“Who was it?”
When Anderson didn’t respond, Modin stood up. “Can I come back?”
“Maybe, if I’m still alive. I can feel that my days are numbered. Contact my old friend Nils Nilson. Maybe he can help you get further. I can’t talk anymore.”
“Who called? Loklinth? Special Ops?”
“Please leave.”
Modin gave Gunnar a hug, grabbed his bag, and went out into the yard to his car.
It was a clear crisp late morning. While he was wiping his face, hoping to wipe away his hangover, he thought about what Gunnar had said about SOSUS, deciding it was worth a closer look sometime in the not too distant future.
As he left the house, he noticed that Gunnar had left a pair of worn out black shoes at the doorstep. “They look like shoes you might have worn back in those days,” Modin asked and laughed.
“They are.”
“You kidding me?”
“No. I love them. They’ve been at the shoemaker a couple of times but it’s the same pair. They don’t make ’em like they used to any more.”
Modin took out the picture of the sole print from his inner pocket, put it on the ground, and placed the shoes on top. They fit perfectly!
Gunnar Anderson’s shoes
Gunnar looked at him and smiled. “I see you’ve been in touch with Security Service.”
Modin didn’t answer. Instead, he smiled back, threw his bag in the backseat, hopped in, and started the car. In his rearview mirror, as he navigated out onto the narrow gravel road leading to the main route, he saw Gunnar was waving good-bye happily.
The last thing Modin noticed was Gunnar quickly surveying the surroundings before going back in again. Creature of habit, Modin thought and drove off. He knew he had just met with Mr. X, Stig Wennerström’s companion.
CHAPTER 32
SPECIAL OPS HEADQUARTERS, STOCKHOLM, MONDAY, JULY 7
Chris Loklinth was sitting at his desk browsing through the documents in Anton Modin’s file. He had just finished reading the week’s status report: the Estonian girl had filed charges, the fishing vessel was sunk, and thanks to Matti Svensson’s articles, Modin’s reputation was at an all-time low.
Loklinth was pleased. This ought to be enough to cool Modin off for a while, he thought. Modin was playing with fire. If he wasn’t deterred by that, the next step would be to burn the bastard to ashes. Loklinth was ready to light the match
Loklinth could not take his eyes off the photos of the Estonian girl. The injuries she had sustained were grave. The photos had arrived by courier from their contact at the Russian embassy in Stockholm, who was a Russian national with a false Swedish identity.
Imagine, they go out of their way to beat up a young woman like this, just to help us build our case! That is what I call professionals. How much easier my job would be if we had more people of their caliber here at Special Ops.
“Lundin, do you have a minute? Can you come in here, please?”
“Yes sir, what’s up?” Lundin asked, poking his head in through the door.
“First of all, I would like to compliment you and your team on last week’s work. Excellent job. But now I would like for us to take the next step.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary, sir. Modin is finished. He won’t be any more trouble. And if he tries anything, we’ll know. We’re tapping his phone. We’ve got it covered, so you can relax, boss.”
“Yes, I am aware of that, but I barely trust Anton Modin as far as I can throw him. He is on a mission. An insane mission. So I’d like for us to get a bit of insurance. Let’s look at his friend, Bill Bergman; assign some resources to him. If we get to Bergman, we get to Modin. Modin’s one weakness is his emotional reaction to pretty much everything in his life. He can’t detach, the poor bastard. And that is a weakness I intend to use to our advantage.”
“I understand,” Lundin conceded, but his discomfort was palpable. “Is it really necessary to go after Bergman?”
“Excuse me? Are you questioning my judgment?” Loklinth’s demeanor was more threatening than Lundin had ever seen it. “Don’t ever do that again! I know what I am doing. We will put pressure on Bergman, and you will do it. Now!”
Chris Loklinth dismissed his subordinate with an irritated wave. Then he got up and went to the bathroom. He was sitting there with a slight sense of self-satisfaction as he was taking his sweet time doing his business. Finally he had a firm grip on Modin, had him exactly where he wanted him. If Modin had listened, it would not have come to this. He had only himself to blame.
