Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1)

by Anders Jallai

  “Well, you know, for the good of the pack, we needed to get rid of the weak elements, right?” Gunnar said with sadness in his voice. “Yes, I have to admit, we had to make decisions that led to the assassination of people we regarded as friends. I am not proud of that. But we did what we had to do. Just imagine the political and operational fallout if Wennerström had started to sing. A scandal in the name of national security! Now, all is well that ends well, thanks to our man on the inside. That is also the reason they eventually left Wennerström alone. But he never rebounded from the treatment. He was a vegetable.”

  Modin had already fallen asleep on the couch. Gunnar Anderson slowly got up. On somewhat wobbly legs, he made it up to his bedroom and into bed and fell asleep almost instantly. The mosquitoes steered clear of the two men oozing from booze.

  CHAPTER 30

  GRISSLEHAMN, SATURDAY, JULY 5

  John Axman had slept over at Modin’s house, so in the morning he and Bergman decided to stop for breakfast at the deli in Grisslehamn before heading into Stockholm.

  They packed up their stuff, locked the house, and drove down to the village square. Sture had left the night before, and Nuder had spent the night in his own home.

  “So you really think you can get under Loklinth’s skin?” Bergman asked, then took a big bite out of his cheese sandwich.

  “Well, it depends. Everyone has weaknesses, even Loklinth. It’s just a matter of figuring out what they are. I already know what subnet Special Ops is uses. Found that out by coincidence when we were investigating a criminal motorcycle club. Turned out they were doing business with Special Ops, but we were never allowed to follow through on that lead. The district attorney put an end to that.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, we were just about to blow open a promising lead, when we discovered a lot of e-mail traffic between one of the Special Ops’ decoy trading companies and a Serbian national, a fellow going by the first name of Jovan, who had a lot of connections to the Serbian Mafia in Sweden. We had just secured evidence that Special Ops had paid Jovan large sums of money through a consulting firm in Luxembourg, when our superintendent decided to escalate the case by passing it up to the district attorney’s office. He argued that we needed support from higher up in the hierarchy, because otherwise we risked being prosecuted for hacking and breach of security. Special Ops has some pretty sharp computer minds, too, and sooner or later they would have found the bread crumbs.”

  “How the heck were you able to hack into the servers at Special Ops?” Bergman asked.

  Axman was amused when he noticed Bergman’s astounded facial expression. He had to control a sudden urge to pat him on the head.

  “We’re cops, remember?” he said. “We can always get in through local access points in the public telecommunications networks. And if we can’t, we can always go through the companies that own the circuits and have their people assist us. With some dumb luck we eventually get in; just takes some time.”

  “How long?”

  “A couple of months maybe, with the right resources. We usually get in through regular broadband connection, provided the system is permanently connected. If we have to get around a good firewall, which most systems have today, some even as part of their computer operating system, it is a bit trickier. Then you have to make sure the firewall does not log the hacking attempts; they are a red flag to any system administrator and would be a dead giveaway. We are usually manage, as long as we take it nice and easy. If we’re in a hurry, we can access e-mails right at the ISP. We have contacts with practically all Swedish Internet providers. We’d prefer to have a warrant before we get started, and the suspected crime should render at least two years behind bars, but in urgent cases, we can circumvent even that rule by using Defense Radio. Spies get to do more than police.”

  Axman could tell that Bergman’s respect for him grew.

  “How can you break in without leaving the slightest trace? Say, for instance, if you hack into Special Ops.”

  “That’s the tricky part. If Special Ops breaches security at a company, they usually bribe people or they pull the old for-the-sake-of-national-security-card. Few people have the guts to stand up to them when having that slapped in their face. Unfortunately, the police are not allowed to use those methods without a warrant, so we need to explore other avenues. Wireless networks are usually easier to breach. Once we have identified the SSIDs of their network, the next step is to identify the target individuals within that network. The huge drawback is that we need to have a physical presence.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We usually park a van with a lot of surveillance equipment somewhere in the vicinity of their home or their place of business and spend a few days trying to break into the network.”

