Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1)

by Anders Jallai

  I almost wish they were using poison, he thought, although he had made it clear that he did not want to know any of the details. His inner nature did not harbor any desire to revel in perversions, nor did he have any morbid wishes to be gloating in violence, blood, or mutilation either. He happened to have the best seat in the house, mainly because he had to supervise the endeavor, while at the same time keep his distance and be careful not to interject. The operation currently underway in the apartment was a foreign intelligence matter on Swedish soil—the second operation he was supervising in less than 24 hours. Nothing terribly uncommon and nothing Special Ops had any reason whatsoever to poke their noses into. Favors and counter-favors—that was the nature of the game. Next time it might be us who need to carry out an operation on someone else’s territory, he thought. That is how intelligence services operate the world over.

  • • •

  “Yes, who is it?” Nils Nilson did not seem to reflect on the ungodly hour as he answered the door. However, he made little attempt to disguise the fact that concurrently he was checking the staircase to see if there was anyone else out there.

  He let the man in.

  The former bureau director took the lead through the apartment, which clearly betrayed the absence of a female touch. There were a few pieces of artwork and sculptures with Asian themes, and the professional killer most likely also had time to spot a 1970s style leather couch with an accompanying swivel armchair in the living room before stepping over the threshold into the small kitchen.

  Nils Nilson filled the coffee pot with water, put it on the stove, and turned the burner on high. He felt a pulsating nerve somewhere in the back of his neck and rubbed it absentmindedly as if it somehow was going to diminish the anxiety attack washing over him. He needed a bathroom.

  Well settled in the bathroom, with the door closed and locked behind him, he could see how tiny pearls of sweat had formed on his forehead. He was scared, but not necessarily terrified for what was about to happen to him. Knowing all along that it would come to this one day, it was almost a relief. Eighty-seven years old, he had had a good run with money and friends in excess. He had no regrets. Now, at least, he did not have to worry about ending up in some crappy nursing home like many of his friends.

  Nils recognized this man. He was of Bulgarian descent and somewhere in his fifties with thick black hair and stubble several days old, making an altogether sloppy and filthy impression. This guy had carried out wet assignments for the Bureau before. Nilson knew all too well that by the time he returned to the kitchen, his coffee would more than likely be spiked with some kind of toxin. Simple rat poison maybe. Best way to administer that is to mix it in with the instant coffee. It leaves almost no trace, and the victim could always have imbibed it by mistake. Rat poison is readily available and it is as deadly for humans as it is for rodents and other animals. Especially for elderly men with weak veins. Many strokes have been artificially induced using this method, he thought. Perhaps this was better than having to face a violent death. Would it be painful?

  Through the bathroom door, he heard the kettle whistling on the stove.

  He flushed the toilet, washed his hands, and went back to the kitchen. He sat down right across from the Bulgarian.

  Through the window, he could see that this was going to turn into an absolutely gorgeous summer day. Probably just as hot as yesterday, when the high of the day had been an incredible 88 degrees.

  He turned and looked at the Bulgarian again. Nilson stared at him for quite a while and then acknowledged him with a barely noticeable nod. He then grabbed the cup and emptied more than half of the contents in one gulp. While putting the cup down and clearing his throat, he noticed the tart aftertaste.

  A thought from times gone by flew through Nilson’s head, something beautiful and pleasant. He had to try to hold onto it.

  The Bulgarian distracted him by lowering his head and beneath bushy eyebrows pitching his eyes to the table. Absentmindedly, with his thumbnail he was rubbing a stain on the surface, which did not seem to go away.

  Nils Nilson forced down the remaining contents of his coffee cup. Then he got up and with a shuffling gait stumbled into the living room. Passing a small statue depicting some ancient Asian God, he leaned lightly against the brown sideboard before sitting down in the swivel chair in the far corner of the living room. The way the chair tilted backwards almost made it look like he was lying down. He clasped his hands together and closed his eyes. The thought returned.

