Enemy of the State (Anton Modin Book 2) Page 9

  In close cooperation with the U.S. equivalent NSA, Swedish Signals Intelligence had been well-developed as early as the 1950s. Even back then, individuals could be identified by way of voice analysis and specific vessels by their characteristic radar fingerprints. All the information was automatically pumped into the newly invented databases to be used by Swedish Defense when trying to identify potential movements of enemy troops and any invasion plans. Black Island was part of this network of surveillance stations.

  As Modin approached the islet, he was confronted with a yellow sign affixed to the cliff face that still spoke of its military past:

  Landing Prohibited. Restricted Military Area.

  Ignoring it, he found a cleft in the rocks to the southwest. He was barefoot and stepped into the cold water, which froze his ankles. Without cursing, he pulled up the kayak over a bed of small rocks and knots of seaweed. He liked walking over the smooth rocks. Better than sand, he thought. He picked up the kayak and carried it the hundred yards into the cleft in the rocks. Here, the kayak could not be seen from the sea or from anywhere on the island.

  He clambered upwards, then looked out over the islet. There were three red-colored cottages and shacks, the largest of which, right in the middle of the islet, was some 200 square feet. The other cottages lay further away, one right down by the water’s edge on the western side of the islet. The houses had all been painted in the traditional Swedish Falu-red with black corners and window frames. The roofs were covered with simple curved roofing tiles that had, over the years, become mottled with layers of bird droppings, which gave them a marbled effect. The windows were divided in a traditional pattern of one pane standing and two lying down. Right in the very middle of the highest point of the island was a group of antenna masts, some rusty, and two large, gray parabolic discs pointing up into the heavens.

  The slight breeze that had been following him was chilly, and his ears were red from the cold, and so he rubbed them with the palms of his hands as he began walking toward the main cottage.

  CHAPTER 15

  BLACK ISLAND, GRISSLEHAMN, FRIDAY, MAY 1

  Hi Anton, I saw a yellow kayak on its way here and hoped it would be you.” Julia came out onto the wooden steps. “What a beautiful morning!”

  He caught her words as he hurried in her direction.

  Julia was wearing a lilac wool sweater that looked like she bought it in the ’70s. Her jeans were dark blue, different from the pair she had been wearing the night before, and she had a pair of black traditional clogs on her feet.

  She looked very much alive to Modin. You get fit from being near the sea, even if it is deserted, he thought. And deserted it was. Not even a glimpse of anyone else—no boats, nothing at all in the vicinity. A place for lonesome souls, he thought.

  Modin walked up to Julia and gave her a hug. From her house, he could see all the way to the other side of the islet. It was just as sparsely vegetated as the side he had already seen. Pine trees, gnarled by the wind, shaped by the storms, and surrounded by heather and clefts in the red granite. In the distance, the cliffs extended out forming an effective contrast to the sea. Further out to sea, flying geese made a flash of white. The islet seemed larger on land than it did from the sea.

  Black Island

  Modin turned around and could just make out his own house far away. He wondered whether she had hoped he would come that morning.

  “Come in, breakfast is ready,” Julia said. “You do eat bacon and eggs, don’t you?”

  She turned and rushed into the house without waiting for his reply.

  Modin stepped inside. The house had been newly renovated and smelled of paint and fresh fir planks. Julia had painted everything white; the ceiling, walls and floor. Everything was made of wood and the wall panels were small vertical rectangles. The small hallway was attached to the kitchen. The kitchen, also done in white, had been renovated a while ago; it had flat cabinet doors with plastic handles, all from the 1970s. The kitchen and the living room were connected with a broad chimneypiece which, on the kitchen side, boasted an old blackened Husqvarna cast iron stove, and, on the living room side, an open fireplace with tiled surround and mantelpiece.

  “Nicely done,” he said when he had taken it all in. “Not what I expected.”

  “I’ve had the contractors here all winter,” Julia said. “It’s been quite a mess. But now that’s more or less over.”

