Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1)

by Anders Jallai

  “One last question, Nils: Is anyone from the DC-3 crew still alive today?”

  It was a spontaneous question and Modin realized it was a long shot.

  Nilson’s face froze. The dementia-like, lazy expression and slow eyes that had initially greeted Modin were back. Modin felt a wave of anticipation and excitement wash through his blood stream. Give it to me, old man! Give me this valuable tidbit now!

  “One thing you should know Modin, and I tell you this for your own damn good, is that you are on incredibly thin ice with this one. I hope you realize that you are stirring a hornet’s nest.”

  Nils Nilson noticed the empty coffee cups in front of them, but made no effort to refill them.

  “Defense Radio tasked me with caring for and watch out for the widows of the DC-3 crew who disappeared that warm day in June of 1952. As time went by, I grew quite fond of one of them. We fell in love, and eventually I moved in with her and her daughter. We had a very good relationship and we really loved each other. Well, at least I loved her very much. After a few years, I forced myself to break it up and move out. I could not stand the thought of her husband walking through the front door one day. I had no choice. I fled the scene, left everything behind.”

  “What are you trying to say? Did you know that her husband might come back, or was it just an inkling? Did he come back?”

  “I cannot tell you any more. You will have to settle with that. You are the only one I have ever revealed this to.”

  Modin’s conceptual world was spinning. He closed his eyes and counted on his fingers.

  “Was this by any chance in 1965?” he asked. “When Erlander and Palme were on an official state visit to Moscow and met with Nikita Khrushchev? Was that how you found out that the crew was still alive? Did Palme tell you that, Nilson? Answer me!”

  Everything concerning the DC-3 incident was dear to Modin; since he had dived for the remains of that plane, he felt personally engaged in the matter. Now he had been given yet another piece of the puzzle. He wanted more. Nilson, the fucking teaser, would have to spill the beans. Modin knew he was committing a fundamental mistake by reacting this way. He not only showed emotion, but it had also turned personal. Both were regarded cardinal sins in the game of intelligence. He knew that damn well, but he could not contain himself.

  “Nils! I demand that you tell me all you know. Come on!”

  Without a word, Nils Nilson slowly got up from his chair at the kitchen table. He glanced at Modin quickly, turned around, and walked into the bedroom with short steps, dragging his feet.

  “You can shut the front door behind you when you leave,” he said before the bedroom door closed.

  Modin tumbled out into the street still shaken to his core. He had never before been this close to details of an alternate truth to the official Swedish line about the downed DC-3 and the mysteries of the Cold War in Sweden. Nilson, a witness who had actually been there, who had been part of the events, had been within reach. He had had the palpable sense of being able to literally touch the old man’s words, just before they flew out of reach. Modin was wondering if he would ever get such a chance again, whether he would ever have a real shot at the truth. What other secrets had President Harry S. Truman harbored, and what were the real associations between the United States and Sweden? He simply had to know. At all cost.

  CHAPTER 48

  GRISSLEHAMN, TUESDAY, JULY 22

  Modin made it to the Grisslehamn fish market just before it closed.

  He bought three already prepared fillets of walleye, local new potatoes, dill, sour cream, a loaf of French bread, two cans of beer and a lemon. He got it all wrapped neatly in a plain, white plastic bag and paid cash.

  He drove his pickup truck the last few miles over to his summer house. It was slow going on the narrow gravel road, and Modin passed the time thinking about what Nils Nilson had told him.

  Harry S. Truman, the President of the United States, who ruled the world after the fall of Hitler, seemed to have been under some influence of Stalin and the KGB by way of his closest aides. Roosevelt was compromised, too, due to his wife’s alleged affairs. The KGB would easily have been able to use this knowledge to manipulate Roosevelt during is presidency.

