Enemy of the State Read online

  “It’s written in English,” Bergman said.

  “The names,” Axman said. “I want to look at the names.”

  He picked up the document carefully and read it through. General Wojciech Jaruzelsky, Chairman, Polish Ministry of Defense.

  “Fuck, you guys, I think I have something. Jaruzelsky is spelled with a ‘y’”

  “Well, so what?” Bergman said. “That’s how you spell it.”

  “Not in Polish it isn’t. That’s the American spelling. They tend to turn an ‘i’ into a ‘y’ with Slavic names, but the Poles don’t spell their names like that. Somebody made a big mistake. No, a Polish native speaker would never spell a ‘-ski’ name with a ‘y’.”

  “Interesting,” Modin said. “And what if you’re right? What does it prove? It’s only circumstantial evidence. And besides, would the CIA really make such a basic mistake?”

  “What if the crew down there really were American SEALs. Fuck!” Bergman said.

  “In that case, the whole naval operation last summer after we found the mini sub could have been a cover-up bringing home an American vessel,” Axman said. “It may not have been the Russians that salvaged it. I remember their comments as if it was yesterday. ‘Welcome back to the motherland. We will take it from here. We are impressed with what you’re doing, and we want you to know that the Swedish Navy is behind you one hundred percent.’”

  “What if we were tricked?” Modin said. “By our own; by the Swedish Navy.”

  He suddenly felt slightly sick.

  “That would turn Swedish Defense and High Command into U.S., not Soviet, agents,” he said in a hushed voice. “They weren’t covering for Soviet submarines. They were covering for Americans.”

  CHAPTER 65

  CENTRAL STOCKHOLM, WEDNESDAY, MAY 20, 10 A.M.

  “In the afternoon, a lecture for the Ministry of Defense about Military Special Ops. The Minister of Defense, (Anker Turner) is interested in their operations and is very positive regarding its objectives and importance. […] It is clear that the Minister of Defense will be an active participant in all this.”

  (Supreme Commander Lennart Ljung’s secret diary,

  February 11, 1983)

  “Have a cookie, gentlemen. Sweden is paying for it,” Chris Loklinth, said.

  Anker Turner leaned forward while fixing his hair. His whole body creaked as he grabbed a chocolate-chip cookie between thumb and index finger. Crumbs rained down as he ate. He brushed the crumbs off his pants before he leaned back again on the green couch. The others did not take any cookies; Turner was also the only one to enjoy a second helping of coffee.

  The old guard, Stig Synnerman, Anker Turner, and Anders Glock, the same group as last time—dressed a little more casually and with a little more color in their faces because of the heat wave—were sitting in the Skandia Bar beneath the Skandia House. Far above them, cars rushed, buses thundered, children were on their way to public schools, and one or two people were taking a morning stroll. The high pressure system had warmed up the streets of the inner city. Exhaust fumes mingled with the scent of honeysuckle, with a whiff of kebab from the nearby market. But in the bar below, all that could be smelled was bad breath.

  “We met here three weeks ago,” Loklinth said, making a vaguely inclusive gesture with his hand. “What we were discussing then was pretty serious for our nation.”

  He let his words sink in like the sound of an alarm clock, in the hope that the old geezers would focus and assist. At this stage, he needed them more than he cared to admit.

  “What has happened since is even more serious,” he said. “Since last night, we are at Code Orange. We are thinking of escalating to Code Red, if this issue isn’t straightened out by the weekend.”

  “Code Red, if my memory serves me right, is general mobilization,” Synnerman said.

  “Yes, you are right. So, time is running out fast. We will have to rid ourselves of the threat against the nation within five days and get back what belongs to us. By next Monday, Supreme Commander Syrén wants this mess cleaned up, with no traces left behind and no loose ends left untied.”

