“Okay, so here we go,” Matti Svensson said. “Is it not a fact that the intruding submarines back in the 1980s were really of American origin?”
Gunnar Anderson stared at Matti Svensson. He felt strangely numb and dizzy.
CHAPTER 64
TUESDAY, JULY 29, 9:30 P.M.
Bergman realizes that the shooting stars down there in the depths are hallucinations. The glimmering light does not exist. There are no other people here. Or is it a submersible vehicle? The Russians?
This operation is demanding enough as it is. Have to concentrate on the dive. Only on the dive and nothing else.
Bergman peeks at his dive computer again. They are passing 360 feet. New record, he thinks as if in a trance. When deciding to focus, he sees Modin’s silhouette standing out razor sharp in the light from his powerful flashlight. He will not let go of him with his eyes, will not allow any more fantasies to occupy his brain.
Visibility is very good considering how deep we are. Maybe as good as 75 feet.
For every breath he takes, he hears the hissing from the regulator. The bubbles rush past his face after each exhalation. He is deliberately trying to breathe as slowly as possible to conserve gas. The icy cold water is now starting to sting his cheeks.
They already switched the gas mix at 240 feet and now, as they head for the bottom, they are on the Trimix.
Things are easing up, it seems. He is trying to convince himself that the differences in pressure have evened out. There is less need to blow air into the suit to compensate.
They are just passing 395 feet when a fish flashes by in front of Bergman’s diving mask.
A cod, he thinks. What the heck is he doing down here?
And if it is not a fish, then what is it? Could it have something to do with the sharp light he saw earlier on? But neither of those two phenomena comes back. He does not know if that’s good or bad. Is there any chance he is hallucinating due to the depth?
Excitement is building in anticipation of what they are about to see. Something made of metal is supposed to be at the other end of the line of descent. Pray to God that I will see it soon!
430 feet, shit! He wants to turn back.
At the same time, Bergman notices that Modin turns around, probably for the last time before making contact with the bottom. Modin is once again using the okay hand sign. They have thirty feet left. Modin continues down. Bergman glances at his manometer, which says 180 bar. He still has plenty of gas. Besides, it is too late to turn around. They will pull off this stunt!
• • •
Gunnar Anderson was asked a few meaningless questions about the method they had used at Defense Radio in the 1980s to identify the intruding submarines. He patiently explained that it hadn’t been much of a problem back then. They had been able to trace the submarine’s transmissions to Baltijsk, outside of Kaliningrad in the Soviet Union, simply by cross direction finding.
Matti Svensson’s response was that Defense Radio had leaked this information to the Swedish Foreign Minister Carl Bildt in 1983 and that he, in turn, had decided to classify the information as a matter of national security. Anderson felt resigned and did not really have the energy to argue with Matti Svensson and his statements. He was drowsy and indifferent to what was going on around him.
He is going to write whatever the heck he wants anyway, he thought. What he witnessed was just another Special Ops disinformation campaign. Modin’s visit had had a liberating effect on him, but now he was once again snarled in their lies and mind games. He was not feeling good at all and needed a bathroom break.
“Excuse me. My stomach is acting up.” Gunnar got up and walked to the bathroom.
Matti Svensson leaned forward at the table microphone: “We now interrupt our interview with the former Director at Defense Radio. The truth is apparently too much, and the cover-up, which has been going on for all these years, is taking its toll. We will take a short break. He needs to collect his thoughts.”
In the bathroom mirror, Gunnar Anderson could see how pale he was. His eyes were glassy. He folded the lid down, sat on the toilet bowl, and closed his eyes hard.
When he returned, Matti Svensson turned the recorder back on and the interview continued.
“So, Director Anderson, is it safe to assume that your department also had collaborators in Moscow at the time when the DC-3 was shot down?”
“Yes, that is correct.”
Anderson shrugged his shoulders a couple of times. He still didn’t feel well. His body was like a liability to him. He wanted to be free of this foggy feeling, to be awake and alert, so that he could anticipate the questions before they were asked. Instead, he felt like a sack of cement, which immediately put him into a defensive position.
