Enemy of the State Page 12

  Modin felt her take a firm grip of his left hand.

  “Leave the wine on the hill over there,” she said. “We’ll go for a dip first. It’s more macho that way.”

  She laughed, and when they reached the water, she stripped down to her underwear. As he had secretly guessed earlier, she wore no bra. She turned her back to him as she stepped even out of her panties and continued to the ridge, naked. She dove in with no hesitation.

  Jumping in from fifteen feet into water that was only 45 degrees seemed a little crazy, and so Modin hesitated a moment, but then dove in, too. When he came to the surface, his face was distorted with pain.

  “Oh my God, that’s cold!” In a panic, he swam to the ladder attached to the rocks. Julia stayed in the water for a while longer, pretending to enjoy it.

  “Do you have some kind of genetic defect that doesn’t allow your skin to sense the cold?” he said as he clung to the ladder for a moment before climbing all the way up and grabbing his towel. “Sorry, Julia but I’m going to the sauna. Obviously I’ve got less blubber than you.”

  She stayed in the water, laughing.

  The sauna was newly renovated and had an electric stove to heat the stones that could be operated with remote control from the house. He had guessed as much, considering the sauna was already at the proper temperature. The wooden seats were 13 feet across.

  Many people must have sat in here during the Cold War, thought Modin. They would take their breaks from their listening posts and have a sweat. A cozy habit. He wondered what kind of booze they’d bring along to relax between shifts of coding and de-coding. Cheap potato vodka, probably. These walls have heard many secrets that could have brought down governments, he thought.

  He carefully leaned back against the hot sauna wall, touching it with his back in short bursts in order to acclimatize until it stopped scorching his skin. He was wearing his towel around his waist.

  “I thought you were a commando of some sort. You can’t give up just like that,” Julia laughed as she came in, throwing her head back. She was stark naked. This troubled Modin. He didn’t know why, but he was embarrassed in the company of a naked woman.

  “Take off your towel,” Julia said. “Don’t be shy.”

  She sat on a lower tier. He felt her shoulder against his right thigh. He didn’t move.

  “Do we have anything to drink? Hang on, I have an idea,” she said and ran back out. She returned with half a gallon of Wyborowa vodka from Poland.

  The bottle looked ancient, he thought, and it wasn’t full any more.

  “Here, Defense Radio will foot the bill. It’s from the secret storage in the basement under the sauna. It’s been there since the Cold War ended. Have a drink, Modin, this is real culture.”

  “And history,” he said, taking the bottle once Julia had had a good swig from it. “Our history, Julia, and your family’s. This is for your brother.”

  He detected a slight hunching movement of her body, as if to protect herself. But she didn’t look away. Instead, her gaze grew darker and she raised her eyebrows in pride. A bitter question lay on her lips. ‘Do you really think I’m my brother’s whore?’ He could only guess what it would do to their relationship if he steered the conversation in the wrong direction. Why did he have to bring him up? Modin could kick himself.

  “I’m sorry I changed subject,” he added swiftly, “I’m just curious. What’s Christer like nowadays? I hardly remember what he looked like.”

  Modin put the bottle in a wooden bucket, which contained cold seawater. It was clear that Julia didn’t want to talk about her brother but it was too late to go back. Modin wanted to clear the air before they went any further. There was a problem between Julia and Christer, no doubt about it.

  “He’s the officer type, correct, stiff.” She stopped there, and seemed to be deep in thought. “Why don’t we talk about something else? I’m tired of him.”

  “Yeah that’s fine by me. Why did you never have children?” Modin blurted out inadvertently. He was getting drunk and with that increasingly blunt. That was a pleasant feeling.

  “You’re asking a bunch of loaded questions,” she said. She fell silent for a few seconds, then reached for the bottle and took another hefty swig. “I haven’t had the opportunity. Don’t think I’m a dyke. I’m not. It’s just that I’ve found it difficult to find my equal. Somebody who thinks like me but has his own will nonetheless. Someone like you, Modin. You’re the sort I could have children with.” She laughed and threw her head back in a way he had grown accustomed to.

