“How is that possible?” Modin asked, realizing that Filipson was giving him information that could prove vital for the success of the dive.
“I have no idea, but apparently it is very effective,” Filipson said. “The probability of locating anything within its range decreases by some 90 percent. Any sonar image becomes distorted to the point where it is impossible to distinguish a wreck or any other object from a regular bottom echo.”
“Is it true that we apprehended one of the crew members?” Modin interrupted.
“We’re apparently out of coffee,” Filipson said, while getting up from his chair.
Modin could take a hint: Time to go, don’t push your luck. He switched subjects as they walked toward the exit.
“Any theory as to who could have placed this jamming device out there?”
“GRU most likely. We have reason to believe that neither Special Ops nor the Russians know the exact location of the mini sub. Such a small vessel is very hard to locate, I’ve heard.”
“Amen to that,” Anton Modin said. “What happens if we find this submarine?”
“All hell is going to break loose, of course. Beware of the military branch of Special Ops. They will do everything within their power to stop you.”
“Yes, I think we have already experienced some of that. Could you please do me a favor and give us a heads-up when the heat is on? I mean, when it’s really about to be turned up?”
“I will do my best,” Filipson said. “But in return, please try to handle this discreetly. Make sure Special Ops doesn’t lose face.”
“Lose face?”
Göran Filipson entered a security code and led them both through a thick steel door.
“An executive order from Moscow is hidden somewhere in the Special Ops archives, stating that the submarine is to remain where it is,” he warned. “If, on top of that, it is outside Swedish territorial waters, we cannot touch it according to all international treaties. In that case, the submarine is formally Russian territory.”
“What’s your interest in all of this?”
“Same old, same old. If you find it, I want to know before you go public with it, okay?”
“Agreed. So if I understand this correctly, we have the unofficial backing of the Security Service in all of this?”
Modin went through yet another door, this one even thicker than the first. The intense early spring sun was blinding as they were standing outside the glass doors. Modin looked up and down the row of parked cars on Polhemsgatan.
“Well, a lot can happen along the way,” Filipson said. “I can’t issue any guarantees.”
“I need access to Olof Palme’s personal file,” Modin said.
“How so?” Filipson asked.
“I need to verify rumors about a possible insider job regarding the submarine incidents in the 1980s.”
“I’ll see what I can do, but it won’t be easy. His file is not in the regular archive.”
Filipson suddenly went quiet. Two young, athletic women in short jackets, pants, and page boy hairstyles walked by and he greeted them by breaking out in a smile from ear to ear. This wasn’t like Filipson.
Modin nodded discreetly toward them; he had no idea who they were.
“Just one other thing, Modin. I suggest you get in touch with a retired department head from Defense Radio. His name is Gunnar Anderson and he lives somewhere near Lidköping. Try to get him to talk; he knows a lot of secrets. It will pay off, believe me.”
The door slowly closed.
Göran Filipson’s face faded into nothing through the tinted glass as he stepped backwards.
CHAPTER 13
STOCKHOLM, SUSHI BAR JAPANÉS, THURSDAY, JUNE 19
Bill Bergman was sitting at his regular table. The small conveyor belt transported bite size pieces of Sushi around as Anton Modin showed up, short of breath. Within minutes, the two friends had loaded up on Sushi and all the accessories. They toasted with sparkling water.
Modin repeated some of his conversation with Göran Filipson. Bergman had a right to know what he was getting himself into.
“Did you really tell him straight out what our plans were? About the mini sub outside of Singö?”
“Yes, I did. Filipson wanted straight and honest answers, there was no way of pulling the wool over his eyes. Actually, I don’t think he was surprised. In fact, I think he called me in to discuss this, in however veiled a fashion. He let me in on the fact that we are going to meet severe obstacles. Sounds like the sub we are diving for has been stamped with security classification level four. It might turn nasty. But we knew that from the start.”
“Not from the start, perhaps, but certainly since someone has been killing dogs,” Bergman said. “Strange when you think about it. The wreck has been out there since the early 1980s. What’s so darn secret about it?”
Modin wasn’t sure how to answer that question, but, of course, deep down he knew. During the Cold War, the Swedish public had been lulled into a false sense of security while in fact the Russians were utilizing Swedish territory for their war games. Had it just been games? What if, in fact, they had been preparing for the next Big War? After all, all this was at the time when Europe and Sweden had been on the brink of catastrophe during the coldest period of the Cold War.
But Modin wasn’t in the mood to debate the geopolitical climate with Bergman, so he compressed the explanation. The resistance toward this object ever seeing the light of day again, he explained, was because several parties feared that a series of embarrassing circumstances would emerge. The submarine was Russian in all likelihood. The Swedish Navy had sunk it. None of the two parties had admitted to the event, and instead, the art of silent diplomacy prevailed.
