Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1)

by Anders Jallai

  The rusty ship was twenty yards behind them, approaching fast. This was a nightmare. Ten yards, five… Their rusty steel bow plowed into the stern of the brittle fishing boat, cutting it like scissors cut paper.

  The impact threw Modin backwards into the wall; he hit his head and neck hard. A sudden and fleeting sensation of nausea went through him. Shivers traveled the hull of the boat and a screeching noise of metal caving in tortured his mind and ears. Modin felt like he was in free fall, the deck wasn’t where it supposed to be. He fumbled around and got back on his feet. The mysterious vessel was pushing them from behind. The fishing boat was on the verge of capsizing. She had a ninety-degree list, was practically lying on its side as the bigger and more powerful ship was pushing it forward. Masses of water were pouring onto the deck.

  This is the end, Modin thought while grabbing onto the instrument panel for dear life. He was unable to shout, although his mouth was open and something resembling words was clogging his throat.

  “Move over!” Nuder was back onto the bridge. He wore a bandage across his head, soaked in blood, giving it a pinkish nuance. Even his sweater was bloody. He was holding his high-powered hunting rifle firmly in his hands, while with his right shoulder trying to gain support against the doorway on the starboard side. The barrel bobbed up and down as he was trying to take aim.

  You can’t shoot like that, Modin thought.

  Nuder fired three shots in rapid succession. All three of them slammed into the tinted windows on the bridge. Shattered glass was flying. The unknown ship’s engines growled and the hull suddenly tilted port side. It turned around, seemed to hesitate for a split second and then turned her stern toward them and took off.

  “What a frigging bulls-eye, Nuder!” Bergman yelled. “Take that you darn maniacs, you motherfucking bastards. Fuck you assholes!”

  Bergman got up with a middle finger raised high above his head.

  “Take it easy Bergman. It’s over now.” Axman ventured over and grabbed hold of Bergman’s shoulders. “Sshhh, take it easy,” he repeated. “I bet that’ll change their minds, whatever they were up to. Just hope no one got hit.”

  “I hope they fucking died,” Bergman said.

  CHAPTER 24

  GRISSLEHAMN, WEDNESDAY, JULY 2

  The sun was setting in the northwest as they were steaming into Grisslehamn. The intense orange-white glow almost made their eyes tear.

  They were exhausted following the attack, this in addition to pounding injuries creating a taste of blood in their mouths. The harbor and The Rock emerged as dark silhouettes in the pale evening light.

  Modin squinted toward the upper deck of the restaurant and found it was packed. The familiar Beach Boys tune, “Good Vibrations,” came from somewhere inside the venue. The music was barely distinguishable over the background noise from the crowd.

  It was a warm and breezy summer night, which normally would be a nice contrast to the day’s baking sun and scorching heat. The easygoing atmosphere was a relief to everyone onboard, but still in some way shocking. A dreadful silence besieged the bridge as the damaged fishing vessel slowly limped into the harbor, listing considerably toward the port side.

  Nuder was steering the ship, the others were gathered on the forecastle, just sitting there, appreciating the sweet sensation of being alive, feeling blood stream through their veins with the cool evening breeze stroking their skin. Familiar sounds came from the restaurant in the form of clinking glasses, laughter, and waitresses exchanging orders, plates, and dishes. Outside, a motorcycle, with a muffler that apparently had seen better days, roared to life, just barely registering with the couple madly in love, sitting on the edge of the dock, each with a glass of chilled white wine.

  As they were approaching the berth on the other side of the harbor, Modin noticed a police cruiser. It was parked at the edge of the dock. Maybe they should report the incident.

  A shiver of uneasiness traveled down his spine. He lifted his eyes and looked up over the rooftops, toward the café and deli, the contours of which he could almost make out, despite the dusk.

  This has nothing to do with me, he thought, although he had an inkling that something was about to happen. He was still holding onto that thought when the boat berthed and two uniformed policemen got out of the car and walked toward them. He recognized Inspector Palm. Anyone could spot him a mile away with his fiery red carrot top and jerky style of walking. Palm caught the rope in the front and tied a bowline around the buttress on the dock. Bergman jumped ashore and took care of the stern.

