Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1)

by Anders Jallai

  Out of nowhere, Matti Svensson showed up. He stopped at their table and pretended to sniff in the air.

  “Oh, so you are here again tonight? Well, one better stay on the sober side then. God knows what you might pull out of your sleeve, Modin. Set fire to the whole fucking place, maybe? That would make nice headlines in tomorrow’s papers. Please do that! It is about time we get rid of this imperialistic quagmire of decadence. This prime spot would be excellent for a nice book café, a place where intellectual minds could gather, drink tea, and discuss the essence of life.”

  Modin flinched. He got halfway out of his chair, but stopped.

  “You can go fuck yourself, Svensson!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “You communist bastard!”

  Deep down, Modin secretly thanked the higher powers for having sent this imbecile his way, so they could get a nice kick-off to this evening’s entertainment. The commotion caught the attention of the other guests who turned their gaze toward his table. One had to be blind not to notice their discomfort with the whole situation.

  To the outside world, Modin had become a caricature of himself.. A fallen hero slipping deeper and deeper into drunken oblivion every day. Not a pretty sight, especially in the daytime, when The Rock was a family venue.

  Modin’s plan was for every person around him to believe he was finished, particularly Matti Svensson, considering his role as Loklinth’s lapdog. When it came to spreading rumors fast, Svensson was the best.

  “I was a communist once upon a time,” Franck said in an attempt to cool Modin off when they sat down.

  “Yes, thanks, I am aware of that. All while those of us in the field had our hands full protecting Sweden and our freedom. Then you, and the likes of you, went behind our backs.”

  “We really did not have a choice during the Cold War,” Franck said. “Believe me, the alternatives were way worse. After all, Sweden is a decent country to live in, right?”

  “Yeah, I have heard that story before,” Modin said and emptied his wine glass.

  He got up and walked over to his friend Kent E behind the bar.

  “Kent E, please listen closely now,” he hissed between his lips. “Tonight I will do something that will scare the living shit out of you. I am going to die right in front of your eyes.”

  “Were you dipping into the moonshine before you came here tonight, Modin? Want some ice water? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I will die in front of everybody’s eyes tonight,” Modin repeated with gravity in his voice. “I plan on drowning and you are going to let me. Just leave me at the bottom of the basin for five whole minutes. Then you will jump in, dive down, and recover me. Next, once I am up on the dock unconscious, you will start the revival attempts assisted by Julie, she is studying for a medical exam.”

  “Fucking hell, Modin, have you lost your mind? I don’t want to be part of that! What if you do not come back around?”

  “Well, in that case, I would like to be buried under a simple wooden cross in the cemetery down at the harbor.”

  “No, come on, seriously.”

  “Yes, seriously,” Modin said. “I know what I’m doing; I’ve done it before. If I don’t come around within seven minutes, I want you to use this.”

  He handed over a syringe with a needle wrapped in a sealed, plastic bag.

  “It is adrenaline. Just inject it into my thigh; it’ll kick start me for sure.”

  Modin put the plastic bag in Kent E’s hand, closed it, turned around, and walked back to his table.

  Matti Svensson had rudely pulled up a chair and sat down without having been invited.

  So, he wants a front row seat to the show. That bastard, Modin thought. Well, by all means, let’s get that show on the road.

  • • •

  John Axman had just passed the ICA Supermarket in Älmsta and was about ten minutes away from Grisslehamn. He was listening to Pet Shop Boys on the radio, full blast. It was his favorite band, although he knew they were hopelessly dated. He was driving his beat up BMW 318 at a little over sixty miles an hour. In his mind, the car offered far less than the pickup he had wished for or demanded in a piece of German engineering, but at least he had the horsepower to move the car from point A to point B. Although Axman was rather comfortable financially—his family was, delicately put, stinking rich—he did not like spending money. Not because he was cheap, but because he did not want his friends to think of him as a spoiled rich kid. He’d rather put himself on a similar budget like his friends, and so, since Axel had not sold any of his artwork lately, any dreams of a Porsche Carrera would just have to simmer for a little while.

