Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1)

by Anders Jallai

  “You were the one who mentioned it to us in the first place. Don’t bail out now. Don’t let them win,” Modin chimed in.

  Nuder seemed like a broken man, but Modin pretended he hadn’t noticed. Instead, he smiled and pointed to the plastic container.

  “Check out the box, Nuder. They’re yours!”

  Nuder peeked into the box through a small crack on the side. Far toward the back, he could see two puppies. Flat coated retrievers: one black, the other one brown.

  Nuder opened the box and picked both of them up into his arms. “What a couple of cuties,” he said and seemed to perk up a little

  “We stopped and picked them up at a kennel in Norrtelje on our way out here,” Bergman said. “They are allegedly the best hunting dogs around and very social, according to their pedigree.”

  Bergman ran his well-oiled mouth, although he didn’t know squat about dogs. He’d make a good salesman, Modin thought, while letting him continue his charade. Bergman was the incurable optimist, always able to brighten the situation, regardless of how gloomy it was.

  “Thank you guys, you are two of my best friends. Please come in.” Nuder led the way, a puppy dog firmly tucked under each arm.

  Inside the house, Nuder spent some time pampering the dogs. They were given a basket to sleep in, food and water bowls, and a lot of tender loving care.

  “So a search expedition, huh?” Nuder said with his back turned to his friends. “That’s what you guys think?”

  Modin and Bergman sat down at the kitchen table and smiled.

  But Nuder was dead serious.

  “As you’re well aware, the nautical chart with my markings has been stolen,” he said and got up to get the coffee cups. He poured hot water and added instant coffee as he spoke. His hand was shaking slightly.

  “We are going to have to do without that chart,” Modin said. “We will have to rely on your memory and then link that to any other information we’ll be able to dig up. How much do you really remember?”

  “What I do remember is that it was close to the territorial water limit, if not even slightly inside. I have a faint visual of it in my head, if only I was able to recall the image.”

  “I can get a new nautical chart,” Bergman said. “I have one in the car.”

  All of a sudden, Nuder’s earlier doom and gloom had evaporated. “Okay!” he said.

  Bergman hurried out the door and was back with a brand new nautical chart in no time.

  Nuder rolled it out and let his fingertips wander over the glossy surface.

  “I know the officer who was in charge of the operation,” Nuder said. “Hans von Arbin, a real pushy go-getter. He said it was of the utmost importance that the submarine was sunk as far from shore as possible but still in Swedish waters, so that no one would see or hear anything but he’d still be right to down it. It was also important that it was sunk as deeply as possible.”

  The two puppies suddenly perked up. They were scurrying around the living room, soon ending up one on each end, investigating every nook and cranny with their sensitive noses.

  “Why did it have to be as deep as possible?” Bergman asked.

  “Just to make sure no one would survive in case any crew members were trying to exit the submarine. The idea was that there must be no witnesses or other traces, nothing whatsoever linking anything or anyone to a sinking. The most important goal of the operation was to set an example. They wanted to show the enemy and our own government that the Swedish Navy really did sink intruding submarines; they wanted to show that the gloves had come off.”

  Nuder leaned forward and carefully took a sip from his cup, which was filled all the way to the rim.

  “They let an enemy submarine go during the Hårsfjärden incident in 1982,” Bergman said. “At that time, I was doing my military service at the Muskö naval base. The commanding officers said there was no doubt that an enemy foreign object had been let go that night in October. The submarine was damaged and would otherwise have been forced to surface. Afraid of the consequences, the government simply did not have the guts to retain it and force it to the surface.”

  Modin noticed the gravity with which Bergman uttered those words. That surely didn’t happen every day. Modin broke a snug but barely noticeable smile.

  “I know,” Modin said. “It has happened on several occasions. I have seen multiple documented testimonies about such incidents in the Special Ops archives.”

  “So there,” Bergman said.

  “Okay,” Modin continued. “We know the sub is close to the 12-mile territorial water limit. You have any idea of the depth, Nuder?”

  “No not really, but by the time I saw Commander von Arbin and his crew turn the boat around, I had more than 300 feet on my charts. I believe it’s even deeper where they launched those depth charges, maybe 400 to 500 feet.”

