The house was built in 1800s style with a white interlocking wood panel façade and maroon window frames. The windowsills were painted the same color as the façade. The roof consisted of old clay tile and a brick chimney, which had seen better days. The house was clearly in disrepair.
The years were starting to take its toll on Anderson too, Modin thought when the door opened and revealed a gray-haired man in his early 80s. Around his neck, he wore a blue scarf, which created a first impression of a snobbish and somewhat vain older gentleman. He was well dressed in a white-and-blue-checkered sweater and a waist-long dark blue windbreaker. He stuck out like a sore thumb with his decorum and the genteel way he carried himself.
Modin estimated him to be just shy of six feet, but his hunched over posture made him look shorter. He noticed his sharp leery glance, the cane in his left hand, and the slight limp. Modin thought that this man might well have displayed the same virile vigilance back in the day when, by using his own key, he had consistently and skillfully ignored the maid in Wennerström’s residence.
Modin shut the car door gently and met the man’s inquiring glance.
“Gunnar Anderson?”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Anton Modin. I would like to ask a few questions in regard to the DC-3 that disappeared in 1952. Is that okay with you?”
“Oh, I see, Anton Modin. I have read about you. You’re the diver seeking long lost treasures and state secrets on the seabed.” He smiled as he let these words sink in. “I have been kind of expecting you to drop by one day, but I did not in my wildest dreams imagine it would take this long.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Modin was taken aback.
“Within Defense Radio, one of my jobs was organizing the SIGINT flights. I was also in charge of the DC-3 investigation by the Air Force. You should have looked me up a long time ago.”
“According to Mr. Chris Loklinth with Special Ops, you did not have much to contribute in the DC-3 investigation,” Modin said in a surly manner. “Is that correct?”
“Is that what he says?” His tone betrayed more irritation than surprise. “Interesting. Loklinth came by here not that long ago. But no matter, please come in. I will make some coffee.”
Anton Modin followed him through the hallway and into the kitchen, where Anderson put the kettle on the stove and collected a tray of cups and utensils.
“You just go right ahead; I’ll be with you in just a moment,” he said and pointed further into the house.
Modin continued through a dining area and sat down on the couch in the living room. The interior decoration seemed straight from the 1950s; it was picturesque, albeit somewhat dreary. Most of the wall space was occupied by paintings. The floors were covered in old-fashioned hand woven rugs. A faint scent of mold hung in the air. A round, sturdy oak table covered with a white lace tablecloth dominated the middle of the room. A desk lamp with a dirty shade sat on top, casting a dim light. The lampshade had a rather peculiar texture, and the edges had started to fade into yellow. Remarkably, the lamp had a motion detector attached, which activated as soon as Modin entered the room. The motion detector did not seem to fit with the otherwise dated surroundings, yet the set of radio communications equipment at the far end of the room did fit perfectly. The radios were stacked on top of each other and had matte green panels and covers and Bakelite knobs with shiny aluminum centers. Straight from the 1950s, indeed.
Gunnar Anderson in his home in 2006
“What kind of setup is that, Gunnar?” Modin asked as Anderson entered the living room carrying a tray.
“It is a radio communications line I picked up in California in the late 1950s. I was there visiting and came across someone who claimed to know what I was looking for. He brought me to a ham radio store downtown and pointed out all the stuff he thought I needed. What he failed to realize, though, is that Sweden was not a member of NATO, which made it a hassle to get it cleared through customs and shipped over here. In the end, I had to travel to Denmark and pick it up.” Gunnar Anderson put down the tray, went up to the radio station, and gently patted the top unit. “State-of-the-art at the time.”
“So, in essence, a member of the U.S. Military told you to purchase this setup and bring it home with you?” Modin asked.
This sounds promising. A suspected Russian spy travels to the United States to buy radio equipment. Now it was just a matter of finding out what Gunnar Anderson had been planning to do with all this advanced equipment at the beginning of the Cold War. Had the whole operation been ordered from Moscow?
