“Wait, we can’t leave this spot just yet,” von Arbin says with clear tension in his voice.
He walks up to the injured man and goes through his pockets without finding anything.
“He will die if we don’t leave,” Carl Ericson says pleadingly. “He’s got to get to a hospital.”
“Ericson, for fuck’s sake!”
“But he’s dying, sir.”
Commander von Arbin suddenly realizes the complications that could occur if he doesn’t do everything in his power to save the injured man. The last thing he wants to do is hand over the bodies to Headquarters. Although they may have witnessed the dramatic events from radar, they can’t possibly have a full grasp of the situation and the horrible effects of the depth charges to the submarine crew. If he could keep them uninformed, tonight’s events could remain all but a fantasy to them. The mysterious men from the underwater craft, now on his aft deck, must remain a secret. This entire event must be kept a secret—forever.
“Head for the Svartklubben pilot station,” he orders in a calm and collected voice, although anger is building up inside of him. Anger with the ship’s commander, Ericson.
• • •
Hårsfjärden Bay, October 1982.
The skies are shifting between varying shades of pink although the night doesn’t quite want to release its grip over the northern archipelago.
Pilot boat skipper, young Harry Nuder, is calmly fine-tooth-combing the sea ahead of him, using the big stationary binoculars. He has been doing so for the past hour.
Von Arbin must know what he’s doing, Nuder thinks. If not, we are in deep shit.
With his trained eye, looking through the binoculars, Nuder can see the Hugin at a distance, steaming full speed ahead and aiming straight for him. Nuder puts on the traditional dark blue sea jacket of the Swedish Maritime Administration and heads down to greet the party.
A cool, moist fall morning breeze coming in from the sea meets him as he’s heading toward the small pilot bay harbor a couple hundred yards further down the hill.
The distinct sound of motor vehicles stops him in his tracks. Much to his surprise and awe, he sees a convoy of military vehicles approaching the harbor yard at high speed, heading to where the patrol boat Hugin is about to dock.
Nuder quickly jumps into the ditch at the top of the hill, about 180 feet from the harbor yard, squeezes his six-foot-seven-inch frame as deeply as he can into the vegetation, and prays to God that his rye-colored blond hair will not give him away.
Once he dares to exhale again, he notices the cloud of condensation. Morning dew is glistening in the headlights of the approaching vehicles. He intensely wishes they will pass by, but instead they stop. The vehicles all park at the far end of the harbor yard. Lightly armored infantry unload and deploy.
Here goes my gravy train job at the pilot station, Nuder thinks. This will be the demise, the goose march back to my parents’ farm in Norrtelje County and the days of hard labor. Von Arbin really has done it this time. They will discover that we belong to the same lodge. However the fuck I explain that I have only been following orders, they will think we’re joined at the hip and just as crazy, the both of us.
An emotionally neutral but concerted ballet known as military drill follows. All involved parties blend into the same mold—uniform clothing, facial expression, squinted camouflaged eyes, and thin lines for lips.
A military ambulance, also known as “meat wagon,” arrives. The large, red cross painted on the side of the modified military-green van can’t be mistaken. Eight soldiers, four on each side, jump off the Volvo C304 transport vehicle. They’re Coastal Rangers, the Swedish Navy Seals. Nuder recognizes them; they all have the golden Neptune trident in their berets. What’s worse, their faces are heavily camouflaged in black and green paint.
The eight Rangers quickly establish a perimeter around the parking area with surveillance outwards and an automatic carbine 4, caliber 7.62 in ready position.
Jesus effin’ Christ! These guys will shoot first and ask questions later, without as much as a warning shot, Nuder thinks as he’s trying to make himself smaller.
At the same time that the patrol boat Hugin makes port, roaring as her engines reverse, cables are thrown ashore and deck spotlights are lit.
Two stretchers are brought down to where she is moored. Another two vehicles arrive shortly thereafter and park in a secluded area a small distance from the harbor. Those vehicles carry yellow registration tags.
