Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1)

by Anders Jallai

  CHAPTER 29

  LIDKÖPING, FRIDAY, JULY 4

  “Have some more whisky, Gunnar,” Modin said and filled Anderson’s glass to the brim. “This is the real stuff, you know.”

  The former bureau chief of Defense Radio seemed relaxed. Modin could tell that Gunnar had let his guard down considerably. All evening they had been talking about old times, how things were in the intelligence community back in the day, exploring all sorts of tribal knowledge and old memories. Modin had a feeling he would have a hard time summarizing all this tomorrow. Especially as he started to experience the effects of the alcohol.

  “Gunnar, please tell me about Chris Loklinth. What kind of relation do you guys have?”

  “Loklinth drops by here every now and then just to see how I’m doing. He knows that I know. So he keeps me under close surveillance.”

  “He knows you know about what?”

  “About his insights into state secrets. He has inherited a lot of old skeletons from his predecessors within Military Intelligence. Loklinth was already active with the domestic division of Special Ops, or ‘Security’ as we sometimes called it back then. Everything related to espionage landed on Loklinth’s desk. Most of the cases had been handled by Wallroth, the old head of Special Ops, who in turn had inherited them from Birger Elmér.”

  “Did the former Prime Minister Olof Palme and Birger Elmér know each other personally?”

  “Yes they did, but not officially. Both Elmér and Palme applied to the Military Intelligence Service in 1953. They both got accepted and began their tours in September of that year, if my memory serves me right. I ran into them every now and then. The two of them were probably behind establishing Special Ops.”

  “Are you serious?” Modin said, leaning forward as if he had just been jolted. “Olof Palme was behind establishing the most secret department we have, Special Ops, Sweden’s own KGB?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so,” Anderson sighed. “That’s where it all started.”

  “Wow, that’s amazing. Care to elaborate on that?”

  “In the beginning they thought they were collaborating with the CIA, especially Palme. He was a real right wing brat at first. An upper class kind of guy. Always dressed in the latest fashion from designer stores in the Östermalm district—fancy suits, designer ties, and black dress shoes. Then, like the flick of a switch, he changed styles overnight and started dressing in sackcloth and ashes, typical working class stuff. You know, no socks, checkered flannel shirts, sandals. We nicknamed him Shit-Olof. I remember Palme as a smart ass, always putting his career first. A professional asshole, if you will. He was a real turncoat who always figured out which way the wind was blowing and then came along for the ride, preferably in first class.”

  “Shit-Olof! When was this?”

  “Must have been sometime in the mid-1950s. I think officially he worked for us until 1955. After that, he became some kind of busboy with the government and the Social Democratic Party. We rarely saw him after that.”

  “How were your relations with the Americans?”

  “We had enormous respect for them. They often invited people from the intelligence community, but also those from Defense Radio to events and parties, often even in their own homes all around the city. The CIA legend, William Colby, was stationed in Stockholm in the beginning of the 1950s. It seemed like he was building some sort of underground resistance against the Soviets. Colby asked a heck of a lot of questions about Soviet operations and liked using the Swedish intelligence community as a sounding board to discuss Soviet military tactics. The Americans had a hard time approaching Russians in Stockholm back then, so they let us do the ground work. Heck, for years we almost thought it was okay to leak classified military material, as if it was sanctioned by our own government. Of course, it turned out that this group of Americans in Stockholm was infiltrated by the Soviets—civilian KGB and the military GRU. By that time, it was too late and we were up to our necks in deep shit. All of a sudden, we found ourselves with a whole Rolodex full of uncertain contacts; we did not know who was friend or foe. And, you know, I have a feeling that the government in general and Olof Palme in particular thought that was a good thing.”

  “You are saying the U.S. embassy in Stockholm was compromised by the Soviet GRU? You’ve got to be kidding!”

