“A dick measuring competition?” Bergman said.
“Yeah, so what?” Modin answered.
“It could be dangerous is what. You don’t know how well connected that guy is. In addition, he has a pretty sharp pen. What have you got to counter that?”
“Nothing Bill, absolutely nothing. That’s the reason no one can get to me. Back in the day, when I still had my family to care for and a career to advance, it was a different ball game. Nowadays I’m untouchable. I am not attached or committed to anyone or anything, so nobody and nothing can get to me. Besides, I have made the best of a horrendous situation.”
“You have Miss Mona, your cat.”
“Sure, there’s a weak spot. But the Russians have neither talent nor imagination enough to figure out how to attack a pet. They’re of a different breed, another caliber altogether,” Modin said as he got up to leave.
Bergman shook his head in disapproval as they exited through the gate, and headed for Modin’s truck.
In the line of parked cars on the other side of the road, they noticed a black Saab with two men in the front. The car had been there the entire time they were sitting on the patio.
CHAPTER 5
SPECIAL OPS HEADQUARTERS, STOCKHOLM, FRIDAY, JUNE 13
“Lundin, bring me Anton Modin’s personal file,” said Chris Loklinth, the superintendent for domestic affairs at the Department of Special Operations.
“Do we have it in the archive?”
“Yes, I believe it’s far to the right, behind the steel fire door and among the qualified classified documents. Here’s the key.”
The superintendent threw Lundin the key ring.
Captain Bob Lundin was 38 years old, blond, pale, well built, and in good physical shape. He had been recruited by Military Intelligence and had just started at the Department of Special Operations. He had a somewhat boyish aura around him, but his most distinctive characteristics included big Yoda-like ears attached to a good head and size eleven feet.
Bob Lundin was an analytical, ruthless, and cold individual without any trace of creativity—a perfect tool and executor. The term useful idiot came to mind. He was just cut out for the role as Chris Loklinth’s closest man. Bob Lundin dove into the archive, searched under the letter M, and retrieved Anton Modin’s personal file.
There are a significant amount of personal files in this archive, he thought as he exited the big musty room where so many of Sweden’s deep secrets were kept—secrets concerning the activities of the Department of Special Operations. The volume was all the more amazing given that only the most recent cases were stored there.
Bob Lundin had been promoted to work for the current superintendent because the late superintendent, Bertil Lundin, was his father. Curious by nature, Bob Lundin was looking forward to working in the Department of Special Operations, the most secret department in Military Intelligence.
The Department of Special Ops, DSO for short, was an immediate successor to IB, the Information Bureau—or Information Birger as it was also known after its former boss Birger Elmér, who had been a close friend of Prime Minister Olof Palme.
Everyone employed by the DSO had false identities. Bob Lundin was well aware of the fact that the DSO adhered to its own set of rules, often far outside the traditional legal system. They reported to an entity known as the National Security Council, which in turn reported directly to the Prime Minister and the Minister of Defense. Only a handful of people knew about these secret laws and reporting structures. The DSO was very much the fourth branch of government and had a tremendous amount of influence on all levels of administration, maybe even more than the political parties. At least that’s the way it went in terms of foreign relations and matters of national security, Lundin thought.
You didn’t mess with the DSO, even if you happened to be a member of parliament. All informal communication with foreign governments and foreign intelligence services were expedited through DSO channels. The unit was made up of former secret service operatives, military personnel, and qualified civilians with the right political allegiances. DSO’s relatively wide circle of influence was rooted in the fact that, like the KGB, their archives contained compromising and intimidating information—dirt—on a lot of politicians as well as anyone in a position of power or influential otherwise. Bob Lundin knew this from his late father and experienced a sense of strange satisfaction that now he had access to this unique knowledge base himself. His boss, the enigmatic Lieutenant Colonel Chris Loklinth was a Swedish J. Edgar Hoover.
“Who is this guy?” Lundin asked, balancing the paperwork in his left hand.
“Anton Modin, well,” Loklinth answered, as he seemed to be gathering his thoughts. “He is, pardon my French, a fucking annoyance. An annoyance we need to keep under close surveillance. According to our analysis group, he’s got something cooking. Now.”
Bob Lundin was watching his boss out of the corner of his eye. Chris Loklinth had a receding grey hairline, clear eyes, a bright complexion, and was about five feet nine inches tall and thin. He wore a freshly ironed white shirt and gray gabardine trousers with sharp creases. On his feet, he had a pair of older but well-kept black shoes with laces. He’d been married to the same woman for many years, and his two kids had left the nest. He was often bragging about them to Lundin, but none of them were following in their father’s footsteps in the intelligence community.
Chris Loklinth had become managing director of the Special Ops domestic section in 1982, succeeding the legendary Birger Elmér. The section of domestic affairs within the DSO was like a miniature FBI—a department busily eavesdropping and controlling its own citizens. This section within DSO had only a few permanent employees but almost unlimited powers to protect national security. Not many people in the country knew of its existence, and even fewer knew about its business.
Bob Lundin was, as one could expect, well up to speed on DSO history. In essence, that’s what he was—well up to speed and well informed.
