Enemy of the State Read online

  “So who cut it?” Modin said. He crossed his legs, as the couch was slightly uncomfortable. He would really have preferred to wander around the house like Axman did, so he could stretch his legs.

  “Olof Palme. He thought it was no longer necessary. And he wasn’t too happy about right-wingers taking over the business. He thought Crack Of Dawn was against the principles of neutrality because of its ties to the U.S.. He wanted to maintain a completely pure version of neutrality. He ordered the Chief of Staff to weed out and destroy documents that described any secret cooperation with NATO. He wanted to disband Crack of Dawn. In a word, he was, I don’t know, insane… maybe.”

  Swanson looked up at the ceiling as if thinking back to those days.

  Modin noticed how worn he looked. Something was weighing him down, and Modin decided to try to squeeze it out of him. “So was Palme playing on both teams, or did he favor the Soviets?”

  Ingo Swanson muttered a few spontaneous remarks, then cleared his throat. “We all played on both sides. That was our doctrine. Palme screwed it all up. He was under a lot of pressure during the mid-1980s, from all sides. The Swedish Security Service was keeping an eye on him with the assistance of the CIA and MI6, because they thought he was too cozy with the Russians. The left was upset with him, too, because they felt he wasn’t radical enough. And the Russians suspected he was in bed with NATO. You remember how those Soviet submarine incidents ruined all sensible discussion? Nobody understood Palme’s vision anymore. It was all messed up. Palme wanted some sort of Scandinavian socialism and that made him an enemy to all the conservatives and all the businessmen.”

  “A misunderstood genius,” Axman said and sat down again on the couch.

  Swanson and Modin looked at Axman, who had not taken part in the conversation.

  “I guess you could say that,” Swanson said. “Way ahead of his time. Would you like a cold beer?”

  Swanson got up and went out into the kitchen. Modin and Axman remained seated. Modin nodded in Axman’s direction.

  “Looks promising, doesn’t it? Just the source we need. What do you think?” Modin whispered. Axman raised his eyebrows, as if admiring the fancy surroundings.

  “Who in the government at the time knew about Crack of Dawn?” Modin asked loudly.

  “In all detail, only the Minister of Defense, Anker Turner,” came the reply from the kitchen. “And Olof Palme, of course, but that’s it. I myself didn’t know any specifics. There was a hell of a lot of secrecy in those days.”

  “Do you know anything about the SOSUS system that was installed in the northern Stockholm archipelago in 1986,” Modin said when Swanson returned. He was bringing three frosty bottles of beer and put them on the table.

  “You don’t mind drinking from the bottle?” he said as he put them down. “The SOSUS, yes. Surprised you know about it.” He took a swig from his bottle and wiped off the froth with his finger. “I can’t tell you anything, unfortunately. Partly because I wasn’t privy to many details, and partly because it is still top secret. No, that’s something I won’t talk about. You might as well forget about the SOSUS.”

  “So who gave the green light for the SOSUS installation?”

  “Must have been the Minister of Defense. Listen, I don’t really know why I am talking about all this. I shouldn’t.”

  Modin got the distinct impression that Swanson was scared and eager to tell at the same time.

  “Let me put it this way, young man,” Swanson said addressing only Modin. “When Olof Palme began with his triple messages, he lost the military’s trust. General Stig Synnerman and even the Minister of Defense thought that Palme had gone over to the Russians. So did the Swedish Employers Association. They all thought his ideas constituted a danger to national security and to Swedish business relations to the West. At least that is what I was told.” Swanson paused as he took another sip of beer.

  “Was he really a friend to the Russians, or was Palme a CIA asset all along?”

  “Well, there were rumors,” Swanson said. “Rumors that Palme played both sides, But that wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. Many people were doing that. We were neutral for Christ’s sake!” Swanson flared up, then fell silent for a short while.

