“I can make you some hot dogs with mashed potatoes from powder. Okay?” She went to the kitchen.
“That’ll be fine,” Christer said. He followed Julia into the kitchen. “What’s up, sis? What’s eating you?”
He grabbed her butt and squeezed hard.
“Stop it, Christer,” Julia said and looked into his misty, gray eyes. “Stop it, I said!”
Christer laughed out loud, walked around her, and blocked her way by leaning his right arm on the door frame.
“You like it, don’t you? Always have. Admit it. You like me grabbing you, or sticking it into your wet little mouth, you horny slut,” he whispered in her ear. “Admit it, or I’ll smack you.”
Julia was scared but said nothing. Her brother smelled bad. Sweat mixed with urine.
Christer Steerback laughed again. “Just kidding, don’t you appreciate a little messing around any more, little sister of mine? I did say I was joking!” He tapped her lightly on the head and went out into the living room. His eyes had grown dark and glazed.
They ate in silence. Christer was the first to break it.
“Julia, you do realize that we’re doing this for all of us. Doing it for the good of Sweden is doing it for the good of all Swedes. Your family, our family, sitting here around the table has something in common, and you know it. Stop being so weird.”
“I’m not being weird. It’s just that I would prefer you finished up and got the hell out of here. I don’t want to know anything about your mission. That’s all there is to it.”
Julia had no idea what they were up to. But she did know that this gang was capable of anything—burglary, illegal bugging, violence, perhaps even murder. She knew they didn’t care if the law was on their side, for anything goes in the name of national security, as Christer had so eloquently put it.
“You may think it strange that we’re still in business. Well, that’s how it is. We are defending history. Everyone in this damn Social Democratic country should be glad we’re still at it. Social Democrats, queers, and immigrants, fucking hell, Julia.” Julia saw him looking around at his buddies. They were all in their fifties.
“Cheers, friends. Here’s to Sweden. The land full of cowardly cunts and traitors. Cheers, brothers.”
They knocked them back in one swoop, and put the glasses back on the table. Christer stood up, went over to the window, and began to hum the Swedish national anthem, “You Ancient, You Free…” as he looked across the water toward Modin’s cottage.
CHAPTER 29
GRISSLEHAMN, MONDAY, MAY 4, 10 P.M.
It was a starry night. Modin and his friends were having a good time in the main house. Their shadows played on the waters of the inlet as they moved around inside. The wood in the open fireplace crackled. Modin had been generous with the brandy. The four friends had lots to talk about and were relaxed in one another’s company. Bergman’s jokes improved the atmosphere yet further. He was the joker in the deck and good at socializing, despite the fact that he was not keen on their current adventure. Nuder was shy by nature, and had never quite made a dent with women. Axman was always quiet in these situations; he would weigh his words and reply only when spoken to.
The conversation had moved on to economics. Axman barely listened. He was fairly well off and never thought much about money. His parents had given him financial independence. He preferred not to reveal this to anyone, and so his friends were blissfully unaware of this; Axman was stinking rich already and would become even richer one day.
Max was asleep in the sea cottage. It was Urban’s watch. There were two duty shifts. Usually four men, two each shift, would stand guard, but this was special and Filipson had not wanted to involve more men. He had promised them double overtime.
It was almost pitch black outside. No moon. The stars glimmered faintly in the sky. The house, the sea cottage, and the pier were brightly lit, as were the paths and tracks all around. But everything beyond was hidden in darkness.
It was impossible to secure this perimeter to the extent necessary, Urban thought as he was walking around the grounds to familiarize himself with the terrain. There should be more of us, he thought. The plot of land surrounding the house is simply too small. The distance to the shelter of the woods is too short. And someone could easily hide in the reeds on the sea side. This would be no place for the Prime Minister to spend his summers. No way.
Urban decided to make the best of a bad situation. He went on a round that included most of the surrounding land and the sea side. First, he paced the pier and lit up the water and pontoon with his flashlight. Then he walked along the edge of the woods to check the potential approaches on the land side, then along the edge of the reed beds that ran along the northern side of the inlet near the house.