  “No, unfortunately I’m not,” Gunnar Anderson said with a gravity in his voice that suggested that his buzz had worn off already. “You’ve got to realize that these people came to be very close. They were buddies rather than official representatives of their countries. The close-knit group consisted of military personnel, as well as high-ranking diplomats and even civilians. Part of this inner circle was also some female fatal attraction and a few homosexuals. Those who let their guard down were lured into all sorts of honey traps. A slew of homosexual diplomats and high-ranking military personnel applied for overseas assignments back in those days. It was unacceptable to be openly gay at the time, both in the United States and here, but for an American diplomat or intelligence operative, Sweden was very far away. They could let loose and be left to their own devices. Wine, women, and song, you know, and maybe a few young boys for dessert. But if such behavior had become public, it would almost immediately have meant a dishonorable discharge. So, if the weather was warm, the sun was shining, and you were horny, maybe selling out a few state secrets didn’t seem like that big of a deal.”

  Modin was taken aback by Gunnar’s brisk choice of words. He emptied his glass and decided to go all out. He was going to try to get closer to Gunnar Anderson and maybe also get some information about his fellow at Swedish Defense Radio Establishment, Nils Nilson.

  “Well, there’s one thing you should know, Gunnar. I have been there myself at one point, dabbling in the gray zone of espionage. The Russians are masters of deceit and setting honey traps.”

  It was mainly for tactical, but also personal and maybe even therapeutic reasons that Modin wanted to come clean with a colleague and soul mate from the intelligence service. He was looking up to Gunnar Anderson, who had worked not only for Olof Palme, but also for Birger Elmér, both of them legends within the Swedish intelligence community, at least to an independent viewer. The real truth was somewhat different, of course, and Modin knew that. He could not even tell his best friend, Bill Bergman, what really had taken place, because not even Bergman would be able to correctly interpret the meaning of it all.

  “I realize you were in intelligence as well. What is your story, my young friend? You don’t seem so sure about the righteousness of it all.”

  If nothing else, Gunnar was very perceptive. He had picked up that Modin needed a sympathetic ear.

  “I’m all ears my friend,” Gunnar Anderson said, crossed his arms over his chest and smiled at Modin.

  “I started with Special Ops when I was only 18, can you imagine that? Only 18, still wet behind my ears, and without a father figure who could keep me straight and out of trouble. My father had passed away years earlier, and so there I was, at a very sensitive age with no direction or guidance whatsoever precisely when I needed it the most. I had my brain turned inside out by my teachers within the defense establishment. They trained me to become an operator and an instrument serving the best interest of the nation. That’s what they called it—the best interest of the nation. Ha! I had lost any sense of moral direction even before I had become a real grownup. In essence, the Department of Special Operations turned me into a willing instrument, a child soldier who lost all respect for society and our leaders. What I saw and did trumps Hollywood movies altogether. All the fucking shit we rigged, documented, and then used for extortion. Even killing our own citizens was on the agenda.”

  Anton Modin paused for a moment, as if to contemplate what he had been part of in the past.

  “Please, carry on,” Gunnar Anderson said.

  “I eventually learned that the world is controlled by the intelligence services, especially by the CIA and the KGB and their offshoot GRU. I
found out that no price is too high to pay to conceal the truth about Deep State. Shadow governments everywhere in the world. I remember clearly how I was unable to even read the newspapers or watch TV, because to me it was all one big charade, with no relevance whatsoever. It was just a bunch of bull crap: pre-fabricated events and facts spoon-fed to an all-too willing media. We even knew what government and ministers would lead the nation, long before the elections. Fuck, that was a serious blow to an 18-year-old. It gave me a false sense of power at first, a false sense of confidence, but soon I crashed and all that was left was a very real sense of disillusionment. Democracy had revealed itself as a farce. Thing is, nothing has really changed, you know. Never will. I realized that back then, too.”

  Modin reached for the whisky bottle and poured generously.

  “Why didn’t you leave?”

