“A term from show jumping. First, you whip the horse’s legs a little when it hits the pole. Then harder, by degrees. It’s very effective. The horse learns in the end. But it is a forbidden method.”
“You may be right, Chris. If they wanted to scare people, they’ve succeeded. Fuck, how horrible! Both arms cut off, bleeding to death, slowly and painfully. I wonder how long he had to suffer.”
Anders Glock shuddered at the thought he was trying to shake off, but he could see the bloody arm stumps all too clearly in his mind’s eye and imagined how Zetterman desperately tried to open the door and finally slumped to the floor, weakened by the loss of blood.
“If we continue the work on the cable, they’ll be rapping us again. Who knows who they’ll pick on next? Maybe me or you, Chris.”
Anders Glock was 71 years old and retired. He was already looking forward to his return to Switzerland, where he spent most of his time unless he was troubleshooting here in Sweden. He had had a successful career in the weapons industry as the CEO of Bofors during the Cold War, making his fortune by working with Crack of Dawn and East Germany. He had sold arms and technology—often illegally—to the Soviet Block and the Middle East, mostly Iran, and had become stinking rich in the process. The U.S. had deliberately planted manipulated software into the military industries of the Soviet Block, such as anti-aircraft missiles with pre-programmed interference frequencies that could be activated in the event of a conflict. This was a gigantic operation using Trojan horses inside software, created to undermine the defense technology of the Warsaw Pact. It was probably one of the reasons why the Soviet Union and East Germany ultimately collapsed. He was proud of the contribution made by Crack of Dawn. Of course, all this was still highly classified material.
Glock still belonged to the Swedish establishment, and in addition to certain board functions, one of his tasks was his involvement in a secret order in Sweden. Anders Glock was a deeply religious Roman Catholic. He moved with ease in the both secular and clerical circles of the Swedish establishment, his friendship with the head of Special Ops was a given, and he enjoyed a certain amount of support from the Swedish government itself—at least the part that was U.S.-friendly.
“We simply have to continue our work,” Loklinth said and noted Glock’s lukewarm interest in continuing. “The cable is more important than ever. The Russians are rearming, especially in the Baltic region, in the Kaliningrad enclave. They are busy building new nuclear weapons and submarines. We need the cable to protect world peace, Anders.”
“Has it been green-lighted by the government?”
“I think it best that we do not involve the government. Best that no one knows, in case it all collapses.”
“Well, it already seems to have collapsed,” Glock said. “At least for Jonas Zetterman.”
CHAPTER 25
GRISSLEHAMN, MONDAY, DECEMBER 28
I want to finish off the discussion we started the other day at the hotel,” Göran Filipson said on the phone. He sounded tipsy and washed out. Modin invited him to come by his home, and Filipson turned up promptly, as if he’d been around the corner when he called. He was dressed in a wrinkled beige suit and had a dry throat.
“Take off your shoes and sit,” Modin said.
Filipson took the gin and tonic from Modin’s hand, and immediately took a big gulp while still standing, then sank down onto the couch. “God, that was good.”
“Who the hell would commit murder for a fucking cable?” Modin wondered, himself taking a good swig of his own gin and tonic, sitting comfortably in his favorite lounger with a view over the inlet.
“It’s not just any old cable. It contains technology that isn’t yet on the market. It’s several years ahead of its time—cutting edge technology from the U.S. As was the spy camera, when it first came.”
“Or the SOSUS equipment for submarine detection,” Modin added, taking another swig.
Filipson recognized the faint voice of Joni Mitchell singing in the background and made a gesture indicating approval before continuing: “This cable is hacker-proof unlike the other cables that are already down there. And it can convey a hundred times as much data as the average cable across the Baltic. The Russians wouldn’t like this one—if they ever find out about it.”
“I see. You think they found out about it and tried to put a stop to it by killing Zetterman?”
Filipson looked at his glass as if the answer was in there. “How would I know?”