Urban’s cell phone rang. It was his son.
“Hi Albin, how are things? School been okay today? Good. You did your homework, already? Sure?”
His son’s thin voice floated out into the night. As the boy was speaking, Urban imagined him in his pajamas. After the usual chitchat, he exchanged a few words with his wife, then ended the call and powered off the cell phone again. It should really only be used for work or in case of emergency. The specially designed cell phone had a panic button. A red button that would automatically call his team. In this instance, it would call Max and the duty officer at Security Service Headquarters.
Urban had left one of those cell phones on the table in the main house and informed Modin. The ring tone was a Glenn Miller tune. He couldn’t remember the name of it.
He looked in through the windows of the main house as he passed. They seemed to be having fun. The fire was roaring and he could hear laughter.
It bothered him that they needed bodyguard protection. Why did these guys, who were way past their prime, need some of the best bodyguards in the country. They weren’t politicians or celebrities. National security, as Filipson had put it. That could mean anything. He wasn’t paid to ask questions; the facts would emerge eventually. But then again, he thought, we should have been briefed better on this whole assignment.
A seabird flapped out of the reeds and startled Urban. He stopped and stood motionless. He held his breath to hear better. The flapping of the seabird in the distance, the rush of the sea. Then silence.
A quiet night for sure, but not quiet enough. He would have much preferred if there had been no wind at all. That way it would be impossible to sneak up to the house.
He did another round, then went into the sea cottage to change shifts with Max.
Max wasn’t completely awake yet. He had slept soundly and was just putting a pinch of snuff inside his upper lip in true Swedish fashion to make him more alert.
The clock said midnight. He had a two-hour shift ahead and he was shivering. He drank some coffee, warmed his hands on the coffee mug, and went out into the night.
“I’ll be okay,” he lied to Urban. “You get some sleep.”
A seabird took off. Max ignored it. He was tired. The previous night he had managed to get through a pretty tough spell at the gym, then off to the bar with a buddy of his. He had recently started going to ordinary bars again. Probably because it was spring, the time of hope and desire, and he missed having a partner.
He pulled up the zipper of his navy blue wind breaker and began the first round of his watch. He glanced over both shoulders, just to make sure. He felt as if he were standing on stage, in the spotlight, unable to see his audience.
The attack was sudden. A gloved hand that smelled of rubber was Max’s fate. Death came swiftly. Horribly final: cold steel, a glint, pain. Max’s throat was slit from ear to ear. A perfect cut. First, a fine spurt of blood, then it pulsated out over his sleeve. The attacker wiped off his steel bayonet on his pants and returned it to its sheath on his thigh.
Two men carried Max’s corpse to the edge of the beach and pushed it into the water. The head bobbed a few times, almost as if it was coming away from the body. Then the body glided away from the shore
, peacefully lying on its back.
The four men merged into a black mass. They turned and made their way toward the windows of the main house. Using hand signals, they now split up, each going their own way, back into the night.
• • •
“Those are crap questions. Who knows this shit?” Bergman said as he got up. “No, I’ve had enough.”
They were playing Trivial Pursuit. Bergman had the lowest score, as usual. This time he’d hoped to beat Nuder, thinking that it couldn’t be that hard to beat a farmer, but he still ended up with the lowest score.
“I’m going to bed,” he said heading for the bathroom on the ground floor.
The others continued playing.
• • •
Two men hunkered down at the edge of the reed bed. Next to them were four kayaks pulled up onto the shore and half hidden in last year’s yellowed scrub. Two other men approached the sea cottage from the water’s edge. They moved slowly, one step every ten seconds. They could almost be mistaken for trees or bushes at a glance. Their faces were covered in camouflage paint. They carried knives and revolvers. Their automatics and the ten hand grenades were still strapped to the kayaks.