  “You never leave Special Ops, you know that.” Modin took the glass and drank half of it before continuing.

  “Then, in 1994, I did leave. I lost my entire family in the Estonia ferry disaster. Up until that point, my wife and my kids had kept me sane, despite all the shit I had seen and all the dirty work I had done. I was brainwashed; Loklinth’s fake stories about what was at stake and what needed to be done for the nation had done a number on me. I believed we were on the right path and so I did what he asked, and did it well. Today, I no longer think we did anything in the best interest of the nation; we did things in the best interest of a chosen a few.”

  “I see what you mean,” Gunnar Anderson said. “No, our work is not always for the best of the nation; it’s for the best of the establishment and that’s not the same as the nation—even if we are manipulated into thinking so. It’s always about the money.” Gunnar Anderson lowered his old head.

  “Now I have a hunch that Loklinth was behind what happened to my family,” Modin said with tears in his eyes. “But back then, when I started out, he stepped in and assumed the role of my substitute father. Who the fuck did he think he was?”

  Modin started crying, at first just a small whimper, but then the flood gates opened and soon the tears were streaming down his cheeks. He struggled, trying to ignore it. “I’m sorry, Gunnar.”

  “What did you do after that?” Gunnar Anderson asked in a low and comforting tone of voice, “after your family perished?”

  “Nothing. I got a CIA medal of honor, and some other rewards, money, you know, Gunnar.”

  The weight of his past actions threatened to crush him, and he fell silent. Openly facing the role he’d played in his family’s demise was still more than he could handle.

  “I know,” Gunnar Anderson said. “You were trapped in the system.”

  “Yes,” he responded, glad Gunnar Anderson didn’t pry any deeper. “There was no way out. The rewards and all the money soon sent me into an emotional free fall. I could no longer tell right from wrong or black from white. Special Ops and Loklinth’s constant fraternization with the Soviets and the CIA had totally compromised my moral compass and values. My life was like a wet blanket with no purpose or direction. The Security Service eventually saved me—good old Inspector Filipson. And my good friend, Bill Bergman. He helped me pick myself up and put the pieces together.”

  “Modin, can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Yeah sure, go ahead,” Modin said and wiped off the tears with the back of his hand.

  “Why do you ask me all this questions , Modin? What’s your motivation? You know the game and, with that, the fact that it is not for the faint of heart. This could be dangerous. Not only for you. You know very well how intelligence works: No loose ends.”

  Modin thought for a while before responding.

  “I guess I’m looking for some sort of justice. Revenge for the death of my family.” Modin fell silent for a second before he continued as of a moment of clarity had hit him like lightning. “Sometimes I wonder if they ever existed. There’s no grave for me to visit, and so sometimes have to say their names over and over again to assure myself that they’ve really been with me, that I’m not just imagining them.”

  “What are there names?” Gunnar asked with so much compassion that Modin knew that he, too, had lost someone.

  “Monica… that was my wife. Our son’s name was Alexander and our little miracle girl was called Ellinor.”

  Silence fell over the room as memory gave life to loved ones who had perished far too son.

  “I know Loklinth and Special Ops had their fingers in the ferry disaster, and I can’t live with myself if I don’t hold them responsible,” Modin finally continued. “My family is lying down there, rotting inside that fucking wreck right now. Rust, darkness, and human tissue in a grotesque mix, 300 feet below the surface. You can’t imagine how often I dream of being able to hug my son just one more time, even if nothing but a cranium or a single bone is left. He is all alone. I dive out there in my dreams, but of course, in reality, Swedish law keeps me ashore. The wreck is off limits. Because of some bizarre, twisted attempt to protect national security and Special Ops’ dirty laundry. There is something strange about the M/S Estonia disaster. Maybe it was the cargo onboard that indirectly sank the ferry; I don’t know but I’m gonna find out. I owe that much to my family. Fuck, Gunnar, I feel nauseous. Please give me a clue. Help me get to the next level.”

