“Even if Joint is darn full of himself, he is, after all, a professional when it comes to marketing,” Bergman said joyfully.
Modin was just about to tell Bergman to shut up, when Kent E returned.
“Your table is ready, gentlemen, follow me please.”
He guided them to their table right underneath a picture of the cargo from the famous champagne wreck and then took a seat on a chair opposite them.
“There are rumors of something going down. You guys are up to something, aren’t you? Let me treat you to a dry martini, it’s on the house.”
He called over one of the waitresses. Ellie, a busty brunette with curves in all the right places, wearing high heels and a red-and-white-checkered short skirt, hustled over.
“Yes dear,” she said while rubbing up against Kent E’s shoulder.
“Two ice martinis, please. No wait, make that three, honey.”
He fired his best seductive smile toward Ellie, while at the same time ignoring her deep dark eyes and pouting red lips. He never went the distance, Modin knew that. He was a charmer, and no one was the slightest bit bothered about it.
She took off, still with that smile on her face, and in the corner of his eye, some of it stuck with Modin. Darn she was beautiful!
“So, what have you heard?” Bergman asked.
“Well a bird whispered in my ear that something big is cooking. Bigger than anything you guys have done before,” Kent E said. “Joint would like to know what it is.”
“Why is that?” Bergman said trying to disguise that the directness had taken him by surprise.
“So, you do have something big going down.” Kent E smiled from ear to ear, leaning forward. “Joint believes he can help,” he said in a low but clear voice. “He’s got contacts.”
“Yes, in the criminal underworld,” Modin said sarcastically.
He did not like this conversation at all. The whole community seemed to know what they were up to, although it was barely past the idea stage.
“When the time comes, Joint would like to know,” Kent E said without falling for a staring contest. “He believes you might need protection. That’s his specialty; he wanted me to tell you that.”
The relative and sudden candor put a damper on the atmosphere. Neither Modin nor Bergman were interested in any restrictions being laid upon them. They were well aware of the message the dead dogs were supposed to deliver, despite the fact they didn’t have the faintest idea who could have sent it. Modin also remembered the musty dragon breath of the Police Superintendent and head of the Security Services Section for Special Analysis, SSA, Göran Filipson, and, of course, Amelia Carlson and her sudden generosity.
Everyone seemed to want to get involved.
Someone had to have planted this rumor, and there were only two possible motives for doing so—either to kick off the diving operation as soon as possible, or to squash them even before it got underway. It was hard to determine which one of the two was the true intent.
Modin had a sudden premonition of danger, but quickly shook it off. Why does it always have to be like this? It was better back in the old days, when you were left to your own devices and could at least get a project off the ground before half the world knew about it. Fucking hell!
Ellie, the waitress with the wet smile and the beautiful long legs, was back with three large ice martinis. Light blue smoke came off the tray in the form of dry ice, which turned the drink into the Arctic Sea with an iceberg floating at the top.
Modin was studying her neckline and cleavage while at the same time contemplating the strange turn of events. Maybe Joint’s support was just what they needed. Unlike with earlier projects, there was no need to tiptoe around any moral issues this time. The truth about the submarine was controversial on many levels. Oh well then! Let’s get the damn thing up!
It hadn’t been all that hard to accept the credit card from Amelia Carlson and her foundation. She was about to pay dearly for what she believed in, but it didn’t impact anyone who couldn’t handle the expense; these were very wealthy people. Sure, it could be interpreted that he had sold out, but that was all part of the game. He needed the money for the diving expedition. That’s all!
A plan started to take shape in Modin’s head. Money and protection are two of the commodities we are going to need, Modin thought and looked at Bergman. Bergman and everyone else involved in this project are my responsibility.
“All right Kent E, you can tell your boss that we are back in business and on our way,” Modin said, raising this glass to a toast.
Kent E left the table.
“What a night this could turn out to be,” Bergman said. “Where is Nuder?”
“Approaching,” Modin said. “I just hope he does not run over anybody.”
His Willy’s Jeep slowly rolled through the crowd in the harbor yard, where people were gathered around a maypole. The local band played summer tunes, and tourists were scurrying back and forth, mixing with permanent residents, who were mainly sticking to the sidewalks and park benches. Here and there, clusters of Harley owners were trying to distance themselves from the Honda and Yamaha crowd, with various levels of success. Nuder parked diagonally across from the outdoor patio. He was wearing a weather-beaten dark brown cowboy hat and a white jeans jacket with shiny rivets. When he saw his two friends, he waved enthusiastically, but one could tell even from a distance that this man was marked by grief. His dogs’ death had taken its toll, and a rigid mask of indifference replaced his usual youthful vibrancy.
The three friends ordered fish and chips made from cod with tartar sauce and washed it down with an ice cold Carlsberg. They ate in silence while keeping a close eye on the waitresses running around to settle in the guests for the evening.
