“Just a bit longer, Bergman. We’ve got to finish what we started. I had no idea that things would take this turn, but now there’s no turning back.”
“I didn’t start anything, Modin!” Bergman protested.
“I know. Once we find out who attacked me, then we can solve the Palme murder. If Special Ops is behind all this, we have something to bargain with for Astrid’s safe passage home. What do you think?”
“We? Why do you keep using that word?”
“Fine, then, I reckon I can solve the Palme murder,” Modin said. “Or rather, the case is solved already, and I’ll just find out who did it. I’m sure, the Palme assassins are the very same guys who were trying to kill me.”
“Are you after the eight-million-dollar reward?” Bergman asked with an edge in his voice. He had both hands tucked in his pockets and was looking down at his brown, shining shoes.
He seems angry. He has been dragged into this against his will, Modin thought. He must think I’m completely out of my mind.
“I forgot about the reward, but yes, why not?” Modin inquired. “I need the money, by the way. I’ve got a mission to complete. A task that the Swedish government should have carried out ages ago.”
“What mission? You’re going for the Estonia, you fucking bastard, aren’t you?” Bergman challenged as he leaned toward his friend. “You want to dive down to the Estonia wreck. That’s why you need the money. Is it?”
“Maybe,” Modin said and stared at the ugly urine-yellow wall behind Bergman.
“You really got your eyes on the prize, Modin, I have to give you that. I can’t keep up.”
“Yes you can. If you want to,” Modin said pleadingly. “We’re in the same boat. Aren’t we, old friend?”
“Yes, we are,” sighed Bergman, much to his own surprise.
Anton Modin’s house in Grisslehamn
CHAPTER 6
SEVEN MONTHS LATER
GRISSLEHAMN, THURSDAY, APRIL 30, 2009
Anton Modin parked his new car, a two-year-old white Volvo he had bought with the insurance money from his drowned Chevy pickup, in the yard outside his summer house in Grisslehamn. He walked with a stoop, then stopped and listened. Birdsong coming from the trees near the bay blended in with the sound of a chainsaw from one of the neighbors. He tried to stand up straight but this was damned difficult.
Time stood still out here. He inhaled the fresh sea air, exhaled, and experienced a strange fulfillment. There was spring in the air. He tried to look up into the bright sky, but his long hospital stay, mainly on his back resting, interspersed with many neurological examinations, had made his bloodshot eyes rather sensitive. The bright light and the sea breeze made them tear up.
People say that the air out here is as pure as that of the mountains, Modin thought. Quite true. No major population centers or industrial hubs nearby. He surveyed the sea surface, feeling the majesty of the coastal landscape.
Grisslehamn was some 75 miles to the north of Stockholm on the eastern Baltic coast of Sweden, 25 miles from the city of Mariehamn in the Åland Archipelago, nominally part of Finland, and some 125 miles from Estonia. The Baltic Sea had major geopolitical significance, and the items that lay below its surface were not only fish. The Sea of Åland that lay between Mariehamn and Grisslehamn was deep, almost 1000 feet at its deepest, and the current usually flowed in a southerly direction. It was the only passage by which large vessels and submarines could enter the northern arm of the Baltic Sea, known as the Gulf of Bothnia. This area was of major strategic importance, as Modin knew full well from his days in the military.
During World War II, this stretch of sea had sheltered vessels carrying Hitler’s iron ore shipments, while later, during the Cold War, it offered sanctuary to both NATO and Soviet submarines. You could easily hide in the Gulf of Bothnia. It was deep and deserted. The passage past Åland, specifically the sound between the Märketskallen and Understen lighthouses, was only some four miles wide. The channel was closely observed from both the Swedish and Finnish side, and the sound was said to be the final resting place of countless Soviet and German submarines. But its strategic importance had other dimensions, too. Only a bit more than a half mile out to sea from the Understen lighthouse was a 730 foot deep channel that had never been fully explored. Modin knew that in the 1980s, British submarines sometimes passed the sound during secret intelligence operations and then dived through either Swedish or Finnish waters.
