A faint hunch of a wrinkle appeared on her forehead again, just for a brief moment, like an elusive shadow. He did not want to see it. Instead, he took her by the hand, and together they walked down to the landing dock. She let go of Modin’s hand and elegantly slipped out of the bathrobe. Her naked, firm body silhouetted against the sea and sky before she took a few quick steps and dove into the water. Her body glided through the water, surfaced about fifty feet out, where she took a few crawl strokes further out into deeper waters. She was an excellent and elegant swimmer.
Modin dove in, too. It was not as pretty a sight, but he was clearly no stranger to water either. Making sure he came up right next to her, he wrapped his arms around her. She chuckled, wrestled free, and quickly swam away from him.
Modin could not keep up.
“Did you ever swim competitively?” Modin was short of breath when she stopped and he finally caught up with her.
“Yeah, I was on the college swim team. My specialty was one hundred meters freestyle; I was best in class. I simply love water and the sea. I grew up in New Haven, Connecticut. That’s on the east coast. My parents’ place is right on the waterfront. It looks a lot like it does here. Everything is bigger there, of course.”
“And more,” Modin said with a smile.
They swam slowly back to shore, sat down in the folding chairs on the landing dock and dried off. She bent forward and squeezed the last of the water from her hair.
“You girls at The Rock are all strippers, I hear. How did you get into doing striptease?”
“Because my body seems made for it.”
“Oh, come on. Give me an honest answer.”
“Oh, fuck it. I come from privileged circumstances. My parents are wealthy. I have been able to attend the best schools and get anything I ever wanted and more. I guess I just wanted to be rebellious, a little dirty and nasty for a change.”
“But striptease, isn’t that going a bit too far?” Modin said.
“The view on striptease is somewhat different over there than here in Europe. It is regarded almost as any other business. I made money on my own and by that gained freedom. I no longer had to depend on my parents. In addition, as an extra bonus, it was a bit of a turn-on to see men react as I wiggled up and down the pole. Today, I would not go back to doing anything like that. It was a once-in-a-lifetime, spur-of- the-moment inclination, just for fun, something to try. I never went any further than striptease, though, in case you are wondering. It takes drugs and other heavy shit to go further.”
“Further?”
“Yeah, lap dances, blowjobs, intercourse… prostitution. Pure humiliation if you ask me. But going that far is a different ballgame. It is comparable to the relationship you have to drugs over here. Just because one smokes the occasional joint, you guys automatically assume one is a drug addict. In the United States, there are actually some parents who encourage their teenagers to smoke pot rather than to get wasted on alcohol the way you did yesterday. The kind of behavior you displayed yesterday is not socially acceptable in the U.S. Try to remember, Modin. When was the last time you saw a wasted American? I mean like here in Sweden, where some are so wasted they’re unable to stay on their feet.”
“Maybe you are right. Our cultural standards are different.”
“Not only culture and standards. It is about acceptance and environment.”
Ellie was sitting with her legs pulled up beneath her. As if from nowhere, Miss Mona showed up. She circled them, rubbing up against their legs. Then she looked up at Modin with her small, green predator eyes, as if she had forgotten who he was, and jumped into Ellie’s lap. Ellie started petting Miss Mona with slow, gentle strokes over her back.
“For instance, compared to only twenty years ago, you have so much more violence in Europe now, Europeans used to regard the U.S. as the most violent and blood-thirsty country in the world. Which is not true. This image was a product of Hollywood and all the dubious action movies, spreading so called American culture across the world. In today’s world, books, movies, music—everything is full of violence, even over here. Reason is, violence sells. All over the world.”
“And lots of sex,” Modin added.
“Oh, my God, you have a one-track mind, Modin. Want to go inside and fuck my brains out?”
“Oh, I would love to.”
