There are only two ways of entering the Baltic Sea by submarine, either via the broad sound past Denmark, where you would be detected, or through the secret Danish sea lanes. This submarine had presumably taken the latter route and followed closely in the wake of a large commercial vessel.
“You must be retrieving something important, if you have to get there in a secret submarine,” Kim concluded.
“We’ll know soon enough. As I’ve already told you, there’s something in the wreck that they desperately need.”
“What could it be?” Kim asked, smiled a seductive smile, and stroked his cheek.
He couldn’t help blushing.
“Documents of some sort, perhaps. But it doesn’t matter. The only thing that’s important to me is that I’m given an opportunity to get back to the wreck of the Estonia.” Modin looked at his plate. “Any military equipment that was on board will presumably have been picked up by submarine already. They must be looking for something so small they cannot find or get to with underwater rovers and robots. And it must be something damned sensitive, as they’re willing to expose themselves by taking us on board. The fact that U.S. submarines patrol the Baltic Sea is still a well-kept secret.”
“Whatever it is, Modin, you must promise me to be careful. Nothing is worth dying for.”
“I disagree.”
Kim knew what he was talking about. “You won’t get your family back. Not even if you die.”
“You’re right, I suppose.”
“It’s not a matter of supposing. That’s the way it is. Dead is dead.”
“Amazing how you seem to know everything. Have you ever been dead, Kim? Felt the light fading away, the lid shut, and a spade of dirt hit the coffin. Have you?”
“No. But I know, nonetheless.”
“You can’t. When you know, you’re dead.”
Modin got up abruptly and walked with his empty plate to the galley area.
CHAPTER 122
SPECIAL OPS HEADQUARTERS, STOCKHOLM, THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 11
It was peaceful and quiet at Special Ops Headquarters in the Östermalm district of Stockholm. The offices in the neighborhood were closing for the day and the staff was heading home.
Two male administrative assistants were writing reports at one end of the room. An analyst at a window table was surfing the Internet, sending manipulative emails to various victims from an anonymous server with different hotmail addresses. Their supervisor, Chris Loklinth, was still at the Southern Hospital. Bob Lundin was running things from his own office. Only he and Loklinth had separate offices, Loklinth’s being twice the size of Lundin’s.
Bob Lundin had gathered three people and closed the door: Anders Glock from Crack of Dawn, Ivar Akerberg, the Head of Swedish Defense Radio Establishment, and the former chief executive of Volvo, P.G. Gyllenhammar. He was one of Special Op’s contacts with NATO. During the Cold War, he had been a leading figure in the Crack of Dawn organization. Now the four of them were going to stop any diving expeditions to the M/S Estonia, an action they strongly suspected was well underway; a CIA operative in Stockholm had leaked information to that effect. One problem was that the Security Service was refusing to cooperate. Göran Filipson was conspicuously absent from the meeting. Saying that the DSO-organization was in crisis was an understatement. The future of both Special Ops and Defense Radio depended on the success of these four men’s efforts.
Lundin knew that Defense Radio had all the radio communication concerning the M/S Estonia disaster somewhere deep in their archives. The official line was, of course, that there was no such material. They also had information about the SOSUS equipment in the Sea of Åland, forming what was termed the Åland Barrier. And it turned out that Defense Radio had a good grip on the submarines that moved in and out of the Baltic Sea. They knew when NATO units carried out operations in Swedish waters, but had decided to conceal such cooperation with NATO. With some help from heads of various investigations, such as Rolf Ekeus and the former Special Ops chief Bengt Wallroth, who, in close cooperation with Prime Minister Ingvar Carlsson, had decided that neither the submarine incidents nor the murder of Olof Palme would ever be revealed to the public. Carlsson had maintained that none of this had anything to do with the Swedish people. It was his opinion that certain things should be covered up. Like Olof Palme, Carlsson had been a so-called CIA asset and valuable contact during most of his career. Some people would even go as far as calling them agents of influence for the U.S. The fact that Olof Palme had become unreliable was not Ingvar Carlsson’s fault, he had said during a secret meeting at the bureau. People in Sweden stick together. Sweden is too small as a nation to do anything else.