  “I told you we’d end up having to shoot the bastard one day,” hissed former general Synnerman. “You should have listened to me. Anton Modin has the word ‘trouble’ printed across his forehead. You guys should have seen this coming. It could be too late already. Breaking into Special Ops. What message does that send to the youth of today? No respect for authority. Back in my time, thugs like Modin would have been locked up on a diet of bread and water until they cracked and swore never to engage in anything like that again. Such measures have to be taken early on. People should learn order and discipline at an early age.”

  “A minor break-in at a head office can become a major headache,” Loklinth interrupted.

  “A minor break-in!” Synnerman replied. “That must be the understatement of the year. Modin has gone and blown up your office and made off with the whole archive. It’s nothing short of a scandal, if you ask me.”

  “Not the whole archive,” Loklinth said. “We’re doing an inventory right now. We don’t know exactly what has been stolen, but we do know that several vital documents are missing.”

  “Which ones?” Anker Turner asked. He had beads of sweat on his forehead and temples. He wiped them off with a small white napkin, which was not nearly big enough for his long, Hitler-like face.

  As Minister of Defense under Olof Palme, Anker Turner had maintained contacts with the Pentagon. He had managed to make good friends in the U.S. administration during the time he was working at the U.N. in New York. His aim had been to put an end to the Soviet submarine intrusions and to advocate greater cooperation with NATO. He was also good friends with the U.S. Foreign Secretary at the time, Henry Kissinger, who was National Security Adviser under Richard Nixon, which meant he was closest to the President with regard to matters of state security.

  “We don’t know exactly,” Loklinth said. “I fear the worst. My associates have gone through my whole office and the vault systematically. They claim that the secret box has been stolen.”

  “The secret box!” Turner said with big eyes. “You must be kidding. That could mean the end of all of us. Fuck!”

  “It’s an altogether bad situation,” Loklinth agreed. “But we’re going to solve the problem today, together. That’s right, isn’t it?”“

  Loklinth took a sip from his glass of water in front of him on the table, and attempted to look calm. It probably didn’t work.

  “I think that Anton Modin can and will act rationally,” he said. “I cannot imagine that he will break the seal and open the box. If he did, he would know that his days are numbered. He knows the rules of confidentiality and knows the sheer force harbored within those documents. I think that his patriotic mentality will make him receptive to negotiation. Last summer, we managed to strike a deal with him to help us hush up the submarine find. The Pentagon has nothing but praise for how we handled the matter. We still enjoy their full trust. Modin and his boys have kept their mouths tightly shut, indeed. That should not be forgotten.”

  “I’m sure they kept their mouths shut because they don’t fully understand what it is they found in the water last year,” Anker Turner said, his voice trembling. “The details of the Palme murder should never see the light of day. Not under any circumstances. That would shake the bedrock of our nation, and not only that, it would also undermine the foundations of the entire western world.”

  “Take it easy, Anker,” Stig Synnerman said. “We’ll protect you. This isn’t your fault. If anyone should take the blame, it is you, Loklinth. Special Ops has far too many cracks in the façade. You’ve got to take control, be tougher.”

  “Just shut up, Stig!” Loklinth said. He kept running his hand through his graying hair. “This is not the time to start playing the blame game. Maybe later. Now we must tackle the problem together. I’d like to remind you, gentlemen, that we are now at Code Orange. That means the mobilization of t
he various intelligence organizations and the reserves. From noon today, we can utilize the new terrorist legislation to help us. I have governmental approval for that. This means that we can attack enemies of the state using brute force and military means. Any suggestions?”

  “My Barbro Team is at your disposal,” Anders Glock said. “Half of the ten or so men can be ready by six tomorrow, and the rest within forty-eight hours.”

  “Fine,” Anker Turner said. “They’re going to be needed. Now our capable guys will take over and put an end to this nonsense, and I suggest that we ask someone over there in the U.S. to get hold of that daughter of Modin’s best friend. We must grab that girl. Before they move her to some other location. We can use the girl as a bargaining chip later on. We have to get her.”

