“Who has the keys?” Turner asked.
“Loklinth has them. It’s safer that way,” Synnerman said. “He’ll be here any minute.”
Turner put his hands in his pockets. Synnerman wondered if he might be freezing but didn’t ask.
It could get cold in the passages in there. Synnerman was happy that he, like Anders Glock, had had the good sense to bundle up.
Synnerman was wearing a dark blue coat with a belt and a grey hat with a small brim. The traditional starched white shirt, a black tie and a gray sweater peeked out from underneath his coat. Easy to catch a cold when you’re old, Synnerman thought.
He coughed and looked around. Anders Glock, now a retired civilian commuting between Switzerland and Stockholm, had run the Bofors Arms Manufacturing Company and had become extremely wealthy with, as Synnerman suspected, illegal arms trade. Glock was 71 now and had withdrawn from the scene. He still belonged to the establishment and one of his duties, apart from sitting on a few boards, was his work for a secret order in Sweden. Glock was a devout Catholic.
A former chief of staff, a former minister of defense, and an arms dealer walked together into the area surrounding the gas plant. Once they ran Sweden; now they fed the pigeons. Chris Loklinth, the current head of the DSO, had summoned them. This constituted a break in their routine, and in a matter of mere minutes, their every fiber remembered and returned to their professional roles.
They passed one of the old gas meters and arrived at an entrance in the rock face to the underground shelter beyond.
“You can cycle underground from here in Hjorthagen right to Skanstull at the southern edge of Söder District,” Synnerman noted aloud.
None of them was surprised. The subway tunnels had the largest diameter, but in addition to that, the underground shelters and chambers that could be used in case of war or if under siege or if attacked by terrorists, included command centers for both the government and parliament. Even the police and Security Service had their designated areas under the streets of Stockholm. It was impossible for outsiders to find these rooms, partly because they were well-hidden and partly because they were locked away behind thick steel doors.
A black Mercedes SUV barged into the area at high speed. It swerved to the left, then to the right, wheels spinning and spraying gravel up into its underbody. The car stopped abruptly, directly in front of the group of elderly men, and rocked on its suspension for a moment. Then a door opened, and out stepped Chris Loklinth.
Loklinth—lanky, medium height, with bright eyes and slightly oily skin— was neatly dressed, but he was wearing a pair of ordinary Nike sneakers. In his early sixties, Loklinth was still on active duty, but intended to retire within a couple of years. He locked his car, making sure he had everything he needed with him.
In June 1982, Lieutenant Colonel Loklinth had taken over the Department of Special Ops from Birger Elmér. The DSO was charged with Sweden’s domestic safety and security and was, in effect, a miniature version of the FBI. The organization only had very few permanent employees, but it worked with a whole network of consultants employed by dummy companies that had almost unlimited powers to defend Sweden. Not many people in Sweden were aware of its existence, and even fewer knew what exactly it did; it was better that way.
Loklinth rapidly caught up with the others, who had proceeded to the two huge steel doors in the rock face. First, Loklinth shook hands with General Turner. Turner returned the greeting with a seemingly firm handshake. Loklinth was the boss, and both men knew this. Synnerman had asked him to help them out of a tight spot, and the group had to rely on him.
“What happened to your finger, Loklinth?” Turner asked, when he saw that the tip of the little finger of Loklinth’s left hand was missing.
“Just a little accident, nothing to worry about,” Loklinth said, visibly embarrassed. He unlocked one of the doors in the rock wall ahead of them. They entered.
When General Synnerman tripped over his cane, Loklinth supported him gallantly. Inside the steel door was a cycle rack with ten bicycles: blue, red, and military green ones. Loklinth wound a knob on the wall and fluorescent lights flickered on along the gentle downward slope, then disappeared round a bend to the right. It was damp and cool, smelling of dust and mold.
