Under Water (Anton Modin Book 3)

by Anders Jallai

  He got up from the table. He needed some exercise; his joints were aching and his head felt like cotton wool. His conversation with Kent E, a living being, the previous evening had invigorated him. He felt he could finally make some headway in his investigation into the shipwreck of the M/S Estonia. He had bought every book about ship accidents he could find on websites for second-hand books.

  Having studied the material meticulously, he found no blatant evidence indicating that the vessel had been blown open by an explosion, although this was one of the main theories among conspiracy theorists. Even a few experts on ship constructions favored such views. The official investigation said that water had seeped around the sides of the hinged bow of the vessel because it had come loose. But why had it come loose? There was no good answer to that question, and it was at this point that his investigations had grounded to a halt. According to the Swedish Merchant Navy’s initial analysis, the bow visor could not have come loose if it had been properly closed and therefore pressed against the vessels hull. The pressure of the waves would have held it shut against the hull of the ship.

  Modin looked at the testimony of Henrik Sillaste, a twenty-five-year-old Estonian mechanic, in a document on the Internet. He had been working on the car deck of the vessel that fateful night and watched the water pouring into the ship on both sides of the raised bow.

  “It kept on coming,” he had said.

  Sillaste maintained that if, as the Shipwreck Commission claimed, the bow at the end of the car ramp had come lose completely, the water would have entered the vessel in bursts. But Sillaste distinctly remembered the water penetrate the car deck in an even stream.

  The Shipwreck Commission explained what had happened by the fact that the vehicle ramp was being pulled down at the same time as the bow loosened due to faulty construction. But this contradicted Henrik Sillaste’s testimony, and he was there at the time!

  The vehicle ramp was for vehicles to drive on and off the vessel under the hinged bow, when raised. The ramp was folded away in the video recordings that were made by divers immediately after the tragedy. And that was odd. In its upright position, the vehicle ramp would have prevented the waves from entering, even if the hinged bow itself had fallen away. In that case, the vessel would not have sunken so fast.

  A Finnish daily newspaper also cited Sillaste’s words on the day after the accident:

  I checked the car deck using the CCTV monitor and saw water pouring in through the hinged bow. We had had problems with it before. By that time, I was up to my knees in water at the car deck.

  Sillaste suggested that the hinged bow was still attached when he looked at it through the CCTV monitor, but that it was not completely closed. Why? Had someone opened it and not managed to shut it again? Was the open hinge damaged by a huge wave? Was the crew to blame for the sinking of the ferry? Or did persons unknown open the bow?

  Modin scratched his cheek. He felt his heart rate increase and his face get warm. He blinked at the details pointing to the idea that the vessel was sunk deliberately—an idea the government wanted to bury.

  Why was Henrik Sillaste’s version of events so sensitive? Henrik Sillaste’s testimony and his colleagues’ statements were not even included in the Shipwreck Commission report. Was this a cover up? Had the Swedish and Estonian governments agreed to leave out these details, because these details were pointing at something else? Something very unpleasant?

  I must meet with Göran Filipson at the Security Service and get a few answers from him, Modin thought as he closed the lid of his laptop. What’s amazing—and scary—is the total silence.

  CHAPTER 6

  GRISSLEHAMN, MONDAY, DECEMBER 21

  Please, have some more smoked eel, Göran.”

  Modin pointed at the delicacy from the Baltic Sea, and Göran Filipson, Police Superintendent and head the Section for Security Services Special Analysis, SSA, stretched out his bony hand toward the plate.

  They were passing around the smörgåsbord on board the ferry traveling the route between Grisslehamn and the port of Eckerö on Åland, a demilitarized zone that followed Swedish traditions.

  The trip was the perfect opportunity for a discreet chat, Modin thought as he sat down opposite Filipson, his plate well piled up.

  Modin raised his hand to shield his eyes against the glare from the glittering surface of the sea. A slight veil of condensed seawater hung in front of the sun, diffusing its rays.

