The gray concrete floor created a dense scent of dust and mildew in the small space. The room was dark, and he did not bother turning on the lights. The few random rays of daylight seeping in through the high basement windows contributed to a dark and sinister atmosphere. A chair lay tipped over at the far wall and a shovel was leaning against it. A set of winter tires was piled up in the near corner of the room.
A cloud of dust swirled through the confined space as the tall man moved through the room and disrupted the sparse sunlight with his huge body. In clear view, behind the tires set against the nearby wall, was a child’s hand tied to a rope.
The man in the black leather jacket moved closer and checked her breathing. She was hanging, seemingly unconscious, by two ropes tied around her wrists. Two other pieces of rope kept her legs spread far apart. The grotesque image resembled a white cross against the dusty basement wall: a nine-year old girl, wearing nothing but her underwear, her dark hair partly covering her face and her cheek resting against her chest.
Well, at least now she was quiet, the man thought, looking at her for the longest time. He licked his chops, adjusted his package with his right hand, left the room, and locked the door behind him.
• • •
At Märket Reef, Bill Bergman was enjoying a late breakfast. Anton Modin was sitting on the cliff on the other side of the lighthouse. They were both enjoying the tranquility of the morning and the clear high sea air, which was warming up slowly.
Bergman turned on his cell phone. He had received a text message.
North end of Ringvägen at 6:00 P.M. Your daughter loves you. Don’t put her life in jeopardy by sharing the contents of this message with anyone.
–The Merchants of Death.
An ice cold hand squeezed Bergman’s heart and immediately, all of his senses were on high alert. He routinely checked the sender. It was a 073 number. He called information only to find that it was a pay-as-you-go cell phone with an unknown subscriber.
He read the message repeatedly as a giant lump was growing in his chest, as was an uncontrollable rage.
He called Ewa, who told him that Astrid had disappeared. She had disappeared around nine o’clock that morning. She had waved at the door, practically flown down the stairs to go to the dance studio with her friend Evelina. Ewa thought she had heard the big entrance door by the street slam shut behind them. Shortly after that, Evelina showed up at the police station, escorted by a nice elderly lady, who had found her crying on the street. Evelina told the police that Astrid had been kidnapped by at least two men in a black SUV. One of them had a rough voice and wore a leather jacket.
Astrid was gone and ever since, time had ceased to exist for Ewa.
Bill Bergman folded his flip-phone slowly as if in a trance, yet his mind was going a mile a minute. So, they were trying to get to him now. The images of what these bastards were capable of danced in front of his eyes: Nuder’s bloodied dogs, Anton Modin in his hospital bed covered in bandages, the wreck of their sunken boat. What would they do to Astrid?
The helicopter’s noise as it approached him at low altitude forced him to try and calm down. The roaring rotors whipped up a cascading highway of white foam on the surface. Bergman was breathing heavily and had to put his head down between his knees to get hold of himself. Axman made a steep turn and was, for a while, practically flying upside down, before settling in a wide left turn and finally putting the chopper down at an even surface next to the lighthouse. Axman and Hultqvist climbed out as the rotor was winding down. They ran over to Bergman and Modin, who had come out and was now standing next to his friend.
“How did it go?” Modin asked. “Any luck?”
“We found an oil slick about 1000 feet in diameter,” Sture said, short of breath.
“Great! How good are our chances of accurately pinpointing the source?”
“I need to analyze that before I can give you an answer. Gotta calculate wind speed and direction and the sea current at the surface. It might take a few days, so I suggest we head for home. We got what we came for, and you guys got some nice sightseeing out here.
“Sounds good to me,” Bergman said, trying to keep his tone of voice as even keeled as possible. “Darn good.”
CHAPTER 38
SOUTHERN DISTRICT, STOCKHOLM, MONDAY, JULY 14
Bergman was pacing back and forth at the north end of Ringvägen, right where it intersected with Hornsgatan and Brännkyrkagatan. On the extension, Ringvägen swerved westward and eventually became Lundagatan. On the bend, there was a bumpy rock wall, and behind it, Bergman could make out an older yellow brick building.
