“That’s the sad part of this whole misconception. Mother Russia has never harbored any intention nor obtained the resources to attack Sweden. We love your country. Sweden is a model society, and we are looking up to you. The political leadership in Russia would never dare risking our good relations with you. The myth that Russian subs were ever near Sweden rests on disinformation obtained by the CIA. It is nothing but a misunderstanding.”
“So what about Hårsfjärden then?” Modin said. “The submarine incidents of October 1982?”
“Those were NATO submarines, probably from West Germany,” the Russian said and shrugged. “Those episodes have already been vindicated by several investigative documentaries on your state television channels. It’s proven.”
Proven my ass, Modin thought. He had to pace himself not to counter that ridiculous statement.
“What business would NATO have penetrating Swedish waters over such an extended period of time?” he said instead, in a light tone of voice.
“They wanted to sway Swedish opinion. They wanted to scare the media and, thereby the public, into believing there were Russian submarines. The purpose would be for your country to approach NATO and turn against Russia.”
“Sounds a bit too conspiratory, even for you,” Modin said with a wrinkled forehead.
“That’s how the CIA operates,” Ivan Polunin said, “by conspiracies.”
“So what you are trying to tell me is that NATO has been violating Swedish territorial waters from 1976, when we first had indications that there were subs in our waters, until 1992, when the intrusions suddenly ceased?” Modin said in a sharp tone. “Is that what you are saying, Ivan?”
The Russian thought for a moment.
“No, no, that’s not what I meant. NATO was only in Hårsfjärden, the other indications, as you call them, were swimming minks or pure imagination. Your state television has already proven that, also.”
“Yes, sure,” Modin said, resigned to avoid looking at Svensson.
“In essence, it is really you Swedes who owe us an apology,” the Russian said, now in a more serious tone. “During all these years, you blamed Russia for those violations, while in reality it was NATO and your own country that was behind it all.”
The world’s most enduring and effective conspiracy, Modin thought. A conspiracy going on for sixteen years to the tune of billions of dollars. Fuck, how I’ve had it with idiots trying to lecture me!
“Okay, I think I better leave now,” he said. “I have an appointment with a mink down south. Thanks for the vodka, Ivan.”
“Just one other thing, Modin,” Svensson said.
Modin froze mid-step.
“This theory of yours that Wennerström had spies assisting him is complete bullshit. The Russians would never have risked compromising such an important operative with fellow spies. That’s a brain fart from the pea brains at Security Service.”
Modin got up and put his glass down on the table. He had barely touched the clear liquid. He hated genuine Russian vodka anyway. Without a word, he slid open the door to the deck and stepped out. Immediately he felt the salty pinpricks from the sea against his face. He turned sober and was brought to vigilance at once.
Who had really arranged that meeting? Somebody clearly wanted him to stop believing in sunken Russian mini submarines. Someone who could read his mind? Was it Chris Loklinth?
CHAPTER 47
SOLNA, TUESDAY, JULY 22
Modin was heading for Stockholm on a narrow gravel road leading up to route E18. He turned on the radio and tuned into some local radio station, Radio Norrtelje. While “Jesus He Knows Me” by Genesis played, he realized that Anderson’s revelation regarding the big game was far more explosive than he had thought originally.
What was the old fart driving at? Why did he drop the information about Sweden’s secret military cooperation with United States and about the secret American SOSUS System in Swedish waters?
He pulled into a McDonald’s drive-through as the radio was blasting Jesus he knows me and he knows I’m right.
His appetite had spiked from all the information the older generation of spies had fed him. He had an Egg McMuffin with hash browns and washed it all down with a large latte while sitting in the car with the engine off.
Maybe it was a good idea to take the bull by the horns and pay Nilson a visit. Modin had been thoroughly briefed on Nilson by his friend Göran Filipson at Security Service. He had also received a copy of his file. Modin opened it with his right, while holding the coffee cup in his left hand.