  “You could still have kids,” Modin said. “Women want to have kids. Isn’t that the case?”

  “No, that’s not it. Women may like children more than men do, but even women must have a good reason to have their own child. A man or a family that can light the fuse. It’s not all as mechanical as you and your fellow males imagine. Your impression of motherhood is a bit off.”

  Julia looked down as if to mask a deep sadness.

  “I can help you,” he said. “If you want, I can volunteer as your sperm donor,” Modin said the last part with a big smile.

  She laughed loud and long. Overdue.

  “You? For crying out loud, who do you think you are? God? I’m too old to have children. It’s too late.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes and Modin felt embarrassed. But he had decided to keep provoking her, although he didn’t know why. He continued, with no hesitation in his voice.

  “You’re only fortyish. No problem! I can help you. I really mean it. I don’t have to be a part of the kid’s life, if you don’t want that. And the kid doesn’t even have to know who his father is. Ever. If you want a child, Julia, I’d be happy to help.”

  He stopped talking as she watched him with sad, reddened eyes. “My family would understand,” he continued. “That’s what I believe.” Then he fell silent again. “At least I hope so.”

  Julia laughed again, this time near sobbing. “But it’ll have to be in natura,” she said, and cleared her throat. “Not in some fucking test tube, Anton. We have to have a proper fuck. I doubt if any kid will come along, but I want you anyway. Come on.”

  She took Modin by the hand and led him out of the sauna.

  Out on the rocks, it was cool and dark by now. The sky had become a muddy red and was still lighting up a few feathery clouds over the ridge. Julia took off Modin’s towel and laid it on the rocks right by the landing’s ledge. Then she pushed him down onto the rocks and sat across his face. She moved herself over his mouth and nose and gradually pressed her venus down against his body, down over chest and stomach. Then she mounted him as if it was the most commonplace thing in the world. She rode hard and with determination, almost mechanically as she looked out over the sea.

  Anton Modin obeyed. He was her slave now and kept still and silent. He held Julia’s hips gently as she bounced up and down on top of him. He saw her as a shadow. A shadow from the past. Was he back in the 1970s on the cliffs down in the village at a beach party one night in August? He knew he was. He felt the tingling in his crotch. The cold rock and chilly air all around were beyond his awareness. He couldn’t help moaning out loud. He was more and more turned on but still lay motionless on the rocks. In the end, he couldn’t hold out any longer. He suppressed a grunt and gripped Julia’s hips tightly, then squeezed hard. Julia continued riding him while breathing heavily, her forehead shiny with sweat. A few moments later, she climaxed in a hissing shriek. She shuddered, but carried on riding him, but slower now. Then she slumped like a wet rag on top of him, clutching him tightly round the shoulders without saying a word. Modin could feel that she was still trembling. So was he.

  CHAPTER 22

  STOCKHOLM, CAFÉ GRETA GARBO, MAY 2

  “I seriously thought that things had gotten better at Security Service SSA team,” said Chris Loklinth, head of Special Ops. “But opening the archives to Modin really takes the cake.”

  “We didn’t have a choice. We had to choose between Modin g
oing public with his discovery of the Russian submarine last summer, or showing him the archives. We were between a fucking rock and a hard place.”

  Göran Filipson, Police Superintendent and head of the Security Services Section for Special Analysis, SSA, took a big bite out of his cinnamon bun, put the rest back on his plate, and wiped his hands carefully with a paper napkin.

  “For heaven’s sake, Filipson. Showing him the Olof Palme dossier was pushing it. You should have had it cleaned up first. It is one of the most classified documents ever. If details surface, the country’s reputation will be damaged beyond repair.”

  “Relax, Loklinth. Things are not quite as dire. And besides, I’m not sure you should complain,” Filipson said. “Modin managed to find his damn submarine with no apparent difficulties at all. Where were you guys at that time?”

  “We tried, make no mistake about it,” Loklinth said. “He’s Enemy Number One in Sweden today.”

