Enemy of the State (Anton Modin Book 2) Page 13

  He heard a tractor pass outside, which reminded him of Harry Nuder, the skipper and occasional ship’s pilot, though a farmer for the most part. He would need the Hulk, his pilot boat, and a seasoned sailor; and last but not least, he wanted his cat back!

  After he had cleaned the kitchen, he went into the main room and sat at the table. He opened his laptop and connected to the internet. He wrote e-mail’s to his three friends, inviting them to his house for dinner the next day. Modin then downloaded his incoming mail.

  One was from the War Archive. He had been expecting that one. Modin had phoned his contact there the day before, asking that he copy the log books of the Navy vessel, Visborg. Modin knew the Visborg was the only military vessel in the Swedish Navy big enough to lay down a SOSUS system.

  He read the pdf documents his contact had sent with great interest. He was concentrating on the summer of 1986, which is when he assumed that they were out here, installing the SOSUS. Soon he found what he was looking for. It was a note from early September. He grabbed his laptop, stepped out to the deck, and slipped into one of the wicker chairs.

  The entry in the Visborg’s logbook for September 9, 1986 read:

  Course 005, speed 14, Black Island at 274 degrees, distance 5.1 nautical miles, cloud 0, wind 050/05, visibility 60 miles, weather 0, sea 1, air temp 50.

  12:00 hours position north of Understen, 188 degrees, distance 1.1 nautical miles. Wind 130/13, course 330 degrees, speed 0.

  Based on the logbook, Modin could see the movements of the ship in his mind’s eye. The ship was stationed in a small area for the entire day. Since it was a deep spot, it could not be for ordinary mooring. Without a doubt, the vessel was carrying out some kind of task around Black Island and the Understen lighthouse. Besides, it was the only time during the period of the logbooks that the Visborg was in the Grisslehamn area, where, according to Julia, the SOSUS system was installed. So, if the only vessel that could fulfill the task was near Grisslehamn only in September 1986, chances are it was to install the SOSUS system.

  The logbook revealed positions and weather conditions, but no written record of orders. That kind of information was classified, no doubt. The Understen lighthouse, which stood some seven nautical miles to the northeast of Black Island, was the more precise area Modin considered suitable for mooring a surveillance system to the seabed. Deep waters out there.

  15:15 hours. In connection with anchoring operations in conjunction with the Herkules, a dent has formed at rib 97. Confirmed by Lieutenant Joachim Forsberg.

  That was the only entry in the log for the entire day! A dent, while carrying out operations, he mumbled to himself.

  20:20 hours. Course 140 degrees, speed 0.5.

  Modin read the entry for September 10, 1986. There was very little in the log for that day:

  17:50 hours moored at military mooring.

  19:11 helicopter landed.

  Then he read the entry for September 11, 1986:

  03:15 unmooring.

  15:00 across Simpnäs Lighthouse.

  21:00 Moored ÖHM (Muskö Marine Base).

  The Visborg had clearly not taken anchoring operations off Understen and Black Island, and had set sail at three o’clock in the morning during a pitch black night, sailing straight for its home base at Muskö Marine Base in the Hårsfjärden inlet south of Stockholm.

  Modin wondered what sort of helicopter had landed there that evening and why. Who had been in that helicopter? Maybe some representative from the U.S. Navy or the NSA? Or representatives of the Swedish government? Speculations, yes indeed, but professional speculations. Good info I’ve got here, Modin thought and took a few gulps of beer. Just one problem.

  He got up from his armchair and walked to the edge of the deck. He stood looking out over the inlet. There was some rustling in the reeds. A pike, he guessed, or two, mating.

  Problem is, that I don’t have an exact position for the SOSUS system. I can take a good guess from what’s in the log book. He sat down again, when his cell phone rang.

  “Hi there, this is Göran Filipson.”

  “Hello. How are things going at Security Service Headquarters?”

  “Everything’s fine in the police den. It’s you I’m worried about. How are things out there? Everything quiet?”

  “Yes, as usual,” Modin said. “What’s up?”