On the first page was a large picture of Nils Nilson wearing a striped bow tie and black suit. Modin had a hard time believing what he read; it was safe to say that Nilson’s story was rather obscure.
The American signals intelligence organization NSA had given Nils Nilson the nickname Mr. ELINT, Mister Electronic Intelligence. Nilson had, for many years, unofficially served as Defense Radio’s contact with NSA and GCHQ, the British SIGINT. According to Security Service archive case HSC 197/65, his full name was Nils Erik Gerhard Nilson, born March 29, 1919. He grew up in the small town of Skeberga on the island of Torsö in Lake Vänern. He finished his undergraduate degree in 1936 with high honors. He spoke six foreign languages, among them Russian and English. In 1939, he enlisted in the Swedish Navy and served with big shots like Olof Kempe and Stig Wennerström. Kempe later went on to become responsible for Defense Radio’s signals surveillance section.
Nilson served at the Swedish embassy in Budapest from 1944-1945 along with the Swedish diplomat Raoul Wallenberg, the man who saved thousands of Jews during the war in Hungary.
In 1952, he supervised the group of radio operators carrying out signals surveillance and analysis onboard the ill-fated DC-3 aircraft. Shortly after the plane was shot down, Nilson suffered a nervous breakdown. But only two weeks later, on July 1, his immediate supervisor, Olof Kempe, promoted him within Defense Radio.
According to his file from 1965, Nils Nilson stood a hair taller than five-foot-eight, had brown eyes and dark brown hair. The file was established due to suspicions a Soviet informant within Defense Radio had voiced. In other words, at that point there was probable cause to suspect Nils Nilson of espionage.
He had become suspicious because as soon as Defense Radio had cracked a code, the intelligence services on the Soviet side changed their keys to the code. An inside spy for the Warsaw Pact had to be routinely leaking this information to the Russians. Based on the high level of classification of the leaks, Defense Radio’s internal investigators decided that this leak must be coming from a rather high ranking officer, probably at the director’s level or above. Nilson became a prime suspect.
In 1965, Nils Nilson had served as the Executive Director for the Defense Radio section S, which was responsible for signals surveillance. Later on, after Olof Kempe retired, he assumed responsibility for the entire branch of technical SIGINT.
The Security Service charted Nilson’s every move, discussing the terms, overall performance, and conditions of his employment with his immediate supervisor, Kempe. The case—cleared even to analyze Nilsson’s private life, family ties, finances, and potential skeletons in the closet—was given the highest degree of classification.
“Hey listen, Modin, Nilson is not getting any younger,” Gunnar Anderson had pointed out before disappearing into the fog. That generation of men is about to become extinct, Modin thought. What they know about the Cold War and its aftermath, they will take with them to their graves.
Modin walked over to the trashcan at the McDonald’s parking lot and threw the remains of his breakfast down the hatch. Then he drove all the way to Stockholm, non-stop.
It had turned early afternoon as he reached Huvudsta in Solna, the place where Nilson was spending his golden years. He entered the area through Johan Enberg Road.
The warm tires on Modin’s car let out a short but discrete screech as he stopped short, pulled in, and parked the car by the curb.
The stairs le
ading up to the buildings on Johan Enberg’s Road were dull and impersonal. The houses reminded you of the old Soviet Union, Modin thought. The entire million-homes-program from the 1950s and 1960s that aimed to answer the rapidly growing need for housing after the war, seemed to have been ripped from a Soviet propaganda film, only dirtier and with more graffiti. Exactly the same kind of houses could be seen during the flight into Pulkovo airport in St. Petersburg. Modin had taken that route several times. He wondered if, by any chance, it might even have been the same architect.
Gunnar Anderson had told him to mention U.S. President Harry S. Truman to Nilson. President Truman had been responsible for ordering the use of nuclear weapons against Japan in 1945, Modin reminded himself as he punched in the code for the front door. Promised to be an educational visit.
