“I don’t follow.”
“If you herd all communication on the Internet into the fold of forums, cloud computing, large joint mail servers such as Google, then you can win back control over the data. Imagine what could happen if Google and similar companies start cooperating. They already do so for financial reasons. Google is today what the state-controlled Swedish Telecommunications Authority used to be during the Cold War. Everything under control of a singular agency!”
“But you mentioned military matters,” Kim said. “They are, after all, the most important aspect, I suppose.”
“You can shut off a cable,” Modin said. “Or at least part of it, and keep a number of channels open for your own use. You can cut off your enemy’s communication system or at least control it. You can exert control over the infrastructure the same way you can exert control over all the oil and gas in the world. Without fuel, you can’t start a war—your planes, tanks, and military vehicles will be stranded. The Internet is as important as fuel. Without it, you can’t wage war, or it becomes damned difficult to do so. When the Russians attacked Georgia, they shut off all Georgian telecommunications. The government was paralyzed because they could not communicate and therefore not exercise control over their own resources. Everything stopped, while the Russians, with fully working communications, could easily launch their attack. The Georgian government didn’t even know that they were under attack. The Russians took control of large parts of the Georgian Republic in a matter of hours. That’s why the Grisslehamn cable is important, and that’s why I think Anders Glock works for Military Intelligence.”
“And that’s where Jonas came in?” Kim said putting a chunk of melon in her mouth, then wiped her wet lips, and pouted at Modin.
“Yes, the U.S. and NATO want to have control over the new cable for reasons of national security. It is for that reason you are being courted by a number of old men in gray suits. They’re the emissaries.”
“So what do you think I should do?” She swallowed the melon and licked her fingers.
“Let Glock and his companions take over the cable project. That’s the safest. I very much doubt if the battle for the cable at Grisslehamn is over yet. More people could die. Keep yourself as well informed as possible and report to me. I have contacts who can help you if necessary. If you can,” he thought for a moment before continuing, “you should set a trap for Anders Glock, make sure you have a hold on him. It may come in handy later.”
“Is he married?” she asked in a tone that sounded as if she wanted to spit the words right out.
“I can check. I would be only too happy to help nail the bastard. In all likelihood, Glock works within or close to the intelligence community, probably CIA. He likely has some kind of mandate from the Swedish government, too, from the Minister of Defense probably. He will know his channels and will be getting support from our Special Ops and Defense Radio. He might have powerful resources, so you will have to be smart and careful.”
“You don’t need to be smart to deal with horny old men, Modin. All it takes is a filthy and perverse imagination. That’s how it is. Fucking primitive they are, men that exert power.”
CHAPTER 39
GRISSLEHAMN, SATURDAY, JANUARY 2
Modin! Are you home?”
He ran round the house in a clockwise direction, up and down the front stoop and over to the deck. The snow crunched under his feet. He cupped his hands and tried to peer through the glass doors.
“Modin, hello!”
He banged hard on the window so that it echoed across the frozen inlet.
It was an otherwise perfectly still morning: cold and dry, with the sun lying low in the sky, barely coming up above the treetops. Something stirred inside the house. It was Modin in his bathrobe. He was on his way to the door to the porch, his head low, stubble on his chin.
“Come in, Bergman. Hell, it’s cold.”
Bergman entered, shut the door, and pulled off his brown boots. Then he removed his cap, gloves, and finally, his coat, dropping all his outer clothing on the floor.
“Do you want some coffee,” Modin asked, moving toward the kitchen.
“How are you, for Christ’s sake? You never get in touch.”
“Oh, everything’s fine with me. I’ve had some good days for a change. You do your Christmas, I’ll do mine.”
“In loneliness and bitterness?”
“No, not any longer. I was in town, staying at the Grand, in a suite, as it happens, and screwed a beautiful woman all weekend. Before that I was hunting murderers.”
“Yes, I heard about that; a horrible killing up at the hotel. I was thinking of calling you, but I didn’t find the time and didn’t want to interrupt your peaceful Christmas.”
“I see.”
“I’m a jerk for not calling, actually. We’ve had a great time, my whole family, that is.” He paused. “I didn’t want to jeopardize that by pissing off Ewa when I call you. You know how she is.”
“I know, Bergman. And don’t worry. I am fine, really”
“Glad to hear that. So, please tell me about your new girl, Modin. What’s her name?”
“Kim Zetterman.”
“Holy shit! The wife of the murder victim? You’ve got to be kidding!” Bergman looked at his friend and tried to make eye contact. “Are you crazy. Her late husband didn’t exactly die of old age.”
Modin was poking around in the kitchen. “Well, it just happened. She wanted to and I wanted to, and we’d had a load of champagne and wine, you know, and it was good. Real good. I’ll be helping her with the estate, and she’s going to need any help she can get. As you know, her guy wasn’t just anybody.”
“Yes, thank you, I know.” Bergman took his coffee cup from Modin’s outstretched hand and went to sit on the corner couch.
Modin sat down opposite him. He blew on his coffee to cool it down before he took a small sip.