  In the front seat next to him lay a semi-transparent red plastic folder containing email printouts. He was content because he knew Modin would be ecstatic to see them.

  • • •

  “You fucking whore to Mao Zedong,” Modin slurred, deeply involved in an argument with Matti Svensson. “You seriously think one can create theoretical models around the human mind. What the fuck were you thinking back in the 1960s? Was it the Russians who brainwashed you?”

  “We believed in a better world; in a different world for all,” Svensson said. “We believed in human nature and in solidarity. First, we followed Stalin, and when he went out of fashion, we all switched to Mao. You may call us dumb or naïve or whatever, but we were far from alone.”

  “Okay, I can buy that, but the KGB?” Modin said and poured some Chablis for everyone. Modin’s hand was far from steady and a few drops splattered on the table. “How the fuck could you ally yourself with the KGB?”

  Heck, this is fun, Modin thought and looked around the restaurant. People were hunkering in the corners as if Modin was a ticking time bomb ready to go off at any second. Even the bikers had decided to honor The Rock with their presence this evening.

  Svensson’s little pig eyes had a strange luster in them. Having tasted the wine, he nodded approvingly and continued to listen, curious about what was to come.

  “We simply had to pony up to the Eastern Bloc,” Franck said rushing to Svensson’s defense. “How else would we defeat the bourgeoisie? The rich and wealthy with power, they always win. Both Prime Minister Erlander and Prime Minister Palme did what they thought was best for the country at the time. When it comes to campaigning for votes, the end justifies the means. Public voting rights were something relatively new back then. The Cold War was opposite of what the name suggests, pretty darn hot, and more dangerous than any wars before or after. In fact, this war still rages on. Neither side shied away, and neither were spring chickens with regards to shady politics. Do you have any idea of the havoc the Americans wreaked in Latin America at the time?”

  The discussion went on in the same spirit until Anton Modin’s eyes darkened, and he got up as if someone had given him an invisible order. With resolute steps, he went over to one of the biker thugs and planted a perfect right swing smack in the middle of his face. The guy dropped like a load of bricks, the chair tipped backwards, dragging with it glasses and silverware, all crashing to the floor.

  With a moment’s notice, Modin turned around and positioned himself with his back toward the deck railing. He was waiting for the biker to regain his bearings and go for a counterattack. Modin let both his arms down along his sides.

  “Come on you fucking bastard!” Modin yelled. “It’s scum like you who ruin nice places like this. I fucking hate you all!”

  All activity ceased. Silence fell over The Rock.

  The biker let out a guttural roar as he struggled to get back on his feet. The roar harbored all his pride and dignity; his credibility was on the line because of a fucking bum from the city. He charged forward full force and pinned Modin to the railing. With a couple of quick fists to the head, he had Modin out of balance. Modin’s left eyebrow burst and blood was gushing down his cheek. Modin did not resist, did not defend himself. He received the punches with eyes wide open. Just as the biker guy loading up for the lethal blow, Modin closed his eyes
and tumbled backwards over the railing.

  His body hit the surface with a dull splash and immediately started to sink into the murky waters. One of the women nearby started to scream uncontrollably. A few people ran up to the railing, distraught by the scene, trying to see if they could catch a glimpse of the victim. They waited. Apart from a few dissipating bubbles, nothing happened.

  The surface ripple slowly died down and the water turned into a black mirror. Nearby, a landing dock lamp cast its faint light over the scene as if to mark the spot.

  “Someone, do something!” said the woman who had been screaming.

  The patrons were frozen in place by the horrifying scene playing out in front of their eyes. Matti Svensson got up and glanced over the railing. He turned to Kent E behind the bar. “Call the police!” he yelled.

  Kent E was counting the seconds. Almost two minutes had passed. He had to gather all his strength to remain passive, and it made him nauseous while holding onto the bar counter with both hands. He watched as Svensson’s body started to shake over by the railing.

