The DSO is the pinnacle of a state within a state, Loklinth thought. We are of great importance to our country; maybe we are even more important than the political parties pretending to run it! He could not help seeing himself as a Swedish version of J. Edgar Hoover—except he was not gay.
He looked around his spacious office and at the portrait of King Charles XIII. The King looked majestic in a way that pleased Loklinth: a high forehead, a determined mouth—clearly a no-nonsense guy! Charles XIII had saved the country in 1797, and his portrait should hang straight as a mark of respect.
“Lundin,” he said, and pointed to the portrait. Irritating details are not going to disturb my concentration, he thought as Lundin rushed forward to adjust the portrait.
Loklinth carefully opened the brown envelope that had arrived by special courier from the U.S. Embassy. It contained the secret encryption code. He leaned backwards gently and rocked for a moment on the back legs of his chair. He picked up his magnifying glass and started decrypting the secret message from the top.
“May I go now,” asked Lundin who was still standing by the portrait of the king, his arms hanging loosely by his sides.
“No, wait, listen to this.” Loklinth read the message out loud. It was in English and he offered an off-the-cuff translation.
To the Head of DSO, Swedish Intelligence:
We have received notification that one of your former employees, Mr. Anton Modin, plans to dive to the wreck of the M/S Estonia that sank in September 1994 during a storm in the Baltic Sea. We are opposed to any diving operations pertaining to the unfortunate sinking of the aforementioned vessel. On this particular issue, I also represent our NATO ally, the Republic of Estonia,. The vessel and the details of its sinking remain classified information according to our mutual agreement. Anton Modin’s permission to dive to the wreck of the M/S Estonia is hereby refused.
Best Regards,
Alex Johnson, Special Operations NATO Europe.
Chris Loklinth put down the message and peeked up over his reading glasses. “Well, Lundin. That was crystal clear. Under no circumstances is Modin allowed to dive down to the Estonia. Got it?”
“Sure, sure, no problem,” Lundin said, as he walked toward the door.
“Lundin, don’t take this matter too lightly. When they say ‘under no circumstances,’ they mean ‘under no circumstances.’”
CHAPTER 8
GRISSLEHAMN, TUESDAY, DECEMBER 22
“The findings indicate that it is much more likely than not that an explosion caused the appearance of characteristic signatures to be observed in these samples.”
(Investigation of metal samples from M/S Estonia,
Kent L Johnson & Kenneth M Smith Jr.,
Engineering Systems Inc., Aurora Illinois U.S.)
Modin was tossing and turning in his bed, caught one of his feet in the sheet, and buried his face in his damp feather pillow. He did not want to fully wake up, let alone get up. The information about lethal radiation in the wreck of the M/S Estonia was downright depressing. But he could not let this deter him; he just had to go through with the dive. He owed it to his family. To himself. Or not. Either way, he would have to make a decision once and for all.
Maybe there was nothing left on board except for 700 dead bodies. Maybe he should let his family go, let the Baltic Sea become their grave. Göran Filipson’s advice had hit home. Their remains might be contaminated with deadly radiation. Who would want to bring home a radioactive skull?
He had hit what he thought was rock bottom before. But waiting for the decision about diving to the wreck had felt like the worst thing he encountered since the shipwreck itself. His plans to dive and bring back his family from the ferry had kept him alive in the dark holes of depression and inner emptiness. He was going to find them, bring them up with him, and earn forgiveness for the fact that he did not manage to rescue them.
Nightmares interrupted his sleep night after night, and survivor’s guilt weighed heavy on his days. Only the hunt for the secret behind the ship’s sinking kept him going. Didn’t they get that? Why did Filipson have to muddy the waters with his talk of radioactive contamination.
Can I trust Filipson? Is all the information about radioactivity credible? Are they concerned about my well-being or do they just want to undermine my efforts? He did remember reading about radioactivity in the metal box he had stolen from Special Ops earlier this year. He couldn’t go back to reread the files because he had been forced to return them to the Minister of Justice and the Swedish Government. That had been part of the deal he made— eight million dollars and permission to dive to the Estonia wreck in exchange for his silence.
