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

  He waved his right arm like a traffic cop in the direction he wanted them to go.

  J-O Grahn was kneeling down by the sea cottage and had opened his black suitcase. He was fiddling with the tips of the victim’s fingers. A short moment later, a whining noise from a sanding machine could be heard.

  “Modin,” Filipson said when they were all in the main house. “We’ve got to be able to trust you and your friends. Otherwise everything will fall apart.”

  “Trust us? How the hell can you let military intelligence deal with this? Modin said. “Do you trust them?”

  “Their Special Ops team has the competence, secrecy, and clearance to succeed here. They know their jobs. Disposing of the evidence.”

  “Yes, thank you very much, I know,” Modin said and thought about Cats Falk. “How are you going to deal with the bodyguards?”

  “I think they’re going to arrange a car accident,” Filipson said, looking straight at Modin.

  Filipson was under stress. Two dead colleagues, and the summer had only just started.

  “A car accident with slit throats?” Modin asked and grimaced.

  “I don’t know,” Filipson said. “They are professionals.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Who’s the guy in green, with the hole through his head?” Modin asked as he sat down.

  “We don’t know who they are for sure, but looks like they are paramilitaries,” Filipson said. “They call themselves the Barbro Team. They don’t officially exist, but they are after you anyway.”

  Göran Filipson knew he’d already said too much. He had promised Loklinth to provide information on a need-to-know basis only, but this was an emergency. Modin and his friends were completely shattered. Modin has a right to know who is after him, he thought.

  “The Barbro Team?” Modin said. “How do you know? They could be any extremist group out there.”

  “Yep, true,” Filipson said. “Any bunch of whack-jobs of all sorts of persuasions. So listen to me, Modin, and do as I say. If you are planning something, unplan it. And let me send more bodyguards. Two are clearly not enough.”

  “No more bodyguards. I’ll call off the dive, Göran. I’ll be a good boy. You can pass on the word to whoever might care. But no more bodyguards. I can’t be responsible for more dead bodies.”

  Filipson gazed out of the window. Grahn and Lundin were carrying away a black body bag. They were skilled. They knew what they were doing.

  CHAPTER 31

  GRISSLEHAMN, TUESDAY, MAY 5, 5 A.M.

  A crane was flying majestically over the inlet with the morning sun in its eyes. The bird landed on a rock near the reed bed and stood stock still, waiting. Time for breakfast. Modin’s inlet was the perfect place at this time of year. It was cool, about 50 degrees Fahrenheit, and there was no wind. The sky was azure blue. An osprey exhibiting its white belly floated on the breeze in a parallel world overhead.

  Anton Modin was fast asleep. It had been a full day since the clandestine attack that had resulted in three dead bodies on his property. Now, not a trace of the carnage remained.

  Loklinth’s boys had been both skillful and effective in cleaning up the evidence. Göran Filipson had clearly chosen the right guys for the job. The question Modin had to answer now was if he could go along with the cover-up. He did, after all, belong to the Security Service, and their task was to find conspiracies, not create them. Was the Security Service also involved in the murder of Olof Palme? Was Filipson?

  He trusted no one.

  Bergman and Nuder had left, yet Axman had wanted to stay.

  “I promise to be invisible, Modin. I, too, have a few things to think about. Out here is a good place to do it.”

  Modin entered the main house. He needed to be alone. And get some rest. The diving expedition for the SOSUS had been called off, at least for the time being. He had to protect himself. And his friends. Modin formulated a new plan in his head. He would start implementing it as soon as he had some sleep.

  CHAPTER 32

  GRISSLEHAMN, TUESDAY, MAY 5, 6 A.M.

  Wake up, Julia! Time for breakfast.”

  Christer Steerback was standing in the doorway. He was a scary sight. His clothes were soaking wet and there was blood on his right hand.

  Julia jumped out of bed, filled with an ill-boding premonition; she pulled her bathrobe over her pajamas.

