Bergman and Kim made their way past the tables. “Excuse me,” she said. “Is this where you can smoke?”
“This is an oasis in the Stockholm night.”
That was the code for the meeting. Bergman and Kim had picked the right person: Commander Frisk with the U.S. Administration, a Swedish NATO agent. Bergman pulled the chair out for Kim and sat down next to her, opposite Frisk.
A prostitute approached the table and asked Frisk if he needed any female company.
“No, thanks,” he laughed. “Not today, baby.”
Presumably one of their own, Bergman guessed. He knew—because Modin and Järv had told him—that Special Ops had their own whores in the city, especially in dives frequented by embassy personnel. Ever since World War II. In the 1950s, Gusti Stridsberg, and in the 1960s Doris Hopp ran the callgirl activities, often in private apartments throughout the city. Later on, the action shifted to Club Salt at the Nybroviken Bay or to Alexandra’s Night Club.
Where there were diplomats, there were women and plenty of alcohol. That was the rule, in those days as much as now. And there were a few male Special Ops agents who picked up targets. Jöran and Modin had both done this at various times. Their intended targets were lonely women, far from home. Or female politicians, with a husband who didn’t understand them. For that, they had an apartment in the city, well stocked with liquor and a fortified breakfast. Bergman had listened to Jöran and Modin’s story with fascination.
Bergman ordered wine, Kim coffee. As they were waiting for their beverages, Bergman was sizing up his opponent. Commander Frisk looked good, despite the fact that he was approaching seventy and had a somewhat shabby appearance. Graying dark hair, a black polo shirt under a gray winter jacket. He smelled strongly of aftershave. Frisk had ordered a small whisky, straight up along with his coffee. It was sitting in front of him. He twisted the glass back and forth. Then he drank half of its content in one gulp.
“We want you to get going as soon as possible,” he said. “A NATO sub is waiting in international waters off Landsort, south of Stockholm.”
“The Landsort trench,” Bergman smiled.
“I’ll be organizing transport out to the submarine in a Navy vessel. They’ll come and pick you up at Muskö Island. You must give me an exact time, during the night, preferably around three or four in the morning. How many are you?”
“We are three divers.”
“It’s going to be lonely out there,” Frisk said after finishing the rest of his whisky. “If something happens, if there is some unexpected glitch, or if there is an accident, we can’t guarantee that we can come to the rescue. The U.S. submarine must not be detected, under no circumstances. Nor can you expect any help from Sweden. The Swedish Government knows nothing about this operation.”
“Figures,” Bergman said and glanced at Kim, who smiled mysteriously.
CHAPTER 105
MUSKÖ ISLAND, TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 9
“Speculations that something radioactive was present on the car deck of the M/S Estonia took hold when the investigator, Johan Franson, suggested that the Estonia be covered in a layer of dense concrete, followed by the approval of the government.”
(The Hole, Drew Wilson, page 196)
Open the frigging door, Modin!”
After a while, the banging stopped. Jöran Järv gave up.
Modin approached Loklinth who was sitting up, still half asleep. He groaned in pain and tried to reach the water jug. Modin pulled the pitcher away and just out of reach.
“You don’t need water.”
“Please.” Loklinth stretched a little further, but Modin slowly shook his head.
“We’re going to have a little talk first. Then maybe, if you’re lucky, you’ll die. I haven’t decided yet. It depends on what you’ll tell me. I will be the judge, the jury, and the executioner.”
“Do you realize what you have done? You’ve gone too far. Kidnapping the head of Special Ops. That’ll be a life term for all of you. How dare you attack me and Special Ops?” Loklinth hissed his words at the same time as he was groaning and clutching his wounded left shoulder. “You’re going to get nailed this time, Modin. No one will give up on us and support you.”
Modin did not reply but took out his cell phone, turned on voice record mode, and put it on the floor. Then he sat cross-legged at the top of the mattress, facing Loklinth’s back. He wanted to avoid Loklinth’s eyes. He grabbed Loklinth’s head and held his cheeks loosely; they were damp with sweat. Loklinth smelled of old cheese and his thinning gray hair was greasy.