  “If this quiet weather continues for a few more days, the sea will freeze over,” Modin said. “In the village, folks say that when the sea smokes for the third time, the ice is on its way.”

  “Folklore is often more reliable than science,” Filipson remarked. They smiled at each other cautiously, while both of them, true to habit, discreetly peeked around to secure the room.

  Three days before Christmas Eve, the ferry didn’t carry many passengers. They could take it easy, enjoy their meal and drinks, and have a good talk.

  Modin wanted to hear the latest on the diving operation to the M/S Estonia he had been promised by the Swedish government in exchange for his silence about the Black Island incident connected to his dive down to the SOSUS installation and investigation into the Palme murder. It had been a few months since the shoot-out at Julia’s.

  “If I’m totally honest with you, Modin, it’s going pretty sluggishly at the moment,” Filipson said, then crammed an oily piece of eel into his mouth.

  He was a colorless sixty-some-year-old, and no one on board would suspect that he was in fact the head of the most secret division of the Swedish Security Service, the police equivalent of the Department for Military Intelligence Special Operations.

  There was nothing about Göran Filipson that caught the eye, except for his chin, which was large and out of proportion to the rest of his head. His body language lacked passion, and he picked at his food rather carefully. Unlike Modin, he never completely filled up his plate, and always poured his glass only half full.

  But they trusted each other. Modin knew that Filipson had to tell lies as part of his job, and that it would be naïve to assume that you could rely on what he said when it came to matters involving national security. Modin felt comfortable with that. Filipson was a decent guy, and Modin had no reason to feel let down by him. Deep inside, Modin felt that Filipson had become the friendly listener he so badly needed, now that Loklinth at Special Ops had let him down so badly.

  Modin had invited him to eat a Christmas meal on board the Åland ferry because he wanted to test his theories about the M/S Estonia while pretending to talk about the promised permission to dive down to the wreck.

  “I must have the permit by May at the latest,” Modin said in a voice that lacked aggression. “Will this work? What do you think?”

  “Why do you want to dive, Modin. It won’t bring them back, you know that?”

  “I know, but I just need to do it.”

  “In order to curb your bad conscience?”

  “What do you know about that?”

  “Nothing, I’m afraid. But I do know that diving won’t do any good. It was an awful accident. A lot of people died.”

  “It was mass murder, Göran!”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I just feel it.”

  “Are you looking for a scapegoat? It wasn’t your fault, Modin. You know that. Sure, it was your idea to take them with you, but you couldn’t possibly have known what would happen. Could you?”

  “No! I couldn’t possibly have known. Fuck, Göran! You have no idea.”

  Modin looked down at the table. He was hiding the tears that were coming into his view. He didn’t want Filipson to see them.

  “Your wife and children won’t come alive. Can’t you just accept that? You, we, Sweden fucked up. It happens.”

  “No it doesn’t just happen. Someone’s responsible. The DSO? Loklinth? I hate them for it.”

  “How do you know it’s his fault?”

  “I just know it. He is
evil personified.”

  “Maybe,” Filipson said looking out on the calm sea. “But I don’t think he is to blame for your loss. Not this time. It was an accident. Don’t go diving, Modin. I beg you.”

  Modin couldn’t hide his tears anymore. He took a paper napkin from the table.

  “Fuck, I never cry, Göran. You know that.”

  “I know that.” Filipson handed him one more napkin and Modin took it with his head down. “Between you and me and the wall, Modin, you should avoid diving, for your own good. “

  “How do you mean?” Modin took a large swig of the dark Christmas beer he had ordered. His hand was shaking slightly.

  “There’s something fishy with the cargo. But that’s not why the vessel sank, Modin. That just happened.”

  “There are rumors about arms shipments on the M/S Estonia,” Modin said, interrupting Filipson. “Is that what you’re referring to?”

  “Well, yes, but not only that. According to the rumors I keep hearing within the department, there are hazardous materials aboard. I’m not sure what exactly. Could be powerful radioactive substances, cesium-137. The only problem is that I don’t know where on the ferry they would be. You could inflict some serious injury to yourself if you have the misfortune to dive too close to that sort of material.”