The four of them each took a bicycle and disappeared into the network of tunnels. Far above them, people were lighting the traditional bonfire on the hill at Hjorthagen to celebrate Walpurgis Night. The area crackled and burst into flame. Once it had burned out, people would go home and watch the royal address on TV, as it was the His Majesty the King’s birthday.
The men underground did not think of celebrations and birthdays. Their thoughts were of a far more somber nature.
CHAPTER 10
GRISSLEHAMN, THURSDAY, APRIL 30
Potato Nose’s eyes clearly showed that he was expecting a reaction to his remark.
“Hey, why don’t you go and fuck yourself?” Modin said and rose to his feet.
“Okay guys, take it easy now.” Kent E came between the two men and separated them before anything serious developed.
Modin shrugged to loosen up his shoulder muscles, then sat down again. He took a few deep breaths to calm his pulse. Potato Nose went off, laughing. Modin still had his sour breath in his nostrils as he pushed his bar stool closer to Julia’s.
“Don’t pay any attention to that jerk,” Julia said. “He isn’t worth it.”
“I know,” Modin said, but couldn’t ignore the fact that Julia wasn’t all that upset about the insult.
“You’re still on edge, just like you were when we were young,” Julia said.
“Well, I get upset with bastards like him. His remark was completely out of line.”
“I know, but who cares. We called him the Carrot Man,” Julia said.
“Who do you mean?”
“The one sitting next to the man with the big nose, grinning away.” She discretely nodded in the direction of the fishermen’s table.
“I thought they were all from Åland.”
“Only one of them. The other two are from around here. Carrot Man always had a carrot in his pants when he danced with us girls. If you were the lucky one he’d dance with, he’d press it against you.”
“The Carrot Man,” Modin said and thought back to the hot and heavy time of youth. It wasn’t the sort of reputation you wanted to get with the girls.
Julia Steerback looked as if she wanted to kick it up a notch and dance rather than deal with off-color remarks. She went over to the antique jukebox from the 1950s and ignored the ghouls as she passed their table.
Modin felt full and drunk. He had had a full meal, and Julia had ordered dessert: American cheesecake. She missed American food. Modin and Kent E had laughed at her expense, and she couldn’t understand why. They shared the rich treat anyway.
Now Julia was holding the vodka bottle in her right hand and was pulling at Modin’s jacket with the other.
“We’re now going to listen to some Guns ‘N Roses,” she said. “This one’s for your lost family.”
She inserted a coin.
Modin was surprised at Julia’s behavior. Just the right thing to do, damn it. He liked it when people could act naturally if the subject of his family came up. He had been looking for such people everywhere, hoped that they existed. His friend Bergman wasn’t one of them; that was the only problem between the two of them.
He grinned as he looked at Julia, and went over and sat down by the jukebox. It clunked and clicked. The Guns ‘N Roses song “November Rain” began to play. It grew quieter in the pub as if everyone was listening, which was probably not the case, but it seemed like that to him.
Modin was moved to tears. For a long time he gazed at nothing, then wiped away the tears with the back of his hand, inhaling with a sob.
“This is our song, Anton. Remember that.” Julia took a gulp straight out of the bottle, then wiped her mouth. She sank down to the floor, leaned against the jukebox, and shut her
eyes.
Kent E looked at her long, well-shaped legs. He was standing at the bar polishing glasses, as always, feeling like an intruder. Modin and Julia seemed in their own world. Kent E began talking to two tipsy youngsters at the bar. They had brought in with them the smell of the bonfire and were giggling as if they had done something they shouldn’t.
It was Walpurgis Night in the Stockholm archipelago, and soon the high summer season would begin.
CHAPTER 11
CENTRAL STOCKHOLM, THURSDAY, APRIL 30
The group of four older men proceeded deeper and deeper into the network of tunnels; the sparse ceiling lighting looked like a winding pearl necklace. Occasionally, someone wobbled out of line, but soon caught up.
Stig Synnerman, who was the oldest by far, was breathing heavily every time he pedaled; the dusty tunnels didn’t seem to offer enough air for him to breathe, and the ride was taking a toll on him. He wiped the sweat from his forehead several times and tried to conceal his cough.