  The sun was rising over the sea, sending its first warm rays into the kitchen. Julia put her hand up in front of her eyes. Her brother was shaking from the cold. She had to suppress her gag reflex. The contrast between what was happening in her kitchen and the peace and sunshine outside was unreal. She knew her brother. He was a bloodsucker at night, sneaking around, carrying out raids, and causing accidents.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, her voice shrill. “What the hell have you done?”

  “Just a roe deer,” Christer said.

  Alex and Per entered the kitchen, scowls on their faces. Julia quickly realized that she was defenseless among them. Whatever they’d been up to, they had failed, and these twisted men could take it out on her if she wasn’t careful. Yet walking around on egg-shells was humiliating for a woman who had more brain power than these morons put together. She hated the situation.

  “What did you say it was?”

  “Just a roe deer,” Christer repeated with annoyance in his voice.

  “A roe deer? I thought the season for deer was long over,” Julia said as she poured water from the tap into the pot. “How long will you stay?”

  “We’ll be leaving the island this evening, after dark. We need to get some sleep first.”

  Christer sat at the kitchen table without even taking off his wet jacket. He drew his hand over his cheek, then wiped off the moisture on his trousers.

  • • •

  Anton Modin woke up when Miss Mona jumped up onto his bed and slowly strolled over the covers. Her purring reminded him of a hair dryer; it was impossible to ignore. But he was really happy that Nuder had brought her back.

  “Good morning, Mona,” Modin smiled. “Good morning my little darling.”

  Miss Mona was hungry. She meowed and wagged her tail until he finally got out of bed. Modin fed her, and then went to get the newspaper from the mailbox near the gate. He looked around carefully. Every breath of wind, every shadow became a living creature. He was nervous. Violence had found its way into his own backyard. He forced himself to do what he did every morning, and browsed through his copy of the local newspaper Norrtelje News, as the gravel crunched under his clogs.

  Car Accident at Trästa Bridge in Norrtelje Province. Two Dead.

  He read how a Saab registered to the National Police Force had run over the embankment at high speed and burst into flames. The car was completely burnt out. The charred remains of the two people inside had not yet been identified. It had been slippery that morning, as the police officers who were first on the scene had noted: black ice.

  Black ice in early May, Modin thought. You need a good imagination to believe that one. He folded up the newspaper. What will they be saying to the relatives? Drunk driving? Asleep at the wheel? He thought about the third unknown man; the man from the Barbro Team. He was likely on the bottom somewhere out there, deep on the seabed, unidentifiable. Fuck!

  He shuddered as he entered the hall. Once in the kitchen, he realized he had been tense all the way from the mailbox. He hunched a little now. He filled his juice glass to the brim. This is not how I want to live. Scared that something might happen to me. Modin emptied his glass while looking out the kitchen window. I’ve got to get away from here, quick. He called Axman who had been spending the night in the sea cottage.

  “We’ve got to talk,” he said.

  “Coming,” said Axman reassuringly. “Are you alright?”

  “Not really. Are you?”

  “I’m armed, my friend. I’ve been sleeping with my gun under my pillow.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “I know.�
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  CHAPTER 33

  BLACK ISLAND, TUESDAY, MAY 5

  What is it you’ve really been up to?” Julia asked in a conciliatory tone. “You can drop all that bullshit about hunting deer. I don’t buy it.”

  “We’re on a mission that involves national security, if you really must know,” Christer Steerback said.

  “What national security might that be?”

  “You should know, my little treasure,” Christer gave Julia an ironic smile. “Defense Radio was all about national security, wasn’t it?” He smirked at her. “If you don’t have anything you’re prepared to die for, you’ve got nothing to live for, either.”

  “The war is over, Christer,” Julia said. “You’re out of your mind.” She poured the water into two cups. “How did you end up like this, Christer? Was it serving in the Coastal Rangers that did it to you? Was that when your mind started getting all twisted?”

  “Oh, don’t give me that crap,” Christer said and slammed his hand on the table. “Where’s the counterweight to all the scum, queers, blacks, Asians, Jews… fucking assholes all of them. Change is coming soon. We’re just the vanguard. In the future, we’ll belong to the ruling class. The elite are going to build up a better world. A new Sweden.”

