“You fucking piece of shit!”
Nuder jumped to his feet. He was infuriated. Harry Nuder had grown up in the peace movement; his mother had dragged him to their meetings in various places close to where they lived. This struck his core.
“You weak bastard… fucking cowardly shit. You could have forced him to resign.”
“Believe me, young man, we tried every method available, but he simply refused to go. And the Moscow trip was getting closer by the minute. Who knows what ruins we’d be standing on now if he had survived? Who can answer that? Can you?”
“You are a cowardly bastard. You lack both spine and conscience, Swanson. I fucking hate people like you. If the Swedish public were to find out, they would lynch you on the spot, here and now. You would have ended up a dead man, just like Olof Palme.” Nuder spat on the floor, right in front of the former Prime Minister.
“Take it easy, Nuder,” Julia said. “We’re not getting anywhere like this. Swanson, who do you think made the decision to have Palme shot?”
“I don’t know, I’m telling you. Ask Special Ops, they may know.” Swanson fell silent. He knew he had said too much. “I have nothing more to say. Please leave.”
“You fucking pig,” Nuder said. “You could have stopped the murder.”
“That was not my job,” Swanson said.
CHAPTER 56
STOCKHOLM, WEDNESDAY, MAY 13
“Bobby R. Inman was the Naval Attaché at the U.S. Embassy in Stockholm in the late 1960s. He was good friends with the Swedish naval officer Per Rudberg. Their families would, for example, go on summer vacation together. Per Rudberg was the head of the Swedish Navy during the submarine incident in Hårsfjärden in 1982. Inman’s work in Stockholm provided a flying start to his career, and he succeeded with something no one else had thought possible: getting permission from the Swedish military to install advanced surveillance equipment, a kind of SOSUS, in Swedish waters.”
(Dagens Nyheter, February 2, 1992)
Two days had passed since they interrogated Ingo Swanson. Modin had rested in his cottage and Julia had gone back to Black Island. She said she was forced to be available, yet didn’t specify why exactly or to whom. Modin thought she should stay with him for the sake of her personal safety, given the fact that her crazy brother could return, but she would have none of that.
It was a Wednesday night. Modin had just arrived in Stockholm, travelling very discreetly to avoid attention from the Barbro Team. He knew time was running out. Especially after the somewhat heavy-handed interrogation with Ingo Swanson. He had called John Axman and Bill Bergman for a major meeting in his apartment on Götgatan. He had dashed out to McDonald’s before they arrived, so the table was laden with warm burgers and cold Coke.
“Last week I was seriously thinking of abandoning our quest regarding the Palme murder,” Modin said. “But no longer. I met with the former Prime Minister, Ingo Swanson. He knows what happened, or rather, he knows Palme’s murder was an insider job, even though he does not know who gave the word or who pulled the trigger. He said that Palme’s upcoming visit to Moscow was a big concern for both NATO and Special Ops. They didn’t trust him. Palme wanted to turn Scandinavia into a nuclear-free zone, and the SOSUS didn’t fit into this scenario. So Special Ops naturally thought he’d blab to the Soviets about U. S. activity in Sweden. They thought he’d sell Sweden and NATO down the river in order to gain a negotiating advantage. He also indicated that there is a detailed account of Palme’s death in the Special Ops archive.”
“How the hell did you manage to get him to talk?” Axman said.
“Julia’s a tough cookie. She was convincing.”
“You’re nuts,” Bergman said. “Convincing. You mean you forced him to talk. Did you torture him? Fuck, of course you did. You are crazy.”
“Crazy or not, the truth came out, Bergman. Is that not the most important thing? The truth, I mean?”
“You and your fucking truth. You’re going to be the death of us all.” And of Astrid, my daughter, he thought.
“Get to the point,” Axman said, who had started to poke around in his paper hamburger bag.
“Do you two agree that we shouldn’t give up yet?” Modin said.
“Christ!” Bergman was quickly losing his patience.