“We’re going to start with simple questions. What were you transporting on the Estonia the night of the accident?”
“You know I can’t answer that,” Loklinth said barely audible.
Modin took out the lawn shears. “Is that your final answer?”
“Yes, and you know that I won’t be revealing anything at all regarding state security. At least not to you, you traitor.”
Modin said nothing. He used the tip of the shears to snip the side of Loklinth’s neck. Blood poured out and Loklinth screamed.
“What the fuck are you doing!?”
“Cutting you to pieces. Next time I will hit the carotid artery and you will have less than a minute to live.”
“You’re crazy!”
Loklinth gripped his neck tightly. Modin could feel him shaking.
“You’re going to fucking spill the beans now! Not for me, but for my children, my wife!”
Modin snipped Loklinth again. This time he cut his earlobe.
Loklinth cried out in pain and fear. Blood streamed down his neck. “Stop, for heaven’s sake. I’ll tell you!”
Loklinth was close to tears. He was scared. At last, Modin had the upper hand over his antagonist.
He could not help enjoying the moment at the same time as the image of his dead daughter came to his mind. Her dark hair was waving in the wind in front of the cottage. Her wonderful laugh. He shook his head and the image vanished. He became aware of his forced breathing.
“It was a small nuclear reactor from Paldiski,” Loklinth sobbed.
“Why the fuck did you have it loaded onboard a passenger ferry?”
“It was important. Very important to NATO.”
“It killed my family.”
“The nuclear reactor did not sink the M/S Estonia; the wave did that.”
“How the hell do you know? You commissioned lethal cargo onboard a ship where kids were playing in their cabins a few decks above. You fucking knew that my family was on board this ship! How big of a risk were you really prepared to take for the Americans?”
Loklinth did not reply.
“What was the final destination of the nuclear reactor?”
“Don’t know.”
Modin snipped Loklinth’s neck again. Loklinth screamed. The shear handles were slippery with blood. Modin wiped them off on his sleeve in order to get a better grip. Before Loklinth had time to say anything after his primal yell, Modin snipped his ear once again. A large part of his earlobe was hanging loose.
“Stop! The Americans picked it up, the CIA. I don’t know where it is now, but it’s no longer in the wreck.”
“Okay, now I’m going to give you a real beating,” Modin roared. He felt his hands were shaking. “There’s a risk this might kill you.”
“No, no, please,” Loklinth begged with tears streaming down his cheeks. “It was salvaged.”
“Was it the reactor that sank the ferry?” Modin got a firm grip of the shears again.
“No, it was sunk by the Russian GRU. Therefore we proposed that the wreck was to be covered in a layer of concrete.”
“With all the people on board? All the radioactive corpses?”
“We made that decision as soon as we knew it was radioactive.”
Modin snipped one of Loklinth’s nostrils.
“No, please.” Loklinth wept uncontrollably. “The operation was stopped. Instead, the reactor was brought up by the U.S. Navy, using a
submarine and divers. That’s what I heard.”
“So they didn’t bother to cover the wreck in the end?”
“No, they didn’t.”
“Why?”
“To save money. It was less expensive to bring up the radioactive material than cover the whole ship. And there were some problems with the seabed conditions.”
Modin was fucking furious. The man under his control was still twisting the truth. He had humiliated Modin’s family. That’s how it felt. The man under his control was going to die.
Modin started to cry at the same time that he snipped Loklinth’s other nostril. Loklinth’s sense of pain was growing dull. He cried out, but not as intensively.
“Stop!”
“Is that the secret? That the wreck is radioactive?”
“Yes, but not entirely. The military equipment was a curse. It isn’t even ours. It was a CIA operation. We just assisted.”
“Did the CIA prohibit any attempt at salvaging the vessel?”
“They didn’t exactly forbid it. There was a very strong recommendation not to touch the wreck.”
“And our government lay down flat. The Prime Minister betrayed his country. Again.”