“Were these collaborators Ambassador Rolf Sohlman and the secretary of the legation, Sverker Åström? Can you confirm that?”
“Yes, they were in on it. They were spying for…”
“That is right. You worked in teams, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, that is correct. They leaked our official standpoints before they were even made public.”
“Leaked them to the Americans, right?”
“Yes, if that’s the way you want it,” Anderson sighed.
“Can you furthermore confirm that Sohlman and Åström handed over information regarding the DC-3 and Raoul Wallenberg to the Americans? That they, in essence, were American undercover operatives. Please confirm that, Director Anderson!”
“Yeah, I guess that they did that, too,” Gunnar Anderson said in a resigned tone of voice.
“And that you, on several occasions, did the same, which is why you can be so sure about the information you have given us today. Confirm that!”
“Yes, at times I handed classified information to U.S. operatives.”
Gunnar Anderson let out a big yawn and looked out the window, dejected. Matti Svensson turned off the recorder.
“I think we got what we came for.”
“Excellent,” Loklinth said.
• • •
In the beam from Modin’s searchlight, Bergman can make out a debris field on the bottom. He looks at his dive computer: 460 feet. It is like the numbers no longer concern Bergman. He is in the zone, fully concentrated and determined to find the truth. He can make out dark-gray debris covered by a thin layer of sediment. But it is no submarine; that much he can say.
Bergman lets the beam of his own searchlight randomly wander over the bottom, which consists mostly of gravel in different grades. Here and there bigger rocks stick up. The water is amazingly clear for this depth. He slowly performs an entire three-sixty, but cannot spot any wreck.
Could we have missed the target? Or is there nothing left of it? Salvaged? Blown up? A hoax?
With his flashlight, he takes a closer look at the silvery substance on the bottom. He cannot figure out what it is.
In the corner of his eye, he can suddenly see Modin waving his light back and forth like a madman. He is behind Bergman and about sixty feet away.
Bergman takes off toward Modin, who is still frantically waving his light. He initially puts way too much effort into his fast kicks, and immediately experiences shortness of breath slight dizziness. He makes a serious effort to calm down. Simultaneously, he is fighting anxiety again.
When he is about thirty feet away he can make out a dark silhouette, an object covered in sediment. Getting closer, Modin’s wide open eyes look almost all white behind the glass of the mask.
The mini sub! is written all across the writing pad, which Modin is holding right in front of Bergman’s nose.
Bergman grabs the marker and writes underneath: Are you sure?
Modin writes: One hundred percent!
Modin takes off and swims for the back of the craft.
The wreck is black, or maybe dark-green, covered in sediment and shells. It looks like an ordinary rock, Bergman thinks. The small vessel has no tower, only a hatch at the top. Bergman thinks its shape resembles a fa
t fish. It is standing straight up on the bottom. He notices that the upper part close to the hatch is ripped open. There is not much left of the hatch itself.
He decides to follow Modin.
• • •
Chris Loklinth ignored Anderson and walked straight out of the house.
Matti Svensson collected his gear and then got up.
Gunnar Anderson suddenly looked very old. His face was pale, almost ash gray, and his whole stature seemed to have collapsed. The effect of the Benzo had worn off, and he was a broken man with no will or desire to go on.
Well, war is war, Matti Svensson thought while looking at him. Sorry Anderson, but it’s nothing personal.
When Matti Svensson left the house, Loklinth was standing in the yard talking to the two men. They were Bulgarian. Loklinth finally shook their hands.
“He’s all yours now. Good luck,” Loklinth said as he turned toward his car.
An uneasy feeling washed over Matti Svensson, a feeling he could not quite put his finger on. He didn’t like it.
“Svensson, come on, for fuck’s sake!” Loklinth shouted. “You will ride with me. Departure. Now!”
Matti Svensson jumped into the passenger seat. Gravel and rocks hammered the underbody of the Porsche as Loklinth floored the gas pedal.
