“And why would that be?” Axman asked. He let go of his bathrobe and went up to the edge of the landing dock wearing his white Speedos.
“Well, it seems like it was high treason on a colossal level,” Modin said. “How was it organized? Either our Russian friends were in a class of their own in recruiting foreign operatives, which is entirely possible, or our own Prime Minister, Olof Palme, was in on the whole deal. Maybe it was a little of both? Members of our military high command had to follow government directives, right? Either that or apply for early retirement. Or the alternative, of course, being that this document is a falsification from beginning to the end, which in itself would be fucking troubling, to say the least. Maybe we are missing something, like you said, John.”
Axman didn’t respond, and instead dove into the water in one clean sweep. Coming back up again, he whipped his hair back in an attempt to look like Adonis. No dice. He got up on the landing dock, shook some water out of his left ear, and used the white starched bath towel to dry his hair.
“The world is ruled by its intelligence services,” Modin said. “Wherever have I heard that one before? That’s the shadow government. Deep State.”
“Oh, fuck it all,” Nuder said. “I don’t give a damn about politics. Let us head down to The Rock and celebrate. The first round is on me. Let us get legitimately shitfaced, gentlemen. You too, Bergman.”
CHAPTER 69
GRISSLEHAMN, WEDNESDAY, JULY 31
Modin found himself alone in his bed after what felt like one hell of a bender the night before. He had faint memories of The Rock and woke up with a pulsating morning glory that would have made Ron Jeremy proud. But that was not the only source of pain.
He had hit on Ellie a couple of times throughout the evening, but was shamefully rejected. That was, however, not the most important thing that had played out last night. His friend Bergman had finally confessed his fears for his daughter’s safety.
“I cannot be trusted,” Bergman had repeatedly said in a drunken haze, and then continued in great detail, much more detail than needed, to tell his friends about the abduction, the abuse, and the threats to his daughter’s life.
“My entire existence is shit. Everything I do turns to shit,” Bergman said in despair.
Modin had sworn to do what he could to change that. Like Dumas’ musketeers, Nuder and Axman had joined into a one-for-all-and-all-for-one chant.
And then Commander Captain Larsen and his closest in command showed up at The Rock, heading straight for their table. This could spell nothing but trouble.
“We have two cables for you, gentlemen,” Commander Captain Larsen said. “The first one is from the Royal Court and is signed by His Majesty the King.”
My sincere congratulations to you, Anton Modin, and your team for the effort put forth and the success in finding a sunken Soviet miniature submarine. I, along with the Swedish people, am in great debt to you. One day I will personally ensure that you receive an official token of this appreciation.
Sincerely Yours, the King of Sweden, Carl XVI Gustaf
“Now, that is impressive,” Nuder laughed in delight. “Tell us, I am curious, how did you make out fending off the Russians?”
“Well, we the renegades of the Royal Navy, or the King’s Men, as we like to be referred to, came out of this controversy with flying colors in the face of a superior force,” Larsen said with a laugh. “We deployed a couple of depth charges, and after a while, the sub came up and showed its periscope. It was most likely a Kilo-class attack sub, 220 feet diesel electric. The Kilo, first taken into service in April of 1982, was designed for operation in shallow waters. Interestingly enough, it was in the Baltic Sea where the initial tests and dry runs were made. Its purpose was to back up and protect the bigger nuclear GOLF-2 boomers. However, the Kilo subs are equipped with nuclear mines, which, needless to say, did not make us feel like picking a fight today. Sorry to say guys, but I think the Russians might already have salvaged the wreck.”
“Oh my fucking God, so we had an attack sub right beneath our feet,” Bergman said. “All through the dive I thought I heard a strange humming noise.”
“It was running on electricity, probably.”
“The Kilo-class deserves some respect,” Modin said. “Filipson once told me they were so quiet that the Americans had dubbed them The Black Hole.”
“In 1982, the Kilo was already capable of 25 knots submerged,” Larsen said. “It was practically impossible for any Swedish minesweeper to keep up. They ran unobstructed right through any known Swedish anti-submarine measures.”
