“Von Arbin has told me it’s okay to lift the classification regarding the incidents in 1982,” Nuder said, while he really didn’t care if he played right into their hands.
“Well, von Arbin is wrong. We hope you realize that. Von Arbin is very wrong, marching down a dangerous path. Please take care of your farm now. It is a mighty fine piece of property you’ve got here, even if I can’t stand your aggressive dogs.”
Both men turned around at the same time and slowly walked back to their car.
Nuder watched as the black Sedan disappeared over the hill. There was a quick glare from the back window and then they were gone. Nuder still felt weak at the knees.
CHAPTER 8
Bill Bergman assumed command in the kitchen. He quickly arranged four gin and tonics with lime and four ice cubes in each glass. He enjoyed the excess heat embracing him like a wet blanket as he stepped out on the deck. With the pale orange evening sun striking the patio at a low angle, he and Modin plopped down in their wicker chairs and enjoyed their cocktails. Being only six thirty, they hadn’t started to prepare dinner yet.
“Isn’t it nice with these bright nights this time of year?” Modin said while petting Miss Mona. “Do you remember when you and Ewa were out here a long time ago, and we all talked about having children? You, Ewa, Monica, and I. It was the summer of 1988. We were living in the old house, do you remember that?”
“Yeah, sure I remember,” Bergman said, feeling a bit miserable given neither relationship had survived the time, albeit for different reasons.
“It was the happiest time of my life. Everything had a natural flow to it back then; even my job at Special Ops felt meaningful,” Modin paused. “You and Ewa were happy, too. And then, the Estonia disaster put a damper on it all. Like a curse from above.”
“It was a curse, Modin. A fat fucking curse, a bastard from above coming down to stifle you, telling you with an evil laughter that it’s all over now. Welcome to the other side, gentlemen,” Bergman spoke in a dark and theatrical voice.
“But we hacked it, Bergman, didn’t we?”
“Yes, we did. That time we did. United we stand. Now give me another drink quick before I start crying; these emotions are overwhelming.”
They finished their first gin and tonic in silence. Contemplating past times was enough for the moment.
“Do you really believe what Nuder said about the submarine?” Bergman asked after a while. He had put his feet up on an ottoman and was starting to relax, thanks to the effects of the alcohol.
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I? Something I’ve learned over the years is that the more incredible a story sounds, the more reason there is to take it seriously.”
Anton Modin was forced out of his chair.
“The incredible is appealing if it’s served in healthy doses. Why would Nuder go through the trouble of making something up that no one would believe anyway? If Nuder says so, she’s down there alright.”
Bergman took a sizeable sip from cocktail number two and felt the warming sensation inside of him.
“Cheers. Finish your gin and tonic now before it gets warm,” Bergman said and had another sip. Then he went back into the house and up to the entertainment system, putting on a CD.
“We have already found one submarine,” he shouted to Modin from inside. “So, if she’s down there, we’re going to find this one, too, I’m convinced. Just imagine the publicity as we dive down to a Russian mini sub!” He laughed out loud. “I mean, they don’t exist, now do they. According to the media and the establishment, they are all brain farts!”
Bergman was back in his wicker chair and continued:
“I remember the media hype during the submarine hunts in the 1980s. Heck, I remember it as well as the mullets of that time. Then the ultimate anti-climax: Supposedly, there was nothing there, although the entire costal community was out looking for whatever it was that was not there.”
Modin suddenly got a serious expression. He put his drink down on the coffee table between the wicker chairs.
“Why do you think Svensson was so darn nosy yesterday?”
“I don’t know. It’s anyone’s guess.”
“It’s obvious our conservative politician friend has poked the bees’ nest. Von Arbin wants us to find proof that Russian submarines were intruding Swedish waters. Likely to clear his own name.”
“So he needs the two of us, and Nuder is the way to get us. Is that what you’re hinting at?” Bergman said.
“Yeah, I am not sure Nuder is aware that he is playing the role of von Arbin’s useful idiot.”