  “When did you buy this property?”

  “Last fall,” she said, turning on the tap. “I’ve got a water-maker in the cellar. It takes water from the sea via a hose and desalts it.”

  “Cool stuff,” Modin said. “May I ask how you managed to buy the whole island? I didn’t think such things were up for sale.”

  “Contacts, you know. I was stationed out here when I was working for Defense Radio. The islet hasn’t been used for several years. The Cold War is over, and there won’t be any more wars. You do know that, don’t you, Modin?”

  “Yes. Wasn’t it Einstein who first cracked that one? How much did you pay for it?”

  “Roughly seven hundred grand, including the house. Dollars, that is. Defense Radio has got right of disposal on the island if…”

  “…there’s a war,” he added. “Is there a shelter underneath?”

  “Oh, of course, down by the sea. It was there when we worked during the 1980s. Quite cozy really, what with a TV set and everything else. Come on, let’s sit down.”

  She turned off the whistling water kettle on the wooden counter top in the kitchen, picked it up with her right hand, and grabbed two cups with her left. “Could you bring in the bacon and eggs?” she asked. Modin obeyed and followed in her footsteps.

  They sat down in the living room. There were two couches, upholstered in white New England style, and a white wooden table with a glass top that reflected the heavens. A yellow raffia mat, 1970s style, but new and clean, lay on the floor. The rest of the floor was covered with rag runners in various shades of yellow, giving warmth to the room.

  Looks like a work of art, he thought.

  The windows were facing two directions. One toward land and two more looking out to sea. Built-in bookcases, painted in the same shade of white as the rest of the house, were on the third wall opposite the open fireplace. The shelves were jam-packed with books, the spines facing outwards. Most of the books were American, a mixture of literature, crime fiction, and non-fiction about electronics and the like.

  Modin thought about her gun from the day before. He had been surprised that she had it, and amazed that she actually used it. Wonder where it is now, where she’s hidden it? For a split second he wanted to ask her straight out, but decided that it could wait.

  “Just think, you’ve become a nature scientist,” he said sitting down on the sofa facing the hearth. He leaned back and stretched his arms along the soft back of the couch.

  “What d’you mean, that the child of nature suddenly becomes a scientist?”

  “No, not quite,” he grimaced, making her smile. “It’s just that I don’t understand you. You seem to be so sure about everything that has to do with science.”

  “That’s a scientist’s job, Modin, to always be absolutely sure.”

  “I know.” Modin took some coffee and cut into one end of his fried egg. He was hungry. “Delicious,” he said. “Isn’t it rather lonely out here?”

  “It’s not as bad as all that. I’ve got the seabirds and the odd seal to keep me company. When it does get too much, like last winter when it rained for two weeks at a stretch, I go into the city. I’ve got a little apartment in the Old Town of Stockholm. So I have the best of both worlds.”

  “I know what you mean. I’ve got one myself in the Southern District. What do you do all day out here? I mean to say, what do you do professionally?”

  “I translate. Officially, I do movie subtitles for a cable television company. I also translate a good deal of Defense Radio stuff on a consultant basis. Foreign material, mostly American manuals, so
me Russian ones. Quite a few new things coming from over there nowadays.”

  “So you’re still a spy, aren’t you?” he asked with a cynical smile.

  Much to his surprise, Julia looked down, obviously embarrassed.

  He got up to stand at the window overlooking the sea. “What an amazing view. A level horizon, a stripe. You remember how that stripe was driving our national genius, August Strindberg, crazy when he went to visit the illustrator and humorist Albert Engström? It brings out the dark side in you. Not everyone can cope. There are lighthouse keepers that have hanged themselves out of sheer loneliness. They went insane simply staring at the horizon for weeks.”

  He sat down.

  “I know,” Julia said. “I want to be a bit crazy. The sea is a counterweight to L.A., where other things make you go nuts. It is going to be wonderful to be alone. Although you are welcome to come out here now and again, Anton. If you want to, that is.”

