Modin grabbed his cell phone and pushed the speed dial marked GF.
“Filipson,” Filipson’s voice betrayed that he had been asleep.
“Hi, it’s Modin. I am very sorry to disturb you at this ungodly hour. But I just wanted to tell you that we are in our starting blocks. We are going out tonight.”
“Okay, thank you for that piece of information. Do you need help? Want me to send some of our people?”
“I do not know if that is entirely necessary,” Modin said. “We just found out that there are Swedish naval forces anchored up not far from here. Would that be something you know about, by any chance?”
“No. But I can look into it. Modin, please be careful.”
“Call me when you have word on this activity, will you?” Modin said, hung up, and put the cell phone down on the kitchen counter. He poured two cups of coffee and handed one of them to Axman.
“We need to get this show on the road as soon as we can.”
“Yeah, sure seems that way,” Axman said. “What about Bergman? Wouldn’t it be best to leave him here? I don’t trust him.”
“Oh, don’t you worry. He’ll get his chance to explain what that email was all about,” Modin said.
“I don’t think we can afford to take that chance,” Axman said. “It’s obvious that he has either switched sides or is under some duress. He will sell us out.”
“I don’t think it is quite that simple,” Modin said and lowered his voice. “Let us keep this navy presence under wraps for now. Nuder knows, but please don’t tell Bergman or Sture.”
“So, we are going out tonight, regardless?”
“Yes, we are. We will stick to the plan.”
Bergman, Sture, and Nuder came down to the kitchen almost simultaneously.
“Great, is there some coffee left?” Bergman asked.
“And white bread?” Nuder piped in.
They all ate in silence. Axman was enjoying his coffee with his back toward the group, looking out the window at some point in the distance. Modin finally broke the silence:
“Bergman, you will join me as part of the bottom team. The two of us will go down and inspect the object. Axman, you will act as a backup and safety diver. I would like for you to come down and meet us with some extra gas during our ascent and decompression. Then we will hang another four cylinders on a depth of 20 feet under the boat, just as extra insurance. You will take care of that, Nuder. Sture, you will be our lookout. Tune to VHF channel 16 on the radio, and please keep an eye out for approaching surface vessels and even helicopters.”
Axman had a hard time hiding his irritation. It was pure insanity to take Bergman down as Modin’s teammate, especially under the circumstances. Axman was a much more experienced diver and should be the one to accompany Modin. But he did not say anything. Modin was in charge, and he likely had a plan, which he preferred to keep to himself for now. That was just so like him, Axman thought as he emptied his cup of coffee.
“Would it not be better if Axman followed you down to the bottom?” Bergman said. “470 feet is pretty darn deep for me. It will be a new record out here in the Sea of Åland.”
“No, you will come with me Bergman. We need Axman as a backup in case anything happens. This is no frigging hobby dive. This is serious business and it is very much a matter of national security. Because of that, we have to assume that the risks are so much greater. You can handle it Bergman. I trust you.” That last phrase was meant to hit home, but Modin was unable to read his friend’s facial expressions and wasn’t sure Bergman had noticed the innuendo.
“I will head down to the landing dock,” Modin said, quickly finishing his toast. While still chewing, he got up from the table, put his cup in the sink, and headed for the door. “Please finish up in here, and then join me down there as soon as you are all ready to go.”
Modin wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Bergman looked after Modin with a worried expression.
“What is this all about? Why did he pick me?” he asked Axman. “470 feet is nothing but suicide.”
Axman didn’t respond.
• • •
Nuder maneuvered the Hulk with a firm hand over the mirror-like surface. He was going close to fifty knots and without running lights. He always said that he knew the northern archipelago like the back of his hand, and this skillful display proved it.
Bergman was working on his diving regulators. They were going to need six regulators for this operation. Two on the main package contained Trimix, which they were going to use for the deepest part. The oxygen level was depleted down to nine percent and replaced with helium in order to avoid oxygen toxicity. The other four regulators were attached to the cylinders used for descent and ascent. Finally, they required another four regulators for the pure oxygen tanks, for their shallow decompression.
