Enemy of the State (Anton Modin Book 2) Read online

  Modin waved a greeting as he walked to the car. It was Bill Bergman. He stepped out, but froze when he saw the two men in suits. For a second or two, fear showed in his eyes until he realized that they were bodyguards here to protect Modin.

  Modin knew that Astrid’s absence had worn his friend down; his eyes and his posture clearly showed that worry about his daughter was eating at him. Modin suspected that his ex-wife, Ewa, did not make things any easier. She must be furious by now, Modin thought. Not seeing your daughter for eight months could break the strongest will. He wondered whether it would be possible to bring Astrid home soon. He dismissed the thought when the bodyguards went to Bergman and checked his ID.

  It’s still too early. She’ll have to stay in the U.S. for a while longer. I must tell Bergman more when the opportunity arises. But now it’s a question of being on heightened alert.

  Half an hour later, John Axman turned up in his old BMW 318. By that time, Modin had explained the arrival of his guests to the bodyguards. John Axman was a police officer working in the IT department. He was a forensic scientist, mostly charged with examining the hard drives and web traffic of criminals. He was 39, six-foot-one, and weighed some 190 pounds. He was obviously well trained and muscular. His crew cut accentuated his lively green eyes. As usual, he was elegantly dressed in light gray pants and a gray jacket over a thin light blue shirt and white athletic shoes. His chiseled features made him handsome in a way that made both men and women admire his looks. Axman had a boyfriend, an artist who was in Paris to focus on his painting and would soon be coming home.

  Axman had an array of talents that Modin found useful during his expeditions. He was a licensed helicopter pilot and an excellent diver with training from the Swedish Navy. But most importantly, he always turned up when needed.

  “Hi,” he said in a jovial tone of voice. He was in the best of moods.

  Axman greeted the bodyguards and then sat in one of Modin’s garden chairs. They chatted about their respective jobs for a little while.

  Suddenly, there was the roar of an engine in the reeds. Max slid instantly behind a hedge, gesturing to Urban. Urban got up, his hand on his holster and moved toward the water’s edge. A large RIB came gliding into the inlet. Urban pulled out his gun and held it in front of him with outstretched arms.

  “It’s Harry Nuder,” Modin shouted. “Look, our Hulk.”

  The large RIB had three huge outboards that could reach a maximum speed of 75 mph.

  Nuder was standing at the wheel proudly as he steered the craft carefully into the inlet. He was wearing a blue windbreaker over his powerful torso, had a gray sealskin cap on his head, thick gloves on his hands and pilot-style sunglasses in his nose. He was unshaven and had the look of a bear that had just woken in its lair. He was inquisitive, eager, and had masses of self-confidence.

  Modin, Axman, and Bergman strolled to the landing stage to meet him.

  Urban and Max looked over their shoulders and scanned the surrounding terrain. They seemed on their toes, looking at one another somewhat uneasily. Had they received instructions from their boss, Göran Filipson, instructions Modin didn’t know about?

  Urban, the father of two, seems more anxious than the situation would merit, Modin thought, but he is trying his best to hide it from the rest of us.

  CHAPTER 26

  The day before in the afternoon, Urban, who was the shorter of the two and the team leader, had received orders straight from the Chief of the Security Service. It was unusual for instructions to come straight from the top. This was the first time he had met Filipson personally.

  Urban was going to be away the entire week. He’d miss one of his kids’ birthday parties later as well as his regular tennis practice on Friday afternoon. Couldn’t be helped; those were his orders. He had also been required to sign for extra equipment; automatic weapons with telescopic sights and night vision, plus reinforced bulletproof vests. “Just in case something happens,” Filipson had said. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there had been an element of uncertainty in the command. Max, his colleague, had not seemed worried in the least. Max liked action and excitement. He was looking forward to a week in the archipelago. Max erred on the side of naive vanity, Urban thought.

  The guards admired the RIB and then withdrew once they had been introduced to Nuder.