This was the unanimous opinion of those present, as Bob Lundin opened the meeting.
“What can we do?” Anders Glock said, seemingly without emotion.
“Yes, what the fuck can we do?” P.G. Gyllenhammar said in his nasal voice. “This isn’t nice.”
“We know that,” Lundin said. “It doesn’t take an Einstein to work that out, P.G.”
“What do you mean?” P.G. asked, leaning forward on his one elbow in his bluish gray jacket.
“Frankly, this can go very wrong,” Lundin said. During the awkward silence that followed, he looked at them all, one by one. “This could be the last thing we do before we are all forced to go into exile abroad.”
“I love Sweden,” P.G. said. “I really do.”
“Why do you live in London then?” the head of Defense Radio, Ivar Akerberg, said.
P.G. blushed, had a sip of water, and then nipped his large nose between thumb and forefinger.
“Things were better back in the day,” he said.
CHAPTER 123
NORTHERN BALTIC SEA, THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 11
Here we are,” Harrison Bolt said and pointed at a nautical chart in the control room.
Although not a large space, it managed to fit three or four people if standing. A few feet behind him, his second-in-command stood to attention. He was staring straight ahead like a statue.
Harrison Bolt was indicating a spot on the chart immediately east of Landsort, and quite a ways out to sea in the Baltic. The detailed chart included depth contours and the location of many wrecks and their descriptions. For example, Modin read “Steamship 330ft/770ft,” which probably meant that the vessel was 330 feet long lying at a depth of 770. Certain depths were indicated in red, and Modin guessed this likely meant places to stop or hide. He noticed that the wreck of the Estonia was marked in blue.
A narrow trench running northwest and southeast was immediately to the southeast of the Estonia wreck. It was marked in red. This was probably where American submarines would be positioned just before attacking Russian vessels in the Gulf of Finland. Modin had heard that there were special spots where they’d quietly wait for World War III. He shuddered at the thought. This was not far from either the Swedish or Finnish border. A few nautical miles from here, the nuclear Armageddon between East and West could be triggered. How sick was that?
“What do you want us to do?” Modin asked, deciding to get straight to the point.
Harrison Bolt leaned over the chart table. Only Bolt, his grumpy second-in-command, and Modin were in the narrow control room. Bergman, Jöran, and Kim had been asked to wait in the resting area. Bergman had not liked that, but reluctantly accepted the fact as a direct order by the commander of the submarine.
“Mr. Modin, what I am about to tell you now is highly classified: Cosmic Top Secret, as we say. You, I, and my second in command will be the only ones onboard who will have this information, and God knows if there are many more elsewhere.” He nodded to his second-in-command, who nodded back in agreement. “The order has come directly from the President of the United States, via the director of the CIA. It concerns the security of the U.S., but also that of NATO and Sweden.”
“Let’s hear it,” Modin said.
Modin looked at Bolt’s gilt rank insignia and the Navy Seal emblem on his chalk white
shirt. Being in command of a Los Angeles-class submarine, as Bolt was normally, was one of the most important posts in the U.S. Navy. It was right underneath higher staff services level and even the Head of Weaponry, a high office in U.S. military intelligence, the DIA. This command had the highest security class. These were military heavy hitters. The majority had ended up there after a career in the Navy Seals and being commander of smaller submarines such as the NR-1.
“It’s like this, Modin,” Bolt started out.
The second-in-command automatically took a step forward.
CHAPTER 124
SPECIAL OPS HEADQUATRERS, STOCKHOLM, THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 11
Either we risk everything with one operation and stop the diving by force in international waters, or we play along, admit everything, and call a press conference.” Bob Lundin let the alternatives sink in.
