“Kent E!” Modin shouted. “Nine cold ones, please!”
The time was half past midnight and the lights were dimmed at The Rock. Only live candles flickered on the tables. Five people dressed in black leather sneaked up onto stage as the background noise slowly subsided. Spontaneous applause broke out from the crowd and whistles could be heard here and there. A loud crackle revealed a guitar being plugged into a Marshall amplifier, followed by a voice counting backwards.
“Ten, nine, eight…”
The venue was jam-packed. About three hundred people crowded together to get a glimpse of what was about to happen.
“…three, two, one. Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce the greatest Swedish rock band ever: Europe!”
A massive pyrotechnical explosion rocked the stage, filling the room with smoke slowly rising toward the ceiling. Then the familiar synthesizer intro began to rock the crowd.
The stage lights, which had been updated in honor of this evening, blazed on and drenched the room in a bright blue and yellow light. The sound quality was always outstanding here at The Rock and, as usual, every note was crystal clear. Joint had invested a lot of money in the custom built sound system and its individual and very expensive components were all integrated with the structure. Huge bass subwoofers were hidden in the floor underneath sturdy aluminum mesh, making the whole venue vibrate with the music.
“Amazing! Do you feel that energy?” Bergman shouted into Modin’s left ear. Modin grimaced because his right ear was already deafened from the loud music.
An almost electric energy permeated the place and the audience responded well to the familiar songs and to the band’s small talk in-between. The vocalist had a different haircut, much shorter now than what Modin remembered from their heyday in the 1980s, but they still had their hallmark nasal high pitch. Right in front of the stage, the now middle-aged diehard fans waved their arms stretched into the air, layer upon layer. The heat and humidity started to build and the odor of sweat slowly began to ascend from the crowd. Two blondes on the shoulders of sturdy guys sang along to every song, knowing each and every word. The Rock rocked.
Behind the intoxicated audience, the Estonian woman was standing on a chair to get a better view, closely monitoring Modin and his party.
“I have to go and see a man about a horse,” Modin said. As he got up, she stepped down and mingled with the crowd.
Modin worked his way toward the back of the crowd and out the door down to the lower level. He had a good buzz already, and his journey down the stairs was a bit wobbly.
There were four stalls in a row. The two closest were for men. Modin went into the first and locked the door behind him. In the distance, he could hear a guitar solo. The bass was hammering through the walls. As he was standing there, swaying back and forth doing his business, someone was suddenly banging on the door.
“Yeah, yeah, hold your horses, I’ll be done soon,” he shouted through a drunken haze. The banging on the door got louder. Modin zipped his fly, turned around, and opened the door.
“Hi there.”
He recognized Maria, the Estonian girl. She pushed him back into the stall and locked the door behind them. Modin was taken by surprise and almost paralyzed. Something deep down inside him was curious as to what was about to happen. Despite the fact that she was a young brat he really did not want this close, he smiled, trying to find words to somehow delay what was going to happen next.
“Err, Maria, it’s much nicer outside,” was all he could muster.
She didn’t respond. Instead, she pulled up her tight t-shirt and got one arm out of the sleeve, exposing her naked breasts. They were perfectly shaped and firm.
He could do nothing but stare. This was indeed an unwanted and unexpected turn of events.
“Please, no Maria.”
She pulled her jeans down past her thighs. She had no panties on. Finally, the penny dropped in his intoxicated brain. This was not an invite, not even an offer. Maria exposed herself without as much as a smile on her face.
The female body in front of him was alabaster white but with some considerable scratches and black marks. She was clean-shaven between her legs with the exception for a small string of blond hair going up toward her lower belly. She grabbed his hands and forcibly pressed them against her breasts and her genitals.
“No, Maria, I don’t think this is a very good idea at all,” Modin said and made an attempt to squeeze by her.
She threw her arms up in the air, backwards against the locked door. Her naked skin seemed to be everywhere he placed his hands and her intrusive eagerness made the air thick in the small confined space.
“What are you doing?” he said. “No, we can’t do this.”