• • •
Captain Bob Lundin from the Department of Special Operations made a left turn into the harbor yard in his Saab. From there, he maneuvered in between the boathouses and parked so that he could not be seen from the deck of the restaurant. In the passenger seat sat a reticent man in a dark suit. A sturdy, well-built man in a motorcycle outfit and a thin, beautiful, young blonde occupied the backseat.
“Are you familiar with the plan now?” Lundin asked while looking at the blonde in the rearview mirror.
Grisslehamn Harbor
CHAPTER 16
“Yes, I am,” the young woman said while at the same time adjusting her hair. “I know what to do.”
The twenty-something was of average height and in excellent physical shape. None of the men in the car were unaffected by her appearance, her notable waistline, her upper attributes, and the confidence with which she carried herself.
Lundin turned around. She greeted him with a smile while at the same time adjusting and stretching her tight T-shirt so her nipples became visible through the fabric. Her deliberate display was meant for Lundin, since his explicit orders had been for her to be braless. He had also requested a worn pair of jeans without panties underneath, but naturally, for that he did not demand proof.
She looked simply stunning in her high heel brown mocha boots. Her marked features and her beautiful profile made her look more Western European or American than Estonian. Her English had only a barely noticeable accent.
“Any other questions before we proceed?” Lundin asked, still with his elbow over the front seat.
The man in motorcycle gear gave a thumbs-up to indicate that he knew exactly why he was there.
“Okay, we’ll be right here the entire time, in case you need anything. We will have both of you in sight,” Lundin said while exchanging looks with his mute friend in the front.
“Okay, let’s roll,” the girl said and pouted her lips.
• • •
There was a steady stream of people coming into The Rock; the place was hopping. Soon there was not a single free table on the upper deck.
“Anton Modin!”
Joint had an intense way of looking at you that made you sense emerging danger; it was the
kind of look that penetrated your mind and haunted your dreams at night. He rapidly approached Modin’s table, arms stretched out and a huge smile on his face. Joint was an impressive sight, a tad shy of six feet, hair dyed brown, at least the part still attached to his scalp, and the rest in the form of a toupee. He was in his sixties and nurtured an emerging potbelly, but he was well-built and muscular.
Joint radiated self-confidence. He wore a white cotton shirt with pockets in the front, green-black checkered golf shorts, and traditional Swedish clogs.
“Happy Midsummer’s, fellows. Is everything okay?”
“Oh yes, the food was delicious,” Bergman said and slammed his beer down on the table.
“I have a surprise for you tonight,” Joint said. “You see all the marshals, drums, and band equipment up there on the stage? It’s Europe. They will go on around midnight. You know, The Final Countdown, one of the biggest hits of the ’80s!”
“1986,” Modin said. “Same year the Swedish Prime Minister Olof Palme was murdered in Stockholm City. Both events became historic, but for different reasons.”
“Oh, I see,” Joint said and threw his hands up. “You know just about everything, don’t you?”
“The single sold ten million copies and the album around eight million,” Modin said. “When Europe hit it big, Sweden still had state controlled radio and TV. Those were strange times; must seem like the Stone Age to young people today.”
“Wait, hang on for a moment,” Bergman said. “You mean to tell me that you contracted Europe to play out here on a Midsummer’s Night? Wow, awesome! That must have cost a pretty penny.”
“Yeah, to say the least,” Joint said. “But why not, and besides, you need a good attraction if you’re going to draw people out here on a night like this. Nothing is free in this world, and you, gentlemen, are definitely worth it. Besides, I can actually afford it,” Joint said with a grin.
“Yeah right, but Europe, isn’t that a little over the top? That means you will attract a motorcycle crowd here, some of them bad eggs. Have you beefed up security for tonight?” Modin said.
“You betcha,” Joint said. “No one will dare cause any trouble tonight. But guys, please don’t broadcast that Europe’s here. It’s kind of a semi-secret performance and we don’t want the entire community and the ones around us to show up. By the way, let me offer you a round on the house, please. Beer for everyone, okay?”
He snapped his fingers, and in no time, an ice-filled bucket with ten cold Corona’s was brought to the table. Joint took the bucket from the waitress and distinctively slammed it down on the table, accompanied by a joyful belly laugh.
“It looks like it’s going to be a good night,” he said. “On another note, has Kent E talked to you about my proposal, Modin?”
“Yes, he has.”
“So what do you think?”
“Well, I’ll have to think it over. I will be in touch. It is not out of the question that we might need your help some day.”
“That’s good, because you know I will always have your back, Modin. Never forget that. Cheers!”
Joint walked back toward the bar while greeting and chatting with people both left and right. The American waitresses moved swiftly through the thickening crowd and every now and then they exchanged orders, tables, and tab information in their native English, all while dishing out food and drinks.
The waitresses really spice up this establishment, Modin thought and experienced a slight tingling in his belly. Tacky and decadent, but still sophisticated in some way. Almost like the sinking of the Titanic.