Svensson turned around as the two Bulgarians entered the house and closed the front door behind them.
“And what the heck was that?” he asked.
“An internal affair regarding a foreign power. Nothing of our concern,” Loklinth said. “How did the recording come out?”
• • •
Bergman comes around to the other side of the submarine. Visibility is still incredibly good. Although it is pitch black all around them, the objects are sharply silhouetted in the light from their lamps like in a black-and-white horror movie.
Bergman takes another reading of his dive computer. Depth 470 feet, water temperature 33 degrees Fahrenheit.
They were lucky to have come down pretty much straight on top of it. Only fifty feet further away and they might have started their search in the wrong direction.
Winking a few times, Bergman finally gets his somewhat blurry vision in order.
This is insane! It really is a miniature submarine. He observes it while swimming along the hull, which is about thirty feet long and twelve feet high. A huge spotlight is integrated into the bow portion of the hull. The hatch on top is wide open. Immediately below the hatch, lying in the sediment on the bottom, are the remains of a human being. Modin shines his light on the skeleton.
Bergman once again experiences the sensation of peculiar starlight from before. Now it seems to be somewhere behind him. He turns around just to find nothing but darkness.
Nothing at all, probably just my imagination. He is at a depth of 475 feet and he has to do whatever he can to remain calm. He is swimming toward Modin.
The dead body reminds him of a scarecrow, flattened out against the bottom. The clothes are surprisingly intact, a dark blue or maybe black flak jacket and black pants. Rugged boots are standing straight up where the feet used to be, like someone just took them off and put them there. On the opposite end, Bergman notices a leather hood with a cranium inside. The angle of the eye sockets makes them seem almost mean, and Bergman has to look twice. Alongside the skull lies some sort of re-breather with a crimped hose attached to it, looking remarkably well preserved.
Modin is trying to pry loose a dark green metal box, which is attached to the corpse. The box is about the size of an ordinary briefcase. He is signaling to Bergman that he needs a hand.
The case is attached to the skeleton by a shiny metal chain. Bergman is unsure of how he can be of any help. Modin is yanking the skeleton’s arm back and forth in an attempt to snap it lose from the shoulder joint. With a powerful twist and by pulling hard at the same time, the arm finally separates and Modin is pulling the macabre yellow-white object out of the sleeve of the jacket. He is slipping the chain over the joints and is finally holding up the metal box with the shiny chain. The chain has a handcuff attached on the other end.
A wrist watch separates from the loose arm and slowly sinks toward the bottom resembling a shiny fishing lure. Bergman stretches out his hand and manages to catch it before it hits the sand. He tucks it away in the left leg pocket of his diving suit. Then he checks the diving computer again. Thirteen minutes have elapsed.
He writes on the pad: We need to abort.
Modin responds with the okay sign. He puts the briefcase down on the seabed and takes out a tape measure from his leg pocket. He is handing Bergman one end to hold it and then swims over to the bow. Methodically, and with an experienced hand, he measures the full length, width, and height of the wreck. Finally, he swims back to the metal case and picks it up.
Bergman hears a high pitch whirling sound from somewhere distant. At the same time, he begins to shiver from the cold. He wants to get to the surface and feels a strike of panic starting to spread through his body.
He is beginning to shake, and what is worse, he is about to lose his concentration. He once again uses his thumb to make the up sign to Modin.
Modin again responds with the okay sign and waves to Bergman to come over. Bergman takes a quick peek at his diving computer. Fourteen minutes.
In one minute, we will have to be back at the descent line and it is probably over 120 feet away.
He follows closely behind Modin as they are swimming around the submarine one last time. It seems to be made of some kind of metal that does not rust. Titanium perhaps. As he looks at the wreck, sorrow mixed with a deep respect for death engulfs him. The idea of a moment of silence to honor the dead shoots through his head, but he realizes that it is pure drivel and nothing else.