  “Intelligence work is a strange phenomenon,” Gunnar Anderson said after a while, his tone a touch sharper than before. He seemed several years younger, as if in his mind he had returned to this previous life. Modin noticed the vivid spark in Gunnar’s eyes. He didn’t know whether it was the booze or Modin’s presence that had opened him up, but it really didn’t matter, anyway.

  “What the hell were you guys up to in the Intelligence community? Tell me about Wennerström. I know that he was a spy. What was his mission? And how were you involved in his espionage for the Russians?”

  “Well, I was working for the Americans,” Gunnar Anderson said in a calm and collected voice. “Or at least that’s what I thought in the beginning. But in reality, I was working for the GRU. GRU recruited me under false pretenses, because as it turned out, Harold, who was my contact with the American embassy, was really a double agent for the GRU. In retrospect, I believe that many of the diplomatic personnel stationed at the American embassy in Stockholm were double agents. All the way up to the top. The CIA was leaking like a submarine with an open hatch. They were infiltrated by Soviet Military Intelligence.”

  Gunnar went silent as if he was contemplating how far he could go, as if he was trying to determine how much he could or should share with a man he’d just met. He was staring at his glass for quite some time before refilling it, accidentally spilling some of the precious amber liquid on the vintage, white linen cloth.

  “It was similar to the late 1930s, when the Nazis were at the peak of their power and influence. I’m ashamed to admit it, but at that time, we were all playing according to their rules. Many Swedes even openly sympathized with the Nazis before and during World War II, just to turn around and support the Communist International once they had squelched Hitler. Like lambs to slaughter, it seemed like we always followed the strongest leader. The Russians ceased the Gestapo-archives at the end of the war in Berlin. They knew who had been a Nazi collaborator and used that information both against us and the Allies. Turncoats, that’s what we all were. But when reality sank in, it weighed heavily on our minds and psyches. We all tried to silence our demons one way or another. I, for one, drank way too much and popped too many pills, especially toward the end of my career. I was having a difficult time dealing with the self-deception so vital in a job like ours. I despised myself and my values, or my lack thereof, while at the same time reveling in the admiration I received from my peers. I was a God within Defense Radio. My peers looked up to me as if I was a genius, and all because I had information from both sides. That is invaluable from an intelligence perspective. I knew everything worth knowing. They claim that knowledge is power; but they also say that ignorance
is bliss. The life of a double agent is anything but blissful.”

  Gunnar Anderson went silent and looked down at his hands. He was rubbing the backside of his left hand almost as if it had fallen asleep.

  “What a deceitful life. How did you survive? Fuck, Gunnar. I’m getting drunk.”

  “Me too. Well, you’re aware of the fact that Wennerström suffered several nervous breakdowns, aren’t you?” Gunnar Anderson slurred his words slightly. “Many of us needed psychiatric care over the course of our careers. But we constituted the inner circle, and somehow we always bounced back. We had a natural support system in the people we worked with, and that group grew considerably over the years. No one was allowed to fold or leave, because that might burst the bubble. When Wennerström was arrested in the fall of 1963, I smuggled a ridiculous amount of sleeping pills into his jail cell. We all hoped he would do the right thing and kill himself. He was under a tremendous amount of pressure from the interrogators, and we were concerned that he might cave and reveal what was going down. The Supreme Commander appointed a group specialized in psychological warfare with the designation AgW2 to break him down.

  Swedish GRU Spy, Colonel Stig Wennerström brought from hospital 1963. Photo: Folke Hellberg

  Back then, these torture-like methods and mind games were prohibited in Sweden, but when it came to spies, the law did not apply. We had one of our own guys inside AgW2, so we knew exactly what Wennerström was telling them. We had to make sure he didn’t leak too much.”

  “So, you eliminated Wennerström in order to protect yourselves, is that right?” Modin’s speech was slurred, too. He was drunk and on the verge of falling asleep in his chair.