  “Okay, so that’s what the diving ban is all about,” Modin said and bit his lip. “It had little to do with the declared respect for a communal grave? Fucking liars!”

  Modin raised his voice in anger and frustration. People turned around to see what the shouting was all about.

  “And what would you yourself have done, Modin? It’s easy to criticize when you don’t carry any responsibility. It’s possible that large areas of the Baltic Sea have been polluted by radioactive waste. Other countries are involved, too. It’s a nightmare scenario, but it has nothing to do with you personally.”

  “What the fuck do you mean? The cod are dying out,” Modin said tilting his glass, “my family is radioactive, yet you say it has nothing to do with me?”

  “Quite the contrary, the cod are regaining ground. Half-life, you know. The radioactivity of cesium-137 has a half-life of thirty years. The sea insulates. That garbage is better off on the seabed than in many other places. A twelve-inch wall of lead, which is what they use to insulate reactors on a submarine, is the equivalent of twelve feet of water.”

  “What kind of material are you talking about?” Modin asked in a whisper as the waitress came up to the table to bring them two iced shots of aquavit. The two top buttons of her waitress uniform were open. Modin could not resist looking at her cleavage. It looked like she had implants, although she was barely twenty.

  “Two doubles of Absolut,” she said in a Finnish-Swedish accent. “There you are.”

  She waggled away. Modin followed her with his gaze. Filipson cleared his throat and raised his glass.

  “Let’s have a toast, Modin. To you! May you have a long and happy life! And to make that happen, don’t dive. Period. I say this because I’m your friend, remember that. It’s not healthy down there. I’d rather you didn’t get cancer. Nothing will bring your family back. Cheers!”

  “Cheers!” Modin said in a barely noticeable voice. “I want to dive no matter what, Göran. I need to see them; need to know that they are onboard; that they really are dead. If I can, I want to bring them home.” Emotions threatened to overwhelm him. “I can’t sleep, Filipson! I haven’t slept well since 1994.”

  The conversation was beginning to get too heavy for both of them. Filipson would never end it, would let him talk about his family forever, and so Modin took initiative and changed the subject.

  “What do you mean, cancer?”

  “Well, the stuff buried down there is likely either cobalt-60 or cesium-137,” Filipson said. “I don’t think there’s any plutonium on board, because I’m sure there were no nuclear weapons onboard. And even if, they would have been removed a long time ago. The Americans don’t leave nuclear warheads lying around on the seabed.”

  “The Americans? How much do you really know?” Modin asked and immediately experienced a feeling of unease in the region of his belly. He knew instinctively that what Filipson was about to say, would be a personal catastrophe for Modin himself.

  “Not much more than I just said,” Filipson responded. “It’s Special Ops’ baby. They have all the documentation. The only information we received at the Security Service is that the wreck must be guarded at all cost and that diving down there can be dangerous. That’s all. Nothing else of substance. The rest is pure speculation on my part.”

  “And where would this cobalt-60 and cesium-137 be coming from?” Modin asked with no sign of hesitation in his voice.

  “I don’t know,” Filipson said and stared at his empty glass.

  “Is your silence prescribed by the CIA?”

  “Maybe.” Filipson spun his glass, then carefully put it back on the table. “Look at the bright side: you will be getting your reward. Fifty million Swedish crowns. What are you going to do with all that money?”

  Modin blinked. Was that the message? Fifty million. “I don’t know,” he replied, and found himself grinning. “There are no doubt fifty million different ways of spending that kind of money. Maybe booze it all away? I don’t know. Do you want another?”

  “I’m driving.”

  “Oh, come on. Who’s going to stop you? You’re the boss of the most secret unit of the Security Service… no traffic cop will mess with you.” Modin was irritated. He didn’t like the way this conversation had developed at all.

  “Okay, a small one, then.”

  The waitress was back immediately and served their drinks. This time she leaned so far over the table that she exposed half of her assets.

  “There you are, gentlemen.”

