GRAND HÔTEL, STOCKHOLM, SUNDAY, JANUARY 10
Kim was reading the morning paper over breakfast.
“There is no factual basis at all to the theories about the sinking of the M/S Estonia. A number of rumors are circulating that have no substance whatsoever. It makes me sad when I read about all these strange theories,” says the head of the State Commission on Shipwrecks.
Hope that Modin doesn’t see this, she thought, and put the morning paper down. She had tried to get in touch with Modin for two days straight, but without success. She suspected that he had left for his house in Grisslehamn. He had looked unhappy, downtrodden, and diminished in some way, even suicidal.
She didn’t quite understand what happened to him since their visit to Vahtseliina. She herself had come away from the episode in that village without any physical harm except for exposure to the tear gas. Her abductors had been polite. She had waited for Modin in a guarded log cabin for an entire day and night and finally he had turned up, seemingly unharmed. But since then he had been cold, indifferent, and hard to reach. They had not exchanged many words on the ferry during the trip home. Modin had spent most of the time lying in his bunk in the cabin. He no longer seemed to care about her: no kisses, no fondling, and no sex.
Kim wondered if she should get in touch with someone who knew him well and ask for help. Modin had talked about his best friend, Bergman or something. Maybe she should look him up?
She went to the window in her hotel suite and leaned into the deep, round window niche. She looked out over Strömmen, the stretch of water now partly covered in ice, and the Royal Castle beyond.
I have to buy a home of my own, she thought.
CHAPTER 66
GRAND HÔTEL, STOCKHOLM, TUESDAY, JANUARY 12
They met over a pot of coffee and a plate of pies and pasties.
“How is he?” Bill Bergman asked
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know. We went to Estonia, tried to find out the truth about the sunken ferry, but the trip ended in a disaster.”
“He’s obsessed with the M/S Estonia,” Bergman said. “I am sorry for him, but I can’t blame him. He has the right to find peace, and I guess he can’t unless he knows what happened and why. You’ll just have to accept that, Kim.”
“Is that really possible?”
“Well, being friends with Anton Modin is not always easy. It almost cost me my marriage, and my life at a depth of some 500 feet.”
“I really like him a lot,” Kim said, lowering her head.
“So do I. He’s genuine, Kim. For better or worse. And I know that he really likes you. I have not seen him so happy for a long time. Not since, well, you know…”
“I’m glad to hear that. How did you two meet?”
“We met diving. Modin became a breath of fresh air in my otherwise routine daily life. Some think that it was too fresh a breath of air. He has a touch of hubris. Everything is possible and everything has to happen immediately and on a grand scale. Actually, I don’t usually like people like Modin. He is too much of everything. At least he was until he got tired of life. Modin’s passion beat out everything else. His passion for what he did would infect everybody else around him.”
“I can see that,” Kim smiled.
“He is able to get others to do things they never thought possible. He was, and still is, result-oriented with a passion, which is not much of a problem, as long as you can keep up. But if you can’t, he’ll ignore you or get rid of you. He’s a bulldozer. Unstoppable.”
“How come you two are friends? You seem to suggest that you are very different from each other.”
“I remember a course on mixed gas diving out in Grisslehamn,” Bergman said and smiled. “Modin was skillful. He told us he needed the training for his military work, but of course, no one knew what kind of work he did for the military. Soon after, I became a member of one of his diving teams. Our first dive together was down to an old Soviet submarine wreck from World War II. After that, several more diving operations followed. It always seemed as if he was searching for something else. He was rather absent-minded when it came to the actual dive. And he wanted to dive deep. Depths of 300 or 400 feet or even more… crazy.” Bergman started to laugh.
“Did you ever find out what kind of work he did for the military?” Kim asked.
“Well, I know he was a secret agent with a top secret unit within Defense. I figured he was an enforcer in the service of the state, which basically means performing shady and even criminal acts under the cloak of national security. I’m sure you can tell I don’t necessarily approve. For a while, I even thought he was working for a foreign power. He had quite a few unusual acquaintances.”