The girl took a firm grip of his balls and then went down, starting to open his fly and unbutton his jeans. Modin fumbled frenetically trying to button them up again. At that moment, the Estonian girl opened the door and forcefully pushed Modin out, who stumbled and hit the wooden guardrail a few feet away. He buttoned the last buttons in his jeans and smiled to himself.
Amazing that after all these years, I still have that much power over women, he thought when he had regained his composure and bearings. That was just about all he had time to think before his world exploded in a hard punch to his nose. The orange-red pain shot through his head like an arctic wind. He lost his senses and could not see his attacker. Blood and the taste of salt mixed with fear made him hunch over. He almost managed to parry the next punch. He focused on his attacker with hazy eyes. It was the huge Eastern European guy in the motorcycle vest.
“I am going to kill you, you fucking lowlife,” he yelled and landed a devastating punch right in Modin’s mid-section.
It knocked the wind out of Modin. He folded like a jack knife. In a red-gray fog, he could barely make out the heavy leather boot that rapidly approached his face. The kick landed right across his nose and broke it clean. His head was thrown backwards and then recoiled forward, followed by him collapsing and hitting the ground hard. Lights out—that as much as he’d ever remember of the assault.
People started to gather around to get a glimpse of the fight and the half-naked, defenseless woman’s despair and crying. Watching the whole spectacle in disbelief, they slowly started to form their opinions of what had just happened. Further in the back was a smaller crowd of locals; they could all see that it was Anton Modin, and although they had not witnessed the whole incident, without too much trouble they could picture the series of events that must have taken place. The poor Estonian girl had been raped in the men’s room, which had unleashed the uncontrolled fury of her boyfriend. The girl was in a state of hysteria and didn’t seem to notice that she was half naked. The pale body, running around on display for most of the onlookers, showed black marks and scratches—clear signs of abuse.
Her boyfriend was sitting on the ground with both arms over his head, which was tucked in between his knees. A barely noticeable collective shiver went through the crowd of spectators as they realized that Modin was the perpetrator. They all hated him.
Someone finally grabbed hold of the hysterical girl and pulled her in with a group of women who were trying to console her. Her tears mixed with her makeup and gave her an almost grotesque appearance; the women around her knew that she was scarred for life. It was going to be a long way back to some sort of normal life for her.
The victims were not Swedish and they could not make themselves clearly understood. So naturally, the poor souls immediately had the sympathy of the crowd.
From across the harbor yard, Captain Bob Lundin was documenting the whole thing through a powerful telephoto lens.
From inside The Rock, the band was playing on like nothing had happened.
“Carrie, Carrie, things they change, my friend.”
Matti Svensson, the journalist, just stood among the crowd, motionless, watching.
CHAPTER 17
NORRTELJE HOSPITAL, SATURDAY, JUNE 21
The followi
ng day, Bill Bergman and Harry Nuder went to visit Modin in his room at the Norrtelje hospital. Modin could tell straight from the expressions on their faces what kind of shape he was in. You don’t win any beauty contests with a huge bandage across your nose and another one around your head. His eyes were swollen shut, and what little his friends could see of them through the cracks was a disgusting, shiny red marsh. Modin had made the mistake of looking in the mirror earlier, so he knew.
“How is it going, big boy?” Bergman asked. “You look remarkably perky for someone being slightly under the weather.”
“So funny,” Modin mumbled; he was unable to move his jaw.
“Don’t try to speak,” Nuder said. “You will have to be the listener for a change.”
“We brought Miss Mona for you,” Bergman said. “Nuder smuggled her in under his wind jacket.”
Nuder went up to the bedside and seemed to be fumbling with something. Bergman helped. The cat jumped straight out of Bergman’s arms and onto the bedspread.
My little darling faithful companion, Modin thought and petted Miss Mona, who started purring as she swatted at Modin’s bandage with her head.
“The police are looking for you,” Bergman said. “They want to know what you did to that girl.”
“Nothing,” Modin managed to squeeze out with great difficulty.
“Nothing?”
“Not a damn thing. It was a setup.”