  “Oh my God, that deep, huh?” Bergman said and swallowed hard.

  “Do you, by any chance, have an approximate bearing?” Modin asked.

  “No, I do not, at least not from here. But if we take a trip out to the pilot station, I am sure I can give you a fairly accurate bearing.”

  “Good, that will give us a somewhat limited search area. We have a demarcation in the east-west direction, which is the territorial water limit. In addition, we will also have a north-south restriction in the form of your line of sight from the pilot station, Nuder. The way I see it, we only have two remaining problems. The first one is the depth. And the other one is this electronic jamming device.”

  “Jamming device?”

  “Forget I ever said that, Nuder.”

  “Do we have a boat?”

  Bill Bergman entered the discussion again. Modin knew from experience that his absolute strength was making the practical arrangements and getting the logistics to work.

  “Well, we need a boat that has room for all of Sture Hultqvist’s search equipment.”

  “So Sture is on board?” Bergman asked.

  “Yes, I called him. He jumped at the chance.”

  “Sounds just like him,” Bergman smiled.

  “We also need a few simple cabin compartments, just so we can search and dive at night,” Modin added.

  “You’re going to dive?” Nuder asked. “Isn’t that way too deep?” Nuder stretched his back and looked first at Modin, eyes wide open as always when he was upset, and then at Bergman. “500 feet!”

  “Yes, probably,” Modin said just to calm Nuder down.

  “Well, the pilot boat is out of the question,” Nuder said. “It is highly visible, far too visible. Everybody recognizes it a mile away.”

  “I think our best bet is an old fishing trawler,” Modin said. “That way we can pose as fishermen. That will provide a good cover.”

  A gust of wind grabbed the tall birch tree outside the open window and rattled its branches and leaves, all set in the orange glow of the late afternoon sun, which had no plans to set for quite some time yet. They had almost forgotten it was Midsummer.

  “A fisherman in a brand spanking new Lexus,” Bergman said, laughing out loud. “That would be a sight.”

  “Nuder, is there any way you can get us an old fishing boat?” Modin asked with a smile. “Just name your price. I’ll rip out the credit card.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, actually I am. Try to get us a boat by next weekend, regardless of the cost. Bribe the owner, if need be. Preferably make sure we get all the onboard equipment in on the deal.”

  “Where have you guys found that kind of money?”

  “I’m afraid that’s classified,” Bergman answered. “It’s a matter of national security.”

  Bergman and Modin exchanged looks and started to laugh. Nuder just shrugged his shoulders.

  “And it’ll be only the two of you diving? Isn’t that a tad dangerous, considering the depth?”

  “That’s a good point. Modin, we need a security diver on board, just in case.”

  Modin nodded in agreement. “I’
ll see if I can reach John Axman. He’d be perfect for this.”

  Bergman was about to say something, but Modin waved him off. “Okay, that should be it. Just one last thing: No talking to anyone! Keep in mind that Matti Svensson lives in the village.”

  “We’ll see you at The Rock tonight, Nuder?” Bergman asked.

  “Yes, I think so. Just as long as I can bear leaving these two cuties home alone.”

  Nuder picked up the two retriever puppies and let them crawl around on the nautical chart. He petted them gently.

  “I may actually need a little change of scenery,” he said.

  “Yes, and some booze,” Bergman added.

  CHAPTER 15

  GRISSLEHAMN, MIDSUMMER’S NIGHT, FRIDAY, JUNE 20

  Modin and Bergman were riding in Modin’s open dinghy. Attached to the stern was a 40 horsepower Evinrude from 1971 with a control console. In the distance, they could see the flashing neon lights of Grisslehamn’s one and only 1950s style restaurant and disco, The Rock.

  The place dominated Grisslehamn and was built in two levels right on the concrete dock by the harbor. At first glance, the building material resembled simple drift wood, but was actually exclusive core pine from Russia. It was all very upscale. The owner, Jovan Spiro, went by the nickname Joint. He was a well-known business magnate from Stockholm, who had come to Sweden in the 1970s as a political refugee from Yugoslavia. He had invested so much in the pub that it just had to be illegal money, and yet, he claimed it was merely a hobby project.