“It was an agreement among all political parties,” Loklinth said as he pressed his hands to his injuries. He was starting to panic. The blood was flowing fast.
“An arrangement with NATO or, to be more specific, with the CIA,” Modin said. He let the shears hang loose in his left hand. “Because it’s really the CIA that calls the shots. Isn’t that right, Chris?”
“What were we supposed to do?” Loklinth tilted his head backward and breathed deeply. “Now you know. Let me go. I need medical attention.” He rubbed his torn earlobe.
“Fine, now we know what was onboard. But what sank the vessel?
“The Russians, I told you. The GRU sank the ferry. There’s a big hole in the bow of the ship.”
“Russian Military Intelligence sunk the Estonia?” Modin said, wiping his tears.
“Yes, yes. You know the Russians?”
“I’ll go for your carotid artery if I even think you’re lying to me.”
“No, please don’t do that!” Loklinth was covered in blood and sweat. His whole body was shaking.
“They know everything, the CIA knows everything, as does the NSA. That’s the big damned secret with the M/S Estonia. Why should we always hide all the shit that happens in this country? I’m sick of it.” Loklinth groaned loudly.
“It’s because you’re such a vain snob,” Modin whispered in his ear. “You want it all. You’d do anything to climb the ranks. You’re like the SS in Nazi Germany. Greedy for honor and horny for status. I have a few more questions.”
“I don’t know any more. The Russians are evil,” Loklinth whined. “They’ll come and step all over us when we least expect it.”
“Shut up!” Modin whacked Loklinth’s head with his clinched fist so it rocked from side to side.
“Give me your finger.”
“No no no. Not my finger, please Modin,” Loklinth was crying loudly. “We do useful things for Sweden, Modin. We chase terrorists.” He turned round and looked at Modin with the eyes of a puppy. “You’re one of us, Modin. Don’t forget that.”
“You choose—a finger or the carotid artery.”
Loklinth reluctantly stretched out his hand with the three remaining whole fingers. Soon there would be only two.
Modin put the blades of the shears around Loklinth’s second finger. He opened the blades as much as they would go. At the same time, he had another flashback. It was his wife, Monica. She was smiling. She looked happy, was laughing and turning her head in the wind. Modin met her eyes and they smiled at each other. Then she suddenly started to cry, and the image vanished.
The scissors fit nicely around Loklinth’s finger. A crunching sound could be heard as Modin cut through the bone. He had to squeeze hard with both hands. He felt no compassion. He was in a state of rage. Revenge gave him satisfaction, at least for a brief moment.
Loklinth screamed and fainted.
Then the door opened. Jöran Järv entered using the spare key. He looked at the two blood soaked men. One, sitting with the other’s head on his lap. Modin was holding the blood-covered tool in his hand.
“What the fucking hell have you two been up to?”
Modin reached for his cell phone. He turned off the record function and put it back in his pocket.
“I have Loklinth’s taped confession about an illegal radioactive transport on the M/S Estonia. Hopefully it will save us from going to prison,” he sobbed and wiped his blood-stained hands on his pants.
CHAPTER 106
STOCKHOLM, TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 9
Café Cat was bustling with life. People came and went. It was a Tuesday afternoon in February. Citizens were starting to wake up from their winter hibernation. In the dark months of December and January in Scandinavia, people were hunkering under a thick blanket. Life was dull and depressing. In February, when the sun began to make it over the rooftops, when the endorphins were activated, vitamin D was topped up, hope returned and activity in the bars in the city increased significantly.
Bergman noticed the occasional ringing of laughter. Someone was speaking French a few tables over and the waiter was taking an order in English.
This is like a scene from a Humphrey Bogart film, Bergman thought. All that was missing was Ingrid Bergman appearing in the doorway with her mysterious smile.
He couldn’t help enjoying the situation. They were talking about things ordinary people on the street outside, in the opposite building, or on the red bus that just passed didn’t know about. An old commander was giving them instructions on how to cooperate with the U.S. Navy.