“Admit what?” P.G. said.
“Come on, Gyllies!” Anders Glock said. He was breathing heavily and his white shirt was damp. “That won’t gain us anything. It’s too late to start denying. We have to seize the initiative again. Any suggestions for a plan of action, Lundin?”
“First of all, I do not think Modin will be able to locate, much less bring the briefcase to the surface. Not in his present condition. Just to make sure, we can ask the Estonians or the Finns to help us. They are pro-NATO and will agree.”
“Good idea, Bob!” Anders Glock said. “I hope you’re right. We can ask Estonian intelligence. We have to be sure that his diving attempts fail. It would be a good thing if we were not seen there. If we stop yet another diving operation without a clear motive, the population will become suspicious; they’ll think we are covering things up about the M/S Estonia accident. The fact that one or two people in the inner circle will start grumbling is of less importance to me. No, a problem would only arise if the broad majority knows, because that will affect votes. Modin has had good luck before. It would be a catastrophe if he finds the briefcase and holds proof in his hands. There will always be some crazy journalist willing to publish it, no matter what we do. Even if it’s only on the Internet. God, how I hate the Internet! Let them die, those Internet rats with their yellow teeth.”
Anders Glock pulled out an old-fashioned cotton handkerchief and wiped his forehead, then put the damp kerchief back in his pocket. “In the past you only had to keep an eye on the state and the Church,” he said, while trying to reduce the rate of his breathing. “Hell, it is too hot in here!”
“Catastrophe is only the beginning,” P.G. Gyllenhammar said, his voice more nasal than ever before.
“How in heaven’s name did that briefcase end up on that ferry, anyway?” Lundin asked.
“A Russian arms dealer was carrying it for the head of the GRU,” Ivar Akerberg said. “In the panic of the disaster, the Russian didn’t take the briefcase with him. He left it in his cabin, where it still is to this day. If Modin knows the number of the cabin, he’ll find it.” He paused and wiped his upper lip with his rag. “That briefcase contains all the codes for Swedish Defense Radio, plus information on all the secret operations that took place during the 1980s.”
“Are you kidding?” P.G. Gyllenhammar sounded like a rubber duck.
CHAPTER 125
NORTHERN BALTIC SEA, THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 11
“On Walpurgis Night in 1997, Gunnar Bendréus, who was the Chairman of the Relatives’ Association DIS, received an anonymous phone call from a man who spoke Swedish with a strong American accent. According to this anonymous informant, he, along with two other divers, had been down to the wreck of the M/S Estonia on an assignment they received from the U.S. Government. They had approached the wreck in a midget submarine […] He claimed that there had been no problem getting onto the car deck. They had been given the task of retrieving some loading instructions from the glove box of a truck.”
(The Estonia Was Sunk, Henning Witte, page 112)
This is how things stand, Modin.” Harrison Bolt fixed his gaze on Modin, who lowered his. “There’s a briefcase on board the Estonia. A black briefcase with documents and microfilms.”
Modin looked up again. He looked at Bolt’s large, straight nose, which radiated definitiveness.
“We have to retrieve that briefcase,” Bolt said. “It has to go back to the U.S. That’s where it belongs.”
“Why now?”
“We’ve been looking for that briefcase for years, but have never been able to locate it. It is at place the ROV cannot reach. It’s too narrow in there. That’s going to be the task your group will carry out: to get into cabin number 62-30 and retrieve the briefcase.”
“62-30,” Modin said to himself. “That’s where the briefcase is?”
“Yes, we think so.”
“What´s in it?”
“Unfortunately, I can’t tell you. Not even you, Modin. You and your friends will be handsomely rewarded, directly by the President, with a lot of money and honor, of course. It could be one of the most important assignments for the American Defense Forces since the World War II.”
“Nothing for dummies,” the thin second-in-command said, and smiled.
Where does he get his air from, Modin thought. He looked at Bolt instead.
“How much?” Modin said.