  “Difficult paddling in winter.”

  “You can take the quad across the ice. Sometimes people take helicopters. That works fine, too. Do you want some champagne?”

  “What, you mean right now, mid-morning?”

  “Why not? I have a whole stock of the stuff down under the rocks here. Imported straight from France. We have to celebrate that we’re back in Grisslehamn. Both of us.”

  Modin nodded with a smile, and never mentioned Julia’s weapon.

  CHAPTER 16

  BLACK ISLAND, FRIDAY MAY 1

  The morning with Julia lasted far past noon.

  Lunch was perch fillets with cream sauce and mashed potatoes. After the meal, Modin helped Julia move furniture between the various buildings and then helped paint walls in the basement under the rocks.

  “It’s going to be nice here,” he said amidst long sweeping brush strokes down the wall. He was perched on a step stool, enjoying himself in the task. “Did you happen to see that pile of signals reports about shipping movements down here?”

  “Yes, I did. Some copies are left in the boxes in the room over there. We copied everything before sending it to Defense Radio HQ on Lovön Island in Stockholm. Anything in particular you’re looking for?”

  “There was an incident here last summer with the Russians and a sunken Cold War submarine. I thought that if I could crack the code…” He carried on painting.

  “This signals surveillance station was closed down five years ago,” said Julia wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “The data we’ve got here is from the 1980s and early 1990s. Maybe an odd thing here and there from later years, but I wouldn’t bet on it. The Soviet Union did, after all, collapse in 1991, and it was one hell of a mess around here. Boxes of documents were left behind in the basement. But everything’s in code, so it’s impossible to read. I don’t think anyone misses the stuff. In any case, I’m not going to contact Defense Radio and ask them to come pick it up.”

  Modin watched how she knelt down and started painting the molding. He had a hard time suppressing his memory of the fat thug sitting on top of her and Julia defending herself with a gun. He decided to avoid the subject. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help being held captive by Julia’s powers of attraction. A white overall was protecting her clothing and she was wearing a bandana over her hair. She reminded him of a little baby bird, one that had fallen out of its nest and had to be rescued. A gentle warmth flowed through his body. He liked the feeling, but knew that the last thing Julia needed was protection. She was well-trained, fearless, and—without a boyfriend.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Well, what I’d like to see is the material from the mid-1980s—’85, ’86 and around there.”

  “Come on, admit it, Modin, you’re working on the Olof Palme murder!”

  She turned her face up toward him and smiled.

  “And why would you think that?” he challenged and stopped painting.

  She gazed at him for a good while.

  “Well, I suppose I am looking into it, just a bit,” he responded when he was no longer able to withstand her probing eyes. “I had a chance to take a peek at a few highly classified documents. Something is strange about the whole investigation, that’s for sure.”

  “Are you chasing the money?” asked Julia. “Seven million dollars is still a hell of a big reward for anyone solving or contributing to solving the murder. Is it really so surprising that they never solved it?” She carried on painting. “I would back away, if I were you. You could vanish down a deep well before you come up with anything remotely substantial.”

  “I have already stumbled on something and nearly vanished for good,” Modin said as he moved the stool and climbed up onto it again. “What happened to me out at Beckholmen was no accident. I’d just left the Security Service archives that night after leafing through the Palme dossier—the real one, if you know what I mean. I read some odd things about a Stay Behind organization called Crack of Dawn. Sounded like they were involved in the murder. Just as I was reading the important stuff, the head of the Security Service happened to drop dead. Amazing, don’t you think? They kicked me out onto the street. Matter of national security, they said.”

  “How did he die?”

  Julia had crawled away on her knees along one of the long walls as she painted the molding. She took her can of paint with her; it left slight white traces on the tarp that had been rolled out along the floor.

  “Cardiac arrest. Just like that!” Modin said. “A massive heart attack in his sleep. That, at least, is the official cause of death. Quite a coincidence, wouldn’t you say? I hate coincidences.”

