Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1)

by Anders Jallai

  He should have had flyers printed and handed them out at the entrance. I am free, these fliers should say. Free! The woman I supposedly raped has withdrawn all charges and left the country with her lying sack of shit of a boyfriend. Prosecutor Rosengren has not been able to build an airtight case now that the man and woman have left the country without a trace. I am innocent! Innocent! Do you hear me?

  The distrust toward him hurt the most, and Loklinth must have known this. Fuck!

  He ordered a large Irish coffee for dessert. Ellie actually took some time with him when she served it. She was balancing the drink on a tray in one hand and moved the flower arrangement with her other.

  “Say Modin, you seem really down in the dumps. What’s up?” Ellie leaned in closer, both her hands planted on the table. He felt like he could use a hug or, better yet, something more intimate.

  He told her that everything was under control, that life was nothing but a rose garden or a walk in the park or whatever other metaphor for easy-peasy she could think of. He lied.

  “Very good, my big man,” she said.

  He told her he was waiting for Bill Bergman.

  “Glad to hear there’s nothing to worry about then,” she said, turned her back, and walked away.

  A guided tour boat moored at the landing dock beneath the restaurant deck. They had been out to Märket Reef to look at the seals. On the other side of the harbor, a fisherman was mending his nets. A few motorcycles roared past on the road outside; judging from the characteristic sound, they were most likely Harley choppers.

  Modin blinked as if to clear his head. He was intoxicated, for sure, but he exaggerated his condition with clumsy gestures and the occasional aggravated and irrelevant shouts and screams, pretending he was really wasted. I must look like a heap of shit, he thought.

  At the same time, he was ashamed that this search operation had turned into a dangerous and complicated project, which had started to seriously affect everyone involved with it. Fuck, he should have known better. The opposition was simply overwhelming. He finally started to feel the extent of Loklinth’s power, strength, and stubbornness.

  The plan, which he had already started to put into action at The Rock this afternoon, would go on for the following few weeks. He was going to make it look as if he had accepted defeat, just as Loklinth would have hoped. And not only that, he was going to show the world that he was finished, which might not be too far from the truth. The plan was to lull his enemy into a false sense of security. He was then going to set a trap, the purpose of which was for DSO to stop regarding him as a threat. Once that trap had slammed shut, he was going to hit them with all of his might and when they least expected it. But first, as part of building the trap, he was going to stoop into a quagmire of alcohol abuse and self-pity. Trick was to walk the line where those around him thought he was done for, while he still had full control.

  The prudent children’s family at the table next to him had no idea that they could be potential witnesses against him. Unbeknownst to them, unconsciously, they had been registering each of his moves and gestures. In the squinting eyes of the father, he registered envy for Modin’s seemingly carefree existence, his binge drinking and the prospect of getting laid that night. He could almost hear the envious thoughts imagining what it might be like to be free of the wife’s nagging and the kids’ whining and the 24/7 responsibilities of parenthood. That’s what he wanted, the right to get completely and irresponsibly wasted.

  Yep, that old fart would be the first to testify to Modin’s decline and decay.

  CHAPTER 43

  GRISSLEHAMN, SUNDAY, JULY 20

  “How is it going, Modin?”

  “Hi there, Bergman.”

  “A tall, cold draft please,” Bergman said to Ellie who had arrived at their table in a jiffy.

  Bergman sat down on the wooden bench with the blue cushions across from Modin. With icy glances all around the restaurant, he effectively dismissed the rubberneckers who had followed Bergman closely, ever since he had entered the room. Not until Modin was assured that all the vultures had returned to their meals and their cranky kids, did he turn his attention to his friend and winked slyly at him.

  “How the hell are you, Modin?” Bergman said obviously trying to tread carefully. “I heard they dropped the case. You’re free?”

  “Bergman! I love you and I will always love you, no matter what you do!”

  Bergman seemed embarrassed by this unexpected outburst of affection and was nervously drumming his fingers on the table.

