Under Water (Anton Modin Book 3)

by Anders Jallai

  “Okay, I think I get the picture. Where will it cross the pipeline?”

  “At the point where the Gulf of Bothnia meets the Gulf of Finland,” Anders Glock paused for a few seconds and swept the room with his peppercorn eyes. He leaned slightly forward. “There is one other problem,” he said in a half-whisper. “Whether it’s coincidence or not, the cable will be running close to the spot where the M/S Estonia sank. Very close.” He leaned back. “Would you like a Calvados?”

  CHAPTER 11

  STOCKHOLM, THURSDAY, DECEMBER 24

  Mom, it’s so nice to celebrate Christmas together.”

  Bill and Ewa Bergman’s daughter, Astrid, came running into the living-room with a glass of Coke in one hand and a gingerbread cookie in the other.

  She looks happy! The thought warmed Bergman’s heart. He and Ewa had just gotten back together in the summer. Thus far, things seemed to be going well. She had moved in with him temporarily in the fall and it was Christmas by now. The season felt like a big endurance test for their resumed relationship. If we can get through Christmas, then things should be all right, he thought.

  Ewa had not put her apartment on the market, just in case. That was her insurance policy; having somewhere she could retreat to if worse came to worst. It was a psychological lifeline she hoped she would never have to use. Any upset would affect Astrid, her ray of sunshine. She had suffered more than enough when she had to hide in the U.S. for six months… without her parents, no less.

  Bergman reached for the nutcrackers. Ewa was sitting next to him on the couch reading a magazine about interior design. She had pulled her knees up underneath her and would scan the apartment with her eyes now and again.

  Is that a good sign or a bad one, Bergman wondered, and squeezed the shanks of the nutcrackers on a nut. Does she want to move to a bigger apartment? I will, in that case, say I want something similar, preferably here on Bastugatan, a side street in the Söder district of Stockholm. I’m quite happy with what we’ve got, a three bedroom apartment with balcony. I must have a balcony.

  He finally determined that Ewa looked satisfied. She had survived a stressful year, having to handle the uncertainty regarding Astrid’s whereabouts. Her anxiety had reached dangerous levels. On the brink of giving up altogether, she had finally come out with her request: “Fuck this, Bill. Never again. I hope you understand what I’m saying!”

  “Well, not really.”

  “No more diving projects with Anton Modin.”

  Bergman cracked open the hazelnut and rolled the nut in his palm.

  • • •

  The doorbell rang. Ewa went to answer it. Two unfamiliar officers bowed stiffly in her direction. Their eyes of steel pinned her to the spot, but the gravity that showed in their eyes, the air of power, told her that whatever she would say would be of no value.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Bergman, and a Merry Christmas,” said the taller of the two. He was fair-skinned and his voice was a low baritone. “My name is John Odom. And this is Commander George Harris.”

  “Hello,” is all she managed to utter. She stepped aside to let the two men enter the apartment.

  “Sorry to disturb you on Christmas Eve,” George Harris said. His body was as straight as a telephone pole. “In the U.S. we don’t celebrate Christmas properly until Christmas Day itself. Please forgive our intrusion on your customs.”

  “Hi,” said Bill, his heart in his throat. “To what do I owe the honor?”

  Astrid came running up. John Odom greeted her cautiously.

  Astrid stretched out her hand politely and greeted the man, then gripped Ewa’s right thigh and hung there like a monkey.

  Ewa gave her husband a long questioning look.

  “Mr. Bergman, can we have a word with you?”

  The men all went into the kitchen, leaving Ewa and Astrid in the living-room, where they watched the traditional Disney Christmas special on TV.

  “We have an important message from Richard Odom, the former head of the National Security Agency, the NSA. He was my father.”

  “Okay, let’s hear it,” Bergman said, with a measure of surprise in his voice. The last thing he had expected was a visit from a U.S. admiral on Christmas Eve.