  He was thinking of his old friends, the crew of the DC-3. Wonder what they are doing today?

  CHAPTER 67

  GRISSLEHAMN, WEDNESDAY, JULY 30, 6:00 A.M.

  With an experienced hand, Harry Nuder slowly navigated the Hulk into the bay near Modin’s summer house. As the boat approached the shore, a gray heron took flight, wings majestically flapping, its elongated throat making it look almost like a straight arrow in the dawning light.

  The five men followed the bird’s flight as it had awakened them from their deep thoughts. They didn’t utter a single word. They were busy trying to digest the impressions from the night. Knowing that they had brought home something utterly sensational this morning, they needed to figure out a way to handle it.

  Modin was thinking of the best way to inform Göran Filipson and finally settled on simply sending him a short text message: Peter the Great has landed.

  He copied the text message and sent it to Amelia Carlson as well.

  The navy is in position, he thought when he heard a helicopter in the distance. They are most likely acting on their own account. However, the apparent risk is that the Supreme Commander with his slimy desktop generals will ruin it all and sweep this discovery under the rug, too.

  Why did we even bother, Modin wondered, admitting to himself how likely it was that their discovery would never see the light of day. He silently cursed the fact that the wreck was down at 470 feet. They had no imaging equipment able to handle that kind of pressure. The depth had prevented any kind of photography, and it was doubtful that they would be able to dive to that submarine wreck ever again. The spot is under surveillance from two countries, Sweden and Russia. Who knows, maybe others, too? he thought. The only evidence of their spectacular find was the military-green briefcase in his possession.

  The Hulk bumped lightly into the side of the landing dock.

  As captain, Nuder was giving the orders. They quickly unloaded all their equipment and brought it up to the diving shed. They hung up the diving suits to dry and hosed off the regulators and scuba masks. The only words they spoke were “grab here,” “catch this,” and “okay.”

  When they had finished unloading, Harry Nuder fired up his jeep, got it into gear, and took off along the narrow gravel road to get some groceries. Sture and Bergman went into Modin’s cottage to raid the refrigerator and whipped up a makeshift breakfast. Modin and Axman stayed behind, down on the landing dock.

  Axman’s eyes followed Modin closely as he hoisted the metal case up onto the landing dock. They exchanged a look of delight and anticipation. The metal briefcase, made from aluminum, seemed intact. Modin worked on the locking mechanism for a little while to no avail. The surface of the case consisted of a squared pattern pressed into the metal.

  Modin ran over to the diving shed to grab a screwdriver. He carefully squeezed the flathead of the screwdriver into the crack in an attempt to pry it open. The case seemed to be both airtight and waterproof. After a few attempts, the crack had widened allowing him to get a better grip.

  This was the moment of truth. Modin’s hair was still moist and he was in his diving undergarments. He is a stubborn and persistent bastard, Axman thought. The marks on his face from bar fights and the spectacular rescue from certain death out at The Rock were still visible on his face. Modin had not said anything about those incidents, not one word. He possessed a cold-blooded ability to clam up, pick himself up by the bootstraps and just move on. Sometimes it seemed like he was rejecting Axma
n. Perhaps he needed to push people away to hold onto himself. But Modin could also take on a childish and innocent expression of curiosity, like a young boy on Christmas morning. Axman could relate. He had to smile when he noticed that Modin was wearing the gray baseball cap. A gift from Axman many years back.

  Suddenly a sucking noise, and the lid to the case came open. There was a rubber gasket all round its rim, which had protected the contents from the water. Whatever was inside seemed to be undamaged.

  The briefcase contained several laminated documents and three passports, each with a face page that read Polska Rzeczpospolita Ludowa. Modin grabbed the passports and handed them over to Axman. Then he picked up a thick, yellowed document, which seemed to be an encryption key of some sort. Probably used by the crew to communicate with their home base, Axman thought. Judging from the text, the document seemed to be of Polish origin.