“What sort of acquaintances?”
“Russians, Yugoslavs, Americans, thugs, thieves… you name it. Handy to know them, he would say.”
“How are we going to haul him out of the hole he’s fallen into?” Kim said. “I’m sure you’ve done that before?”
“He likes to mourn on his own. The sorrow hits him now and again. Then he comes back, stronger than ever, and focuses on some new project.”
“He drinks. He was on a binge during the whole trip.”
“I know he drinks,” Bergman said, eyes wide open. “What happened in Estonia, Kim? Were you with him the entire time?”
“Well yes, except for the 24 hours when we were held captive by the paramilitaries. I don’t know what happened in that time. He didn’t say. He told me about the arms deals he and a colleague made for Special Ops in Estonia back in 1994. Then he clammed up, as if he wished he hadn’t told me.”
“A colleague?” Bergman said.
“Yes, Jöran Järv. Maybe you should look him up.”
“I intend to. A diver is just who we need right now.”
“Have you tried to get in touch with Modin?”
“He doesn’t answer my calls,” Bergman said. “I’ll have to go to his apartment on Götgatan. Will we two meet again?”
“Gladly,” Kim said. “I won’t be at the Grand for very long. If you need help, like money or manpower, please let me know. However much you need. I want us to help Modin. You and me.”
“Thanks, Kim. I’ll keep that in mind. Always good to know someone who will foot the bill.”
CHAPTER 67
THE NEW SOCIETY, STOCKHOLM, WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 13
Anders Glock put down his glass on the coffee table and stretched his neck.
“And how is the investigation into Jonas Zetterman’s murder going, Chris? Does the Security Service have any clues?”
Anders Glock’s dark eyes stared into Loklinth’s misty blues.
Loklinth is starting to get old, he thought, just like I am, and the pace of our work is not the same as before. What you don’t have in your brains, you have to have in your legs! As he watched Loklinth raise his glass with the three intact fingers of his one hand, he couldn’t help but think of Modin. Fucking Modin! Cold-blooded to cut off the tips like that.
“They have traced all the cellphone calls to and from the hotel. God knows whether they’ll dare to launch a full investigation. There’s a foreign power lurking behind this murder. I’m pretty sure of that, and in cases like that, they tend to put a lid on it.”
“Okay, I get the picture. So it’s the Russians who are under suspicion?” Glock asked.
“Of course it is. Putin was definitely not very keen on Zetterman laying his cable across the bed of the Baltic Sea. They’ve got as many interests at stake as the Balts themselves. A cable from Estonia will constitute the Russians’ digital link to the West and they are very afraid of NSA wire-tapping. That could very well be problematical for us. They will do everything to stop the new cable.”
“You mean they know that the NSA is involved?”
“Maybe they do. Isn’t that why Jonas lost his hands.”
Glock moistened his lips with his fat tongue. “We might very well have to protect ourselves as well.”
“Whatever happens, that
cable must be installed across our little pond,” Loklinth said, sipping his Campari and soda, “otherwise we’ll get hell from the Americans. It’s a top NSA priority, and we’re all they’ve got.”
“I know, they send us to do the dirty work while they sit in their comfortable embassy issuing orders. Not as easy for us in the field. But sure, the cable is going to be installed. Even I understand that much. The problem now is Kim Zetterman. She wants to terminate the cable business altogether.”
“She can’t,” Loklinth said. “You have to stop her. If she terminates, the project will be delayed for years. NSA will kill us.”
“I know. She is a stubborn little piece of meat. Maybe we need to take over her business somehow.”
Anders Glock looked around. They were sitting in the cigar-smoking corner of the restaurant. Unlike other restaurants and bars in the city, New Society still catered to smokers. This was the last oasis of tradition in an otherwise decadent city, where even the Royal Family was made fun of in tabloids and books.
