Modin’s light blue Chevy pickup was parked outside police headquarters on the uphill to Polhemsgatan on the central Stockholm island of Kungsholmen. It was two o’clock in the morning on September 29, 2008, and it was pouring down rain. The drops were splattering against the sidewalk and onto the roof of his car. The street ahead was glaring in the weak street lighting, and the windows of the police headquarters were reflected in the puddles on Polhemsgatan. Modin was shivering when his hands gripped the ice-cold steering wheel.
He took a deep breath, shut his eyes, and recapped the events of the previous summer that had led him straight to where he was that day. Just one year ago, in 2008, he had been diving for a lost Soviet submarine, sunk in all secrecy by the Swedish Navy. He and his friends—Bill Bergman, advertising agent, divorced, one daughter, Astrid; John Axman, 42, police inspector in Stockholm; and Harry Nuder, farmer and skipper in Grisslehamn, an idyllic coastal village in the archipelago around 70 miles north of the Swedish capital—had been searching for the Soviet mini sub at the spectacular depth of 470 feet outside of Grisslehamn. They found it. But the object had been classified as top secret by the government, and all involved had been sworn to secrecy. Nothing had leaked out to the general public. As a token of appreciation for his tact and discretion, Modin had managed to force through his visit the archives of the Swedish Security Service housed in the basement of the police headquarters in Stockholm, the very visit that had been cut short due to the sudden death of a man who had granted him access. This could not be a coincidence.
During the summer that had just passed, he had fallen in love. For the first time since the M/S Estonia ferry disaster back in 1994, which had claimed the lives of his beloved wife, Monica, and his wonderful kids Ellinor and Alexander, five and seven years old. Modin had been one of the few survivors of the catastrophe, which had taken 852 lives. Profound grief, compounded by survivor’s guilt, had damn near killed him. Then, last summer, he had caught a glimpse of a life worth living when he fell in love with a tall and pretty American woman. She had come to Sweden to work for the summer at The Rock, a restaurant and nightclub in Grisslehamn, where Modin had spent his summers since his childhood. Ellie had left Sweden a few weeks earlier to return to New Haven, Connecticut, to continue her studies of law at Yale.
The vibrations from desire and the joy of life had reawakened him, and he had begun to laugh again and cast glances at women. However, it was only for Ellie that he would unbutton his shirt and drop his trousers. The ghosts that haunted him were consigned to the deep dark corners of his soul, arrested in fading memories of the events that took place back then… long before Ellie.
He realized that Ellie might have forgotten him by now. She had not replied to his e-mails and text messages, never called. Not even to fill him in on Bergman’s daughter.
Modin opened his eyes. He hauled out his cell and called his best friend. He needed to talk to someone right now!
“Can I come up? I’ve got something important to tell you.”
“What is it?” Bill Bergman asked, his voice raspy like that of someone half asleep. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“I know, but the head of the Security Service kicked the bucket tonight. I’ve got a feeling that it’s connected to my visit in the archives tonight. I found Olof Palme’s personal dossier. Amazing! One of the fattest dossiers I’ve ever seen. It appears that the murder has already been solved!”
“Take it easy, slow down. What the fuck do you mean?” Bergman asked.
“I looked at the file about the Palme assassination tonight. The case is closed, because it has been solved. But everything is classified, under wraps. But before I could read it all, Göran Filipson, my contact at Security Service, came and chucked me out. They evacuated the building, because they suspect that Klas Berg, their boss, died of unnatural causes. In other words, the man may have been killed. Not sure the timing of it all is a coincidence. I may be in trouble.”
“Yes, you could say that,” Bergman said in his heavy south Stockholm accent, sounding as he usually did—thoughtful. “I’ve actually had to put on my bathrobe and get out of bed on account of you. You’re sure you’ve not been dreaming all this, Modin?”
“Fuck you, Bergman. Come on. I was sitting in the archives with the hottest material I’ve ever seen. Suddenly the head of the Security Service goes and dies, and I’m kicked out on the spot. What do you think?”