  “So you are seriously telling me that you would be able to crack Loklinth’s private laptop?”

  “Yes, I am,” Axman said with a smile. “I might, however, have to leave the country and consider some serious plastic surgery as a result. I’m going for seconds, do you need anything?”

  “Yes, more coffee would be nice,” Bergman said and handed over his cup.

  “Fucking hell, man,” he said when Axman returned. “You’re a genius. When can you start?”

  “Anytime, I’m on vacation. I love doing this kind of stuff; it’s second only to flying helicopters, of course.”

  “Did you get into it by flying regular airplanes first?”

  “Well, by definition, I really never started. I attended the training program at Bromma Flight School, and I did really well, if I may say so myself. But when I graduated, there were no pilot jobs available; people were afraid of flying after 9/11. So instead, I continued my education and become a helicopter pilot. I worked for a private helicopter firm for a while, but again, the economy took a downturn, so I went back to my old job within the police force. I took a job with the IT-crime task force. I enrolled in an internal training program, which is one of the best I have seen. That and a considerable bump in pay made me stay. A stimulating atmosphere, interesting work, and a glimpse at people’s electronic devices—what’s not to like,” he smiled. “You can’t imagine what people store on their computers.”

  “You are aware that you risk getting fired if they catch you breaking into the Special Ops network and computers, right?”

  “Not to worry. My skills are very marketable.”

  Two young girls passed by on bicycles, bare arms and legs and hair waving in the wind. Both with an above average set of racks. Secure behind their dark shades, they were clearly checking out Bergman and Axman before moving on. Bergman and Axman returned the favor.

  “Axman, I thought you were gay,” Bergman said.

  “I am, but they were hot, don’t you think?” Axman responded with a wink.

  CHAPTER 31

  LIDKÖPING, SATURDAY, JULY 5

  A squirrel jumped down from the pine tree overshadowing the old outhouse, scurried across the yard, then stopped for a brief moment, looking curiously at an open window. Inside the house, the weather service marine forecast played on a muffled radio. The squirrel jumped up onto the windowsill and looked into the room, wagging its tail.

  The two men were sitting around the kitchen table in silence, struggling to avoid eye contact. In the bright morning hours, the memory of their candid discussion the night before filled them both with guilt and shame, and they did what they could to avoid the subject.

  The smell of fresh brewed coffee wafted through the kitchen, as Gunnar Anderson grabbed the kettle and poured Modin a cup. The table was set with some biscuits and a few slices of toast next to a half empty jar of orange marmalade. Modin wasn’t hungry and settled for coffee. Squinting through the window, he could make out the contours of a squirrel. It was a beautiful summer morning; intense birdsong emerged from almost every tree in the yard. He was seriously contemplating whether he should take the day off and kick back, just slow the pace and relax. Maybe venture out to his sum
mer house in Grisslehamn, lie on the landing dock, read a good book, do what ordinary people do.

  “I would like to thank you for last night, Modin. Our talk was therapeutic. Helped me find my way back to my old self, for good and for bad.”

  “Oh, is that so?” Modin took a big gulp from his cup.

  “It was a relief to get all that off my chest. It is not easy to realize you have been living a lie; getting all those skeletons out of the closet was a truly refreshing experience.” He paused and looked at Modin, who looked every bit as hung over as he felt himself. “Now, you mentioned you wanted information on Chris Loklinth?”

  “Yes, please, whatever you feel comfortable sharing.”

  “Well, the sad truth is that Chris Loklinth works closely with the GRU. Has been working with them for the longest time.”

  “Oh, come on, Gunnar. Even today? I know that he fraternized with them back during the Cold War, but now? Are you serious?”

  “Yes, my friend, I am.” Lost in thought, Gunnar Anderson paused. “I suggest you run a background check. Loklinth might not be who he claims he is. Check with Nils Nilson at Defense Radio; he has the inside track. I’ll tell him you have been here.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Modin said as he jotted down the name in his notepad. “Is Nilson involved in this? Was he a Nazi collaborator?”