  Modin knew that Filipson never called him without good reason.

  “Rumor has it that there are people out there who mean you harm. You’d better be careful all summer. I was thinking of sending a few bodyguards your way. Any objections? The state will pay for it.”

  “I don’t know. Got a few things I’ve got to do. They’d get in the way. How credible is the threat?”

  Anton Modin got to his feet, still holding the bottle of beer in his hand. He gripped it tightly. It was difficult to take a swig during a phone call.

  “Very credible. We think it’s the same gang that arranged for your death by drowning last fall.” Filipson’s tone of voice was serious. Not a good sign, Modin thought. He needed some beer. “They can come through the woods or over the water at night when you are least expecting them. I’m worried.” Modin understood that Filipson wanted the message to sink in.

  “Who are they?”

  “I can’t tell you. A matter of national security, I’m afraid. But trust me, you’ve got to watch out. You don’t mess with these guys.”

  “Okay, send your bodyguards tomorrow. They can stay in the sea cottage. Have them bring their own food. They can get sheets and towels here. Anything else?”

  “Yes,” Filipson said, then paused for a second or two. “You’re not going to like this, Modin. As a friend, I’ve got to advise you to stop digging into the murder of Olof Palme.”

  Modin was caught off guard.

  “Oh, come on,” he said. “Why should I? I thought you guys at the Security Service want people to solve mysteries and find answers to showcase to the Swedish public. Has that gone out of style, or what?”

  “It’s as it’s always been, Modin. But not just at this time, not right now. Promise me. As a friend. Drop the Palme murder. You’re stepping on too many toes. Sweden may never forgive you.”

  “Okay, if you say so,” Modin said, lying through his teeth. “No more Palme murder. Maybe something else. Send your bodyguards. We’ll be in touch.”

  Modin ended conversation, and slowly put the beer bottle down, which he had managed to finish during he conversation after all. As a friend. He couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder. The unease in Filipson’s voice had jolted him, but he had to go through with his task.

  They’re not putting a stop to my plans by sending over a few upmarket bodyguards from Stockholm.

  CHAPTER 24

  STOCKHOLM, BASTUGATAN STREET, MONDAY, MAY 3

  Bill Bergman’s nine-year-old daughter Astrid had been kidnapped in the summer of 2008 by persons unknown in the Stockholm district of Söder. Astrid was thrown into a van and kept imprisoned and tied up in the cellar of a house on the islet of Långholmen nearby. The house was owned by Judge Albert Svan. It later emerged that Svan worked for Special Ops. The reason for the kidnapping had been to force Bergman to rat out his best friend Modin and their diving endeavors in search for the Russian mini submarine. The tactic had succeeded, Bergman kept the kidnappers appraised of Modin’s plans, and Astrid had been released unharmed, but had suffered a few traumatic days. When Bergman later confessed to Modin and Axman that he had been spying on Modin, Bergman’s daughter was again in danger. Modin decided, in agreement with Bergman, to send Astrid away in great secrecy to New Haven, Connecticut. Ellie, the waitress at The Rock, had taken her home with her. Astrid attended a private school in New Haven and seemed, for all intents and purposes, to be doing well. Ewa Bergman, Astrid’s mother, did not know what had happened to her daughter, and was going through sheer hell.

  “I really am sorry, Ewa. I don’t know any more than that. Modin has promised to check with his Security Servic
e contacts again.”

  Bill Bergman was begging his ex-wife not to go to the media and tell them that Astrid was missing.

  “I am sure she is safe, Ewa. In fact, I know she is.”

  But Ewa was desperate. Eight months had passed since Astrid had vanished without a trace. Ewa’s mood swung between hope and despair as people fed her one false lead after the other. She had even heard rumors saying that she and her ex-husband were behind the kidnapping.

  “I look like such a mess,” Ewa said, looking at herself in the hall mirror. She had aged. The woman staring back at her couldn’t be her. The same wavy, chin-length chestnut hair, but the skin was gray from stress. No, this couldn’t be here.

