“We have already put a freeze on any new credits for development in the region through our investment banks,” Pieter Willenstorch said. In the faint, dimmed light, he looked like he had aged considerably. He was the owner of the largest investment bank in Sweden.
“That is good, as a first step, but we have to be prepared for counteraction,” Filipson said. “From their point of view, it looks like they have been abandoned and isolated. Question is what they will do to even the scores. A possible scenario might be moving up their positions in South America or even Iran. Or the entire Middle East, for that matter.”
“Could it be that we have already begun a third world war, in ways that are not conventional?” Amelia Carlson said. “An entirely new type of war, not visible to the naked eye, not fought on the battlefield, but on the stock markets, bonds, rates, and credit structures all over the world. Battles, where the antagonists do all in their power to harm their opponents’ financial infrastructure? In the long run, this would also threaten our democracy and independence—whole eco-systems of financial instruments and banks failing overnight.”
“Yes, maybe you are right, Amelia,” Filipson said, staring at the marble floor. “Doomsday scenarios like that are exactly what we need to prevent.”
Filipson sat down at a temporary folding table on the stage, where his laptop was flipped open.
“How do we plan on informing the Swedish public that remnants of an enemy mini submarine have been lying in our archipelago all these years?” Willenstorch asked. “I suppose by this time there are no traces of it left, right?”
“Modin has the evidence,” Filipson said, “and he will dig up more once we grant him access to the Security Service archives. One member of the submarine crew survived the sinking in 1982, and the files in the archives will reveal the entire story. Only Modin has the credibility required to bring this to light. The intelligence community and our politicians spent all their credibility years ago. In the eyes of the public, we can no longer be trusted, at least not on this subject. We have been caught lying too many times to a people that has become skeptical, very skeptical. This is where Modin and his crew come in.”
While Filipson was talking, he slowly looked over the auditorium from left to right, color had returned to his cheeks.
In Sweden we stick together, he thought. We are way too small to do anything else.
CHAPTER 71
GRISSLEHAMN, MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 1
Modin was in love. At least it felt like love. Maybe not the head over heels all-encompassing passion he had felt for Monica, but an exciting passion nonetheless. He liked everything about Ellie. She was from a part of the world that he liked, and she promoted a cool, friendly, and independent lifestyle. She demanded and encouraged respect in a way that appealed to him. And moreover, she had brought him back from the dead by re-awakening his sexual appetite—and all sorts of other appetites, too, for that matter.
He had opened up to Ellie, and she had listened, understood, and accepted his story and emotional baggage. Her reaction had been natural, compassionate, and comforting. He could talk about the Estonia disaster and let his emotional guard down.
But, she was going to leave him soon. He felt a mixture of sentimental happiness and unbearable pain. Reminded him of the time when he was young and had fallen in love with a girl from up north at an outdoor dance party on Midsummer’s Eve. She and her family were leaving for home the next day and he never saw her again.
Ellie and he had only made love that one night following the bar brawl at The Rock back in June. Somehow this felt right. He enjoyed the level of distance they had maintained since. The last thing he wanted to do was intrude on Ellie’s life. She was young and had a top-notch education waiting for her back home.
She was a summer’s flirt, a fleeting romance, and that was all. She had no intention to settle down at age 26. Not with someone his age, anyway.
“Hi there, Modin, I love you.”
Ellie smiled, tilted her head, and chuckled in that distinctive yet subtle way that made Modin’s heart melt. She was wearing her dark brown hair down, slanted off the right shoulder of her white cashmere sweater, a piece of clothing which he was going to associate with her forever. Wearing a pair of tight, worn-out jeans and brown mocha boots, she was astonishingly beautiful. A slight tingling sensation traveled through his body. He felt weak and vulnerable, feelings he usually liked to deny. But he had decided to be honest with himself for once.
“I’ve brought some smoked herring. We call it Böckling. Do you want to try some?”
“Bockling?” Ellie said delightedly but with a distinctly American accent.
She sat down next to Modin on the wooden bench by the square in Grisslehamn, and discretely slid closer so that their hips touched lightly.
“It is delicious, please try some.”
The fish was from the local smokehouse right next door and still warm when they enjoyed it together in silence.
Ellie licked her fingers. Then she suddenly turned to him and kissed him passionately. She put her left hand on his hip and the right one around his neck and squeezed him to get closer. It felt like their lips were attached for eternity.
It was the first day of September, around ten o’clock in the morning, and the bench was right in the harbor and close to The Rock. The air was still warm, but the harbor yard was abandoned. The tourists had returned to the city. The fishing trawlers, all empty and desolate, were moored at the docks. The shops, open only for the summer season, had all closed up and hung up the ‘Gone Fishing’ sign. Only a few scattered lunch guests could be seen at The Rock. Ellie had been given her notice and was homebound. The season was over.
He loved this time of year, he told Ellie. The period from the end of the summer vacation until the time cold and darkness wrapped the small fishing village in its winter cocoon. Once school started, it was as if everything went back to a safe and secure state of normalcy.