“It’s your business to know,” Modin said. “If it was the Russians, were they successful? In other words, did the cable project in Grisslehamn die now that the driving force behind it, Jonas Zetterman, is dead?”
“I really don’t know, Modin. Maybe the project will be put on ice. That’s my hunch. No one wants to have his hands chopped off.”
He admired Modin’s summer cottage. It had a genuine feel about it. And everything had been thoroughly thought out, down to the last detail. There were no crooked corners or IKEA furniture. The carpets were thick and warm, and the hardwood floors were made from genuine pieces of dried fir. The walls consisted of wooden panels that had been painted white, and the tiles in the middle of the room formed a gigantic chimney breast.
He leaned back in the leather corner couch and looked out over the inlet. It was covered in snow and showed many criss-crossing tracks made by hare, deer, and smaller animals. He liked being here and could have stayed for days on end, were it not for the murder.
Modin seemed to be happy with his home, Filipson could tell. He went around in slippers and a white T-shirt, despite the biting cold outside. The wood stove warmed up the place nicely and he felt good inside and out. Gin and tonic is a good mix, particularly with a dash of lime, Filipson thought.
“Well now, what have you come up with?” Modin asked. He had put up his feet on the coffee table.
“We picked up some chatter on cellphones immediately after the murder, even before Zetterman was found dead.”
“Do you know the phone numbers involved?”
“Prepaid, bought in the Stockholm area sometime during the last month. We have traced three of the numbers. We located two of them at the hotel, but the third call came from the road to Älmsta. Given such telephone traffic, we figure that a group orchestrated the murder. And then, there is this one number, also located in the hotel, which received a call at four in the morning, and then placed a call to another prepaid number in Stockholm, somewhere in the Southern district. After that: silence. They will have gotten rid of their SIM cards by now.”
“Rather daring that they called from the hotel at four in the morning. The police had arrived by then.”
“Well,” Filipson said, and exhaled slowly. “I guess that someone working at the hotel was a contact and reported.”
“Everything seems to point to professionals,” Modin said, his head back on the headrest. “Organized crime, a commissioned job for a lot of money.”
“Possible.”
“Do you have anything from Defense Radio satellite monitoring?”
“Nothing. Defense Radio doesn’t make its findings public but sends them on to Special Ops, who, in turn, decides what to send on to us.”
Modin clasped his hands behind his head.
“So what’s going to happen, Göran?”
“I don’t know. All we have found is a shoeprint, a size 38. No fingerprints, no DNA, no hair. It was a real mess in there, I can tell you. Poor guy.”
“Size 38. That’s fairly small.”
“Sure. Could have been a woman.”
“Or a guy whose shoes were too tight.”
CHAPTER 26
DJURGÅRDEN, STOCKHOLM, MONDAY, DECEMBER 28
We’ve got to persuade Kim Zetterman to continue with the cable project,” Chris Loklinth said as they walked at a fair speed past the Inn at Djurgården Well on the far side of the channel separating the island from Stockholm proper.
Loklinth was already exhausted, short of breath, and found it hard to speak.
“We can install one of our own guys on the board of Zetterman’s company, Marine Cable,” Anders Glock said, as they passed the villas.
“I would like you to adopt that role, Anders. It’s vital for Sweden and we have no one better than you.”
“You mean it’s important for NATO?”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” Loklinth said, turning his face toward Glock and grinning widely as he gasped for breath, his mouth wide open as he tried to keep up with Glock. “I thought we’d left this kind of discussion behind us long ago. It’s all a matter of give and take, and you know that, Anders.”
“I know, I know. But the Americans want more and more from us. Intel work. I feel sick about it all. And Grisslehamn gives me the shivers. I hate the countryside. They don’t even have a decent bar out there. But I’ll give the matter a thought. For the sake of Sweden.”
“Fine. I think you could take over the board right away. When you’ve thought it all through, of course. I’ll have a word with Mrs. Zetterman. She is unlikely to have anything against the idea. And she needs support to cope with her loss. What’s better than for a powerful man to come and take over the whole caboodle on her behalf. Women should not sit on the board of major companies.”