“Well, whatever von Arbin’s intentions are, or Nuder’s for that matter, I think we should do this, Modin. If you believe the submarine is real. This dive is exactly the kind of excitement and challenge we need right now. Besides, the timing is perfect.”
Bill Bergman closed his eyes. The low evening sun was intense and created a strong orange glare on the surface of the bay.
“It is tempting, very tempting, but it could literally mean our demise,” Modin said. “The fact that the sub hasn’t been found up ‘til now means it lies deep. Furthermore, since this wreck officially doesn’t even exist, never has, some kind of watchdog mechanism may be protecting it. God knows what kind of shady characters and organizations would be on our tails if we did this. Whether I live or die is irrelevant, but I presume you don’t have a particularly strong urge to die, Bergman, do you?”
“Well, it doesn’t matter; we are all going to die at some point.”
“Bullshit. You’ve got a daughter. You need to stick around for her.”
“I intend to. But I don’t see any danger in this dive. An old submarine wreck from the 1980s can’t be that controversial.” Bergman still had his eyes closed, enjoying the last of the evening sun.
“It might be,” Modin said. “Consider our Douglas DC-3, which was shot down by the Russians in the 1950s. The circumstances surrounding that incident are still highly classified. Relatives of the crew members are still kept in the dark. My lips are still officially sealed due to an oath of confidentiality. It’s insane. I happened to stumble upon this information when I was still with Special Ops in 1991. I was interrogating a witness from the Estonian Merchant Navy, and he said he had told the whole story to the Supreme Commander’s adjutant, who, in turn, was going to pass it on through the appropriate channels. God knows what happened to that information. Probably disappeared into some dusty desk drawer and was forgotten. From what I can remember, he told us that the crew members who survived the attack had been captured. This guy witnessed how the DC-3 was shot down and he saw the Soviet ship picking up the survivors.”
Modin was squirming like a worm on a hook. He was not at all comfortable with this subject. As a matter of fact, he got upset every time the DC-3 came up. He voluntarily had abdicated all knowledge of the Estonian sailor’s testimony. In a gloomy and unventilated room with thick musty air and curtains drawn, an order had been issued. No more, no less.
As he listened, Bergman had become pale as a ghost, but he kept his composure. They had never discussed the diving sessions down to the DC-3. It had been different from the other diving sessions that had produced old submarines and other ancient wrecks. Those adventures they had shared over a drink, in front of an open fire or, as now, on an open deck during a bright summer’s night.
“These poor bastards received a lifetime sentence serving at a SIGINT station in Leningrad, forced to teach the Russians everything about signal intelligence, i.e. detection and surveillance and the whole nine yards,” Modin continued. “Back then, the Russians’ need for advanced technology and know-how was immense. According to this Estonian sailor, the Swedes from the DC-3 were serving with a bunch of Americans who had also been shot down.”
Modin had sent an email to Colonel Clifton in Washington D.C. earlier in the year, asking for additional information and clarification. Clifton was in charge of the investigation about lost U.S. crew members. The good colonel played a skillful
game of cat and mouse and initially pretended not to know what Modin was talking about. He knew, but he didn’t want to share, at least not in an e-mail. Modin remembered the exact words: ‘for me to know and for you to never find out.’
“Maybe Colonel Clifton, in his Pentagon office, arrived at the right conclusion,” Modin said. “We will never find out the full extent of what really happened, how they died or what the Russians eventually did to them. The same goes for the American crew that disappeared at the same time. Do you know, Bergman, that out of sixty downed American SIGINT operatives over the Soviet Union in the years between 1950 and 1956, officially only one survived, yet only two bodies have been recovered? What happened to all the others? The answer to all these questions apparently lies with an American PB4Y-2 Privateer aircraft, downed in the waters south of the Swedish Island of Gotland.”
“What do you mean?” Bergman said. “I know most of what there is to know about the DC-3, but I have not heard much about the Privateer plane.”