Foreign dignitaries, diplomats or foreign intelligence, Nuder thinks at the same time he’s cursing the fact that he has allowed himself to be a cog in the wheel set in motion by Commander von Arbin.
Speak of the devil—von Arbin himself enters the harbor yard area, steam coming out of his ears.
Three men are exiting the vehicles. Two of them wear combination caps that may have been in style in the 1950s, and the third one is a Swedish general in full military uniform and insignia. With stone cold facial expressions, all three of them make a beeline for Commander Hans von Arbin. After a while, an argument breaks out.
Nuder is hyperventilating. There is something very surreal about the scene playing out down at the landing stages. The people who just arrived are not Swedish, that he’s sure of. He can’t make out what’s being said between them and Commander von Arbin, but sparks are flying, which in itself is very un-Swedish. The invasion force from the sea has apparently come ashore.
Are there foreigners in charge down there? How did that happen? Nuder feels his heart pounding in his chest, digs his fingers into the dirt, and forces himself to hold back from just jumping up, rushing down there, and screaming…
The two stretchers are surrounded by Coastal Rangers as they are carried from the landing stage. The injured—that is what Nuder assumes the bodies on the stretchers must be—are being carried to the ambulance where they’ll be taken care of by what seem to be medics. One of the trench coats is jumping into the ambulance. He discreetly sits down on the left toward the back of the C304 loading area.
The injured on one of the stretchers is coughing.
“Oxygen! Quick, hurry up,” the trench coat says in English, as the back doors to the meat wagon close.
The ambulance slowly makes its way over the graveled harbor yard while von Arbin crosses his arms over his chest and looks toward the general with pleading eyes.
“Order roll call, no exception. Every single soul, including maintenance crew. I want everyone here within two minutes!”
The general, wearing service dress blue, checks and adjust his uniform. Chin up to gather courage, the men organize in front of him in two columns. Even von Arbin falls in.
“What happened here last night and this morning,” the general clears his throat and continues, “has officially never happened. Soldiers, you have been part of an event that will forever be stamped with the highest degree of classification. This means that you cannot disclose to anyone, not even the ones closest to you, anything of what took place here last night or this morning. Is that clear?”
“Yes, General!”
Even Nuder flinches as he’s hiding in his ditch.
“Very well,” the general says. “You all have carried out an extraordinary task in service of this country. Let’s leave it at that.”
The general orders attention and salutes, which is immediately honored.
From his secluded hideout, Nuder can see daylight ascending upon them rapidly, and he decides to sneak back to the pilot station. He suspects that Commander von Arbin will join him there shortly.
Nuder’s calculations were right. Within the hour, von Arbin is back at the pilot station, his black eyes fiery, his blood steaming. This man is royally pissed off.
“Not a fucking word about this, is that clear? It concerns national security. Breaking the code of silence is punishable by law. Do you hear me, Harry Nuder?”
Von Arbin is taking his fury out on Nuder, staring deeply into his eyes, keeping a firm grip of both
his shoulders.
“I will be in touch, and at that time you will get a thorough debriefing, my friend.”
He lets go of Nuder, quickly shakes his hand before turning around, walks down the stairs with heavy steps, and then disappears.
The sunrise over the gray-blue sea is a breathtaking sight. A couple of blue jays are playing around in the light morning breeze. Nuder notices a slight wind-chill effect as he is standing, right below the pilot station, slightly shivering in the early morning. Fall in the air.
The patrol ship Hugin has left the harbor. The cars are gone. Nuder takes a last good look out over the water toward the horizon: It’s now a thin, azure blue band in the distance. Then he quietly slips out the door to get his car from behind the building.
No trace of the dramatic events that took place only hours ago, Nuder thinks as he is heading for the harbor yard exit. The area is empty. Only Nuder’s pilot boat is left at the dock, slowly bobbing up and down.
Nuder puts the car in gear; his eyes are focused straight ahead as he takes off, back home.