“Tell that to the police,” Bergman said. “Regardless, I think your version should have quite some credibility, considering who you are.”
Bergman held up today’s issue of Norrtelje News, the local newspaper. One of the headlines read:
Famous adventurer suspected of rape.
Modin grabbed the paper and skimmed the article through the narrow slits exposing his eyes. The stitches holding together his broken nose prickled, and pain pounded through his head while a slight sensation of nausea dragged through his body.
This was outrageous! Anyone who knew him could easily identify him as the rapist from that article, and he wasn’t even convicted yet. The article took a generic stab at the violence surrounding The Rock. The reporter interviewed two teenage girls who in great detail testified to the macho atmosphere prevalent in and around the restaurant, and how they had often been groped when frequenting the place. But the real goal of the article seemed to be destroying Modin’s reputation by painting him as a disrespectful woman-beater and rapist.
“Don’t pay any attention to those two brats,” Bergman said. “They are too young to have even set foot into The Rock. It’s the journalist who should be taught a lesson or two.”
“Damn it,” Modin said. “How can Matti Svensson write something like this? I thought we were buddies.”
He threw the paper on the floor. It slid away on the glossy surface and Miss Mona immediately assumed attack position. Modin pulled her close again.
“This was a setup!” he said and grimaced in pain. “Try to find out the girl’s real name. Check the credit card slips at The Rock and talk to Joint. We have to find her and her boyfriend. Has she pressed charges?”
“No, not yet.”
“I can’t believe I am being sucked into this now. The suspicion alone is going to stick. I bet my bottom dollar I will receive some sort of ultimatum before she proceeds. I’m pretty sure of that.”
Modin suddenly felt trapped in his bandages. He could ignore the pain, but his heart was racing and made him wonder if his two friends would notice the pounding at his wrists. He was sweating profusely and moved restlessly back and forth in the bed.
“You guys need to keep planning for the submarine search mission as if nothing happened,” he said and drew a couple of deep breaths. “We’re not going to let them win.”
“But Modin,” Bergman said in a serious tone. “You really think it’s worth the price? You, as well as the two of us, could get hurt. Heck, we might even die. Is it worth it?”
“Yes, I think so. You know how I am, Bergman. I need to finish this. Now more than ever.”
Modin attempted to sit up, but immediately slid down again. He had limited control of his body.
“Yes, that’s what I was afraid of,” Bergman said staring at the floor.
“If you two want to pull out, I’m not going to stop you. I would fully understand.”
“I’m in,” Bergman said.
“So am I, for Albert and Elvis’s sake,” Harry Nuder said.
It was a mighty manifestation of loyalty, which touched Modin deeply. Harry Nuder was 44 and had been a bachelor for almost ten years, following a couple of mildly successful, yet short, relationships. He had given up the dream of a life-long partner by his side. No woman seemed to share his spare time interests, especially the hunting, which he had shared with other men since his preteen years. But women also failed his demand for absolute and unconditional freedom. Bergman and Modin knew that Nuder had a hard time getting in touch with his emotions, which was probably a big part of why all his relationships eventually failed. There wasn’t a kinder man on the face of the earth, but he was condemned to settle with dogs. He really loved his four-legged friends; Bergman and Modin could see the fire of revenge burning in his tired eyes when he gave his thumbs up.
“For Albert and Elvis’s sake,” Bergman said.
“And for Sweden,” Modin said and petted Miss Mona’s back.
CHAPTER 18
SPECIAL OPS HEADQUARTERS, STOCKHOLM, MONDAY, JUNE 23
“Welcome back gentlemen, I hope you all had a splendid Midsummer’s holiday.”
Chris Loklinth, the superintendent of the DSO, spoke in a hoarse voice to the men gathered around his conference room table. He glanced at everyone but ignored Bob Lundin, Berner, and Janson.
Berner and Janson didn’t say a word, which was normal for them. They had been handpicked from the Security Service, which branded them as traitors within the police force. Without revealing any opinions, emotions, or thoughts, their pale faces mechanically turned toward whoever had spoken last. Bob Lundin, on the other hand, displayed a slew of emotions, sleepiness being the most prominent. He took deep gulps from his coffee mug as if the revitalizing effects of the caffeine were an absolute requirement to get through this meeting.