  “You sound like Hitler.”

  He stared at her. Julia’s heart froze.

  “Listen, sis, not a word to anyone that we’ve been here. If you say anything, I’ll be hunting you instead.”

  The only thing missing was a Heil Hitler. Julia shuddered. She wanted them out of her house as quickly as possible.

  CHAPTER 34

  GRISSLEHAMN, TUESDAY, MAY 5

  What happened is crazy, Modin. You’ve got to get out of here as soon as you possibly can. Your life is in danger. Maybe mine, too. Don’t you have anywhere to disappear to for a while?” said Axman, holding a large chunk of bread in his hand and a piece of salami in the corner of his mouth. If someone took a shot at me, he thought, I’d probably get the hell out for a while. Most people would. But Modin had simply gone to bed.

  “I could hide in the basement,” Modin said without looking up from his newspaper. “Is that what you mean?”

  “Come on, you’d be climbing the walls within the hour.”

  Axman reached for the butter. Modin really was stubborn. He had two lobes in his brain, one for full speed ahead, the other for a full stop. The first meant scurrying around on the seabed, driving people in the government crazy, the other meant burying himself while mourning for his lost family. Both of these extremes were bad for him. But, Modin didn’t realize that. No one could explain any of this to him in a tactful way. He wouldn’t listen. Axman had tried for a long time to rescue him from his self-destructive tendencies. And Axman was not thinking of giving up yet. He spread butter on another slice and waited.

  Modin folded up the newspaper.

  “Axman, I agree with you. Both of us have to get out of here. I never surrender to the inevitable, but this time we’re going to do something sensible, for a change. From the time I was bullied by bigger classmates at school, I’ve always stood up for myself. That might sound exaggerated and even foolish, but it’s my philosophy. You can pretend being weak and dumb, but never say die. I’ll always return and crush my enemies. That’s my motto, whether you like it or not, Axman.”

  “I know,” Axman said, his head lowered. “You’d sacrifice everything for your honor.”

  “There’s one person I have to meet with first. Ingo Swanson. You know. He lives on Singö. I think he has some background on the Olof Palme murder.”

  “Ingo Swanson? The former Social Democratic Prime Minister? I thought he was dead.”

  “Many think that,” Modin said. “He doesn’t take part in public life any more. I wonder why.”

  “Afraid, presumably.” Axman made the two finger slit-throat gesture. “Rather a sound reaction, don’t you think?”

  Modin did not comment.

  A gray sparrow smashed into the window pane with a bang, startling both of them. It survived and casually flew away.

  “I’ll just go and feed the cat,” Modin said.

  • • •

  Modin and Axman made the final approach to Swanson’s wooden villa with the three outboard motors turned off. The building was close to a squarish boathouse with room for at least two boats. It was, in fact, an old fishing shed Ingo Swanson had bought, which was obvious from its architecture and the old fishing equipment lying around.

  Modin’s boat bumped against the pier and Axman jumped out to moor it. Axman had suggested they take the Hulk. Modin wasn’t so sure; using the wooden boat was more prudent.

  It wasn’t that far, as he had said.

  Ingo Swanson was startled by the surprise visit. He hardly remembered Modin. He was sober now and the memory of their encounter at The Rock had all but vanished. He had decided not to give interviews with any kind of political content when he withdrew from the public eye.

  Modin started his charm offensive, and Axman had a pleasant demeanor. Their intense energy made Swanson curious. Besides, these younger men had not taken no for an answer, and so he asked them to come in.

  “Sometimes it’s nice to have visitors,” Ingo Swanson said. “We can walk up the hill.”

  Not many people listened to him these days. His wife had grown tired of talking to him a long time ago. She had aged considerably and stayed in Stockholm most of the time. Disappointed when the limelight faded around them and the invitations began to dwindle, she seemed to think it was all his fault. Their marriage had suffered greatly.

