Under Water (Anton Modin Book 3)

by Anders Jallai

  Modin got up from the table. He put his napkin on his plate and cleared away the dishes.

  “I will feed the monster.”

  “Is it a such a good idea to go down there alone, Modin?” Bergman said.

  “Yes!”

  “He could be lying dead down there,” Jöran said.

  “Loklinth’s kind doesn’t die so easily. They are like monsters in horror movies, who keep getting up again, however seriously wounded they are.”

  “Here, Modin,” Kim said. “Bring him the sandwiches. Don’t forget to check whether he’s running a fever. Make sure that his wound hasn’t been infected. If so, we can give him antibiotics.”

  “Yes, doctor,” Modin said and accepted the sandwiches.

  Down in the basement, he passed through the first door to the bomb shelter and continued along a corridor under the cottage. It was well lit, dry, and sturdy. Jöran followed him. He was armed with a handgun. The corridor was lit by florescent fixtures in the ceiling, and a musty smell of dry cement hung in the air.

  Modin knocked once, then opened the steel door.

  “Good morning!” He turned on the lights and saw Loklinth’s face, still half asleep turn toward him. Loklinth said nothing. His gray hair was tangled, his eyes glazed, and his cheeks pale. There was a stench of urine in the room. Loklinth had peed in the bucket.

  “Do you have any water?”

  “Better still, we have orange juice. Perfect for sewer rats. You’ll get water next time around.” Modin smiled.

  Loklinth drank in silence. Then he tried to get to his feet, but gave up with a moan.

  “You were hit. Are you running a fever? Here, take a Tylenol. The bullet went right through. Tell me if you want me to change the bandage.”

  “It feels okay. Hurts a bit when I move.”

  Modin went up to Loklinth and grabbed hold of his injured shoulder. Loklinth gasped with pain.

  “So you’re going to charge me with rape?” Modin said in a sharp tone.

  Loklinth did not answer.

  “You’d better answer if you don’t want to die down in this hole.”

  He tapped Loklinth’s arm gently with the palm of his hand, and Loklinth moaned with pain and dropped the cup on the floor.

  “What the fuck are we supposed to do?” Loklinth said and bent down to retrieve the cup. “You’re acting against the interests of the state.”

  “Come on, Chris. Fabricating evidence, isn’t that going a bit too far? That’s old Soviet style, don’t you think? We never did anything like that during my time in Special Ops. You’ve stooped to the level of sewer rats and petty criminals. When this comes out, Chris, your department will be shut down. That is to say if you survive down here, which is far from certain. Maybe we’ll have a break-in and then a shot is fired. That can happen so easily. The bullet hits the burglar in the testicles so that he bleeds to death before the ambulance arrives. What a fucking unfortunate series of events, Chris.”

  “If you dive down to the M/S Estonia, you will be branded as traitors,” Loklinth said, and groaned.

  He lay down on the mattress.

  “Will we?” Modin said. “We expose Sweden’s greatest secret; criminal behavior in the name of the state. Yes, in Sweden you can turn into a traitor for doing just that.”

  He turned off the lights and left the room. Jöran stepped up and locked the door.

  Modin was annoyed. There was so much he had wanted to say.

  He was shivering with frustration and pure hate.

  CHAPTER 101

  SPECIAL OPS HEADQUARTERS, STOCKHOLM, MONDAY, FEBRUARY 8

  The small Crisis Team was gathered around the conference table in the Crisis Operations Room. There were secure phone lines to the Parliament, Military Headquarters, and various government departments, plus short wave radio equipment and VHF. At the flick of a switch, they could project maps and charts onto the wall, covering both Sweden and the Baltic area in amazing detail.

  Bob Lundin had called Anders Glock, who had returned from his business trip to Switzerland, and Göran Filipson, who had brought his assistant Robert, whose real identity was a secret. In the 1980s, he had worked for counterespionage in a special anti-terrorist unit belonging to the notorious Company Protection Task Force at the Security Service. Their task had been to cooperate with the CIA and prevent the smuggling of technology to the Warsaw Pact.