“Listen, maybe we shouldn’t be yakking about this over the cell,” Bergman said in a low voice. “Defense Radio could be listening in.”
“Or the DSO,” Modin said “I’m on my way to your place now.”
As he started up his V8 engine, Modin noticed a black Dodge van some fifty yards behind him with the engine running.
• • •
Modin looked around the apartment. Bergman lived in Södermalm, a southern district of Stockholm City. He had a nice two bedroom apartment with a view from the balcony, suitable for a family consisting of mum, dad, and a kid; the problem was that the mum and kid were missing.
They sat in Bergman’s kitchen. The building was dead quiet. People were asleep, only the pipes were making noises. The two friends eyed one another over the square wooden kitchen table.
Modin saw that Bergman had indeed put on his sleek wine-red bathrobe and a pair of comfortable bedroom slippers. His eyes were thick with sleep and slightly red. Under his bathrobe, he was wearing a white T-shirt.
Bergman had the complexity and body constitution of a Hollywood star. Slim and muscular in a way you rarely see in real life. He practiced judo on a regular basis and presumably had a natural talent for it. He was slightly less than average height and weighed 150 pounds. Short, fair hair, and weathered features, he certainly looked fit, even sexy as some would say. But most importantly, he was a good friend.
Bergman was 41 years old, divorced, and had a perky daughter, nine-year-old Astrid—a little adult of a girl. Astrid’s life had been threatened that last summer, when Modin and Bergmann were preparing the dive for the highly classified Russian submarine. They continued their preparations anyway, and Modin arranged for Astrid to leave the country to keep her safe. Ellie, Modin’s lover, had taken the girl to the United States.
Astrid’s mother, Ewa, had no idea where Astrid was. Ewa wasn’t even sure whether Astrid was alive or dead. The doubt had changed her. Sadness and anxiety fought within her constantly. She was pretty sure Astrid’s absence had to do with Modin, but she couldn’t bring herself to accuse him.
Bergman suffered because Ewa suffered. And because Ewa made no effort to hide her contempt for her ex-husband’s involvement in whatever Modin had done to cause her daughter’s disappearance. Tell me the truth—that was the unspoken question she hurled at him with every glance, although she knew Bergmann never would.
And indeed, Bill Bergman said nothing, for Astrid’s sake. Both parents lived in a soulless vacuum, each in their own apartment, because they had divorced nearly four years ago and it was as plain as day that Ewa would never come back to him. Bergmann admitted that he rather liked being alone. But he missed his daughter a great deal. He didn’t quite know where she was—only Modin had the full picture, for security reasons—but he suspected that she was in the United States.
Modin leaned his elbows on the table and supported his head with his palms. Bergman’s dilemma was his headache.
“It’s been over a month now since I last heard from Astrid,” Bergman said. He seemed to be too tired for conversation and hadn’t really woken up properly. “I’m going nuts. And the reason for this is sitting right across from me now: a run down, half-nuts truth-seeker with a bad connection to his feelings. You, my friend. How the fuck did things turn out this way? I just don’t know whether I can cope with this any longer, Modin. Your crazy conspiracy theories will kill us both.”
Bergman put his head in his hands and massaged his forehead. Modin ignored him and looked out the kitchen window instead. The view was wonderful, even at night
. To the left was Stockholm City Hall on the Riddarfjärden. To the right, the island of Riddarholmen and the heart of the city, the Old Town.
“An incredible apartment you have,” Modin said. The block of apartments had been built in the 1930s. The open floor plan of Bergman’s newly renovated apartment connected the moderately sized kitchen to the living room, giving the place an airy feel.
Modin recognized Bergman’s worries. Bergman, a cautious man by nature, would often try to hit the breaks when things moved too quickly.
“Do you want some tea?” Bergman said.
“Yes, why not, green if you have any. Bergman, what are we going to do now?”
“We? When did I get involved?”