He was waiting patiently with his back against the wall, directly beneath a sign saying it was a quarter of a mile to South Mälarstrand. He was staring intensely toward the intersection of Ringvägen and Hornsgatan. A steady stream of cars was traveling through the lights.
Turning his head slightly right, he noticed an abandoned convenience store with a green tin roof and bars molded to the front windows. According to a shabby sign on the side, the store had been called Zinken. A couple of teenage boys were hanging in front of the vacant store with their bicycles. Bergman concentrated hard, trying not to be distracted by them. It was Sunday night, and thus otherwise quiet in and around Zinkensdamm.
I got to stay alert, can’t run the risk of missing them when they show up! Bergman thought.
A black BMW turned onto Hornsgatan southbound and was heading full speed for Bergman. The tires screeched against the dry asphalt as it abruptly stopped directly in front of him.
The right backdoor opened.
“Get in!” hissed a deep baritone.
Bergman hesitated for a second before getting into the car. He had barely closed the door when the driver sped off westward on Lundagatan. Bergman was blindfolded and a headband with hearing protectors was put over his ears.
They were moving fast, that much he could tell. He had a hard time trying to compensate for the sudden turns of the vehicle and was thrown back and forth in the seat. Bergman estimated that they drove for about six or seven minutes before coming to a halt on gravel surface. Firm hands yanked him out of the car.
Bergman dragged his feet on the rough gravel yard, doing his best to slow them down. So far, not a single word had been uttered.
Despite the well-sealed hearing protectors, he could hear a door slam somewhere. He was brusquely pushed forward to a staircase and then into a room. Bergman could smell the mustiness of a space that had not been ventilated in quite a while. He could hear dull mumbling voices while they were passing through several rooms. Suddenly the man leading Bergman let go of his arm. Bergman was standing absolutely still and tried to listen. Nothing. Waiting for about thirty seconds, he carefully removed the blindfold and the hearing protectors. He was alone. Trying to get used to the light, he looked around the room. As he had guessed, it was an old house. A couple of worn rag rugs were covering parts of the floor and in the corner stood a gray recliner, and next to it a brass floor lamp. The walls featured a few antique paintings with, in Bergman’s opinion, very dark motives.
“Bill Bergman, I presume?”
Bergman turned around, but there was no one else in the room.
The voice came from an intercom mounted on the wall next to the door. Static crackled through the intercom, but he could make out a man’s voice.
“Yes. And to whom do I owe the pleasure?”
“That doesn’t matter,” the voice said. “What matters is that your daughter is still alive. Although I won’t vouch for her comfort or her health. We don’t have much time my friend.”
Bergman stiffened. He felt boiling rage emerge inside and took a few deep breaths trying to suppress it. The last thing he wanted was to give these idiots the pleasure of displaying any emotions.
“You have my daughter?” he said, looking straight at the intercom.
“We do have Astrid. Cute girl. Very loveable indeed. We would like to strike a deal with you, Bergman.”
“Listen, we want you to cooperate. We need neither you nor your daughter. Our target is your friend, Anton Modin. Will you trade him for your daughter?”
The man went silent and only faint white noise escaped the speaker.
“I will cooperate, but only under one condition,” Bergman said and swallowed hard before continuing. “I demand that you will let both my daughter and Anton Modin live.”
Bergman had no idea why he said that, but instinctively he realized it was now a matter of life and death and that time was of the essence.
“I don’t have a problem with that, so it seems like we have a deal. From this point onward, I want to be informed of even the slightest move or action your diving group takes. That goes primarily for both you and Anton Modin. We need you to be available 24/7. This means you must always answer your cell phone when we call. You work for us and only for us. For all intents and purposes, from now on you are a spy. We own you. Is that perfectly clear?”
“Will you meet my demands?”
Bergman was breathing deeply, waiting.
