As a former minister of state, Anker Turner had been one of the most powerful men in Sweden during the Cold War, but not one of the smartest, Glock thought as he pretended to be adjusting his clothing to give Turner time to catch his breath. A lot of people harbored this opinion about Turner, at least in the inner circle, those who knew what was going on behind the scenes. But Turner’s wider network of contacts stretched far beyond the borders of Sweden.
Glock had been selling arms for as long as he could remember. He became stinking rich during the 1970s, mostly by way of arm deals with Iran. In the 1980s, things got a bit tighter, but he managed to do well with assistance from East Germany and other Soviet block countries. Now, in his golden years, he was a wealthy and independent member of the Stockholm establishment. He had several luxury apartments and even a residence in Switzerland, where he spent most winters. In other words, hard work and a lot of luck had made him a success. But nothing was free, and he knew it.
It was a beautiful morning in the capital. The glittering waters of the Nybroviken Bay stretched out before the two older gentlemen. Anders Glock noticed the sun sparkling on the surface of the water and lighting up the facade of the Royal Dramatic Theater. A thin mist floated down the length of Strandvägen. They were on their way to the Bååts Palace, the seat of the Freemasons. The most senior members like Glock and Turner would not have to take the main entrance but enter through a own more discreet door at the back of the building instead.
In the distance, the drums and trumpets of the traditional Labor Day parade filled the air with a cacophony of sound.
Doesn’t sound too threatening, Glock thought. It was worse back in the 1970s. In those days, May Day could be hellish. People used to burn American flags and display illegible and unintelligible signs with anti-American slogans. It’s better now. Less resistance.
Glock gestured with his head and Turner nodded.
I could do with a cup of coffee and a brandy, Glock thought as he walked toward the entrance on the Nybrokajen Pier. Just a few steps more. He felt exhausted after a night not spent in his own bed. Turner presumably felt the same. He sighed every time cars or cyclists got in their way.
It had been a long night down in the S-Bar underneath Skandia House. After a lively discussion, the group of men split into two factions, one for and one against Anton Modin. Loklinth and, to a certain extent, General Synnerman, encouraged a softer and more conciliatory line, whilst Glock himself and Anker Turner argued for a tough and hard approach. They pointed out that the soft strategy had not worked before. There was no room for emotions when national security was at stake. And in the case of Olof Palme’ s murder, it was.
Loklinth, who had the ultimate responsibility, remained neutral. The loss of part of his finger was a constant reminder of the risks involved in this business. Although Loklinth claimed he lost his finger in an accident, Glock knew that Modin’s commandoes had chopped off the upper tip of Loklinth’s little finger the previous summer in the woods just outside Stockholm. Loklinth still had nightmares about it. Bob Lundin, Loklinth’s right hand man, had said as much to Glock.
Glock held open the heavy oak door for his older friend as they entered Bååth Palace through the back entrance. Glock was adamantly opposed to advertising his arrival. He made sure they took the back stairs up to the Carl XIII Lodge, the Black Lodge, which was reserved for the inner circle of the Freemasons’ hierarchy. A strong smell of wood and leather permeated the air. The room was empty except two other gray-haired men sitting in two of the leather armchairs that filled the spacious room. A slight nod of the head as a greeting from the distance, then each pair of grey-haired men proceeded to ignore the other. Portraits of kings hung along the eastern wall, their crests on the opposite wall. The floor of the lodge was covered in checkered black and white tiles, symbolizing truth and justice. Above the door hung a yellow wooden sign with the words Avdi Vide Tace: Hear all, see all, say nothing.
Glock and Turner sat down by the wall looking out over the Nybroviken Bay.
“I think you were right yesterday in the S-Bar, Anker,” Glock spoke carefully. “I thought you ought to know. You have to stand up for your ideals.”
Turner was glancing at the bottle of brandy on the table. Almost a reflex, he reached for it immediately and poured out two large cognacs into the snifters.
“I see,” Turner said, taking a good sip, enjoying the liquid that warmed his throat, tingling pleasantly. “We might have to do something about it, Anders. Learn our lessons.”
Turner swirled his drink around his glass, tilted his head against the headrest of the recliner, and stared up at the ceiling as if to detect a crack or flaw. He liked being here in the palace, so it seemed.
“You feel safe in here,” he continued when Glock remained silent. “Safer than out there in the city, among immigrants, gays, and other criminals. What the fuck happened to Sweden?” He closed his eyes. “Avdi Vide Tace might be necessary to set things right. What do you think we should do, Glock?”
Glock put down his brandy on the wooden surface, folded his hands with care, and then leaned closer, so Turner could hear his soft reply.
“I suggest the following…”
CHAPTER 18
BLACK ISLAND, FRIDAY, MAY 1
When Julia and Modin stepped outside, the evening sun shone in their faces. A sight for angels. The air was crisp. Seagulls were hovering in the sky over a clear blue sea. Modin liked the cliffs. He had a good view of the sunset from his own house, but seeing the sun go down here, with all the water in front of him, was something special. He inhaled deeply and stretched his back. He glanced at Julia, who was standing in front of him, silhouetted against the light. The sun was shining through her dark hair, making it look golden as it twirled in the faint breeze. She looked happy and childishly frisky when their eyes met. They wanted to tell each other things, remember days gone by. He could understand that she wished herself back to her younger days. Who wouldn’t? No responsibilities. Exciting intelligence work. He himself felt like that on occasion.