  “We had an obligation to negotiate with both sides, and that is exactly the message Palme was trying to drive home,” he continued in a low voice. “He didn’t like it that the Security Service only cooperated with western intelligence services. He didn’t like it at all. Yet he was always being held accountable for his informal contacts with the Russians. That drove him crazy. How can you be neutral if you only talk to one side, he said.”

  Swanson brushed through his greasy gray hair with his hand. He seemed to be a credible witness to the events in question. But I have to be careful not to fall for his rhetoric, Modin thought. This man has had long training in the art of manipulation.

  “Hang on for a moment, informal contacts with the Russians, wouldn’t that be betraying Sweden?” Modin inquired. “The Soviet Union was, after all, Enemy Number One, not the U.S. and NATO. All our defense efforts were aimed eastward.”

  “That is what the Palme Doctrine was based on,” Swanson said. “Keeping us in good standing with both sides. God knows if he wasn’t right, after all. Is there any other way, Modin?”

  “Yes. Join NATO,” Modin said.

  Axman looked uncomfortable. So did Ingo Swanson. The subject of Swedish neutrality had ruined a good deal of Swanson’s old age. These days no one understood the difficult position of a small country like Sweden in the 1980s, squashed as it was between two superpowers armed with nuclear weapons.

  Anton Modin got up and walked over to the picture window. He had to stretch his legs and gather his thoughts. Spring was in the air. He could hear the chirping of birds in every bush when he opened a window. In the distance, a fishing boat was steaming past, bogged down with the day’s catch. A slew of gulls followed in its wake. Modin leaned on the window sill. After a few deep breaths, he turned back toward Swanson in his leather recliner. Swanson had put his feet up on a footstool, prepared for any question under the sun except the one Modin was now going to ask, in as natural a voice as he could manage.

  “Who murdered Olof Palme?”

  Swanson jumped, cleared his throat, breathing heavily through his nose, and said: “I don’t know.”

  “You know something, don’t you?”

  “It was a political murder. That much I know.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I know, that’s all,” Ingo Swanson said, looking increasingly grumpy. “I want you to leave.”

  “Come on, Ingo! Who did it? Who fired the shot? If anyone knows, it’s you. You took over Sweden the very same night the murder took place.”

  Modin was talking fast and with confidence. He put the beer bottle to his lips and drank while Swanson shrugged his shoulders.

  “Let’s say, I have my suspicions, but I’d rather keep them to myself. I have a good life out here. I’ve got a few good years left, and I’d like to keep it that way. Thank you and good bye.”

  “You’re scared,” Axman said.

  Axman was sitting casually on the couch and had rested his loafer clad foot on his other leg.

  Ingo Swanson did not reply. The conversation was over.

  CHAPTER 36

  DJURSHOLM, STOCKHOLM, TUESDAY, MAY 5

  Anders Glock was fully aware of the fact that he had a lot to be thankful for. In moments of meditation, his senses expanded and he felt joy about being one of the chosen few who secretly ran the nation, the Deep State. This happiness liberated him from his heavy body. Light as a feather, he would indulge in a cleansing prayer dialogue with the Lord. He could even cry at times. And sometimes he lashed himself with a belt. He was God’s soldier. No sacrifice was too great and no pain too intense for him to endure. His subordination and modesty had been rewarded by material things: his 9,500 square foot villa in the exclusive Stockholm suburb of Djursholm, his art
collection, and a cellar full of fine wines.

  “The Lord be praised!”

  Glock kissed his rosary and let it slide down into the pocket of his jacket. He felt stress for the first time in years and paced back and forth on the gray larch wood floor of his veranda. He had a sip of brandy and forced himself to keep the drink near his palate, cherishing it. A breeze was coming from the pier, whipping the flag and banging the rope against the flagpole.

  Was there something else out there? He stiffened when he registered a noise down by the reeds. Having lived his entire life with threats of varying degrees, the thought of being watched even at home had become increasingly commonplace. But was it a worthwhile price to pay? Too late now. He couldn’t change history. He had to accept the consequences of his lifelong career and do what had to be done. Anton Modin’s days were numbered. There was no other solution. He could not allow a private citizen to investigate government affairs. It was a downright outrage that he had been allowed to upset the stability of the country for such a long time.

