Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1)

by Anders Jallai

  His consciousness was weighing heavily on him. During a brief moment in the car, without as much as a second thought, he had sacrificed his daughter’s well-being in order to protect Modin and the search for the submarine. I can’t risk my daughter’s life anymore. I have to choose. Fuck! I am out of my mind. That will be the last time I do anything like that.

  Bergman went into the kitchen and poured a glass of water. The eerie silence in the apartment made him nervous. Exhausted from the recent events, he went into the bedroom and sat down on the bed.

  As it stood, from now on, he was going to cooperate with whoever these people were. He had no idea who was behind his daughter’s kidnapping. It was either a shady branch of Special Ops or some organized crime syndicate on their payroll. In any event, it would prove disastrous not to cooperate. At least as far as his daughter was concerned. He was cornered, trapped. Astrid’s well-being and safety had to come before everything else.

  Modin will never forgive me for this, he thought.

  He wondered for a moment how Modin would have attacked the same situation. He had to smile; “attack” was just the right word, because that’s what Modin would have done. He had lost his children long ago, and he probably would not understand his fear even if he told him. He knew Modin all too well; after the M/S Estonia disaster, he had practically committed emotional suicide, and nothing seemed to faze him anymore. Bergman had good reason to believe that Modin would not cancel the search project even if he knew that Astrid’s life was in jeopardy.

  Modin is possessed by the prospect of squishing DSO. He’s completely stark raving mad. Modin had extraordinary skills when it came down to the wire, but taking on the DSO was nothing short of pure hubris.

  Bergman threw himself on the bed and put one arm over his eyes in an attempt to block out the light. His gut told him that this might not have a happy ending.

  He entered a dark room. Astrid was hanging on the opposite wall. She was calling out for him, “Daddy!” His feet stuck to something gooey on the floor. He could not reach her.

  Suddenly the doorbell rang and he woke up with a start, sitting straight up in the bed. He could tell from the long shadows in his bedroom that time had passed. With his whole body shaking, he got up on unsteady legs and answered the door.

  “Bill! What the hell happened?” Ewa shouted, filling the entire hallway with her fury as she stepped in, Astrid in tow. “Astrid told me that the people who kidnapped her were talking about you and Modin. What the fuck are you guys up to?”

  “I know this looks bad and I am just as upset as you are. They took Astrid to put a stop to a diving project. That’s all I know for sure. I am so sorry.”

  “Okay, here is the deal. I will get your visitation rights revoked, if you as much as glance at Modin again, just so you know. What kind of project is this?”

  “I am sorry,” Bergman said. “I am not at liberty to say.”

  “Well, I think you are. My intuition tells me that Anton Modin is involved in some shitty business again. Cut him lose! Don’t associate with him ever again, you hear me?” She turned her back to him. “I can’t stand this. I am not in the slightest mood to leave Astrid here with you, but I guess I have no choice. But I’m warning you. This is the last time!”

  Ewa kissed Astrid on the mouth and put down her knapsack next to the door. Then she left without as much as a goodbye. Bergman closed the door slowly.

  What a scolding, he thought. Just like when they were still married. In her eyes, he had never been good enough. But deep down, he knew that this time, she was absolutely right.

  “Daddy, let’s rent a movie and buy lots of candy, shall we?” Astrid said. She was hugging him and holding on tightly, not wanting to let go. They both laughed with relief. His heart skipped a beat from pure joy.

  Secretly, he was studying Astrid to figure out if she had suffered any emotional or physical trauma. Most of all he would have liked to pat her down and examine her to make sure there were no injuries, but he couldn’t.

  “Hey pumpkin, how’re you feeling?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Dad, can we please do what I want today?”

  “Sure sweetheart, you are in charge. Want something to drink first?”

  Bergman followed his daughter skipping into the kitchen. It was a combination of pleasure and relief to watch her laugh and talk. Astrid took a soda out of the refrigerator and cracked it open.

  He sat down at the kitchen table across from her and looked out the window toward Riddarfjärden. A white steamboat was heading westward.

