Lundin noticed that Robert was taking over more and more. He let him believe he was calling the shots. As long as I need him, he thought.
They passed the turn-off to Dalarö at high speed, despite the slippery road conditions. A night bus had had engine trouble and was shoved over to the curb, but still blocking one of the lanes. This caused backups.
“Are you Loklinth’s successor?” Robert asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Don’t be modest, Bob. Even if Loklinth survives all of this, he won’t be returning to his job. He’s old and weary. The two of us ought to get to know one another a little better. What kind of music do you like?”
“ABBA and the Beatles.”
“You’re kidding,” Robert said. “Personally, I like classical music.”
Bob Lundin didn’t like Robert. He was too careless, loose lipped, and rough around the edges. Bob simply didn’t trust him, but realized he had to get to know him, for the sake of national security. Like he would take over Special Ops from Loklinth, Robert was likely to take over the secret part of the Security Service from Göran Filipson.
“What are our orders?” Lundin said after he had stared at the side of the road for a while.
“Free the hostage. That means: use all means necessary to free the hostage. We shoot to kill. We’re not going to be meeting Sunday school kids, are we, Bob?”
Lundin didn’t reply. He really disliked Robert as a person. He was violent but effective. Presumably, he acted on instinct and got things done; he was the kind of person who’d quickly rise in the police force.
They turned off the main highway to the left and were now alone on the road. It was just after midnight, and most of the cottages they passed were dark. A short while later, they drove down into the Muskö Island tunnel.
CHAPTER 114
MUSKÖ ISLAND, WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 10
It was one o’clock in the morning. All the preparations had been made. The equipment had been put in the basement. They had put on their thermal diving underwear and boots in case they would have to leave in a hurry.
Kim was doing her security round in the car. She would drive up to the mouth of the tunnel at the end of Muskö Road and then turn back to see if there were any tire tracks apart from her own.
Jöran Järv revealed his escape route in the cottage, which had been built during the Cold War as a safe house, intended for the Stay Behind group Crack of Dawn to use. Apart from the bomb shelter in the cellar, there was an underground tunnel to the stone pier down by the sea. The tunnel was about a hundred yards long. It was not wide, only about seven feet in diameter, but it was sufficient to get them down to the pier where they could take a boat or simply swim away with their diving gear. A paramilitary group or secret submarine crew could also use the tunnel to get to the island from the Mysingen Strait all the way to what was now Jöran’s cottage and garage, so they could enter Sweden unnoticed, or be taken to Arlanda Airport and be swiftly smuggled out of the country. Järv mentioned that several divers from the USA and UK had entered Sweden this way for military exercises or to deliver a report, say, during the submarine chases, without being detected.
The Crack of Dawn team was under NATO command in times of war, but even in times of peace, it might take orders from NATO. It was quite possible that NATO would ask Crack of Dawn divers like Jöran Järv used to be, to cut through a submarine net or rescue a submarine crew that had been trapped in some bay or other. Sometimes, Crack of Dawn divers had been shot at by Swedish Defense forces and in some cases even wounded.
“Several of the divers who had been seen in the archipelago during the submarine chases were our own, but under orders from NATO,” Jöran concluded.
NATO spies, Bergman thought.
“So the submarines in Hårsfjärden in 1981 were NATO?” Bergman asked while they enjoyed their last meal before departure.
“Yes, several of them. We were standing by in my cottage during the whole incident. It was a close call. One lunatic at the Mälsten Mine Station was firing off depth charges as if he were firing a machine gun. One of NATO’s larger submarines was hit. A Los Angeles-class, they say. This couldn’t be confirmed. There was a lot of back and forth as I remember. We didn’t dare using the phones or radio, as Defense Radio was picking up all activity in the area. Everything was fine in the end. We were later given a medal for our efforts and the symbolic sum of one hundred thousand Swedish crowns.”
“So you’re a spy for a foreign power, if you put it like that. You accepted money.”