  Ingo Swanson himself was happiest out at Singö. He poked about in the garden, fed the birds, and caught the odd perch from what was now the love of his life, a 36-footer with a two-stroke engine that had been carefully renovated and was as good as new. He loved to talk about it. It was down in the boathouse, waiting for the next fishing trip.

  Swanson enjoyed his life in his golden years. A cocktail or two at The Rock in the harbor would take the edge off when it got too bad. He was around 75 and comfortable in his skin. That day he was wearing a leisurely jean jumpsuit and a checkered shirt, when as Prime Minister he had always dressed elegantly. The women he met in his prime, and he met many of them, had paid close attention, which had required a good deal of sweeping things under the carpet. As he could rely on the discretion of the press, he had enjoyed the perks of his power. How women had sucked up to him and flattered him. But now, his neck was bowed by the fall of life. His face was covered in old man’s wrinkles; his musculature had dried up into tendons and skin.

  “What can I do for you, young men?” Swanson said with the entrance door half open.

  Anton Modin explained that they had come to talk about Olof Palme. Ingo Swanson froze up immediately.

  “More precisely, I want to talk about the Stay Behind organization, the lifeline to the west, NATO, and freedom,” Modin said without the slightest feeling in his voice.

  Swanson was taken aback by the candor of the conversation. Modin’s strategy of starting with the worst in order to make Swanson more responsive when he’d backtrack seemed to be working. All of a sudden, the former Prime Minister didn’t seem as hesitant.

  “Action Team Crack of Dawn, is that what you’re driving at?” Swanson asked. “Come on in and have a seat.”

  CHAPTER 35

  They followed Swanson as he led them onto a porch through the open glass doors. A couch and a couple of recliners stood in a large bright room. Axman and Modin took a seat on the couch without waiting for permission. Swanson sat in a leather armchair.

  “Stay Behind was an American invention. It was kept top secret until the early 1990s. I was one of the heads of the organization in the department called National Leadership. All this was in case war broke out—the dawn scenario.”

  “And when was all this?” Modin said.

  “During the Cold War, that is to say, from the early 1950s to 1992. In the beginning, Stay Behind was run by business interes
ts. The Social Democratic government of the day decided that an organization firmly rooted in social democracy should exist, and so a parallel organization arose. That is where I come in.”

  “So this was under the leadership of Special Ops, or more precisely, under Birger Elmér’s leadership?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Stay Behind was part of Defense; for practical reasons, we were formally reporting to Special Ops.”

  “What sort of practical reasons?”

  “Well, Stay Behind was secret and had to remain secret.”

  “Why did it later change its name to Crack of Dawn?”

  “The center-right parties came into government toward the end of the 1970s. They wanted to get rid of Stay Behind and Elmér’s organization, because it was far too close to the Social Democratic Party and its leftist ideals. So they started the new Stay Behind organization around 1978, which was run by the Swedish Employers’ Association, SAF, with what was left of Elmérs organization. So Action Team Crack of Dawn was born under the leadership of Curt Steffan Giesecke, the former SAF boss, himself a former Stay Behind operative. You could say that the right-wingers together with Military Intelligence took over the business 1978.”

  “So where in the hierarchy was Crack of Dawn actually located?”

  “It was subordinate to Defense HQ. Military Intelligence Special Ops DSO kept it at Navy HQ.”

  Axman got up and started to walk around in the room.

  Modin looked out of the gigantic panorama window. The house was situated on a stretch of lawn with a wonderful view over the sea to the west of Singö Island, “the inside shore,” as it was usually called. The only thing blocking the view was a huge oak in the middle of the lawn. Down by the shore, he could see the large boathouse and the pier where they had moored.

  “You have to realize one thing, Modin. The Stay Behind organization was a lifeline to the west, our guarantee, should we be attacked by the Soviets, which seemed like a definite possibility at the time. It had been set up by Tage Erlander, while he served as prime minister, along with the defense minister and with help from CIA director William Colby, back in 1952. In the mid-1980s, the lifeline was cut abruptly. It shook the whole military establishment in their roots.”