  Modin could not hold back a smile. Americans would never believe that the KGB and GRU were part of the American establishment; that was too incredible a story. Swedes would never believe either, because it meant to accept that late Prime Minister Tage Erlander had shady undercover dealings with both Stalin and Truman. Power corrupts; people in high positions and influencers of public opinion go through strange transformations, which eventually make them unrecognizable to the people who elected them. Is it maybe just all a façade? A puppet show? Even in the U.S., the land of the free? Most people in power are actually running someone else’s errands. Democracy as an idea is great, but in reality, it has turned out to be very fragile. The upper echelons of power will always keep the masses in check so that they can stay in power. At any cost.

  Modin spotted his house just beyond the crest of the hill. A very homey feeling suddenly came over him, a luxury he had not been able to afford himself for many years.

  The sun was about to set. The low angle made the last rays hit the western façade just right. There was a warm orange glow in the bulky glass secluding the deck from the fierce elements of the sea.

  A family of swans majestically swam from the shallow shores out onto a sea of gold, where a light breeze here and there rippled the surface to make it look like a darker metal.

  Modin turned into the graveled front yard, drove around the house, and parked his truck right by the sauna. He opened the driver’s side door and just sat there in the evening sun, taking it all in.

  It was a quiet and tranquil night. The occasional screech from a seagull drowned out the dull pounding from the Åland ferry’s idling engines in the harbor some miles away. The ferry moored around seven thirty every night for as long as Modin could remember. When he was a kid, he and his friends often biked down there just to watch it cast away. He had enjoyed all the commotion around the ferry with all the shoppers and the boozers coming ashore. It seemed to afford him a glimpse of the big world out there.

  Finally, Modin crossed the graveled front yard and unlocked his front door.

  “Miss Mona! Come here. I’ve got something yummy for you.”

  He put the grocery bag down in the kitchen and left the front door open.

  As he closed the refrigerator having unloaded the groceries, the cat came running full speed toward him, stopped gracefully, and started to rub against his legs. Modin picked her up.

  “Have you missed me? Are you hungry, pumpkin?”

  He put her down, took out one of the fish fillets, and served it to her on a porcelain platter.

  “Cannot waste any time here,” he said. “Your master is going to have to take off again.”

  He did not bother shaving or taking a shower. Come to think of it, I have not brushed my teeth since yesterday, he thought as he slipped into a pair of worn out jeans, put on a polo shirt and a light navy-blue sweater, which he tied around his waist, and a pair of brown loafers with rubber soles.

  He grabbed his bicycle out of the shed and peddled down to The Rock. He felt comfortable playing the role he wanted to project to his surroundings, but he did not have the slightest urge to be liquored up. But it had to be done; others had to think that he was on an unstoppable downward spiral, or else his Sun Tzu plan would not work. Right now, all that mattered was his plan to trick Chris Loklinth and Special Ops. You have to make certain sacrifices in the name of national security, he thought smiling about the irony of it all, and headed for the bar.

  “Hi there, Modin!” Kent E greeted him cheerfully. With his suntan, seductive eyes, and long, soft, and silky hippie hair in a ponytail, one might think the ladies would flock to him like flies to honey. However, Kent E had perfected the art of keeping a healthy distance, which not only provided him a peaceful work environment,
but also the ability to pick and choose who he wanted to talk to.

  “May I offer you a nightcap on the house, Modin?” Kent E was drying off whisky glasses and nodded invitingly at a bar stool right across from him.

  “That would be nice. I think I’ll have it over here,” he said pointing at a table to the waterside, on the sundeck.

  “As you wish, sir.”

  It had cooled off considerably; it was now only about 65 degrees. Modin sat down and looked at the old boathouse that sat right across the bar, painted in Falu-red with black corners instead of the now more typical white. Black corners had been common way back in the 19th century, especially in the poorer parts of the outer archipelago, where the corners had only been given a layer of ordinary tar, which was cheaper than the exclusive white paint.

  Immediately to the left of the boathouse in the reeds, he spotted a black dinghy hastily pulled out of the waters and crookedly balancing on the brink of the shore. In the corner of his eye, he saw a huge white luxury yacht on its way in, but he purposely decided to ignore it. He didn’t like jetsetters. They didn’t fit in here.