CHAPTER 50
NORTHERN STOCKHOLM, WEDNESDAY, JULY 23
John Axman’s stomach was growling. It was a quarter past six and he had not eaten dinner yet. The wrapped sandwiches and the thermos were within reach, but he was busy surfing on the waves of the private network he had just hacked. Why close the Mac when Chris Loklinth pushed his Internet floodgates wide open?
Loklinth should only know how close Axman was, parked only a hundred or so yards away from his fashionable house in northern Stockholm.
It had taken him less than twenty minutes to crack the network password. Axman had cracked the encryption algorithm Loklinth had chosen, WEP Wired Equivalent Privacy, by using a simple freeware utility. He did not even have to go through the trouble of a brute force attack using password combinations, which would have been the case if Loklinth had been using WPA, Wi-Fi Protected Access. You’d expect that a man in his position would use WPA! He probably never even dreamt of anyone having the balls to sniff around in his private network.
John Axman smiled at himself in the rear view mirror as he adjusted his position and temporarily lifted the Mac up since it was getting hot against his thighs.
Loklinth could be read like an open book. Right now, he surfed the Norrtelje News home page. Unbeknownst to Loklinth, Axman simultaneously read the exact same article, the one about Modin, who had gotten in trouble again and risked another indictment, this time for assault and battery.
What is Modin up to? Axman wondered. Modin was no bar brawler. What he read made no sense. If Modin was really on a slippery downward slope, his network sniffing could prove to be devastating, even lethal. Modin was the backbone of this whole operation, for crying out loud!
Axman stopped obsessing and thought about his boyfriend Axel who had just pinged him on his cell phone, wondering when he was going to be home. Axel had no desire or interest in finding out what John was up to; he was not a suspicious type of guy. But he had a sixth sense. Just before Axman had left this afternoon, Axel had grabbed his head with both hands and with his gray, dreamy eyes looked deep into his and whispered, “I hope you know what you are getting yourself into, sweetheart. Because I cannot rescue you, cannot comfort you, or physically be by your side if something goes wrong. I received the letter yesterday. I have been accepted into the Academy of Fine Arts in Paris. I deliberately did not say anything because I wanted to think it over thoroughly, first. I will accept because that much I owe to myself.”
“I understand. I do, and I am happy for you. But I owe it to myself and a few other people to do what I am doing.”
“Then I guess we will just have to do what we have to do,” Axel had said and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
Axman returned to his hacking. Loklinth surfed into the Daily News real estate section checking for houses in the archipelago. His preference seemed to be upscale, fashionable homes, and price did not seem an issue.
Axman reached for the thermos. He had been spying on network traffic for years and knew from experience that he did not have to be constantly attentive when people were surfing for their dreams and aspirations. Human Internet behavior was the same with everyone, no matter if it was a housewife visiting the Home Shopping Network too often for her pocketbook or an old lecher looking for child pornography. People thought they were safe in the privacy of their home. Most offenders, from the onetime curious peeping Tom, to the porn consumer on an industrial scale, were blissfully unaware of how easy it was to sniff their traffic. Some of them did not even bother to encrypt their networks, but left the doors wide open for anyone to access. Those unprotected networks were a veritable gold mine for people with shady intentions.
It was close to impossible to track down any user other than the owner of the network. If he was lucky, the owner would be called in for embarrassing interrogations regarding his network activities. At worst, he would lose his life savings by someone hijacking his Internet bank credentials.
Axman poured a large cup and smelled the coffee aroma as Loklinth was opening his e-mail. Axman made sure to save a copy of the emails on his hard drive for later evaluation. Some recent e-mails had attachments, probably Word documents or pictures. Everything went over the wire in clear text, unencrypted. It would be easy to recreate. The protocol analyzer, Wireshark for instance, was an excellent tool to tap into Instant Messaging conversations. There was even an option to read the messages on the screen as they were typed and sent.
Axman decided to hang back on the side street for a while. He had finished the coffee and the liver pâté sandwiches were long gone. His cell phone rang. He could see on the display that it was Axel.