  CHAPTER 7

  SPECIAL OPS HEADQUARTERS, STOCKHOLM, MONDAY, DECEMBER 21

  Where the hell is my Mont Blanc fountain pen?” Lieutenant Colonel Chris Loklinth, the head of Military Intelligence Special Operations, was digging in his desk drawer. He was red in the face and kept on poking around for his pen.

  “Lundin! Christ Almighty, have you taken it?”

  Captain Bob Lundin quickly entered the room.

  “No I didn’t. No idea, where it could be, Chris. Sorry,” he said.

  Chris Loklinth looked at his subordinate with suspicion. Lundin was impeccably dressed in gray pants and a white shirt under his dark sports jacket that was filled out nicely with broad shoulders. He was 39 years old and had a stony facial expression. He was a robot, would follow all orders without questioning them. Loklinth knew that. He would clean up the mess after accidents and incidents, could handle people with serious attitude problems, and when he wasn’t on duty, he would be working out his body and mind at small training camps in the countryside. He was a dangerous man with a blind ambition, and Loklinth was happy he had him on a short leash.

  “Oh, look here it is,” Loklinth said as he took the pen out of his own breast pocket. “How the hell did it end up there? I’m sorry, Lundin, but you know how it is. You can’t trust anyone any more. This job requires paranoia—paranoia is an asset to your job in intelligence, or a requirement, if you will.”

  He leaned back in his chair and scratched his crotch with the three intact fingers on his left hand. His long johns made him sweat. He had contracted a serious swamp infection in his crotch from sitting too much. He smelled the fingers of his maimed hand.

  You can manage with three whole fingers. The things he had done and endured for king and country!

  He looked out his square office window at the tin roof, which was covered in snow. He longed to be in Brunnsviken bay in Greater Stockholm, doing some cross-country skating. This was his favorite pastime when winter reigned. In the summer, sailing took up most of his spare time, preferably long trips to Eastern Europe.

  He withdrew his gaze and now started browsing through the yellow dossier that was in front of him on his desk:
the M/S Estonia Affair. That very morning, he had had a word with one of his secret operatives who had infiltrated the association of victims’ relatives. This undercover agent was the son of a victim and a former Special Ops operative. Apparently, things had quieted down in the association; even the most ardent supporters of bringing the vessel to the surface had acquiesced, and the association held few, if any, meetings any more.

  The M/S Estonia Affair had ended up where it should—in oblivion. Even the Swedish government wanted it to be a thing of the past. There were no political points to be scored by continuing to examine what happened to the ferry. The M/S Estonia Affair only had losers.

  He dropped the dossier as if it were burning his fingers. Along with the murder of Prime Minister Olof Palme and the submarine intrusions, both incidents from the 1980s, the M/S Estonia Affair was one of the most important and most secretive files kept at Special Ops. These dossiers were meant to gather dust deep down in the archives, away from the eyes of the public.

  He stretched and yawned, not even bothering to cover his mouth. Why should he? He was in charge here. He didn’t need to impress anyone any more. Not that he could. He was five feet ten and had thinning hair. He was aware that he had watery eyes and oily skin, which caused itching eczema where his hair had receded. But he always wore a neatly ironed white shirt, creased pants, and a pair of well-preserved brown shoes with laces. Pretty nice, if I say so myself, he thought. His wife took care of his clothes. He had been married to the same woman for 36 years, and together they had raised two children who had left the nest long ago. He was indeed an aging man among other aging men and blended in frightfully well when he walked the streets of the city. His dossier, because there was a dossier on him, too, said that the harmless facade concealed a ruthless borderline psychopath with strong self-control.

  Chris Loklinth had become the head of the Domestic Unit of Special Operations as far back as the 1980s. The Domestic Unit was responsible for the security within the Kingdom of Sweden, a bit like the FBI, only more secretive and illegal because of its military origin. The unit had a number of permanent officers with almost infinite powers to protect the country from harm. Not many people in the country were aware of its very existence, and even fewer knew anything about its activities. Under Chris Loklinth, the Department of Special Operations ran by its own rules.