  He treated his employees like friends and everything was handled professionally and discreetly. The atmosphere was friendly and the place always seemed to be packed. Modin and Bergman enjoyed somewhat of a celebrity status in the community, much of it due to Joint’s interest in diving, something he had never had the opportunity to practice or learn himself. But that was how Joint operated, like a faithful friend and confidante. He enjoyed maintaining networks both up and down the social hierarchies.

  Modin was fully aware of Joint’s shady contacts and his friends within the Mafia. Joint’s personal dossier at the Security Service in Stockholm was filled with violent and petty misdemeanors like extortion, manslaughter, money laundering, and crimes of a nature that would send a shiver down anyone’s spine. You didn’t mess with Joint. Period. Joint was well connected and enjoyed special privileges on almost every level. Moreover, without people around him even realizing how they had ended up there, they all of a sudden found themselves in the same exclusive club.

  In the beginning, The Rock had taken a lot of heat and criticism in the local media, but Joint had quickly allied himself with Hell Riders Sweden, which was the local branch of the national motorcycle club, which, along with the police, made sure law and order was upheld in the establishment. Joint was also smart enough to let the local branch of Rotary International use his venue for their functions at no cost at all. Members of the Rotary Club included dignitaries like the mayor and various bigwigs from the local county government, including the departments for liquor and building permits. Joint had experienced no problems or obstacles at all on his way to realizing his visions for The Rock. He had been allowed to extend the old landing dock out over the water considerably, so he now had a huge deck where you could sit and enjoy your Piña Colada or White Russian and, at the same time, see the water underneath the planks.

  The young and beautiful crowd from the city and the summer tourists loved The Rock. Once both groups had disappeared in the fall, the locals and professional fishermen frequented the place. The Rock was like a cult that had put the small fishing village of Grisslehamn on the map.

  The patrons didn’t give a damn about Joint’s background. If there were wanted posters with his face at the door, no one would care.

  Modin let his eyes wander out over the guest harbor as they were approaching. There were berthed boats of all sizes bobbing up and down, side by side. It looked crowded.

  Of course, Midsummer’s night, Modin thought, as if he had not realized that until now. This year I am not an outsider, this year I am smack in the middle of the celebrations. Clean shaven, dressed up, thirsty, and ready to go! I am going to have a good time with the boys, plain and simple.

  Bill Bergman picked up a pair of binoculars and asked Modin to slow down.

  “Do you think Joint is here?” Bergman asked.

  “Depends on whether Miss Monroe has been behaving or not,” Modin said. Miss Monroe was Joint’s mistress. Either that, or she was the one really wearing the pants in the family. Modin wasn’t quite sure about the balance of power in that relationship, particularly in the winter months when they both hung out in the Seychelles. Now, during the busiest time of the year, she doubled as the chief of staff at The Rock. As such, she was in the habit of hiring close friends of hers from a strip club in Manhattan to be her waitresses. They all were former strippers.

  Quite an odd-couple aura surrounds those two, Modin thought as he navigated the dinghy in under the extended deck at The Rock.

  A harbor master, wearing an orange vest, guided them in and helped them berth.

  “Happy Midsummer’s,” he said in a jovial tone.

  Modin would not mind at all if he didn’t see Joint this evening; as a matter of fact, he would prefer if he stayed in his office. He had always suspected that Joint knew more about the World War II disaster than he was prepared to reveal. And the suspicion alone made Modin feel sick.

  One thing was for sure: Joint served many masters.

  One of them supposedly was the Russian Mafia. The Russian Mafia became a widespread myth in the 1990s with the help of naïve journalists and renowned authors in the west. Joint was a willing instrument when it came to feeding that rumor mill in Sweden. Maybe his hand was forced and he didn’t have a choice, like so many other businessmen and high profile members of the media, who were pressured by the KGB.