Anton Modin read the dark blue velvet nametag on the door: Nilson. Yes, it was the right apartment. He rang the doorbell and soon heard some activity from inside.
Nils Nilson looked, if at all possible, even worse than he had imagined, Modin thought as they both entered the living room of the two bedroom apartment. His face had scrunched up from old age and his eyes were only able to fixate on one thing at a time, as if there was some slow, constant, recognition process going on behind them.
“Would you like some coffee?” Nilson said in a remarkably neutral voice, not even a hint of excitement.
“Yes, I would love some please,” Modin said. “I brought chocolate muffins.”
Nilson scooped instant coffee into two old fashioned, cream-colored cups on the table before putting a pot of water on the stove. The kitchen was small and narrow, but at least it had room for a kitchen table and four chairs.
They sat down. The kitchen window offered a view of the street down below and the short wall of the next building over, which was exactly identical to this one. A rather depressing view, to put it mildly—a view that Nilson seemed to have tuned out years ago. Diagonally across the kitchen window, you could catch a glimpse of the balcony. On the railing, Nilson had mounted a sizeable satellite dish for his cable channels. Beyond the dish, you could make out the silhouette of the multi-story building right across the street with chimneys and TV antennas in stark contrast to the light-blue sky. Most windows had their shades or blinds down, as if the occupants wanted to protect themselves from the evil outside.
“Why do you have the satellite dish, Nils?”
“I use it mostly to watch Russian TV shows and news. Have to keep the language skills up to date, you know.”
Nilson was wearing a dark green sports jacket with an emblem on the left lapel featuring Latin letters. It looked like it had something to do with signals intelligence.
“Thanks for letting me in. I appreciate this.”
“You said on the phone that you had some important questions for me,” Nilson said and leaned back in his chair.
“I just ran into your buddy, Gunnar Anderson,” Modin said.
Nilson looked up.
“He claims you have information regarding the games and smokescreens surrounding the DC-3 that was shot down, but also about Wennerström, the spy. Is that correct?”
“Ah Gunnar, what a coincidence. I received a picture of him in the mail the other day.”
Nilson snickered and embellished the statement by wiggling his chair slightly.
“Who sent you that?”
Modin made no effort to disguise his curiosity. Nilson broke a faint smile.
“Chris Loklinth. He just wanted to inform me that Gunnar is still alive and kicking. He wanted me to know that.”
“So, Loklinth is still in contact with you from time to time?”
“Yes, he is,” Nilson said as his smile quickly vanished.
“Why is that? He has to have better things to do? Is he keeping you under surveillance?”
“I have no idea. Well, I do. Yes, he is probably keeping an eye on us.”
Loklinth is starting to get on my nerves, Modin thought. He is routinely checking to make sure that these old farts are not leaking anything inappropriate. This also means that both Nils and Gunnar are in danger now, because I visited them. A bolt of bad conscience and discomfort shot through his body. Maybe digging deep like that wasn’t such a good idea after all.
“Nils, please do me a favor and do not, under any circumstances, tell Loklinth that I’ve been here. Please promise me that. It is very important.”
Nilson raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Well, if Loklinth wants to know that you were here, he’ll find out. You know that, don’t you?”
Modin got up and scratched his neck. He paced. The recent events— murdered dogs, a boating accident, rape allegations—could not be easily dismissed. Loklinth was a cancer, and it seemed as if there was no limit to how far he could spread.
Modin turned around in the living room and walked back into the kitchen. He bent forward and put both his palms on the kitchen table.
“Was U.S. President Harry S. Truman in some way involved in the downing of the DC-3?” Modin asked.
He took a couple of steps back and waited for Nilson’s reaction.
“Harry Truman,” Nilson said, “that poor guy. His presidency was not what I’d call a walk in the park.”
“How so?”
“Well, the nukes on the Japs,” Nilson said. “It was rough times.”
“How do you mean?”
Modin concentrated hard, trying not to seem too eager.