  She and Bill Bergman had divorced a few years earlier, and since then, she and Astrid had lived in an apartment on Timmermansgatan, a tree-lined street on Södermalm. But now Astrid was gone and she knew it was all Modin’s fault, because her ex-husband could never say no to his friend. She didn’t know whether she would ever see her daughter again. She missed her a great deal, her untidy room, loud music on the stereo, clothes scattered around the hall, and hot showers that went on forever. Remembering her habits was the worst. The memories of Astrid’s face had begun to fade.

  Ewa’s patience was at an end. She had received a sign of life last fall, a postcard with a greeting from the U.S., brought back by a tourist who had visited Manhattan. The postcard cited the number of the prepaid cell phone that Astrid had had a couple of years before. That was all. Bergman had claimed it was a real sign of life, but she was doubtful. How could he know for sure? Maybe he was simply trying to calm her down.

  “I hate you. You know that? Hate you!” She screamed and threw the hall lamp on the floor so that the bulb burst. Bergman backed off as the pieces flew all around. “I am gonna sue you. Both you and Modin!”

  “Take it easy, Ewa. Give me a week to get in touch with Modin, and then…”

  “Modin can go fuck himself. I hate him, too. I’m so damn tired of all this, don’t you understand?” She grabbed Bergman’s biceps and squeezed hard.

  Bergman cried out. “Take it easy, please, I’m begging you. It’s going to be fine.” Bergman pried her fingers off his arm and gently let go of her hand.

  “Fine? You’re so fucking afraid of conflict. You don’t fucking get it. You never get anything done. Now it’s my turn to do something. For Astrid’s sake. This is so insane.”“

  She slumped to the floor crying and sat there, leaning against the front door, her legs straight out like a doll. She held her hand in front of her face and sobbed.

  Bergman crept down next to her. He stroked her hair carefully and cautiously, then hugged her. She seemed to relax a little as he let her cry in his embrace.

  “It’ll be all right,” he whispered in her ear. “It’s going to work itself out, I promise. Before this week is over.”

  His cell phone beeped. He had received a text message.

  CHAPTER 25

  GRISSLEHAMN, MONDAY, MAY 4

  Modin was in deep meditation in his bed. He had locked the front door and closed the deck doors on the ground floor, just in case. Bright spring sunshine was entering the room, warming it up. He was only aware of the present, he was totally relaxed, could not even feel his arms and legs. His brain was in the present, and he could examine the room from several angles, see himself on his bed. The muscles of his face were relaxed and his jaw hung open. He was breathing deeply and slowly.

  As he gradually woke up, rested and with renewed energy, his thoughts immediately returned to the murder of Olof Palme. He wondered what it would mean if he could prove that a Swedish government department was behind the killing. Would this shake the country in its foundation? Would people even care? Would they regard it as a scandal, or merely a sign of the times, something from the 1980s, the Cold War, politicians that did as they pleased, or corruption within government in its most advanced form? Would anyone at home or abroad even care that Olof Palme, the Prime Minister of Sweden, had been assassinated by his own people, much like almost 200 years earlier, King Gustav III had been murdered by the military and the nobility?

  It was time to get up. The bodyguards the Security Service was sending to protect him would soon be here, and so would his friends from the city. He had to arrange their sleeping quarters, so there was quite a bit to do before their arrival.

  The bodyguards arrived first. Two of them, as promised. According to their IDs, Urban and Max were around 35 years old. Both were tall, dressed in dark suits and white shirts, and generally spruced up. As they took a seat on the kitchen chairs, their trained eyes glanced around Modin’s kitchen and through the window for any points that would help or hinder assassination. They both sat with their backs to the inlet, as if any attack would come from inland, through the front door and the hall.

  Modin poured them coffee. The cups were from a set: Blå blom, Rörstrand, white porcelain with small blue flowers. Stylish. He looked into the light beyond the window. And couldn’t resist making fun of them.

  “Look, a rubber boat!”

  The bodyguards jumped to their feet. Urban spilled his coffee.