Modin started shivering. He couldn’t stay in his damp bed any longer. Things can’t go on like this. What the fuck am I supposed to do, he wondered, his head in his hands. His stretched his back, which cracked so loudly he thought it broke; he was forced to lean back on the headboard for a moment. He reached for his bathrobe and limped off to the bathroom for a leak—a long one, sitting down.
As he washed his hands, he looked into the mirror above the sink, talking to himself.
“I am going to find out what cargo the Estonia carried on board. That is a good start. The answer is somewhere among my papers. The M/S Estonia was departing Tallinn, the Estonian capital, heading for Stockholm. I will travel that route again after Christmas in pursuit of the truth.”
Modin took a shower, got dressed, had a cup of coffee, and decided to drive down to the hotel near the Grisslehamn harbor. He wanted to drop in there, feel the atmosphere, and maybe catch a glimpse of Jonas Zetterman, the multimillionaire IT guru, and his wife, the gorgeous blonde.
It was two days before Christmas and he would wish Zetterman a Merry Christmas on the behalf of all the ordinary citizens in the village.
CHAPTER 9
The two-feet layer of snow muffled any sound. Once Modin turned off the ignition, all he could hear was his own breathing. He parked his snowmobile close to the main entrance of the Grisslehamn Hotel and climbed off, his joints stiff. The snow crunched under his boots as he walked toward the door. It was partly iced up, and so he had to give the heavy door a good pull. He stamped the snow off his feet on the mat just inside and clumsily removed his driving gloves, shoving them into his pockets. He cupped his hands and blew on his palms. They were so frozen, he could not completely straighten his fingers.
The hotel lobby was pleasantly warm. A fire was crackling in the fireplace. The Christmas lights stirred in the waft of air he brought in with him. The smell of pine trees and cinnamon hung in the air. The ten-minute trip on the snowmobile had numbed his cheeks and chin. He pushed his glasses up onto his forehead, then took off his fur cap with earflaps, folded it up, and shoved it into the breast pocket of his snow jacket.
“Do you serve lunch at this time of day?” Modin asked the woman in the reception.
“Sure we do. Welcome to our hotel. Just take the stairs over there.”
He picked up a newspaper and took the short, dark oak staircase to the next level. Modin sat down at a table by one of the picture windows facing the harbor.
The Grisslehamn Hotel stood on a rocky hill, about sixty feet above the rest of the village. From the restaurant, you had a good view of the harbor.
Grisslehamn harbor inlet.
A waitress handed him the menu, and he quickly decided to have the fish dish.
He felt alone in this large, elegant restaurant. Reading the newspaper was a good way of hiding it; it made you look busy with something, giving the impression that you did have friends and family, but had chosen to sit on your own for a while to read the newspaper. However, he didn’t really need the decoy because no one else was there to see him anyway.
He browsed through the newspaper. The headlines were still dominated by the financial crisis and disturbances flaring up here and there. There was unrest in the nation. This kind of stuff tends to escalate, Modin thought. He could see a pattern. Developments were moving in
the wrong direction. Almost like in the 1930s. A gradual shift toward totalitarianism and isolation, xenophobia and, above all, fear. The freedom of the Internet was slowly being eroded; scanning the Internet for suspicious activity was merely one of the new tasks for the intelligence services. The President of Russia was right when he suggested that cyberwars were being fought. People were scared. Most people could hide this anxiety well, but symptoms of it emerged on occasion in the form of burning cars and crazy shootings. Reminded him of the 1991 film Falling Down with Michael Douglas.
The next stage would be vigilantes and lynchings.
He folded up the paper and put it aside. One should really stop reading the papers and live on an island without access to the Internet and TV. Awaiting better times.
His meal arrived: fresh cod from the Sea of Åland and rather powdery potatoes from the area. The fish had been fried in butter. Sautéed onions as well, also soaked in butter, adorned the fish. He had a glass of Chablis with the meal along with a bottle of sparkling water. He leaned back slightly, glass in hand, gazed at the greenish yellow liquid for a good while, then took a large sip, the low sun in his eyes. He was feeling good, at least for the moment, in the here and now.