“Deep down, Truman was a peaceful man, but his hand was more or less forced in dropping those bombs. That became the biggest crisis of his personal and professional life. Otherwise, I do not think anything would ever have come out.”
“Whole cities were reduced to ashes, so I’d say it was a crisis for a whole lot more people, too. But what does that have to do with a Swedish DC-3 over the Baltic Sea?”
Modin lost his composure for a split second.
“I can’t tell you about Wennerström and Gunnar Anderson. I’m sorry.”
Despite the disclaimer, Nilson had no plans to stop talking. He suffered from the lonely man syndrome and appreciated the company.
“Truman and Hoover never saw eye to eye. Truman was the first U.S. president refusing to toe the line and walk on J. Edgar Hoover’s leash. Truman was also secretly collaborating with the communists in his country. They helped him win the 1948 election, and that became his nemesis. After that, he was in the grip of the military industrial complex and the FBI, represented by its director, Hoover who accused Truman of beeing soft on Communism. The funny part is that our Prime Minister at the time, Tage Erlander, made a stealth trip over there in 1952, shrouded in secrecy, with the purpose of signing an agreement regarding extended military cooperation between our two countries. All of a sudden, Prime Minister Erlander was regarded as a close friend of President Truman. In hindsight, we realized that this trip took place only two months before the DC-3 was shot down by the Russians in the Baltic Sea. That was the price for Sweden’s cooperation with the U.S.”
Nilsson’s previously tense facial features had started to soften up a bit. His cheeks relaxed becoming shadowed little islands in a sea of wrinkles.
“Large parts of both Roosevelt’s and Truman’s administrations were at odds with the FBI in general and with J. Edgar Hoover in particular. Especially Roosevelt’s wife, Eleanor, quickly became Hoover’s favorite object of hate after she had publicly accused Hoover of trying to create an American Gestapo. Hoover never forgave her, and shortly after President Roosevelt had passed away, Hoover started to plant and disclose all sorts of rumors and information about Eleanor’s promiscuous affairs with both men and women.”
Nils Nilson looked at Modin with a smile on his face. He had the upper hand again. His memory was revived.
“Aren’t you the slightest bit surprised by this, my young friend? The world isn’t always what it seems to be. You should know that with your background.”
Nils Nilson kept smiling his crooked smile, with the left corner of his
mouth slightly higher than the other. He had probably long pined to tell his story. Now he had an interested listener. Knowledge is power. He could feel it all the way down in his gut, because he possessed a lot of knowledge.
“Yeah, what can I say?” Modin said.
“Probably nothing, but rest assured I am telling you the truth. The cardinal mistake here was that in December 1943, Roosevelt’s chief of intelligence, William J. Donovan, disclosed all American agents in Europe to the KGB. Initially, the intent was good: It was to help the Russians in their war against Hitler and expedite the end of the World War II. But, of course, it backfired. It would eventually turn out to be a catastrophic decision. The Russians were able to penetrate the entire CIA network in Europe. Today we can smile at their stupidity, but back then, the consequences were devastating. It later turned out that Donovan’s right hand man and friend, Duncan Lee, whom I knew personally, was a KGB asset. I knew him personally, by the way,” Nilson added, lost in thought for a moment. “The United States ambassador to Stockholm was the one who eventually opened the backdoor to Sweden in the late 1940s. Everything started during his tenure, and the recruitment of agents was kicked into high gear. But the West had not had time to react, so immediately following the war, the wide open backdoor was only used by the KGB and GRU.”
Nilson paused, then looked up with a sad smile.
“History repeats itself, that is for sure. I hope I won’t be here for a second go-around, because I cannot cope. All these years have drained me.”
Modin looked at Nilson in surprise. You don’t fool around with these guys, Modin thought. If Donovan, Roosevelt’s chief of intelligence, was a Soviet spy, the President of the United States could, in reality, have been Stalin’s lapdog. Absolutely incredible! Roosevelt, Truman, who else? Maybe Hoover was right after all; America had been in danger!
Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1) Page 26