He took a big gulp of his Corona and looked around. A beefy guy in a motorcycle vest, Eastern European facial features and both arms full of dark tattoos, was hanging at the bar by himself. Seems misplaced, doesn’t fit in, Modin thought. He made no attempt to flirt with the waitresses and barely even touched his beer. Apparently, celebrating Midsummer’s Night wasn’t this guy’s cup of tea.
“I’ve got to take a leak,” Nuder said. He had finished his three beers and looked almost happy.
“I’ll join you,” Bergman said.
Both of them disappeared down the stairs and out the door. The bathroom stalls were on the lower level and could only be reached from the outside. Modin was enjoying the sunset warming his face and closed his eyes to take it all in.
“Tere, Anton Modin, kas ma saan siia istuda?”
Hi, do you mind if I sit down, Modin translated in his head and looked up.
“Eh, tere,” Modin said and looked up into the eyes of a beautiful girl far too young for him. He struggled to keep his gaze at eye level and refrained from checking out the rest of her body. “Are you Estonian?”
“Yes, I am,” she said and continued in English. “My name is Maria. I’m here in Grisslehamn with my friends for a diving project.”
“Oh, what wreck do you intend to dive on?”
He pulled out a chair and she sat down. The conversation continued in English, since Modin understood Estonian very well, but his ability to speak left a lot to be desired.
“We are going to dive out at the Märket Reef Lighthouse to the Hesperus wreck. The one you guys found and wrote an article about in the diving magazine Immersed.”
“Oh, that’s going to be an extraordinary diving experience, I can promise you that,” Modin said. He had been down to that wreck a few hundred times.
The Hesperus perished in 1884 right outside Märket Reef. She was resting at a depth of 140 feet in clear waters with good visibility. The geographical location was on the border between Sweden and Finland and 20 nautical miles outside of Grisslehamn. After Modin and Bergman had found Hesperus, they dubbed it “the wreck of the seals,” because many seals had found their habitat in and around her.
He told Maria the entire story. He noticed that her eyes were nervously wandering around the premises before she eventually refocused on Modin.
“Anton Modin, you are one of the best divers in the world,” she said with a prominent accent.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Modin responded, clearly flattered.
“So how come you were unable to save your family onboard the Estonia?”
The accusation came like a lightning bolt from clear skies. Like a stab right into his chest. He held out a hand as if he wanted to win some time to collect himself, but she was all over him again. “What were you doing? What were you thinking?” She went on and on with her head close to his, a peculiar yet not stinking breath, firing aggressive allegations at him. The words penetrated his fragile protection and she just wouldn’t stop. Nothing could stop her because the walls were caving in on him. He couldn’t breathe and felt an impalpable pressure on his chest and a thousand needles piercing his skin.
For a split second, he had managed not to think about the night aboard that ill-fated vessel; for a split second blissful ignorance had allowed him to forget about his failure to save Monica and his children. He had gone over that fatal night and the events at least a thousand times in his mind, ransacked his brain, emphasized and magnified the details to a point where they could be obliterated into crumbs with no particular significance or context. Only a few moments ago, the thought of the catastrophe had crossed his mind for a brief second, but he had forced it away, somehow convincing himself that it was all behind him. He had wanted to open a new chapter in his life, hence he had paid extra attention to his appearance this evening and used expensive aftershave, mouthwash, and the whole nine yards.
This fucking thing on the chair next to him was ruthless. Behind her green eyes was a devil playing evil games, a demon well aware of his guilt.
Modin himself had suggested that they take the trip on that particular night. The real reason for the journey was at the very base of his bottomless guilt. He refused to think about it, but he would never be able to escape the gruesome fact that he had sent his wife and children to their deaths.
“And exactly what business of yours is that?” Modin asked.
“Well,
let’s just say I know a great deal about you, Anton Modin,” she said in a low voice and patted him gently on the cheek. “I hope we get the opportunity to talk some more over the course of the night. If you’ll excuse me, I have to head back to my boyfriend now.”
Her sheer bluntness caused him to have hot flashes.
“Wasn’t she a little too young for you, Mister Modin?” Bergman said teasingly as he came back from the men’s room.
“Oh, knock it off. I don’t want to talk about it. She is a tourist from Estonia. It was just a conversation, that’s all; and a darn strange one, too.”
Modin looked at Bergman, eyes wide open and glossy. He felt small and vulnerable. Bergman seemed to realize that something had just happened, but chose not to probe any further. After all, it was Midsummer’s. He had finally managed to get Modin into his best party mood, and at this point, it was only Nuder who was left in his grieving misery, looking like doom and gloom. An obnoxious girl from Estonia was the last person Modin needed to mingle with on a night like this.
“Come on, Nuder, let’s have a funeral beer in honor of your dogs,” Bergman said.
“Yeah, good idea,” Nuder said and bent down so he was level with Bergman. “It is amazing how much I miss not having them around anymore.”
“Can only imagine, but let’s drink to the new dogs, too!” Bergman said.
“Even better,” Nuder said.
Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1) Page 11