“A finding like this would probably force some skeletons out of the closet,” Modin continued. “The parties responsible, many of them likely still alive, would have to face the embarrassment. There were even powerful lobby groups back in the 1980s, whose main task was to sow disinformation or diminish the issue of submarine intrusions into our waters. They were very successful at the time. If it came to light that it was all a big cover-up, there would be a lot of dirty laundry to wash. The lobby groups consisted mainly of investigative journalists and public opinion makers in big media. Collectively, they managed to put the lid on the Singö incident by claiming that hundreds of officers and conscripts had imagined the submarines. The cover-up eventually became so effective that the official reports of the Swedish government followed suit and came to the same conclusion. We are talking about one of the greatest cover-ups in the history of this country, Bergman. Media made the general public believe it was everything from swimming minks to noisy old taxi boats to the infamous guard syndrome—guards on duty seeing things that aren’t there. So when, in 1983, the first official report of the Swedish government finally became public, showing that the Russians had practically been at our doorstep, no one believed in those submarines any longer.”
“What is the real reason we aren’t allowed to find this wreck?” Bergman asked. “Do we live in a democracy or not?”
“I’m not so sure anymore. You never get the whole story. Remember when we located the DC-3? Veritable panic broke out within the government. We were awarded medals in return for our silence. The affair had to die down as soon as possible, so it didn’t risk going beyond the tipping point.”
“Tipping point?”
“It’s a marketing term describing how to measure success. If a book or a movie goes beyond the tipping point, its success is almost guaranteed and unstoppable. No more action is required on the part of the promoter. And any attempt to cover up will become practically impossible.”
“We didn’t exactly become world famous or dirt rich,” Bergman said. “I remember that much.”
“Well, in hindsight, I have realized that there were forces at play to cap the media frenzy in conjunction with the DC-3 story. We never reached the tipping point, so no witnesses ever came forward.”
Bergm
an ate ploddingly, using his chop sticks. He methodically split each sushi roll into smaller pieces. He then took one piece at a time and chewed thoughtfully before swallowing. The whole time he kept an eye on how much Modin ate. Bergman was a conformist in everything he did; Modin knew that. He didn’t want to be left behind nor finish first.
The dogs’ murders had made a stark impression on him. Modin wouldn’t have been surprised if Bergman had backed out of the submarine search, but it seemed to have had the opposite effect. When they buried the dogs, Bergman had calmly explained that the fucking bastards were going to pay dearly for Elvis and Albert.
Usually, Bergman was a man of his words.
“Care for a little seaweed, maybe?” Bergman offered a plate of slimy green threads, which he had picked up from one of the conveyor belts, all while a beautiful Japanese waitress served soup, ginger, and wasabi.
Modin looked longingly after the Japanese woman, who fired off a faint smile as soon as she noticed.
“Modin, go get yourself a woman. You and me both, by the way. I’m growing utterly tired of living alone. Let’s take a trip on that party boat over to Finland, shall we?
“Oh, knock it off, not the Finland ferry. We’re not really that desperate. But I have to admit, at times I do miss having a girlfriend.”
He looked dreamily at the woman’s raven black hair and fantasized himself far away on a sun-warmed rock by the sea, no wind but a camping mattress.
“I don’t give a damn about the politics, Modin,” Bergman said. “I just want to find this submarine for the sheer thrill of it. Besides, I am not one to give in to extortion. How do we do it?”
“Let me get in touch with Sture Hultqvist,” Anton Modin said. “He can get his hands on sonar equipment capable of finding very small objects at great depths.”
“Sture is good, I like him,” Bergman said. “He helped us find the World War II Soviet submarine S7, remember? He is dry and analytical, with a personality that would be an excellent counterweight to someone like you. He’ll be perfect.”
“I like him,” Modin said. “Just wish he was able to straighten out his personal life. I understand that he is not easy to live with. Doesn’t pull his weight at home, I hear; forgets to pick up his kids from daycare and stuff like that. An old-school original. But he sure is the perfect guy for this job, full of integrity and unlikely to squeal or leak information. We need to keep this search team as tight as possible; otherwise we don’t stand a chance. This time the challenge is not only to find something but to do it without being discovered. As you know, we already have eyes on us.”
They continued enjoying the food. From having started out very traditional, the choices became more daring and independent as the night went on. They sampled almost everything and judged it as the sushi semi-experts they were. On a scale from one to five, this was a four, while that one over there was a strong three.
The lunch rush hour was over and the restaurant started to empty out. As the background noise subsided, the atmosphere became more intimate and cozy. Modin and Bergman were poking among the last pieces of sushi and then picked a dessert from the belt that cost close to ten dollars—insanely expensive.
Suddenly a female voice finally yanked them back to reality.
“Anton Modin?”
A distinguished woman in her 60s stood in front of them, carefully examining the two men while patiently waiting for their reaction. “You are Anton Modin, aren’t you?” She had an expression of determination on her face, signaling that in no way was she going to accept being rejected or dismissed.
“Yes, I am Anton Modin.”
“Amelia Carlson,” she said, and extended her hand first to Modin and then to Bergman. “Mind if I sit down?”
Without awaiting a response, she took a seat next to Modin.
“Just to make sure we get off on the right foot,” she said. “I knew you two would be here. This is, after all, your favorite hangout, isn’t it?”