  The rolling waves of Åland Sea monotonously pounded the pillars of the landing docks beneath. Modin could hear the splashing right underneath his feet. A distinct scent of fish mixed with the unmistakable smell of fresh tong hung over the harbor. Above him, a couple of screeching terns whisked by, chasing each other.

  Business was picking up at The Rock. It was the middle of July and prime vacation time. Music and laughter drifted from some of the many fashionable and expensive boats moored by the landing docks. In the middle channel of the harbor, a recreational fishing boat was striving toward land after a long day at sea. Two men were sitting on the aft deck enjoying their beers. They seemed very comfortable and relaxed. A dull humming sound rose from the two outboard motors whirring in the water behind them.

  Modin turned to his left, where three young men were loading diving equipment into a Chevy van in the parking lot near the landing dock.

  He closed his eyes and was, for a moment, deep down in the ocean. He could feel the bubbles tickle his cheeks as they ascended like silvery pellets toward the greenish surface above him. He enjoyed the weightlessness and silence of the depth and wanted to stay down there forever.

  Kent E brought his scotch in a sturdy crystal glass. On the tray, he also brought two bottles of sparkling mineral water and a bucket of ice. He handed Modin one of the bottles along with a smaller glass. He poured for both of them.

  “So, how’s it hanging, Modin?”

  “Fine. Yourself?”

  “Couldn’t be better. Where is Bergman? Last time you guys were here together, sparks were flying. Everything okay between the two of you?”

  “Yes, I think so. He stayed over at my place that night, but left before woke up. Haven’t seen or heard from him since,” Modin said, trying to sound neutral. But he wasn’t. Bergman seemed to have a problem with his plan; in fact, Bergman wanted him to really stop the diving expedition, and not only lay low so nobody would suspect that in fact, they were still preparing their dive. “I assume he’s in Stockholm. He seems to be keeping a low profile, taking it easy. We had to cancel our latest project and I think that was a hard blow to him,” Modin lied and took a generous swig of his whiskey. “Ah, this is good. Maybe I should consider a career as a full time drunk, what do you think?”

  “Yes, why not,” Kent E said with a quick laugh. “That would certainly boost our bottom line.”

  Kent E suddenly turned serious and squinted toward the horizon.

  “It is the submarine you are talking about, right?” he said.

  “Yes. How do you know?”

  “Joint told me one evening. That guy cannot keep a secret to save his life.”

  “Well, it is over anyway. The diving operation we had planned is cancelled. Our hands are tied. No cigar this time. Game over!” Modin repeated his lie and finished his drink in one gulp.

  “Would you like another one?”

  “Yes please, but this time I will pay.”

  He put his elbows on the table and looked around as Kent E was walking away. He caught a glimpse of Ellie. She was carrying a loaded tray at the other end of the deck and waved to him. He waved back.

  The bar was nicely crowded. Diagonally behind him sat the rough crowd, a gang of sturdy guys that looked like they belonged to the Bandidos MC Club—at least they wanted to give that impression. One of them looked familiar. Another one just unloaded a huge pile of snuff from under his upper lip and scraped it off on the edge of the empty beer glass. The gooey tobacco substance balanced on the edge for a split second before dropping into the glass and mixing with some leftover beer on the bottom.

  Behind them, further back, sat a group of boaters, probably from upscale Östermalm in Stockholm. That much he could tell from their attire: white Gant sailing chinos and navy-blue sweaters, some with touches of red and white, and shades from Prada and Gucci. One of the men, probably the owner of the boat they all had arrived in, the white shiny toy out there, had a maroon scarf tied around his neck. A show-off, Modin thought as he watched him talking, sweeping gestures accompanying his every word. The men at the table were all well-built. Two of them were in especially good shape, and Modin guessed they were the older man’s bodyguards. He didn’t only have grand gestures, but also a grand potbelly.

  Modin was examining the 50-foot white luxury cruiser, probably in the one-and-a-half million dollar range, which had moored at the dock. It was quietly bobbing up and down at its moorings, about a hundred feet away. Modin had never before seen such a huge recreational yacht anchored in Grisslehamn and wondered for a split second how much untaxed, under-the-table-money you would have to scrape together to afford something like that.