Loklinth smirked when he noticed the odor oozing up. Must be those fucking red onions in the salad at lunch today, he thought and pulled some toilet paper off the dispenser
CHAPTER 33
SOMEWHERE IN THE BALTIC SEA, SATURDAY, JULY 12
The sound of the rotor blades pumping above them was as soothing as a flapping umbrella; it gave them an indefinable sense of freedom. It was five o’clock in the morning, and without any wind, the mirror of the sea gave off a perfect reflection of their helicopter between the sleepy islets in the archipelago. A few early risers on their recreational boats moved like snails on a glassy surface. Nothing was out of the ordinary.
Using the headsets, Modin and Bergman were communicating with John Axman, who was piloting the helicopter. Everyone was relaxed.
Axman turned sharply to the left and set course for the Stockholm outer archipelago. They took the route inside of the Ljusterö and Yxlan islands, past Furusund and Kappelskär, straight over the Arholma Lighthouse, and then out over the open sea. Their course was set for the Märket Reef Lighthouse in the middle of the Åland Sea about 20 nautical miles East of Grisslehamn.
John Axman was flying at a low altitude and at high speed in order to avoid being picked up by commercial airtraffic-control-radar. He was busy scanning the horizon and let the others handle the small talk.
Modin was in an excellent mood for once. Despite the rape case hanging over him. He was desperately trying to be heard over the noise of the propellers, talking about his wet night out in the sticks with Gunnar Anderson. He had received remarkable information that day and night, although Anderson had subtly hinted that he was by no means telling the whole story.
“So, there it is, finally a light at the end of the tunnel, after all that we have been through,” Modin said contentedly without having completely spilled the beans. After all, the information Gunnar Anderson had given him was classified. Information on how Special Ops had saved their reputation by covering up spies in the organization. Maybe even Loklinth himself.
Modin know he’d be able to use this information to get a handle on the rape case hanging over his head. He was sure that Loklinth was behind it all, and contemplated pressuring him into letting it go. No matter what, he could not go to jail, not now, and his newfound knowledge would help him.
They now had a visual on the Märket Reef Lighthouse. It was the small islet Modin had decided would be their operational base. The rock raised straight out of the sea like a scarred elbow. The lighthouse, showcased by its white and red horizontal stripes, offered a free line of sight in every direction. There was not a sliver of land within ten nautical miles, so it would be easy to spot any type of vessel heading their way.
Märket Reef Lighthouse in the Baltic Sea
John Axman let the helicopter circle around the desolate rock a couple of times. The lighthouse had been taken out of active service long ago, and Axman was looking for the small house attached to the striped tower. The house was open all year around to anyone who was seeking protection from the elements or just needed a break from the rough seas. Seemed like they were in luck; they we going to be alone. No one exited the house to see who was flying in.
Axman put the chopper down on a flat granite surface next to the buildings.
In a joint effort, they unloaded their sleeping bags, supplies, and other gear, with slab after slab of canned hot dogs and beer being carried into the house. After that, they
took a walk around the Märket Reef. They found a rock wall on the eastern side of the islet, about 15 feet above sea level, where they plopped down and let their legs dangle over the edge.
In the corner of his eyes, Axman was studying the others. He wasn’t quite sure if he was one of them yet. The tone within the group could be very harsh and macho at times. But both Modin and Bergman carried themselves with ease, which was very attractive to him. They didn’t seem to take themselves or life too seriously, and at times, it seemed as if this mission was just a big game to them. They kept their cool, no matter how high the stakes.
These people don’t fart around, Axman thought. Even Harry Nuder, who had taken a stroll up to the lighthouse with Sture Hultqvist, was simple and straightforward. Everyone knew exactly where Nuder stood, on most issues anyway. Axman was not quite sure if Nuder had an issue with his homosexuality. Nuder avoided the subject categorically. And why would they talk about it at all? What bound this group together was their search for a wrecked mini submarine.