The second telegram, sent from Amelia Carlson, was delivered by Henry Hoffsten:
To Anton Modin and friends,
You have accomplished something extraordinary. We would like to thank you from the bottom of our hearts. Today you have done Sweden a huge favor. Please continue in the same manner, and please be discrete. You may keep the credit card and the boat. I believe you referred to her as the Hulk?
Hugs, Amelia C.
Yeah, we save the Swedish economy by being discrete, Modin thought the morning after. It is too bad that we don’t get to showcase the wreck on the public square here in the village. I would have liked that. It would have proven what I thought all along—that we are dealing with another cover-up. First the DC-3 and now the submarine intrusions into Swedish waters.
On somewhat shaky legs, Modin waddled out into the kitchen and started fixing breakfast for everybody. Bergman and Axman were still sound asleep. Bergman was in his son’s and Axman in his daughter’s room.
Very few traces of the kids were left in the house. He had cleaned the premises from top to bottom and put all their pictures in a shoebox up in the attic. But deep down inside, these rooms were still the kids’ rooms. Nothing could ever change that.
Last night had been nothing short of magic. Given they had been exhausted after the diving operation, it took only one or two drinks to get a real good buzz going. The poison for the evening was Dry Martinis on The Rock. A neat little play on words, which Joint, who treated them to a few extra ones, had come up with. Later in the evening, when Commander Larsen and his second in Command, Hoffsten, showed up, bringing with them the telegrams, Modin ripped out his black American Express and treated everybody to over one-hundred-year-old champagne from the champagne wreck Jönköping. Kent E apparently had a hard time hauling it up from the air-conditioned cellar, where the expensive elixir was kept. Together they went through ten bottles to the tune of $3000 a pop. Modin doubted that many people in the party grasped the fact that it was the real deal from 1907 and not some fake substitute. The bill for the entire evening, food, drink and all, was in the vicinity of $40,000.
Not bad for a small party for the inner circle, Modin thought.
With a shaky hand, he emptied a glass of orange juice. His stomach revolted immediately.
Modin was debating whether it would be worthwhile to show the documents from the briefcase to Amelia Carlson or Göran Filipson. He decided to hold off on that. I will be discrete, as Amelia told us in her letter. Those documents could come in handy at a later stage; perhaps even as life insurance?
One of the highlights of the night was Bergman showcasing the 1980s style wrist diving watch he had fished out of its watery grave. Larsen and Hoffsten had both tried on the watch and could not believe what they saw. As far as Modin knew, Bergman was probably still wearing that diving watch, assuming that he had not pissed it away in a drunken haze last night.
Loklinth and his cohorts had not been able to keep his team from finding the wreck of the Russian submarine wreck. While there was not a shadow of a doubt that this fact would never be public knowledge, for otherwise Loklinth would be dead as the head of Special Ops in the Swedish Military Intelligence, Modin had won. It felt good.
In his fog, Modin suddenly remembered seeing two American SUVs with diplomatic insignia outside The Rock. What business could they possibly have had by being there?
He loaded t
he coffee maker and turned on the radio. The station was playing a majestic ballad, “Take Me to the Ocean and Make Me a King,” by the Swedish singer and composer Peter Lundblad. Loving the tune, Modin cranked up the volume until it became unbearable, and before long he had Axman and Bergman in the doorway winking at the bright morning light seeping in through the kitchen windows.
“What the fuck do you think you are doing?” Axman said with a big yawn.
“I am making arrangements for your immediate survival,” Modin said with a smile.
They ate their cheese baguettes and enjoyed strong coffee accompanied by lukewarm skim milk. Bill Bergman looked downright awful, like something the cat had dragged in. Axman ate with his mind elsewhere and with little twitches all over his upper body.
Modin finally decided to break the awkward silence.
