Under Water (Anton Modin Book 3)

by Anders Jallai

  “No, he’s driving,” Loklinth said. “I’ll make sure you get your application for a hard liquor license, Jokso. It’s worth it. This kind of joint should have good hard liquor. And our business would go more smoothly, too. If our clients get really drunk, we’ll get more out of them.”

  Loklinth was smiling as he dipped his lips into the head of the beer glass. This gave him a white moustache, but he didn’t notice.

  “You know that we always help when we can, and that the license to sell hard liquor is important for us,” Jokso said and began to frantically polish a glass. It was obvious that he wasn’t comfortable with Loklinth’s presence at all.

  “Here are our beauties,” Jokso said. “Good morning, girls. We’ve got a good friend here who wants to have a word with you.” He nodded toward Loklinth, who put down his glass, adjusted his hair, and sucked in his stomach.

  “Well hello there, girls,” he said, licking his fat lips unconsciously.

  Lundin took notice, and looked away.

  The girls, the same pair who had been with Modin and Bergman the night before, told their story to Loklinth, while Lundin listened and jotted down details in a small notebook.

  “A ferry, the M/S Estonia, was mentioned,” the blonde said. “And someone was going to get killed. I remember that much, but they were really drunk, especially the taller guy. He groped me but didn’t want to go any further. He must be completely impotent from all that drinking.”

  “For sure,” Loklinth said and looked as if he were thinking of something else. “And who was going to get killed, do you remember?”

  “Don’t know. I think they said something about Special Ops, but I’m not sure. Some swine at Special Ops.”

  “Were they going to assassinate someone at Special Ops?”

  “Oh I don’t know,” said the blonde and pushed out her bosom toward Loklinth so that he had to take a deep breath. “It was mostly the booze talking, I think. They argued over something or somebody. The dive, I think.”

  “Okay,” Loklinth said staring at the two jugs in his field of vision.

  Cock teaser, Lundin thought and even felt a little poetic.

  “Do you want us to fuck them?” said the darker girl who looked a little Asian.

  “Yes, please. That would indeed be a truly valuable service to Sweden. And don’t forget to keep the evidence, the rubber. Pop it into the fridge. It’ll keep better there.”

  “The rubber,” the blonde said. “How old are you really?”

  Loklinth ignored the question. “And make sure you get the shorter guy to have a quick one too. He’s married. Try to trap him. Then you’ll get extra cash. I mean, if they return here, that is. They’ll be going diving soon, the bastards.”

  “We could always say they raped us,” the blonde said and pouted at Loklinth.

  He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a white tissue.

  “I don’t know,” he said, immediately thinking back two summers ago, when they had tried to destroy Modin with exactly that accusation. “Raped strippers? Could be a tough sell. The legal system doesn’t protect you, sweeties. Sweden ought to tighten up its sex laws. That’s what I’ve always said, laws against filth and men who can’t control themselves.” He adjusted his pants in his crotch. “They execute rapists in Iran, and that’s a damn good thing too!”

  Loklinth had some more of his beer, then put down his glass on the bar counter with a slight click, and said, “Thanks for everything. Keep your eyes open.”

  And you your fly, Lundin thought to himself.

  The blonde let her long hair brush up against Loklinth’s cheek as she turned to leave. “You are not staying?” she asked.

  “I don’t think we can,” Loklinth said and raised his eyes to her breasts. “Next time, sweetie.”

  CHAPTER 79

  GÖTGATAN, THURSDAY, JANUARY 28

  Don’t take notice, Modin. They’re just trying to throw you off.”

  “I know, but it hurts. The attacks are well-aimed. This is the fourth text message I’ve received this week. Did you see the article about the M/S Estonia?”

  “Sure did. Must have been tough for you to read.”

  “I just don’t get it! How can editors accept such articles? It’s clear as day that Special Ops dictated the content. Just like last year, when we started looking for clues in the Olof Palme murder. Suddenly they were pouring out all sorts of articles with disinformation about the case: Kurds, Yugos, South Africans… they had all killed Olof Palme. Even Matti Svensson should feel too good for these sick lies. I just can’t understand how someone has the energy to make such things up.”