“If you like, yes. Except, we were given orders by our Swedish superiors. So they were also spies.”
“Yes, sure,” Bergman said, taking a bite out of his sandwich. “Did you never think that you were betraying Sweden or the Swedish people?”
“Oh, come on. We were working for NATO, because we had an insane left-wing government and an out-of-control Prime Minister cooperating with Moscow. I would like to tell you, Private Bergman. If we had not done what we did, Sweden would have been taken over by the Russians ages ago. No doubt about that! We fought like animals for this country.”
“It depends on how you look at it,” Bergman said. “Your actions were clandestine, not sanctioned by your own government.”
“Stop that now! The government, or at least some members, knew exactly what we were up to. The Minister of Defense, Anker Turner, was even out here checking up on us once. It’s not my problem if they failed to tell anyone else in their own ranks. They’ll just have to live with that. I was simply doing my job.”
“Right, that’s it guys,” Modin said. “We are going to be diving down to the M/S Estonia soon. You shouldn’t talk religion or politics when you’re on duty. Eat instead. Soon it’ll only be hamburgers.”
CHAPTER 115
The U.S. midget submarine, the NR-1 (130 feet long, approx.) sometimes conducted secret operations for U.S. intelligence. Operations called Black Ops. It was a black vessel with an orange turret, which was then painted black to hide its provenance. The NR-1 could carry what was termed the Sea Tractor attached to its hull for seabed operations such as installing SOSUS equipment on the bottom of the ocean. (The NR-1, which was nuclear powered, had a flat keel that was around ninety feet long and a wheel that would make tracks that resembled those of an anchor along the seabed.)
(Dark Waters, Lee Vyborny and Don Davis, 2003)
Fuck,” Bergman said. “Now I want to know.”
He was chewing furiously, drank some water, coughed, and looked Jöran straight in the eye.
“What do you want to know?” Jöran said.
“Was it a Los Angeles-class submarine in the Hårsfjärden inlet 1982? The one we thought was Russian?”
“When it comes to submarine activity, you can never be sure. It was never seen, much less identified. But the rumor among my subordinates and the American staff that came through the tunnel said it was Los Angeles-class.”
“The crew of a submarine?”
“Some, but also intelligence people.”
“It was a single Los Angeles-class sub that was wreaking all that havoc?”
“No, the NR-1 was here a few times, and even the Brits with their Oberons. The Los Angeles and Oberon subs were guarding the NR-1 while it was doing the actual work in our waters.”
“Work doing what?”
“The NR-1 was designed for seabed operations, for instance, laying and inspecting underwater surveillance equipment like the SOSUS.”
“So we were right!” Bergman said, and swallowed. “We were chasing NATO subs. That’s why it’s still secret and classified. Even today they want the Swedish people to think the Russians were in our waters?”
“Exactly, we’re being fucked in consideration of the wishes of a foreign power,” Modin said and smiled. “Not just once, but all the time. From the DC-3 right up to the Estonia, via the spy Wennerström and the submarines, up to the murder of Prime Minister Palme. It’s NATO and the CIA who are behind it all.”
>
“Oh, cut the crap,” Bergman said, his mouth falling open. “And what about the Russians?”
“They were also here, but not as aggressively as the CIA. The CIA was deep inside our minds—Black Ops or Psy Ops. They’ve been manipulating us all the way along, and not only ordinary citizens, but most politicians as well. Only the inner circle knew. Talk about keeping all the tidbits to yourself! I get damned furious when I start thinking about all this.” Modin threw his fork against the wall so that it bounced onto the floor. “And here I was, thinking that we were fighting against the Russians.”
“Fuck them,” Bergman said and Jöran nodded with his head down.
“When we’ve finished this diving operation, I’m going to get in touch with President Obama,” Modin said. “Demand that he and the National Security Council give us permission to clean out the dark corners of the old networks. A lot has already been exposed. The U.S. has to take responsibility. What’s happening here in our nation just isn’t right. If he wants to save the reputation of his superpower, he’ll agree to this. Otherwise, we’ll blow it all wide open. The Cold War is over.”