“What were you doing over there in California in the 1950s?”
“May I ask why you’re so inquisitive,” Gunnar Anderson said in a voice that made Modin flinch.
Not your ordinary jovial older gentleman, Modin thought with a slight shiver. He obviously didn’t want to talk about why he was in the United States and how he had acquired this equipment, and so Modin decided not to ask any more questions. For now.
“Oh, no particular reason, I am just curious.”
“Care for some coffee?” Gunnar Anderson asked and without waiting for an answer, he poured coffee into the flower patterned porcelain cups.
“I’d be delighted. Thanks! For the record, would you please tell me a little bit about your background, Gunnar?”
“Sure, I’d be glad to. I started my career in the military just before World War II. Amongst other places, I served with the Air Force Base F7 Såtenäs just outside of Lidköping. That’s also where I eventually met Stig Wennerström and his cadre of flight cadets. We looked up to those guys; it was a mighty fine crew. Even through Wennerström eventually turned out to be an asshole and a traitor.”
“If I’m not mistaken, American Air Force squadrons were sighted at F7 Såtenäs on several occasions.”
“Yes, that is correct. The Allies used Såtenäs as an emergency landing base for bombers that, for one reason or another, did not make it back to home base after bombing Nazi-Germany.”
“And this is when Wennerström was still stationed there?”
“Yes, what’s your point?”
“Just curious,” Modin replied. “Where did you end up after the war, Gunnar?”
“After the war, I was recruited into our Military Intelligence Service, MUST. I was the first air force officer who was assigned to that branch. The slip said I was commandeered to the intelligence detail, which I found a little amusing. Shortly after that, I ended up with the Air Force Headquarters in Stockholm. I climbed the ranks to become the liaison officer between the Air Force and Defense Radio. I worked at a section designated E4 as an intelligence operative.”
“And that’s when you learned about the fate of the DC-3?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I was with AFCENT, Air Force Central Command, just as the DC-3 was shot down over the Baltic Sea.”
“At that time, did you know exactly where it had been shot down?”
“Not right at that time. But a few days later, when we had compiled the signals surveillance results, we were able to somewhat reconstruct the flight path. We sent out a search and recover team, and they found wreckage and an oil slick. At that time the presumed depth of the wreckage, over 350 feet, was way too deep for any diver to even consider. Hence, the reason the exact position became classified right there and then.”
“Hang on now, you mean to tell me that only a few days after the Russians had downed the DC-3, the Swedish intelligence service knew the exact location of the wreckage?” Modin said in great dismay.
“Yes, we did.”
Modin was clearly annoyed and vigorously stirred his coffee in an attempt to calm down.
“And why didn’t you tell that to the public or the relatives of the crew?” Modin said once he had regained his composure.
“We couldn’t. The whole operation would have been disclosed. We weren’t aloud to do so. Defense Radio executives ordered strict silence on the matter.”
“Did you guys happen to have
any inkling as to why the DC-3 was shot down?”
“Well, we assumed that, since the Soviet Navy exercise was taking place in that same area, they didn’t want anyone flying in that airspace bearing witness. But there was probably more to it than that, although I am sure the Soviet Navy exercise was a contributing factor. Everything was politics back then. The world was black and white, the United States versus the Soviet Union, and Sweden was, more often than not, squeezed in between.”
“How so?” Modin asked.
“Well, let me put it this way. Sweden did not have much clout with either of the two superpowers. Sweden was a picturesque backdrop at best, or the cheese in a cat-and-mouse-game at worst. So yes, we knew where the DC-3 had gone down and had our suspicions as to why, but we sure couldn’t tell the tale. This cover-up continued all the way though my career as an intelligence operative. By the way, you do know that a U.S. Navy consolidated privateer plane was shot down about a year before the DC-3, don’t you?”
“Yes, I know. In April of 1950,” Modin said.