  Over the years, many private investigators had thought they could solve the Palme murder. Why couldn’t they get it into their thick, underdeveloped little brains that it was pointless? The truth will never come out. Not on his watch. Yes, Modin had escaped another attempt on his life and now both Military Intelligence Special Ops and the Security Service knew that Stig Synnergren, Anker Turner, and he were on his tail. They’d get him regardless.

  Glock sniffed his glass.

  Anton Modin was a threat, no doubt about it. The Stay Behind organization didn’t want to be spied on, neither did the Deep State. They had to stop him. Steerback had to come up with a foolproof method of disposal.

  A tea tray stood ready on the table in the dining room, waiting for his guests. Glock had first thought of serving brandy but had chosen tea instead. A shame to waste top shelf brandy.

  He sat down in a black wicker chair near the white stone façade of the house and his eyes swept across the water. It was around ten at night. The sky was a bright red, the sun already hidden below the horizon; a few fluffy clouds still lit up the sky and it was becoming chilly.

  Four infrared heaters hanging from the ceiling warmed up the porch and the heater below the floor comfortably warmed his feet. Spring is the season of rejuvenation, he thought as he spread his toes inside his socks. God willing, we will have a few cozy summer months. The winters are getting worse every year. The ice on the sea makes my body ache all night.

  Glock looked at his expensive watch. It was seven minutes after ten.

  Always that damned Modin! Such a fuck-up of an assassination attempt would never have happened in the 1980s. The men tasked to neutralize Modin had grown old and lost their edge. They were no longer in top shape, neither physically nor mentally. No doubt, the Barbro Team had seen better days. The fundamental problem lay in the fact that there was no re-growth. Today’s youth doesn’t have what it takes, he thought. No idealism. And what’s more, they can’t keep their mouths shut. That’s the worst.

  The current generation of spoiled little kids has no idea how the world is run, and yet, they are criticizing what we used to do during the Cold War? Hah! Deep down they don’t want to know. They can’t handle the truth. The masses are after the good life—mowing the lawn, backyard barbeques, and popping the cork as early as possible on a Friday afternoon after the week’s work at a cushy job! Nobody pays attention to the fact that the world is on the edge of an abyss.

  “Lord in Heaven,” he whispered, “you know that there is danger lurking all over the world. Everything I do is for the greater good in Your service. Your orders give us a better world. I do it all for You, my Lord, for the King, the Queen, the Crown Princess, and the other two royal children. I, Your humble servant, obey Your word and the directives You want me to follow. You gave man a free will of his own, but I can’t complain, Lord. I’m just venting, speaking my tired mind. We are up against the gay lobby, Muslims, anti-Christian and antipapal liberals. We must fight these conspiracies. “

  Glock looked down at his thin, wrinkled hands, studying how his long and slender fingers interlaced. He looked up as a grayish-black hedgehog waddled across the lawn that sloped gently down to the pier and the boathouse some three hundred yards away. The hedgehog passed by a string of antique lanterns sitting like pearls on molded iron poles. The animal’s eyes were wide open, staring into space, blinded by the light. Maybe he’d tumble into the sea, unseeing when a wall of pitch dark danger would him down by the pier. Many do.

  Anders Glock wished that someone had seen the creature fleeing. If only they knew what a price you pay for all of this.

  CHAPTER 37

  The sound of a car engine echoed through the house. A 1970s model Mercedes turned into the graveled driveway. Bob Lundin, broad-shouldered, stone-faced, held open the car door for Lieutenant Colonel Loklinth, who stepped out of the car with some difficulty. Loklinth’s raincoat was hanging open and loose as if he had borrowed it from someone much larger than himself. He was wearing a Borsalino with a dark green feather stuck in the ribbon—Humphrey Bogart style.