  “Do you have a certain Anton Modin onboard?” Officer Palm spoke in an unnecessarily loud and official voice, addressing the bridge where Nuder had just powered down the diesel engine. A female police officer joined ranks right next to Palm. Her steel gray eyes somehow penetrated Bergman, who found it best not to move.

  “You guys look like you’ve been through hell and back. What hit you? A storm?” the female officer asked.

  Modin noticed how they had started to draw attention from The Rock; a lot of people on the deck were looking their way now. His stomach wrenched. Although knowing a great deal about official police procedure, the last thing he had expected was a public arrest. His knuckles whitened as he was holding onto the railing, feeling every little rusty bump against the palm of his hands. A seagull’s sad squawking mixed with the distinct scent of sea waves and the distant music from The Rock. Joining the serenade was the squeaking sound from the leather jackets of the long arm of the law. Were they arresting him? This was insane.

  “Yes, I am right here,” Modin said.

  “Inspector Palm and I have been tasked with bringing you into the station for questioning in connection with a suspected rape, which allegedly took place over the Midsummer’s holiday,” the female officer said. “Will you be so kind as to come ashore and follow us please?”

  She pointed toward the police cruiser. This was no fucking joke. He wasn’t imagining this. The looks from both his peers and the people on the deck of The Rock really embarrassed him. He should have known better than to return here. He forced himself to remain calm and aloof. His intent was to make not only the policemen insecure, but also the rubbernecking onlookers. All just to score a few cheap points! Without a word, he grabbed his bag and jumped down onto the landing dock.

  “Is this really necessary?” he grunted, as they wrestled his arms behind his back and handcuffed him.

  Not even responding, she put a protective hand on the top of his head as he bent down to get into the backseat of the cruiser. Despite her gentle touch, he developed a splitting migraine and nausea. Through the back window, he saw Bergman gesture an “I will call a lawyer” signal. The others were frozen in place, not knowing what to think or do.

  And what is there to do anyway? Modin thought. Any form of protest or resistance was pointless.

  CHAPTER 25

  STOCKHOLM, SOUTHERN DISTRICT, FRIDAY, JULY 4

  Bill Bergman was struggling to get his daughter Astrid to eat her breakfast. All she wanted was the chocolate milk, which Bergman didn’t think was nearly enough for a girl of her age and constitution. He had eventually been able to replace the skim milk with whole milk, so that was at least a small victory in this breakfast war of theirs.

  Father and daughter smiled at each other.

  She usually won those little battles and they both seemed content with that. They were sitting across from each other at a square table with antique high-back chairs around it. From here, they could leisurely glance out over Stockholm through the big picture windows.

  The view was magnificent, with the surface of Riddarfjärden, the bay, only a few hundred yards away, sparkling in the sun. Right across was Kungsholmen and City Hall; three golden crowns atop the steeple looked as if they were on fire in the bright early morning light.

  The kitchen was only 160 square feet, but it was comfortably connected with the living room in an open plan. The entire apartment was about 960 square feet and built in a 1930s
art deco style. Bergman had bought it for roughly half a million dollars a few years back. The bulk of the money was high interest loans, but he was not particularly worried; he knew the asking price today was a good deal north of 750,000 dollars. Bergman took great interest in his personal finances and he was good at it, often losing himself thinking about some new exciting investment that might improve them even more, just like now. He was abruptly brought back to reality by Astrid tapping the edge of his plate with a butter knife.

  “Dad, what happened in Grisslehamn with Anton? That thing Mommy was talking about?”

  “Oh, it was a mistake, Astrid. Nothing to worry about. Anton just had to go to the police station to talk to a policeman and explain a few things. He is already back home. As a matter of fact, he will be here in a little while.”

  “Mommy says you guys are up to something dangerous. Look Dad, you already have that ugly bump on your head.”

  “Bruises and bumps always look worse than they are.”