Loklinth turned to his assistant while raising his eyebrows.
“Okay, Lundin what is there to report?”
“Well, I guess one can say the situation is quite satisfactory,” Bob Lundin said and put his cup down. “We sent two clear messages, one to Harry Nuder and another one to Anton Modin. Regrettably, Harry Nuder had told Modin and Bergman about 82-X before our messages had been delivered. Good news is that we managed to get hold of Nuder’s nautical chart.”
“Do you gather that will be sufficient?” Loklinth said.
“I think they all got the message.” Lundin nodded toward Berner and Janson. They were part of the newly established special unit 08-AM, AM being an acronym for Anton Modin. Lundin enjoyed the thought of every black mark on Modin’s body but took even more delight in ruining Modin’s reputation. All the more reason to be surprised that his boss did not seem satisfied with the results.
“You guys should have been even firmer in sending that message to Anton Modin,” Loklinth said.
“Well, a rape accusation is not the easiest thing in the world to shake off,” Lundin said. “The public tends to have an elephant’s memory when it comes to celebrity scandals, especially if it’s a hero like Modin.”
Loklinth picked up a green apple from a plastic bowl on the table and started chewing on it. The loud crunching filled the room; he deliberately made the participants wait until he had eaten it down to the core.
“Have you tried to compromise Bergman yet?” he asked when he had finished.
“No, I didn’t know he was a target as well.”
“Well, maybe they have received the message, maybe not. There are vague indications that the project is still underway.” Loklinth simulated a phone receiver with his thumb and
pinkie by his right ear.
“Oh, I see,” Lundin said and leaned forward. “You’ve picked something up from the phone tapping, have you?”
“Yeah, one can always count on Defense Radio,” Loklinth said. “We have picked up a lot of chatter from their cell phones. Modin will soon be released from the hospital. Nuder has purchased an old wreck of a fishing trawler up north, which he is driving down to Grisslehamn as we speak. We don’t know why. We have to make sure we stay on top of this and act as soon as we know exactly what’s going on. Anyone else involved?”
“Yes, John Axman, an old acquaintance of Modin’s, a former military diver and policeman. He is homosexual.”
“Oh, homosexual, huh? That’s good. Maybe something we can use to our advantage.”
“They have also gotten hold of an experienced sonar operator from Uppsala, Sture Hultqvist. He’s got his head screwed on right and knows his stuff. Do you prefer we stop each one of them individually?”
“No, listen closely now,” Loklinth said leaning forward. “I need to know exactly how far they’ve gotten in their research. According to our analysis, they won’t be able to find 82-X. Not a chance in hell. Nevertheless, I need affirmation as to how secure this object really is. That request comes straight from a foreign military attaché. For now, you guys will continue with surveillance, and if they get too close, you will have to scare them off. Really scare them. The group currently consists of five individuals, is that correct?” Loklinth looked at Lundin with a frown.
“Yes, exactly,” Lundin said and slowly got up from his chair.
At the same time, Berner and Janson got up, raised their hands in a silent good bye, and slid out of the room moving like fraternal twins.
Lundin and Loklinth exchanged handshakes before they parted. Loklinth claimed he was in a hurry. He adjusted the Charles XIII portrait, excused himself, and energetically walked away, slightly bent forward as if he was on a mission.
Lundin stayed behind in the conference room. He needed some time to stretch his back and roll his shoulders to not stiffen up entirely. It had been a busy weekend. It wasn’t his cup of tea, at least not anymore, to sit in a car for a whole night without moving. Nowadays he’d get a nasty pain in his lower back when out on missions like this, and he pitied himself every time the pain shot down his spine hitting the arthritis nerve. An old football injury, he gathered. Once he was convinced all the discs were properly aligned, he scratched his crotch and drew a couple of deep breaths. Then he finished the last sip of cold coffee from his mug.
Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1) Page 12