  Gunnar Anderson fired off a warm smile from ear to ear.

  He looks younger and more vital now than when I arrived yesterday, Modin thought. No doubt about that. He will enjoy some great golden years here in his house, with this rock finally off his chest.

  “Problem is, Chris Loklinth has me and the other members of the spy network under surveillance,” Gunnar said. “Right before I retired in the early 1980s, when Ronald Reagan had just been sworn in, there was a lot of intelligence chatter from the United States. The message was that the CIA had decided to clean house, which created a lot of turbulence within many European intelligence services. Here in Sweden, the responsibility for the cleanup fell to Chris Loklinth, and it was all based on information Defense Radio had leaked to the U.S. National Security Agency. Working the list from top to bottom, Loklinth and a team of interrogators traveled around the country for months scrutinizing everybody on the list, including myself. Turns out there was a Soviet double agent who had fled to the West when he’d been outed. The CIA was able to roll up his entire network of infiltrators in the West. He had been working undercover for MI6 in Great Britain, and he was one of the highest ranking KGB operatives in London at the very same time.”

  Gunnar Anderson looked Modin in the eye and continued, “However, instead of cleaning house during the 1990s, Swedish intelligence swept things under the rug. Because the guy who had been assigned the broom was in over his fucking eyeballs himself. Those who didn’t really appreciate the cover-up became collateral damage. Loklinth walked away without as much as a stain on his record or reputation. There is nothing more loyal than a spy who has just been turned around.”

  “Do you happen to know where this information originated? I mean, there had to be more sources than just the CIA and NSA right?”

  “Yeah, most information came from American double agents. The CIA was very aggressive in the early 1980s, with spies high up in the Kremlin hierarchy and the NSA improving their ability to intercept and decrypt Soviet radio transmissions by the minute. We all feared a showdown between the USA and the Soviet Union. Simultaneously, the KGB and the GRU launched their own counter-operation against the U.S. known as RYAN, or raketno-yadernoe napadenie.”

  Looking around as if someone was listening to them, Gunnar Anderson took another sip of coffee before he continued in a whisper. Paranoia, Modin thought recognizing the occupational hazard. He had experienced it himself at times, especially at the end of his operational years.

  “Just imagine that, Modin,” Anderson whispered, “Reagan versus Andropov. We were scared shitless. The Russians elevated to Code Red. These were serious times. A few submarines in the Swedish archipelago were our least concern. Heck, we had our hands full trying to preserve world peace. That was our main objective, if you catch my drift.”

  “And when was this?” Modin asked as he started to perk up.

  “As I said before, this was 1981 to 1982.”

  “Wasn’t it in October of 1981 when a Soviet Whiskey class submarine ran aground in the Karlskrona archipelago, practically in the backyard of one of our largest naval bases? And although we had experienced breaches on a smaller scale before, wasn’t it in 1982 when the submarine intrusions in the Stockholm archipelago and littoral waters created a hysteria in the country?”

  “Yes, that is correct,” Gunnar said with a smile. The Whiskey On The Rocks incident. All those submarine movements were most likely part of the preparations for RYAN.”

  Whiskey On The Rocks in Karlskrona, Sweden 1981

  “Tell me more. And tell me the truth, too.”

  “I don’t know, man.” Gunnar Anderson twiddled the tea spoon between his fingers before putting it down. “Not sure you realize that this is very much part of an ongoing operation. It is still strictly classified, not to mention dangerous.”

  “Oh, come on. We’ve been exchanging classified information all day and night.”

  “Isn’t that the truth. Well, you mentioned that you vividly remember the Soviet S-363 running aground in 1981. There were other incidents, too, serious incidents that were never disclosed to the public. About the same time, a Polish submarine had its conning tower blown to pieces right outside of Huvudskär in the Stockholm archipelago, causing several deaths. It seemed like the Russians were getting more daring, especially after the new Social Democratic government was sworn in, in the fall of 1982. The Russians knew darn well that they wouldn’t turn to the U.S. for help. Prime Minister Olof Palme had more or less said so publicly.”