  “So, they are supposed to be Polish,” Axman said and opened one of the passports. The picture revealed a thin man with short hair and a distinct Slavic complexion. According to the passport, his name was Ivan Golob, and in the black-and-white picture, he was wearing civilian clothes.

  “Open one of those plastic folders,” Axman said. “Unless, of course, you think the paper is too brittle.”

  Modin picked up the folder on top, opened it, and took out a dossier made from rugged cardboard. Inside the dossier, folded in half, was a sheet of paper, typed on a typewriter. He put it up on the gray surface of the landing dock and read aloud:

  To whom it may concern:

  The bearers of this document are civil servants enjoying diplomatic immunity. The nature of their mission is highly classified and is protected under the act of international law and rules guarding diplomatic affairs and exchange between countries. The personnel will be granted full immunity and safe conduct out of Sweden. The safe extradition must be expedited and must not, under any circumstance, be delayed. None of these personnel can ever be interrogated. This letter of safe conduct is signed by the political leadership of both Poland and Sweden.

  Sincerely,

  General Wojciech Jaruzelsky, Chairman, Polish Ministry of Defense, and Swedish Armed Forces Headquarters Commander Steffen, on behalf of the Swedish Government.

  “Fuck man!”

  “The Swedish political leadership in 1982, wasn’t that Olof Palme’s government?” Axman asked. “What the hell does this mean? This sounds like high treason by both the AFH Commander Steffen and the Prime Minister, for crying out loud.”

  An icy chill gripped Modin. He had suspected a lot of cover-ups from the Swedish government throughout the Cold War, but this trumped even their wildest fantasies. On the landing dock right in front of them, in black and white, was the ultimate proof of the Swedish compliance with the Soviet Union. It was just too much. A wave of nausea swept over him.

  “Fuck dude! Our government ordered the military to let the submarines go. That was how it had all played out.”

  “This is why Nuder never heard anything. And that’s why nobody ever saw the two men fished out of the sea after the depth charge bombing outside of Singö in 1982,” he said bitterly. “They were probably flown out of the country on the first available flight and in business class. The Swedish taxpayers footed the bill for the tickets. I’ll bet my ass that the guy who survived was not even interrogated, they probably just fucking made up the transcript.”

  “Well, the question is whether the document is authentic,” Axman said. “Maybe we are missing something.”

  CHAPTER 68

  GRISSLEHAMN, WEDNESDAY, JULY 30, 5:00 P.M.

  Sture Hultqvist had left to go home to Uppsala. He had a lot of things that needed to be done. His kids were home alone, and his wife would use it against him if he didn’t get back as soon as he possibly could. Nothing was worth losing the kids, Sture knew that, and so he left early that day.

  The others had slept in, catching up on some much needed rest. They were sitting in folding chairs on the landing dock having coffee and bagels, which Bergman had been so kind as to prepare before waking them up.

  Modin felt hung-over. His head felt heavy and empty. The feeling was familiar from previous projects. It was over. The tension and anxiety gave way to mental decompression and reflection. He felt wobbly, like a house of cards. He could not bring himself to be happy over what they had found. He knew that the contents of the briefcase would forever change Swedish history, as well as deal a blow to all researchers and archive buffs of the Cold War.

  The document had an aura of impending doom; he’d felt it the minute he had laid eyes on it. He was just not able to grasp the full impact of it yet. There were many parties who would love to get their hands on its explosive content, including the Security Service, the Department of Special Ops, the GRU, the KGB, and probably many more.

  He was munching on the second half of his bagel, cream cheese plastering his pallet and upper lip, unable to make sense of the carousel of thoughts swerving around in his head.

  “I wonder what the public reaction will be when we release the truth about the submarine incidents,” Axman said.

  “These are different times now,” Nuder said. “They will simply have to fess up, there is no other way. Bite the bullet. The politicians will simply have to tell that they folded facing the might of a superior foreign power, and that they let intruding submarines out by the dozen.”