  “Look, it is probably taking tourists to either Drottningholm or Birka,” Bill Bergman said and pointed. “We can take a trip on one of those if you want.”

  “Yeah, but not today, okay?”

  “Astrid,” he said while looking his daughter deep in her eyes, “what happened the other day, when you were dragged into that car, will never happen again.”

  “Yes, that was scary,” she said and squeezed her soda with both hands.

  Bergman noticed something new in his daughter’s face. He put his hands together under the table so she would not see how his knuckles whitened.

  “Yes, I can imagine. I want you to know that I have talked to those men, and they have promised to never ever do that again. Do you understand?”

  “That’s good. Never again. It hurt so badly when they tied me up. They smelled bad too.”

  “Who smelled bad?” Bergman asked.

  “The mean old men did. The ones who didn’t speak Swedish. What country did these men come from, Daddy?”

  “Somewhere east I believe. I do not think they are as mean as they seemed. They were just doing their jobs. They were out to scare me. They weren’t there to hurt you. You understand?”

  “No.”

  Astrid fidgeted in her chair, twisted back and forth, grabbed the soda can, and took a big gulp, which made her cough.

  “Hey young lady, easy does it,” Bergman said. “Those men were not after you. They took you just to scare Anton Modin and me.”

  “They took me so they could scare you?” Astrid said.

  “Yes exactly. Crazy isn’t it? But you don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

  Bergman put his left hand on the table and simulated a crab crawling toward her hands. He took her hands and squeezed them hard.

  “I was very scared. I thought they were going to kill me. I peed my pants, too, there on the floor in the basement. They put something over my mouth. After that I can’t remember anything.”

  “Nothing else happened, sweetheart. I came and picked you up. Then we went home and washed you off. Do you remember that?”

  “Yes, some of it.”

  Bergman went around the table and took a seat next to her, motioning her to come sit in his lap. They both had tears in their eyes. He hugged her hard. Astrid hugged back and put her cheek against his shoulder.

  “No one will ever touch you again,” he mumbled. “I swear.”

  CHAPTER 46

  GRISSLEHAMN, MONDAY, JULY 21

  Modin was sitting in his folding chair on the landing dock, drying his hair with a light-blue towel. He had needed the chilly morning dip, and it certainly had awakened him. He glanced at the mid-morning sun; in a little while, the sun’s warmth was going to embrace him with rays that belonged to the consistent flow of universe and matter.

  He leaned back and relaxed. It was a quiet and peaceful morning. He had not felt this safe in a long time. A lot of crap had already gone down this summer, and the summer had just begun.

  He knew from experience that a comforting sense of calm and security could abruptly be replaced by chaos and danger. But for now, he just wanted enjoy it. He sank deeper into his chair and closed his eyes. In his mind, it became the summer of 1994. He could hear his kids playing in the water further down the beach. Ellinor was happily bobbing up and down in her inflatable bath ring. Alexander, dressed in his new green-blac
k wet suit, was probing the waterside with his fishing rod and net. He was trying to catch sticklebacks and other small fish while constantly talking.

  “Oh darn, he got away.”

  “Clumsy bro!”

  “I got one, look Ellinor!”

  “Please, can I have it?”

  Modin’s palms whitened. Subconsciously he squeezed the towel very hard. Behind his rapidly moving eyelids, his eyes wandered between the two kids, but he did not dare exhale for fear that the moment might vanish. They were so close, he could see them so clearly over there by the waterside.

  An enervating ringtone from his cell phone jerked him back to reality. He reached for his jeans, slid the phone out of the left front pocket, and reluctantly pushed the ‘Accept’ button.

  “Yes.”

  “Hi Modin, it’s Matti Svensson.”

  “What do you want? I don’t have time to talk to you right now.”

  “Please don’t hang up. I heard you’ve been released. Congratulations! Would you, by any chance, be interested in coming over to my place here at Skatudden for a quick visit? I have a visitor I think you should meet. He’s only here for today. He is Russian.”

