Modin drummed his fingers on the window pane.
What is it that keeps the government of Estonia from granting me permission to dive? All I want is to dive down to the wreck and bring my family back home.
Modin peeked the window. The ominous sense of foreboding returned, although the mysterious man was nowhere to be seen. Does he want something from me, Modin wondered as he turned away from the window to go to the bathroom and take a shower before he’d sit back down to work on his documents for the rest of the day and deep into the night.
CHAPTER 3
GRISSLEHAMN, FRIDAY, DECEMBER 18
“I think we should make every effort to retrieve the bodies of the dead. I think this is very, very important to the relatives.”
(Prime Minister Carl Bildt
at a press conference after the M/S Estonia accident)
The snowmobile started immediately. The headlight cast a wide beam of light into the winter darkness. Anton Modin sat on the ice-cold leather seat and revved up a couple of times. He could smell the gasoline and was enjoying the high pitch of the two-stroke engine—a wonderful sound. Six hundred cubic centimeters could muster speeds up to 95 miles per hour, if necessary. He accelerated and the skis slid forward carefully, powered by the ribbed caterpillar track underneath. When he came out onto the road, he picked up speed and climbed up the crest of the hill. The beam of light swung to the left as he turned by the mailboxes that stood guard in their snowy hats.
A hundred yards up the road he drove out into a meadow between two wooden fence-posts and gave full throttle, following tracks made by other snowmobiles and cross-country skiers. He noticed how the snow was spraying up behind him. It was a sensation he had forgotten.
The ride was bumpy over a layer of snow that looked deceptively soft and somewhat wavy in the flickers of light illuminating the darkness that had fallen in the afternoon, four hours earlier. He was heading toward the Grisslehamn fishing harbor some three miles away. The wind bit into his skin and earlobes, which stuck out from his gray fur cap.
Modin stood up driving. His thigh muscles tensed. He ducked under a fir branch and jumped a ditch as he entered a dense pine forest. Snow blew in his face and his cheeks got wet. He accelerated up an incline and flew over the crest, landing on a steep downward slope, yelling: “Yeah!”
CHAPTER 4
Merry Christmas, for fuck’s sake, Kent E,” Modin cried out merrily as he arrived at The Rock, the bar in the fishing harbor near the pier.
Modin was frozen stiff and covered in snow; he looked like Santa Claus with his red hood and unshaven cheeks.
Kent E, the bartender, an aging hippie who had moved to the village several years earlier, worked for the owner of the bar, Joint. He emerged from behind the rows of glasses hung up above the counter, which reflected the Christmas decorations and this year’s spectacular Christmas tree.
Kent E was holding the ever-present white dishtowel he used to polish the counter top.
“Nice to see you, Modin. Long time no see.”
“Yeah, really. I’ve been hunkered down in my shack, working. And when I’m working on…you know…research, I need peace and quiet.”
“What kind of research? Fish mortality in the Baltic Sea?”
Kent E peeked out from beneath his mass of fair hair. He was in his fifties and could be taken for a sixty-year-old just as easily as a forty-year-old, depending on his mood. His face was lined by secret experiences. Kent E was like most bartenders—a listener rather than a talker. Over the years they had struck up a friendship of sorts, yet Modin knew few details of Kent E’s background.
“I’m looking at everything I can get my hands on that covers the wreck of the M/S Estonia. It takes time to wade through all the material. I simply haven’t had the time to show my face around here.”
“Oh, I didn’t know you were still looking into that. But I get the picture,” Kent E said cautiously. “That topic’s close to your heart.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Modin, rubbing his hands together. “You can say it straight to my face: Modin’s obsessed.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Kent E said and started to dry a glass with the dishtowel.
“Oh, but you’d be absolutely right! I am obsessed. Monica, Alexander, and Ellinor are lying down there in that cold and dark ferry. I have to bring them home! And I have to know why the ferry sank.”