They anchored those cylinders underneath the boat. They counted on spending no more than fifteen minutes down at the bottom, because they certainly did not have enough gas for longer excursions. Exceeding those fifteen minutes would be risking death by decompression sickness.
Keeping track of the exact time will be of the essence in this extreme environment, Bergman thought and screwed the next regulator onto a cylinder. Diving to a depth of 470 feet is darn fucking deep. He recalled the record within the navy being somewhere around 330 feet, and that was with the aid of a hyperbaric chamber. That record was accomplished on a dive down to the wrecked World War II Gotland ferry, Hansa, in the 1980s, and was still upheld as the official Swedish record. In an experimental dive with hydrogen gas, a Swedish diver had been down to 460 feet in the 1950s, but he had, unfortunately, perished on his way up.
At 470 feet, the water temperature is close to the freezing point, regardless of what season it happens to be in the Baltic. Fucking cold and pitch black, Bergman mused. For that reason, it does not matter if you choose to dive during the night. Modin is right in that this has to be done now.
Bergman double-checked his heavy-duty diving spotlight and its storage battery, at the same time struggling to master his anxiety.
Darn fucking cold and dark! But I can hack it.
Bergman hoped that the excitement preceding the dive would make him numb and dampen the anxiety. But he had a bad premonition about all this. The Bulgarians and that Judge Svan, whoever he was working for, knew what was going down tonight. They had forced the information out of him. But he had no way of backing out now. He could not let his friends and teammates down. At least no more than he had already had.
If anything is about to happen to them, I want to be there when it does, he thought and tightened the last regulator. I am, after all, on their side.
The gas mix was already double-checked. He grabbed onto the side of the RIB boat just as a random wave hit them sideways. Turning around, he saw a carpet of white foam behind the Hulk and the three V8 outboard motors roaring in competition. He tried to convince himself that this was what daring adventures were all about. But his heart felt like a heavy rock in his chest.
CHAPTER 61
RIDDARGATAN, STOCKHOLM, TUESDAY, JULY 29
Chris Loklinth was a perfectionist when it came to his manicure. He regularly visited a nail salon where a young girl filed his nails, put lotion on his cuticles, and gently pushed them down. At times, he secretly looked down at his hands and enjoyed how elegant they were. That pleasure had now come to an abrupt end. He was a marked man! A pounding, dull ache constantly reminded him of the amputation out in Lill-Jans Forrest a couple of nights ago. He could not go to the emergency room, partly because the doctors would wonder what had happened, and partly because he did not have the time.
He had to try to salvage whatever could be salvaged, he thought as he rubbed his left hand. Modin had him nailed, at least until he had come across some even better life insurance against him. He was wondering about the other participants in the assault—who were they? Nuder had come clean by mentioning his dogs. Fucking animals. But the third guy was an unknown card.
Maybe there had even been more perpetrators in the background.
Modin has apparently recruited his own army of mercenaries, he thought. Who financed that? There was no doubt that Modin’s rampage now was a matter of national security. Loklinth had to admit that things were not looking all that bright from his point of view. Who could he ally himself with? Clearly, the Security Service could not be trusted. It was beyond any doubt that Modin had powerful friends and they could, for all he knew, very well be within the Security Service.
He browsed through the tapping records of Modin’s phone. Except for the usual suspects, he had dialed a number in Lidköping several times. A number lookup on the computer turned up the name Gunnar Anderson, and Loklinth realized immediately that he had hit a bulls-eye. Gunnar Anderson was the former mid-level director at Defense Radio. Loklinth had more or less full control over him.
Loklinth downed two painkillers with a glass of water and immediately felt more at ease. He was going to nail him! And Gunnar Anderson was going to be the instrument to do it.