“Were you ever not involved?” Modin asked, smiling at his longtime best friend. “It is most unsatisfactory to only know a piece of the puzzle. I know you feel the same way.”
Bergman didn’t respond for a while but busied himself with the teapot.
“I always thought that there was something fishy about the Palme Investigation,” Bergman finally admitted. “It’s been meeting for almost a quarter of a century and nothing has happened.”
“That’s one of several murders in the administration that have never been cleared up,” Modin responded.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you, but you rush into things at times. It stresses me out, particularly at two in the morning,” Bergman muttered at the kitchen stove, his back toward Modin.
Modin just nodded as he went over to the cupboard and took out the tea cups. “I think I know why it was never solved. It was a murder in the interest of national security.” He banged his head on one of the cupboard doors and rubbed the spot.
“What are you getting at?” Bergman said.
“An insider job, that’s what I think. Palme had to be gotten rid of. Some people thought he was damaging Sweden. At the same time, the civilian Security Service and the military DSO had received information from the CIA or MI6. I saw it in black and white in the archives. There were thick dossiers down there, no doubt about that, from before the time of his death.”
“Who did the job? The Security Service?”
“I don’t know, it said something about an organization called Crack Of Dawn, a secretive organization connected with Special Ops. That would explain why no information of any value has become public.”
“Modin, I really don’t know whether I want to get involved in all of this. For Astrid and Ewa’s sake. I can’t keep risking their lives because I go traipsing around with you uncovering secret wrongdoings. It’s bad enough that Astrid has to live in the U.S. without her mother. I can’t even fathom what would happen if something were to happen to her.”
“Yes, I know, I really am sorry, and I mean that,” Modin said, his head bowed. He stared into his empty teacup thinking about his decision to send Bergman’s daughter to Connecticut in all secrecy. She was safe there alright, no doubt about that! The only question was how long she would have to stay away.
“How’s she doing over there without me and Ewa?”
Anton Modin looked up at his friend. “Fine, my friend. She is fine.”
Bergman swallowed hard, accepting that he would not find out more. For the safety of everyone involved.
“If you are right with what you said before, then knowing any more about the Palme murder is dangerous and could have serious repercussions. We don’t even know who the enemy is,” he paused. “Special Ops, perhaps? Or a little faction that went rogue? Or a faction that doesn’t work anymore because the members are either dead, retired, or live abroad. Back off, Modin. They won’t. The murderers have nothing to lose if you disclose who they are. That’s my advice to you. The Palme murder can’t be solved. Even more so if the murder really was an assassination in the interest of the state.” He looked at Modin with suspicion. “You’re not listening, are you?” Bergman poured some more tea. “You’re so frigging obstinate.”
Steam rose from the teacups. Bergman avoided Modin’s searching gaze. He felt the sweat in his armpits. He knew Modin had come to try and drag him into something. He could have waited. It was, after all, the middle of the night.
“I do agree that it’s all very complicated,” Modin said cautiously. “And of course, none of this must come out, that would shake Sweden in its foundations, as Hans Holmér, the self-appointed police investigator, said in August 1986.”
“Yes, he mentioned that in a newspaper interview,” Bergman threw in.
Modin was pleased to note that Bergman showed at least a sliver of interest. “Holmér’s subtle message flew over everyone’s head at the time. Now, maybe there’s good reason to take the matter up again. Do you have any lemon?”
“Perhaps we should stop shaking Sweden in its foundations.” Bergman said. “And yes, there are some lemons in the bowl.” He pointed toward the countertop with his teaspoon. Drops spilled onto the table.
Modin looked at Bergman and smiled. They had been friends since childhood. Bergman had always been there when Modin needed him, and now he needed him again. They drank more tea in silence; they had always been able to communicate without words.
“Well, time to go home and get a bit of shut-eye,” Modin said and stood up. “Thanks for giving me some of your time, Bergman. You keep on rescuing me time and time again. I want you to know that I really appreciate this. You’re a great friend, you really are.”