“After that incident, the Americans cancelled all their SIGINT flights over the Baltic Sea. And I’m sure you can guess who picked up that assignment instead?”
“Sweden and our two specially equipped Douglas DC-3 planes?”
“Exactly, my friend! You have done your homework, Modin. And I’m sure this sheds light on the other reason for the demise of the DC-3. There were several members within the intelligence community in general and Defense Radio in particular, who thought that our collaboration with the United States and the United Kingdom had gone way too far. I was among them.”
“So that’s the reason you helped Colonel Wennerström,” Modin blurted out without thinking.
“Excuse me? Help Stig Wennerström? What are you insinuating, young man?” Anderson asked, his voice calm, yet his lips quivering and his face darkening with suppressed anger.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to insinuate anything.” Modin had to remind himself to tread lightly. “You just said yourself that you agreed that Sweden had taken the wrong side in this issue.”
“I said nothing of the kind. I said that Sweden was collaborating too much with the United States and the United Kingdom. This does not mean that I feel they were collaborating with the wrong side.” Anderson’s voice was calm and biting at the same time, and Modin thought it best to change the subject.
“Fair enough. You eventually ended up with Defense Radio in Stockholm, didn’t you?” he continued, pretending not to have noticed the shift in Anderson’s mood.
“You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?” Gunnar Anderson said with a smirk on his face. “Would you like to spend the night? I have plenty of room and I sure would enjoy some company.”
Modin was surprised. His initial reaction was to decline the invite, but on second thought, he felt he was onto something. Although there was a slight chance that Anderson meant him harm, he accepted the invitation anyway.
“I’d love to. Thank you. As a matter of fact, I brought a bottle of whisky, if you’re interested. You got a couple of shot glasses?”
Modin dug the whisky bottle out from the bottom of his nap sack. Gunnar put down two slightly dusty shot glasses—straight from the 1950s, of course.
The disc of the sun was balancing on the western horizon like a giant orange fireball. A few mosquitoes were flying aimlessly around the two men as they toasted to each other. The insects became amber as Modin raised his glass and looked through the spectrum toward the fading sun.
CHAPTER 28
GRISSLEHAMN, SATURDAY, JULY 5
Bill Bergman had gathered the members of the search team consisting of Harry Nuder, Sture Hultqvist, and John Axman in Modin’s summer house in Grisslehamn.
Axman, who was the latest addition to the group, but likely the one who had known Modin the longest, watched the others as they were sitting around the large wooden table on the porch. Sture was playing with his laptop while Nuder intensely watched a couple of swans peddling toward the shore. When the swans stuck their long white necks under the green-blue surface of the water, they looked like two white buoys bobbing up and down.
“Okay, this is where things stand,” Bergman said. “Modin is off on a crusade of his own, which, frankly speaking, worries me a bit. Not only for his own sake, but also for ours. Officially, Modin has cancelled this search operation, at least temporarily. Unofficially, we are just waiting until the coast is clear. Sture, what is the status of the search equipment? Is really everything gone?”
“All of the equipment is ruined with the exception of the sonar fish. Even if we were to retrieve the gear, it would all be damaged. However, luckily, I made a backup of the hard disc before we left the boat on Wednesday.”
“Excellent,” Bergman said. “Then I would like to suggest that you analyze the material and present the results to us within a week. Provided, of course, that Modin is back by then.”
“What the heck is he up to?” Axman said.
“At the moment, I have no clear idea what his plan might be. He seems to be acting on pure instinct, in which case anything can happen. He is on a vengeance trip against Special Ops,” Bergman said.
“Special Ops?” Sture gasped.
“Okay, I might as well spill the beans,” Bergman said. “Modin was an operative within Special Ops in the past. As such, he knows things, things that can harm Special Ops. Naturally, they are not happy about that. He is under oath never to use any of the knowledge, but he seems to not care about that any more. And they know that. Modin thinks Special Ops is behind the killing of Nuder’s dogs, behind the false rape accusations against him, and behind the attack on us out on sea. They’ve declared war, and Modin will accept. And we might all end up as collateral damage. If they can’t stop Modin, they can and will come after all of us.”