• • •
At the same time, the ambulance is on its way toward Norrtelje Hospital. In the back, the trenchcoat is alone with the two submarine crew. He can clearly see that one of them is dead. The young man is pale, almost yellow in his face, and his body is already getting cold. The trenchcoat can obviously feel that when he puts his hand on the seaman’s forehead.
The other seaman is in bad condition. He breathes oxygen with slow, beleaguered breaths and he is whispering: “Help me, please help me.”
Will he survive?
The trenchcoat looks through the small window into the front cabin. Only one man is in the front, the driver, who looks straight ahead as the ambulance is speeding along the desolate road at high speed.
The trenchcoat puts on his black leather gloves and leans forward. In a sudden sharp curve, he is pressed against the inner ambulance wall. Once they are on a straight again, he grabs the seaman’s oxygen mask, takes it off, and puts his gloved hand over the confused seaman’s mouth. Then he shoves the fingers of his other hand into the young man’s nostrils.
The fast, sharp, and jerky movements from the seaman’s legs slow down after a while, then cease completely. Within just a few minutes, the man dies by apnea.
The trenchcoat takes off his gloves, picks out a Minox C from his inside pocket and takes a photo. Then he puts his gloves back on and carefully places the oxygen mask onto the dead man’s face. His task complete, he takes off his hat and leans back.
CHAPTER 2
GRISSLEHAMN, FRIDAY, JUNE 13, 2008
“Anton! Anton, are you there?”
Anton Modin woke up on the leather couch in his summer home somewhere in the Stockholm archipelago. Wearing only his underwear and a thin blue robe, he vaguely registered someone banging on the door. He could hear the footsteps move around to the back, onto the deck facing the bay. He was sweating profusely and had a splitting headache, not to mention a severe case of anxiety.
Who the hell was out there?
Bill Bergman knew Modin was home, and he wouldn’t give up that easily. In just a few distinct steps, he got up onto the deck and peeked in through the glass doors.
“Hello, Modin!”
Right behind the deck door, Bergman saw Modin get up on shaky legs, hesitantly approach the deck, and slowly open the sliding door.
“My God, you look like shit.”
“I was sleeping.”
“Are you hung over?”
“Yes. Please come in.”
Bergman noticed Modin’s eyes were hazy and the bright daylight bothered him. He stank and his eyes were so bloodshot, their color rivaled that of a stoplight. Bergman turned away in disgust. On the wall, right behind Modin, hung a portrait of a well built, athletic man in uniform and a green beret; obviously a far cry from the downtrodden human remains before him now. On the bookshelf, Bergman also noticed Modin’s CIA medal from 1984, when he was only 18 years old. It’s been a long time since then, he thought when turning back toward Modin.
“For fuck’s sake Modin, we’ve got to start diving again. You can’t stay in here, rolling around in endless self-pity. You’re going to kill yourself, I can see it. Embrace life!”
“What life?”
Modin plopped himself down in a wicker chair, pulling a blanket over his legs, shaking like a leaf in a thunderstorm. He was so thin from borderline malnutrition that he almost looked like a concentration camp prisoner, at least in profile. Bergman didn’t bother commenting on what he saw. The decline had gone on far too long for words to make any impact.
“I had a wicked scary dream, dude. It was like the sudden realization of a connection between certain events—the secretly spying DC-3, the murder of Prime Minister Olof Palme, and the sinking of the passenger ferry Estonia. I feel like shit.”
“Come on,” Bergman said. “Let go of that ferry thing; it’s a dead end. And it’s been over a decade. Concentrate on straightening out your miserable life instead. It’s long overdue, and it’s time to decide what to do when you grow up.”
“It’s pointless.”
“C’mon Modin, you’ve got a good life out here. It’s always worth it.”
Bergman grabbed the other wicker chair and sat down next to his friend.
“I’ll make some coffee,” he said decisively, “Then we’ll take a ride to the deli in the harbor and have ourselves a decent breakfast. Here, get dressed.”