Modin grabbed a bread stick out of a glass on the counter, ripped off the wrapper, and started to munch away. “It’ll be Christmas soon,” he continued. “This will be the last Christmas without them, I swear. Next year I’ll have a grave to visit. And I’ll know exactly what happened.”
“Hope it’ll work out for you, Modin.” Kent E hung the glass back on the rack and put the dishtowel on the counter. “Do you want anything to drink?”
“Yes, please. Give me a cognac and a cappuccino. Do you want to join me?”
“No thanks, I’m not really in the mood.”
“Has something happened?”
“No, nothing in particular,” Kent E said. He turned away to face the coffee machine.
Modin went to his table. Hardly anyone else was in the bar. Modin glanced at the Christmas tree with all its glass ornaments and American style lights, then at Kent E who was taking an order behind the bar counter. His fair hair was just a tad too long, and with his faded jeans, white shirt, and black cowboy boots, he looked like a Swedish version of Robert Redford: same wind-worn facial features and sad, knowing eyes. Years ago, Kent E left his job at an up-scale bar in Stockholm because he felt more at home by the sea among birds and fish. He loved the tranquility of the long winters and the round-the-clock party life in the short summers.
He brought over the cognac and coffee and sat down right across from Modin. Behind him, Modin could see the colored light strands outside the window facing the harbor.
“Don’t you get lonely in your shack out there on the cape?” Kent E asked looking Modin straight in the eye. “Don’t you miss your friends? And a woman?”
“Oh, sure I do. Change is on its way.”
“Ellie was a nice chick.”
“Yes, I liked her. A lot,” Modin said and looked round the almost empty room. “But she has another life in the U.S. And that’s that. She made a wonderful waitress, but she’s going to make an even greater lawyer.”
Two summers ago, he had had a short romance with Ellie. But now she was gone, just like Julia Steerback, the woman he had fallen in love with the previous year. He had heard that Julia’s house on Black Island was for sale, but the island seemed cursed; no one dared to buy it. He didn’t want to think about the subject. Julia’s violent death was still too painful a memory. Modin took a gulp of coffee and a sip of cognac to counter the icy surge that went through his chest.
“There’ll be new girls waitressing this year, I suppose?” he caught himself saying, tripped over his words and ended up clearing his throat.
“Yes, there will,” Kent E said and fixed his eyes on the Christmas tree over Modin’s shoulder. “I’ve got some redhead beauties coming over from Alaska, pretty as a picture.” Kent E let his words fade and shrugged his shoulders.
Modin took another swig of cognac, let it explode against his palate, exhaled through his nose, and sighed with pleasure. Kent E had to leave to tend to a customer at the bar, but returned right away to refill Modin’s cognac snifter.
“I was wondering,” Modin said as Kent E sat down. “There’s this guy aimlessly wandering around the village in sunglasses in the depth of winter. Do you know who he is?”
“Oh, you mean Allan Beck? People in the village call him the Wandering Stick.”
“Good name. What do you know about him?”
“Moved into the village a month or so ago. He’s living in his mother’s summer cottage not far from here. Up on the hill. He’s had mental health problems. Drug related, I think.”
“Drug related? And how do you know that?”
“Fr
om experience. We have several of them out here. People who’ve hit rock bottom and need to take it easy. They tend to emerge during the winter months.”
“He looked familiar. It’s not by any chance the very same Allan who was immensely gifted, the one who used to bicycle through the village on his back wheel when he was fourteen?”
“I don’t really know. It wouldn’t surprise me. He was in here one night with a couple of women. He did some juggling with four glasses. A real circus act. He seemed friendly enough and he’s not short of money. Kept on ordering rounds.”
Modin frowned. Could this be the same Allan?
“Look, Modin, it’s been ages since I’ve seen your friend Bill Bergman. Anything wrong?”
“He’s moved in with his ex-wife again, you know—Ewa. They’re trying to patch things up now that their daughter is finally back from the United States.”
Kent E nodded. He had heard about last summer’s minor war, had seen the bodies, and noticed with mild surprise that all traces of the incident had vanished in no time at all, erased by men in dark uniforms.
