Loklinth was laughing, which was immediately followed by a violent cough. He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief he fished out of this left pocket.
“What happened to the recordings of the shoot down?” Bob Lundin asked.
Loklinth folded up the handkerchief and put it back into his pocket.
“We took care of it and made sure the Russians and the Americans both got a copy. We also made sure the other side knew that the opponent had a copy. Furthermore, we were also careful in pointing out that the pilot, who had carried out the mission, in this case Anton Modin, was a pilot in training. This was part of the message. Can you imagine the faces in the Pentagon when they learned that? It was an incredibly smart operation, if I may say so. A pilot in training altered the entire USAF signal surveillance strategy toward the Soviet Union! A riot!”
Chris Loklinth, now seated at his desk again, locked his hands behind his neck while pushing his chest forward. In the early midday sun, one could clearly make out his shiny forehead and the emerging wet spots under his armpits.
“The Americans cancelled the SR-71 project and stopped patrolling the Baltic Sea in the midst of the coldest period of the Cold War, in the mid-1980s. It was still another five years before the Russians themselves would have the capability to shoot down an American spy plane.”
“What an incredible story,” Bob Lundin said. “And it was Special Ops who planned all this?”
“Yes, we were the best, because we cooperated with both the Americans and the Russians. That’s something we have always done.”
Chris Loklinth tipped slightly forward and put his hand on the slick surface of the conference table while slowly getting up. He seemed pleased with his own briefing and, more importantly, he could tell his younger colleague was impressed.
Bob Lundin noticed Loklinth’s big hands, which had quite a firm grip on the edge of the table. Most likely a fighter back in his prime, he thought.
“Let’s have lunch, shall we?”
The two of them descended the stairs into the yard, noticing the pleasant early summer day. Since it had not rained for over a week, Stockholm appeared dusty and dry. Not many people were out and about. The occupants of fashionable Östermalm, a wealthy district of eastern Stockholm, had already started to relocate to their temporary summer resorts in the Stockholm archipelago. A truly fine time lay ahead of them now: the golden summer months of June, July, and August.
CHAPTER 6
Chris Loklinth decided he and Bob Lundin would have their lunch in the upscale Östermalm bazaar. From the Army Museum, they walked two blocks to Östermalm Square, and then right into the cool air-conditioned bazaar. It was an impressive brick building on the west side of the square, incorporating a series of upscale, lavish dispensaries aiming at the more fortunate members of Stockholm society. No economic downturn could be sensed here.
As they walked in, heading toward the prominent restaurant Haegendorf’s, they passed a vegetable stand and a meat counter with rare beef on display. The aroma of spices, flowers, and butchered goods blended in a potpourri of scents that oddly mixed with the smell from the fast food places further down the aisle.
They ordered the special of the day: meatballs with mashed potatoes and lingonberries. Their portions contained generous amounts of the delicious fruit, which jollied Loklinth into a good mood. He relaxed and, true to his habit, he carefully watched his surroundings as he indulged.
An older thin-haired gentleman with freckles sat a few tables down, chewing on a shrimp salad. He nodded toward Loklinth, who discretely returned the nod. It was the former CEO of Volvo, P.G. Gyllenhammar. He seemed to ignore Bob Lundin.
While mixing his lingonberries with mashed potatoes, Lundin remembered that he had learned a lot about P.G. Gyllenhammar from his father. In recent times, Gyllenhammar had enjoyed open access to the Supreme Commander, and in many cases, also to Special Ops, just to “keep in touch.” Gyllenhammar and his network were always available if the firm needed help. Besides, he entertained a well developed network within both the United States and Great Britain.
Loklinth and Lundin, one moving toward his sunset and the other toward his prime, both thought it had been an interesting and fruitful morning. They finished their cappuccinos and got up.
“Why is Anton Modin on the agenda now?” Lundin asked.