  Joint had invited journalists and other media influencers to all night parties at his restaurant, featuring Russian champagne and caviar and other exclusive treats. A while later, when a series of mysterious deaths, abductions, and murders started to plague Europe, the entire establishment blamed the phenomenon on the Russian Mafia. However, the truth was that an independently operating mafia could not exist in KGB-controlled Russia. Even after the Iron Curtain had lifted, everything was controlled from the top and with an iron fist. Granted, there were testimonies of KGB’s real operations and intentions from high profile defectors like Litvinenko and Golitsyn, and Anna Politkovskaja, the Russian journalist who had the guts to write about the KGB methods before she was assassinated in Moscow in October of 2006.

  As far as Modin was concerned, Joint’s friendship was a one-way street. Bill Bergman, however, loved him wholeheartedly and without any reservations. He’s the best, Bergman would always say. Bergman loved people who were in total control of their own destiny.

  “Look at the harbor yard, how crowded it is,” Bergman said, obviously delighted. “I have never seen so many cars and motorcycles here at once. This place is making a killing tonight.”

  “Let’s move up to the deck, shall we?” Modin said.

  “Upper deck with a sea view,” Bergman said. “And a cold brew in my hand, this is what I’ve been looking forward to all day. Even if we were to get the cold shoulder from the ladies later on, there is at least infrared heat, floor heat, and plenty to drink to drown our sorrows.”

  “Oh my God, Bergman, you’re turning into such a grumpy old man.”

  While snickering at each other’s jokes, they ascended the staircase and aimed straight for the bar. It was an impressive construction covering the entire far wall and built in Tung-oiled mahogany. Standing behind the bar was Kent E, the regular bartender, in his traditional white apron and starched white shirt. He fired off a friendly smile and ever so slightly raised his left eyebrow in acknowledgement as the two gentlemen approached him.

  Kent E was tall and thin with medium length sun-bleached hair, which seemed like an echo from
the hippie era. His facial attributes were emphasized by dark shadows around his nostrils and mouth. The eyes were distinctively marked, but his always half-closed eyelids effectively disguised what was going on in and behind them. Kent E was one of the few permanent residents of Grisslehamn. He loved the place and its tranquility and had left a well-paying job at Café Opera in Stockholm to move to the island.

  The bar at The Rock also featured a batch of 1907 champagne bottles, a real local attraction retrieved from the wreck of schooner Jönköping. Bergman and Modin had been the ones to dive to the wreck and secure the cargo, and they had brought a bottle to Joint, who, in turn, had been so delighted that he purchased several cases of the exclusive and rare find. Every time a bottle was sold to the tune of $3,000, all patrons at The Rock were treated to a cheaper brand, although still with a label stating Champagne Wreck Brut 1907. It was always a popular event.

  “Hello there, divers,” Kent E greeted them. “Care for a beer?”

  “You bet. We’ll have two cold tall ones, and make it fast,” Modin laughed.

  “Our new diving store has opened,” Kent E said while serving them. “Check it out on your way to the head, if you can. It’s right next to the bathrooms, but on the lower level.”

  “I noticed that there are a couple of new boat rental startups this year, some even with guided tours,” Bergman said.

  “Yeah, I think you guys can take credit for that,” Kent E said, counting on his fingers. “Let’s see, diving, cod fishing, seal hunting… we’ve got everything here in the harbor now. From old fishing trawlers and diving boats to streamlined open recreational vessels, usually with a couple of giant outboard motors. By the way, the record catch for cod is now up to 80 pounds.”

  He pointed to a framed picture on the wall behind the bar as he put two tall ice-cold draft beers on the counter and then left them to tend to other customers. There was the proud fisherman with a giant cod the size of a ten-year-old kid in his arms, smiling for the camera.

  Modin and Bergman toasted and let their eyes wander over the modern and, in their opinion, exclusive interior. They were part of the regular crowd and appreciated that everything was kept so neat and clean. From the bathrooms to the food and drinks, everything was top notch. The embarrassing part was that, thanks to Joint, they were both regarded as cultural icons in the community. Joint was their biggest fan. They enjoyed a running tab and unlimited credit, and usually paid either by conducting miniature seminars during dark fall nights or by donating diving pictures of either the DC-3 or other wrecks they had come across. The pictures decorated the walls all around the restaurant. They also enjoyed the privilege of their own regular table in a secluded part of the deck, as the upper level usually was referred to.