  Robert was older now, around 55, humbled in a way. He now belonged to the inner circle of the Security Service. His immediate superior and, in effect, the only person he took orders from, was Göran Filipson. Robert, whose black hair covered his large round head, had dark eyes and three days’ worth of stubble on his chin. He had rough features but was very fit. His passion was classical music from a good CD-player and tennis—his son had played tennis at championship level.

  Robert was leaning forward as he sat there next to Filipson at one of the short ends of the table, flipping through documents in a red file.

  “I’ll start the meeting,” Lundin said hesitantly, as if he had a lump in his throat. “We’ve lost the head of our department, Chris Loklinth. We have good reason to believe he has been kidnapped.”

  “How do we know that?” Anders Glock said.

  “We found blood in his house, and signs of a violent struggle. And the bathroom window was open. There was also a lot of blood in the snow outside,” Lundin said. “The blood outside was of two different blood types. This means we are looking for at least two other individuals, who were hurt or killed during the attack. It is possible that they were the perpetrators and were hurt in he struggle. Perhaps Loklinth was armed, although nothing would suggest that, because we found all his weapons in his home, intact and unfired. We have to assume that he was apprehended by one or several individuals, either dead or alive.”

  “I have to ask,” Filipson said. “What’s going on at the bureau at the moment? What are you working on? There must be some kind of connection to ongoing cases or operations.”

  “We doubt that. In fact, we assume that Anton Modin has something to do with Loklinth’s disappearance,” Lundin said. “We have been trying to prevent him from diving down to the M/S Estonia. But we suspect plans are well underway anyway.”

  “That I can understand,” Filipson said. “Modin would sacrifice his right arm for and his life for a dive down to the Estonia wreck. What more do we have?” He looked exclusively at Bob Lundin.

  “We have the receipt for various items of diving equipment, mostly sports diving gear, to the tune of some nine hundred thousand Swedish crowns. The purchase was made by Kim Zetterman, and the invoice went to Marine Cable Tech, Jonas Zetterman’s company. Kim Zetterman and Modin are friends. There ought to be a link between that purchase and their plans, but we have not established any clear links as of yet.”

  “Sports diving equipment for nine hundred thousand crowns,” Robert said and gave a whistle. “And here I was thinking tennis was an expensive pastime.”

  “That’s why we figure it has something to do with the Estonia wreck.”

  “Any leads to where the equipment ended up?”

  “It was transported to an address on Muskö Island. To Jöran Järv, who is part of, or was part of the DSO. His specialty was diving.”

  “I see,” Robert said. “Then we have a credible lead, as I see it. Jöran Järv is in it. Looks like at least two former DSO operatives are involved in Loklinth’s disappearance. We’d better call in the Special Forces Team.”

  CHAPTER 102

  MUSKÖ ISLAND, TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 9

  Modin avoided going down to the basement on the second day. He was trying to gather strength, courage, and self-confidence, but years of manipulation had placed him in a position of dependence. Despite his obvious position of advantage, he felt uncertain around Loklinth. There was no real justification for kidnapping Loklinth. He had crossed a line, had gone too far, just as Loklinth had when Special Ops fabricated evidence of rape against him. He did not mention his scruples to
his friends, because he had other things on his mind, which involved more than bringing up secrets from the M/S Estonia, or whatever it was the Americans were looking for.

  He handed a beer to Jöran Järv who was sitting on the worn couch, then went to sit in the recliner facing it. Bergman and Kim had left to meet the U.S. Embassy staff at Café Cat on Riddargatan Street in Östermalm to discuss the diving expedition. Modin and Järv stayed behind in the cottage for security reasons. Loklinth’s wellbeing was very much Modin’s business.

  “Modin, old buddy. I’m excited to be on an assignment with you again. I’ve missed our work together,” Järv said.

  Modin did not respond.