A jogger in tights approached them from behind and had to slow down. He couldn’t get past them on the narrow path. Anders Glock stopped, turned around, stared him deep in the eye, and grunted.
The man staggered. He moved away, seemed confused, climbed up the snow bank on the side of the road, and then kept on running once he had passed. He seemed to be scared out of his wits.
“What do you think about the risks?” Glock asked as he was resuming their power walk. Loklinth had no choice but to follow him.
“The risks are manageable. You’ll get help from the office. Lundin, one of our best field operatives, is an expert and comes from Swedish Defense Radio Establishment. And, what’s more, you’ll be getting support from our technical department. You’ll everything you need: eavesdropping, signals reconnaissance, IT operations. I’ll be on call. This is a top priority mission. If we manage to crack this one, the Yanks will owe us. The cable must cross the pond; the little one here in the Baltic, that is, as well as the big one. What do you say, Anders?”
Glock nodded, and suddenly sped up far more than seemed possible for a man his age, leaving Loklinth in the proverbial dust.
CHAPTER 27
GRISSLEHAMN, MONDAY, DECEMBER 28
A cognac, Göran?”
“Why not. Our work is finished for the day.” Göran Filipson straightened up on the couch in anticipation as Modin went into the kitchen to get the drinks.
“What’s life like for you, Modin? Must be lonely out here?”
“It’s not too bad. I take sleeping pills, sometimes booze. You can get used to everything, even the loneliness. I’ll manage. Me and Miss Mona, the cat,” he said from the kitchen area.
“She can’t compensate for the loss of your family,.”
“No, no one can. Not even drinking helps. God knows I’ve tried.”
Modin came back with two large cognac snifters and a bottle. He put down the glasses and carefully poured the yellowish brown liquid from the bottle, noticing how the light from the candelabra twinkled in it.
Modin had lit the open fire. He did not do that very often, only when he had company. He sat down in the fireside chair and stared at the fire. Avoiding each other’s gaze, they focused on the burning birch logs, which had been stacked symmetrically in the one corner of the fireplace and burned with a gentle flame.
“Do you have any plans for the future, Modin? I mean, real plans that sustain a normal life. Because your deep dive into the archive is more like hiding from it, if you ask me.”
Modin stayed calm, although he sensed that Filipson’s words were meant to provoke. But he meant well, Modin knew as much, and he was right.
“Perhaps. But it’s all I can manage right now,” he said. “My research prevents me from falling apart. It’s like medicine, even though it merely dampens the symptoms: loneliness. Keeps me connected to them—my family, I mean.”
“You could come work for us, if you wanted to. We need your talents. There are lots of things to research at Police HQ. The Security Service is overwhelmed with work; masses of material, but few who can make a sensible analysis. Extremists are emerging, both on the ultra-left and the ultra-right. And we have anti-terror work to do in conjunction with Interpol. Your experience could be useful. You could accomplish a lot for your country.”
“I don’t know, Göran. I’ve not yet forgiven my country for what it did to me. They took my life away, not only my family. Special Ops killed my heart and I will never recover.”
“Have you been to see a psychiatrist.”
“No, no shrink. They can put the pieces of the puzzle together in the wrong order. I’d rather remain broken.”
“You’ve got fifty million Swedish crowns. Start using them. Have you even bothered to check whether the sum’s been paid into your account?”
“No, I haven’t. But you clearly have. I still have things to tackle before I regard the money as mine.” Modin tapped his chest. “I mean in here.”
“Do what? You’ve done more than enough, Modin. Isn’t it time to cash in on it? Take it easy, enjoy life, buy a boat, maybe meet someone to hook up with and start a new family. What do you think?”
Göran Filipson leaned forward and held his cognac high in the air. “Let’s toast to that, a toast to the fact that you’ll give becoming an average Swede a shot?”
