“What was that all about?” Bergman asked.
“Personal business, that’s all. Never mind. Let’s get this operation underway now.”
“The sonar is in the water,” Nuder said calmly.
“Okay, so let’s get Sture up here to the bridge,” Modin said and used the intercom to call him.
The depth ranged from 300 feet all the way down to 470 feet, and the seabed consisted mainly of sand and smaller rocks interrupted by hills and bumps here and there. According to Sture’s directives, the sonar fish had to be kept between 23 and 40 feet above the bottom for an optimal search result. Go too deep, and the expensive equipment might be ruined. Stay too high, and they might miss the object entirely, especially if it was a small target.
“Okay, here is where the rubber meets the road,” Sture said as he stepped onto the bridge.
“Seems like you’ve done this before,” Bergman said.
Sture was a research professor at the University of Uppsala. Sonar technology and searching for old wrecks was his hobby. Every summer vacation, he managed to squeeze some kind of search operation into his schedule, although he could only have dreamt of being able to purchase the kind of equipment they had onboard this vessel.
“Modin managed to contract with some real deep-pocketed sponsors this time,” Bergman said with a wide grin. “The Carlson Foundation.”
“I know,” Sture said. “When I heard the news, I didn’t hesitate for a second to accept the job. You cannot imagine what it’s like to always be low on funds. To never be given free reign. I just wish I had some more time on my hands, too.”
Sture looked eager and content. His almost childish enthusiasm was contagious, and the other crew members could easily sense the joy and inspiration with which he had constructed this equipment.
“We have about 1,500 feet of thin optic fiber on one reel. That alone dug a hole of fifteen grand into our budget.”
Sture squeezed right in next to Nuder on the narrow bridge and immediately got down to business. Nuder was driving the boat while at the same time keeping an eye on both monitors in front of him. One showed input from the sonar fish and the other displayed any possible indication of metal from the magnetometer. Sture made sure to record both of them on different hard disks, along with any other data captured by the two advanced sensors.
“You okay about this expedition, Sture?” Nuder asked glancing sideways at the scientist.
“I sure am. I get to do what I love, what else can I ask for?”
Sture had memorized the data of the search object: thirty feet long and about ten feet high. He could not tear himself away from the bridge and stood there, staring at the monitors for almost ten hours straight. Because search operations like this were both tedious and time consuming, the crew slept in shifts. At the western horizon, the sun set in a purple-red inferno and the following night was clear and starry.
Mid-morning the next day, Sture was still at his station, studying the results on the monitors in front of him. He glanced at the GPS chart plotter and realized they had already searched about one-third of the designated area, which was acceptable considering the time spent so far. He noticed that in the past hours the seabed had become remarkably even. He started to check his equipment to make sure everything was all right, no loose contacts or misalignments anywhere.
Something is weird with these echoes, he thought.
He brought his lunch up to the bridge and started chewing on a sandwich. He did not intend to inform Modin and the others about his suspicions just yet. But what he saw was strange indeed.
CHAPTER 22
NORRTELJE POLICE PRECINCT, WEDNESDAY, JULY 2
Criminal investigator Wilhelm Aronson of the Norrtelje Police Department was deep in concentration, hovering over the piles of papers, pictures, and testimony. He turned over the interview transcripts, every note and picture once and then twice, looking for clues and a possible motive. He was known for being very thorough, almost anal, and in this particular case, not a single stone could be left unturned. Finally, and with great hesitation, he typed the final revision of his report regarding a case of alleged rape and assault in Grisslehamn about thirty minutes past midnight on Midsummer’s morning.
The rape had allegedly taken place at a restaurant called The Rock. The plaintiff was a 24-year-old Estonian woman on vacation with her boyfriend. Despite her young age, the woman was a certified lawyer and enjoyed a medium-ranked position within the Estonian Department of Justice. Her name was Olga Kuristjeva, originally from Russia, but with Estonian citizenship. Her father Vladimir Kuristjev, had been an officer at the nearby Paldiski Naval Base, a few miles southwest of the Estonian capital of Tallinn. Her mother was a librarian in Tallinn and held a doctoral degree in history. Olga claimed that a man named Anton Modin had been hitting on her all night and, although she had told him that she was not interested, he had been very persistent and even groped her.
Olga further claimed that Modin had used his Estonian ethnicity and limited knowledge of the language to pass himself off as an interesting diver and adventurer. She had no trouble identifying Modin, since she recognized him from articles in several international diving magazines and other publications. According to her, this was particularly embarrassing and emotionally straining, since she had looked up to him as a professional and a peer. Over the course of the evening, Modin had become increasingly intoxicated. Around half past midnight, Olga needed to use the bathroom on the lower level of The Rock. A rock band had started playing up in the restaurant, and the restroom area was almost deserted. While she was in one of the stalls to conduct her business, someone banged on the door. She assumed it was security, and so, since she was finished, she opened the door. Immediately, Anton Modin pushed her back into the stall, locked the door from the inside, pulled her jeans down, and forced himself upon her. The plaintiff put up quite some resistance and suffered scratches and bruises all over her arms and back. In addition, she suffered a couple of powerful punches to her face and head.