  “Why the fuck should I do that? I have no reason to trust you, so if you say I should meet someone, I probably shouldn’t. You screwed me with that crap you published in Norrtelje News.”

  “Oh come on,” Svensson said as if he had read Modin’s thoughts. “I’m a professional. If I was to take every personal view and emotion into consideration, there would be very little written in this newspaper, you know that.”

  “Fuck you,” Modin muttered.

  “So I’ll see you in a bit?” Svensson said.

  I have nothing on my schedule until lunch anyway, Modin thought.

  “Fine. I’m curious to see what kind of nasty surprise you have in store for me this time,” he said and hung up.

  Modin got dressed and grabbed his bicycle from the shed. He was still too hung over to consider driving. The closest route to Svensson’s house was to follow the path through the woods and come out by the cliffs at Skatudden. It was a two-mile ride. He had only been there once before, years ago, when he was invited to the housewarming party. Everybody had wondered how Svensson could afford that place on his meager reporter salary, particularly since he had to pay for an emerging drinking habit. And even more people had wondered how he had been able to obtain a building permit for that attractive spot.

  I should go bicycling more often, Modin thought as he worked the pedals.

  On his right, he passed a farm that still smelled like they used to in the old days, with cows and pigs and the whole nine yards. He remembered jumping up and down in the hayloft of that farm, and even feeding the pigs as a kid. He had been happy! Amazing how life can turn out for a little boy.

  Modin had enjoyed some good childhood years; he had been spoiled rotten and received a lot of attention. His father provided him with a sense of stability and his mother gave him plenty of unconditional love. But when he turned seven, things changed. His parents were arguing on a regular basis, and their fights turned threatening and even violent sometimes. Something had gone awry. It was no longer natural for either of his parents to extend a hand, hug him, or just chat. On the contrary, at times, he became a protective shield between the two of them. He learned to hate their mean facial expressions.

  When Modin was twelve, his father died of a heart attack, and complete chaos emerged on all levels. He took his anger and frustrations out in school and on friends who successively abandoned him. They weren’t like him, so they could not understand what he was going through. Eventually, he joined a street gang and began abusing alcohol and drugs. As if that wasn’t enough, he followed through with theft, assault, and driving without a license, often in stolen cars. It wasn’t until he was conscripted at age 17 that his eyes opened and he entered a new phase, realizing that he had chosen an utterly destructive path. He vowed to change his life, and embraced the military world dominated by men and clear rules he could understand and follow. For the first time in his life, he was someone to count on, a cog in a bigger wheel, and that gave him a new kind of self-confidence. When the manipulative and often dangerous Chris Loklinth of DSO stepped in to fill the void his father had left, Modin turned into a frontline soldier almost overnight. Eleven times out of ten, he was picked for the dirtiest, shadiest, most dangerous, and morally questionable assignments in the bureau. He had despised most of those assignments, but accepted them nonetheless.

  I should probably consider therapy, he thought without looking where he was going. At least if I plan to continue to live. Or should I just lay down flat and sleep my way into the fog of eternity assisted by a single malt whisky and some pills?

  Modin swerved off the narrow path and into a mud-filled ditch, where his bicycle got stuck. His right foot sank down in the sludge, and he cursed loudly, although he realized deep down how utterly comical the whole situation was. He managed to keep his left foot on the pedal as he fought his way out of his predicament.

  Svensson’s raised ranch, painted white with blue edging, could be spotted a few hundred yards ahead. It was very elegant, easily featured 1,600 square feet, and, in a cocky way, balanced on the edge of the cliff as if it meant to challenge the elements.

  “Hello, anybody home?”

  Modin went around the back and up the staircase to the deck. The house featured a big round panorama window facing the sea. Immediately below the deck were steep, almost vertical cliffs, all the way down to the sea level. Modin felt the mist and tiny splatter of salt water as the waves slammed into the wall of the cliffs so far below him. The picture window showed stains of dried sea salt from this phenomenon, and unless Svensson broke out the Windex soon, he would not have much of a view left to enjoy.