  “My father passed away,” John Odom continued. “He left behind a number of important strategic documents concerning Sweden and the northern Baltic Sea area. I just recently received them; hence our sudden visit, for which I must apologize again.”

  “No problem,” Bergman said.

  “The U.S. government needs your help, Mr. Bergman. I promised my father on his deathbed that I’d handle this mission myself. May I get right to the point?”

  “Please do.”

  “We need experienced Baltic Sea divers—the best—for a top secret mission.”

  “A top secret U.S. mission? Why not use your own divers?”

  “We’ve tried, believe me. We had to break off operations when our equipment and, in some cases, our divers, failed. What we need are divers with experience penetrating wrecks at great depth in the Baltic.”

  “I see,” Bergman said. “You are looking for divers willing to dive to and into a wreck deep down where it is dark and cold and therefore dangerous?”

  “That’s right,” said Odom without any hesitation, relieved that at last he was talking with a professional. “We have tried to get to the wreck in question using a submarine and various robotic devices. We just can’t do it. We’re out of our depth, so to speak. Diving conditions are difficult, or should I say impossible. We need your expertise, boldness, creativity, and problem-solving capabilities. You have come with high recommendations by the U.S. Navy. How they know about you I do not know.”

  “Why not use professional deep sea divers? I’m sure you’ve heard of Rockwater, a diving company? They do this for a living.”

  “We’ve got good relations with Rockwater, but the Swedish government doesn’t want them poking around in their waters. If we were to sail out there with an offshore vessel and position it right above the object in question, the whole world would know what we are up to. Deep divers need support from the surface and we’ve got to keep the whole matter under wraps.”

  “And why is that? What wreck are we talking about here?” Bergman did not like the idea of this mysterious dive at all, but knew that Modin would eat it up. And somewhere deep down inside, his curiosity was aroused, too.

  “The object of the dive is to remain classified at this point.” The American fixed his steely gray eyes on Bergman. “Mr. Bergman, this all has to be kept secret, even from the Swedish Government.”

  “Well, that is going to be a problem,” Bergman said. “How are divers supposed to get out there without being noticed? The coastguard will pick them up on their radar.”

  “We’ll handle that. All we ask is that you supply the divers. Three or four reliable men, including yourself and Anton Modin.”

  Bill Bergman nervously looked toward the living room.

  “Forget it. I’ve given up diving and Modin is a wreck. It just won’t work.”

  “Are you sure? We really would appreciate your cooperation. We really would. I assume your daughter is happy to be home?”

  Bergman swallowed hard. Was this man threatening him? Ewa and Astrid meant everything to him; they were his world. Nothing must ever happen to them. I can handle this, Bergman thought, already wearing his diving gear in his mind, with his diving computer ticking away in his hand. I’m a smart guy. Ewa wants her life back. I want mine back too. It must be possible to combine these two things.

  “The U.S. Department of Defense is backing you on this assignment,” John Odom said as if he intuited what was going through Bergman’s mind. “We are prepared to pay whatever it takes.”

  John Odom straightened his back.

  Those two must be suffering from jet lag, Bergman thought, as he noticed their weary faces.

  “How did you get here? Government chartered jet, I suppose?”

  “We arrived at Br
omma Airport only an hour ago with the Embassy Gulfstream. And we’re going back tonight already. The plane is waiting for us. That’s why it’s important for us to get an answer from you right away. For the sake of our President and country.”

  “Obama,” Bergman said, thoughtfully. “For his sake, that is.”

  He went up to the kitchen window and followed a shivering crow with his gaze.

  “Is it the intention to salvage the wreck or do you want to find something that is on board?”

  “We need you to get something that is in the wreck. Deep inside.”

  “And what is it?”

  “I cannot comment on that at this point either. You’ll get all the information you need once we have an agreement.”

  John Odom looked down at his well-polished black shoes.

  “Give Obama my regards, and tell him I’ll do everything I can, but I’m not promising anything. Not yet, at any rate. I will have to talk to Anton Modin to see if he is game. But not today. This will have to wait until tomorrow. Now I have to get on with my Christmas celebrations, gentlemen.”