Loklinth surveyed the immediate area to make sure no one could see what they were up to, much less hear what they were saying. Then he reached for his inner pocket and fished out his cell phone, showing Lundin an email he had received earlier that morning. Lundin read:
Dear Chris, object 82-X, Baltic Sea, Singö Island needs prolonged classification. According to orders from Supreme Allied Commander Europe. Please confirm. BRGDS, Bill Newman, CIA Wiesbaden.
“Modin is pursuing object 82-X,” Loklinth said in a low voice. “That’s a submarine which was sunk outside of Singö Island in 1982 by a group of renegade officers within the navy, the infamous Hans von Arbin among them. Come on, let’s go!”
As they turned the corner of the bazaar, Loklinth was immediately bothered by the low glare and broke out his black sunglasses.
“82-X?” Lundin asked, failing to disguise that he had no clue what his superior was talking about.
They were navigating the vegetable stands on Östermalm Street as they headed toward Sibyllegatan Street. Lundin looked down at his polished black military shoes; the right one had a small scratch. He pretended not to notice that Loklinth was holding back.
“82-X is a highly classified file,” Loklinth finally said. “Circumstances indicate that it most likely regards a Soviet mini submarine, which was sunk by us. The wreck is still out there, presumably with the dead crew onboard. Our contacts within the Russian Military Intelligence GRU have asked us to protect this object. They themselves can’t do anything since the wreck is in a passageway too close to Swedish territorial waters. Trying to recover or protect the wreck would more or less be admitting intrusion and violation of Swedish territory.”
“Why can’t we offer to recover it?”
“We already did, and the Russians declined. And we can’t recover it ourselves, at least not without permission, since it is slightly outside Swedish territorial waters.”
“So, Anton Modin has figured out its position?” Bob Lundin said.
“Yes, or at least we think so. The commander of the renegade group back then, Hans von Arbin, now a local politician in Stockholm, probably helped him locate it. He wants to clear his closet of old skeletons, he says. Fucking idiot!” Chris Loklinth kicked an old dried acorn out into the open square.
“Von Arbin has been talking to an old childhood friend of Modin’s. We assume that von Arbin asked this friend to relay the information to Modin. This we have straight from Defense Radio Establishment. They’ve intercepted a few very telling telephone conversations.”
“That’s bad,” Lundin said.
They made a right onto Sibyllegatan. It was lunchtime rush hour; a steady stream of cars was heading south toward the Royal Dramatic Theatre, and as they were walking back to the office on the rather narrow sidewalk, they had to sway to avoid colliding with two brats in Italian designer shades heading for some trendy café somewhere up Östermalm Street. Loklinth had to raise his voice to be heard above the street noise.
“Unfortunately we can’t arrange an accident, which was my original plan,” Loklinth said without any noticeable emotion. “So instead, we must make sure Modin does not find the sub, plain and simple. I even have the blessing of our government. They don´t need an old scandal rising from the ocean.” Loklinth’s wrinkled cheeks were pulled up into a smile.
Lundin laughed in response. It was a hard cynical laughter lacking any trace of emotion or joy.
“Your task, Lundin, will be to keep a close eye on Modin and his brother-in-arms, Bill Bergman. Bergman has a file of his own somewhere around here. I suggest you take some time to go through it thoroughly. I have a feeling he might be Modin’s weak
spot, his Achilles heel, if you will. Bergman is Modin’s best friend. They stick together through thick and thin and that’s a fact we are going to exploit.”
“Where is Modin now?”
“He lives in an apartment on Götgatan Street here in the city. He’s got a summer house out in the northern parts of the Norrtelje district, but ever since his family perished, he hasn’t spent much time there. As I said, he hasn’t held a steady job in a while; hence, we suspect he will start searching for 82-X soon. His way of getting back at us—back at me.”
Loklinth slowed down. They were getting close to the office and he wanted to make sure that no one was following them. He gazed in both directions, up and down Riddargatan Street. A curvy girl of some indefinable foreign origin passed them pushing a stroller. Lundin noted that Loklinth watched her for a long while, examining her carefully. Once they concluded that no suspicious activity was taking place around them, they continued.
