It was the warmest night of the summer. The thermometer hovered around 78 degrees, and the sun was about to set in the northwest. The early evening light made the deck of The Rock look like golden velvet.
All the outdoor patrons were wearing their designer shades, including Modin with his pilot model Ray-Ban, which he had pilfered from his old job at the airline. Wearing a white jeans jacket and torn blue jeans, he was sitting at his regular table. He was in an excellent mood, smiling all around and particularly at Kent E behind the bar. Every time Ellie passed by, Kent E raised an eyebrow looking at Modin. Without a doubt, Kent E now suspected that they were having an affair and he seemed not entirely happy about it. But they were not an item and Ellie kept her distance, which put Modin in a little bit of a dilemma. While he frequented this establishment every night and drank himself senseless so that people could revel in his decline, he could not, from a moral standpoint, behave like a douche bag at Ellie’s place of work. After all, there was some kind of spark between them. She was worth a better fate than him turning into a drunken mess.
The timing for a new relationship could not possibly be any worse, he thought between deep gulps of his beer.
What Kent E and the people around him did not know was that he stayed in shape by exercising daily—swimming and weight lifting. He could not allow too much of a physical decline. After all, a demanding diving project lay ahead.
If I let Ellie in on my secret and start a relationship with her now, I risk destroying my reputation as an alcoholic, he thought. I have put on too good of an initial display to let anyone ruin it. It is important to dupe the media into believing that I am finished.
Matti Svensson bicycle was parked outside the restaurant. Modin could not see him, but sensed his sour presence and glowing contempt in the air. Instead, his guest for the evening, Mr. Franck, showed up. Franck was a retired lawyer in his eighties with gray, medium-length, well-styled hair. He was of light complexion and had sharp, intellectual eyes. The beige linen jacket he wore had seen better days, but overall, the man seemed very well preserved. Modin had called him earlier and suggested they have a drink and talk about old times in politics.
“Please have a seat,” Modin said. “I have been told that tonight we will indulge in a fresh catch of shrimp.”
“Sounds good. I’ll have what you are drinking. Is it expensive?”
“Oh, never mind, tonight is entirely on me. I’m glad you showed up. It is not every night you get to sit and listen to stories from the Cold War told by an old fox from inside the spheres of power.”
“And you are a famous diver. I’ve read about your adventures in the papers, and besides; we’re almost neighbor’s, aren’t we?”
“Yes I suppose so; men from the sea. You knew all the high ranking Social Democrats, didn’t you, Franck?”
“Yes, I was a member of the party and also a member of the parliament.”
Ellie came over and brought a huge plate of freshly caught shrimp. She gave Modin a dreamy look, which almost made him gasp for air. He was going to remember this brief moment for a long time. How the heat built up and the noise from clinking glass and background clatter momentarily faded away; how, for a split second, their fingertips touched; how Ellie’s warm breath disseminated through his hair almost burning his scalp. It was like she had kissed him.
Franck dug into the newly caught shellfish; clearly, he loved fresh shrimp. The two men shared a couple of bottles of cold Chardonnay and enjoyed each other’s company and their small talk. The ex-lawyer had been a political bigwig back in the day. Just like Modin, he had his summer residence in Grisslehamn, and tonight he had arrived at The Rock in his twenty-seven foot Albin Vega, which he had sailed from the small village of Tomta, a few miles south.
“I was good friends with the author Wilhelm Moberg,” Franck said. “We were practically neighbors in Tomta. He was very much like you, Modin. I don’t mean to imply anything, but he committed suicide on August 8, 1973, at exactly eight-thirty at night. I take it you are familiar with that story, right? And his Emigrants series of novels?”
“Oh yes, I heard about that. Moberg walked straight out into the water. Sank to the bottom and stayed there. They say it is much like falling asleep.”
“Hmm, maybe so.”
“Yeah, that would be a death to consider when the time comes! Just stop breathing,” Modin chuckled.
“Not sure if suicide is ever the way to go. For those left behind it sure isn’t. I remember Moberg’s suicide note to his wife: The time is twenty past seven; I am going to search for eternal sleep in the lake. Forgive me, I could not endure any longer.”
“How tragic and yet, so beautiful.”
“It is strange that no one has considered turning his home out here into a museum,” Franck said. “I mean, they have turned the home of the lesser known author and artist, Albert Engström, into a museum. Engström is now the district’s late celebrity; the community has even funded the museum.”
Maybe the fact that Moberg was a socialist could have something to do with it, Modin thought, although he wasn’t really sure about Moberg’s political convictions.
He ordered a bottle of vintage Chablis.
“Weren’t you a member of the left wing extremist group Clarté before you became a Social Democrat?” Modin asked and focused in on the anticipated response to this directness.
“Yes, I was even the chairman of the Stockholm section. Yeah, times were different back then, in 1968.”
“I seem to have read somewhere in the Security Service archives that as part of its agenda, Clarté had to kill the king and disband the monarchy,” Modin said. “What the hell were you guys thinking? Or don’t you dare answer?”
“Well, I can answer that,” Franck said. “I have to admit that our vendetta against the monarchy was not very well thought through. But you should know that Clarté had a lot of prominent members. Now, in hindsight, I wish there was a way to publish the names to give us at least an opportunity to explain ourselves. Today I fear most people think we were nothing but useful idiots who had no real intention, let alone the means to overthrow the monarchy.”
“But you did, didn’t you?” Modin said with a smug smile.
“Yes, we really did want to overthrow the monarchy. We believed in the revolution. All that is hard to explain today.”
Franck raised the wine glass to his mouth, his hand trembling slightly .
“I think I read in the papers that it was it Olof Palme who finally ousted you in the early 1950s. You guys had been in Czechoslovakia together in 1948, right?”
“Yes, but that was before he turned into a full-blown socialist. Palme even reported us to the CIA through one of his contacts at the American embassy in Stockholm.”
“Palme reported you to the CIA as revolutionary activists? And then he joined the Social Democratic Party and started working for Prime Minister Erlander. How the heck does that add up, Franck?”
“Well, there are other people who are wondering the same thing, too. All of a sudden, he became a socialist overnight. Just like that. Very peculiar since, only the day before, he had been dark blue and right wing.”
“Can you explain to me,” Modin said, “how people who wanted to kill our king in the late 1970s ended up in key positions in our government ten years later? How the hell did you manage that?”
“Well, we changed our platform in the 1970s, started gravitating toward the middle, so to speak. Most of us became Social Democrats, Olof Palme became our leader, and the Communists were left out in the cold. Once we were on safe political ground, we made sure our communist comrades missed the boat. They had no say in the process. You had to be a member of the Social Democratic Party in Sweden to advance and be someone. But you should know all that, Modin. You are part of the establishment; you’ve been decorated with the King’s medal, right?”
“Well, I’ve been decorated alright, but I think if they could take this honor away, they would. I will forever be remembered as the one who found what no one wanted to find: the DC-3. That is my lot in life. I will never be part of any kind of establishment, Franck. Forget that.”
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.