  • • •

  It wasn’t until the dinner at Modin’s house that they started talking about the SOSUS system. Now that his bodyguards had retired to the cottage, Modin told his friends all he knew about the way the equipment had been installed just off the rocks of the Understen lighthouse, which they could see on the horizon from where they sat. He suspected that the SOSUS lay in the very deep waters there, basing his findings on a degree of speculation and intuition. If they could dive down to the SOSUS system, take a look and, at best, take photos of this U.S. secret lying on the Swedish seabed, they might be eligible for the reward.

  “Fifty million kroner or seven million dollars. That’s what you get for solving or contributing to solving the murder of Olof Palme.”

  “Hell, Modin,” said Bergman who had been unusually quiet. “It’s more than 700 feet deep out there near Understen. It’s a well known abyss in the seabed. How do you suggest we go about this? I would like to survive this, you know.”

  “Yes, I know, Bergman. But hypothetically speaking, if we can prove that there is an American SOSUS system out there in Swedish waters, and has been there since the 1980s, one that is linked up directly to the American NSA, we will have ultimate proof of the illegal cooperation between the two countries. I firmly believe that this has something to do with the Palme murder, and I believe we can show a connection between the murder and Special Ops. Do you understand?”

  “No, not really,” Bergman said. He shuffled nervously in his chair. This whole thing just didn’t sound appetizing. What the hell are we getting ourselves into?

  “I think that the SOSUS constitutes the ultimate proof of our secret and illegal cooperation with the NSA and the U.S.,” Modin said, “and I also think that this cooperation was the motive for the Palme murder. Special Ops, MI6, and CIA all thought Palme was a Soviet spy. They didn’t trust him. It said so in the secret files I saw in the Security Service archive. It all makes sense. They had to make sure he wouldn’t spill the beans about Swedish cooperation with NATO. I only have to prove it was so. They killed Palme to protect the security of the nation.”

  “You think it was in order to protect the SOSUS?” Bergman asked. “If Special Ops, CIA, and MI6 thought that Palme would reveal the SOSUS system to the Russians, who do you think carried out the murder?”

  “Perhaps it was the other way round,” Modin said. “Perhaps they feared that the Soviets would tell Palme about the secret cooperation between Swedish intelligence and American and British intelligence. After all, the soviets had a high ranking NSA spy: Pelton. Four weeks after the murder, Palme was planning to go to Moscow for an official visit. That timing is essential. Someone didn’t want him to go there.”

  “Sounds possible,” Axman said. “Imagine Palme’s anger if he ever realized he was tricked by Military Intelligence. He would have stopped the cooperation right away, fired all executives, and by that risked the balance of power in northern Europe and the Baltic. A pre-emptive strike sounds logical.”

  “You think so,” Bergman said with a grin.

  “We’ll find out once we’ve discovered who tried to murder me,” Modin said.

  “I’ll be damned,” Bergman said. “Maybe you’re right. They tried to kill you, that’s for sure.”

  Modin noticed Bergman’s head nodded in a curiously resigned fashion. “If that’s the case, two bodyguards are hardly enough. You’ll need a whole army of bodyguards, and even that likely won’t do. Have you gone completely nuts, Modin?”

  “Crazy? Yes, that is a distinct possibility. But I have a hunch about how to find the SOSUS installation. I have the log plottings from the vessel I think anchored the eq
uipment down there in 1986. It was a Navy vessel, the Visborg. The only Navy vessel that could have performed such an operation. I’ve got a few positions from those notes, but I’m not there yet. I need more time. And more information to narrow it down. Once we have that, all we have to do is follow the cable,” he said, giving himself a second helping.

  “Follow the cable?” Axman said. “Down 700 feet?”

  “Were there any other vessels or units involved in this operation?” asked Harry Nuder, whose pilot station was located not too far from the area in question.

  “Yes of course, the Herkules! Nuder, you’re a genius.” Modin thumped his plate down the table. “I’d forgotten to cross check the Herkules’s logbook, for the same time. The Herkules will also have noted its positions and times. The logbooks say nothing about the task they carried out, but sailors never fake positions.”