“I remember what you were like when I was here two summers ago. It wasn’t a pretty picture. You were going to commit suicide for the umpteenth time. I don’t even remember how many times you brought up the subject.”
Bergman looked Modin up and down. Everything looked fine on the surface, but he wasn’t really sure about his friend’s true state of mind. He had had a long period of loneliness and bitterness behind him. Could it be cured, just like that, with the warm touch of a woman’s body? “You look good. Kim Zetterman seems to become you, old friend. So, you have my blessings.”
“Thanks.” Modin pulled a blanket over himself. He then picked up Miss Mona, put her on his lap, and stroked her curved back. “What brought you all the way out here?”
“Oh, just felt like dropping in. See how you were. We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Come on, this is a weekend, in the middle of winter. You have never enjoyed getting up early on weekends or vacation, and certainly not to travel out here to the boonies. So, what is it? Trouble in paradise?”
“No, everything’s fine back home. It’s just that I had visitors on Christmas Eve.” Bergman started to pick at a blob of candle wax on the tablecloth. “From the U.S.”
“Yes, your text message said something about secret diving operations?”
“Yes. They wanted me to do them a favor in return for bringing back Astrid.”
“A favor? A fucking favor? What sort of favor?”
Modin lost his cool in ten seconds flat. Far too intense a reaction for someone who was feeling good and relaxed, Bergman thought. Modin either had a hangover or he was suffering from paranoia.
“You don’t owe them anything, Bergman. Remember that. We could have crushed the NSA last summer if we had wanted to, but we chose not to, for the sake of Sweden. They should be grateful. They owe you!” Modin looked up, and their eyes met for the first time that morning. He let the cat go. “Who came to your door, and what the fuck did they want?”
“Two NSA executives. One was the son of Richard Odom, you know, the big-shot. The other, well, I don’t know who he was
. U.S. Marines, probably. They need us for a diving job. And I promised to ask you.”
“Dive down to what?”
“A wreck in the Baltic Sea; they want us to get something that’s buried inside some sunken ship. I don’t know more specifics, except that it’s something they can’t or don’t want to handle themselves.”
“And how much are they paying?” Modin looked irritated.
“I do not know, we didn’t talk money, but we could probably ask for millions. The NSA can afford it, and they have been sent here by the President of the United States himself.”
“You kidding?”
“No.”
“Obama?”
“Yes, sir,” Bergman smiled.
“Millions of dollars, indeed,” Modin said.
CHAPTER 40
Glad you met a woman,” Bergman said. “Marry Kim Zetterman and become the Emperor of Norrtelje.”
Bergman was clutching his cup of coffee with both hands as if he was freezing. Modin had made a triple latte using whole milk. Bergman drank a large gulp and licked his lips. He liked sitting on Modin’s couch and look out over the inlet.
Three quarters of an hour had passed since his arrival and they had been talking about everything between heaven and earth. Modin looked good, Bergman thought. Either because he had made the trouble to come all the way out here to visit him, or because he had an assignment for Modin, and one from the President of the United States no less. Or just because he got laid over the holidays? M M odin understandably didn’t want to think that he owed the United States, or anybody, anything at all—and he didn’t—but he liked grandiose plans. As did Bergman; but Bergman also liked the social aspect of large-scale secret plans, the bonds that were forged during difficult and secret projects. The sense of all for one and one for all when working on such assignments was elating. On these missions with Modin, Bergman could assert a more masculine side of himself. He wasn’t usually the man who would speak unpleasant truths. Not straight out, anyway. He and Modin were different in that respect.
“Okay, let’s do it,” Modin said, latte in hand. “We’ll dive for the Yanks, you and I. Tell your U.S. contact that we’re in. But it’s going to cost money… and health. If they want to hire two amateur divers who are old and out of shape, you really must be up shit creek. We must be their last hope. We could dive this winter… in mid-February. All we need is our surface team—Nuder and Axman, perhaps—and the right equipment for winter diving. The Americans will foot the bill, so getting the equipment won’t be an issue.”
“In winter? I don’t know, Modin,” Bergman replied. “This is likely to be a pretty risky dive even under good conditions; otherwise they’d have done it themselves. It’s a dive for outright lunatics in the middle of winter. That’s you, Modin, not me. I have a family to think of; Ewa will never allow it. She’ll be leaving me again.”
Modin grimaced, as if realizing the problem, went out into the kitchen and turned on the espresso machine, simply to give him time to think. He stuck his head round the large chimney that separated his kitchen from hos main room. “Why did you come here? I mean, if you don’t intend to dive?”
“I was hoping that you and Axman could do the diving,” Bergman said. “I’d remain on the surface. Axman will be back in Sweden soon, and I’m sure he’d be up for the challenge. But I think this job requires a third diver—a professional in his prime who can keep his mouth shut. Do we know anyone like that?”
“Not at the moment, we don’t,” Modin said as he went and got orange juice and smoked cod roe.
“Come on, is there really no one you can think of who could help?” Bergman said, “another loner with top-level competence. Someone who has nothing to lose?” He looked out at the suet ball that was swinging in the wind outside on the porch.