He decided that for Christmas Eve, he would eat the traditional Christmas dinner at The Rock. You just can’t be by yourself on Christmas Eve, he thought. That is slow suicide.
He could hear voices coming from the bar and looked up instinctively. Zetterman and his wife were approaching the restaurant. She looked even prettier close up and without her bulky winter clothing. As she passed his table, he could see that she had brown eyes that nicely contrasted her blond, slightly curly hair. He nodded. She smiled back, almost imperceptibly. Jonas Zetterman ignored Modin completely and headed toward the table furthest away in the corner. He sat down first. She snuck along behind him, without saying a word. A man in a black suit remained at the bar; presumably one of the bodyguards.
Zetterman was wearing a jacket that looked as if it had been bought at a K-Mart, and a checkered shirt that in no way matched the jacket. He also wore jeans and suede loafers.
At least the shoes are fashionable by present-day standards, Modin thought. His woman, because she really was his woman, was well dressed in much simpler but more expensive clothing. She seemed composed and put together carefully. Modin had sensed a whiff of owner and his owned about them as they sat down at the table—a master and his slave.
What would you not do for money and status, Modin pondered as he continued eating.
Zetterman’s wife gave Modin a swift glance, then just as swiftly looked back down at the table and picked up the menu. Zetterman picked up his cellphone. He was talking as he ordered. Modin watched the couple as discreetly as he could, trying to get a sense of Zetterman’s personality.
During lunch, Zetterman had three conversations on his cellphone, but as far as Modin could see, none with his companion at the table. They almost looked like an old couple that had been together for years and no longer needed to speak to communicate. When he spilled some wine, he handed his glass to her to hold so he could wipe off his jacket with his napkin. Once he was done, she handed him the glass, and proceeded to clean the table.
She’s worth a better fate than this, thought Modin.
The couple received good service, and yet it seemed as if Zetterman could fly into a rage at any moment. His roving eyes seemed to be searching for faults and things to criticize. Or maybe the guy had worries. Layoffs, perhaps? Many big companies let people go just before Christmas. Modin had never understood that. Let people celebrate Christmas in a spirit of peace and harmony. Perhaps Zetterman wanted to have it all done and dusted before the Christmas celebrations began, so he’d have a worry-free Christmas Eve.
Or perhaps it was nothing like that, and Zetterman had other worries.
CHAPTER 10
THE ‘NEW SOCIETY’ GENTLEMEN’S CLUB, STOCKHOLM, WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 23
“Dinner in the evening hosted by Peter Wallenberg at the Täcka Udden villa. Henry Kissinger was there, and so were the Swedish Supreme Commander, a representative of the Swedish government, the Swedish Minister of Defense, and the King. They discussed the submarine incidents. […] Henry Kissinger was of the opinion that the U.S. would defend Norway should the Soviets attack. He also mentioned that if Sweden alone were attacked, he would recommend that the U.S. should act. The discussions were lively, as even the King was there, and he is not known for leaving early.”
(Supreme Commander Lennart Ljung’s secret diaries, April 21, 1986)
Welcome! Please have a seat, Chris.”
Anders Glock pulled up a chair for Lieutenant Colonel Chris Loklinth, head of Military Intelligence Special Ops. The club was located right in the middle of Stockholm, on a street called Arsenalsgatan not far from the King’s Gardens. The club’s dining room had a high ceiling and looked like a nineteenth century restaurant with French touch-mirrors and crystal chandeliers everywhere. The club counted two thousand members, all of them part of the Swedish élite. The New Club was a club-within-the-club reserved only for the most important five hundred members. Membership was offered based upon recommendation by current members only. Anders Glock had been part of this exclusive inner circle since the 1970s. This gave him a feeling of satisfaction. You could conduct important meetings in peace and quiet, or simply relax. As he sat looking out over the elegant rooms of the club, he mellowed and the joy at being one of the chosen few filled his soul.