“Well said, Modin.” Jöran Järv started applauding, and looked as if he meant it. “But sooner than you think, Modin, we have Cold War version 2.0.”
“Car coming!”
The three men ceased their political discussion and peeked out of the kitchen window. Kim’s car was approaching through the woods at high speed. Something wasn’t right; that much was clear from the way she drove.
They reached for their handguns. Jöran went to the front door to open up. Kim entered, short of breath and clearly upset.
“They’re coming! Two black vans are on their way.”
“Let’s go,” Jöran said. He grabbed his jacket, turned off all the lights, and ran down to the basement. The others followed. Kim tripped, but Modin caught her. Bergman swore.
They had packed all equipment into three sea trunks and several plastic tote boxes, and had put everything on a wagon. Jöran unbolted the door to the basement, and urged the group to enter the tunnel. “Go, go, go.”
“Help me push,” Bergman said as he tried to pull the cart into the tunnel. Kim and Modin pushed.
“No time to lose,” Jöran said several times, quite unnecessarily.
• • •
The cars stopped at the edge of the garden. Two sliding doors opened. Shadows dressed in black spread across the property. Robert and Bob Lundin remained in the van, shielded by bulletproof windows.
“Do you think they’re here, Robert?”
“Absolutely sure. This was where the diving equipment was delivered. The man who owns this house is an ex-Special Ops guy, a colleague of Modin’s. They’re here all right. Your boss is likely to be somewhere in the house, as well.”
Robert picked up his walkie-talkie and gave a swift order: “Hold your fire until further notice. There’s a hostage in the house.”
He scratched his crotch while looking at the satellite image on the monitor.
“They have nowhere to go. Mysingen bay is covered in ice, and there’s no boat at the pier.”
Lundin nodded. They were caught in a brilliantly baited trap.
Robert gave his orders rapidly but calmly: “Surround the house and fire a warning shot if anyone comes out.”
• • •
They were about halfway through the tunnel when Bergman stopped and took out his cellphone. The signal was weak. He sent a text message.
“What are you doing?” Modin said.
“Ordering a cab,” Bergman said and tried to smile.
“Hurry up you guys,” Jöran was sweating profusely under his green commando cap.
The cart was heavy, but the tunnel sloped gently down to the pier.
“What are we doing with Loklinth?” Kim said. “They may not find him in the basement.
“Fine,” Modin said. “Then he’ll die.”
“Stop that! Don’t be childish. I was asking a serious question.”
“They’ll find him, Kim. For sure they will,” Jöran said, “carry on!”
CHAPTER 116
POLICE HEADQUARTERS, STOCKHOLM, TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 9
Come in,” Göran Filipson said, greeting an elegant lady in wide slacks and a mink jacket.
Amelia Carlson entered the room, her head held high, and sat down on the leather sofa in the office.
Filipson had the largest office in the department, as he should, given he was the Police Superintendent. In fact, informally, Göran had an even higher informal position as the head of a secretive division within the Swedish Security Service, the Section for Special Analysis, SSA, and therefore it was no surprise that he received guests such as Amelia Carlson, one of the richest individuals in Sweden. She was the owner of a large telecommunications conglomerate, on the A-List at the stock exchange, and the head of the Carlson Foundation, which had financed Modin’s dive to find the sunken mini-submarine a few years back.
Amelia Carlson had a whiff of royalty about her. She even looked a little like the Queen of Sweden, Filipson thought. He felt rather commonplace in her presence, but he was used to it. He almost always felt like that in his position. While at home he preferred to be casual, at work he tried to uphold the spirit of his job and wore a dark brown jacket and, when necessary, a Paisley patterned tie. That usually did the trick. He always wore the same brown shoes with a slightly thicker than average sole. They were rather worn at the tips, but always neatly polished. There was a shoe-polishing machine at the end of the corridor that led to the terrorist section. He had ordered it himself.