  “She thinks the police are going to arrest you, too.”

  “No, it’s cool. Finish your chocolate milk now, and then the omega-3 and your vitamins, we pinky-swore on that, remember?”

  Astrid made a face but nodded.

  When she is with me she plays by my rules, Bill Bergman thought. And she knows that. Omega-3 and multi-vitamins every day—Ewa did not give a damn about that kind of stuff; of that he was pretty certain.

  Every waking minute he spent with his daughter was a special occasion. He only got to assume the role of Daddy-for-real every other weekend and sometimes in the evening during the week, when Ewa was traveling or had some prior engagement.

  Today Ewa had gone to a party and the initial plan had been for Astrid to spend the weekend with Grandma, but since Bergman had made it home from the search expedition three days early, he had picked her up the night before. Astrid had her own room in Bergman’s apartment, painted in hot pink and filled with all sorts of dolls. He was always meticulous about keeping her room tidy. As time went on, he realized that it was part of the therapy he had to go through on days when Astrid was not with him.

  Bergman had fallen head over heels in love with Ewa the moment they met. The chemistry between them had been perfect. But he had messed it up. He had lost her because he had been a complete idiot. It had been a very undramatic and even civilized divorce, mostly because Bergman knew it was his fault. The superficial reason for the divorce had been adultery—hers, with a colleague at work. But the real reason was that Bergman’s priorities had been all screwed up. He had not been there for her as Astrid was growing up, but instead, he had been fully occupied with Anton Modin’s personal crisis. During those years, apart from the diving projects he ran with Modin, he had gone all in and buried himself in work at the marketing firm.

  Even as the alarm bells eventually became louder, he did not react. It was too late when he discovered her unspoken demand for his participation in family life and the upbringing of their daughter. Explanations and excuses fell on deaf ears and, as time went by, she gave him the cold shoulder more often than not. They made a serious attempt to patch things up by way of an expensive vacation to the Seychelles, followed by a few romantic getaway weekends at different obscure spa resorts allegedly specializing in marital problems. Nothing worked. Bergman had effectively let go of Ewa, not because he wanted to, but because he had no idea of how to win back and keep a woman.

  Their daughter was now his only lifeline to normalcy. And he held onto it for dear life. Oftentimes, he fell into a black hole of self-pity, especially when Astrid was with her mother. He really loved his daughter, even more so now that they were no longer living together as a family. In a strange way, he was making up for the past when he had never seemed to find the time to care for her.

  All people should have to endure a divorce, Bergman thought, just to gain some insight into what really matters in life. It is way too easy to lose yourself in minute, unimportant details or to get bogged down in work, just to one day find out that it is too late to turn things around.

  “Daddy, can I buy a magazine today? Please!”

  Bill Bergman was about to respond when the doorbell rang. It was Modin in a wrinkly, shabby outfit, an aura of rust and old musty basement surrounding him. He hugged Astrid and joked around with her a bit. But neither Bergman nor Astrid failed to notice the dark shadow on his face.

  “How the heck are you, Modin?” Bergman said while starting to prepare another breakfast setting.

  “Well, not too good, to tell you the truth. They released me temporarily, but I have to report where I am and I cannot leave the country. I guess that is always something.”

  “What happened down there at the station? What evidence did they have?”

  Anton Modin nodded discretely toward Astrid.

  “Hey, Astrid, why don’t you go and watch TV for a while?” Bergman said. “Then we will head out and buy that magazine, shall we?”

  The girl strolled away into the living room. As soon as he heard the TV, Modin started to update his friend.

  “They have some pretty gruesome images of that Estonian girl and her injuries. Poor thing looked like she had been run over by a truck. Some fucking assholes purposely beat the crap out of her, just to be able to put the blame on me. Can you imagine?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding!”

  “According to Inspector Wilhelm Aronson, they have a pretty strong case. He would not have let me go if it wasn’t for my lawyer. That fucking Russian Neanderthal who assaulted me will not be charged at all. The district attorney classified it as self-defense.”

  “Oh, geeze, so where does this leave us, Modin?”