  “There was romanticism to what we did, Modin. Things have changed, though. We know too much now, know that no matter what we do, things don’t change. You can’t eradicate political corruption. What you and I can do is like a piss in the ocean.”

  “We can tell the truth. About corruption in Sweden’s security apparatus, about their ruthless activities, about their questionable history.” Modin turned toward Jöran with open, alert eyes. “That’s not piss. More like a tsunami washing over ordinary civilians.”

  “What do you think would happen if the Swedish people were to find out about the M/S Estonia, Modin?” Järv reached for his beer.

  “Nothing,” Modin said. “The fact that the Swedish intelligence services were involved in global politics would bubble up to the surface. The few who had insights into all this, the big oligarchs, have learned that they can exploit this knowledge and create even greater wealth for themselves. The tycoons and their money rule the world through the intelligence services.”

  “Are you suggesting that the intelligence services are the lapdogs of capitalists?”

  “Yes. Money buys goods and services the intelligence apparatus needs, and thus controls key entities. They buy up companies in the security field—alarm systems, insurance, weapons, and so on. Take the U.S. company Blackwater, for example. The U.S. Department of State employs them in various trouble spots. In Sweden, several security companies are owned by big corporations. Sly bastards who have infiltrated the most secret areas of our society. Imagine the perks for a guy with an inside track to the top brass of the intelligence and security community, Jöran!”

  Modin sipped his beer. He could see that Jöran understood where he was going. “No different than it used to be in East Germany or the Soviet Union. If you have the right contacts, you seize power. It is no coincidence that the greatest political leaders—like Olof Palme, Putin, or Bush—had a background in intelligence. I’m afraid it will only get worse. If you have an intelligence kingpin running the country, you have, in effect, a covert military dictatorship.”

  “I’ve never thought of it that way. But you do have a point,” Jöran said.

  “It is impossible for them not to use their contacts and skills to manipulate certain parts of the government. Just look at what happened with Palme and the Special Ops Department 03. That was the former domestic department of Special Ops designed to infiltrate the political left—the political plumbers.”

  Jöran burped and put down his beer. “I was under the impression that this was a democracy, for fuck’s sake.”

  “That, Jöran, is the extent of the betrayal. We weren’t fighting for democracy. Not the kind you believe in, at least. New players are never allowed to take part in these networks. The Swedish Green Party, the Left Party, and the Swedish Democrats—the far right in that last case—have no influence in Sweden. Or the Christian Democrats, for that matter. Why do you think that is? They should ask themselves, or just go fishing. They will never even get close to any real power without digging up and cutting off the tentacles that are hidden deep underground. Unless someone rinses away the shit from all those hidden levels we have been working for, nothing will ever change. In short, Jöran, crush the might of the intelligence community, or accept that you are nothing. We don’t need the intelligence services any more; we’ve got the Internet now. Swedish Defense Radio Establishment is supposed to be monitoring enemy troop movements in case someone is planning an invasion. Come on! That’s a joke. Don’t you think we’d find out from the Internet if the Russians were amassing large numbers of troops and vessels near Saint Petersburg? There are cameras and Twitter users all over the place. They’ll tell us. We can be our own Swedish Defense Radio Establishment without a shitload of expensive government officials that amass secret powers. No, Swedish Military Intelligence Special Ops are spying on their own citizens. And the sad thing is that they are doing so for a foreign power—for the U.S.”

  “Now you’re being cynical, Modin.”

  “I know. That is because I think it is high time that we revolt against the hidden powers. Money controls the military; the military controls politics via the intelligence services; the intelligence services control the people via Defense Radio and Special Ops. That’s how it works! And they want an ever larger piece of the pie every year. There’s always something new to spy on. Is there any difference to how the Stasi worked in East Germany?”

  Modin and Järv looked at each other, then away. This conversation was hit home. Although they had thrown in the towel and quit ages ago, both still felt the weight of the power apparatus they had been serving. They knew how things worked, while the average Swedish citizen didn’t have the faintest clue.