Axman poured three cups of coffee and dished them out. He was dead tired of all the official denials that there were Russian submarines in the archipelago. A debate raging in the tabloids had kept the subject alive over the past year. The theories explaining the phenomena ranged from swimming minks to pure imagination to U.S. submarines pestering Swedish waters. And what was worse, the disinformation had picked up remarkably over the past few months. If you could believe Bergman and Modin, this was disinformation planted purposefully by Special Ops. They were getting ready to discredit them should their dive be successful after all. So, would anyone believe them without finding a submarine? Axman didn’t think so.
“Hey guys, this feels a bit unnatural, but if this is supposed to be war against Special Ops, it can just as well go on forever as far as I am concerned,” Bergman said squinting toward the sun.
“What do you say? Shall we take a dip before or after the war?” Axman asked.
“You must be out of your mind. The water is freezing! Can’t be more than 60 degrees.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t go in without a wet suit,” Modin said.
“Oh come, on you pussies,” Axman said and pulled off his jeans and T-shirt. Underneath he was wearing a pair of stylish white swim trunks accompanied by a very even sun tan.
“Hey, for being over the hill, you are in remarkably good shape, Axman,” Bergman said laughing.
“Last one in gets to clean the house.”
Axman dove right off the cliff where it was deep, almost a hundred feet straight down.
Modin was out of his clothes in no time, soon standing on the edge of the same cliff, tipping back and forth so as to size up the plunge he was about to take. There was no time for Bergman to get his clothes off, so once ridding himself of his wallet and cell phone, he dove in fully dressed. Thanks to that bold move, he beat Modin to it. Modin cursed.
“It’s not that bad once you get used to it,” Bergman yelled.
He disappeared under the surface, legs straight up. Once he came back up, he was floating on his stomach pretending to enjoy the icy cold water.
“I can see the wreck from Hesperus down there,” Bergman said. “That’s why the lighthouse was built here in 1884. She sank right here during a bad winter storm.”
“The visibility is good, come on, follow me,” Bergman said.
He dove, and the other two followed. The three divers maintained contact with each other as they were swimming downwards.
On a good day, the water in the Baltic Sea is green. The color originates from the clear water, the different temperature layers, and their reflections in between. In the seas around the world, the clearer the water, the bluer it is, but in the Baltic Sea, the clearer the water, the greener it is. It is nice to be in a special place, Axman thought as he dove. The visibility was close to 75 feet, and he could see that the seabed was decent, consisting mostly of seaweed and rocks. It was one of the few places in the Baltic Sea where the bottom wasn’t clinically dead already.
Far beneath them in the depth, Axman made out the contours of the Hesperus wreck. He spotted a dark object on her severed deck, and contemplated if he should show his mates what he was really made of. Show them a new side of him. Modin and Bergman stopped at 60 feet ready to turn back up again, but Axman continued downwards.
After Modin and Bergman had broken the surface gasping for air, it took yet another full minute before Axman came up.
“Where did you go?”
“I thought we were wreck diving,” Axman said and took a series of deep breaths. “Did you guys run out of air or what?”
“You’re incredible,” Bergman said.
“Oh, maybe I failed to mention I was best in class for underwater swimming back in my day at the navy. The Hesperus stern seems to be intact and is resting at a hundred feet. Did either of you guys, by any chance, lose this thing?”
He held up a piece of rope he had found on the deck of the schooner.
“Very impressive, Axman,” Modin said. “Very impressive.”
“Come on guys, I want to see Modin clean our house,” Axman said with a laugh.
He swam to a part of the cliff with a plateau where it was easy to get out.
• • •
By nine-thirty the next morning it was almost 70 degrees and the sea breeze had not yet kicked in. Modin, dressed in a pair of white shorts and a blue sport shirt, put on his sunglasses. He was barefoot and could feel the lukewarm patio stone against his soles.
“They should be showing up soon,” he said. “Nuder is bringing our new boat.”
“What kind of boat is it?” Bergman said.
“It’s a surprise,” Modin said and smiled shrewdly.