Bergman threw Modin a pair of worn out Levis he had picked up from a nearby chair and scurried into the kitchen. He turned on the espresso maker and opened the fridge to get the milk, secretly watching how Modin slowly pulled up his jeans with some difficulty.
In the background, through the window, he could see the swings moving in the wind. He could almost imagine Modin’s daughter Ellinor in one of them. How long had it been—almost fourteen years? Bergman couldn’t imagine how anyone could go on after losing a child. He didn’t even want to contemplate what he’d do if his daughter Astrid were gone. But he couldn’t dwell on that. His job was to help his friend get out of his depression.
Bergman saw how Modin tilted his head back toward the headrest, eyes fixated further out, somewhere high above the porch. He seemed to be looking at a beehive in the making, without any noticeable reaction or emotion.
“Come on, get yourself together, you’re just severely hung over. How much did you have to drink last night?”
“Well, it was an expensive brand. The effects shouldn’t be this severe. But I’m just a shadow of my former self, you know. Can’t take it anymore. From the pinnacle of my career down into the gutter, all within a few years. I’m done for, I’ll be the first to admit it.”
Bergman’s eyes met Modin’s. Bergman was trying to show concern—the concern for a close friend when things aren’t quite right, the very concern that at this very moment just might set him off.
“Getting canned from the airliner was the icing on the cake,” Modin growled. “That was all I had left.”
“Oh, knock it off,” Bergman said. “Here, have a latte. Might make you feel better.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. Can you feed Miss Mona please? She must be starving. I think there’s an open can of cat food in the fridge. I can’t handle that right now.”
“I’ll feed the cat, don’t you worry. Just as long as you at least attempt to get your act together.”
Bergman went into the kitchen again. The fat old cat, which had been the apple of Modin’s daughter’s eye, rubbed up against his legs, accompanied by loud purring.
Anton and Miss Mona were all that was left of the Modin family. No wonder he was throwing in the towel, Bergman thought.
The two friends sat there quietly for a while, each sipping a latte, looking out over the bay through the open porch.
Bill Bergman liked Modin’s house. He often pointed that out and Modin appreciated the compliments, although he suspected the comments were merely supposed to make him feel
better, and remind him of how privileged he really was.
Bergman saw Modin looking out over the open sea with empty and soulless eyes, but far back in their depths somewhere you could sense an unsettled darkness that might suddenly burst into uncontrolled bitterness, possibly even aggression. He knew his friend; their friendship had been twenty-two years in the making.
In his mind, Bergman traveled back in time, remembering Modin and his wife Monica. Together they had made plans to remodel the house, just as their son Alexander had been born. After he was born, Monica had been told that she might not be able to carry another child, and so, when two years later Monica became pregnant after all, they welcomed their daughter Ellinor as an unexpected gift from God.
The children needed somewhere to play during their summer breaks; Modin himself had been fortunate enough to have a summer house when growing up, and he recognized its value to any child.
The deck almost reached all the way down to the water and the bay, and it was where Alexander would play with his sister and his father. Monica would have lazy days, sunbathing on the landing stage right below the deck, shoot off one of those warm smiles of hers, and tell them to be sure to be back before nightfall. “I’ve got it good here, enjoying my book,” she would say.
Modin had been relentless in his efforts to make the dream of a happy family life come true. For a while, he had even managed to completely disconnect his earlier life in the service of the nation.
After several years of construction and the chaos that comes with it, the house was finally finished and they enjoyed a wonderful fairy tale summer together. It was the legendary good summer of 1994, with record high temperatures and a bronze medal for Sweden at the world soccer championships in the U.S. Then came fall and with it the catastrophe.
“Stop living in the past,” Bill Bergman said, observing his friend’s frown. “You still have a few good years ahead of you, and when you’re finally finished and done for, I will be the first to let you know, that much I can promise you.”
Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1) Page 2