“Look Bergman, I really hated to do that to you during the most critical part of our dive. To force you to come clean,” Modin said. “Unfortunately, it seems like there are two personalities living in this casing I’d like to refer to as my body. One being relentless, uncompromising, and hard, while the other one is forgiving, tolerant, and soft. Almost like Yin and Yang. I had no choice, my friend. I needed you to come clean, partly for your own sake, but mostly for ours. And for the cause.”
“It was the right thing to do,” Bergman said with hands clasped between his knees and head hung low. “Now you all know the new state of affairs. My daughter’s safety and happiness go before anything else in this world. I am relieved, but at the same time devastated. Devastated because I betrayed you. You are my best friends. What worries me, too, is that the kidnappers know you guys have figured it out. They know I’ve come clean. I do not know how, but they seem to pick up on everything. I am terrified that they will take out their frustration over our success on my daughter. Terrified, you understand that?”
“Continue to play along to protect Astrid, my friend,” Modin said. “Now we know what we are dealing with and can account and plan accordingly. The kidnappers must have been hired by Special Ops. What they did to Astrid was off the map. Fucking perverted psychos, man. I can promise you a spectacular payback. This time we will aim high. Just like with Loklinth. I have an idea.”
“No, please not another one, Modin,” Axman said as he had finally decided to speak up. “I cannot hack those projects that require guts, glory, and then some, just so the results are covered up or forgotten immediately. Because seriously, there is no way we will be able to bring the finding of this wreck into the public eye, is there?”
Modin threw up his hands and shrugged his shoulders in a semi-apologetic gesture.
“Well then, I do not want to hear another word,” Axman said resigned.
“There is one more thing I will have to do before this is over,” Modin said. “Apart from what we’ve seen yesterday, our government harbors many more secrets. I am sure there are documents abound in the Security Service’s archive.”
“Go fucking figure,” Axman said rolling his eyes. “Mind telling us what you think those documents are?”
“Well, literally it is a matter of national security, and I will soon find out.”
Axman rolled his eyes again and Bergman grunted.
“This time it is no joke. It is amazing how, in the middle of the drunken haze from the Tsar’s Champagne, suddenly I had an epiphany. An epiphany about what we need to do. That was good bubbly, though,” Modin grinned.
“How much did that party set you back?” Axman asked. “I would say it was probably the wildest thing I have ever seen, including even the celebrity parties they used to throw down in Saint Tropez.”
“No worries, dude, I charged it all to the card,” Modin smiled. “Why, you did not like it? I can arrange for you to have sparkling wine next time, just let me know. Oh, by the way, was it me or did you get along really well with that sailor, Henry Hoffsten? Is it the sailor’s uniform that’s attracting you, or what?”
Axman held up one hand as if to stop Modin and calmly drank coffee with his other. “He was pleasant,” he finally said in a very neutral tone.
“Well anyway,” Modin said. “Filipson made me an offer. He texted me last night, giving me a full night of completely free access to the innermost Holy Grail, namely the highly classified archives in the basement of the Security Service Headquarters. As you all know, these classified archives are, by far, the most secret archives in the country. Needless to say, this favor comes with a price. Of course, the price is that we are sworn to secrecy regarding what we have seen and experienced over the past couple of days.”
“Oh, here we go,” Bergman said. “Will you at least be able to take pictures inside of this archive?”
“No, not a chance in hell. They take all your equipment, including cell phones, at the door. But I get to read whatever I want. I’m sure that most of what has been covered up or held in secrecy over the past decades in this country will be enlightened by this archive.”
“So they are going to grant you one single night of access there, alone? That is incredible!” Bergman said. “But why on earth would they want to keep a Soviet submarine secret?”
“I am not quite sure, but it is important that we keep our mouths shut,” Modin said. “They say that if this discovery and the Russian salvage operation become public knowledge, our relations with Russia may be in serious peril. And that’s not good for business. We’re talking severe impact on financial markets and jobs being lost.”
“So, money always comes first,” Axman said. “It makes me want to puke.”
“Oh, you just wait, there is more to feel nauseous about,” Modin said. “Our friend Matti Svensson is at it again.”