  “He is drowning!”

  Other than that, not a single sound could be heard in the restaurant.

  A younger man broke out of the crowd, ripped off his dark green linen jacket, and dove into the water. The faint reflected light broke into a glimmering mosaic as he disappeared. The surface once again became calm. Thirty seconds went by.

  Someone with sharp eyes could follow the man as he swam around in a search pattern close to the bottom. The water was barely twelve feet deep, and the younger man resembled a black shadow as he was moving around in the water.

  Three search passes later, he found Modin lying on his back on the bottom. Modin had inhaled the first breath of seawater and was unconscious. He bent Modin’s mouth open and blew some of his own air into his lungs while at the same time heading for the surface with a firm grip around Modin’s back. He kept his mouth pressed to Modin’s the whole time going up.

  Resuscitation continued with mouth-to-mouth as soon as joint forces had gotten the lifeless body up onto the deck. However, Modin was unresponsive. The younger man resorted to a couple of forceful chest compressions and continued the mouth-to-mouth, now with increasing intensity. Modin was as pale as a ghost.

  The crowd was gathering tightly around to get a better view. “Let me through, let me through!” someone was yelling from the back. It was Kent E making his way through, and he was holding something in his hand.

  Shortly, he had reached the two men on the floor and put a hand on the younger’s shoulder. It was John Axman.

  “Here, take this.”

  “What is it?”

  “It is adrenaline. Modin gave it to me.”

  “What the fuck?!”

  Axman ripped the needle out of the plastic bag and buried it, through the jeans, hard into Modin’s left thigh.

  A few seconds later Modin coughed, spitting water out of his mouth.

  “Fuck, you mean to tell me I had to be resuscitated by a gay man?” Modin turned his head away from the crowd and coughed violently. Water oozed from the side of his mouth and his lungs hurt badly.

  Matti Svensson was so paralyzed he had forgotten to take notes. He had thought Modin was a goner for real; he had said as much to Franck several times while they had been watching the scene.

  Svensson’s report to his ally, Chris Loklinth at Special Ops, would contain one sentence, and one sentence only: Modin is finished.

  CHAPTER 52

  “You could have been dead,” Axman said.

  “There are a lot of things I could have been,” Modin answered while carefully pressing his right index finger against his upper lip. His lips were swollen and a darkening black mark was developing on the lower part of his chin.

  Modin opened the pillbox and swallowed another capsule of antibiotics prescribed to him by the doctor at the hospital. The bitter, stale taste made him grimace. The purpose of the antibiotics was to prevent an oncoming and severe case of pneumonia caused by the dirty seawater in the harbor. Seawater he had inhaled voluntarily no less. Other than that, he felt okay. He had survived! Axman’s big eyes and way of looking at him was a clear invitation to keep talking, but Modin declined the invitation. He was not about to discuss moments of regrets he might have had while being down there.

  They were sitting on the porch at Modin’s summer house. Axman had not waited for an invitation to sit down at the white dining room table and was now leisurely browsing through the documents lying in front of him.

  He led Modin to understand that he had some pretty juicy information on Loklinth to share, and that he was able to back it up with a trail of emails. But Axman’s coolheaded rescue and resuscitation operation the night before had somehow gotten between them.

  Modin was toddling around the room in a white bathrobe and a dark-blue towel wrapped around his neck. He had a hard time admitting to himself that Axman had hauled him out of the water last night and, by that, had saved him from certain death. In fact, he knew but couldn’t admit that he had misjudged the situation and that the drowning-trick had been a bad idea. Therefore, he had not been able to properly thank Axman, at least not further than a perfunctory comment: “Thanks for coming Axman, I’m glad to see you.”

  Modin’s plan had been for Kent E to save him. Kent E had been a diving instructor in Thailand and he knew virtually everything worth knowing about diving. But last night at the quay, the circumstances had been extreme: it had been pitch black and time was of the essence. Would Kent E really have been able to hack that? He’d never know. His risk assessment had been questionable, but at least he seemed to have had Lady Luck on his side. Axman had been his Lady Luck. Modin just couldn’t figure out why he was so uncomfortable with that. But he was alive, and that was that.