She answered with a smile, still snuggled in his arms.
On the right side of the dock, and man was taking down a Deep Sea Fishing sign. At the same time, an old lady with a cloth bag slowly walked past on the road and looked at them discretely. The villagers had gone back to their normal routines. Time passed unrelentingly, like the sand in an hourglass.
“I will be back next summer,” Ellie said.
“Well, next summer is next summer,” Modin replied.
He looked deep into her glistening eyes and said: “Ellie, I am wondering if you could consider doing me and Bergman a huge favor. The biggest favor you have ever done for anybody.”
Modin paused for a moment.
“Sounds mysterious. What do you need?” Ellie asked suspiciously.
“As you might or might not know, I have a past with the Swedish intelligence service. Things went astray, and I decided to jump ship. I am currently in a bit of a quarrel with my former employer. I have won the first round, fortunately, but our disagreements are far from over. I am afraid that the life of Bergman’s daughter, Astrid, is in serious jeopardy.”
“Astrid, oh, she is so cute.”
“Yes, indeed she is. My antagonists have a nasty habit of getting to Bergman through her. She has already been kidnapped once, and they were not particularly kind to her. So, we need to get Astrid out of the country and fast. Here is where you come in, Ellie. Would you consider helping me with that?”
“What did you have in mind?” Ellie sounded very skeptical.
“You are going back to the States in a couple of days, right?”
“Yes.”
“I would like you to take Astrid with you. Put her in a boarding school in your hometown for a few months, until things settle down over here. I hear New Haven has good schools,” he added, trying to make light of the situation. “We will come and get her once the smoke clears, and of course, we will cover all your expenses and then some. You would do us—and Sweden—a huge favor. We would be forever in your debt.”
“What does
Astrid’s mother think of this arrangement? Is she in on it?”
“Well, part of the problem is that she does not know. And for the sake of Astrid’s safety, she must never know. Astrid will just have to disappear. Her mother will understand once all this has blown over. I am sure she will understand.” Modin was trying to convince himself as much as Ellie.
“Personally, I am not so sure about that. Let me think about this for a day or so. I will help you guys if Astrid’s life is on the line, but I need to figure out some practical arrangements.”
“As I see it, you are our only option. I trust you. I will stay right here, having my hands full, finishing what I have started. And you will do good. I know it, Ellie.”
“So, all this drinking and bar fighting? Was that because of your former employer?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“You have to promise to be careful, Modin. I care deeply about you and I will miss you.”
They once again united in a long and passionate kiss. She put her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, listening intently to the surrounding noises: seagulls flying past, the dull, slow pounding from the engines of a fishing boat far out in the bay. She wanted to collect and memorize these sounds, she said.
“Sure, you go ahead and do that,” Modin said. He had all the time in the world.
According to Göran Filipson, he could not access the classified archive at the Security Service until the necessary paperwork had cleared. Modin’s digging through those archives had to be sanctioned in such a way that it would under no circumstances come to the attention of the government. It was a highly sensitive and delicate process, Filipson had told him. Without a doubt, the Department of Special Ops had their spies planted within the Security Service, and a leak was, unfortunately, more likely than not. So far, there were only a few hands involved in the case and they had managed to keep it under wraps. Filipson estimated that it would take more than a month for him to be cleared for access. He had asked Modin not only to be patient, but to keep his mouth shut at all cost.
“I will be back next year,” Ellie said and opened her eyes. “I promise. And I will help you and Bergman in this delicate situation. You guys are my best friends.”
“A deep and heartfelt thank you, Ellie,” Modin said. “I love you, and will go on loving you from afar, up here in the snowy north where Santa Clause lives.”
CHAPTER 72
SECURITY SERVICE, STOCKHOLM, SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 28
“Well, that was like frigging pulling teeth,” Göran Filipson said. “Our Minister of Justice sends his regards and would like to thank you for the discrete way in which you have handled this.”
“Is the Minister of Justice aware that I will be able to see everything tonight?” Modin said.
“Well, knowing is a matter of definition, right? He definitely knows that you are about to lay eyes on some highly classified documents, which will help you move forward in your Cold War research. What he probably does not know is the magnitude of the classification and the explosiveness of the material’s content. This center-right coalition government does not know what is hidden down there, and maybe that is just as well. The ministers of parliament would not believe their eyes. That I am certain of.”
Modin jumped involuntarily. He had never before seen Filipson this serious.
“I sincerely hope that you will be able to approach and treat this material with the amount of dignity and respect it deserves. In a way, what you are about to see are Sweden’s crown jewels. We do not need an all-out riot on our hands or a coup d’état among our militaries. Even your old buddies over at Special Ops are in agreement on that. But a promise is a promise. Had you blown the whistle on that mini sub outside of Singö at the end of July, our relations with a certain foreign power would have been seriously damaged. And by that I do not refer only to Russia.”