  “This whole thing carries the Special Ops signature all over it. They have assigned the bureau to it.”

  “So, this is a threat?” Bergman asked. “You think she would withdraw her charges if we cancel the search operation?”

  “That’s what this is all about. The message is loud and clear.”

  “Okay, let’s back down then, cancel the whole thing. You may be spending the next five years behind bars, for crying out loud.”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “How do we get that message over to Special Ops?”

  “Oh, that’s the easy part. All we have to do is get word to Matti Svensson.”

  “It is good to hear you have come to your senses and will call it quits. But is Svensson really…”

  “Svensson is a fucking hack in cahoots with the chimpanzees at Special Ops. I can smell it a mile away. He was there with his camera when the alleged rape went down and when I was arrested. That tells you a great deal. They planned this whole thing. What puzzles me is how they are so well informed about where we are and what we are up to. Who knows, maybe they are bugging us.”

  Anton Modin ran his hands over his face, over the dirty Band-Aid covering his nose and felt the scratch marks against his palms.

  “That’s not all,” he continued. “They sunk our boat last night, unfortunately with all the equipment onboard.”

  “Shit, not the boat,” Bergman said and swallowed hard. “So what’s going to happen now?”

  “Exactly what Special Ops and the Russians want, namely not a damn thing. Sture informed me that it will take the whole summer to replace that equipment.”

  “Un-fucking-believable,” Bergman said. “And with the momentum we had. Now it’s all over, whether we want it or not. This is way too dangerous.”

  Modin’s deep blue eyes sparkled for a split second. He shrugged his shoulders and threw his hands up like someone who is not about to give in to the circumstances.

  “Sture and I had just devised a plan for pinning down the source of this jamming device when the shit hit the fan. I firmly believe we would have found it had that boat not run into us. The fact that there is interference proves that there actually is something to hide on the seabed out there.”

  “Knock it off! It’s not worth it. Nuder’s’ dogs, the rape allegat
ions against you, the boat trying to sink us… who knows what else they are capable of. We’ve been defeated. Face it. You don’t mess with Special Ops.”

  “I know,” Modin said in a serious voice. “Because of that the search has to be split into two phases. First, we need to get back at the bureau, find a way to beat them at their own game. I need to find a backdoor into their organization. Once that is taken care of, we can hopefully carry on our search operation without any interruptions.”

  “A backdoor? What is that supposed to mean?”

  “We have to hit them where it hurts most,” Modin said sharply. “Use their own modus operandi against them. That is what they least expect.”

  “And exactly how do you propose to do that?”

  “By pretending to attack Sweden, our own country,” Modin said.

  “Come again?”

  “We have to threaten to inflict damage on Sweden or its interests or both in order to get to the heart of Special Ops,” Modin said with darkening eyes. “We are going to hurt their reputation like they are hurting mine. Let’s turn public opinion against Special Ops, show the media and the public that they harm Swedish interests more than they protect them. We are going to hang them out to dry.”

  Bill Bergman had never seen his friend this determined. To emphasize his point, Modin stretched his back, pushed his shoulders back, and said: “The gloves are off, my friend. No more Mr. Nice Guy.”

  Bergman felt extremely uncomfortable.

  “Have you thought this through, Modin?” he asked, emphasizing every word. “You sound like a mad man. Special Ops is a well established institution. We will never be able to convince people that they are the bad guys.”

  “Oh, yes we will.”

  “How, Anton? How will you back up a claim that will seem ludicrous in the public eye?”

  “There is one way of getting to them. One way only, and I have the key. Superintendent Filipson gave it to me. He mentioned a high-level ex-operative living somewhere near Lidköping, and I think I will pay him a visit. I will be in touch in a few days. Meanwhile, can you please go back to Grisslehamn and entertain Matti Svensson for now? Tell him we threw in the towel. Feed him some story about me at home in my apartment in Stockholm, tripping on oxycontin, alcohol, and all sorts of psychedelic drugs. You can use my house for a few days. I will be back there once I made my trip.”