“How come we are not allowed to search for this object, whatever it is?” Sture asked. “Reason I’m asking is because now I think it’s about time we come clean, at least within this group.”
“It’s a miniature submarine, most likely of Soviet origin. It was sunk in 1982 by a renegade group of officers within the Swedish Navy. The whole thing was covered up for political reasons. This mini sub does not officially exist. Officially, the event never took place. This is highly classified information, complete dissimulation from start to finish.”
Bergman paused for a moment, awaiting reactions.
“So, there you are, now you know. I suggest we all go along with this play-dead-game of Modin’s. In the name of survival, let’s just pretend we have moved on with our lives.”
“You guys knew all along that this was a Soviet submarine, didn’t you?” Sture said.
“Well, we simply got too close, that’s all,” Bergman said shrugging his shoulders.
Sture whistled in awe. They all contemplated what had been said.
“I suggest we tell our closest relatives that this search expedition has been a failure,” Bergman said, “and that we have cancelled any further search attempts. And one last thing, not a single word about what it is we have been searching for or talked about here, is that clear?”
The night descended on the bay and the light slowly dissipated. The search team was looking out over the water as if they were of one mind and body.
How close were we? This was the thought occupying their minds.
“We have to stay low and see what Modin brings home,” Bergman said in a low voice. “He promised to be back in a few days.”
“May I make a suggestion?” Axman said. “If you can give me the name of someone high up in the Special Ops hierarchy who might be involved in keeping us from finding the sub, maybe I can be of assistance.”
“How do you mean?”
“I am an investigator with the National Police IT crime unit. My job is to crack encrypted hard drives and hack into suspected criminals’ e-mail accounts. Just provide me with a name and I’ll see what I can dig up.”
“Chris Loklinth,” Berg
man responded. “But be careful. For now, I suggest we attend to our regular schedules and jobs. Make everything look normal. This will be our last meeting for a while, at least openly. We have to protect Modin at all costs. And ourselves.”
Bergman turned to Axman.
“Axman, any way you can provide us all with anonymous IP-addresses?”
“Sure, no problem, it will take a couple of days to set up an anonymous server, that’s all. I will be in touch.”
“Great, let us hold off any type communication until that’s taken care of. To be on the safe side, I think we should not use our phones either. What do you think, Nuder?”
“I’m game, or whatever it is you say up there in Stockholm,” Nuder said. “I will head home and take care of the puppies and the house as we’re awaiting any sign of life from Modin. But if Loklinth was responsible for sinking our boat and my dogs’ death, I have a bone to pick with him. From my point of view, Special Ops has no right to halt our search operation. Sure, they are in the business of protecting the interests of Sweden, but not at any cost. They can’t be trampling on constitutional rights, I am pretty sure of that. I think God will prove us right in the end. I can feel that here, deep in my chest, guys.”
“I didn’t have you pinned as the religious type, Nuder,” Bergman said and smiled.
One for all and all for one, Axman thought, but realized it would be too cheesy to say so out loud. Here he was, sitting around the table with his three newfound friends. For once, even Nuder seemed somewhat relaxed, he thought, although he had noticed that Nuder avoided him, especially any form of coincidental body contact. Axman figured that Nuder was very old-fashioned and that it would take some time for him to get comfortable with Axman’s sexual orientation. He liked Nuder a lot; he was a child of nature and they just had to give it time, that’s all.
They went on enjoying each other’s company while indulging in fried bass. Knowing that, in essence, the escape routes would be sealed off as they left this meeting and continued searching for the sub, they tried to make the most of their time together. The war with an as-of-yet uncertain enemy had only just begun.
Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1) Page 17