“Modin’s summer residence is out in Grisslehamn, just a few miles south of Singö Island, where the sub was sunk,” Loklinth said. “We are sure that his childhood friend will leak this information to him in the very near future. His friend is the pilot boat operator who happened to be on the scene when the submarine went down in September 1982.”
They turned and walked in through the gates of the Army Museum. The gravel under their shoes crunched as they walked across the vast exercise yard. It was a beautiful day, 73 degrees with a light breeze gently pushing them forward.
“This pilot boat skipper has to be silenced at any cost. Arrange phone surveillance, tap all of Modin’s email accounts, and bug his cell phone. Speak to Defense Radio; they have experienced people and the proper equipment for this, but please, be careful. Remember that we are dealing with a full-blooded professional, although he appears to be only a shadow of his former self.”
“Okay, what kind of resources are you prepared to grant me? Give me a head count,” Bob Lundin said.
They walked through the side entrance of the eastern wing. Bob Lundin politely held the door for his boss who stepped in with firm strides.
“I will give you two operatives. They are very seasoned guys. We cannot afford to screw this one up. Because if we do, it might be the end not only of this department, but of the entire effin’ country.”
They climbed the two flights of stairs in silence and entered the security code on the keypad securing the door to their offices. As they entered, Loklinth noticed his near epidemic dandruff had started to bother him again. He scratched his scalp frenetically; tiny fragments of dead skin rained down on his suit. Lundin was grossed out.
Probably an overdose of Modin this morning, Lundin thought and looked away from the spectacle. How could things have gone so awry with Anton Modin? After all, Loklinth had thought that Modin was made of the right stuff. According to his file, Loklinth personally recruited him and convinced his superiors that Modin had the potential to become their best field operative ever.
Harry Nuder’s farmhouse
CHAPTER 7
GRISSLEHAMN, SATURDAY, JUNE 14
Harry Nuder wiped his neck with the palm of his hand and slowed down. He had been keeping a furious pace for the last half hour of his morning run. The dogs loved this secluded path through the woods around the village. They could run freely; the few acquaintances they ran into didn’t mind two loose dogs.
This was freedom!
His house, the farm with cows grazing in the fields that would shortly come into view, really made him what he was—a coastal native to the bone. This was his heritage as far back as four generations. Seeing all this, taking it all in, would send sensational warmth flowing through his body and deepen his breath. Even after so many years, it was a thrill every day.
In his mind, he couldn’t help comparing himself to Bergman and Modin. They had had their fair chances in life, but in one way or another, they had blown them.
I lead a darn good life, he thought. Free to do whatever I want on my own land while my profession as a pilot boat skipper gives me more than a fair share of the sea. No more state secrets to preserve at any cost. No significant other to rein me in. No kids to provide for. I am truly free.
A couple of red barns along with a yellow house from the turn of the century emerged at the crest of the hill. In the center of the yard was a slightly elevated circle of dirt where he had placed some ancient plows and other antique farming equipment. He couldn’t yet quite picture his agricultural museum, but he was working on it. His eyes swept over the barn where he kept his vehicles, among them his beloved Willy’s jeep. The other barn contained fodder for the livestock and a grain storage. This was also where the traditional annual barn dance took place in late August.
Suddenly he sensed that something was not quite right. A sharp sensation was tickling his nostrils, a poisonous scent of danger. He picked up the pace. Fire, along with a dry barn and grains, was not an ideal combination.
In his yard, he could see a black Saab with both front doors open. A little further up, a man had gotten out the garden hose and was aiming the water toward the barn. The smell of fire, misfortune, and danger permeated the air.
The barn was still intact but something had burned, that much Nuder was sure of.
“Where’s the fire?” he shouted.
The man holding the hose directed its stream in through the hatch where the grain was stored.
It’s going to get water damage, Nuder thought.
“Please, watch the grains!”
