The morning with Julia lasted far past noon.
Lunch was perch fillets with cream sauce and mashed potatoes. After the meal, Modin helped Julia move furniture between the various buildings and then helped paint walls in the basement under the rocks.
“It’s going to be nice here,” he said amidst long sweeping brush strokes down the wall. He was perched on a step stool, enjoying himself in the task. “Did you happen to see that pile of signals reports about shipping movements down here?”
“Yes, I did. Some copies are left in the boxes in the room over there. We copied everything before sending it to Defense Radio HQ on Lovön Island in Stockholm. Anything in particular you’re looking for?”
“There was an incident here last summer with the Russians and a sunken Cold War submarine. I thought that if I could crack the code…” He carried on painting.
“This signals surveillance station was closed down five years ago,” said Julia wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “The data we’ve got here is from the 1980s and early 1990s. Maybe an odd thing here and there from later years, but I wouldn’t bet on it. The Soviet Union did, after all, collapse in 1991, and it was one hell of a mess around here. Boxes of documents were left behind in the basement. But everything’s in code, so it’s impossible to read. I don’t think anyone misses the stuff. In any case, I’m not going to contact Defense Radio and ask them to come pick it up.”
Modin watched how she knelt down and started painting the molding. He had a hard time suppressing his memory of the fat thug sitting on top of her and Julia defending herself with a gun. He decided to avoid the subject. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help being held captive by Julia’s powers of attraction. A white overall was protecting her clothing and she was wearing a bandana over her hair. She reminded him of a little baby bird, one that had fallen out of its nest and had to be rescued. A gentle warmth flowed through his body. He liked the feeling, but knew that the last thing Julia needed was protection. She was well-trained, fearless, and—without a boyfriend.
He cleared his throat.
“Well, what I’d like to see is the material from the mid-1980s—’85, ’86 and around there.”
“Come on, admit it, Modin, you’re working on the Olof Palme murder!”
She turned her face up toward him and smiled.
“And why would you think that?” he challenged and stopped painting.
She gazed at him for a good while.
“Well, I suppose I am looking into it, just a bit,” he responded when he was no longer able to withstand her probing eyes. “I had a chance to take a peek at a few highly classified documents. Something is strange about the whole investigation, that’s for sure.”
“Are you chasing the money?” asked Julia. “Seven million dollars is still a hell of a big reward for anyone solving or contributing to solving the murder. Is it really so surprising that they never solved it?” She carried on painting. “I would back away, if I were you. You could vanish down a deep well before you come up with anything remotely substantial.”
“I have already stumbled on something and nearly vanished for good,” Modin said as he moved the stool and climbed up onto it again. “What happened to me out at Beckholmen was no accident. I’d just left the Security Service archives that night after leafing through the Palme dossier—the real one, if you know what I mean. I read some odd things about a Stay Behind organization called Crack of Dawn. Sounded like they were involved in the murder. Just as I was reading the important stuff, the head of the Security Service happened to drop dead. Amazing, don’t you think? They kicked me out onto the street. Matter of national security, they said.”
“How did he die?”
Julia had crawled away on her knees along one of the long walls as she painted the molding. She took her can of paint with her; it left slight white traces on the tarp that had been rolled out along the floor.
“Cardiac arrest. Just like that!” Modin said. “A massive heart attack in his sleep. That, at least, is the official cause of death. Quite a coincidence, wouldn’t you say? I hate coincidences.”
“Statistically speaking, pure coincidences rarely occur, that much I learned at the NSA. They can happen, though, and maybe this time they did.”
“It just doesn’t feel right. I can’t stand it when things don’t feel right. Makes me want to keep on digging. I would imagine that the murder of a Swedish Prime Minister by a secret organization like Crack of Dawn must have had a ripple effect on national security. Maybe still does.”
“It is dangerous, Modin. Don’t dig into the murder, I advise you. Solving the murder of Olof Palme won’t do any good. Maybe it’s better to just forget about the whole thing. It’s been so many years now.”
“I could easily imagine that it has to do something with our secret ties to NATO,” Modin said. “I mean, wouldn’t that be a good motive for murder? Keeping Sweden’s breach of neutrality a secret might have seemed worth a life or two, don’t you think?”
“I know a few things about cooperation with the west in those days, and it wasn’t all above board for sure. But checking into it is dangerous, Modin.” Julia was smiling, talking to the molding, holding the paintbrush in her right hand. “Personally, I’m not afraid. I don’t have much to lose, actually.”
“Neither do I,” Modin said smiling back.
“Besides, I’m just as smart as you are, Modin. You could use a little help thinking, and we would have fun while we’re at it.”
“So you are saying that the two of us should dig deeper, even though you just said I shouldn’t because it is so dangerous?”
“It’ll be less dangerous if we are working together.”
“Yes, why don’t you help me? We have all time in the world and nothing to loose. We are two losers, aren’t we?”
“Two losers in a canyon with no end…” Julia said.
“On an desert island,” Modin corrected.
“For starters, you should look up the former Prime Minister, Ingo Swanson, who took over the night Palme died. He doesn’t live far from here. Lives on Singö Island further out.”
“That isn’t such a bad idea,” he said. “As it happens, Swanson and I have…”
“He knows everything about the Palme murder,” Julia interrupted
“Would you believe it? I met Ingo Swanson last night, just before you turned up. Pure coincidence. He invited me over for coffee. Friendly guy.” Modin focused on his brushstrokes as if deep in thought. Fuck, Julia. I think that I might be falling in love with you.
“Ebbe Carlsson knew everything, too, but of course he’s dead,” Julia continued. “You remember the Ebbe Carlsson affair?”
“The Ebbe Carlsson affair,” Modin said slowly, dragging his words. “Of course I do. Ebbe Carlsson was an odd bird. The government gave him the task to solve the Palme murder, but instead he ran the whole investigation into the ditch. I wonder whether it was deliberate. We might be able to find something there that could be linked to the murder.”
“Do you know what Ebbe Carlsson was doing before he worked on the Palme murder?” Julia asked.
Modin got down from his step stool to get more paint. He looked at the unpainted stretch of wall. There was graffiti on it. He read: Anderson 1982-08-18, Killer of Rooskies.
“I always thought he was working for Special Services,” Modin said. “Officially, he was a journalist with Social Democratic tendencies, close to the party and Olof Palme himself. They say he used to sleep at a bench in Palme’s office. They must have been close, but then something happened with their relationship, a falling-out, perhaps. Ebbe Carlsson ended up out in the cold. Instead, he became editor in chief at the Bonnier Publishing house and started hanging around Intelligence and Security Service people. A real chameleon he was. Neither fish nor fowl. May even have been a spy himself. At least he did some service to the military DSO with mapping out communists in the publishing and news industry.”
“Yes, who knows? I think I remember he was gay and later died of AIDS. Shall we take a break soon and make some food? I could eat a horse,” she said, winking in Modin’s direction.