“I take that as a yes. It’s already gone too far. We’re at war now. What we need right now is a plan to get Special Ops and the Barbro Team off my back.”
“No kidding,” Axman said. “But there is no possible plan that would stop Special Ops.” He grabbed a handful of French fries and shoved them in his mouth. He chewed slowly, as if he wasn’t really hungry.
Modin ignored him. “We need to identify the decision-makers who allowed the installation of the SOSUS equipment. The solution to the murder of Olof Palme lies there. I’m more convinced now than ever. The Yanks had permission to install the equipment in Swedish waters, Swanson confirmed that, and he also confirmed that the Swedish Navy assisted them. If the Russians had known about that, Europe’ defense would have been jeopardized and the careers of a number of key diplomats and top brass would lie in shambles.”
“How exactly do you mean?” Bergman said, and spilled salt on the table.
“They would end up on a black list established by the Warsaw Pact. All the Warsaw Pact countries would automatically vote against every one of their proposals. This is a CLM, a ‘career limiting move.’ Or worse, they could have ended up six feet under.”
“Do you really figure they thought in such crude terms, merely for their own advantage?”
“Do bears shit in the woods?” Modin said, grinning.
“So who are the rogues then?” Axman said.
“The head of Special Ops, the Minister of Defense, and the Chief of Staff along with his inner circle. These people control all undercover work within Swedish Defense, both then and now. The Prime Minister has the ultimate responsibility, of course, but since it was him they wanted to get rid of, I doubt he was one of the decision makers in this scenario. He was a potential traitor to the country; the enemy of the state.”
Modin stopped for a while to be able to eat and drink. He wiped his salty fingers on a paper napkin.
“Swanson said that the Soviets had dug channels or canals from the Kola Peninsula, where the Northern Soviet Fleet was based, to Leningrad, where the Soviets had their Baltic Fleet. Within a week, they could get their nuclear subs out into the Baltic Sea and then, after swiftly occupying southern Sweden, plus Denmark, they would control the Strait of Öresund, and could therefore sail out into the North Sea and from there, into the Atlantic Ocean. That was a threat to Western Europe and the U.S., and a major upset to the balance of power. This is what it was all about—the balance of power and the first-strike capability.”
“And the Swedish Navy is still wondering what all those Russian subs were looking for in the Swedish archipelago?” Bergman asked.
“You sometimes wonder why the penny is so slow to drop with some of these geniuses.”
They had a good laugh and dug into their hamburgers. A bus roared past on Götgatan, creating the usual echo in the backyard.
“We have to dive for and find the SOSUS equipment, but before that, we will have to do a minor break-in at Special Ops,” Modin said.
“Excuse me?” Bergman almost choked on his French fries. “Are you nuts? Do you want to put yourself in the line of fire to make it easier for the Barbro Team to kill you?”
“No, what I want is written proof of what I’ve been telling you,” Modin continued undeterred. “In other words, written proof that it was Special Ops who silenced our Prime Minister to stop him from asking NATO to leave Scandinavia and especially the Baltic sea, to stop him from telling the Russians about our secret cooperation with NATO and the U.S. That’s why the SOSUS is important. It’s a metaphor showing the very close and secret cooperation between Sweden and NATO.”
The others stopped chewing. Not one hamburger wrapper could be heard rustling.
>
“What the heck is the matter with you? Do you want to die twice? First, be shot by someone from Special Ops. Then die by drowning because you can’t tell up from down? Isn’t one near death experience enough for you?”
“Things have gone so far now that we need a life insurance, we need proof. Then we will be free. I promise you. If we find what I think we’ll find in the Special Ops archive, they have to leave us alone.”
“You think so?” Bergman said. “And what about my daughter Astrid?”
“She will come home. I promise you. Listen, I’m pretty sure that it’s possible to break into the Special Ops archive,” Modin said thoughtfully. “I know someone who can help us. The police sometimes use him, too. A locksmith code-named Ladybird Maria.”