“I can think of one diver, but he let me down once,” Modin said after a while. “Sure don’t want to risk my life with him.” He turned silent and started spreading his Kalle’s Kaviar fish paste on a piece of bread. “But he’s really an excellent diver…”
CHAPTER 41
GRISSLEHAMN, SATURDAY, JANUARY 2
The vacuum cleaner was whining though the house like a badger chasing insects. Modin was doing some thorough cleaning. He had put chlorine in the toilet bowl, wiped off the bathroom sink, and changed the sheets. The new ones had a blue line along the edges.
This was necessary. He had not done any cleaning in a while. Not since before the Christmas vacation. He hardly even remembered doing so. It was a question not only of laziness, but of resignation. He had been alone nearly the entire fall, so who would he be cleaning for anyway?
Now the time had come, and he had the energy. He was expecting a visitor that evening. Bergman had taken off after a pleasant lunch. They had walked up to the hotel to eat. Afterward, Modin had bought fish and caviar in the harbor and bread at the bakery. He was planning this evening visit as if it was his first date in his own apartment. He made sure to take care of everything. He was excited, almost had butterflies in his stomach like a teenager, and he whistled as he dragged the vacuum cleaner from room to room.
When he was finished cleaning and tidying up, he put on warm clothes and went for a long walk round Byholma, the part of the village beyond the hotel. He ran into a few neighbors, but they did not greet him. His relations with the villagers had become frosty since the summer. Modin suspected that this had something to do with Julia and her brother. Julia had been a popular figure in the village; everyone had taken her for a nice, young, and likeable woman. And now, she was gone. Perhaps it was Modin’s fault. That, at least, seemed to be the general perception in the village, and was likely to be the reason why people lowered their eyes when passing him on the road. But the villagers had no idea that Julia had not been who she’d said she was. She had refined her legend to perfection, hidden her East German background, and managed to blend in perfectly. No one except for Modin knew her big secret, and now she was gone. As was her evil brother. Modin had no intention of setting the record straight. Let the villagers think what they want. He had done nothing wrong.
When he arrived home, he took a quick half-hour nap on the couch and then felt ready to meet the beauty from the city. He would discuss business with her, but that would not prevent them from having a good time, too. He didn’t really know how he felt about their relationship, if indeed it was a relationship. But it felt good. He knew that much at least. It was what it was, and if it was meant to grow, it would. He wouldn’t mess it up by questioning it. He needed her for various reasons, and she probably needed him, too. Two lost souls, a clandestine environment, where everyone wanted something from everyone else. Once you were caught in the web of intelligence services, you no longer knew what was right and what was wrong, because nothing was ever what it seemed.
The circumstances under which they had met weren’t ideal, either. He still shuddered when he thought of Jonas’ death struggle. To kill or be killed. That was life in intelligence. Modin had to admit that his had always affected the people around him; his family, his friends. And now this would affect Kim.
According to Modin’s latest theory, Jonas was no ordinary businessman. He had dealings with the most secret grouping within Swedish intelligence, Special Ops, which was proven by the fact that Loklinth had popped up like a Jack-in-the-Box at the scene of the crime. The fiber optics cable across the Baltic Sea was a vital project for the world of intelligence. It was likely as significant as the SOSUS underwater surveillance equipment had been during the 1980s. Now most intelligence work centered around telecommunications and fiber optics.
Times change, as do international alliances. Who had Jonas really been working for? Maybe Kim knew.
CHAPTER 42
A car turned into the driveway. The sound was muffled by the piles of snow, and Modin listened carefully. It sounded like a six-cylinder engine.
He looked out. Someone was turning off the engine of a white BMW M6. The car door opened, and the two well-shape
d legs of a woman appeared. Kim Zetterman climbed out and closed the door. She had changed her elegant fur coat for a blue padded jacket and tights. Her light hair glowed in the lights from the porch, which contrasted pleasantly with her dark clothing. She smiled in his direction, opened the trunk, took out her brown Mulberry purse, and nonchalantly slammed the trunk shut with her elbow. She turned around and just stood by the car a few moments, the smile still on her face.
“I was thinking of staying the night. Hope that’s okay?” she called out.
Modin had opened the door and stood on the porch.
“Sure, it’s okay,” he said. The warmth was rising inside him. He really liked Kim, spontaneous as she was, a little pushy even, and self-assured. She was no longer Jonas’s doll.
“Don’t just stand there, come on in. You’ll freeze.”
“Nice house you have,” Kim said and stepped forward lightly, almost like a ballerina, swinging her bag. Modin imagined that she had red cheeks, although he couldn’t see, because at that moment she was looking down at the snowy ground as she climbed the steps of the porch. He was dying to give her a hug, feel her warmth, and press his thighs against hers. He swept her off her feet as soon as his arms could reach her. They both laughed.
Anton Modin’s house in Grisslehamn.
“Hi there handsome, can I come into your warm shack? I am freezing.” Kim wriggled free and slipped past Modin in a cloud of fragrant perfume. “It’s really nice here. What’s for dinner?”
Under Water (Anton Modin Book 3) Page 12