  “These lies are effective,” Bergman said. “The truth drowns in bullshit.”

  “I know. The Psychological Operations team is doing this on commission from Special Ops to confuse people. They spread disinformation—everywhere, from leadership personnel down to the humblest receptionist.”

  Modin leaned back on the couch and folded his right arm over his eyes.

  “Could you pour me a drink, please?”

  Bergman went and mixed a Black Russian for Modin and put it on the table.

  “Only because you’re my friend, Modin. But you need to stop drinking, because I need you on that dive. I have something that can help get you off the booze.”

  “A magic potion? Ha! We’ll see,” Modin picked up his glass and downed a third of it. “That feels better.”

  Bergman got up.

  “If you’re going to dive down to the Estonia, you’ll have to get down there without being detected,” Modin said, suppressing a burp.

  “Now I recognize my old friend again. You may be getting better already.”

  “Maybe I am. So no shots, please. I can’t stand injections.”

  “I know. But sometimes they’re necessary, think of that. Kim sends her love, by the way. She wants to see you.”

  “I’m not sure I want to see her. I’m not exactly riveting company right now.”

  “No, you’re not,” Bergman said, and sized him up from head to toe. Modin seemed like a cat that had run away—lost and vulnerable.

  “Modin, for fuck’s sake. You can’t give up right now. This is your chance to find out what happened to the M/S Estonia. This is what you wanted for years. Don’t tell me you changed your mind. “

  “I don’t know, Bergman. Really, I don’t know any more. What’s the point? They’re dead. Estonia has been liberated. The Soviet Union is history. The Russian GRU probably downed the ferry. Anything else we find out might do more harm than good. Someone once pointed out that I’m just a disgruntled victim of injustice. Maybe that person was right and I’m wrong.”

  “Stop that, my friend. You’re starting to have doubts about your own positions. You’re over forty, so that’s quite normal. Maybe a little on the early side, but quite normal nonetheless. Gustav Jung, the psychoanalyst, figured that all men catch up with themselves between the ages of about forty and fifty. That’s when the ego becomes aware of itself. So you are looking at your own actions more critically. That can be tough. Some people, according to Jung, even commit suicide when that happens, I mean when the ego becomes aware of the self.”

  “I’ve looked myself in the white of the eye, Bergman. And it wasn’t a nice experience.”

  “Well, be thankful for that, Modin. More limited personalities never even make that contact. And some don’t until they’re on their deathbed, when it’s too late. Don’t you agree?”

  “This feels like my deathbed. Do you remember that Ingmar Bergman film The Seventh Seal? The guy playing chess with Death? That’s how I feel.”

  “Oh hell, Modin, play the game. Play against Death. You’ll win!”

  CHAPTER 80

  POLICE HEADQUARTERS, STOCKHOLM, JANUARY 29

  Police Superintendent and head of the Security Services Section for Special Analysis, SSA, Göran Filipson was sorting papers at his desk when someone knocked at his door. In came Police Commissioner Fredholm, who was responsible f
or the investigation into the New Year’s Eve murder of Jonas Zetterman in Grisslehamn. Filipson had requested a meeting in light of emerging evidence.

  “Sit down,” Filipson said, as he pulled up a chair for his colleague.

  He went to stand by the window and looked down at Polhemsgatan, the street right below his window. The cars were parked in long rows along the street, which was full of dirty gray slush. I’m looking forward to the spring, he thought, then turned toward Fredholm.

  Police Commissioner Fredholm was a short man with dark hair and a pointy nose. He clearly dressed to avoid standing out. He hardly seemed to be breathing. He was air itself, Filipson thought, does not smell even of anything. But appearances can be deceptive. Even air can carry deadly bacteria.

  “How’s it going?” he asked and sat down in an office chair opposite his guest.

  “A difficult case, but we’re making a little progress every day,” Fredholm said.