“You’ve got to be kidding now,” said Bergman taking a bite out of his hamburger.
“Ladybird Maria’s real name is Winroth. He’s the best locksmith in the country. He’s retired, but they used his services a lot at Special Ops and the Security Service. He owes me a favor. He’ll get us into Pandora’s Box all right.”
“Maybe I’ve not been paying attention, but I thought that the legendary Pandora’s Box was located under police headquarters in an entirely different part of Stockholm,” Bergman pondered. “That’s where the famous Security Service archives are located.”
“There’s another Pandora’s Box at Special Ops. If we can break in there, we will not only solve the murder of Olof Palme, but will get ourselves some good insurance. Pandora’s Box holds documents with so much dirt on people at the top that our lives will be safe from now ‘til kingdom come. Good, right?” Modin looked quite complacent and self-satisfied as he said these words. He reached for a Coke.
“You’re right,” Axman said. “Unless we can prove who’s been behind the Palme murder, your life will be in danger. Ours, too, Bergman. There’s no turning back. This plan seems to be our only chance to solve the murder and get out alive. Just hope this locksmith knows what he’s doing.”
“Ladybird Maria is a living legend,” Modin said, interrupting. “I remember him from my days at Special Ops. He helped us break into the offices of the Swedish Communist party, and even into the headquarters of the ruling Social Democratic party. And once we had to break into the Egyptian Embassy. He is good; he can get past any conceivable alarm system. If he’ll work with us, we’re in good shape. One small problem. Winroth can get us into the offices, but to get to the actual archives we will have to use explosives.”
“Who do we know that can blow open safes?” Axman asked.
“You’re both completely off your rockers,” Bergman groaned. “Can you imagine how many years in jail you could get for that. Life, at least.” He felt the energy level in the room rise. His two friends were already running off with their plans; nothing could stop them now.
“They will never even report the break-in,” Modin said. “The whole case is far too sensitive to do so. The police would turn up and demand an investigation of the entire crime scene. They would be forced to divulge the existence of their secret archive. Not a chance in hell that Loklinth would involve the police. But you’re right, they will be furious with us.”
He laughed. That made his nose hurt. Modin carefully grabbed it with both his hands.
“What a plan,” Bergman said. “Just a minor breaking and entering at Military Intelligence Headquarters. I wonder whether anyone has tried to pull that off before. It’s like trying to break in at the CIA. If we succeed, we’ll become quasi-mythical heroes in our time.”
“That’s the spirit, Bergman!” Modin smiled at his friend.
Bergman realized that although breaking into Special Ops Headquarters was just about the most dangerous solution, it was, at the same time, the only solution. And not only to Modin’s problems, but to his own. They needed to find an explanation for Palme’s murder and make it public to neutralize any threat to Modin’s life, and thus to the lives of everyone surrounding him. In short, the possibility of saving Astrid’s life and guarantee her safe return to Sweden and her parents depended on rendering Modin’s enemies harmless.
“I still think you are nuts! But then again, what else is new?” The creases on Bergman’s forehead were a token of his worry.
“Does our present government know that Special Ops has its own archive with top secret material?” Axman said.
“I’m sure both the Prime Minister and the Defense Minister know that it exists,” Modin said. “They are not allowed to view the material in the archive—that would constitute ministerial abuse of power—but I think they know it exists. Each authority is responsible for its own documentation, but you can only access that documentation in an official governmental investigation. That’s why there have been so many commissions of inquiry within the Security Service over the years. The Social Democrats used that method when top officials wanted to see what the Security Service had on them.”
“And the Security Service hands over their most secret files to a government investigative commission?”
“Hardly,” Modin said. “With enough warning, I’m sure they hid or even burnt things. But a break-in will catch them by surprise. It’s such a bold move, nobody is prepared for it. So, we can get ourselves the Palme dossiers and other dossiers that give us leverage when we negotiate our safety. And then we can dive for the SOSUS and bring Astrid back to Sweden.”