  “What do you mean?” he said after a while, his voice noticeably tense.

  “You are going to pick up whatever is left of me,” Modin said in a low voice. “I have three weeks at my disposal, during which I am going to stage a Swedish version of Supersize Me.”

  Bergman looked at him in disbelief. “Have you been drinking?”

  Bergman got his tall draft beer and immediately gulped down one third of its contents. Modin did not respond. He also noticed that the family at the table next to him was collecting their toys, wind jackets, and other gear into two plastic bags, preparing to leave.

  Following their noisy exit, Modin continued talking in the same intense but low voice as before.

  “No, I am not drunk, just a nice buzz. I have read my Sun Tzu. I’m ready for the final round. And yes, I am free!”

  “Sun Tzu, what the heck is that supposed to mean?”

  Modin sensed a certain amount of insecurity in the question. Or was it maybe irritation? Naturally, Bergman harbored a lot of boxed-up emotions and repressed aggression within him. This search project was a risky proposition, to say the least, and his complicated relationship with Ewa was a constant source of annoyance. Okay, so perhaps the shit was finally about to hit the fan, Modin thought. Maybe just as well. For Modin, this was an unexpected turn of events. He put his glass of wine down while attempting to interpret this new edge in Bergman’s voice. For a moment, he thought he detected shadowed wrinkles on his friend’s forehead and around his mouth.

  “What the fuck are you talking about, Modin? What’s Sun Tzu?” Bergman asked loudly, turning the heads of some patrons over by the windows. “Have you gone completely frigging insane?”

  “No, I have not, Bill Bergman, my best friend,” Modin said in an attempt to defuse the situation. “I have not gone mad. Sun Tzu was an ancient Chinese warlord. His theories, valid still to this day, make up the basis for the KGB’s operational methods. Sun Tzu is still widely used in Russian intelligence training programs.”

  Bergman finished his beer while Modin still kept eye contact.

  “Sun Tzu’s book, The Art of War, is our reference material,” he said. Modin opened the book he had beside him on the table.

  “Here is what it says:

  All warfare is based on deception. Hence, when able to attack we must seem unable, when capable feign incapacity, when active, inactivity. Appear weak when you are strong and strong when you are weak. The whole secret lies in confusing the enemy, so that he cannot fathom your real intent. Only by being strong can you pretend to be weak, so that he may grow arrogant. Offer the enemy a bait to lure him; feign disorder and strike him.”

  Modin became stone sober as he was speaking. He watched Bergman closely and couldn’t hold back a pleased smile when Bergman put his glass down and did thumbs up.

  “Bravo!” he said.

  “That, my dear Bergman, is Sun Tzu for you. Catch my drift, you old fart? Or was that light beer too strong for a snob from the southern district?”

  Modin leaned back in his chair feeling strangely exhausted. But he had gotten his point across and was satisfied by that. He had subtly let Bergman know that he was in no way defeated. One way or another, he was going to initiate phase two of this diving project. In other words, they would continue to search until they found this submarine and then blow the story wide open in the media. Hit them back.

  Bergman called Ellie over.

  “My dear, would you p
lease give me a bottle of Chablis or whatever the fuck it is Anton Modin is drinking? It seems to be working for him.”

  The bottle was delivered and put on Modin’s tab. The two friends drank themselves into a state of brittle consensus. Modin further initiated his friend into the plan of his imminent public moral decline.

  “It has to look one hundred percent credible,” he snorted. “You are going to have to keep an eye on me.”

  Modin realized he had to be careful in not taking this too far. But on the other hand, he could not allow Bergman to intervene either, unless it was absolutely necessary.

  “But leave me be, let me descend into supposed oblivion, unless you think I’m really losing it.” Only if his life were in jeopardy would he allow Bergman to intervene.

  Bergman put both his elbows up onto the table with his hands together in front of his face. It was impossible for Modin to read Bergman, and maybe that was the intent. Modin could only hope that Bergman trusted him, even though he was far from certain about every twist and component of this plan himself.

