table closest to the bar.
Modin, who was now in excellent spirits, had gotten some color in his cheeks from his short venture outdoors; he sat down again at the bar.
“Fuck, Kent E, can you imagine? I’ve just gotten myself invited for coffee at Ingo Swanson’s place. He knew who I was. He said he had plenty to tell me.”
“Everybody knows who you are, Modin,” Kent E said and polished a brandy glass with his soft hands. “Everybody.” He looked down as he said this.
“That man must know everything about Sweden in the Cold War,” Modin said. Swanson had taken over as Prime Minister the very night that Palme had been murdered. “Just the man I need to get in touch with right now. Thanks, Kent E. Give me a large one this time.”
“Are you sure it’s such a good idea to drink this much, Modin? You’re only just out of the hospital. Isn’t it a better idea for you to be taking it easy tonight.”
“No, it’s not a better idea. It’s worse,” Modin said, looking serious. “What’s the most expensive vodka you’ve got?”
“Well, there’s Grey Goose from France, really pricey. Shall I open a bottle? Good for our balance of payments.”
“Yes, for crying out loud. Then I’d like you to tell me about the chicks pack from last summer. Are all your waitresses back in the States? Any of them coming back this summer?”
“Ah, I see what you’re getting at, Modin. We haven’t heard a word from Ellie. You had a little bit of a crush on her, didn’t you? What a fine woman, one of the best.”
“That’s more or less the long and the short of it. She’ll never come back. She’s going to become a lawyer, not a waitress. She’s a big girl now,” Modin responded as he felt a little sadness wash over him when he thought of Ellie, the dark-haired beauty from New Haven with very rich parents.
“There’ll be others, Modin. You can bet on that. Joint’s got a couple of real beauties from L.A. lined up for the summer. Big racks and pouting lips, you get the picture?”
“Oh, enough, Kent E. Sometimes you’re really too much. Do you want some firewater, by the way?”
“I wouldn’t say no. It’s going to be a quiet evening. Just a small one.”
Modin filled Kent E’s glass right up to the brim.
“Thanks, that’ll do.”
They both had a good laugh and knocked back their glasses so that the ice rattled.
“Hi, Anton.”
An attractive woman in her forties had snuck up to Modin. She was rather tall, had short brown hair, a slender but well trained body, especially around the neck and shoulders, as far as could be made out under her low-necked black sweater. She was wearing tight blue jeans that accentuated her well-formed hips and suede cowboy boots. She smelled nice, too, Modin noticed, as did Kent E. He had gone red in the face.
“Oh, hello,” Modin said.
“Hi there,” Kent E said, staring at her, glass in hand.
“Recognize me? Julia.”
Modin blinked, then laughed. “Yes, of course, Julia Steerback, for fuck’s sake. It’s been ages.”
Julia gave him a hard hug. He recognized her perfume. She was warm and he could feel her sweater against his throat. A tingling feeling.
Reminds me of Cats Falk, Modin thought. Or rather the version of Cats Falk I keep dreaming about. The one who needs me in my recurring nightmares.
“What are you doing over here in the middle of winter? I thought you lived overseas,” Modin said, blushing slightly.
“I’ve moved back home. I live out on Black Island.”
“Black Island? You mean the SIGINT islet in the restricted area?”
Modin could not avoid the temptation of looking down at Julia’s breasts, small and well-shaped, under a bra with lace frills that peeped out over the edge of her décolletage.
“Not any more. The zone out there was closed down some time ago. No threats any more. All wars are over. Nowadays, Radio Intelligence is chasing file-sharers.”
“Yes, but are you still in the military?”
Julia laughed heartily and tilted her head to one side. She had beautiful white teeth, a large mouth, and luscious lips with discreet maroon lipstick. Her eyes were as dark as those of a deer and had a tendency to fix Modin’s gaze for that extra second.
They were fond of one another. Always had been.
“No, not anymore,” Julia repeated with a lingering smile.
Modin remembered Black Island as a little rocky islet, a couple of acres in size, with a few red huts and a small number of pine trees. The islet was a straight shot out to sea from Modin’s summer house and was the very last one of the string of islands along the Swedish coast facing the Sea of Åland. There were steep cliffs on all sides and, as far as he knew, this was a SIGINT station. As far as he could remember, no one was allowed to land there.
“I’ve bought the islet and live out there now. I’m fed up with Los Angeles. I intend to live the life of an average Swede in the wilderness.”
“How the hell could anyone get fed up with L.A.?” Kent E inquired with a glossy, penetrating gaze. He was already getting tipsy, as Modin observed.
“L.A. is all plastic in the long run. I’ve lived there for 17 years, moved there in 1991. That’s a long time.”
“Didn’t you got to work with Guns ‘N Roses?” Modin asked. He had perked up and poured another shot of vodka. “Do you want some, by the way?”