• • •
Inside the cottage, Urban had undressed. He needed to take a leak and was looking forward to a nice deep sleep for the couple of hours until his next shift.
He opened the door wearing only a pair of black leather clogs and his white underwear. He listened for Max. He couldn’t see him anywhere.
He’s out on his rounds, he thought, as he peed on a small juniper bush.
He saw faint shadows moving along the rocks, lit up by the lights of the sea cottage and he could hear a faint murmur from the sea as the waves hit the rocks. In the corner of his right eye, as if in a dream, still peeing, he saw two dark men moving toward him.
He jumped out of his clogs. With the urine still splashing against his legs he threw himself backwards into the sea cottage. He snatched up his weapon in its holster from the kitchen table, checked the magazine in place, focused his eyes and pointed his gun at the door. When the first black clad man stormed in through the door with a roar, he fired. Bulls-eye into the man’s right eye. The intruder didn’t try to break his fall. He was already dead when he hit the floor. Blood splashed onto Urban’s shins. The smoke from the shot dispersed into the small space, and for a split second, time slowed down.
Urban got up, pushed the red panic button on his cell phone and went to the door. He stuck his weapon out through the doorway. Carefully he peeked around the corner toward the pier. There was no one there.
He suspended his breathing as much as possible. His arms were as tensed up as violin strings. Still barefoot, he stepped out and onto the damp, cold rock, cautiously looking to the left toward the edge of the woods. All was still. He felt a slight breeze passing through the bushes. He tried to see into the darkness.
Was anyone there?
He felt a stinging pain in the skin of his throat, a burning sensation in his windpipe. He gripped his neck as a reflex action. The blood was thick and warm. The weapon cold and hard. He still had time to think: This is a deep fucking cut!
• • •
Christer Steerback had cast his bayonet with unerring precision. He had hit Urban, father of two, in his carotid artery.
Urban fell forward hitting his head hard on a rock. A cracking sound. He groaned as he lay helplessly on the rocks. Christer went up to him and pushed the bayonet through his neck. It went in slowly, creating a loud, creaking sound. Like breaking the neck of a perch, Christer thought as the bayonet sank in.
He looked at his work. That was his weakness—the need to admire his achievements. He was aware of this, but allowed it anyway. He was breathing through his nose with excitement. That wasn’t good.
More control, please!
His pulse slackened. He regained his hearing. “In the Mood” by Glenn Miller crooned to him. He thought he was dreaming. But it was a cell phone playing from inside the main house, and simultaneously an alarm signal went off in the sea cottage, in chorus with the Glenn Miller. It had an irritating high pitch beep-beep-beep sound.
“Hell, an alarm!” He looked into the sea cottage but only saw the blackish red hole in his colleague’s head where his eye should have been. He turned and ran down into the reeds of the inlet.
“We’ve got to get out of here, they will see us, we have to abort,” he whispered in an agitated voice. “Quick as fuck. Carol’s bought it.”
CHAPTER 30
GRISSLEHAMN, TUESDAY, MAY 5, 1 A.M.
They heard a shot.
“In the Mood” started playing. Anton Modin looked at the telephone. What the hell, he thought. He got up and looked at the rest of them. Nuder and Axman had questioning looks on their faces.
The Security Service phone!
“Alarm, it must be an alarm! Where are the bodyguards?”
John Axman leapt to his feet and ran round the room, turning off all the lights. “There’s someone out there,” he said. “That was a shot.”
He crept to the porch and looked out cautiously. He looked over to the pier, then at the sea cottage.
No sound to be heard. No one to be seen. Not a movement to be detected.
Five minutes later, they went outside, with Harry Nuder in the lead.
“I should have brought my rifle,” he whispered. “Something’s gone horribly wrong here.” They noticed that the door of the sea cottage was wide open and the lights were on. Nuder signaled for them to stop when they reached the corner of the sea cottage. Nuder moved on ahead while the other three stood there, listening intensely.
“Where are Max and Urban?” Modin whispered. He was the last of the line.