  “You’ve got the log book entries?” John Axman asked as he continued to eat.

  Anton Modin got up and fetched his laptop.

  “This is from the Visborg’s log at the time,” he said and read off the screen:

  1986-09-09 12:00 hours position north of Understen, 188 degrees, distance 1.1 nautical miles. Wind 130/13, course 330 degrees, speed 0.

  He found a new page and read the identical information again.

  “That was the Herkules. Exactly the same position, exactly the same time. Incredible! And listen to this. From the Herkules logbook:

  15:00 hours. In connection with anchoring operations, HMS Visborg suffered damage.

  “That must be when they were installing the SOSUS system,” Modin said excitedly. “Must be. The Herkules is assisting and happens to run into the Visborg. The weather, position, and time all add up. That’s where we’re going to dive! The dent in the Visborg has exposed them. How else could the Visborg get a dent out in the open sea?”

  “How the hell did you manage to get hold of the logbook of Herkules?” Harry Nuder said blithely. “I know that the Herkules happens to be a civil vessel that has done odd jobs for the intelligence services here and there. You can’t just find its logbook. What did you do?”

  “I called the company that owns Herkules and said I was trying to trace my lost father,” Modin said. “He disappeared at sea in the summer of 1986 just off Understen. That’s what I said anyway, and I got to talk to the secretary, and she began to feel sorry for me. In the end, she promised to send copies of the log entries for the period in question. It wasn’t that hard.”

  “You lied to her,” Nuder said.

  “Not altogether. The end justifies the means when you want something badly enough. I got what I wanted.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Are you really going to dive?” Bill Bergman was clearly not eager for this adventure. He had plenty of other things to think about, things that seemed a lot more important. Modin knew Astrid’s whereabouts. Nobody else did. He had to make sure that nothing would happen to Modin.

  “You’re still sick. Your sense of balance is off, and I don’t think you can dive without that, Modin.”

  “Oh, we’ll see,” Modin said.

  He went to get the sea chart and put it on the table. Nuder and Axman were still eating. Bergman had put aside his plate long ago; he had lost his appetite. His friends’ calm demeanor and their friendly, chatty conversation irritated and alienated him. It was as if they lived in a parallel universe. They were in full control of their lives, while his own life could careen out of control at any moment, collapse, and vanish under a thick layer of despair, never to rise again. If Astrid disappears for good, it’s the end for me. I’ll never forgive myself. Why am I taking these risks? For Sweden? Hardly. For Modin? Maybe. Ewa was right; he had to divorce himself from his friend.

  Easier said than done.

  Bergman looked out the blurry window. He wanted to be at home in his apartment and snuggle up to his daughter, eat potato chips, and relax. He didn’t ask for this. Didn’t need it. Didn’t want it. Modin’s insane. If he is right with this conspiracy theory, they will kill us all.

  Modin, however, was in his element. He pushed everything aside to make room for the chart, spread it on the table, and marked the positions from the logbooks of both the Visborg and the Herkules, using a pair of compasses. Their position was one nautical mile from the Understen lighthouse, and around nine nautical miles to the northeast of Black Island.

  “Fuck, it is deep down there,” Nuder said. “The chart says it is 730 feet to the bottom. Maybe the deepest trenches in the area. What do you guys think?”

  “Great, another new record,” Bergman said in mock excitement. “Don’t count on me. I never do 700 feet this early in the season. Or late, for that matter. Actually, I just don’t do 700 feet. Period.”

  “There must be some anchorage and a link to the Understen lighthouse,” Nuder said, completely unaffected by Bergman’s sarcasm. “The equipment needs power and some kind of center where data can be gathered and monitored. There’s likely to be a cable from somewhere near the lighthouse. If, that is, Understen is connected to the mainland underwater in some way. There is no other suitable spot in the area. The military has shut down all their systems along the coast. The end of all wars, you know.”