“Yes,” the voice said slow and dragging. “We will keep our part of the deal as long as you keep yours. You can’t even dream of what my crew would like to do to your daughter. They are monsters, you know.”
For a brief moment, the voice sounded even slimier, but soon returned to its deep bass and intimidating professionalism.
“Let this serve as a warning to you Bergman. Anton Modin is about to turn the whole world on himself. He cannot accomplish what he has set out to do. No chance whatsoever. Clear?”
“Clear, I think. How is my daughter?”
“You will soon see her. But know this: if you let us down, we will come for you again. Through her.”
Fuck, Bergman thought. They have me tied. I have to betray Modin to keep my daughter safe. “Yes, yes, I’ll do what you want, for fuck’s sake!”
“Good. Please put on your hearing protectors and your blindfold again.”
Bergman did as he was told. After what he thought was about a minute, the door unlocked and someone came in and grabbed his arm.
Bill Bergman was scared shitless for the first time in as long as he could remember.
CHAPTER 39
NORRTELJE POLICE STATION, TUESDAY, JULY 15
An oppressive heat wave was beleaguering the small coastal community of Norrtelje, a few miles south of Grisslehamn and 45 miles north of Stockholm. The thermometer was parked at 80 degrees.
That was unusually hot, especially for a Roslagen native or Rospigg, as they were more commonly called. Inspector Wilhelm Aronson with the Norrtelje police department was sweating profusely in his light blue uniform shirt, developing large, dark circles under his armpits. He had opened the window, but the air refused to move.
One third of the workforce was already on vacation. The remaining two thirds of the Norrtelje police department, thirteen people in all, was about to enter the busiest part of the season. It was vacation time in the Kingdom of Sweden, and the population of the community of Norrtelje literally tripled in size during the month of July, when all the summer vacationers invaded and took possession of the summer houses and bed and breakfasts along the coastline. Of course, along with the tourists came trouble: general disarray, the occasional domestic brawl when the breadwinner had a little too much to drink, and even assault. Weekends were the worst.
Wilhelm Aronson was sitting at the lightly colored wooden table in the interrogation room. Sitting next to him was Chief Prosecutor Evald Rose.
Modin had reported to the police station following a formal request from prosecutor Rose, who was now sitting right across from Modin. Next to Modin was the public defense attorney who had been appointed to him, Gunnar Falk. Modin had not put up much of a fight since Falk was a well-known criminal defense attorney in the Stockholm area, and he was under the assumption he would do a good job in his defense.
“Have you read the charges against you, Mr. Modin?” Wilhelm Aronson asked.
“Yes, I have.”
“So, how do you plead?”
Aronson had most likely been looking forward to this moment, Modin thought. He planned to go down in history as the one who nailed Anton Modin. Five journalists were outside awaiting the results of the plea bargain.
“Not guilty,” Modin said in clear and loud voice. “I am the victim of a conspiracy against me. I never touched that woman.”
“You never touched her?” Aronson cleared his throat while doing a terrible job at disguising his sarcastic tone.
“No, except for trying to stop her from pulling my pants down in the men’s room, I have never touched her.”
“So she was actually trying to pull your pants down?” Aronson said with an emerging smile.
“Yes, she was pulling them down. I tried to stop her.”
Judging by the reaction in the room, Anton Modin could tell that no one believed him. His attorney was staring at the wall. Was he embarrassed or bored? Modin couldn’t tell.
He had a dark seventies style hairdo and a well-trimmed black moustache. He was wearing a stylish brand name suit, white button down shirt, a dark blue tie, and well-polished black dress shoes. He was thin and had a somewhat feminine appearance. Next to him sat a small, old-fashioned brown briefcase. Sweating profusely, the attorney regularly wiped his forehead with a white cloth handkerchief.
“So Mister Modin, how did you end up in the same bathroom as the plaintiff?” Chief Prosecutor Evald Rose asked.
Rose was not in any way trying to hide the fact that he would not mind seeing Modin behind bars for a few years. No one would, Modin feared.