Modin feared the worst—that the bodyguards had been disarmed. The silence did not bode well. He felt his legs trembling as they carefully moved toward the sea cottage. They rounded the corner and looked inside. Nuder raised his index finger. Modin could see something on the floor. A man in military outfit, lying on his back in a pool of blood. His face had an empty eye socket. He now stood just a few yards behind Nuder.
“Fuck!” Nuder turned round. His eyes were spread wide.
“Look!”
Urban, was naked but his underpants and had a large wound in his neck. He was lying face down. Axman searched for sign of a pulse.
“Forget it,” Modin said. “I know a dead body when I see one. And this is a stiff.”
“God Almighty,” Nuder said. “What a bloodbath. What happened? What type of military outfit is this? Modin, you got some explaining to do,” he said with visible irritation.
Axman said nothing, took his fingers off Urban’s neck and raised them warily. His face was white as a sheet.
“Back to the house,” Modin said. “They might still be here.”
• • •
The alarm had not reached Security Service headquarters as it usually did, because Göran Filipson had disconnected it. Modin called him on the landline and told him about the attack.
In response, Filipson did not call the Security Service. Instead, he called Chris Loklinth at Special Ops at an unlisted number.
This is a very special case that needs very special treatment, Filipson thought. He asked Loklinth to send an investigative team out to Grisslehamn and to be present when they arrived. Several people were dead.
They arranged to meet outside the supermarket in Grisslehamn within two hours.
This is Special Ops’ baby, Filipson thought, as he replaced the receiver. He contemplated his pending retirement as he got dressed. He put on dark blue overalls without any insignia or stripes, black rubber boots, and a black baseball cap. He went down to the garage and started his Volvo.
Two hours later, two cars pulled into the parking space outside Modin’s place, headlights blazing. They stopped short right near the house.
It was three-thirty in the morning and still dark.
Filipson climbed out of his car at the same time as thr
ee men from military intelligence climbed out of a black Dodge van. Chris Loklinth exited first, followed by two of his immediate subordinates, Bob Lundin and J-O Grahn, 39 and 45 years old, respectively. Both had been doing secret assignments for national security for years. Grahn had a black plastic suitcase with him.
They saw a group of people on the pier. J-O Grahn and Bob Lundin put on rubber gloves as they walked to the scene of the crime. The men passed the lit-up sea cottage with long strides.
Bergman was sitting in a deck chair, his head in his hands. Nuder and Axman stood together, while Modin was wringing out his soaked pants. In front of them on the pier, lit by a lamp, lay another dead man. His head was barely hanging on to the neck. The eyes were open and staring. The body was soaking wet.
“We saw him bobbing in the reeds,” Modin said in a hoarse voice. “I had to go into the water to pull him out. His name is Max. There are two more dead bodies up by the sea cottage.”
Modin greeted Filipson but avoided doing so with Loklinth.
“Hi, Anton,” Loklinth said in a fatherly voice. “Got quite a mess on your hands, don’t you?”
Modin ignored Loklinth and his two assistants. “What the fuck is he doing here?” he whispered in Filipson’s ear.
“We’re taking over from this point on,” Bob Lundin said in an authoritative voice. “It’s a matter of national security. You are now under a vow of confidentiality.” Captain Bob Lundin had only been at Special Ops for a little over a year. Before that, he had been at MUST, the main office of the Swedish military intelligence. He had a smooth complexion and would have had a pleasant boyish demeanor, if it wasn’t for something indicating that he was a tough guy underneath. He looked rather like the Nazi in the movie The Eagle Has Landed, with somewhat protruding ears and longish feet. Apart from that, he could have been mistaken for a robot. He spoke formally and with no hesitation. “If you have any questions, you can call this number. It’ll put you in touch with a lawyer.” He gave Modin a business card. “We’re going to clear up the mess. Now. Therefore I would like you to leave the immediate vicinity. If you please.”
Enemy of the State (Anton Modin Book 2) Page 15