  “Do you realize that at least one person on the board of directors of all larger Swedish newspapers, often the editor-in-chief, enjoys good connections with the intelligence services?” Modin said. “They meet every now and then to discuss the security of the state. They go on alleged training courses and enjoy the open bar. That’s how it was during the Cold War, and that’s how it still is today. The terrible thing is that everyone at a higher level within the media knows. They just keep their mouths shut. Otherwise they’d risk losing their jobs, their high status, their influence as the newly appointed editor-in-chief. There are no political points to be scored by fighting against this system. It is a massive conspiracy and everyone joins in happily.”

  “Cheers, Modin. There’s the good old you again! The rebel. Maybe you’re even regaining your health.”

  “Fuck you!”

  CHAPTER 103

  Jöran Järv went for two more beers. He was restless. As he opened the fridge, he looked out through the two kitchen windows over his property and down to the sea. He rubbed his stubble, a couple of days old, as it had started to itch.

  He had premonitions. It won’t take too long for Special Ops to find out that we are here. They will come out here, maybe even tonight. We will have to defend ourselves.

  Jöran Järv emptied the rest of his beer in one swig. It was time to come down to earth. To wake Modin to action and make sure he was prepared for what was to come.

  “Modin,” he said. “I think they’re coming for us.”

  “Who?”

  “Special Ops. Soon they’ll figure out where we are, if they haven’t already. You know that. They will send the Special Forces Team. We have to either move or barricade ourselves.”

  “We’ve got to dive as soon as possible,” Modin said, got to his feet and turned his back on Järv for a brief moment. “We’ll have to skip the training dives.”

  “What are we doing with Loklinth?”

  “I’ll deal with him.” Modin made his “I’ll take care of that” sign.

  “In what way?”

  “I’ll just kill him.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “I can’t get peace, Jöran. The anxiety just won’t let go of me.”

  “And you think that killing the head of Special Ops is going to cure that?”

  “I don’t know. It’s worth a try. He deserves it. He’s an asshole.”

  “They all are. You’ll just get a new demon in your head.”

  “Then I’ll kill him too.”

  “Please.”

  “I’m going down,” Modin said.

  “I’m coming with yo
u.” Järv got to his feet rapidly, spilling some of his beer on the table.

  Modin opened a kitchen drawer and grabbed a pair of shears. He put them in his pocket. He could feel his cell phone in his other pocket through his jeans.

  Järv did not bother to comment and they went down into the basement. Modin first; Järv right behind him.

  Modin unlocked the steel door, opened it a fraction and saw Loklinth asleep on the floor. He entered the room. Before Järv had time to react, he slammed the door in his face. Modin quickly locked the door from the inside. He was now alone with his adversary.

  “Open up, Modin, for fuck’s sake!”

  CHAPTER 104

  STOCKHOLM, TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 9

  Kim parked on Strandvägen Street near the water. She and Bergman walked one block toward the city center under an overcast sky. Café Cat was located on Riddargatan Street. Björn Frisk, their contact for the meeting with the U.S. Navy, had chosen the meeting place, because it was an oasis for diplomats and intelligence operatives from more or less the whole world.

  The café was crowded, hot, and smoky. This was one of the few cafés in Stockholm that ignored the public smoking ban. You could smoke there. Period. Not even the Swedish Prime Minister himself could do anything about it, Bergman thought. Smoking was the prerogative of foreign powers on Swedish soil. He had to smile when he thought about it, but it was true.

  Kim stopped in the doorway. Bergman staked out the café. He wanted to get a handle on what kind of activities were wrapped inside the noise of clinking glass, scattered laughter, and the buzz of conversation. Kim gave him a nudge. He followed her eyes and nodded. He studied the man sitting alone at a table toward the back of the café, near the plate glass window facing the street. His most striking trait, his neatly clipped full beard, attracted Bergman’s attention, because it contrasted with hair that was just a tad too long. He was sipping a cup of coffee, as it would seem, lost in his thoughts.