In the 1970s, Anderson had been suspected of spying for the Soviet Union, but the Security Service failed to muster any crucial or incriminating evidence against him. In 1992, when the Warsaw Pact fell apart, his name was contained in the lists the CIA had been kind enough to submit to the Security Service. At that point, Special Ops had proceeded to interrogate him, only to eventually find that he could not be broken.
Anderson had retired from Defense Radio SIGINT in December of 1982. That was only two months after the sinking of submarine 82-X, Loklinth thought and kept browsing through the electronic file. Was there any chance that Gunnar Anderson knew more about 82-X than what was good for him? He had been deeply involved in signals surveillance and analysis back then. What had they picked up? And how much of that information had he leaked to Modin?
Loklinth was speculating until his head hurt. At this point, he would have to resort to something really spectacular, unexpected, and irrational in order to regain the upper hand.
From the cell tower triangulation map, he gathered that Modin was currently at his summer house in Grisslehamn. His friends Bill Bergman and Harry Nuder were also there after having been together at an address in Hägernäs earlier in the day. These troublemakers are definitely cooking something up now that they think they have the Bureau and me neutralized. I think I will have to pay Gunnar Anderson a personal visit to feel him out a little bit. He is, after all, a broken old man nowadays. A paper tiger! It won’t take long to pressure him. Besides, this annoying leak has to be plugged.
Loklinth reached for the plastic bowl on his desk and grabbed a juicy green apple. Without even wiping it off, he bit off a large chunk. The crunching was not too dissimilar to the sound a horse makes when eating. But he had to spit it out with a loud moan. His pallet was infected and tender. His teeth were loose. He was going to have to stick to yoghurt and liquids for quite some time.
CHAPTER 62
GRISSLEHAMN, WEDNESDAY, JULY 30, 2:00 A.M.
Bill Bergman is letting water into his diving mask, and then blowing it out with his nose to make sure his visibility is optimal. He grabs the air hose connected to his vest and holds it up over his head to let the air out.
Then he slowly sinks down into the murky water.
Immediately, he can feel the water pressing against his face. It is almost lukewarm.
Bergman turns on his diving spotlight at a depth of nine feet and follows Modin. They are sinking rapidly along a fluorescent yellow descent line.
Thirty feet, sixty, ninety, one hundred and twenty. He can feel it getting colder.
Modin is stopping for some reason. After a short while he turns up toward Bergman and uses the hand signal for okay, the thumb and index finger formed to a ring.
Bergman acknowledges the signal and checks if he has the diver writing board with him. It is right where it is supposed to be, in a karabiner attached to his diver utility belt.
Shortly thereafter, they pass the one hundred eighty mark and it is getting darker. Bergman quickly peeks at his scuba dive computer. This is sixty feet past the depth recreational sports divers are allowed to go, and they still have a ways to go before they reach the bottom.
Bergman wiggles his upper body just so he can adjust the air cylinders. He has a twin pack on his back and four cylinders in packs of two in front of him resting on his stomach. The most important thing is to keep track of what regulator and gas mix to use at the appropriate depth. Otherwise, a dive like this could easily turn lethal. It is impossible to breathe anything else other than Trimix past a depth of 300 feet. You’d suffer immediate oxygen toxicity.
Bergman feels a slight nagging unease as they pass 220 feet at high speed. Water is leaking into his mask. The diving suit is squeezing his arms and torso. To compensate, he injects more air into it. It seems as if Modin is sinking like a stone, and Bergman does not want to be left behind. He is stressed, but decides to keep up.
At 270 feet, he goes into himself and falls into a state of deep concentration. He has a habit of doing just that. All his worries disappear as if by the wave of a wand. A bittersweet, melancholy state of pleasure beleaguers him. Probably euphoria, similar to the phenomenon people with near death experiences go through. While they are descending, Bergman is wondering how it feels to be in the lead like Modin. Does he know what awaits them down there? Modin’s instincts have always guided him well. He has the qualities of the lone wolf, relies on his own abilities, makes his own decisions, and takes a critical view of the surrounding world. His downside is definitely his uncompromising search for the truth. But his intentions are good.