  “Tell me all about it.”

  Filipson leaned over the desk and rested his head on his hands. He feared the worst.

  “It doesn’t seem to be the work of one lone lunatic. We’re pretty sure of that, despite what the Minister said at the press conference.”

  “We can forget what she said,” Filipson said. “Ministers always give us the run-around on sensitive issues. That’s a deformity they have acquired on the job.”

  “Lying, you mean?” Fredholm suggested.

  “You said it, not I.”

  Filipson knew that Fredholm was the kind of police officer who did his duty; in other words, he was the uncomfortable type, the kind that would never make compromises when it came to the truth, the kind that would never be promoted very far and would rarely get a job with the Security Service, especially with the secretive SSA department. In short, he was the type of guy every policeman should be, the guy who would not think twice about reporting a colleague for failure to do his duty, or a higher-up for corruption. As luck would have it, there weren’t too many like him left in the police force.

  “Unfortunately, we didn’t have any radio surveillance in the area at the time,” Fredholm continued in a loud and clear voice as if he knew what Filipson thought about him. “Defense Radio does have a station in Grisslehamn, but it was not in operation at the time.”

  Göran Filipson nodded slowly. He was pleased that Defense Radio didn’t make its findings public. They had been given the directive to keep their surveillance to themselves. Because this case involved matters of national security. And no matter how highly he thought of officers like Fredholm, matters of national security did need to be kept under wraps.

  “On the other hand, we do have a phone tap,” Fredholm said. “This makes it clear that at least three people were involved in the killing of Jonas Zetterman. We figure there were two accomplices and a driver who was on stand-by somewhere in the vicinity. One of the assailants stayed at the hotel preceding the murder, which would suggest that this person is either a staff member or a guest.”

  “That does sound interesting,” Filipson said and did his best to hide the fact that he already had information to that effect from the investigation carried out by the Security Service. “Anything else?”

  “We have traced one of the numbers to a Bulgarian thug. His name is Boris Stankov, and until 1987, he used to work for Bulgarian intelligence. We think that the killing is somehow linked to foreign intelligence activities.”

  “These are merely speculations, I presume,” Filipson said.

  “Well, everything points in that direction,” Fredholm said. “When we looked into Jonas Zetterman’s background, we found that he was an officer in the reserves right up to the time of his death and that he had attended an American university—Harvard. And we also believe…”

  “In major investigations, the word ‘believe’ should not be used,” Filipson interrupted. “We have to know. How would it look, Fredholm, if we went public with this information? People would immediately start speculating about the fact that someone ordered the assassination, and that this particular someone belonged to a foreign intelligence agency. Would you be prepared to take the heat for that?”

  “Things do point in that direction, sir.”

  “That might be, but can you prove it? If you can’t, I think you should keep your speculations to yourself. For your own sake. Was that everything?”

  “Yes, more or less. Boris Stankov left Sweden from Stockholm Arlanda Airport for Sofia, Bulgaria, the day after the killing.”

  “You’ve done a good job, Fredholm. Keep me posted on any new developments. But keep the political speculations to yourself until we know more. Can we agree on that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When Fredholm had left, Filipson got to his feet and stretched, experiencing a sharp pain in his lower back. He had a bad conscience about putting a stop to yet another investigation, all in the name of the nation’s security. The word left so much room for interpretation. It was getting harder and harder each year to avoid following the Swedish constitution to the letter. In the past, any effort you made to find things out had paid off with a new job or a new perk. You’d be promoted or move to a job in business or go on an exciting trip. Nowadays, such offers were rare. Old sins had to be kept under wraps. The money that used to slosh around in the system had dried up after the Cold War had ended. Now Filipson feared that he was on his way to another train wreck with this murder in Grisslehamn.

  Damn, this is starting to look like the Olof Palme assassination all over again.