“Yes, please, with ice.” She sat down on a bar stool. “I was their sound engineer, but that’s not why I moved there. I got a job with the American National Security Agency, NSA. The Cold War had come to an end and the significance of the Baltic Sea collapsed like a house of cards. I wanted new challenges and they wanted me.”
“The NSA,” Kent E asked, puzzled.
“It’s the Yankee version of signals intelligence, like our Swedish Försvarets Radioanstalt, FRA for short.”
“You worked for defense, Julia?” Modin questioned. “I didn’t know that. I thought you were a sound technician for the radio.” Modin paused as he smiled at her. “My dear Julia, my friend. Do you remember when we were teenagers and cycled to the beach?”
“Yes, and the beach party on the rocks out here all night long. What a great time we had. In those days, you could be happy.” Julia looked dreamy and leaned her head
on one hand with her elbow firmly anchored on the bar. Modin thought she looked sexy when she did that.
“Aren’t you happy now?” Modin said. He gave Julia a serious look to avoid being sucked into her gaze.
“No, not as happy as I was then. Maybe I will be again sometime in the future. That’s why I moved back home. There were just too many parties and other shit out there in L.A. All shallow distractions.”
Julia gave Modin a seductive smile.
“You’re going to start a new life?” Kent E asked, trying to look genuinely interested.
“I’m going to be working as a translator out there on Black Island. Already got a few TV assignments. A computer with a 3G mobile connection is all I need. And loneliness.”
“And a few bottles of wine,” Kent E declared, “because downloading takes a hell of a long time.”
He’s becoming a pain in the ass, Modin thought.
“Kent E, don’t you have customers to serve?” Modin inquired in a severe tone of voice.
Kent E got some twitches in his face and then loped off to the table with the three fishermen. They had been trying to catch his attention for a good while, and were somewhat irritated.
“Hell, Julia, it’s been so long since we last met,” Modin said. “How was your time with Guns ‘N Roses? Must have been exciting!”
“Well, there isn’t that much to tell, really. We, or they, were going to become the best rock band in the world. Then it all went belly-up.”
“Fun while it lasted?” Modin said.
“Yes, sure, but it all ended in chaos. I resigned from the NSA when one of the band members asked if I wanted to come work for them. He knew I’d been a sound technician in Sweden. He needed me on the team, he said. So I resigned from a perfectly good and interesting job to hang around with a rock band. Sounds crazy now. Sure, it was great at first. Mostly small clubs before we made a name for ourselves.”
“And then?” Modin asked eagerly.
“Oh, then male hormones kicked in and messed up everything. Really tragic case of hubris. Like most men, some of the band members had problems with their relationship to their father’s. Low self-esteem. That’s my analysis, anyway. It really was a one-way ticket to hell. I saw the writing on the wall pretty early on, but there was so much money involved that I stayed anyway. And it was exciting.”
“How much did you earn, Julia?”
“Enough. The translations now are just so I have something to occupy my mind.”
“Amazing. But what did you do after the rock band? You did stay over there an additional ten years. Did you get married?”
“No, unfortunately not. No kids either.”
Julia scratched the surface of the bar with her finger. The subject was evidently sensitive, so he started to talk about something else.
“Did you go back to the NSA and Signals Intelligence?”
“No, not really. Apart from being a sound technician, I happen to be a trained civil engineer in electronics. I worked at the Swedish Defense Research Institute with hydroacoustics and electromagnetics, deep seas being my specialty. You know, submarine detection. But I hardly think all that will interest you, Modin. Let’s drink to times past. Cheers!” Julia laughed. Modin stretched his back.
“Oh, I do think all that is interesting. Honestly. I’ve got my own interest in the deep sea. So, do tell me more.”
Julia Steerback looked at him in a cunning way that turned him on. She had a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure that no one was eavesdropping; she paid special attention to the three fishermen from Åland who were sitting at the nearby table, bragging about this and that, one-upping each other. They were drunk. Potato Nose, their clear leader, tossed a couple of insults in the direction of the two women who were sitting further inside the room.
“Flat as flounders, should be split up the middle,” he yelled and laughed his head off.
“Take it easy lads,” Kent E said from behind the bar.
Modin concentrated on Julia again. There was tension behind her openness.
“I started out by working for a company called Western Electric, an AT&T subsidiary. I was going to be developing something called SOSUS. You might have heard about it? Sound Surveillance System. Hardly anyone’s got it. It’s a chain of passive long distance surveillance systems to detect submarines, and it’s top secret. I was almost prevented from moving back home to Sweden. My boss at Western wasn’t at all pleased that I resigned from my position. They seem to think that there’s going to be a new Cold War out there.”
“Interesting, would love to hear more. Can I offer you another drink, or some peanuts?”