“Bill and Ewa want to stick together,” Modin added and gulped down half his cognac. “Presumably for the sake of their daughter. No doubt, Ewa discourages Bill from contacting me. And rightly so. I’m not good company for a closely knit family.”
The rest of the cognac ran down his throat.
“Normal people should stay away from me,” he whispered as his eyes wandered across the empty room until they finally hit the bar. There, a young man emptied his beer and took off.
“Pity,” Kent E said tactfully. “Bill’s a nice guy. Solid, no nonsense, a real standup guy.”
“I know. He’s a real good friend, too. Would you mind pouring me another shot?”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Maybe you should take it…?” The sound of an approaching helicopter interrupted him. Both Kent E and Modin looked out into the darkness. Flashing lights were getting closer. The thud-thud of the rotor blades could be heard as the aircraft hovered over The Rock. Snow whirled in the air, and the row of small seasonal shop huts was sprayed by a mixture of snow and gravel as the helicopter descended and landed on the helipad near the harbor.
“What the…”
“That’s the IT millionaire, Jonas Zetterman,” Kent E shouted over the noise.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” Modin said, without meaning anything in particular.
“How do you mean?”
“Doesn’t bode well. What’s he doing here? I thought he lived in Seattle.”
“He did,” Kent E said “He’s moved back home to Sweden. Haven’t you read about it in the papers? He’s bidding for the hotel. No doubt, he’s here looking for a good investment. That’s bad news.”
“How do you mean?”
“The Grisslehamn Hotel is the biggest employer on the island. More than forty people work there and at the spa. They will all get the pink slip. I’m sure Zetterman will bring in new staff from Stockholm. People who know how to deal with foreign guests.”
The snow whirled as the helicopter was idling on the helipad. A man wearing a thick wolf skin coat and carrying a briefcase jumped out, followed by three men in black coats. Then, a young woman in a startling white fur coat and sealskin boots climbed out more carefully.
She looked like Scarlett Johansson, Modin thought—classy but vulnerable. That, at least, was what he imagined.
“I’d like another sizeable cognac, please. You sure you don’t want one?”
“Oh, what the heck. I’ll have a small one.” Kent E leaned over and rubbed the top of his thighs. “I’ve got a lot to do after that.”
Kent E disappeared for a minute and came back with a refill in their glasses.
“What do you know about Zetterman? And who’s the woman?” Modin asked.
“She has class,” Kent E said.
“I can see that,” Modin smiled.
They watched the group climb into a black Volvo XC-90 which had appeared out of nowhere. The helicopter took off in a cloud of snow as the car was leaving the harbor yard. The other side of the harbor remained invisible until the swirling snow had settled again.
“Jonas Zetterman invented Friend-Connect. You know, one of those online communities where everybody who’s important—or not—is a member. It’s a pseudo world, if you ask me, but it has gotten big.”
“Ah, that’s who he is,” Modin said. “Zetterman was busy selling things to Microsoft and became stinking rich in the process.”
Kent E took a gulp of cognac from his oversized snifter. He put his glass down carefully and smacked his lips a couple of times.
“Yep.”
“So what’s his game? Why does he want to buy our village hotel?” Modin mused.
“He’s got his roots here. His father, Tomas Zetterman, used to be a fisherman. He told some local rag that he himself wants to become a fisherman. Right! Pompous ass! People say that Zetterman was a big shot back in the 1970s already. In those days, he hung around at Lustgarden, the Grisslehamn in-bar back then, even though he was only fifteen. And he even managed to get free beer by harassing the bar owner. Said he hadn’t received cash register receipts and had served him and his friends although most of them were underage. He was smart and ruthless as a teenager. So you can imagine what he’s like now that he’s a stinking rich adult.”
“I see.” Modin could see that Kent was bitter, and raised his eyebrows, subtly encouraging him to keep going with his story.
“They are also building new indoor tennis courts where the old outdoor tennis courts are today,” sighed Kent E. “Where the fuck are we going to play?”