“She knocked on the door and I let her in,” Modin answered.
“You are seriously trying to tell me that she knocked on the bathroom door? Wasn’t it really the other way around, and you knocked on the door, forced your way in, and then raped her?”
Chief Prosecutor Rose looked deeply into Modin’s eyes for a moment, then shifted focus and did the same to attorney Gunnar Falk.
The prosecutor seemed to have the upper hand, although hadn’t even played his best card yet.
“My client stands by the statement that it was the other way around,” Gunnar Falk said. “That it was the woman who forced her way into the bathroom stall.”
Prosecutor Rose, who had now taken over the interrogation, pulled out a white sheet of paper from the investigation file and put it on the table in front of him.
“With all due respect, gentlemen, this is a sworn testimony from the Estonian woman in question, Miss Olga Kuristjeva,” he said. “She identified a birthmark on Anton Modin’s left butt cheek, and an area high up on Modin’s left thigh with traces of skin grafts. This, together with the testimonies from Olga Kuristjeva’s boyfriend and people at The Rock, will make our case. Will the defendant be so kind as to pull his pants down, please?”
Modin blushed, his cheeks turning red, and he felt the warming sensation all the way from his shoulders up to his scalp. The gravity of Prosecutor Rose’s words, along with the written testimony, felt like a punch in the face. Now they were past the point of word against word, this was something completely different. The room, being warm to start with, suddenly became oppressively hot and confining. Modin briefly glanced toward the open window.
Attorney Gunnar Falk reached out for the document and began to read it carefully.
“Well, Modin, this doesn’t look good at all,” Inspector Aronson said, clearly satisfied with the recent turn of events. He didn’t make the slightest attempt to hide the now Frisbee-size wet spots under his armpits.
This must exceed his wildest expectations, Modin thought. He is probably picturing tomorrow’s headlines and already enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame.
“In the interest of the case, I think it is best if you take your pants off,” Attorney Falk said turning to Modin.
“That way we can get this spectacle over with as soon as possible.”
As if in a trance, Modin stood up, undid his belt, and let his trousers fall down to his knees, thus revealing a huge scar high up on his left thigh.
How on earth could they have known about the scar and his birthmark? Someone must have illegally accessed his patient records.
The room went eerily silent. Attorney Falk squirmed in his chair. Prosecutor Rose finally broke the silence.
“Okay, very well. I’d say we have evidence to sustain the arrest request at least for sexual harassment. Mister Modin will stay in custody for the remainder of this investigation, on probable cause of sexual harassment and suspected rape.”
Modin realized that any attempt to protest the decision was futile. He felt as if every person in the room, including his own defense attorney, was his enemy.
“I’m being set up,” he said to his attorney as the security guard cuffed
his hands behind his back. His attorney just stared at him blankly as Aronson grabbed his arm and lead him out of the scorching hot room, closely followed by Prosecutor Rose, who had a noticeable spring in his step.
“I will get you out,” his attorney said but he didn’t sound convincing.
Outside it was close to 85 degrees. It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and the news about Anton Modin’s arrest was spreading like wildfire. Several journalists surrounded the prosecutor, shoving microphones and mini recorders in his face. In a very official tone of voice, he briefed the press corps on the series of events leading to the arrest. The prosecutor did not seem bothered at all by the oppressive heat. He did not even sweat.
CHAPTER 40
SOUTHERN DISTRICT, STOCKHOLM, MONDAY, JULY 14
“Can you please bring me a cold beer, Anita?” Judge Albert Svan yelled from his recliner.
He was done barking orders through the intercom, instructing his two Bulgarian bodyguards to escort Bill Bergman down into the basement where the little girl was held. On the one hand, Svan was pleased that Bergman had accepted their terms right off the bat, but at the same time, he was a little disappointed that he had not been given the opportunity to inflict more pain and agony on him. Just the opportunity to see him sink into despair would have been nice. After all, no child has ever died from a little torture.
Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1) Page 22