Anton Modin was smiling. He was rather happy talking to Julia. Happiness always seemed less elusive when he came out into the countryside. Out here, his wild soul could find rest. It was here he belonged. With his memories, among friends. And he had just met a particularly dear friend from years past.
“Service!” Someone shouted so that it could be heard all over the restaurant. It was one of the Ålanders trying to attract attention. “Service!”
Kent E seemed to have grown tired of them. “I’m coming, I’m coming.” Modin could see that they had already knocked over a beer.
“How’s your brother? I mean Christian.”
Julia started twiddling her fingers on the bar top again.
“Everything’s fine with my brother,” she said carefully. “He works at Swedish Defence Materiel Administration like our father used to. Something secret, I suspect.”
“Secret jobs seem to run in your family,” Modin said. He meant it as a joke, but she didn’t laugh.. “Don’t you ever get together with him?” He backtracked quickly, hoping he hadn’t destroyed the mood.
“Sometimes. He comes here now and again. He’s something of a control freak. Always has been. When I was in the States, he left me alone, but it’s become worse since I moved home. He really does say the strangest of things at times. But I’d rather not talk about …”
At that moment, Modin was nudged from behind and spilled some beer on his trousers. It was Potato Nose on his way to the bathroom.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Modin yelled after him.
Potato Nose grinned and carried on toward the restrooms. Modin glared after him.
“Oh, what a weird group of customers,” Julia said and tried to regain Modin’s attention. She gave him a paper napkin. “Let’s change the subject. How are you? Children, family, a lover?” Julia was smiling again, looking deeply into Modin’s eyes.
“Not anymore,” he said and did everything in his power not to look down at the bar. “My wife and kids died in the Estonia ferry disaster.”
“Oh, God, I didn’t know, Modin. I’m so very sorry. I really don’t know what to say.”
“That’s alright, you don’t have to say anything. I’m beginning to get over it. At least I can talk about it now; couldn’t for years. My wife and two small kids, a boy and a girl.” Tears welled up in his eyes. “Ugh, looks like I don’t seem to be able to talk about it after all. Let’s talk about something else.”
Julia looked around, drank her vodka, and let him recover. Her smile was gone.
“What about dinner, just you and me, back at my place,” she said before she noticed that someone was standing right behind her.
“Well, well. Aren’t you that little village whore, Julia?” Potato Nose said. “The one who fucks her brother.”
CHAPTER 9
VÄRTA GASWORKS, THURSDAY, APRIL 30, 11 P.M.
A black Volvo S80 was gliding softly toward the old gasworks in the Lill-Jansskogen recreational park not far from the bridge leading to the island of Lidingö just north of Stockholm City. The car came to a stop at a brick villa in an area near the administrative building. A man wearing a suit and a thin raincoat open at the chest looked out of the car window. His face was wrinkled with age—he was in his eighties—and he had an obstinate chin and an intense, dark gaze. He could see the part of the gasworks to his right.
The gasworks produced gas made from light petroleum for Stockholm’s stoves, which was kept in a large emergency store under the hill in the Hjorthagen district. A tunnel led to the center of the city and joined a network of further tunnels that spread out like vole holes beneath the entire city.
No one knew the full extent of this tunnel system. There was no map. The tunnels were used to transport telecommunications, water and sewage, district heating and the metro train, and each interested party looked only after its own section.
The old man was well aware that this network of tunnels had its uses for emergency defense. Top secret maps were locked up somewhere in the Department of Special Ops, the DSO.
The driver helped the old man out of his car. The walking stick and his gray hair that lay in wisps across his scalp and made him look frail and vulnerable. He clambered out of the car, stood there leaning forward slightly, his back crooked, jutting out his chin to command due respect.
General Stig Synnerman had been the chief of staff and responsible for the DSO in the 1970s, and His Majesty the King’s Adjutant in the 1980s. He was accompanied by a man ten years his junior, the former head of Bofors, Anders Glock. The two of them were among the few left of the inner circle in charge of Sweden’s defense in the 1980s—another two members of this group, a former chief of staff, and a former head of DSO had passed away.
Anker Turner, the Social-Democratic Minister of Defense in the 1980s, had arrived in his own car, which was parked on the grounds of the gas plant some thirty five yards away. He got out of his car and approached the two men across the gravel, calmly observing his former colleagues. A few years had passed since. They all had aged. Turner ran one hand through his thinning gray hair and in the other held a hat he was continually putting on and taking off. He was breathing heavily and leaned on the shoulder of former Chief of Staff Stig Synnerman. Something had happened to Turner’s appearance, his cheeks were sunken and merged with his double chin, giving what was once a round face an elongated, horse-like appearance.
“It’s time now,” he said to the others, and Stig Synnerman nodded.
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