  And talk to Ewa, he added in his thoughts, once the Americans had disappeared out the door. She’ll never agree!

  • • •

  “What was all that about?” Ewa said with concern in her voice.

  “Oh, they just wanted to talk about something,” Bergman said. “Cheers and a Merry Christmas.” He lifted his glass of mulled wine to toast Ewa. He looked her in the eye and smiled, but she wasn’t quite in the mood.

  “Come on, Bill. Do you really think I’m stupid? What was it all about? Does it involve Modin and diving?”

  “It’s nothing, I swear. Nothing that involves danger. The Americans did us a favor last summer. Now it’s my turn. They just want to get in touch with Modin. I have to pass on a message. Nothing that involves me.”

  “And they can’t get in touch with Modin by themselves? Come on, Bill, what is it they wanted? Tell me!”

  He could hear from her voice that she wasn’t expecting an honest answer. She rarely got one from Bergman when Modin was involved, and she knew that. She snuggled up to Astrid who was still watching Disney, her back straight and motionless. Bergman was saddened that he couldn’t tell her the truth, but it was for her own good. The less she knew the better.

  In his mind, he was already planning for the secret dive.

  “I can’t say any more,” he said in an unsteady voice. “That was one of the highest ranking men in the U.S. Marine Corps. He had a message from Barack Obama.”

  “The U.S. President?”

  “Yes.”

  “The U.S. President has a message for that screwball Modin?”

  “Shit happens.”

  To Bergman’s surprise, Ewa started to laugh. There was even a little warmth in her laugh, even love, maybe.

  CHAPTER 12

  GRISSLEHAMN, THURSDAY, DECEMBER 24

  The Bergman family wishes you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

  Modin woke up to the text message and replied:

  And a Merry Christmas to you too from the sticks. It’s cold!

  He put his cellphone on the bedside table, wrapped his bathrobe around him, smelled the fragrance of the fabric, and went barefoot into the kitchen to light the wood stove.

  He looked at the thermometer by the window: six degrees Fahrenheit. It really was cold, not only spiritually. A sole blue tit was pecking at the big birch outside the house. Poor creature, Modin thought as he turned on the espresso machine.

  The firewood slowly caught fire. The warmth spread through the kitchen and into the living room—in the open floor plan of house, the two were connected by the large chimney in the middle.

  He put two slices of bread in the toaster, and put butter and orange marmalade on the kitchen table. A glass of orange juice, a latte, and yesterday’s paper that he had picked up at the gas station the evening before, would round up his breakfast. He slipped his feet into his slippers, but his calves were still cold. He looked at them; they were bare, white, and quite hairy. He smiled when he wondered if they’d be attractive to anyone.

  He rolled his shoulders. His body was out of shape from sitting at his dining-table for days on end. Mental exercise, rather than physical, had been his priority since the incident in the inlet last summer. His wounds from the battle and the loss of Julia had gradually healed, but he had been so depressed that he had not been in touch with his friends. Bergman, Axman, and Nuder had all escaped harm, yet he could not bring himself to face them yet.

  But if he was going to dive to the Estonia, he’d need them. They were skilled divers—tough as nails and well trained for complex situations. They had accompanied him on many previous dives. Would they be willing to dive with him again?

  Modin shuddered at the thought. There was a draft blowing through the house, even the whining of the wind could be heard. Fingers of ice seemed to be penetrating his bathrobe. His summerhouse, painted in the traditional Falu-red, had not really been designed for the Arctic cold. It was mainly intended for visits during the warmer months of the year. It had far too many windows, and no floor heating. In the depths of a cold winter, it felt like a struggle against nature to be living out on a cape near the sea instead of sitting in an apartment on Götgatan in Stockholm City, where warmth would be guaranteed.