  “Hang on,” Loklinth said. “We should be careful about this. The daughter will be taken care of, I know that much. We’ll get more details tomorrow. But we must keep in mind that an attack on Modin and his companions could have unexpected consequences. Any major shootout would leak to the press. The summer season will soon be in full swing and many people have moved out to the area. It’s too public a place now, and we can hardly declare a state of emergency for the whole Grisslehamn area. I think we’ll have to ask advice from the U.S. embassy.”

  “Don’t forget the European Union,” chuckled Synnerman and a cough attack hit him in the middle of his salvo of laughter. Even Turner and Glock joined in.

  Don’t forget the European Union. Fuck, that’s funny!

  “Oh knock it off, you’re behaving like preschool kids. Is this your reaction when staring death in the face?” Loklinth fumed. The others stopped laughing.

  Meanwhile, Turner had been absorbed by different thoughts. He was preoccupied with the foreign policy consequences of such an operation in the Stockholm archipelago. The only people who had a vested interest in uncovering the truth about the submarine war between the U.S. and Russia were the Swedish people. But no one represented their interests. Swedes were used to being led down the Primrose path, without any protests ever being heard. That was good; things were easier that way.

  “I would suggest a night attack, hard and merciless,” he said. “We take them all out swiftly, then we squeeze the news flow. That shouldn’t be too difficult.”

  “We can hide the bodies and burn any traces left at Modin’s home and out at Black Island or whatever it’s called,” General Synnerman said.

  “Black Island? That sounds like Tintin,” Glock replayed.

  “Yes, or Africa,” Anker Turner said and everyone laughed, except Chris Loklinth.

  He was starting to question the mental status of his predecessors. They were retired and therefore had little to lose, but it was he, Loklinth, who had to take formal responsibility; he was accountable to the Minister of Defense and the government. He couldn’t allow this to turn into a game of cowboys and Indians. No way. Modin had the box!

  “Silence!” he yelled. “Do you realize what we are dealing with here? Back in your time, there were one or two TV channels and a few big newspapers. All you had to do was make ten phone calls at most to smother all reporting of the issue. But today this won’t work. Don’t you see the difference? There is no end of TV channels, and no end to reporters either. News hits the Internet before you have time to fart. I suggest you guys listen to me.” He took a sip of water to calm him down.

  “What we do is this: Glock, you will mobilize the Barbro Team. You’ll have access to the mobilization armory. Plan for a discreet operation in a coastline environment. Synnerman, please feel free call up the intelligence reserves. The base will be right here in the Skandia Bar. You can coordinate your telephone networks, cell phone systems, and satellite communication. No restrictions when it comes to bugging, wiretapping, eavesdropping. Anker, you will assist Glock with the mobilization of the Barbro Team. I’ll be here, or at the Cabinet Office at Rosenbad, along with my deputy, Captain Bob Lundin.”

  “And remember,” Anker Turner interrupted. “No loose ends this time.”

  CHAPTER 66

  GRISSLEHAMN, THURSDAY, MAY 20

  “There were three groupings within Crack of Dawn: P3A, P3B, and P3C. P3A was the Federation of Swedish Industries; P3B was Military and Swedish Defense Radio Intelligence; and P3C was the Swedish Defense Research Establishment. P3C consisted of various research groups for, among other things, disinformation, and it is from one of these groups that the alarming claim originated that Olof Palme was a Soviet spy.”

  (Ulf Lingärde, Military Intelligence Special Operations)

  It was morning and already 65 degrees by nine o’clock, though a sea breeze was bending the yellow reed stalks. Cranes were flying high above and seemed to be wondering when their cozy breakfast waters would be without people again.

  Modin and Axman were both having their morning coffee out of cups with a lighthouse design. The table was covered with a blue-and-white-checkered tablecloth. Axman was wearing a military green windbreaker, jeans, and sneakers, while Modin wore a navy blue sweater, worn jeans, and sneakers as well.

  “When I was out on Black Island helping Julia paint her cottage, I came across transcripts of traffic from Defense Radio. They happened to be tucked away in the storeroom on the island. Julia gave them to me.”