The club had been founded in 1800, with King Charles XIII as its protector. Initially, it had been a gentlemen’s club; women were not allowed to join. It was a club for real men, he thought, for the pillars of society. Conservative politicians, even ministers, were rubbing shoulders with members of the Social Democratic shadow cabinet. There were no Communists. God forbid! Communists were not even allowed to enter through its doors.
“Wonderful to see you, Chris. It’s been a long time. You should consider joining the club.”
“No, no. I shouldn’t appear in public too often, especially here. This club leaks like a submarine with a screen door.”
Chris Loklinth stopped talking and looked deeply into Anders Glock’s glassy eyes.
“Yes, so it would seem,” Glock said and looked down at his shiny shoes. “We’ve let too many people join lately—working class folks turned yuppies with loads of new money acquired on the financial markets, and even immigrants. It’s not like it used to be. Henry Kissinger was here in the spring of 1986, just after Olof Palme was murdered. Those were the days. That’s when we ran the club. Now it’s harder to exert influence, and we’re not getting any younger. We used to run the country, remember? Henry Kissinger was here, for God’s sake.”
Anders Glock reached for his glass of milk. He felt good.
“Nowadays, we don’t run the country, we deal in damage control,” Loklinth said and sighed. “That’s a lot of work, to say the least. Why did you ask me here, Anders. What’s on your mind?”
Anders Glock looked at Loklinth sitting in his lounger, sinking in curiously deep. He almost looked comical. Just imagine if people knew the power he enjoyed! Still waters are deep indeed, he thought. He cleared his throat before he went straight to the point.
“Jonas Zetterman has returned home, along with his family. To Grisslehamn of all places, though he’ll no doubt be in Stockholm most of the time. I’ve helped find him an apartment.”
“Jonas Zetterman,” Loklinth said. “Isn’t he one of your disciples?”
“I have given him support, guidance. He’s a fine guy, thinks on his feet, and moves in society with ease. He was a student at the Royal Technical University.”
“You mean he was a student under the NATO umbrella?” Loklinth asked and looked at a glimmer of sunlight on the wall on the other side of the room. “The ones we pass on to the U.S. Embassy?”
“Exactly,” Glock said.
“And what is Zetterman going to do with his time, now that he’s come home?�
�� Loklinth said, glancing toward the bar counter.
“Fiber optics. That’s where you come in. He recently acquired a company that will be laying a cable between Sweden and Estonia. From Grisslehamn to Tallinn, to be exact. They are starting as soon as the ice has melted in the spring. The base will be in Grisslehamn. The cable will be connected on the Swedish coast, just north of Stockholm.”
“Ugh, Grisslehamn. I get the shivers when I hear the name. Things were going rapidly downhill in that village in the summer. We barely managed to clean up and control the damage.”
“Stop whining. Without my U.S. contacts, things really would have gone to hell. In the end, we were able to save face. So spare me the complaints.”
“What are your specific instructions for Special Ops?” Loklinth inquired, his tone of voice trying to hide his irritation. He peered over his shoulder. There were relatively few patrons in the restaurant today. Most people were Christmas shopping in town. At a glance, he could see five smaller groups of people, and a few individuals with drinks and newspapers at a large table at the far end of the room.
“Jonas Zetterman needs protection. I don’t trust the Security Service as far as I can throw them. Jonas needs professionals. Can your team take care of this, Chris? Very discreetly, of course.”
“Why does he need protection? Are there any threats against him?”
“Not yet. But his work here won’t make him many friends. He was commissioned to lay the cable by the U.S. in conjunction with the Estonian government. The cable is a new communications link for data traffic. You catch my drift? Eavesdropping, signals intelligence, and other sensitive communication matters. It will be linked to a Norwegian cable that runs on the seabed to the NSA, or wherever it ends up. Estonia is a new member of NATO. Right smack dab next to new Russia. That’s one reason to collect enemies. And another is that Zetterman’s cable will have to cross the new Russian gas pipeline in the Baltic Sea.”
Under Water (Anton Modin Book 3) Page 4