I should go diving there, Modin thought, shading his eyes and looking out over the water. Who knows what lurks beneath the surface? He reviewed everything he knew about the history of the area in his mind. He freshened up his knowledge by focusing on sound bites of information. He wanted to return to normal mental capacity as quickly as possible, after being psychologically crushed by the months he had spent in the hospital.
Except perhaps my cat, Miss Mona, no one missed me, he thought. His friend, Harry Nuder, had looked after the cat while he had been in the hospital. I’ve got to go and get her, he thought, give her a hug, and ask her how she’s been coping. She’s my family now, it’s just me and Mona.
He had driven out to his summer cottage with some apprehension. He loved the place, but he also risked being confronted with old memories. Memories that crushed his soul, opened up old wounds in his heart, and gave him sleepless nights. His family was still out here; with the help of old memories, familiar scents, and cherished objects, he could get in touch with his life as it had been and live in the past.
He continued staring at the gray horizon. The cold was biting his cheeks and his lips were dry. A shudder went through his back and shoulders. His moment of peace was over. In his mind’s eye, memories from the M/S Estonia disaster played out. These memories were few and far between these days, but when they did come, it was like being hit over the head with a crowbar. The guilt threatened to crush him. They were out there, while he was still here, on land, safe.
Anton Modin took his suitcase from the trunk of the car, picked up his bag with his laptop, and went up the steps to the main house. His legs were still wobbly. The recurring dizzy spells had kept him in the hospital for six months. His sense of balance had in some way been damaged. Maybe permanently. Was this the end of his career as a diver?
Before he unlocked the door, he turned around swiftly to assure himself that no one was in the vicinity. He had looked inside the sauna by the water’s edge and the diving shed further up. Entering the cottage painted in traditional Swedish Falu-red, the musty smell hit him hard. He had not been here since last autumn, seven months earlier. The cottage had been built before the turn of the twentieth century, but he had renovated the inside. There were two bathrooms, a modern kitchen, an ice-maker, and a dishwasher.
Modin put his grocery bags down on the floor in the hallway; it was squarish in shape and filled with light. He slipped off his shoes. He stood still and listened carefully, but all he could hear was the purring of the ice-maker and the whirr of the bathroom fan. Had anyone been here? Someone could have bugged the cottage and poisoned the cognac. Not something I can do anything about, he thought as if to calm himself down.
The floor, made of broad, brushed fir planks, gave the house a feeling of stability. The walls and ceiling were clad in this same wood, painted white. He went into the kitchen, passing the large open hearth with its mantelpiece. The living room and kitchen were connected, an open-plan layout he and his wife had loved so much. A deck in the back of the cottage looked out over an inlet. He gazed outside through the window over the kitchen sink. He saw the landing dock where his boat was moored. It had been out all winter and was bobbing up and down happily, suggesting it had not taken in water. A forty horsepower two-stroke outboard motor from the 1970s, an Evinrude, was attached to the wooden boat. A large glassed-in veranda with mullioned windows also faced the inlet and let in large amounts of light.
He turned his head to the left and saw his Sea Hut where he usually accommodated his guests. Mostly Bill Bergman or John A
xman. Two yellow kayaks hung on its outer wall.
The floor of the living room was covered by a thick Indian wool carpet that clashed somewhat with the marine style of the rest of the room; and in the corner stood a worn, brown leather sofa and a mahogany coffee table with chipped edges.
I’ve got masses to do here, he thought. He gripped the kitchen worktop as he was beginning to feel dizzy again. Must have a little rest first. He laid down on the corner sofa.
The sofa was framed by built-in bookshelves filled with adventure novels and books on history. There were also thin volumes of Albert Engström essays from the early twentieth century that he had read from cover to cover. Art by local painters and four black-and-white photos on the walls mixed well with the Engström books.
Modin stretched out his hand and put a Phil Collins disc in the CD-player. He played “Wish it Would Rain Down” for Monica, his wife. He missed her.