  “Statistically speaking, pure coincidences rarely occur, that much I learned at the NSA. They can happen, though, and maybe this time they did.”

  “It just doesn’t feel right. I can’t stand it when things don’t feel right. Makes me want to keep on digging. I would imagine that the murder of a Swedish Prime Minister by a secret organization like Crack of Dawn must have had a ripple effect on national security. Maybe still does.”

  “It is dangerous, Modin. Don’t dig into the murder, I advise you. Solving the murder of Olof Palme won’t do any good. Maybe it’s better to just forget about the whole thing. It’s been so many years now.”

  “I could easily imagine that it has to do something with our secret ties to NATO,” Modin said. “I mean, wouldn’t that be a good motive for murder? Keeping Sweden’s breach of neutrality a secret might have seemed worth a life or two, don’t you think?”

  “I know a few things about cooperation with the west in those days, and it wasn’t all above board for sure. But checking into it is dangerous, Modin.” Julia was smiling, talking to the molding, holding the paintbrush in her right hand. “Personally, I’m not afraid. I don’t have much to lose, actually.”

  “Neither do I,” Modin said smiling back.

  “Besides, I’m just as smart as you are, Modin. You could use a little help thinking, and we would have fun while we’re at it.”

  “So you are saying that the two of us should dig deeper, even though you just said I shouldn’t because it is so dangerous?”

  “It’ll be less dangerous if we are working together.”

  “Yes, why don’t you help me? We have all time in the world and nothing to loose. We are two losers, aren’t we?”

  “Two losers in a canyon with no end…” Julia said.

  “On an desert island,” Modin corrected.

  “For starters, you should look up the former Prime Minister, Ingo Swanson, who took over the night Palme died. He doesn’t live far from here. Lives on Singö Island further out.”

  “That isn’t such a bad idea,” he said. “As it happens, Swanson and I have…”

  “He knows everything about the Palme murder,” Julia interrupted

  “Would you believe it? I met Ingo Swanson last night, just before you turned up. Pure coincidence. He invited me over for coffee. Friendly guy.” Modin focused on his brushstrokes as if deep in thought. Fuck, Julia. I think that I might
be falling in love with you.

  “Ebbe Carlsson knew everything, too, but of course he’s dead,” Julia continued. “You remember the Ebbe Carlsson affair?”

  “The Ebbe Carlsson affair,” Modin said slowly, dragging his words. “Of course I do. Ebbe Carlsson was an odd bird. The government gave him the task to solve the Palme murder, but instead he ran the whole investigation into the ditch. I wonder whether it was deliberate. We might be able to find something there that could be linked to the murder.”

  “Do you know what Ebbe Carlsson was doing before he worked on the Palme murder?” Julia asked.

  Modin got down from his step stool to get more paint. He looked at the unpainted stretch of wall. There was graffiti on it. He read: Anderson 1982-08-18, Killer of Rooskies.

  “I always thought he was working for Special Services,” Modin said. “Officially, he was a journalist with Social Democratic tendencies, close to the party and Olof Palme himself. They say he used to sleep at a bench in Palme’s office. They must have been close, but then something happened with their relationship, a falling-out, perhaps. Ebbe Carlsson ended up out in the cold. Instead, he became editor in chief at the Bonnier Publishing house and started hanging around Intelligence and Security Service people. A real chameleon he was. Neither fish nor fowl. May even have been a spy himself. At least he did some service to the military DSO with mapping out communists in the publishing and news industry.”

  “Yes, who knows? I think I remember he was gay and later died of AIDS. Shall we take a break soon and make some food? I could eat a horse,” she said, winking in Modin’s direction.

  CHAPTER 17

  STOCKHOLM, FRIDAY, MAY 1

  Are you coming with me, Turner?” Glock said. “There’s something we should talk about.”

  He stepped out of his black Volvo S80 and opened the right rear door, standing as if at attention. Turner squeezed himself out of the car, leaning on his cane. The car door was slammed shut and the vehicle drove away with a jackrabbit start along the pier.