“John, I am starving. I am heading out with some friends to grab a bite.”
“Okay, who are you going with?”
“Oh, just some fellow artists, that’s all.”
“All right, well, you enjoy yourself.”
“Soon it will be our night, John, please promise me that. My bags are packed already.”
Loklinth logged in once again at 10:45 P.M. to empty his e-mail inbox. Then he surfed on teensex.com where he spent forty-five minutes before he finally turned off the computer. He also turned off the wireless network when it was not in use.
At least he has some sense, John Axman thought, as he powered down his laptop, started the car, and headed for the nearest McDonald’s. It was a silent protest against Axel who, by nature, hated hamburgers and fries with a passion.
CHAPTER 51
GRISSLEHAMN, SATURDAY, JULY 26
It was the warmest night of the summer. The thermometer hovered around 78 degrees, and the sun was about to set in the northwest. The early evening light made the deck of The Rock look like golden velvet.
All the outdoor patrons were wearing their designer shades, including Modin with his pilot model Ray-Ban, which he had pilfered from his old job at the airline. Wearing a white jeans jacket and torn blue jeans, he was sitting at his regular table. He was in an excellent mood, smiling all around and particularly at Kent E behind the bar. Every time Ellie passed by, Kent E raised an eyebrow looking at Modin. Without a doubt, Kent E now suspected that they were having an affair and he seemed not entirely happy about it. But they were not an item and Ellie kept her distance, which put Modin in a little bit of a dilemma. While he frequented this establishment every night and drank himself senseless so that people could revel in his decline, he could not, from a moral standpoint, behave like a douche bag at Ellie’s place of work. After all, there was some kind of spark between them. She was worth a better fate than him turning into a drunken mess.
The timing for a new relationship could not possibly be any worse, he thought between deep gulps of his beer.
What Kent E and the people around him did not know was that he stayed in shape by exercising daily—swimming and weight lifting. He could not allow too much of a physical decline. After all, a demanding diving project lay ahead.
If I let Ellie in on my secret and start a relationship with her now, I risk destroying my reputation as an alcoholic, he thought. I have put on too good of an initial display to let anyone ruin it. It is important to dupe the media into believing that I am finished.
Matti Svensson bicycle was parked outside the restaurant. Modin could not see him, but sensed his sour presence and glowing contempt in the air. Instead, his guest for the evening, Mr. Franck, showed up. Franck was a retired lawyer in his eighties with gray, medium-length, well-styled hair. He was of light complexion and had sharp, intellectual eyes. The beige linen jacket he wore had seen better days, but overall, the man seemed very well preserved. Modin had called him earlier and suggested they have a drink and talk about old times in politics.
“Please have a seat,” Modin said. “I have been told that tonight we will indulge in a fresh catch of shrimp.”
“Sounds good. I’ll have what you are drinking. Is it expensive?”
“Oh, never mind, tonight is entirely on me. I’m glad you showed up. It is not every night you get to sit and listen to stories from the Cold War told by an old fox from inside the spheres of power.”
“And you are a famous diver. I’ve read about your adventures in the papers, and besides; we’re almost neighbor’s, aren’t we?”
“Yes I suppose so; men from the sea. You knew all the high ranking Social Democrats, didn’t you, Franck?”
“Yes, I was a member of the party and also a member of the parliament.”
Ellie came over and brought a huge plate of freshly caught shrimp. She gave Modin a dreamy look, which almost made him gasp for air. He was going to remember this brief moment for a long time. How the heat built up and the noise from clinking glass and background clatter momentarily faded away; how, for a split second, their fingertips touched; how Ellie’s warm breath disseminated through his hair almost burning his scalp. It was like she had kissed him.
Franck dug into the newly caught shellfish; clearly, he loved fresh shrimp. The two men shared a couple of bottles of cold Chardonnay and enjoyed each other’s company and their small talk. The ex-lawyer had been a political bigwig back in the day. Just like Modin, he had his summer residence in Grisslehamn, and tonight he had arrived at The Rock in his twenty-seven foot Albin Vega, which he had sailed from the small village of Tomta, a few miles south.