“What can I do for you, Amelia?” He sat down in his chair.
“I have heard that we have very important visitors to the Baltic Sea.”
“I really don’t know anything about that,” Filipson said in genuine astonishment. “Our contacts with Special Ops are down for the moment. Their boss has gone AWOL.”
“An American submarine is on its way. That’s all I know. Something’s up, I hear.”
“Could have to do with the Estonia ferry. Modin won’t be diving though. I’ve deterred him. Radioactivity, and all that.”
“Will he listen? The CIA contacts say that you can’t trust the U.S. President. Just imagine if word gets out about the M/S Estonia. Then we’re in big trouble.”
“What do you suggest?”
“We can pay them by the same coin. Expose their covert surveillance of Swedes, for example, as a sign that we mean business. I’ve spoken to the King of Sweden. He agrees. His ass is on the line if we don’t keep ours clean. Rumors about his abdication in favor of his daughter, the Crown Princess Victoria, are spreading already. That would make the old network collapse, Göran. You know that. It’s your responsibility to keep it going. Deep State needs you. Otherwise, you can bet your bottom dollar that people in my position are going to be buying a one-way ticket to London.”
I really wish you would, Filipson thought. He was getting tired of the Swedish business world. Lots of demands on him, and what did he get in return? Nothing. He was allowed to keep his job. He was starting to put his faith in Modin and his crazy ideas of cleaning up the city and Sweden. Anything is better than the status quo. We have to come to terms with our history. Key chunks of our contemporary history have been hidden from the Swedish people for too long.
He got up and went to sit down next to Amelia Carlson on the couch by the wall.
“Listen, Amelia. I really think you should move your head office to London. Close to all those Indians, Pakistanis, and rich Arabs. I am getting sick and tired of you people. We’ve lost our country by protecting, well, what? Our citizens? And what have we protected them from? The Russians? Communism? Looney Islamist fanatics like al Qaeda? The RAF?”
Filipson wiped his upper lip with a white napkin he produced from his left pants pocket. Amelia Carlson retreated a fraction. He was unstoppable now.
“Times have changed, Amelia. It’s you guys who feel threatened now,” he continued
. “Your money is at risk. Ordinary Swedish people—farmers and workers, me, my friends and family—we have never had anything to fear from any of those people. The Red Brigades have never bombed your average Svensson in the city, or Gustavsson out in the countryside. It’s you and your money that have brought on the problem. Yes, we need jobs in this country, and that’s why I have been doing my bit, Amelia. I’ve been doing everything I can for a whole lifetime. But I’ve paid a high price. We have killed, maimed, deported, incarcerated, tortured people, taken kids from their parents, and cobbled together lies in order to protect you and your friends. I will retire soon. It’s time for me to do the right thing. So I can be proud when I lie in my hammock in the garden.”
He made a theatrical pause. He knew it would have an effect. He looked out of the window, then continued: “I’m throwing you out of Police Headquarters. I want your parking permit for the police garage back. I don’t want to see you here again, Amelia, never ever. Leave the country, hightail it for the smog of London. That’s where you belong.”
“You’ll be hearing from me,” Amelia Carlson said, her face grim, as she got up and straightened the leg of her slack. She marched out shaking her head.
“Don’t forget to sell your house on the island of Gotland. That belongs to Sweden,” Göran Filipson yelled at her slim back and the door that slammed shut behind her.
Filipson sat down on his chair and folded his hands with care.
Thank God that’s over, he thought. All I have to do now is solve a murder in Grisslehamn. Then I can go fishing.
CHAPTER 117
MUSKÖ ISLAND, WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 10
They had been sitting at the end of the tunnel for half an hour waiting, when a text message produced a ding on Bergman’s cellphone: Position please.
Bergman responded with their position, and a short while later his cellphone dinged again: Twenty minutes.
Under Water (Anton Modin Book 3) Page 28