  “How do we know that the documents from the island storeroom are genuine?” Axman asked

  Modin put a stack of white papers on the table.

  “Look at this material, Axman.”

  “Are you kidding? You mean these are originals?”

  “I believe they are copies, but they are still in code, and impossible to read if you don’t have the key.”

  “Okay,” Axman said. “That means they’re useless, at least to us.”

  “Not quite. There was something more in that aluminum briefcase I found in that sub last summer. Guess what?”

  “Come on, Modin. You’re not suggesting that the key was in there? Was it really?”

  “Yup!” Modin said, and laid a laminated list on the table.

  It was in English and consisted of rows of figures in identically sized groups.

  “This key can tell us who sent the messages during the submarine hunt, at least during the fall of 1982, when the mini sub we found last year was sunk out here.”

  “Unbelievable,” Axman said. “Do you think this will help us determine the nationality of the crew?”

  “That is what we’re going to find out now,” Modin said. “Here, take the key while I read the messages from Black Island in 1982.”

  “How do you mean? I’m not following.”

  “It’s like this,” Modin said, “Black Island was one of the most important surveillance and monitoring stations of Swedish Defense Radio Intelligence during the Cold War. It’s been discontinued now. That’s why Julia was able to buy the island in the first place. But back then, during the hot summer of 1982, it was working at full strength. They were mainly listening to radio broadcasts, but also picked up radar signals from ships and, occasionally, submarines. I can imagine that the cable to the SOSUS is connected to the Understen lighthouse and is a few knots north of here. That explains the heavy submarine traffic in the area, presumably both from the east and from the west. That is what we’re going to find out by diving.”

  “I suppose so,” Axman mumbled.

  “In 1982,” Modin continued, “there were many incursions or encroachments up here in the northern part of the Stockholm archipelago, in the Sea of Åland. The Swedish Navy managed to trap an enemy submarine near the island of Singö, and was then forced to release it. That’s what’s strange about all this. Why let a submarine go when you’ve finally nailed one down in Swedish waters? That’s what we’re going to find out, Axman. It was during this incident that the sub was sunk by some breakaway group, as the Swedish Navy pointed out. You remember?”

  “I do remember Henry Hoffsten, that tall marine officer last summer,” Axman said with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Oh knock it o
ff! This is the first message from August 25th, 1982.” Modin read out a series of numbers and Axman wrote them down on a notepad.

  “Still completely incomprehensible,” Axman said after writing for a while. “Have you got any more?”

  Modin went through all the messages from August 1982. They were twelve all together, and nothing in the key that Axman was looking at provided a clue.

  “Go on. Let’s try September.”

  Modin handed the pile of messages to Axman who snatched them from him and started reading. Once they got to the eighth message, something happened. This was from September 20:

  trapped in sweden – singoe – position N601530 E0184080 – need assist – 36h duration – stop

  “Fuck, Axman!” Modin looked over his shoulder twice to make sure that no one was listening in. “Go on to the next one.”

  “It’s from the same day, at 10:30 P.M.,” Axman said.

  contact w swedish intelligence – mineline down until 24.00 sep 20 – good luck

  “Axman! Do you know what we have here?” Modin was breathing deep and tried to calm himself down.

  “No, do you? Are they U.S.?”

  “Yes, for fuck’s sake. Western subs at least. They have been given permission to leave the area. The Swedes had shut off the passage with a string of mines. This gives me goose bumps.”

  “Ok, hand it over. Let’s read on.”

  Axman took the next report. This one was from September 21, at 2:25 A.M..

  direct hit – leaving sub – need assistance – mayday

  Modin and Axman looked at one another without commenting on the coded message. Two cranes circled overhead. A breezy gust took hold of the paper that Axman was holding. The insane cry of a gull could be heard from the pier. The earth was rotating on its usual axis and moving time forward. They had at last ended up inside what had happened.

  “The Swedish Navy sank a western sub in 1982.”

  “In a world of mirrors,” Modin answered. “What is true is false, what is false is true.”