Chris Loklinth turned around now and again to make sure that they were all keeping up. He held the handlebars with both hands and had a map pinned between thumb and forefinger. Sometimes he would lift his right hand to bring the group to a halt so he could consult the map. The others would wait patiently and take a look around. Here and there, tunnels would branch off from the one they were traveling along.
None of them could interpret the symbols on the walls and even though all of them had been down in these tunnels before, it was obvious that without a map, they’d soon lose their way. Sometimes the rumble of the subway could be heard somewhere quite nearby, and a vibration went through walls and floor, stirring up pebbles. In some areas, water was running down the rocky walls, which seemed to indicate that the Baltic Sea was right above.
After about twenty minutes of cycling along the winding passages and tunnels, Loklinth stopped in front of a bright blue door with a rectangular yellow notice saying in bold black letters: “Stop! Restricted area! No entry without permission. No photography, copying, describing, or measuring this area without special permission.”
Photo: www.skymningslage.se
They had arrived! The Johannes Room in the Johannes Shelter was directly beneath the fire station of the same name in central Stockholm. Loklinth took out a bunch of keys that they had never seen before—some twenty keys on a shiny steel ring. He opened the strong Abloy lock and then everyone stepped inside the room that looked like an apartment. The underground space was used for many things and they recognized the style and function of this area immediately. The room was big and well furnished in 1970s style. Loklinth even thought it smelled like the 1970s. Straight upholstered sofas in dark green rough fabric and wooden tables made of maple. A few bookcases and a bulky TV set. An older compact white fridge stood in a corner, buzzing.
Loklinth went straight to the next door that led to another room and looked inside. There was an oval conference table, also of maple, and fourteen chairs with chrome legs and maroon cushions. An old blackboard in good shape, a few sticks of chalk and a pointer lying on the narrow shelf beneath, stood at the short end of the table. The felt wall-to-wall carpet was also green. Everything was clean as a whistle. And deserted.
The other men seemed to be indifferent to the fact that Loklinth was in the next room; they sat down in the armchairs and sofas, trying to catch their breath.
Anker Turner, former Minister of Defense, opened the fridge. Tight rows of beer in cans. He took a few and handed them around.
“Is there any milk?” Anders Glock asked. “I don’t drink beer.”
“There’s water. Have this bottle.”
The ring-pulls popped, the beer fizzed. They drank eagerly. Glock toasted awkwardly with his mineral water, spilling some on his jacket sleeve.
In their thoughts, they were back in the 1980s. Another era, another set of rules. Even Loklinth was thinking about it, though he was in the other room. He was sorting papers and preparing a speech.
• • •
Straight above the men was the Sveavägen thoroughfare and Skandia House. The building had been erected in the early 20th century, designed in the then well-received functional style. Loklinth couldn’t help thinking about the history of the building above them.
Olof Palme’s grandfather, the CEO of Skandia from the turn of the century until the beginning of the 1930s, had helped plan the building. Originally, the company had been called Thule. But far more important than that, this building had hosted the meeting that spawned the cooperation between Sweden and NATO in the autumn of 1951, when Sweden had decided to set up a lifeline to the West, just in case…
The Swedish government wasn’t the only European government that had begun to doubt the good intentions of the Soviet Union after World War II and wanted an insurance policy with the West. Sweden solved the problem by showing overt cooperation with the Warsaw Pact while at the same time having covert military cooperation with NATO. Many European countries had socialist governments, like Sweden, but Sweden’s geographical closeness to the Soviet Union and their political and economic synergy in various fields demanded a higher degree of public indulgence to the east.
Nonetheless, whoever was chief of staff and minister of defense handled the less public western orientation, and more often than not, the prime minister of the day would let his undersecretary of state make the informal contacts and set up a functioning but secret organization for western military cooperation. One such secret organization, Stay Behind, was created with the help of CIA officers at the U.S. Embassy in Stockholm as early as spring of 1952. The then 31-year-old William Colby, an American Catholic who went on to become the head of the CIA, led these efforts. Party Secretary Sven Aspling was Colby’s Swedish partner.