  The snow in the garden was almost two feet thick by now. The farmer he had contracted to plow the gravel track up to the house and the way out onto the main road, had left a message on his answering machine the day before and apologized. During severe weather, his obligation to the municipality came first. The farmer was obliged to make the main thoroughfares through the village his first priority. Private citizens had to wait. When busy, all his snow plowing would be restricted to the center of the village and the main throughways that crossed it.

  It had been snowing off and on for several weeks. The day before had been sunny, and the ice crystals had glittered against the blue sky. It was snowing again, but today, colorless clouds merged with the earth at the horizon. There was a northerly wind. Far out to sea, beyond the ice near the coast, he could make out the froth of the waves as they hit the rocks and cliffs. Black Island. He experienced a sting of despair every time he saw that islet shimmering out there, and tended to avoid looking at the sea in an easterly direction. Julia was gone forever. Another person’s death he had not been able to prevent.

  To the west sat the narrow inlet and there the ice lay thick, with a white sprinkling of snow on top. Two roe deer were jumping across the ice looking for unfrozen water to drink. They instinctively found patches where the sea water seeped up through small gaps that had been created by the slowly rising water level.

  Christmas Eve was the loneliest day of the year. For a moment, he thought about pouring a tall glass of vodka and returning to bed to sleep through it. That was one solution.

  They were playing “Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer” on the radio. He just couldn’t bring himself to turn on the TV. Fucking Christmas! He would not bother going to The Rock, after all. There he’d only meet the other losers in the village trying to escape their painful loneliness. Better to be humiliated all alone.

  He put the coffee cup on the small table. Then he lay down on the couch and looked through yesterday’s paper, while the radio played “Last Christmas” with the Wham.

  He placed his feet up on a cushion and for lack of anything else to do, he checked what was on TV after all. Another text message arrived. This one was from John Axman and his boyfriend. They were spending Christmas on Mauritius. That’s where I should be, Modin thought. He replied to the message and then wondered where Harry Nuder might be. Maybe he was home with his mother, eating a tasty Christmas dinner while being fussed over, patted, and maybe even hugged.

  Nuder always managed. He was used to loneliness, he even sought it, which likely is why he enjoyed that lonely job as skipper at the pilot station.

  Modin was depressed. His parents had been dead for several
years. He had no brothers and sisters, no children, no wife. When I die, he thought with a good dose of self-pity, no one will care, no one will plant flowers on my grave, no one will remember me. No, he wasn’t close to anyone. He received Christmas cards from near strangers, like Cats Falk’s mother. Modin had first met her the previous summer, when he told her about the circumstances under which her daughter had died. Her death was an unfortunate consequence of the Cold War. He took solace that he had been able to help her find peace.

  Modin had also sent a letter to the widow and family of the former Swedish Prime Minister Olof Palme, revealing his role in finally uncovering the circumstances of his murder, but they didn’t respond. The family probably did not believe him, didn’t want to believe him, didn’t want to believe the unbelievable, even if it was true. They wanted to keep their image of their father, brother, and husband intact.

  Who could blame them? Reality wasn’t easy to live with, not even for Modin himself.

  For the only thing that was undeniably real was that all these people were dead.

  CHAPTER 13

  GRISSLEHAMN, THURSDAY, DECEMBER 24

  Modin woke up at three o’clock in the afternoon of Christmas Eve. That was a sign in itself. He was Swedish, had been born in Sweden, and felt Swedish through and through. He just couldn’t ignore the Christmas traditions of that country, which were as deeply rooted as the Nobel Prize Banquet, celebrating Midsummer, and having crawfish parties in August. He stumbled to his feet and switched on TV. Donald Duck and his friends were ringing in the Christmas festivities.

  It made him feel a little better and he even laughed at the Disney cartoons. He was slumping in his recliner. The light from the TV screen flickered across the walls. It was dark outside among the trees. It was still snowing and he realized, not without irony, that this had something to do with global warming. It was now barely above zero degrees Fahrenheit, colder than he could remember.