  “Yeah, you wish,” Bergman said without raising his head. He still seemed troubled. And who could blame him. He was a traitor and he knew it.

  “They have no other choice than to cover up as usual,” Modin said still looking at Bergman. “Anything else is out of the question because it would simply jeopardize the fantasy bubble known as political neutrality. There are too many dignitaries who have spent their careers inflating that bubble and are now levitating inside of it. No way would they allow it to burst, no way.”

  “Are you serious?” Nuder said.

  “Unfortunately,” Modin said. “There is an apparent risk that our government will do everything in their power to cover this up, too. Our only hope is with our friends within the navy. Larsen, von Arbin, and parts of Navy Command seem to support us in our views. If I would have had my way, we would have salvaged this wreck and put it smack dab in the harbor yard, here in Grisslehamn, for everyone to see.”

  “Yeah, that would have been something, wouldn’t it?” Nuder chuckled. “What was in the briefcase by the way?”

  “It was a document, and I cannot yet grasp its full meaning or consequences,” Modin said. “I think it is best if you all read it, that way you can form your own opinions.”

  Modin shot up to the diving shed and brought back the briefcase. He opened it, took out the folder, and passed it around for everyone to read. One after the other closely studied the document.

  “So it was Poles?” Nuder said. “What on earth was their business in our littoral waters back in the 1980s?”

  “Well, I’d assume that it was really the GRU,” Modin said. “They made it look like Poles. For tactical reasons, the GRU used Polish nationals for spy activities in the 1980s. Partly because they were very skilled, but also for their renowned ability to keep their mouths shut. And if ever caught, they would cause less trouble than the Soviets. They usually wore civilian clothes and could claim that they acted on their own account and not on behalf of Moscow.”

  “How do you mean?” Nuder said.

  “In the 1980s, it was common knowledge with the Swedish Security Service, and for that matter, with the entire international intelligence community, that the Polish intelligence service and the GRU were pretty much joined at the hip. However, from a public relations and tactical standpoint, it was important that this relationship was not publicly known. In the public eye, the Poles were a different breed—nicer than the evil Russians. The Russians, of course, were quick to pick up on and take advantage of this public opinion. After the Soviet S-363, Whisky on the Rocks, ran aground in Swedish waters and Russian nationals
were caught with their pants down, they learned their lesson and started to employ the intelligence services of their satellite states, often in sensitive contexts across the globe. If, God forbid, a Polish submarine was ever forced to the surface, the Soviet diplomats could always claim they were renegades. This opened the floodgates of the Kremlin denial apparatus. The Soviet Union had never violated Swedish territory, which, from a purely technical standpoint, was true. Our politicians and the media often fed us that kind of truth. The violating nation was Poland, given Polish nationals operated as civilians, and therefore they did not exist officially within an intelligence and military context.”

  “Any chance the poor souls whose remains we found down there could have been unofficial spies—illegals?” Axman asked. “In essence, could they have been Russian nationals posing as Poles?”

  “That is quite possible,” Modin said. “No doubt both the KGB and the GRU had people stationed there. As far as I know, they could even have been Russian marine infantry with fake passports.”

  “That is fucking ingenious,” Bergman said. “They have frigging thought of everything. It is amazing.”

  “Yeah, I would imagine you, of all people, would have realized that,” Axman hissed.

  Bergman immediately clammed up and lowered his eyes to the ground. He was in no shape to tackle that discussion right now. Still shaken up after the dive, he felt slightly nauseous. He longed for his daughter. He hoped and prayed that she was safe with her mother, and that what he had done would keep her safe.

  “You get the impression that our Chief of Armed Forces and our Prime Minister were both Soviet spies,” Nuder said and handed the document back over to Modin.

  Modin laid it down on the rough surface of the landing dock, hands clinched behind his neck.

  “Yes, that is the immediate impression, isn’t it? I am not sure it is that simple, though. If each and every person up and down the food chain is a suspected KGB or GRU operative, well then that, in itself, is a systemic failure, isn’t it?”