  “I would like you to play along,” Modin said. “But please don’t tip off the other team members. This is a battle between Chris Loklinth and me. It might turn ugly, extremely dangerous, and even bloody.” He put down the glass, which, up until that point, he had been holding a few inches above the table. “You know, right now I feel like that wounded Bengal tiger resting in agony somewhere on the savannah. He lures his opponent into a false sense of security, when really he is able to strike at any moment. Please help me build that façade, Bergman. Only if strong can you pretend to be weak.”

  Bill Bergman started laughing. It was a joyless, bitter laugh, which somehow seemed to get stuck in his throat.

  But Modin didn’t notice.

  CHAPTER 44

  GRISSLEHAMN, MONDAY, JULY 21

  Anton Modin woke up with a bad hangover. He opened his eyes and was lying in bed staring at the white ceiling, which consisted of wide sturdy planks. A fly was bouncing between the closed window and the curtain. He regretted not having opened a window before going to bed last night.

  The fog in his head prevented him from thinking straight. What was the revelation he had had during the night? Thoughts that had appeared clear as lightning bolts in his sleep were now fading fast, leaving only traces behind.

  He got out of bed on wobbly legs and let the fly out. He also noticed that Bergman’s car was gone. That was unexpected, and in a childishly naïve way, he felt betrayed.

  He could at least have stayed for breakfast, Modin thought. Bergman was edgy all night. I wonder what’s bothering him.

  Venturing down to the kitchen, Modin passed by a picture of Ernest Hemingway halfway down the stairs. He remembered having bought it in Key West. Modin absolutely loved Key West. He had been there many times on vacation, and had more or less decided he would move there one day. Key West was the U.S. equivalent of Grisslehamn, but warmer and featuring failed artists, jesters, and disillusioned stockbrokers. Constant partying, orgies with gays, dykes, and macho men in an unholy mix.

  He turned on the coffee maker, grinded the coffee beans, and put the tray into the machine. While the steam was building up, he whipped up some freshly squeezed orange juice. He poured himself a tall glass of the icy cold liquid and made a cheese sandwich with matured Danish Havarti. The green light revealed that the espresso machine was ready, so he turned on the water, took out the milk, and skimmed it into a mug with a picture of a lighthouse on its side. He noticed Bill Bergman had left today’s issue of Norrtelje News on the kitchen table. From the radio in the corner, he faintly heard the nine o’clock Stockholm news. A bumble bee was buzzing outside the kitchen window, trying to make it in through the invisible obstacle. The buzzing drowned out the newscast.

  Bergman forgot to turn off the radio? What was that all about? Must have been in quite a hurry.

  Modin enjoyed the hot coffee and took a few bites of the cheese sandwich. He couldn’t let go of the fact that Bergman had left without saying a word, much less goodbye. Something must be weighing on him, Modin concluded.

  Modin flipped absently through the morning paper and slowly allowed himself to start enjoying the bright and quiet summer morning. The temperature hovered around 70 degrees, and it was prime vacation time. He put on his slippers, grabbed his coffee, and went out on the deck where he sat down in a wicker chair facing east, toward the warm morning sun.

  “This is almost like Key West,” he said aloud and squinted at the sun. It was too bright, and so Modin closed his eyes and tilted his head back, about to fall back asleep, when something furry was rubbing up against his leg. It was Miss Mona, probably back from another failed mouse-hunt. She was a fat city cat.

  “I have sliced up some of your favorite Bullen’s Pilsner hot dog. It’s waiting for you in the kitchen. Go and check it out.”

  Anton Modin pointed toward the kitchen. Miss Mona disappeared through the open glass door accompanied by excited purring.

  In hindsight, the drunken display he’d put on the previous day had been a success. Supported by Bergman, he had both stumbled home at night after a long session at the bar at The Rock, when the ‘big picture’ had emerged clearer than ever. Bergman, of course, refused to understand. “Stop it Modin, that’s nothing but the booze talking. There is no connection between events like the M/S Estonia ferry and submarine incidents!”