Modin raised his glass. “I shall soon be an average Swede, Göran, sooner than you think. I just have to solve the M/S Estonia mystery first.”
CHAPTER 28
GRISSLEHAMN, TUESDAY, DECEMBER 29
Two more days to go to the New Year. In two more days, the first decade of the new millennium would be over. Had it been a good one for humanity? Maybe financially, at least for the vast majority of people, Modin thought. But what about politically, culturally, spiritually? Was the first decade a good one? No way! Ragged, introverted, xenophobic people lacking in gratitude and filled with a lack of solidarity populated a new reality online. Facebook! Maybe it was nice to cyber-meet all your friends while sitting in front of your computer in your underwear—hair unwashed, teeth unbrushed…not to mention the untidy kitchen. But where will you find human warmth, a rational discussion, a single genuine thought?
He got up, put the dishes in the dishwasher, and went to take a shower.
Göran Filipson had stayed until midnight. They had polished off the whole bottle of cognac, and the longer the evening progressed, the more nostalgic they had become.
The good old days—by definition, everything was better then. That was the motto of the evening. When Modin finally went to bed, he felt slightly better than when he had gotten up that morning. Filipson was a good friend, a good listener—the bit of human warmth Modin needed.
In the shower, Modin carefully lathered his whole body with soap: his head, ears, shins, crotch, genitals, his toes for the second time, between them as well, finally scrubbing his back with a brush to the point where the skin reddened. He ended up pouring cold water on his body to shock open the pores. He dried himself off with care, then shaved—even his neck, cheeks and between his eyebrows—and cut the hair that had begun to grow in his ears. He felt old. Especially when the sun streamed into the bathroom. In that light, you could see everything in that damned mirror! Every single wrinkle, pore, and scar. Not to mention his eyes: those weary, bloodshot eyes with the small crow’s feet in the far corners.
He left the bathroom and felt a lot better. At least he was clean.
His plan for the day was to meet with Kim Zetterman. He knew she was still at the Grisslehamn Hotel, because she was under a travel ban for the duration of the initial investigation into her husband’s murder. He wanted to feel her out and probe a little deeper. Get an idea who she was, where she came from, and what she inten
ded for the Zetterman empire. She had become a rich and powerful woman. He liked her, wanted to be near her, maybe even make love to her.
Many, all too many years had passed since catastrophe had struck Modin’s family. Maybe, it was time to start living again, to have fun, fuck, and laugh. The sorrow would always be there, but that should not stop him from finding a way forward in his soul.
CHAPTER 29
GRISSLEHAMN HOTEL, TUESDAY, DECEMBER 29
Would you be so kind as to give Mrs. Zetterman a call,” Modin said to the young girl in a white blouse and a 1980s-style perm behind the reception desk.
He sat down in one of the leather loungers and poured a complimentary cup of coffee. He needed to rest his legs after the chilly walk to the hotel.
He stretched his calves, massaged them lightly under the table. He often got cramps, especially after a fast-paced walk in newly fallen snow. “You must lighten the load,” his reflexology therapist had told him in frustration.
After only a few minutes, Kim Zetterman came down the stairs. She was dressed like a model out of a Gant catalog: navy blue slacks, a white knitted sweater, and brown boots. She matched the hotel’s image perfectly, or at least the image the hotel wanted to portray, but that image was out of place in this community of fishermen and farmers, especially off season.
Her step was light and bouncy.
“Hi, Modin,” she said and sat down opposite him, the sunlight in her back. Against the light, her blond hair had a hint of gold. She was even more attractive than he had remembered. She looked as if she had had a good night’s sleep; she radiated a natural beauty. Modin liked natural beauty. Her body was proportionate without being obtrusive, with a nice bottom, perky breasts, legs just the right length. In fact, she was so well proportioned that she appeared perfect to him. And she really did resemble Scarlett Johansson, as Kent E had suggested.
“How are you, Kim?” he said.
Under Water (Anton Modin Book 3) Page 9