  Filipson saw Loklinth spilling coffee as he lifted his cup. Loklinth’s face and scalp were flushed from the sun over the past weekend. He had no doubt gone sailing, Filipson thought. He looked Loklinth up and down. His skin seemed sweaty in the light of the small halogen lamp suspended above the table. Always neat in his apparel, he was wearing a light gray linen jacket, a white shirt, beige pants, and on his feet brown loafers and white socks. Spring clothing, Filipson thought, but somehow he didn’t look as relaxed as his attire seemed to convey. Dark shadows under his eyes suggested sleepless nights.

  Chris Loklinth had called the meeting in his capacity as Lieutenant Colonel of Military Command. On the phone he had mentioned his suspicion that Anton Modin would start looking into the Palme murder, now that he no doubt realized that there had been a cover-up. One of Loklinth’s duties was to stop or hinder such investigations when it was a matter of Swedish national security. That at least was how he envisioned his task. The assignment came straight from the government and the Minister of Defense.

  The inland branch of Special Ops, Loklinth’s department, was a very secret entity, set up for domestic espionage and security within Sweden. The military was officially prohibited from operating within the country itself, against its own citizens, but necessity is the mother of invention. That’s what Loklinth always said, anyway. There were terrorists out there, and the Security Service was constrained by all sorts of rules. And by incompetence.

  This was Loklinth’s version of reality, Filipson thought. He himself didn’t agree. In his opinion, Military Special Ops had become too powerful. Those in charge did pretty much whatever they wanted without any form of supervision. Filipson’s own civil department at the Security Service, the Section for Special Analysis SSA, was the last bastion of democracy in the country, he thought, working within the law. Somewhat within the law, at least. The constitution had unofficially been disbanded long ago. It was now only a nice piece of paper to show the Swedish people; that was all. Reality looked rather different; and sure, with all those threats around nowadays, it was called for, but there had to be limits. Obstructing democracy should have its limits.

  Police Superintendent Filipson stroked his hair lightly and tried to breathe calmly to lower his blood pressure while collecting his thoughts for the rest of this conversation with Loklinth.

  “Let’s deal with this one ourselves,” Filipson said. “I know Modin personally. I’ll have a word with him. He can’t, by the way, do any more diving. I checked his medical records at the Söder Hospital here in Stockholm. Damaged nervous system, quite serious, too. He suffers from frequent dizzy spells.”

  “I see, so he’s got a permanent condition,” Loklinth said. “Poor devil.” He wiped his forehead with a white napkin. “But that’s not his worst problem. His life is in danger, Filipson. You remember that supposed car accident out at Beckholmen? We happen to know who did it.” He hesitated for a moment before continuing. “It was Crack of Dawn, part of our branch of Stay Behind. And if my sources are accurate, Modin won’t last through the summer. Problem is, Modin draws the attention of the media. He’s kind of a romantic crusader. If anything happens to him, it’ll be all over the front page the next day. And that’s the last thing we want. So, we would like to make him forget the Palme murder, but without harming him. How do we do that?”

  Loklinth put his coffee cup back onto its saucer and turned his head to look around the café. They were sitting by the window looking out onto the street. Two teenage girls sat at the next table drinking coffee. Filipson saw that Loklinth smiled at one of them, the brunette with the biggest tits, whose attributes were clearly visible under her tight t-shirt. She looked away and continued to talk to her girlfriend.

  “I’ll talk to him,” Filipson said.

  Now he, too, had begun to look at the young woman’s breasts that were barely concealed by her t-shirt. It’s spring, he thought. Afraid I’m too old. Loklinth is just a dirty old man.

  He knew what was going on. Rumor followed the 60-year-old Lieutenant Colonel, suggesting he liked very young women, whatever that meant. Girls, it seemed.

  “I do hope he listens to you,” Loklinth said. “We are dealing with professionals here.” Loklinth looked at Filipson while he adjusted his pants at the groin.

  “What do you know about the Barbro Team?” Filipson asked.

  “They belonged to a Swedish guerrilla group that formed in the late 1970s from the leftovers of Lindencrona’s Stay Behind team, which were supported by NATO. They would work within Sweden and protect the government and the Royal Family, in case the Russians carry out a lightning strike. They are civilians. A couple of former battalion members from Special Forces who operate fully-armed within Crack of Dawn. All very secretive.”