“I was good friends with the author Wilhelm Moberg,” Franck said. “We were practically neighbors in Tomta. He was very much like you, Modin. I don’t mean to imply anything, but he committed suicide on August 8, 1973, at exactly eight-thirty at night. I take it you are familiar with that story, right? And his Emigrants series of novels?”
“Oh yes, I heard about that. Moberg walked straight out into the water. Sank to the bottom and stayed there. They say it is much like falling asleep.”
“Hmm, maybe so.”
“Yeah, that would be a death to consider when the time comes! Just stop breathing,” Modin chuckled.
“Not sure if suicide is ever the way to go. For those left behind it sure isn’t. I remember Moberg’s suicide note to his wife: The time is twenty past seven; I am going to search for eternal sleep in the lake. Forgive me, I could not endure any longer.”
“How tragic and yet, so beautiful.”
“It is strange that no one has considered turning his home out here into a museum,” Franck said. “I mean, they have turned the home of the lesser known author and artist, Albert Engström, into a museum. Engström is now the district’s late celebrity; the community has even funded the museum.”
Maybe the fact that Moberg was a socialist could have something to do with it, Modin thought, although he wasn’t really sure about Moberg’s political convictions.
He ordered a bottle of vintage Chablis.
“Weren’t you a member of the left wing extremist group Clarté before you became a Social Democrat?” Modin asked and focused in on the anticipated response to this directness.
“Yes, I was even the chairman of the Stockholm section. Yeah, times were different back then, in 1968.”
“I seem to have read somewhere in the Security Service archives that as part of its agenda, Clarté had to kill the king and disband the monarchy,” Modin said. “What the hell were you guys thinking? Or don’t you dare answer?”
“Well, I can answer that,” Franck said. “I have to admit that our vendetta against the monarchy was not very well thought through. But you should know that Clarté had a lot of prominent members. Now, in hindsight, I wish there was a way to publish the names to give us at least an opportunity to explain ourselves. Today I fear most people think we were nothing but useful idiots who had no real intention, let alone the means to overthrow the monarchy.”
“But you d
id, didn’t you?” Modin said with a smug smile.
“Yes, we really did want to overthrow the monarchy. We believed in the revolution. All that is hard to explain today.”
Franck raised the wine glass to his mouth, his Chand trembling slightly .
“I think I read in the papers that it was it Olof Palme who finally ousted you in the early 1950s. You guys had been in Czechoslovakia together in 1948, right?”
“Yes, but that was before he turned into a full-blown socialist. Palme even reported us to the CIA through one of his contacts at the American embassy in Stockholm.”
“Palme reported you to the CIA as revolutionary activists? And then he joined the Social Democratic Party and started working for Prime Minister Erlander. How the heck does that add up, Franck?”
“Well, there are other people who are wondering the same thing, too. All of a sudden, he became a socialist overnight. Just like that. Very peculiar since, only the day before, he had been dark blue and right wing.”
“Can you explain to me,” Modin said, “how people who wanted to kill our king in the late 1970s ended up in key positions in our government ten years later? How the hell did you manage that?”
“Well, we changed our platform in the 1970s, started gravitating toward the middle, so to speak. Most of us became Social Democrats, Olof Palme became our leader, and the Communists were left out in the cold. Once we were on safe political ground, we made sure our communist comrades missed the boat. They had no say in the process. You had to be a member of the Social Democratic Party in Sweden to advance and be someone. But you should know all that, Modin. You are part of the establishment; you’ve been decorated with the King’s medal, right?”
“Well, I’ve been decorated alright, but I think if they could take this honor away, they would. I will forever be remembered as the one who found what no one wanted to find: the DC-3. That is my lot in life. I will never be part of any kind of establishment, Franck. Forget that.”
Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1) Page 29