  Modin had kept his theories to himself, although he was convinced that the events had a close but invisible correlation. An awkward deafening silence had descended upon the two friends after that, although they eventually continued arguing about non-essential trivia. Modin noticed that Bergman’s eyes filled with more and more scorn.

  Modin shrugged off his inner pictures of Bergman’s sour face and instead meditated on his newfound view of the big picture—he was convinced that the series of peculiar events that had taken place in modern Sweden had something in common. Everything, from the DC-3 incident in 1952 to the Olof Palme assassination in 1986 to the M/S Estonia ferry disaster in 1994 could be connected in some way. Problem was that, when sober, he had a hard time seeing the connections. He peered out over the sea. The sun was baking. He fantasized that solving any of these mysteries would expose Chris Loklinth and bring him down, along with anyone within Special Ops who was assisting him with the cover-up.

  This is only getting worse, Modin thought, and the dirty laundry has to be dragged out into the light, once and for all. If we get to a point where citizens are prevented from finding out about their recent history, we soon end up in a society where the slightest opposition is considered dissidence and hence silenced. A scenario like that can become reality much sooner than we think.

  Miss Mona jumped up into Modin’s lap. He closed his eyes and slowly petted his darling.

  Chris Loklinth and his cohorts operated like former Stasi officers or the late FBI director, J. Edgar Hoover. Thanks to all the compromising information on leading key figures he had tucked away in the secret FBI archives, Hoover had managed to hold the entire American establishment hostage until his death in 1972. Everything, from infidelity, homosexual scandals, associations with organized crime, and illegal financial transactions was hidden in those FBI archives. The sheer knowledge that these archives actually existed was an invisible shield between the FBI and the American society as a whole. The shady dealings of the FBI were nobody else’s business. Hoover himself argued that the archives served a purpose in protecting the American public and the office of the President.

  No more than six months after Hoover had perished from a heart attack, President Nixon stepped right into the Watergate trap. Deep Throat, an FBI contact, leaked the scandal. The Republicans had broken into the campaign headquarters of the Democrats and stolen vital information, and the American equivalent to Special Ops had assisted them. It went way up high in the food-chain, and President Richard Nixon had to resign in August 1974. He was the first American president forced to resign, but probably neither the
first nor the last to take advantage of illegal intelligence information.

  Hoover reigned over the FBI and its predecessor, the Bureau of Investigation, with an iron fist, watching the succession of seven American presidents for 48 long years. No one could fire Hoover. According to reliable sources, it took his personal assistants about two weeks to burn his private archives, which held secret information on many officials in political and business circles of the United States.

  Modin carefully put his cat down on the deck. He got up and walked to the landing dock, threw his robe and slippers on the grass, and dove in.

  The brackish water was as crisp and clear as it could only be in the Åland Sea early in the morning. The thought of Ellie’s beauty quickly crossed his mind as he exhaled and wished he had someone to splash water on.

  Shallow romance wasn’t Modin’s cup of tea, and Ellie was heading back to the States soon, but he couldn’t help thinking about her for a while, an ordinary American waitress.

  CHAPTER 45

  SOUTHERN DISTRICT, STOCKHOLM, MONDAY, JULY 21

  It was ten in the morning and Bergman had been driving non-stop from Grisslehamn. It had taken him about an hour and a half. He had felt the urge to leave before Modin woke up, because he didn’t think he’d be able to look him in the eye without somehow giving himself away.

  As he was driving home, he had received a call from a man who introduced himself as Albert, likely the man who had held his daughter captive. He demanded a status report pronto. Bergman told him that everything was quiet, and that Anton Modin had cancelled any further plans of searching for the submarine. He also said that Modin was in a very bad state.

  Bergman unlocked the deadbolt and put his bag down in the hallway. Oh, my fucking God, what a mess! Lying to someone like Albert could turn out to be very risky, if not even fatal. How the hell could I be so stupid?