  “Heck, Gunnar, you are right. According to my contacts within the Security Service about that time, Prime Minister Palme issued direct orders to the operational leadership to cut all ties with the CIA. On the other hand, according to the same sources, it was perfectly okay to keep the lines open with the KGB and GRU. Actually, ties to the Soviets were even encouraged. Palme practically severed our lifeline to the U.S. and the Western allies. How sick is that? We were left standing alone, isolated on the Scandinavian Peninsula.”

  “Yes, ponder the fact that this was the regular state of affairs up until Palme’s assassination in 1986, and also try to imagine our situation at Defense Radio. Our hands were tied in frustration. Never had the old cliché of ‘just following orders’ been more suitable.”

  “Gunnar, somebody told me there is a sunken Russian submarine just outside Grisslehamn. Do you know anything about this?”

  “You mean the one sunk by Swedish royalists without permission?”

  “Yes, precisely. Tell me about it.”

  “I can’t. It’s one of the most well kept secrets in the intelligence community. I just can’t tell you more. All I can say is that it’s not what you think it is.”

  “How do you mean? Fuck, Gunnar, don’t be a tease. What business did the Russians have in our territorial waters?”

  “Reconnaissance. They needed submersed locations to outsource their nuclear subs in case of war. They wanted to avoid having them in the shallow waters on the other side of the Baltics, or at their home bases in Kaliningrad, Kronstadt, and Paldiski in Estonia. One could say they were looking for wartime launch positions, and this required a lot of preparations. But the Americans weren’t exactly resting on their laurels either. They were in our waters, too.”

  “I had no idea there were strategic submarines in the Baltic,” Modin said surprised.

  “The Russians had re-deployed their GOLF-2 strategic subs—six of them, I think—into the Baltic Sea under great secrecy. There were also an unknown number of the new super quiet attack submarines, the ones they called Kilo, which had been snuck into the Baltics with the intent to back up and protect the GOLF-2s. They were supp
osed to be on patrol constantly in the event of an American surprise attack; they assumed that their Baltic home bases would be among the first to be wiped out.”

  “So they based their GOLF-2 submarines in the Swedish archipelago? Why couldn’t they just go straight out into the open waters of the Baltic Sea? Certainly they would have been protected there.”

  “No, the U.S. had placed an underwater surveillance system in the Baltic, named SOSUS, a big secret in itself, which had no trouble picking up the relatively noisy GOLF-2 propulsion. The Russian subs needed to be stationary, where they couldn’t be heard, and it just so happened that Swedish littoral waters were a perfect hiding place. From there, they would be able to launch nuclear missiles directed at basically any city in Europe—from a neutral country, no less. There would be, at least initially, great confusion within the NATO command about the origin of these missiles. It would have been militarily and politically impossible for NATO to randomly blanket the entire Swedish archipelago with nukes.”

  “Fuck! Did Olof Palme know about this? SOSUS, I mean,” Modin asked.

  “No, SOSUS was a well kept secret within the military staff who was U.S. friendly. U.S. agents we call them. Prime Minister Palme and his Social Democratic government couldn’t allow that sort of close cooperation with the NATO.”

  “But the American SOSUS system was deployed along the Swedish coast lines? In Swedish waters?”

  “Bulls-eye.”

  “Weren’t we supposed to be neutral? Fuck! This is serious.”

  “The same old story,” Gunnar said. “Sweden’s mixed messages. Friendly with both sides.”

  Gunnar Anderson’s phone was ringing and Gunnar seemed nervous when he reached for his cell on the table. He turned away from Modin as he listened intently. “Yes,” was all he said. Nothing else. Somebody on the other end seemed to give him orders. Gunnar’s face was pale when he finished the call and turned back to face Modin.

  “You must leave, Modin. I’m sorry.”