“Well, when the DC-3 disappeared, the official party line was that if we could locate the plane, we would find out what happened to the crew. Then, of course, we found the wreck and what happened?”
“Not a damn thing,” Bergman said. Just like in this case, he thought. Who could be trusted these days?
“When the wreck was found, four crew members were missing. That’s what I call foreign policy by intimidation,” Modin explained. “The Privateer plane, which belonged to the U.S. Navy, was also shot down in a similar way and only about sixty-five miles west of our plane, outside the Island of Gotland, disappearing without a trace in April 1950. If you find the PB4Y–2 Privateer with all of its crew missing, you will start to realize what American foreign policy is all about.”
“Probably about the same kind of shit and cover-ups as Sweden’s,” Bergman said. “I think Colonel Clifton is living proof of that fact.”
“I guess we will find out one day, if we discover the Privateer plane,” Modin said.
Bergman did his best trying to enjoy the sunset, but he was too worked up to really appreciate it. He took a couple of sizeable gulps from his gin and tonic and tried to wind down.
“The Cold War was a remarkable period in our history,” Bergman said after a while. “But what has this got to do with the mini sub? I mean, the Soviet Union doesn’t even exist anymore.”
“It has got everything to do with today’s policies and geopolitical situation,” Modin said. “You know, we are all kept in the dark about the fact that our government is the lap dog of the Russians and the Americans. Look at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, for instance. It’s nothing but a service function to the super powers, involved in a masquerade attempting to accommodate both sides’ interests and needs, all for the best of Sweden. In addition, all of their officials drink like there is no tomorrow.”
“No kidding.” Bill Bergman said. “Let’s raise a toast to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.”
“Knock it off, Bergman, you know this stuff as well as I do.”
Modin put his empty glass down on the coffee table. Bergman grabbed some popcorn from a glass bowl sitting on the same table, dropping some of it on the floor.
“Okay, time for another drink,” he said. “Are you game?”
“Even if the Prime Minister, whoever he might be, would start to fuzz, an army of foreign undercover operatives would make his life miserable and his agenda impossible. As if that wasn’t enough, if he persisted, they would arrange some kind of scandal or political mayhem, which for sure would get him removed from power. Worst case scenario, they’d remove him by force.”
“What are you saying? Foreign undercover agents would assassinate our head of state?” Bergman’s voice echoed from the kitchen.
“The possibility is there, I mean look at Olof Palme. Maybe he lost his grip, started to drift. What do I know? Maybe he became a liability to everybody involved. And I am certain that not only the Swedes, but the Americans and Russians were involved, too. A Swedish Prime Minister knows the limitations and the premises the very day he accepts the position. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs has to keep his countrymen informed about current policies and common practices. It is all about being cooperative, flexible, and accommodating toward mighty foreign interests. Think about it, Bergman, when was the last time you ever heard Sweden formally and loudly intervene in a crime against human rights.”
“That was Olof Palme, I seem to remember?”
Bergman was back from his kitchen excursion. Modin accepted the glass Bergman handed him and immediately downed a big gulp.
Modin’s passion, ever since his time with DSO, was historical research. His goal was to learn everything there was about the Cold War in Sweden and abroad. Whatever time it took, he had decided to get to the bottom of it all.
Ever since he had been gagged regarding the fate of the DC-3 that he and Bergman had just discussed, Modin’s need to understand the reasons for a cover-up had grown stronger. He spent countless hours in dusty archives all around the world. The scoop about the so-called mini sub Nuder was about to break created a feeling of anticipation. This evening, it was as if some of the dusty old files Modin had uncovered in secret archives were about to break wide open.
Bergman turned toward the evening sun and closed his eyes again. He seemed to enjoy listening to Anton Modin’s conspiracy theories. Modin’s preaching was usually intriguing and sensational enough to be worth paying attention to, although most people had a hard time comprehending it all.