  “You mean they act as a resistance group,” Filipson said, now utterly unable to keep himself from eying the tits that were ready to burst out in freedom and bobble into the spring air. Was she showing them off on purpose. As if that was necessary! He tried to think of polar bears and huge Atlantic icebergs to distract his thoughts.

  Filipson was wearing jeans and a dark jacket over his blue shirt. Like Loklinth, he had hit sixty, and his hair had gray patches. His skin was a little greasy, suggesting that he ought to work out more. He couldn’t imagine that the big-breasted teenager would be interested in his old and slightly overweight body. Or in Loklinth’s, for that matter. What might turn her on was the power both men projected. Maybe.

  “I thought that the Security Service knew all about such groups,” Loklinth said as he adjusted his pants again.

  “Well, as far as I am concerned, those groups have all been disbanded,” Filipson said, quite aware that Loklinth was far more interested in the forbidden fruit than in Filipson’s comments. “If there are any remnants left from these Cold War organizations, they are breaking Swedish law and should be stopped. They are an illegal militia.”

  “I would love to see you try to pull that one off,” Loklinth laughed, staring at the girls at the next table.

  What a dull and irritating laugh, Filipson thought. “It’s a real bad situation if those groups are still operating,” he said. “It’s supposed to be our job to protect and defend this country. I do hope you understand that, Chris. So, I don’t mind our solutions too much. As long as we both agree that we should let Modin live. We’ve decided that much, haven’t we?”

  At that moment, the two teenage girls got up and left. He noticed that Loklinth was following the brunette with his eyes as she was swaying her ass past their table and out the door. Filipson was not absolutely sure that Loklinth had grasped what he had tried to say.

  CHAPTER 23

  GRISSLEHAMN, MONDAY, MAY 3

  Anton Modin woke up sweaty and uneasy. The bedroom clock said it was five in the morning. He tried to remember what he had been dreaming. It was more horrible than usual and was linked to his familiar and ever recurring nightmare about drowning, not being able to breathe, with someone holding onto him, down there in the depths. He knew that thoughts and impressions from the
previous day were processed in one’s brain at night. Sometimes you could dream about the future, as he had once read somewhere. Dreams were important. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate.

  He now remembered the dream. He was lying on the floor and was held down. He couldn’t move a muscle; someone was pressing down on his chest. He felt trapped and abused. He feared for his life. The dream had been so real that it had produced a cold sweat. He experienced details that were unusual for dreams, and remembered which type of glove had been gripping his neck, and the material of the floor-linoleum, yellow and dirty. The room was dark and it felt like he had been kidnapped.

  He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the pillowcase and got out of bed. He was dizzy. He gripped the mattress for support, reached for his bathrobe, and stepped into his slippers, which were parked neatly near the bedroom door. He was tired and wanted to pee.

  Sitting on the toilet, he thought of Julia. He had stayed on the island that night and then paddled home after breakfast. They had not made love in the morning, but were simply lying next to one another, sharing their breath and feeling the presence of each other’s body. The intimacy had been a high for him.

  She’s going to let me into her life, he thought. It’ll be me, Julia, and her family secret.

  He had paddled back as if in a trance. Julia had enriched his life in many ways over the past twenty-four hours. And he didn’t only feel that way because she had supplied a major piece of the puzzle of the Palme murder: SOSUS. But although that success was encouraging, it was being with Julia that he had enjoyed most. A unique woman, tough, extremely independent, almost like an androgynous creature from outer space with supernatural powers. But her background puzzled him; her family and her brother, especially.

  At the breakfast table, he had decided to get in touch with Bill Bergman and John Axman. They would go SOSUS-hunting. Try to find the connection between the Palme murder and Sweden’s secret cooperation with NATO—if there was a connection. But there had to be—nothing else made sense. The first step toward solving the murder of Olof Palme was to find the secret SOSUS equipment—if it still was here. He could deal with Julia’s brother later.