  I cannot imagine anyone being stupid enough to fork out hard earned and taxed money on a giant boat like that, especially with the boat season in Sweden being restricted to some two months in the middle of the summer.

  “How’s it going, Modin?” Kent E asked as he came back with his second whisky. “I mean, really, how are you holding up, man?”

  Modin removed his sunglasses and looked up at Kent E. With his right index finger, he scratched his cheek and all of a sudden felt like he had just woken up.

  “Well, it is rough, I cannot deny that. But I can handle it. I always do. Life has its ups and downs, for me as well as for everyone else. I have to live with what people here think of me for a while. Soon they will forget, I hope.”

  Kent E shrugged his shoulders.

  “I need to go on a real fucking bender, I can feel that,” Modin said. “One of those ole’ mighty countryside binge drinking sprees with all the trimmings. Can you take care of that for me?”

  “Well, minus the ole’ mighty getting-into-a-bar-brawl part, I hope?” Kent E said with a wide smile almost hoping for a promise on Modin’s part.

  “Why not?” Modin said laughing as he formed his right hand into a fist. “I cannot imagine why all these shadows of past failures keep popping up in one’s head every time you have a setback. As if you have a little chip on your shoulder saying: See, what did I tell you? You are completely worthless.”

  “Yeah, that feeling is all too familiar, man,” Kent E said. “I think it is your fragile self-confidence shining through. Once you’ve had your spirit broken, it’s a long way to mending it. We are all just dealing with the sins of our fathers, or rather, their disappointments. Think it was that Freud dude who said that once.”

  “Yeah, either him or Jung,” Modin said.

  “Our fathers beat us up because they didn’t have any other way to prove how manly they are,” Kent E said. “They wanted us to become successful for them, and when that did not happen, we could feel their disappointment wash over us like a frigging tsunami. I know for sure I have a chip on my shoulder just because of that.” Kent E put his glass down on the table before continuing, “Joint is in Stockholm tonight entertaining his mistress. That means I am king of th
e hill. Only for one night, but nevertheless. This first one is on the house.”

  Kent E called one of the American waitresses over, a blonde with a nice set of racks and an inviting smile. Her name was Julie, and this was her first season here at The Rock. She had also been a stripper in Boston in her recent past, and this was her first summer break. Now she wanted to see Europe and learn about European culture and customs. Kent E had lied straight-faced to her at the job interview and told her that it was right here in Grisslehamn where the cradle of the Viking culture once stood, because he had badly wanted to hire her. Kent E had a weak spot for borderline vulgar blondes with huge breasts. A preference shared by most of his clientele, too.

  “Julie, my dear, would you please be so kind as to bring us a carafe of gin, ice on the side, and lots of sliced lemon? Bring plenty of tonic water, also, please. We are going to drink quinine. I have heard it is excellent for the prostate. The boys are back in town.”

  He raised his arms and tensed his biceps trying to resemble the incredible Hulk.

  At times, Modin thought Kent E was a little over the top when it came to being bold and macho. Especially when he had had a few. Nevertheless, Modin appreciated his honest and direct manners. Everyone has good qualities hidden away somewhere. It is just a matter of letting them out, letting them bubble to the surface and take their rightful place. But that, in turn, requires a healthy self-esteem and some insight. Something you usually get through booze, drugs, or therapy.

  Julie leaned forward over the table. Her firm bosom occupied most of Kent E’s view. She had clearly practiced pouring a drink just so—probably worked wonders with most of the clientele in the place.

  The biker gang a few tables over watched in suspicion and distaste. They stretched their backs and one of them adjusted his ponytail. Julie whisked past the bikers and straight out into the kitchen, ignoring them.

  “American girls are darn obvious and honest with their intent,” Kent E said, as if he had read Modin’s mind. “When they work, they are a hundred percent dedicated. Their goal is to make as much money as they can by utilizing the time they work to the fullest. They never mix business with pleasure like Europeans. Huge tits and a warm welcoming smile equal huge tips—that is just the way it is, and no frigging feminist can change that fact. All else is hypocrisy.”