Sweden! Why are you doing this to us? he thought, but what he really meant were Swedish journalists. Swedes should help keep the scum and neo-liberals in check. And the humanists, they were crazy. They didn’t even believe in God, and couldn’t care less about morality and national unity! Good God, we have a tradition of believing in God from way back in history. Don’t they understand that? Morons!
Anders Glock clasped his hands on his knees.
“Homicide investigations can be tricky,” Loklinth said, interrupting Glock’s musings. “We have not been able to establish any personal links between the murder victim and a potential killer. The perp is likely to be a complete stranger. The investigators haven’t got a clue where to start. No fingerprints. No DNA. It’s like looking for a needle in a fucking haystack.”
“Or a cream cake in a barrel of shit,” Glock said. “If it is the Russian GRU, we will probably never find any clues.”
They stopped talking, had a sip, and looked around the smoky club.
“It’s okay here. All that’s missing are a few young chicks. If we don’t count the nice waitresses, of course,” Loklinth said.
“Cheers! To the cable and to us! I already have a well-developed strategy how to proceed. We simply have to get a few bodyguards. From over in Estonia. I’ll look into it. That cable is going to be installed under the Baltic Sea. By the way, how is your hand?”
“You get used to it. It’s not my jerk-off hand, so I’m fine.”
“That’s good fortune,” Glock said laughing. “Modin will pay for your fingers eventually. He already has, in fact, in Estonia. He will never forget that trip, Chris. I promise you. “
“I heard from DSO connections in Estonian Intelligence, confirming that Modin and Kim were there, hunting down Estonia ferry witnesses.”
“I know,” Glock said with a smile, “the Estonians stopped them. Barbro assisted us. She administered him a drug they’ve developed in U.S. He has been given what you could call mental training.”
Anders Glock laughed so loud that he could be heard throughout the room. “Modin is being turned into a vegetable. I love it,” he said with tears of joy in his eyes. He grabbed a tissue. “He’ll never get back on his feet after this.”
“Believing that to be the case is not enough!” Loklinth sat up in his recliner. “We have to be absolutely sure, Anders. You can arrange that, can’t you?” He uttered the last sentence emphasizing every single word. “Modin cannot mess up our plans. He cannot be nosing around. The M/S Estonia Affair can sabotage the whole cable project, and you know that as well as I do. Let’s start a campaign of e-mail and text message harassment against him. He’s got to be broken. If he keeps snooping around, we could end up with the Estonian public opinion against us. They’ve got a weak government over there in Tallinn.”
“You’re quite right, Chris. We must start swaying public opinion in our favor, even here in Sweden. The Green Party is sulking and grumbling. They want to stop the project for the sake of the eco balance in the waters of the Baltic. Idiots!”
“How would the cable disturb the fish down there?”
“The construction work would stir up the sediment on the seabed and bring up the mustard gas and radioactivity dumped down there.”
“Anything can be turned into Green politics. It drives you crazy. Can’t anybody shut them up?”
“Yes, if you want,” Glock said.
“Use your contacts in the public relations business.”
“Sure thing.”
“Best to get in touch with them immediately, before any organized anti-cable propaganda surfaces.”
CHAPTER 68
BASTUGATAN 21, STOCKHOLM, SATURDAY, JANUARY 16
“Deals done with the U.S. in the U.S. to buy military technology. Using smart tactics, we have agreed to the terms that will put us on the same level as NATO countries. This can under no circumstances be made public, because that would prove the Soviets right when they say that Swedish Prime Minister Erlander was in the U.S. for that very purpose.”
(Chief-of-Staff Richard Akerman’s diary, July 2, 1952)
Bergman channel surfed, but all there was to watch was were the qualifying games to the Australian Open tennis tournament. They would be playing until about two in the afternoon, Swedish time, which was late evening down under. He had made himself a large latte and was about to relax.
It was a Saturday morning in mid-January, which in Sweden was the worst time of year. The sun barely rose above the roofs and it was often overcast.