Bergman cannot help but peek into the crushed submarine on his way back. His last chance to see a real Russian mini sub from inside. He leans in by the hatch and aims the flashlight straight down. A skeleton is sitting by the controls. Bergman is looking at him from behind.
The sight of yet another skeleton causes Bergman to jerk and he hits his head on a piece of ripped metal by the hatch. He almost loses his scuba mask and struggles for a moment to put it back on and straighten it again. Modin, who is right behind him, is coming to his assistance. Bergman tilts his head back, blows air through his nose and empties the mask of water. He fumbles a little as he is adjusting the band in the back of his head.
The skeletal remains hold up a leather hood with a built-in headset—a clothes hanger made from human bones. The skeleton is facing some kind of control panel with gauges.
As Bergman gathers the strength to look down again, this time from a slightly different angle, he can see that the cranium is still inside the leather hood. He shivers and turns toward Modin. But he is not there. Modin is gone.
Bergman, now in a slight panic, sets off for the descent line. A few strokes later, he can see that Modin is waiting for him, about halfway toward the line. Bergman looks at his diving computer. Seventeen minutes. Fuck! They are two minutes over the stipulated time. With a sense of urgency, he takes a couple of extra forceful strokes.
As he gets over to the line, Modin stops him.
What is this?
Modin is holding up the white writing pad right in front of Bergman’s mask. The words hit him like a hammer: Have you betrayed us?
Bergman jumps, his heart skips one, if not several beats. He doesn’t know how to react, so he just makes a lame thumbs-up sign for ascent. Modin is not moving an inch.
Have you betrayed us? Modin once again shoves the writing pad in his face.
Bill Bergman is reading his manometer. He has 20 bar left and it is starting to worry him. He tries to swim around to get to the line, but Modin is blocking him. Grabbing hold of his shoulders, Modin is preventing Bergman from getting to the line. In the wrestling match that follows, they both end up on the bottom in a cloud of sediment, standing on their knees looking each other straight in the eye.
M
odin picks up the writing pad again: Have you betrayed us?
Bergman quickly writes: We’ve got to get up or else we will die!
Anton Modin rips the pad out of Bergman’s hands and responds: We will die if you do not answer my question.
The panic is right upon him now, Bergman can feel it. Modin is insane! Bergman writes: They kidnapped my daughter.
Modin makes no sign of moving.
Bergman peeks at his computer. Twenty minutes.
It will soon be too late. Fucking maniac!
He is breathing more heavily while looking down on his manometer: ten bar remaining. Another two minutes of breathing tops, and then it will be all over. A hissing noise almost like tinnitus is building in his ears. Pure stress.
Modin is again flashing his writing pad: Have you betrayed us?
Bergman quickly scribbles: Yes, I have.
Modin punches him hard in the stomach, literally knocking the wind out of him.
Once Bergman comes around, Modin has already begun his ascent.
Twenty-one minutes, Bergman reads on his diving computer. That is six minutes past what was calculated and agreed upon in the diving plan. We will suffer decompression sickness, he thinks while ascending quickly, much faster than what is healthy, toward the first stop at 240 feet. That is where Axman is supposed to meet them, according to the diving plan.
Bergman looks up and sees Modin way ahead of him. He checks his manometer again. It is down to zero. He is at 340 feet and has another hundred feet up to the first gas exchange.
He runs out of Trimix gas at exactly 300 feet.
His only hope now is to be able to hold his breath for the next sixty feet, while at the same time he rips out the next regulator, the one with regular air, which he is supposed to switch to at 240 feet.
He is forced to draw his first breath at 270 feet. Way too early.
Taking three deep breaths, he immediately experiences the sensation of oxygen depth euphoria. He becomes dizzy, a state similar to an alcohol buzz, and loses his grip of the line. He blacks out while falling backwards. He is in a state of complete weightlessness. Astrid is running alongside of him in a warm summer’s meadow. Ewa is bringing ice cream and strawberries on a tray. Everything is peaceful. Very peaceful.
Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1) Page 35