“How much do you want? Name your price.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No.”
Modin had lost his train of thought. He wasn’t worried about the money, but Harrison Bolt’s answer was surprising.
How much should he ask for?
CHAPTER 126
SPECIAL OPS HEADQUARTERS, STOCKHOLM, THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 11
The material in the briefcase concerns the SOSUS surveillance in the Baltic Sea, the Palme assassination, the U.S. officer on the Swedish DC-3, and Mr. X, the GRU Spy at Swedish Defense Radio FRA. Mr. X, alias Gunnar Anderson, is responsible for all this.”
Ivar Akerberg coughed and stopped talking. He grasped his forehead and all of a sudden, he looked very old and weary. He had been an obedient bureaucrat all his adult life, but he was sick and tired of secrets.
“How can the director of Swedish Defense Radio be responsible for all this? One single person?” Anders Glock asked, obviously nervous.
Ivar Akerberg took a deep breath before continuing: “He was working for us and the secret NATO network—Crack of Dawn. That’s how things stand.” He exhaled through his nose. “Gunnar was playing both sides, but we thought he was under CIA control. So, we let him continue doing his thing. He was in a position to acquire knowledge about everything, and I mean everything, as he was the most trusted person at Defense Radio during the second half of the cold war. He was the closest man to the boss there, Per Kjellnaes, and the contact person between Defense Radio and Chris Loklinth at Special Ops during the eighties. Gunnar Anderson is the biggest disaster that has ever struck our intelligence community. A complete core meltdown, as it were. We have received a mass of shit from the CIA when they exposed him after they received intel from a high-level Soviet defector in the late 1980s.”
“How come he enjoyed such confidence?” Bob Lundin asked. “I mean, how could one person collect so much information? One single person.”
“There have to be very few trusted individuals in any organization, otherwise it can’t function,” Ivar Akerberg said. “Gunnar Anderson was an American illegal.”
“Come again please?”
“Gunnar Anderson was American by birth; he came to Sweden as a fifteen-year-old. He was put in a Swedish family with a fabricated background. They said he came from India and that was the reason his English was so good. No one in Sweden knows anything about his background before he was fifteen, other than what he himself has disclosed. That’s why we trusted him. The CIA and MI6 did too, of course. He was one of them. We fucked up. Do you know that more than a million USD were stashed away on his property, which were discovered after his death; banknotes of various values and in various currencies, money from the Soviet military intelligence service
, the GRU. Blood money!”
“How does this relate to the briefcase on the M/S Estonia?”
“In that briefcase, gentlemen,” Ivar Akerberg said, “are copies of the most essential materials Gunnar Anderson copied for the Russians. The most secret material that Defense Radio possessed, and of course, proof of deals with both NATO and U.S. intelligence; things that have a green classified stamp on them. A briefcase full of catastrophes for us, for our nation, and everyone involved. If the present government gets hold of it, some of us will end up behind bars. The government will have no choice but to take the whole network to court. The country will suffer a deep recession—both on an economic and moral level—from which we may never recover. Gentlemen, we are in a Crack of Dawn situation.”
CHAPTER 127
NORTHERN BALTIC SEA, THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 11
There are wheel tracks along the seabed near the M/S Estonia, ones that resemble those found in Hårsfjärden in 1982.
(The Hole, Drew Wilson , page 203)
The NR-1 wheel.
I think I’d like to find the briefcase before naming a sum. Can we agree on that?” Modin looked up at Bolt who was standing perfectly erect, his arms hanging loosely along his thighs.
“Absolutely,” he said.
“That is, if you manage to succeed with the dive,” said his second-in-command and leaned forward like a palm tree in storm. “It’s in the toughest location I can imagine. The question is whether you, Mr. Modin, are in good enough physical shape?”
The second-in-command smiled with his thin white lips. He showed a line of teeth resembling gold.
Under Water (Anton Modin Book 3) Page 30