“How come you know more about this than I do?” Bergman said without moving his face away from the day’s precious last rays of the sun.
“Come on, you know who my pimps were. I was an operative in the most covert intelligence unit in this country, protecting national security, Special Ops, the DSO. Besides, not to disappoint you, there are more people than you might think who have a bearing on this. For instance, people like Matti Svensson.”
“Matti Svensson? That old bum. How come he doesn’t print any of this in his so-called newspaper?”
“The problem with Svensson and people like him is that they dislike the United States more than they hate Russia.”
“I know that. But I can’t understand why he wants to turn back the wheels of time and create a communist Sweden?”
“Well, they’d certainly prefer a Russian to an American influence in our country. For instance, Matti Svensson hates hamburgers, V8 engines, silicone breast implants, and big muscular men with gun holsters. That’s his problem. He prefers dictatorship to freedom. He was a Maoist before he even thought of hating the U.S.. That right there says it all.”
“So he truly believed Mao Zedong was good for China?” Bergman said.
“I think so, and he was far from alone in that belief. He adored him like many other people did in the 1970s. Nowadays, his followers swear themselves free or turn the other cheek, however Johnny-come-lately Svensson is still a Maoist. He still thinks Cuba is a role model and that all McDonald’s restaurants should be burnt to the ground.”
A pike splashed nearby just at the water’s edge. The heat slowly started to ease its grip while the two men slowly shifted positions, trying to get more comfortable. From a distance, it would seem as if the two were talking about the weather.
Anton Modin raised his glass.
“Here’s to mini subs. Fuck Special Ops and Moscow and the Pentagon. Watch out, we’re gonna get you all!”
“It’s been a long time since I saw you this happy, Modin,” Bergman snickered.
“You’re right. Too long. Maybe I have finally turned the corner. I’m on my way up, out of that depressing hole.”
He had something dreamy in his eyes and was a little tipsy. After all, it was summertime!
“Let’s propose a toast to the King, to Gustav Vasa and Queen Kristina, our last head of state with a real spine. We need more women at the helm. Cheers Bergman, my true friend and companion.”
“With a female head of state, we wou
ld probably avoid honey traps and sex scandals.” Bergman laughed and downed what was left of his gin and tonic. “Good stuff this, I think I’ll have another one!”
“Hello, anybody home?” A loud voice interrupted their banter. Harry Nuder had appeared out of nowhere with a shopping bag in his left hand. Like a stealthy predator, he had snuck up on them without making a single noise. As he saw them flinch, he attempted to brush over the fact that he had actually surprised them by pretending to stumble while raising his hand in a greeting.
“You seem to be having an awfully good time. Mind if I join you?”
“No, go ahead, have a seat, there’s plenty to drink out in the kitchen. I was just going for a refill. What do you want?”
“I brought some nice top sirloin from the farm. Here you go.”
Harry Nuder handed Modin the shopping bag.
“Oh, very nice,” Modin said. “Come on, light up the grill, Bergman, this is turning into a real party.”
The three men enjoyed each other’s company and soon laughter echoed over the deck and through the night. Once the mosquitoes became too much for them, they moved indoors, bellies full, and headed for coffee and pastries.
It was only now that Nuder started to tell the story of the submarine war outside Singö Island in October of 1982. Although Nuder wasn’t the best of story tellers, he brilliantly captured the fear everybody felt in those hours. Modin and Bergman could easily imagine the crew’s horror when, in the middle of the night, the ocean threw up dead Russians from a submarine just sunk by the Swedes.
“She sank. Russians died. And we all had to take an oath of confidentiality about what had just happened.”
Later that night, before he left, Nuder invited both of them over to his house the next day.
“I have marked the spot where I believe the submarine was sunk. Just come on over and look at my nautical charts,” Nuder said in his neutral, slightly husky voice. “It really did happen, you can be sure of that! Now, I better go home and attend to my sweethearts. They probably are wondering where their master went.”
Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1) Page 6