  “Just kidding,” Modin said. “I’ll pour you another cup.”

  Urban’s facial expression underwent a split-second surrealistic change as if he was chewing at himself from within. Without a word he grabbed a napkin and wiped his jacket.

  Modin liked this. The guys had the capacity to stay under control. Max made a round surveying the ground floor and came back.

  “You can always wear shorts and a t-shirt if you want to dress casually,” said Modin. “I won’t tell the boss.”

  He put a plate of cookies on the table.

  “No thank you,” Max said.

  “Who were you protecting most recently? The Prime Minister?”

  “Not this time, but we’ve done so in the past. There were six of us, and we took turns.”

  “Really? And where do you stay when you’re at his summer residence? Harpsund, I mean. If I may ask?”

  “At Harpsund we hang out in a small room on the ground floor near the entrance,” Max said, the quieter of the two. “We spend most of our time watching TV or DVDs. Nothing much happens. Those of us that work there stay indoors for the most part. Maybe the odd stroll or a sauna by the lake. But that’s about it. On the other hand, when we’re guarding the Prime Minister’s Stockholm residence, the Sager Palace, things are quite different. People are running in and out from morning till night. Much more to do than checking IDs and frisking.”

  “So what do you do if the Prime Minister takes a vacation or goes on a boat trip through the archipelago?”

  “We go along with him. Not in the same boat, of course. But we’re in the vicinity.”

  “Not bad. You get a free vacation like that. Not bad at all. Do you incur expenses and overtime as well?” Modin laughed and did not expect an answer.

  “We have a fixed schedule,” Urban said and reached for the coffee cup. “Nice place you’ve got here,” he said as he looked out over the inlet. Modin detected neither irony nor envy in his voice, just indifference. “And where are we staying?”

  “In the sea cottage. Once you finish your coffee, we’ll take a stroll down there. Take your time, gentlemen.”

  During the rest of the conversation it emerged that Urban had been working with the police for fifteen years and had been handpicked for the bodyguard unit of the Security Service two years earlier.

  “You do a few years there,” he said without revealing what he thought his opinions on the matter were. “Then you get promoted,” he continued “Being a bodyguard is a springboard within the Security Service. Not many stick the course. You get fed up in the end.”

  Urban lived in the quiet low-rise garden suburb of Bromma, not far from Bromma Airport, just outside Stockholm, and was married with two children, five and seven years old. A girl and a boy. Max, on the other hand, was not married and never had been. He worked out at the gym, did a lot of tr
aveling, and had a good time, living as he did in a two bedroom apartment on the Hantverkargatan Parkway on the central Stockholm island of Kungsholmen, a stone’s throw away from Security Service Headquarters. Max had been with the bodyguard unit longer and was happy there. It was often very quiet and he spent his time reading and resting his muscles, which usually ached from exercise. It was all relatively boring, but his trips, especially those by plane, compensated nicely.

  Modin was beginning to relax. Urban and Max were a couple of perfectly decent guys. They were younger than he was, but seemed competent enough. He felt that having them around for a while would not interfere too much with his daily routine.

  He gave them a guided tour of the property and then went to retrieve the bed linen for the sea cottage.

  The sea cottage, which stood thirty yards from the main building and not far from the pier, had a bunk bed, two recliners and a small table, plus an open fireplace. There was also a kitchenette with running water, a sink, and a stove. A fridge stood in the corner. Modin had stocked it the day before with beer and bottled water. By now, the beer had to be ice cold. The bodyguards saw this and a slight look of satisfaction crossed their otherwise blank but friendly faces.

  A car approached along the gravel track on the other side of Modin’s house. All three standing by the sea cottage could hear the gravel crunching even before the car drove into view. Max scooted over to the corner of the main building and saw that a black Lexus was gliding in over the incline in the woods, its engine already in neutral. Modin could tell that he had tensed up and was reaching for his personal weapon as he scanned the car’s approach to the house.

  Without slowing down, the driver steered the car off the gravel track and into Modin’s front yard. The vehicle came to a gradual halt. The engine was turned off.