Pictures taken at the police station in Norrtelje documented her injuries.
Olga claimed that her assailant pushed her forward over the toilet bowl and penetrated her from behind. Her boyfriend, Pietr Pavlowich, was waiting outside the stalls, wondering what was taking Olga so long. When Anton Modin stumbled out the door, Mr. Pavlowich confronted him. Modin reacted violently and started a fight. Pavlowich, a professional policeman, had to neutralize the suspected perpetrator with a couple of powerful punches.
Mr. Pavlowich’s witness testimony is also attached to this report, Aronson wrote, and leaned back in his chair.
What a fucking pig that guy Modin is. Hard from behind, poor little girl. For once a clear-cut case, he thought and glanced over the report one more time.
Rape cases could be tricky. Usually the chain of evidence was weak and many investigations had to be dropped, mainly because it was one party’s word against the other. Luckily, this time they had a witness, Pavlowich. In addition, a well-known journalist, Matti Svensson, could testify that he had seen Modin come out of the bathroom along with the Estonian woman, and started a fight with the boyfriend.
Modin could be looking at a few years behind bars, Aronson thought.
He wasn’t part of Modin’s fan club, like so many other locals. He had seen it too often—success and money could get to people’s heads, especially in the twilight of their careers. If the sense of entitlement was combined with alcohol, just about anything could happen. That was part of these people’s personalities. We all have our weaknesses, even celebrities like Modin.
Aronson fantasized about the rape for a while and noticed, to his shame, that he had become aroused. He closed the file and got up from his desk, walking back and forth in the room, deep in thought.
Both Olga Kuristjeva and Pietr Pavlowich had been hard to read during the interrogations. Their faces had been remarkably pale and without expression, closed off in some way. Aronson was a seasoned policeman and interrogato
r, but in this case, it had been almost impossible to interpret their facial expressions, body language, or tone of voice. Aronson remembered well the emotional wall of ice he had experienced with this couple and how he instinctively had stayed away from digging any deeper than he absolutely had to in order to complete the report.
Oh, what the heck! This has to be enough.
“Palm, grab a patrol car and go out to Grisslehamn and arrest Anton Modin, will you?” he called to his deputy without looking up. “Bring him in for interrogation. Yes, the famous diver. I have tried to call his number for hours but nobody picks up.”
Palm, rather than open his big mouth, pointed demandingly toward his colleague Grönberg. They both walked toward the door.
“Don’t forget the handcuffs,” Aronson said as they were walking out. “He might be dangerous.”
Wilhelm Aronson reached for his cell phone. He lowered his eyes as if he was trying to remember the number before he dialed.
A mechanical voice answered at the other end.
Aronson looked around the room, a study in impersonal chaos of binders, files, and cold cases. He no longer felt any association with or sympathy for any of it—the leaves that fell off the dried flowers in due course on one desk, the photo of twins in a crooked frame on another; the shabby pantry with half a cinnamon roll forgotten on the table, quickly becoming stale; even the police cruiser starting outside and slowly rolling out of his view. A dull fog seemed to suddenly beleaguer the place and his voice became considerably deeper as he spoke on the phone.
“They are on their way. They will arrest him within the hour. Don’t forget to bring a photographer. And yes, please deposit into my wife’s account. Thanks, bye.”
He slid his old-fashioned and battered cell phone back into his pocket.
CHAPTER 23
ÅLAND SEA, WEDNESDAY, JULY 2
“Something seems out of whack, Modin. I have been troubleshooting for hours now, trying to pinpoint a malfunction with the equipment, but I can’t find anything.”
Sture Hultqvist was confused by the peculiar flatness of the seabed beneath them. “There are no rocks or any other debris you would normally find there,” he explained.
“That doesn’t sound possible,” Modin said. “But I think that the equipment is just fine.”
Modin explained how the search was still on track, and that they were most likely dealing with an active jamming device somewhere in the vicinity.
“A jammer?” Sture said and gave Modin a stern look. “And now you tell me? That changes everything. Now, how are we going to interpret the results, how are we going read what’s on the monitors? You guys are driving me insane!”
Sture did very little to hide his frustration with this sudden curveball. Modin understood his reaction, but had not wanted to confuse the group with potentially irrelevant details.
“Much of what happened here is still highly classified,” Modin said.
“I get all that,” Sture said. “Listen, I wasn’t born yesterday. I know what’s at stake here. The mission is dangerous on many levels, but that’s exactly why you should have told me everything.”
“I am sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Sture said, struggling to maintain his cool. “Just don’t lie to me again.”
Modin nodded. “So how do we go about this in the best possible way now?” he asked.
“I think we should search every other pass only, kind of in an overlapping pattern,” Sture said dryly. “That way we will be able to figure out where the jamming signal ends.”
“We will pinpoint the area where those jammers are located much faster. Is that what you’re trying to tell us?”
“Exactly,” Sture said. “There is no use in carrying on a conventional search, if we aren’t going to find anything anyway.”