They had built this place together for their firstborn son, Alexander. His room was upstairs, but Alexander himself lay 300 feet deep in the wreck of the M/S Estonia, as a result of Sweden’s greatest maritime disaster of all time. “Fucking hell,” he said aloud and shut his eyes.
Alexander had only been seven years old when he was snatched away from him. To Anton Modin’s great joy, Alexander had become quite proficient at tennis. They practiced three times a week. Alexander wanted to become a tennis professional; that’s what they had decided together over a Coca-Cola at the tennis club bar the last time they had played together.
Modin lay heavily on the sofa. He knew he needed to live for the future, but what was the point? Was there a future if you were utterly alone? Gone was the sense of hope from the previous summer, generated by the discovery of the Soviet mini submarine at Understen, and his love affair with Ellie. But this long hospital stay during the winter had catapulted him into a familiar mood of self-pity and depression. The doctor had given him a clean bill of health, but the recurring dizzy spells a result of the blow to the head, still made him feel disoriented and he was ordered to take it easy for some time to come, which undoubtedly meant the whole summer.
He got up from the sofa, struggling, as things were still swaying around him. Once he was sure-footed, he went into the kitchen to put the groceries he bought in the fridge and freezer. Then he threw together a quick meal for a late lunch: grilled sausage with lots of French mustard that would sting his palate nicely, two cherry tomatoes, a slice of brown bread, and a glass of Cabernet. It was the red of the house at 15 dollars a bottle at the Systembolaget in Norrtelje, a town halfway between Stockholm and Grisslehamn. He took the food, replayed the Phil Collins on the stereo, and sat at the white table in the large glassed-in veranda facing the inlet, looking out, his back to the room, just in case.
The clock read two-thirty in the afternoon. It was sunny and there was no wind, but there was still a chill in the air. It took some time for the warmth of spring to reach the outer archipelago, and it was seven more weeks until summer, which didn’t start until Midsummer, the third Friday in June. I’ve got all the time in the world to wait for summer, he thought, trying to look forward to morning dips and lazing about on the landing dock in the sunshine—alone.
When the weather was like this, he could see right over to Åland on the other side of the sound. Open sea. The thermometer on the sea side showed 57 degrees. You had to stay in the sun to stay warm.
After his meal, he felt much better. He laid down on the sofa, head facing toward the room. He liked what he saw. He was home again. The music was still playing as he dozed off.
Two songs to go.
CHAPTER 7
Modin woke up. He noticed the sun was in a different direction.
How long have I slept? Must be evening for sure. He leaned back in the corner sofa with his hands behind his head and stretched his neck. It was seven now, as he could see from the old ship’s clock on the wall. It was Walpurgis Night, the night the witches meet. People in Sweden celebrated with bonfires and fireworks, fried sausages on open fires, and a few draughts of clear, neat spirits as dictated by Swedish tradition. On Walpurgis Night, everyone had a good time.
Modin’s very first experience with alcohol had been right here in Grisslehamn. Only 15 at the time, some relative had given him a bottle of Kir. He remembered staggering about in the garden around the house, laughing like an idiot. A wonderful feeling, that virgin bout of drunkenness.
Now he was hungry. The Rock, the local restaurant by the harbor, offered food, drink and cozy companionship. The quickest way to get there was by water, and so he decided to see if the outboard motor of his wooden boat was still working; it had lain there by the jetty in all types of weather for the entire winter. Might as well let it be known that I’m out here now, Modin thought as he got up. It would be nice to see some people and hear what Joint, the owner of The Rock, had been doing over the winter. Ditto Kent E, if he was still working behind the bar. I have not celebrated anything for six months; It’s time to do so now.
He put on his newly washed, dark blue jeans, a mottled grey fisherman’s sweater with a polo neck, and a pair of black boots. Over this, he wore a navy blue anorak and a grey cap on his head; the evening could get chilly.
Well, well! The outboard motor roared as he was giving full throttle and the craft shot across the water. A half hour later, he moored by The Rock. He was the first to arrive by boat. His cheeks were flushed from the biting sea breeze; his cap had come in handy, but his hands were freezing. An eggnog will do the trick, he thought as he tied an extra knot in the mooring rope.
