“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.