“Okay, here is the file. Where do you want to start?”
Bob Lundin threw the folder, roughly an inch thick and made from canary fiberboard, onto Loklinth’s desk. It slid along the slick surface and skidded to a halt just before hitting his boss’s magnificent upper belly. Loklinth drew his fingertips lightly through his receding hairline and then gently opened the file with his right hand. He tilted backwards, leaning against the back of his seat.
He’s looking a little flabby, Lundin thought.
Putting on his reading glasses, Loklinth started reading the file from the very beginning. Following an almost invisible cue from his superior, Bob Lundin circled the desk, positioned himself behind Loklinth, and bent forward slightly so he could discreetly read over his shoulder.
The first page contained personal information along with an upper-half body photograph.
Anton Modin: Former Special Forces
D.O.B: 11/02/1965, Katarina Parish, Stockholm
Family: Deceased.
Parents: Deceased
Profession: Unemployed
Next of Kin: Bill Bergman
Other: Security risk, classification 4
The picture was stapled to the folder in two places, one in the forehead and the other in the chest. Lundin was looking at a man in his prime, wearing a commando green beret adorned with the golden Neptune trident, and a camouflage field uniform model m/59. The expression on Modin’s face in the picture is serious and utterly determined.
At the time the picture was taken, Modin must have been about twenty years old, with rye-colored blond hair peeking out from beneath the left edge of his beret. He seemed to have a strong muscular constitution, albeit a bit wiry. With clear blue eyes, a barely noticeable dimple in his right cheek, and a distinctive jawbone, he was good looking, almost handsome, Lundin thought as he was leaning forward.
According to the file, Modin was six-feet-three-inches tall and weighed 195 pounds.
“Start by combing through and memorizing his background
,” Loklinth said as he was turning toward Lundin. “My plan is to make you the head operative on this particular case, reporting straight to me, of course.”
Bob Lundin sat down in the chair adjacent to Loklinth’s desk and listened attentively, preparing himself for the fact that this could very well turn into a long story.
Loklinth put down his reading glasses and continued his story with one eye tentatively still in the file. He knew its content by heart.
“Anton Gustav Modin was born in Stockholm to immigrant parents from the Baltics. They arrived and were accepted as refugees during World War II. His father, Wilhelm Modin, eventually served his new country as an army interpreter and interrogation specialist within the Swedish Armed Forces Interpreter Academy. He spoke Russian fluently. According to records, he was a ruthless interrogator, tough but fair. Both parents were ultra-conservative, probably borderline Nazis, like many people of Baltic origin at that time.” Loklinth played with his glasses as he continued.
“Anton Modin started school one year early, at only five years old. His report card was mediocre, but for some reason, he excelled in physical education and English. He attended school in a working class section of Stockholm, and then later attended college at Ohio State University in Columbus, OH. Immediately following his year in the U.S., he fulfilled his mandatory military service at the Coastal Ranger Academy and was drafted into our section in the mid-eighties.”
“Beg your pardon?” Lundin said, eyes wide open. “He was one of us? Are you serious?” The fact that Modin at one point had been working for the DSO came as a complete surprise to Lundin.
“Yes, unfortunately,” Loklinth said, “we had to let him go.”
“So why did you recruit him in the first place?”
“Because he was the best. Or at least, he had the potential to be. Simply too good to pass up. You have to keep in mind that this was during the infancy years of our organization. Frankly speaking, he fit the bill. In hindsight, we should have been more careful.”
“How so?” Lundin asked.
“Well, let me put it this way,” Loklinth began. “He was impossible to control. A complete security risk, a breach waiting to happen. And he still is. Of course, we knew none of this back then.”
“Where is he today; what’s he up to?”
Clearly full of anticipation, Lundin was leaning forward, his hands firmly planted on his upper thighs. Loklinth put down Anton Modin’s personal file and looked deep into Lundin’s blue eyes. Lundin flinched.
“To start with, we paved his way into Special Ops as a diving specialist, and after that, he went to the Air Force Academy. Once there, he continued to be a pest. He pulled a low altitude stunt; he flew under the Öland Bridge, which is, as you know, as low as it can get. While ‘stubborn as hell’ doesn’t even start to describe him, maybe ‘headstrong lone wolf’ does. He follows his own instincts, regardless of the consequences.”
Loklinth scratched his scalp furiously and wiped some perspiration off his forehead with the back of his hand.
“A few wrinkles later, we finally transferred him over to the Sweden Air Shuttle, where he flew commercial commuter planes and carried out a few insignificant intelligence jobs for us. As of today, he is officially unemployed and supports himself with a shady liability insurance settlement, claiming his flying certificate was wrongfully revoked.”
Chris Loklinth paused for a moment to glance out his office window, which was very close to the military exercise yard of the distinguished Army Museum in Stockholm.
“We convinced his superiors at the airline that he wasn’t up to the task and recommended he’d be dismissed. This, of course, was aided by a female flight medical examiner under our control. She made sure Modin didn’t pass the medical exam and, as such, declared him unfit to fly. His certificate was revoked due to mental instability.”
Loklinth broke a soulless smile.