The strategy of searching only every other pass turned out to be genius; they could cover large parts of the search area in only half the estimated time, and all of a sudden, they were three days ahead of schedule.
The atmosphere had become tense by unspoken words and questions, and so Modin suggested that they head back to port for an evening of relaxation and maybe a few beers in Grisslehamn.
Nuder, Bergman, and Axman were all in favor. Especially Bergman advocated a night with terra firma under their feet.
“This team needs to get to know each other better,” he said. “Besides, I think we all need to learn a thing or two about Modin’s modus operandi.”
“Yeah, you could say that again,” Sture mumbled under his breath.
“What is there to learn about that?” Modin asked, putting on his best innocent child face.
“What I should have known from the very beginning,” Sture grunted.
“Hey, come with me, Sture,” Bergman said. “Let’s leave Modin alone for a bit.”
Bergman and Sture had a beer sitting on the forecastle. Bergman told him how Modin’s way of running things many times had driven him insane in the past. Soon there was laughter. Nuder and Axman realized that the crisis had been averted and sent Modin out with a new round of drinks.
“Ship at twelve o’clock, right across our bow!” Bergman yelled. “It’s closing in.”
Bergman was on edge. This does not look good, he thought. He had been anxious during the whole search operation. He always expected the worst, especially after the tragedy involving Nuder’s dogs. Now a serenade of alarm bells went off inside him as he watched the big dark vessel approach at high speed. The white foam around its bow was easily distinguishable over the calm seas, even from a distance.
“We are toast,” Bergman said.
“Easy, Bergman, easy,” Modin said. “It’s probably just the Coast Guard wanting to know what we’re up to.”
The dark ship was now so close they could see it was dark blue and rusty. It had several antennas on the roof of the bridge, but no sign of crew onboard. The front windows of the bridge were so heavily tinted they were impossible to see through. The ship held a steadfast course. Problem was, it was a head-on collision course.
Nuder noticed and took immediate action to avoid a potential collision. Problem was that their vessel maxed out at eight knots, which made the whole operation dangerously difficult.
“What are they trying to do? Fucking maniacs!”
Modin, who now had a bad hunch, issued an order.
“Reel in the sonar fish, fast as hell!”
Axman and Sture started the automatic winder. They were now only about 100 yards from a head-on collision. Bergman ran up onto the bridge to join Nuder and Modin.
“What the fuck are we supposed to do, Nuder? This is going to hell in a hand basket!”
Bergman grabbed the instrument panel with both hands, bracing for impact. He looked in horror and disbelief at the approaching vessel heading right for them.
“She will swerve soon,” Nuder said in a remarkably calm voice. “We have the right of way.”
Nuder started swaying starboard. The other ship followed suit. This really did not look good.
“He’s swaying, he has got to sway! We came from the right,” Nuder yelled almost red in the face.
Nuder grabbed the VHF radio and called out on channel 16.
“Fishing trawler Albin of the Sea of Åland, calling unknown vessel on collision course. Please identify!”
There was no response. He repeated the same procedure, still with no response.
“Fuck!” Nuder yelled.
“Brace for impact!” Modin shouted.
The unknown vessel slammed into their port side, full force. The impact was deafening. The window on the bridge shattered into a thousand pieces and a shockwave traveled through the hull. The men inside were tossed around like rag dolls. Nuder was thrown over the instrument panel, with a gushing wound to his head as a result. Modin was thrown clear across the room, hitting the floor with his back first, which knocked the wind out of him. He ended up sitting on the floor, leaning against the navigator’s seat, hyperventilating
“We’re taking on water,” Sture said. “Let me go and check.”
He ducked down below deck and almost immediately came back up again.
“We have a big, gaping hole port side, below the water line. What’s happening?”
Sture was holding onto his left upper arm while grimacing in pain.
“I am not quite sure,” Nuder said with alarm, which scared the other crew members. “Please take over the helm, Modin, head for Grisslehamn. There we’re at least protected by the shallower waters.”
Modin approached the steering wheel, grabbed it, and made a sharp right turn toward land. The boat rocked violently, and for a while, the boat seemed to tip over. Modin was able to stabilize the vessel, and with a slight list toward the portside, he kept a steady course toward the harbor, which was no more than five nautical miles away, give or take.
“Axman, please assist Nuder,” he yelled as he went into a laconic, ice-cold mode, issuing orders. “Bring out the first aid kits and attend to his wound. Sture, go back under deck and try to assess how much water we’re taking. If possible, find something to patch the hole.”
“The ship is returning,” Bergman said in resignation.
The large ship with tinted bridge windows had doubled back and came back at them with the same furious speed. This time it was approaching from behind, from the stern. Modin estimated their speed to be about fifteen knots. It would soon be all over them again.
“Okay, if you have a plan, I’d like to hear it now,” Bergman said with eyes wide open, radiating with fear. “They will sink us!”
The fishing trawler’s diesel engines roared. They were at maximum capacity. Modin was keeping the throttle pushed as far forward as he possibly could.
Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1) Page 14