  It was midday on the last Sunday in July. A persistent drizzle had replaced the previously nice and sunny weather. Out on the bay, the surface almost seemed to be boiling from the intense rain, while a thin layer of fog was rising from the relatively warm water, elegantly wrapping two mallards paddling along the water’s edge in an enigmatic mist. The sound of water splashing down the gutters could be heard right outside the window. It was a soothing noise, and it created a kind of intimacy between the two men who were listening in complete silence. Words unspoken about what had taken place the previous night united them more than any therapeutic exercise of talking it out would ever have done. They could handle this.

  Axman let out a short laugh. He energetically pushed his papers around to finally gather them in a neat little pile right in front of him.

  “Come on, Modin, let’s quit the charade now. I have some printouts here I think might interest you, ripped right from Loklinth’s network communication.”

  “You are kidding me? You have been able to hack into his computer?”

  “Well, not quite, but he has a wireless network in his house. I have been able to sniff out his Internet traffic for the past two weeks. From what I can see, we have more than enough to nail this bastard, once and for all.”

  “Is he surfing porn?” Modin said and leaned forward over the table, signaling that he was finally ready to move on.

  “Yes, he likes teens with small, barely developed breasts, but that is just an added bonus. What I am talking about is his email traffic. I happen to have a printout.”

  Axman pushed the pile of papers over to Modin, who sat down and immediately started going through it. Concentrating deeply, Modin read the first few conversations before putting down the documents. His eyes felt glossy when they finally met Axman’s, from concentration rather than tears or emotions.

  “Totally un-fucking believable! Now we got him. How in the frigging hell can anyone be so careless? And he is supposed to be the head of Special Ops.”

  Modin was beaming. The muscle stiffness and the aches were gone, as if they had never existed. His jaw was moving from side to side as if he was summarizing what he had just read and at the same time evaluating the inform
ation. Quick decisions following precise analysis—that was Modin’s modus operandi.

  “Axman, you realize that this is material we can put to good use right now?”

  Modin weighted the documents in his hand, moving them up and down. His eyes narrowed and his beat up lips formed into what was supposed to be an evil smile. It was not a pretty sight.

  “You know that doing so is highly illegal, right?” Axman was trying to be level headed. “He is, after all, a public government official. If something goes astray, they will hang us from the nearest lamppost.”

  “Yeah, I am sure, but nothing will go wrong, Axman. This is some heavy shit. What a frigging pervert. But the other material is even better. I especially like the email commending his consultants for a job well done.”

  Modin again browsed through the pile and picked out the particular email. “Loklinth is going to end up behind bars for this, unless…”

  Modin’s smile said much more than words could. He had an idea. He realized that the odds had now tipped in their favor. Chris Loklinth was practically a dead man.

  He felt a slight shiver going down his spine. He loved the rush of excitement. It was like a good buzz in the making.

  “You also need to take a look at this e-mail, Modin,” Axman said and handed him a sheet of paper he had kept separate. “I don’t think you’ll like it, but we have to do something.”

  CHAPTER 53

  STOCKHOLM SOUTHERN DISTRICT, MONDAY, JULY 28

  Bill Bergman had only been allowed to see Astrid for one single night after the kidnapping incident, and only because Ewa had not been able to get a baby sitter. After that, Ewa had cut him off. He had not seen his daughter in a week. Ewa did not even answer the phone. However, a few cryptic text messages had made it clear that she had started to pressure Astrid for more details on the kidnapping. The gruesome details, no doubt, would make her blow a gasket. If that information was used against him, he could lose his visitation rights once and for all.

  I would never be able to handle that, he thought. I would rather die! Bergman was restlessly walking back and forth in his living room on Bastugatan. He had the lights turned off. It was raining; a persistent, fucking annoying drizzle, which, he knew from experience, could keep hammering against the windowsill for days.