“Needless to say, Modin is now fucking pissed at us, despite the fact he could have had a worry-free retirement on that insurance policy.”
“Mental instability? What exactly does that mean?” Lundin inquired, wiggling in his seat.
“Paranoia and delusions. We were able to trace it back in his ancestry; it was pretty easy. After all, you can’t have a captain with mental issues flying for one of the country’s major airlines, right Lundin? As if that wasn’t enough, he is probably very conservative, possibly borderline fascist, and doesn’t give a damn about this country. He cannot get it through his thick skull that what we do here at Special Ops is for the best of Sweden, maybe the whole world. That ignorant effin’ bastard!”
For a few moments, Loklinth looked like he had lost his focus. He had only a few years to his retirement. The personal background checks and follow-ups he performed were taking a mental toll on him, and he had stayed in the firm too long already.
“Before I retire, Lundin, I will neutralize Modin. That’s a promise. I will turn him into a vegetable bound to stay in the ground.”
“That shouldn’t be too hard,” Lundin said, “considering our resources.”
“We’ll see.”
Loklinth enjoyed his untouchable position within Special Ops and the handsome compensation he received through an independent consulting firm in Stockholm. This company specialized in technical consulting, which was offered at different levels of the defense establishment, but it was also one of the many covers for Special Ops. The Department of Special Operations did not only enjoy grants from the defense budget, it was also financed through fake corporate setups like this.
“It takes money, a lot of money, to protect national security,” Loklinth said. “Expenses increase year after year, it’s insane. The number of secrets we need to protect are increasing exponentially. And that although the government has decided to cut back our budget.”
He slowly got out of his chair and approached the window. Lundin could see that he was gazing out over the vast exercise yard where ancient howitzers were lined up. A toddler was sitting on top of one, although it was strictly prohibited.
“I would like for you to neutralize Modin,” Loklinth said. “I want him neutralized to the extent that no one ever listens to him anymore, not even his closest ally and friend. Modin is a has-been; he’s out there in the cold. And that’s the way it should be going forward.”
Chris Loklinth had his back turned toward Lundin, arms locked in his back. Gray hair, receding hairline—Lundin sensed that he was just another old fart amongst many others. Many people regarded Loklinth’s prying eyes to be an asset, although to Lundin they appeared timid. In Loklinth’s file, because he had one, too, one could learn that a ruthless borderline psychopath was hiding behind the even-keeled and harmless surface. He had the perfect profile for this line of work. And Lundin knew for a fact that Loklinth himself had made sure it was documented that way.
“What do people know about me?” Loklinth asked, as if he was thinking out loud. “Nothing, nobody even remotely knows what I do, not even my wife. I save this bloody country!”
Lundin knew that Loklinth officially sympathized with the ruling conservatives, but at this moment, he realized that he could just as well have been a communist or an environmentalist. It didn’t matter, as long as he got to be on the winning team. Such was his personal profile.
“Please study the most important parts of Modin’s background,” Loklinth said. “You have to know this man inside and out.”
“There is way too much white noise in here,” Bob Lundin said while browsing through Modin’s personal file. “Why haven’t we already bought him? That would be our standard operating procedures?”
“Anton Modin is not for sale. Learn that! He is a dogged idealist. He has his own beliefs and marches to his own beat, thinking that he’s monopolizing a higher-value integrity. The long and the short of it is that he is a stubborn idiot.”
Short of breath, Loklinth walked up to the giant painting of Charles XIII, the great Swedish warrior king, sitting in a chair. Th
e painting was slightly crooked and so he corrected it.
Their office was in an old building in the heart of Östermalm on Riddargatan Street, right next to the Army Museum in Stockholm City. The high ceilings and beautiful hardwood floors made from wide pine trees bore witness to a time when it was a grand apartment. There were seven rooms, all painted in discrete white and filled with surplus office furniture as a result of the department’s recent relocations.
The DSO employed ten people. Two of them were female administrators with special security clearances. The rest were men—two analysts and six special operatives, among them Loklinth and Lundin.
“He has a complicated personal profile.”
“How’s that?” Lundin said.
“He just can’t be bought. Not for money, bribes, or career opportunities. He’s like one of those effin’ movie heroes riding off into the sunset, the ones who aren’t for real.”
Loklinth’s attention went back to the Charles XIII painting.
“The frame has got to be crooked,” he murmured and corrected it once again. Clearly annoyed, he paced the room.
Bob Lundin was listening, careful not to interrupt. Lundin wanted to make a good impression and asking the wrong question was never the way to go. Especially since his boss had spent most of his career within the intelligence service. He couldn’t help but notice that Anton Modin seemed to be his boss’s nemesis.
“He downed that American SR-71 Blackbird for us, although with some help,” said Loklinth. “Modin and one of our radar surveillance operatives on duty that day were tag teaming. Modin locked on and shot down that American signal surveillance bird with a radar guided missile in a simulated attack. We recorded everything. Speak of an American fiasco. They were under the impression that due to its speed and altitude, their SR-71 was beyond any conventional measures, impossible to counter. Just as they had thought twenty-five years prior with the U2 over Siberia.”
Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1) Page 4