“Cool it, Kent. You’ll surely be able to play on his courts.”
“I very much doubt it. He wants 60 bucks an hour. Who can afford that?”
Modin grimaced. Capitalism has reached even our remote village, he thought.
“Well, I could try and have a word with him, one local to another” Modin said and picked up his cup of coffee. He felt the cold creeping up his back. “Give him a reminder about how things are done out here. He may have forgotten during his time in Seattle.”
“Please do! I don’t think it’ll help, though. He seems to be determined to shape the future all on his own.”
“You could always have a word with your boss. Joint, I mean,” said Modin pulling his snow parka tighter around him. “He seems able to handle competitors.”
“This is too big even for Joint. This guy is the king. Didn’t you see his bodyguards?” Kent E downed what remained of his cognac in one swoop.
Modin noticed that his cheeks had reddened. It wasn’t only the hotel and the tennis courts he was upset about.
“And what other business will Zetterman be conducting here?” Modin said. “Come on, spit it out!”
“They’re talking about an underwater cable across to Estonia. A long, black cable. Can you imagine, Modin?”
“Fiber optics, you mean? Modern communication… a lucrative market. Lots of people have financial interests in fiber optics, not least the military.” Modin scratched his neck.
“We’ll have big vessels mooring in our harbor, and they will block the sun in summertime,” Kent E muttered, “That’s what I’m worried about.”
“No doubt, but there’ll be a lot of revenue when those guys have spare time. They’ll happily use their expense accounts.”
Their conversation gradually fizzled out. Modin was hungry; he had already bought fish for himself and Miss Mona.
“Will we be seeing you at Christmas, Modin? I’m worried about you. Come here and spend some money. Then you’ll feel better and I’ll benefit too.”
“We’ll have to play it by ear,” Modin said and got to his feet, zipped up his snow parka, and went out to his snowmobile.
His cheeks stung as the snow whirled icily across the square near the harbor, wrapping the fishing boats that moored there in a dense frozen mist. As he sat on the saddle and turne
d on the ignition, he saw the mystery man he had seen by his house, pass the bakery. The Wandering Stick, he thought, truly a fitting name
CHAPTER 5
GRISSLEHAMN, SATURDAY, DECEMBER 19
“I think that every effort must be made to raise the vessel, out of respect for the many people who have already suffered grievous loss. It has been an extraordinarily severe blow to our nation, and we should do everything in our power to reduce the suffering.”
(Prime Minister Ingvar Carlsson on Swedish TV news, September 30, 1994)
The sunlight reflected in the snow and shot arrows through the window of the main room. There was a ridge of high pressure over the sea. Soon the sea would be iced over!
When the ice comes, the island’s climate is almost like inland weather. The rough, cold winds disappear and the bluish ice settles like a blanket over the sea, soothing the otherwise angry and thunderous waves. When winter takes hold of the landscape, it becomes quiet in the village. Nature withdraws; even people withdraw. They sneak past like phantoms in dark clothing, carrying out only the most urgent of tasks: buying food, stocking up on firewood, clearing snow. Otherwise, they stay indoors. Darkness falls as early as three in the afternoon. Six hours of daylight is all you get, and that only if it is not cloudy; if it is, you get even less. Nature slows down and saves energy for the summer—a perfect time for introspection and isolation. In a small village where people live in houses and cottages far apart from each other, outdoors is where they meet, or in the village square when running their errands at the single grocery store or the gas station. They nod discreetly, then carry on with their lives. It’s been that way since the beginning of time. Conserving energy; people sleep a lot so as not to use up food stocks too quickly. But then when the light returns in April, everything comes to life: plants, smiles, laughter, and happy cheers greeting the summer guests.
Out here in the northern archipelago, we are completely dependent on the weather. It’ll be July in no time, Modin thought. In three days’ time, it will be the shortest day of the year. From then onwards, the days will be longer. It won’t be too bad.
Under Water (Anton Modin Book 3) Page 2