Working under cover in Sweden had had its attractions at first. Learning about things that no one else knew and being there at significant moments—that sparked an adrenalin rush, came with a feeling of power, and at times, was a crazy ride. But in the end, your conscience would question the justification for your actions. Secrecy, silence, and far too much knowledge about far too questionable things—all this could wear you down over time. You couldn’t talk to anybody, had no one but your immediate supervisor to share things with. But that supervisor could throw you under the bus in three seconds flat if national security was at stake. Everyone knew that. Everyone was a mere commodity.
Modin and Julia did not move. They had all the time in the world.
“What do you think of my little universe? Not bad, eh?” Julia asked as she wiped the paint off her hand with a kerosene rag. “My favorite spot of all, here on the island, is down where you moor the boats. There’s a sauna in the little cabin down there.”
She pointed at the smallest building on the island. It was about fifteen by fifteen feet and stood where the cliff stuck out. Part of the building was serving as storage space. The old sauna had its own entrance and a fine view to the northwest. You could either jump straight into the water when leaving the sauna, or climb down a metal ladder and have a dip there. It was twenty feet down to the surface of the sea.
Julia went to the edge and looked down.
“The water’s already some 45 feet deep right here and gets vastly deeper just a little further out,” she said. “I’ve got diving equipment in the shed if you want to see for yourself.”
“Perfect environment for Russian subs,” said Modin, and looked worried for a moment. “What a hiding place! Stop here underwater and wait for World War III to start.”
Modin suddenly realized that he was getting a little too spontaneous and held back. He liked Julia’s company, but could he trust her? Could he trust her with his theories about the
murder of Olof Palme? He was certain that the official investigation had been manipulated. After all, officially Olof Palme’s murder remained unsolved, yet the file he saw was closed, and claimed that Action Team Crack of Dawn had its fingers in the assassination. Did Ebbe Carlsson and Hans Holmér, who lived and worked together, mostly as secret plumbers for the Social Democratic Party, manipulate the case on their own accord, or did they act on behalf of the government? He knew he had stumbled on something big—bigger than Soviet mini subs and a few hibernating spies. He couldn’t explain the feeling to himself, but it was powerful and convincing. Real. He recognized it. Here, among all the loose ends, lay the solution to the murder.
He wanted to trust Julia, share his suspicions with her, get her input. He was sure she’d have valuable insights, perhaps even valuable information. He just wasn’t sure she’d share it with him.
“What kind of diving equipment do you have, Julia?”
“I’ve got two good standard diving sets with vests and a single tank—ten liters, 300 bars—and a wetsuit. You want to go diving now? The water will be cold.”
“Nah, today seems too early,” said Modin smiling “It’s good to know what you keep in your shed though. Never know when you may need it.”
“Are you even allowed to dive by the way? With your injury, I mean.”
Julia seemed worried. Modin liked the fact that he seemed to be causing the crease between her eyebrows.
“Not according to my physician,” he said. “Luckily, he does not have any veto rights. If I want to go diving, I will, even when things keep spinning in my head.”
“Oh, just knock it off. You’re just being silly. I can recognize the Anton from our childhood now. A stubborn, overachieving bastard. Admit it. Your dad’s fault, was it?”
“So what?” said Modin. How did she know about his ambivalent relationship to his father? Julia seemed to have uncanny insights into his psyche. His dad had a good heart and they hung out together when he was a kid, especially in the summer. They’d go fishing from the cliffs at Grisslehamn, catch some perch the size of slippers, and the occasional eel. He had been diving off the cliffs on the Sea of Åland since the age of six. He’d been swimming underwater and picked up pebbles and seaweed even before he could swim properly. He’d loved the underwater. But as Anton grew older, his father put even greater demands on him. He thought Anton was too lazy. He wanted him to excel at school so he could become an academic like the rest of the Modin clan. But Anton did not manage to live up to this father’s expectations; he wanted to find his own path instead. Their relationship progressively went south, and when Anton’s father suddenly died of a heart attack, Anton lost his point of reference and any confirmation that he was worth anything.
Modin had just turned twelve when his father died. He mourned him for a long time during his schooldays, on the soccer field, in his musical efforts. He started a rock band, and read adventure novels. He wanted to show him what he was capable of, tell him about his successes, prove that he was good enough, but it was Chris Loklinth at Military Intelligence, who responded to these efforts and became his surrogate father. He was 18 at the time, and had been kicked out of the military academy. Loklinth recruited him right out of school only a short time after he’d left the Swedish Navy SEALs. Loklinth made him into a Black Ops operative in his department.
Modin turned around with a laugh. He brushed away the melancholy thoughts about his father, took a few steps toward the large building some fifty yards away, and leaped from boulder to boulder like a little boy, without any regard to what she thought. Julia’s words did not feel like poison darts that he wished to shrug off. Talking to her felt intimate and natural. One day with Julia was too little. He had no intention of paddling home just yet. He wanted to stay.