In early April 1952, the newspapers stated that the Swedish Prime Minister Tage Erlander was on a private visit to the U.S. when in fact, a visit with the President had been organized by Stay Behind, a CIA infused paramilitary organization. The memo that had set it all in motion had read:
It is the wish of Sweden to have discreet or secret cooperation with the western powers, but that such cooperation should, under no circumstances, become known. For that reason it is quite understandable that the Swedish government wants to avoid the visit being seen as an official rapprochement with the U.S.A.
Three days later, on April 14, 1952, the meeting with Harry S. Truman, Dean Acheson, and Prime Minister Erlander took place.
They ate lunch together.
The two countries discussed and decided first, that their cooperation should remain secret, and second, that this would give American officials the right to operate discreetly on Swedish territory. This meant that, for instance, William Colby and Stay Behind could operate circumspectly while he was building up a secret NATO Stay Behind military corps—a covert army that would prepare to stand forward in case of a Soviet invasion.
Erlander also allowed NATO’s Polaris submarines to sail close to the Swedish coast and a lifeline for any NATO pilots who might be shot down. Swedish FRA Signals Intelligence would be made available to the Americans by way of a secret courier system, and DC-3s would be fitted with equipment for signal monitoring in the Baltic Sea. It was also at that point that William Colby created the Swedish branch of Stay Behind, called AGAG, Action Team Crack of Dawn, in close cooperation with high officials of the Swedish Social Democratic party.
Chris Loklinth scratched the tip of his nose. Those were the days.
One of Sweden’s first couriers with the West was Birger Elmér, the future head of the DSO. One of his first tasks in 1952 had been to travel to Wiesbaden, Germany, just outside Frankfurt, and ask for NATO information about the DC-3 that had been shot down in June of 1952, less than two months after the secret meeting with U.S. officials. The plane was most certainly shot down because the secret intelligence cooperation between Sweden and NATO had come to Stalin’s knowledge. The lives of eight Swedes had been the short-term price for Sweden’s betrayal of neutrality.
As Loklinth admitted to himself in a bout of self-censure, soon Crack of Dawn, the Swedish element of Stay Behind, was beyond control.
Very few people knew about the whole organization, and so parts of it could quite easily develop an independent life. Crack of Dawn governed both the minister of defense and the chief of staff but not vice-versa. Once Birger Elmér had built up the organization and retired in 1982, it became a free-for-all that could easily be infiltrated by economic and foreign political forces.
Today, on Walpurgis Night 2009, he was going to discuss this very problem with the men in the Johannes Room, 65 feet beneath Skandia House, right underneath where Tunnelgatan crossed Sveavägen, where Olof Palme had been murdered 23 years earlier.
CHAPTER 12
“Gentlemen, you can all come over here and sit down. I’m going to start in a little while,” Chris Loklinth called out. He had positioned himself in front of the blackboard in the S-Bar, as the inner circle called the room where their meetings had taken place during the Cold War. Then as much as now they dealt with things that could not be discussed in the light of day and at street level. What was planned in the S-Bar and then implemented in Sweden took place without any form of parliamentary scrutiny. That is how it was and how it should be, Loklinth thought.
The wings of history were beating the room.
At the start of his career, Undersecretary of State Olof Palme himself had sat in the S-Bar with the Prime Minister of the day, Tage Erlander. Here Palme met the young Catholic CIA officer William Colby and made plans for the defense of a new Europe. A Europe free from both communists and fascists, a cleansed Europe that could connect with the U.S. This move had been the embryo of the New World Order that was born in this very cellar, immediately underneath the Skandia insurance building.
Loklinth took a seat at the short end of the table and turned the page.
“I’m thinking of starting with a short recap, if there are no objections.”
Enemy of the State Page 7