  CHAPTER 81

  SPECIAL OPS HEADQUARTERS, STOCKHOLM, MONDAY, FEBRUARY 1

  Bob Lundin was sorting papers when Loklinth stormed in, red in the face, his arms everywhere. The room filled with cologne, maybe Lagerfeldt or Fahrenheit. Whatever it was, there was too much of it.

  “And we can’t even get the fucker to fuck, Lundin!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “He doesn’t want to screw, is what I mean. Modin’s not taking the bait; he refused the big-titted blonde in the sex club. Would you say ‘no’ to a blow job? I didn’t think so. But oh no, Modin and his friend are too refined for that. Too refined for a blow job!”

  “Maybe there are other ways,” Lundin said, embarrassed by his boss’s outburst.

  “How do you mean? We need his sperm. Need the DNA, Lundin! Then we’ve got him. The girl testifies and the sperm proves that fucking took place, perfect! But we don’t have any. That is the problem. The jury needs sperm.”

  “Can’t we just frame him with some minor assault, or sexual harassment?”

  “We’ve already tried that, if you remember, two summers ago in Grisslehamn. Going through that again would just be too great of a risk. The judges might figure out what we’re up to. No, we need to think about this. A new type of honey trap, one that will catch even Mr. Modin. Think of something, Lundin. Fast. We may need to have him locked up for a while. Bergman has been out to Muskö and got in touch with that navy diver, Jöran Järv. I’m sure this visit has something to do with diving down to the M/S Estonia. So we have to hurry.”

  “Could be difficult,” Lundin said, his brow creased. “If he won’t fuck, he won’t fuck. He no doubt understands that there are risks involved.” Lundin was surprised at his own choice of words, but he just blurted them out, no doubt inspired by his boss’s blunt words.

  “Fuck,” Loklinth said. “We can just give him a sound beating. Necessity is ruthless. Do we know anyone?”

  Loklinth went to the window and looked out over the Army Museum. It was drizzling and the gravel in the courtyard was dark and wet. It made him shiver.

  “That’s what happens when you train someone so well that he’s just as good as you are. We don’t do that too often, for security reasons. We should never have done it with Modin. Those times are long gone, Lundin. Your generation has absolutely no idea what hell it was like during the Cold War, squashed between two superpowers.”

  He now turned to face Lundin.

  “W
e can’t use Albert Svan and his guys,” said Lundin rapidly. “Modin knows who they are, no doubt. We really should trick someone into beating the shit out of him, maybe someone from one of those mafia groupings.”

  “Too big a risk,” Loklinth said, his hands on his hips. He was leaning slightly forward, as if getting ready to run a short distance sprint. “I refuse to work with the mafia. They leak like a submarine with a screen door. Can’t we fake some of Modin’s DNA? Is that even possible, technically speaking?”

  “Anything’s possible,” Lundin said, straightening some papers, “as long as the human being in question is the weakest link. There are a couple of technicians at Forensics. Do you want to use them? But it is highly unethical.” Lundin looked down at his stack of papers.

  “Just cut the philosophical drivel. Who cares about ethics when the security of our homeland is at stake, Lundin? No price is too high. Fake a DNA test. If we can manage that, we can have him locked up for five years. That’ll take us up to when I retire. Just perfect. What a damned good idea, Lundin.”

  Lundin carried on sorting his papers but was formulating a plan at the same time. He hated disorder, especially on his own desk.

  CHAPTER 82

  GÖTGATAN, STOCKHOLM, FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 5

  TT News Agency:

  Diver Anton Modin wanted for rape.

  Last night, public prosecutor Martha Nyman announced that Anton Modin has been arrested in his absence, suspected of having raped a 22-year-old woman in Stockholm. Modin and the woman are said to have met at a club in the inner city about a week ago. They then went to her place in the south of Stockholm. “We have forensic proof of the sexual act, plus a statement by the woman,” Prosecutor Martha Nyman said to TT.

  “Modin, wake up! It’s me, Bill. You have to open the door!”

  Bergman yelled through the slit of the letter box. It was dark and quiet inside. He could neither see nor hear anyone. It was late morning and there was no one around in the stairwell.