I would never want to get on his bad side, Bergman thinks, then remembers that perhaps he already is, given he sold him out to save his daughter. Images of the naked, shivering Loklinth rush through his mind.
Bergman stops at 310 feet. Far below, there is a faint source of light.
What the fuck?
CHAPTER 63
LIDKÖPING, TUESDAY, JULY 29, 9:00 P.M.
Chris Loklinth turned his Porsche into the yard with full steering lock. Gravel and pebbles sprayed from the tires.
Fortunately, there is room in our Special Ops budget for missions like these, he grinned with a sore jaw.
He had grabbed the fastest car the Bureau had access to, and driven the 240 miles from Stockholm in two hours, including a quick stop at McDonald’s. There, he had been the subject of his fellow patrons’ compassionate looks in his attempt to suck down French fries and, with great difficulty, crumble up a hamburger so he could manipulate the tiny pieces into his mouth.
Modin’s fucking fault! I am going to kill that bastard.
Loklinth pulled up the emergency break and stepped out. The car locked with a hollow beeping sound as he pushed the remote lock button on his way up to the house.
Loklinth entered the house without so much as a knock, closed the door behind him, and went straight into the hallway. A musty smell greeted him. “Anybody home? Gunnar! Where are you?”
Another car turned into the yard and came to a halt right in front of the house. Out stepped Matti Svensson, the journalist, while two other people remained in the car, beefy guys with dark complexions.
Chris Loklinth entered the dining room just to find Gunnar Anderson fast asleep on the couch. He nudged him, maybe a bit harder than necessary, and Anderson woke up with a start, getting to his feet within a fraction of a second, almost at attention.
“Why are you here?” Anderson said, still drowsy and confused. “What have I done?” Anderson seemed surprised. “I did not tell Modin anything of significance, I promise. Is that why you are here?”
“Take it easy, Gunnar, you are among friends. You are going to help us. I will give you an assignment and it is very much a matter of national security.”
“I am a tired old man, what can you possibly want with me? What happened to your hand, by the way? And your face!”
Gunnar Anderson looked in disgust at what was l
eft of Loklinth’s little finger. The finger was dark blue, almost black up to the first joint where a bandage covered what was not there anymore. Loklinth’s face had changed color and his mouth looked strange, almost as if it was disjointed. Loklinth was well aware of his disfigurements, and it bothered him deeply.
“Here, take this,” Loklinth said in a stern voice.
He handed Gunnar a gel capsule containing Benzodiazepine, street name BZD. Its purpose was to loosen reservations, like a truth serum. Loklinth walked to the kitchen to grab a glass of water.
Oh my fucking God, this place is a mess. This old fart should have some home service looking after him.
Gunnar swallowed the pill without protesting or even asking what it was. He was completely in Loklinth’s hands.
“Gunnar, I would like you to talk to a friend of mine. His name is Matti Svensson. You remember him, Gunnar? Here he is, like clockwork.”
Loklinth was aware that Gunnar Anderson knew Matti Svensson very well. He was one of Special Ops political emissaries. In addition, he had also carried out assignments for both the KGB and Stasi back when they still existed. Matti Svensson was frequently called upon when any kind of disclaimer or disinformation needed to be dispensed to the public. He almost always got his articles published, and he was an important tool in the service of Special Ops.
“Listen guys, I am an old man and I don’t know if I can take any more of this,” Anderson said defiantly.
“First I will ask a few questions,” Matti Svensson said pretending not to notice the defiance. “Then I will take a couple of pictures, okay?”
Matti Svensson fired off a crooked smile revealing his long, nicotine-stained teeth as he sat down at the table right across from Gunnar. Loklinth, in turn, got up and turned his back on the couple. Instead, he strutted about admiring Anderson’s art collection, which covered most of the walls in his house.
Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1) Page 34