“Hi Modin, long time no see.” Kent E was standing behind the bar, drying glasses in rolled up sleeves as usual, exposing his sinewy arms. He was a 55-year-old aging hippie with a long history of working in classier joints in the big city, which explained his pleasantly aristocratic manner. “Can I get you anything?”
“Hello, Kent E. An Irish coffee would be nice.”
“Of course, baby. It will arrive like an orgasm—fast and furious.”
Anton Modin sat down on one of the bar stools, leaned on his elbow, and surveyed the scene. It was off season, and the restaurant looked deserted. But at least it was not chilly in here, as it often was in sea side bars at this time of year.
A low mumbling sound came from the TV behind the bar. The bar top was made of thick, polished mahogany. Pretty common interior design, if this had been a classy pub in central London, but here in Sweden, far out in the archipelago, it made a bold statement. It looked expensive. Joint had invested money here. The restaurant was his hobby now that he was approaching retirement. Only the best was good enough, and Modin liked that approach. A large fire was burning in the open fire place right at the center of the long wall of the restaurant, and the scent of burning wood filled the air. A delicious warmth spread through the room wafting over the rough-planked oak flooring. Modin felt comfortable.
“What’s today’s catch?” he asked, turning toward Kent E.
“Something you won’t regret,” Kent E said as he served him his Irish coffee. “Want to try some?”
“Sure, why not.”
Half an hour later, Modin received a large portion of cod with melted butter and potatoes. He ate at the bar and had a tall 22 oz. draft to drink with his meal. Kent E, who had left him alone for a while, turned up again.
“And under what rock have you been hiding over the winter, Modin? Ski trip?”
“I’ve been sailing between sheets and not in the way you think,” Modin answered.
“I know. I heard about your stay at the Söder Hospital. There was quite a write-up about the incident in the local paper. How do you feel now?”
“Pretty good. Dizzy spells now and again and a bump on the head. I suppose I’ll have to learn to live with it. Brain damage. But I’ve not gone soft in the head, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ll cope.”
“Do you know who did it? You know that Joint has good connections among bikers, who, on occasion, do more than ride around on
their fast two-wheeled toys,” Kent E said, a mix of admiration and trepidation for his boss’ questionable connections on his face, then turned to take an order from a young man with a huge moustache.
“Haven’t got a clue, actually. But I figure they were from a government department that doesn’t look kindly on the likes of Joint’s contacts, I’m afraid.”
Kent E keyed in a sum on the cash register, then shut the drawer. He had the habit of sometimes disappearing into whatever game was playing on the screen behind him. Modin smiled when he recognized the game: a replay of the local soccer derby at the Råsunda Stadium. Modin knew that his team would win. He had watched the game in the hospital.
We are going for the gold this season, he thought.
Holding what was left of his beer in his right hand and leaning again on the bar, Modin looked around the restaurant.. A subdued light came from the candles on the wooden tables. By now, a dozen or so people had turned up: various types. A local fisherman was on the way to a really good buzz, and a few youngsters hung around the jukebox. Right in the center of the room, two women sat leaning discreetly toward each other, talking and eating. No obvious danger from that side.
“Plans for the summer?” Kent E was done with TV for the moment.
“Don’t really know, but I get the feeling I’d like to have a word with Joint. I could use his assistance. My enemies are increasing in number by the day.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. I remember last summer. What a commotion. People say the Swedish Navy was facing off Russians out there in a sub. True?”
“Maybe. Felt like a minor war. Happy ending, though.”
“Do you still have your credit card, Modin? You know, that black AmEx Centurion One. You and your friends burnt up a few bucks here last summer. I think you won the award for the biggest bill. You nearly emptied Joint’s champagne store. Who’s going to pay for all that, Modin? Surely it ain’t coming out of your own pocket, is it?”
Enemy of the State (Anton Modin Book 2) Page 5