He looked anxiously out of the window to assure himself that no danger lurked outside. Bergman probably noticed, but said nothing. Bergman has got enough to worry about without having to deal with someone chasing my ass at three o ‘clock in the morning. I’ve turned his life upside-down once again. Modin guessed that Bergman would have preferred this whole conversation had never taken place.
As dawn was breaking, dark clouds could be seen over City Hall beyond the Riddarfjärden Sound. That time of year the rain could keep pouring down for days on end.
• • •
Modin huddled on Bergman’s outer porch, then ran to his car. He was shaking with exhaustion. He had relaxed a bit while talking to his friend, and now his body was about to give in to the stress of the night. Luckily, it would take him only seven minutes to drive home to his own apartment.
CHAPTER 4
Modin felt ill at ease. Not only was he freezing, but he had a sense of foreboding. His gut was telling him to watch out as he took his keys out of his pocket, unlocked his car, and got in.
He sat still for a moment. The streets lay quiet and muffled as the autumn rain continued to pour down, creating a faint dark glare on the asphalt. The walls of the apartment blocks rose ghostly on both sides of the narrow street. Beyond the dark windows, the citizens of Stockholm were fast asleep, building up energy for yet another day of work. A cat shot across the street and jumped under a car. It shook the raindrops from its fur.
Modin was leaning back in his seat, studying the opposite side of the street. It was as deserted as a warm bottle of beer. Cars were parked along the other side. A text message startled him. He sat up, stretched his hand toward his inner pocket, and opened the message.
If you want to hear the whole truth, come to Beckholmen now, to Gustaf V. Your friend, Cats Falk.
His watch showed three-fifteen; the morning was glacial and he was freezing, his hands shaking. What the hell was going on? Modin read the message again. Cats Falk? The journalist? Isn’t she dead? What’s this all about, he wondered, frowning. He looked at the caller ID; the number began with zero-seven-three, which indicated that it was prepaid. Fuck! Modin considered calling Bergman to tell him, perhaps even ask him to come along, but he let the thought pass. Bergman had enough problems of his own.
Beckholmen was an islet at the southern tip of the island called Djurgården, the former traditional royal hunting grounds, which now were home to museums, the Skansen Zoo, and an amusement park. The island was a stone’s throw away from the Royal Palace and the center of Stockholm.
Modin leaned forward to get a better look
. The street remained deserted. But the text was evidence that someone was watching him. Unless there were ghosts on his cell. He locked the car doors, sat motionless, and watched the patterns of rainwater on the asphalt. No one was around.
Cats Falk, an investigative journalist, had vanished without a trace in the autumn of 1984. She had been working on tips about illegal technology and arms sales to the German Democratic Republic, GDR for short. One evening, Cats failed to come home. Friends alerted the police, but despite great efforts, they couldn’t locate her. Not even a reward for more information brought results. Six months after her disappearance, navy divers found her car at a depth of 16 feet; she was dead, had drowned near the harbor at Norra Hammarby, not all that far from the Stockholm soccer field. People suspected murder, but the case was eventually written off as an accident due to a lack of evidence.
Modin shivered. He longed for something warm to drink in the safety of his own home, tilted back in a recliner, or in bed with his cat. Death by drowning wasn’t something he wanted to think about.
He put his cell on the passenger seat, leaned over the steering wheel, and switched on the ignition with his right hand. He could not resist the temptation to meet Cats Falk, or rather, the person who had sent the text and signed her name. Home would have to wait.
The engine of his Chevy pickup started with a hiss. He put on the wipers at maximum speed, yet visibility was still poor. The darkness covered everything. Mists of water molecules were chasing around the street lights. The journey took him in an easterly direction, downhill. Then he turned right into Tavastgatan, left into Timmermansgatan. When he got to Hornsgatan, he turned left again, drove past the docks at Slussen and along the Skeppsbron Bridge past the Royal Palace.
Enemy of the State Page 3