  No way would you be able to swim here, Modin thought as he looked down at the sharp cliffs. What an incredible place! Not exactly your average hangout.

  Modin saw a shadow move behind the glass, and the door to the deck opened.

  “Hi there, Modin, please come in.”

  Svensson invited him to sit down at a round pine table in the center of the living room, surrounded by recliners in expensive lambskin leather. Svensson plopped down in one of them. With some hesitation, Modin sat down in another, and came to sit right across from a middle-aged man with unkempt long hair and a beard. He wore gray outdated dress pants and a wrinkly white shirt with no tie. Modin assumed that he was the Russian visitor Svensson had mentioned.

  The man did not say anything; in fact, his stare under his bangs suggested that he was half asleep.

  Modin couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast between the Russian’s shabby appearance and Svensson’s noble and upscale establishment. The open floor plan afforded a view of a modern bar-style kitchen with state-of-the-art appliances all around and a zebra-hide rug spread across the floor.

  “Well, it seems like you lead the life of Riley here,” Modin said. “I suppose it’s the national broadcast center that foots the bill.”

  “If only you knew,” Svensson said, smiling from ear to ear.

  Modin stretched out his hand and let his finger wander along the base of an azure blue designer vase signed by Alvar Aalto that was standing on an expensive light-colored table from Svenskt Tenn, another designer brand. No doubt, thousands of dollars had been spent on bourgeois luxury here. This was way more than a journalist of Matti’s caliber could afford.

  Apparently, Svensson was pretty sure he was untouchable. Either that or he just didn’t care, Modin thought. Maybe he has too much insight and a powerful network from his time as editor at Norrtelje News.

  “Make yourself at home,” Svensson said. “I would like you to meet a friend of mine, Ivan Polunin. He is a press information officer from St. Petersburg and an expert on the Soviet Navy.”

  He has KGB stamped right across his forehead, Modin thought.

  “Yeah sure, nice to meet you, Mr. Polunin,” he said.

>   The Russian flinched as he heard his name mentioned in a foreign tongue, and Modin shook his hand. He seemed to be staring right through him.

  Ivan Polunin reached for his military-green bag on the floor and took out a bottle of fine Russian vodka.

  “Here gentlemen, please help yourselves. My treat,” he said in broken English.

  Svensson grabbed three glasses and the Russian filled them generously. Modin felt his still-not-fully-recovered stomach turn.

  “Ivan is a specialist on Soviet submarine systems, especially vintage subs,” Svensson said. “He is a renowned columnist in several military publications in Russia, enjoying the reputation of a well-informed and skilled expert. I figured that you might be interested in Soviet submarines. Isn’t that correct, Modin?”

  Svensson smiled toward Polunin. They exchanged a couple of phrases in Russian, then Polunin said, “No, no,” while stretching his arms. Then he started to talk.

  “You know, Mr. Modin, in Russia we have never had any miniature submarine systems as is often and incorrectly claimed here in the West.” He spoke in a soft and confident manner. His cold, neutral eyes had become soft and faithful like those of a puppy. “At least no working and much less operational systems,” he continued and raised his glass to toast.

  “I have seen pictures of Soviet mini subs,” Modin said and took a sip from the vodka.

  “Yes, I am sure you have. But, I assure you that those submarines were only showcased and then photographed for project management. The Soviet Navy never got any of these prototypes to work and the project manager was eventually forced to resign. It was a big embarrassment and a fiasco to the Soviet Navy.”

  Modin looked at Svensson. He seemed very content and had an emerging smile on his face, almost as if he was awaiting Modin’s reaction to the blatant lie. Or maybe Svensson did not know it was a lie? What was this all about?

  “Oh, is that so?” Modin said and shrugged his shoulders. He decided to keep a straight face and find out how far they would take this. Besides, he knew from experience that patience was a good way of obtaining information. If the opponent was encouraged to talk, he would make a mistake eventually. He had vodka and was sitting very comfortably, so patience was not an issue.