“What are you trying to say?” Modin said.
“Come on, Anton. You know that we have handed a lot of information to the CIA and British MI6 over the years, and the submarines were no exception. Defense Radio and MUST are still working closely with NATO. This knowledge must not, under any circumstances, reach the public, because it would seriously harm our relations with the alliance. The government does not want that on their record.”
“You know that I don’t care about that,” Modin said defiantly. “I just want to see and open Pandora’s Box.”
“There is one more thing I would like you to know before we take the stroll down to the archive,” Filipson said. “You have been approved by all operational executives of the Security Service and by anyone else who matters. That means there are some quite powerful signatures on this approval. P.G. Vinge, Olof Frånstedt, and P.G. Näss, who were leading the department in the 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s respectively—they all signed off on your little excursion. That means you are trusted, Modin. You seem to have a very good rapport with all three of these living legends. I sincerely hope you will not betray that trust.”
The two men left the office on level seven of the police headquarters. They took the elevator down into the basement and were met by an elderly gentleman neatly dressed in a gray suit with shiny black shoes.
Modin had never seen him before, and Filipson greeted him without revealing his name. In his mind, Modin called him Eastwood, because he resembled his favorite actor and carried himself with the same cool and secretive demeanor. Filipson, Modin, and Eastwood went through a huge, heavy steel door, which Filipson carefully closed behind them, and stepped into a short hallway. Could use a fresh coat of paint, Modin thought as he noticed the peeling paint everywhere. They quickly traversed the hallway and approached another massive steel door with three heavy-duty locks, one at waist height, one at eye-level, and one at the top of the door.
Eastwood disengaged all locks and then carefully pushed the door, which swung open with a subtle squeaking noise. It was dry and musty inside, as you’d expect entering a room that held tons of old documents collecting dust.
Modin and Filipson followed Eastwood into the confined space. When Eastwood leaned over and switched on the lights, Modin found himself facing a large room with row after row of filing cabinets. Each cabinet had a posting designating the year. He immediately stepped up to cabinet 1982 and opened it.
“Before we leave you alone with all these treasures, I would like to reiterate that you are not allowed to take pictures or transcribe anything from in here. Is that perfectly clear?” Filipson asked.
“Not a problem,” Modin said, already absorbed in the task ahead and detached from his surroundings. He found the folder regarding the Singö incident, the sinking of an enemy submarine in Swedish waters, from September of 1982. He fished the dossier out of the archive and tucked it under his arm before continuing to the next filing cabinet.
“There is coffee in the thermos and some sandwiches over on the table. We will return tomorrow morning at eight o’clock sharp. That is when your time is up. You can reach me on this device, in case you need anything. Good luck.”
Göran Filipson pointed to a black phone attached to the far wall, turned around, and left, followed by Eastwood.
Modin waited until they were all gone, then he opened the filing cabinet for 1986. He turned around although he knew he was alone. It was an occupational hazard. Inside the filing cabinet was a fat dossier. The front page of the folder read: The Murder of Prime Minister Olof Palme.
Modin jumped when he saw the fat official ink stamp below the subject line:
The case has been investigated and closed. By order of the Swedish government, the investigation has been given the highest level of classification.
Security Service 07 November 1986.
Case closed? Fuck!
The Estonia file from 1994 would have to wait. First things first, he thought. The night has just begun.
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Enemy Of The State
As a reward for services rendered to the state, Navy diver and former Swedish Air Force pilot Anton Modin is given permission to spend one night in the top secret archive of the Swedish Security Service to do research. He discovers a dossier covering the 1986 murder of the Swedish Prime Minister Olof Palme. Just as he is beginning to get to the details of the dossier, Modin is kicked out of the archive. That same night, the head of the Swedish Security Service dies of a massive heart attack.
When he narrowly escapes an attempt on his own life soon afterwards, Modin realizes that he has seen material not meant for his eyes. To stay alive, he has to follow the leads that uncover covert arms sales during the 1980s, the murder of an investigative journalist, a secret CIA-controlled organization called Crack of Dawn, and all the shadowy aspects and unholy alliances of the Cold War.
On his hunt for the truth, Modin meets Julia Steerback, a former operative of the Swedish Signal Intelligence and its U.S. equivalent, the National Security Agency. Together they challenge powerful forces, including the head of the Swedish Special Ops. Soon, a turf war breaks out in the archipelago to the north of Stockholm and Anton Modin’s tightly knit team of specialists and divers has to pass the ultimate test.
Under Water
“The scars had not healed, and for that reason he thought it was right and necessary. He wanted to have another shot at what went wrong in 1994, when he asked his family to stay in the cabin while he went to see what was happening up on deck. Once he had left, there had been no return. He would make good for it now, after 16 years of pain, nightmares, and anxiety. He was going to check out the hole the explosion had made in the bow of the ferry, so he’d finally know why the ship sank so fast—faster than he could have imagined.
Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1) Page 39