  “Good evening,” Glock said and shook hands first with Chris Loklinth, then with Bob Lundin. Glock’s handshake was firm, with an ever so slight twist to the right. Important to state who’s boss right from the start.

  “I thought we could sit out on the porch. I’ll bring some tea in a minute. Just go around to the back please.”

  The faint light of the porch turned Chris Loklinth’s snake-like eyes into cold imprints in his face. Glock didn’t like the way Loklinth ran the business. He’d once been a very promising prospect! He watched him sit down in the wicker chair and discreetly slip off his shoes under the table.

  It was warm on the porch and Loklinth immediately felt cozy and comfortable. Artificial hardwood is very working class, Loklinth thought as he inhaled the evening air.

  Glock heard the rope hit the flagpole again and noticed that Bob Lundin turned his head in that direction as well. By now the darkness was so compact that the porch lights could not penetrate it. The garden was like an impenetrable wall of gray. No reflections, no three-dimensional depth.

  “I presume we can talk freely here. You’ve sent the staff home?” Loklinth asked, taking a deep breath through his open mouth. “You do your own cleaning, don’t you?”

  “Tell me what’s happening,” Glock said, gesturing toward the teapot, indicating that they should help themselves to tea, milk, biscuits, and hors d’oeuvres with various toppings. He scanned the edge of his property before he handed a cup to Loklinth who seemed to be building up to say something, although he took his sweet time. He was just about to open his mouth to speak but too late—Glock interrupted in a loud and clear voice.

  “Modin should have been dead and burning in hell by now. We have to put more and better resources on the assignment. If you need help, Chris, I can get assistance from abroad. Although I’d prefer to handle this with local forces. More discreet that way.”

  Loklinth appeared to have lost his train of thought. Glock knew he often did, and had done so for as long as he had known him. He had first met Loklinth in 1976, when he was 27 years old and had just joined the Stay Behind Organization. Glock had been like a father to him. He knew all about the secret assignments Loklinth had carried out in his rookie years, which consisted mostly of bullying or frightening dissident traitors, whose mouths were too big for their own good. Debriefing often occurred quickly and not always thoroughly. Loklinth could not always follow the argument and sometimes made mistakes due to the high pace the business required.

  Glock looked at his apprentice. He had gray hair now and his gaze was no longer as hard and steady as before. Gradually, Glock’s positive attitude toward Loklinth had eroded. Once the Barbro Team had been tough. But now?

  In the 1970s and 1980s, everything was fast—racing boats, Italian sports cars, even sex. Only at church did he slow down. As everyone should, Glock thought. But Loklinth was not a believ
er. His parents had emigrated from Dresden, East Germany, in the 1960s. They were socialists through and through, and his mother was Jewish to boot. They had both passed away a few years ago. Chris Loklinth never mentioned his mother’s Jewish descent to anyone. Didn’t have to, because the name Loklinth went back several generations to German nobility in Schleswig-Holstein. That, at least, was the official version. The fact they had come from East Germany was a well-kept secret, too. I was the one who got him the job as the head of Special Ops, Glock thought. I still have good connections, even today. If you know me, you get one step closer to the establishment.

  Glock reached forward and poured himself another cup. He gazed into the darkness; it seemed as if he was growing with his grand surroundings: a huge garden, the sea beyond, the embracing warmth of the porch. He picked up a teaspoon from the table and put it back on its saucer.

  “The problem is that we’ve had tremendous amounts of bad luck,” Loklinth said as if apologizing, hoping not to irritate Glock.

  “Bad luck? Tell it as it is, Loklinth. You’ve been careless. You have to control your men with a firmer hand. More discipline, more ruthlessness. I suggest you disconnect your feelings and get the job done as soon as possible.” Glock placed the palms of his hands on the table. “Every hour that Modin is still alive poses a threat to national security. So get it done. And I suggest you don’t go out of your way to inform the Chief of Staff. I don’t trust that man.”

  Glock let his broadside sink in. Loklinth has lost his edge, he thought. Not surprising that he lost his fingertip, too.