Modin threw the front page of the morning paper on the table:
The submarines in Hårsfjärden in 1982 were of NATO origin, a high Defense Radio official confesses. “We were forced to let them out, our hands were tied,” Gunnar Anderson, former Bureau Director at Defense Radio, says. Former Supreme Commander confirms.
“Well, we are just going to have to bite the bullet and pretend it is true, even if we know otherwise,” Modin said. “Anderson is the old man I visited in Lidköping. He gave me a lot of classified information that contradicts what the article says. But of course, we can’t prove anything, because we are sworn to secrecy about what we’ve found. And I heard Anderson is gone. Filipson told me he was found dead in his home yesterday. He supposedly died of a stroke.”
“Right,” Bergman and Axman said in unison, their sarcasm clearly noticeable.
Modin scratched his head intensely and sat down. “Silence with regards to our discovery will be a life insurance policy for us, and for your daughter, Bergman. At least until we’ve dealt with that issue.”
“What do you mean by that?” Bergman asked.
Modin didn’t answer.
CHAPTER 70
SECURITY SERVICE, STOCKHOLM, THURSDAY, AUGUST 28
“Ladies and gentlemen, a true masterpiece,” Police Superintendent Göran Filipson said, referring to the PowerPoint slide up on the overhead screen in the library. The slide depicted a front page from one of the country’s largest newspapers with bold print: The submarines in Hårsfjärden were from NATO.
“A real work of art, I have to admit,” he continued. “Chris Loklinth escaped only by the skin of his teeth this time. He is skillful, but it is just a matter of time before we will have him neutralized and his shady agenda off the table. I am sure he is well aware that we are onto him. Good news is that we won the first round. Anton Modin and his friends have recovered what we wanted them to recover. Now is the time to put them to work on other important issues.”
“Excuse me, but what happened with this submarine, whatever its origin?” an elderly gentleman with gray hair and a navy blue sports jacket asked. It was the investment banker Pieter Willenstorch.
“You don’t need to know the details. In fact, it is better if you don’t. Rest assured that everything was handled professionally and discretely
. Now we are awaiting reactions from the Russians, but early indications tell me that they are grateful. You will probably notice this in your business relations going forward. Let the Russians see you are cooperating. Security Service will take care of the rest. In exchange for his silence about the discovery of the mini sub, Modin has been offered access to some juicy tidbits from our secret archives. I have a distinct feeling that this decision will benefit us all, and I have, therefore, given the green light. We are hereby entering Phase Two.”
All eyes were on Filipson in a mix of suspicion and awe. In essence, the same crowd listening to Filipson’s report now had attended the meeting back in June. Göran Filipson turned his back, clasped his hands behind his back, and began walking across the stage. If you looked closely, you could see his thumbs twiddling impatiently. Rain was hammering against the windows. The first fall nor´easter was on its way. It was so quiet, one could hear a pin drop as Filipson turned around and faced the audience.
“I have information from reliable sources that the Russian intelligence service is about to activate some of their top field personnel for subversive operations, here in Sweden and elsewhere in the west. We need to act upon and be prepared for this, even if localizing the submarine wreck strengthened our shares somewhat in the eyes of the KGB and GRU.”
“Specifically, what could these subversive operations consist of?” Pieter Willenstorch said.
“Pin pricks against infrastructure like air traffic, disruptions to merchant shipping and railroad operations, but more likely, and worse, disturbances to telecommunications and Internet traffic. At worst, we will see disruptions to our electrical grid, all the way up to and including blackouts. I am talking mainly about our nuclear power plants, which we know are a thorn in the Russian’s eyes. As you know, the Russians are sitting on considerable amounts of oil reserves, and would rather we stick to that energy source. In light of all this, we will have to take precautions in order to protect our infrastructure and our way of life. The first step needs to be a gradual decommissioning of our business relations and major projects in Russia. Do it at your own pace; don’t rush. We don’t want them to get nervous. Play your game.”
Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1) Page 38