But Modin only told half the truth. His excitement did not only depend on the possibility to examine Olof Palme’s personal file or get Astrid back from the U.S. He wanted to access a completely different dossier, too. The most important file he could think of, a file that would alleviate his sorrow, make things clear—the dossier covering the sinking of a ferry in the Baltic Sea in 1994.
CHAPTER 57
STOCKHOLM, TUESDAY, MAY 19, 2:45 A.M.
“Olof Palme’s contacts with the U.S. Embassy in the fall of 1950 were not coincidental. In the summer of 1949, he had already established contact with the CIA chief at that embassy. The CIA chief had decided to recruit Palme as an agent.”
(Tom Farmer, CIA, in: Dagens Nyheter, January 12, 2008)
It was a clear and starry night in Stockholm. The wind was coming from the northwest. The air was a cool 60 degrees. The courtyard of the Army Museum, where Special Ops Headquarters was located in the eastern wing, lay deserted. A few birds were twittering already despite the persistent darkness. A few cars passed on Strandvägen, about two hundred yards to the south.
Modin’s Volvo was parked on Riddargatan itself, the front pointing in the direction of the Army Museum and the entrance to Special Ops. Nuder had turned off the lights so that the five men in the car had a clear view up and down the street and could to keep an eye on the quiet façade of the museum. They timed the security cameras to determine the right moment.
Nuder gently applied the parking brake. He was the designated driver that evening, and would not be leaving the vehicle.
“Winroth,” Modin said quietly. “You go first and take care of the security cameras. Axman, Bergman, we’ll wait until we get the signal.
Winroth was dressed in a brown suit. An old man no one would notice. Gravel crunched under his shoes. He walked with determination, carrying a worn, old-fashioned briefcase. Modin had promised Winroth a trip to Thailand. Two weeks in a luxury resort, if he cooperated, all expenses paid. Winroth was delighted. He had never been to Thailand. He went up to a camera scanning the front yard of the museum. When the lens was on its way around toward him, he calmly cut the cables.
Winroth slipped the pliers back into his leather briefcase. It was the briefcase he always had with him when on the job. He had shown it to them all. It had been instrumental in the break-in at the Egyptian Embassy on Strandvägen in the summer of 1970, when Specials Ops was cooperating with Shin Bet. Winroth had taken care of the locks to help the Israelis get in and photograph everything that was to be found in the safe.
Winroth turned back to the car and signaled to the others to follow.
They stepped out of the car, each carrying a heavy backpack. Bergman carried a pair of dark glasses, a bottle of water, and a balaclava. Modin brought some Semtex, an explosive often used by terrorists, fuse wire, detonators, a Bic lighter and a digital camera. The Semtex came from Winroth’s own stock in his summer house. Axman had visited an old friend, a former police officer now working as a arms dealer in Stockholm, who had equipped them with two MP5 machine guns. Axman was also carrying a portable handheld police radio he had borrowed from a colleague.
Clad all in black and almost invisible as they approached the entrance of the eastern wing, they assembled in a circle around Winroth. He bent down and started to poke around in his briefcase for the right tool. The lock clicked at the same time as a sizeable V8 revved up on Jungfrugatan and a few crows flapped away from the tin roof.
They entered through the main door. Winroth gestured that the team should stay close to the walls. Using a metal detector, he found the cables feeding the cameras on the walls. Winroth cut the cables leading to the cameras installed inside a decorative piece above the entrance.
Right in front of them was a heavy wooden door with two pin-and-tumbler locks. Winroth managed to crack the first one easily. Then he pulled out his massive bunch of keys, tried a few, and found one that fit. Bingo! The door opened with a pleasant click.
Immediately, they rushed up to the third floor. The only door left was the one to the corridor leading to the Special Ops offices.
“Loklinth has installed three new locks since I was here last,” Winroth whispered to Bergman who was right behind him. “I will have to crack them one by one.”
Enemy of the State (Anton Modin Book 2) Page 25