“So, what do you think, Modin? Who is really footing the bill here, probably not this foundation, right?”
“In all likelihood, the foundation is getting money from corporations, in one way or another. In their view, this is an investment in Sweden and the Swedish economy. An investment that will hopefully pay off. By the way, a helicopter is a very convenient way to travel if you can afford it.”
“Helicopter diving,” Bergman said. “That’s my kind of style.”
“Vessel’s approaching,” Axman said. “Foam is spurting from its sides and stern.”
He was looking through his binoculars toward the Understen Lighthouse in the northwest. Nuder was steering a 34-foot rigid hull inflatable, or as it was called more commonly, an RIB boat. It was a strange and mighty sight. Unusual, Axman thought, at least in Swedish waters. He had never seen anything like it except in U.S. boating magazines.
As they approached, there was no doubt Nuder was in his element. His broad smile from behind the wheelhouse of the boat gave it away. His blond hair was flapping in the wind and right next to him, Sture Hultqvist was hunkered down with a blue baseball cap pulled down deep over his forehead. Attached in the transom were three giant outboard motors. A deep roar accompanied them as they were approaching at a speed close to 75 knots.
“What a fucking beast, man,” Bergman said laughing. “Thirty-four feet, huh? Is it even possible to buy something like that with a credit card?”
“It is a matter of national security,” Modin deadpanned.
When he sent Nuder to buy a new vessel, he only had two firm requirements—she must be able to harbor four fully equipped divers, and she must be faster than any police or navy equivalent in the country.
Modin gave a thumbs-up to the beast cleaving the water like a rocket, but also to Nuder’s childishly happy face.
“What do you guys think?” Nuder yelled as he moored the boat. “No one will show their transom to this baby. Three Yamaha V8 with 300 horsepower each, steel propellers, dual frequency echo-sounder, chart plotter, dual GPS and radar, and rated at a minimum of 70 knots. But what’s best, it has a refrigerator onboard.”
“Mind if I ask what the damage was?” Axman asked.
“Slightly north of two hundred thousand bucks,” Modin said. �
�We have to sell it once we’re done.”
“I brought the radar,” Sture said in his usual modest way.
“So this means we are back in business,” Modin said. “Are you guys sure you haven’t changed your minds? This is, in essence, war against Special Ops.”
They all nodded.
Later that night, they gathered around the grill, which was skillfully operated by Bergman, while Modin did the talking.
“Back in the 1980s, one of my Coast Guard colleagues told me about a reverse radar device they had on their aircraft to detect oil spills,” he said. “Apparently, it’s some sort of advanced X-band radar that can detect areas without surface noise. It measures blank areas, and highlights spots where there are no surface echoes.”
“So what is this supposed to mean?” Bergman said, turning corn cobs and hotdogs on the grill.
“It shows you where there has been an oil spill. Get it?”
“No, not really.”
“Back when we found the Soviet submarine S7, I noticed how it was leaking oil. Above the spot where it sank was a barely noticeable oil slick on the surface, and it was there every time we went back. I have since noticed how all wrecks emit a certain amount of oil where they sank, no matter how small it is. All except the really old and rusted wrecks, of course, like the Hesperus down there.”
“But our sub could just as well have had a nuclear reactor onboard, right?” Axman said.
“We don’t know for sure, and even so, there would have been oil somewhere in the system, in the hydraulics, for example. On top of it all, the sub we are looking for was blown up, so with an ounce of luck, it bled oil.”
“Good thinking, Modin,” Bergman said. “But we don’t have that type of radar, do we?”
“Yes, we do,” Sture said. “I came across a used one in Finland, which I picked up. We are going to mount it underneath the chopper.”
Bergman started to dish out the hotdogs. They cracked a few beers and turned away from the baking sun.
Tension was starting to build. Axman, being the sensitive one, noticed it in the overstated, slow body movements, the way they chewed, and the ridiculously small gulps of beer they took. The world was their oyster, and they were going to conquer it.
Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1) Page 20