Albert let out a dull growl. Elvis didn’t quite know what to make of it all. Although antsy, both dogs were awaiting orders from Nuder, who managed to have them stay.
The man with the hose didn’t react at all. Either he couldn’t hear or he was ignoring him. What was going on?
The man kept pouring water into the open hatch, although something in his body language told Nuder that it was no longer necessary. The man was older, elegantly dressed, with a proper appearance very uncommon to the countryside. He was focusing on the grain hatch with a strange smile and pretended not to notice Nuder’s approach.
Is this some kind of game? Nuder wondered and felt a sudden pressure over his chest. Then, as if out of nowhere, another man showed up. He was dressed in a similar way, wearing grey dress pants, fancy black dress shoes, and a white shirt. These people weren’t tourists and they sure as hell weren’t from any local government agency. They had put their dress jackets aside and were performing a rescue operation that seemed wrong to Nuder, incredibly effin’ wrong.
“It was lucky we just happened to pass by,” the older gentleman said. “Extremely close call. The entire farm could have gone up in flames, but we managed to salvage most of it for you. It started in the corner over there, probably from self-combustion.”
His gestures were very distinct, pointing with a hand marked by age, its blue shallow veins reminding Nuder of an octopus. It was rather obvious this man was used to being obeyed, to being in a position of authority. Nuder looked at the other man. He was younger, his hair gelled in place, his face bearing self-confidence, his stance radiating superiority. Despite his cartoon character wing nut ears, he had a spiteful and smug smile glued to his lips. Clearly a bully.
Who were they?
“The grains are water damaged,” Nuder said and positioned himself in front of them, legs slightly spread apart.
“The grains? Hey dude, if it was only the wheat, you should be so lucky. These kinds of buildings burn easily. All it takes is a spark and the work of a lifetime goes up in flames.”
Nuder was watching the two men with suppressed anger as he called the dogs and leashed them. Those guys weren’t heroes just happening by, they were something else.
“Fierce animals,” the octopus said. “Worse comes to worse, one will have to put them down. Dogs are meant to obey.”
“Never mind the dogs,” Nuder said. “What do you want?”
“Want? Well, we just came by to pass on a greeting from your frie
nd Hans von Arbin, the conservative farce of a politician in Stockholm. He just wants you to take care of yourself and your farm out here.”
“Message received. Now if you would please be so kind as to leave?”
“Harry Nuder,” the octopus said in a slow voice. “You have a good life out here. It’s close to nature, good quality of life, and you enjoy a nice job at the pilot station. You have your farm and your dogs, even if they are a nuisance. You are, overall, a pretty lucky bastard.”
Nuder’s wheels started turning.
They were speaking Swedish without an accent, so they were neither foreigners nor associated with any foreign intelligence service. Were they military or security service?
Elvis yipped and was trying to attack. Nuder tightened the leash.
“Keep your damn dog under control, will you?” the octopus said, clearly shaken.
“How do you cope with all that disgusting dog hair they shed in the house?” the bully asked, staying slightly behind the octopus.
Have they been in my house? How long have they been here? Nuder felt his knees weakening. By the second, he got more upset and more annoyed with these two men.
“What do you want?” he said.
Von Arbin’s name had forever been associated with the mini sub that had perished during the most exciting night of Nuder’s then 19-year-old life. His oath of confidentiality to Sweden had been lifted. He could do whatever he wanted with his eyewitness account. But that wasn’t what these men were after.
Nuder kept both leashes in his right hand, while his left was tucked in his pocket. He could very easily unleash both dogs. They would be no match; he could easily twist the neck of the octopus. The bully would be more problematic.
“Take it easy, Mister Nuder. As I said, we’re just here to pass on a greeting from Hans von Arbin. He wants to make sure that no knowledge of the incident is leaked. Our task is simply to pass that on, even if today we also happened to save your barn.”
Nuder was almost positive the two men had set fire to his barn. He wanted them off his property before he did something he would deeply regret. He was furious. He bit his lower lip so hard he could feel the taste of blood.
Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1) Page 5