  “Yes, yes, we know,” Modin said. “Anyhow, I think you’re right, Nuder. We’ll have to start looking around the lighthouse. We may find the end of a wire, or a cable rather, and could follow it.”

  “People aren’t even allowed to moor at Understen.”

  “In that case, we’ll have to work at night,” Axman said.

  “Defense uses video surveillance,” Nuder said. “A camera that is linked directly to Military Intelligence. Mind you, that’s the only thing that they’ve got out there, as far as I know. Might work.”

  Nuder’s voice was positive and optimistic. With a smile he got up and sat on the sofa in the corner. He pulled a boat magazine from the shelf and began to read. In the silence that followed, you could hear the rustling of the pages he turned. Nuder had said his piece and would leave the details of the plan to others.

  “We’re not going to do anything out at Understen tonight,” Modin said. “We’ll just fill the diving tanks this evening and then take it easy. I have to plan this out carefully.”

  “Go ahead and plan, by all means,” Bergman said. “I want to have a word with you later. About Astrid.” He looked out the window again and saw that the bodyguards had started the grill on the rocks near the sea cottage. There was quite a lot of smoke.

  Modin was not like everyone else. The M/S Estonia disaster had altered his views on risk-taking. The loss of his family seemed to have rendered him immune to empathy. He just didn’t understand that Ewa had a hard time dealing with the absence of her daughter.

  “She’s alive, that’s the main thing,” Modin had told him the last time Bergman asked about Astrid. “Isn’t that enough?”

  Bergman glanced out the window again. He thought he saw something moving in the reeds.

  CHAPTER 28

  BLACK ISLAND, MONDAY, MAY 4

  The sun was setting. The dusk twinkled on the surface of the water. Four black kayaks were gliding soundlessly through the water to the west of Black Island. A slight breeze was coming in from the northwest. A man dressed in green was paddling each kayak with backpacks attached in front of the cockpit. The men were wearing navy blue knitted commando caps and wetsuit gloves.

  The kayaks approached the cleft in the rocks where Modin had landed a few days earlier. They moored and stepped ashore. The four men moved toward Julia’s cottage, not sending a single stone rolling, not breaking any twigs, frightening no seabirds. Just silence.

  Julia Steerback was sitting in her cottage translating another episode from a TV show.

  “Hi, Julia!”

  A large man, tall and powerfully built, entered via the front door without knocking. He lowered his head to avoid banging it on the doorframe. It was obvious that he had been there before; he made himself at home in a way that irritat
ed Julia. She showed no surprise or disapproval, knowing he would have liked to see a little bit of either.

  “Hi, brother.”

  He put his automatic gun just inside the door. “You can come in now,” he said, turning in the direction of the door and the stoop.

  The men stepped in and put their weapons and backpacks on the floor in small piles. Suddenly, the room seemed crowded and they instinctively stayed close to the walls.

  “Well, hi there, you all,” Julia said and folded her arms. She stopped typing and folded up her laptop. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? What are all these weapons for? Going hunting?”

  “You could say that.” Christer Steerback let out a loud and fake laugh.

  “We need to eat and kick back for a little while. You can take it easy. We will move out later tonight. National security, you know.”

  Christer Steerback took off his blue cap and sat down on the couch without taking off his shoes. “Do you have anything tasty to eat?”

  “Canned food,” Julia said, as she got up and straightened her cardigan. “Don’t have anything else in the house. Who are you people by the way?”

  She went up to the men, looking at them with suspicion as Christer introduced them.

  “These are a few of my buddies from Defense: Per from Defence Materiel Administration and Carol from HQ. Alex and Carl Gustaf are police officers. We’re the good guys, Julia. Relax. If there were a few more of their caliber in Sweden, things would be better today.”

  Julia didn’t trust her brother as far as she could throw him. She suspected the men belonged to the Baseball Gang, a bunch of Task Force cops Christer had joined many years ago who did combat-style shooting practice with magnum revolvers and automatic weapons, and spent the time in between getting drunk. Neo-Nazis. They listened to German march music and yelled slogans. She was hoping they would soon outlive themselves.