Bergman drank some of his hot wine and decided to order a whisky, just like the commander had done. Bergman made a sign to the waiter who understood the gesture.
“Who are you guys actually?” Bergman asked, addressing Commander Frisk, trying to sound as if he was asking about the weather.
“Some people call us the Shadow Government. We protect the state from infiltration,” he said with his black, bottomless glance.
“You’re a military regime,” Kim said. She had not said a word up until then. “Just like in Thailand or Egypt. If governments don’t function properly, you take over.”
“That’s exaggerating it a bit. We act as a safety net. A lifeline in case the government of the day is not acting in the best interests of Sweden.”
“Who decides what Sweden’s best interests are?” Kim was clearly disagreeing with Frisk’s position.
“It’s a question of judgment,” Frisk said. “You need a lot of clever brains, vast experience, and small groups of individuals with different skills. Not just military—journalists, politicians, judges, teachers, and who knows, perhaps even divers and their lovers. It’s a broad network that protects Sweden.”
“Well fuck me,” Bergman said, as if the penny had finally dropped. “You mean to say that there is a self-appointed group of people that will act if the government doesn’t behave itself. That sounds like oligarchy to me.”
“Have you got a better suggestion?”
“Yes, democracy.”
“Well, democracy doesn’t exist, young man. It’s a myth. Someone always ends up deciding.”
Frisk looked as if the probing questions irritated him. He finished the rest of his whisky.
“What are you gentlemen going to do,” Kim said, “if the government doesn’t do what it should.”
“Then we try to exert influence.”
“Threats?”
“Influence. And yes, occasionally we exert influence by threatening people.”
“Or by killing them,” Bergman said.
“You bastards killed my husband!” Kim stood up and her chair crashed backwards to the floor. “Come on, we’re leaving, Bergman, before the Commander here calls in his Shadow Government.”
Bergman followed Kim out. He’d
just swallowed whisky down the wrong pipe and found it hard to breathe normally.
The Shadow Government murdered Jonas Zetterman? How would Kim know that, Bergman wondered.
CHAPTER 107
They were on their way to Muskö Island late in the afternoon. The snow that had been hanging in the air all afternoon was now falling in large flakes. It was still rush hour and progress was at a snail’s pace. Cars everywhere, even on the shoulder and in the ditch.
Bergman saw the Globe Arena Sports Center through the glittering flakes, the world’s biggest ball-shaped sports arena.
“Is Modin going to be able to dive?” Kim was overtaking a Toyota Prius with small Japanese wheels, which had a hard time moving forward on the bumpy country road.
“Yes. He’s focused,” Bergman said. “Not so sure he’s focusing on what we want him to focus on. I fear he’s been preparing for the last chapter of his personal life—meeting his family. For him this dive is not about secret documents, but about the Grim Reaper—death himself.”
“Seriously? Is he like that?”
“Yes, he’s very dramatic. He’s living his own novel. Now the script is racing to a conclusion. Who can blame him, with a background like his.”
“No one can blame him. I’d like to talk to him. Modin’s avoiding me, or so it feels.”
“He doesn’t want to get involved emotionally. You can’t imagine how important this is to him.”
“There was… is something between us. I’m sure of that.”
“You’ll have to be patient.”
“Why shouldn’t I? I’ve got nothing else going on.”
They laughed.
“We should never have left Modin alone with Loklinth,” Bergman said. “Anything can happen. He’s dead set on killing him.”
“Jöran is there.”
“I’m afraid that Jöran won’t be enough, should Modin decide on a course of action. Nothing helps in that case, except God.”
“Are you religious, Bill?”
“No, not a bit.”
They changed lanes.
“When you’ve been hanging around Modin for a while,” Bergman continued because he didn’t feel that Kim had gotten a proper answer, “you begin to get insights into spiritual as well as physical things. He moves around in a gray zone that does not exist, where all he does is explore. He exists in a dimension where only he and higher powers are at play. No one can understand him. He’s always several steps ahead and won’t let anyone in. You could get frustrated for less.”
Under Water (Anton Modin Book 3) Page 26