“Might be,” Modin said.
He didn’t like pushy and intrusive people, and Amelia Carlson sure seemed that way. Her behavior and appearance spelled upper class in big capital letters: She wore expensive designer earrings, an expensive necklace, and, over her shoulder, a Mulberry pocketbook in a color matching the gems in her jewelry. She had a perfect, dignified posture and a straight, almost aristocratic nose in a face refreshingly free from any excess makeup.
“I represent a foundation that gives grants to research projects, charity, and non-profit organizations,” she said. “May I be so bold as to make a suggestion? Since my reliable sources tell me that you both work in the best interest of this country, I would humbly like to offer my help.”
“How so?” Bill Bergman asked.
“I am offering to finance your research project. Everything you need, might it be equipment, travel, or logistics, heck even entertainment. I will foot the bill, just as long as it is for Sweden and for the best of the country. All I ask in return are regular updates as to your endeavors and any progress therein.”
Modin and Bergman looked at the woman with open mouths.
“The updates should preferably be verbal to avoid any written documentation that can be saved or traced. I will accept that, in certain circumstances, you will keep things under wraps, especially if it is in the best interest of the country. What do you say, gentlemen?”
She broke a faint smile hiding the fact that she had quickly gained the upper hand.
“Are you financing this personally, or what?” Bergman stuttered.
“No, that would be foolish, even if I could. The funds will come from the Carlson Foundation. I am the chairman. We will arrange everything so that there will be no records or accountability as far as you are concerned. We will not leave a trace.”
“I don’t know,” Modin said. “We’re not for sale. What’s in it for you?”
Instinctively he did not like this woman. She was too eager and seemed almost artificial, fake.
“We want Sweden’s best, that’s all. The best for all of us.”
“Yes, we accept,” Bergman suddenly said. “I accept, anyway. Come on, Modin. What have we got to lose?”
“I’ve had a credit card issued in your name, Anton Modin,” Amelia Carlson said and whisked out a piece of black plastic. “It’s an AMEX Centurion with no credit limit. You are personally responsible for it. Use it wisely.”
Modin stared at the shiny piece of plastic just thrown onto the table, as Amelia Carlson studied him closely. Modin could feel his body temperature rise under her gaze. He felt uncomfortable. Again in a friendly manner, the woman leaned forward and explained:
“It’s about time our common Gustav III Foundation made a contribution for the good of the country again. This is the first step. Why don’t you gentlemen think about it, while I take a trip to the ladies room? Oh, by the way, we would like you to know that we very much appreciate all that you do, both of you. Keep up the good work.”
Amelia Carlson took off for the restroom.
“What the hell do we do now?” Modin said. “Who was that?”
“Amelia Carlson is one of the wealthiest people in the country, for crying out loud. Old money, and now she’s sharing some of it with us. This means full speed ahead!”
Modin swept the credit card off the table and pocketed it.
“That’s a surprise. Was I that convincing?” Bergman said. “I was almost certain you wouldn’t accept the card.”
“It could come in handy. Where do we go from here?”
“Go?” Bergman smiled. “We order champagne of course. What incredible luck you always have.”
“Did you say luck?”
Modin looked Bergman in the eyes and fired off a crooked smile.
“But we are closer than ever to a search expedition now,” he continued in a low voice. “Very close. Come on, I know an expensive place not far from here.”
Amelia Carlson did not return.
CHAPTER 14
GRISS
LEHAMN, MIDSUMMER’S EVE, FRIDAY, JUNE 20
Modin turned his big Chevy truck onto Nuder’s property and parked it in front of the house. Modin and Bergman got out, unloaded a large bulky plastic box from the flatbed, and carried it up to the stoop of the house.
Nuder opened the door and greeted them with a melancholy expression and sad eyes. It had been less than a week since his dogs had been so brutally killed. One could tell what he had been through by looking at him. His hair was a mess, he nurtured stubble several days in the making, and his raccoon eyes were dark, tired, and expressionless. He was wearing a pair of dirty old jeans, black clogs, and a white T-Shirt that had seen better days.
Harry Nuder wasn’t overly thrilled by this surprise visit. As far as he was concerned, he would be fine if he didn’t see any of them for the rest of this summer. He needed time to grieve in peace and quiet.
“Hey listen guys; I would appreciate it if you didn’t come here for a while. I think that would be safest. I am seriously worried about what could happen.”
“Take it easy, Harry,” Bergman said. “We’ve got a present for you here, check it out!”
“For me?”
Harry Nuder seemed to lose his composure for a brief moment. Bergman’s direct manner always disarmed him. Out here on the coast line, people usually were a little more timid.
Nuder went down the stairs and approached the box with an expression of surprise and curiosity.
“I thought you guys were going to be out to sea over the Midsummer’s holiday,” he muttered.
“We changed our minds. We are planning a search expedition for the sub and we need your help,” Bergman continued unfazed.
“I don’t know if I can. This doesn’t feel good, not good at all. I’d rather just be left alone.”
Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1) Page 9