The sun was setting over the mainland to the west. The sky was bright red and the wind had died down. A few seagulls were hovering about thirty feet up, hanging on the breeze.
Julia went to get a charcoal grill and put it in the small wooden arbor outside, facing west. She was going to grill some salmon cutlets, planning to make lime sauce with the fish. Would that tickle the gentleman’s pallet, she asked with eyebrows raised.
He nodded. She suggested he help her set the table, and so he joined her in the kitchen, opening cabinets and drawers at random. She didn’t seem to mind. He found two fleece blankets in the house and laid them over the teak chairs outside. He lit two candles he had found and switched on the ancient transistor radio in the kitchen. He turned the dial to a radio station broadcasting from nearby Åland. They were playing the Hooters’ “All You Zombies.” Modin turned up the volume.
“Ah, the Hooters, how nice,” said Julia when she emerged from the house with a tray of food. “I thought that radio could only do weather forecasts. I usually have it tuned to Channel One.”
“Julia, my friend, you must learn to relax and kick back once in a while. Sometimes your soul needs a little nourishment. I bet you didn’t even listen to the Guns ‘N Roses music when you were mixing for them, right? Too focused. Simply turned up the sound to the optimum setting.”
He sat down at the small table while Julia fixed the salmon cutlets on the grill. There was a hissing sound and a cloud of smoke.
“You could be right, even though it’s hard to admit it,” said Julia, joining him at the table and meeting his gaze. “I need to recover for a while. I know that. That’s one of the reasons I moved here. Alone.”
“One of the reasons?” said Modin and hoped he wasn’t being too pushy.
“There was one more important reason.”
Julia was rubbing her hands against her jeans a little bit too long, Modin noticed. She didn’t look comfortable.
“I see,” he said and poured the red wine, a wine-in-a-box brand, which Julia had just produced from out of nowhere. “It’s your brother?”
“I touched on it yesterday. Yes, it’s Christer, my brother. I have to get away from him. He won’t leave me alone. When I’m out here, he rarely visits.”
Julia picked up her glass, pulled up her knees under the blanket, and leaned back as she smoothed her short hair with her hand. She suddenly looks small and vulnerable, Modin thought. And the image of an abandoned baby bird came to him again. She had mentioned her brother when they were both getting wasted at The Rock.
“Get away from him? What does that mean?”
The pleasant aroma of frying fish washed over them. Julia didn’t give an inch. Modin got up from his seat and flipped the salmon slices. The fat sizzled and she flinched instinctively.
“He’s a control freak. He looks after me,” she said in an almost inaudible whisper.
“Looks after you? You don’t really seem to need any looking after.”
Modin got depressed just thinking about Christer Steerback. “You don’t need his help,” he said, choosing to interpret what Julia had said literally. “You’re a big girl now. I remember he always ordered you around when we were young.”
The salmon smelled good. A seagull landed on the ridge of the house, way too close. He likes salmon, Modin thought, or maybe he just likes the Hooters’ song. Nothing wrong with that. The almost furry feathers and the round peppercorn eyes watching him made him long for Miss Mona.
“I remember your brother as an oddball,” Modin continued. “That’s why I didn’t want him in our gang. He no doubt hates me for that even today. We used to call him Crazy Christer. He always wanted to be the center of attention. Even demanded it, but no one paid any attention to him. That made things worse. He liked killing frogs. He was narcissistic. You just couldn’t take him anywhere. At least we didn’t want to put up with his behavior. A shame, really, considering how small our group of young people were. But he just remained on the outside of everything.”
“Christer and I are of the same flesh and blood. Don’t forget that,” Julia said and let the conversation continue.
“That doesn’t give him any right to make you miserable; does it?”
“None of this sounds right, Julia. If you want him to lay off, you should do something about it. What’s Christer doing nowadays? Professionally, I mean.”
“I told you last night. He’s at Defence Materiel Administration; he works in security, I think. Don’t know for sure. He guards the company against industrial espionage, that kind of thing.”
Modin poured more wine from the little plastic tap on the box. The wine was decent, but wine-in-a-box wasn’t really his thing. Too Joe Schmoe for his liking. He decided not to ask more about her brother. Modin didn’t want to spoil the amazing evening on the island.
“What about your family, Anton,” Julia asked. “I don’t think I know much about you at all.” She smiled again.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Modin said, realizing that he didn’t know much about her either. Was it possible that two people who had known each other for so long remained virtual strangers, yet still felt so comfortable with each other?
“Tell me about your family,” Julia asked gently.
“They perished on the Estonia over a decade ago. I miss them a hell of a lot, but life goes on. It has to. It’s been a long time.”
He stopped eating and sat back in his chair. What he had just said wasn’t enough. He could see that from the expression on her face. He didn’t really want to talk about his family, but he wasn’t falling back into the abyss that opened up every time the subject of Monica and the children came up.
“I’ve been in mourning for years. Sometimes I feel I’ll never stop.”
“I’m all ears, Modin. You can trust me.”
Enemy of the State (Anton Modin Book 2) Page 10