His family was staying with his mother-in-law in Farsta south of Stockholm, and Bergman was enjoying some time off. He had worked hard all winter. The economy was on the up, and the marketing company he worked for was getting a deluge of orders. All at the same time, as usual. He was working on several parallel projects, and needed his weekends to relax. 2010 was going to be an intensive year on that front. Might be intensive personally as well, should they indeed dive for the U.S. President? He shivered when he thought about that project. It was dangerous on many fronts. John Odom had said that the wreck they were supposed to dive for was way down deep, which didn’t sound reassuring. He was not looking forward to his appointment with a gentleman from the U.S. Embassy at the Tudor Arms Bar on Grevgatan in central Stockholm.
As of yet, he had not found enough divers to assist him. In his poor state of mind, not even Modin could be counted on, although he said he’d be on board.
The man from the embassy had been keen to meet. The U.S. Embassy was like the small body of an octopus spreading its tentacles all over Sweden, doing everything to further the interests of the United States. Bergman didn’t like it. Modin, on the other hand, had always maintained that NATO was essential for Sweden. Without the Americans, we would not survive up here in the far north. The money and the know-how came from the U.S. Without the Americans’ help, Sweden might have become a new Cuba. The idea of Swedish neutrality, no matter how strongly professed during the Cold War, had always been ridiculous.
In Modin’s world, everything was black and white, at least when he was young. Good and evil. Bergman was not so sure that there weren’t plenty of shades of grey. Modin, too, seemed to be having doubts nowadays. The tentacles of the embassy had initially been gentle and open, especially in the early 1950s, when the CIA was building up its network to defend Europe from Communism. Truman had been President at the time, and the CIA was still in diapers. Between them, they were going to make sure Sweden would not slip into the sphere of Soviet influence. The Swedish Prime Minister Erlander had been mesmerized by the USA. After all, this was the country that had rescued Europe from the Nazis during World War II. But today, over fifty years later, the tentacles seemed to have developed claws, and the octopus seemed to take without giving anything in return. Yet, Swedish politicians were still running to the U.S. Embassy and begging for help in foreign policy matters.
Public opinion in Sweden did not appreciate that, Bergman thought. Help us, and we’ll p
ay you back when we’re in power, that was the mantra of Swedish politicians. But the help offered by the Americans always had strings attached.
He put his coffee cup down. I will have to step on it, if I’m going to be on time for the meeting.
CHAPTER 69
ÖSTERMALM DISTRICT, STOCKHOLM, SATURDAY, JANUARY 16
There were not many patrons at the Tudor Arms. Bergman sat down at a table for two in the back room. It was rather murky in there, somewhat cold and terribly British. Glasses clinked at the bar counter. The smell of stale beer infused the whole establishment. A bartender with sturdy biceps was drying beer mugs behind the counter. He was working like a robot. His mind must be in a much warmer and happier place, Bergman thought with a smile.
A rusty truck slowly rattled past on Grevgatan Street. The driver finally managed to change gear. Bergman peeked out through the window.
“Hi Bill, nice to see you!”
The brash American turned up suddenly as if out of nowhere. He sat down at the table without asking. Wearing a dark suit and sunglasses in the dead of the Swedish winter, he looked like one of the bodyguards in the movie All the President’s Men.
“How are we doing with the preparations?”
“What preparations?” Bergman asked. “Please tell me who you are and who you represent. Otherwise I’m not saying a word.”
The man pulled a wallet from his inner coat pocket and flashed his ID.
“American Embassy,” Bergman read aloud. “CIA?”
“Maybe,” the American replied.
According to his ID, his name was Ben Falkirk. He had a high brow and a long and narrow face. His hair was dark, clipped short, and dense, and he had lively brown eyes. Clearly, this was a guy between thirty-five and forty on his way up. He gave the neat and clear impression of a Hollywood star from the black-and-white era, and sat straight up in his chair without looking the slightest bit uncomfortable.
“Okay Ben, what do you want?”
Under Water (Anton Modin Book 3) Page 18
