Modin was in deep meditation in his bed. He had locked the front door and closed the deck doors on the ground floor, just in case. Bright spring sunshine was entering the room, warming it up. He was only aware of the present, he was totally relaxed, could not even feel his arms and legs. His brain was in the present, and he could examine the room from several angles, see himself on his bed. The muscles of his face were relaxed and his jaw hung open. He was breathing deeply and slowly.
As he gradually woke up, rested and with renewed energy, his thoughts immediately returned to the murder of Olof Palme. He wondered what it would mean if he could prove that a Swedish government department was behind the killing. Would this shake the country in its foundation? Would people even care? Would they regard it as a scandal, or merely a sign of the times, something from the 1980s, the Cold War, politicians that did as they pleased, or corruption within government in its most advanced form? Would anyone at home or abroad even care that Olof Palme, the Prime Minister of Sweden, had been assassinated by his own people, much like almost 200 years earlier, King Gustav III had been murdered by the military and the nobility?
It was time to get up. The bodyguards the Security Service was sending to protect him would soon be here, and so would his friends from the city. He had to arrange their sleeping quarters, so there was quite a bit to do before their arrival.
The bodyguards arrived first. Two of them, as promised. According to their IDs, Urban and Max were around 35 years old. Both were tall, dressed in dark suits and white shirts, and generally spruced up. As they took a seat on the kitchen chairs, their trained eyes glanced around Modin’s kitchen and through the window for any points that would help or hinder assassination. They both sat with their backs to the inlet, as if any attack would come from inland, through the front door and the hall.
Modin poured them coffee. The cups were from a set: Blå blom, Rörstrand, white porcelain with small blue flowers. Stylish. He looked into the light beyond the window. And couldn’t resist making fun of them.
“Look, a rubber boat!”
The bodyguards jumped to their feet. Urban spilled his coffee.
“Just kidding,” Modin said. “I’ll pour you another cup.”
Urban’s facial expression underwent a split-second surrealistic change as if he was chewing at himself from within. Without a word he grabbed a napkin and wiped his jacket.
Modin liked this. The guys had the capacity to stay under control. Max made a round surveying the ground floor and came back.
“You can always wear shorts and a t-shirt if you want to dress casually,” said Modin. “I won’t tell the boss.”
He put a plate of cookies on the table.
“No thank you,” Max said.
“Who were you protecting most recently? The Prime Minister?”
“Not this time, but we’ve done so in the past. There were six of us, and we took turns.”
“Really? And where do you stay when you’re at his summer residence? Harpsund, I mean. If I may ask?”
“At Harpsund we hang out in a small room on the ground floor near the entrance,” Max said, the quieter of the two. “We spend most of our time watching TV or DVDs. Nothing much happens. Those of us that work there stay indoors for the most part. Maybe the odd stroll or a sauna by the lake. But that’s about it. On the other hand, when we’re guarding the Prime Minister’s Stockholm residence, the Sager Palace, things are quite different. People are running in and out from morning till night. Much more to do than checking IDs and frisking.”
“So what do you do if the Prime Minister takes a vacation or goes on a boat trip through the archipelago?”
“We go along with him. Not in the same boat, of course. But we’re in the vicinity.”
“Not bad. You get a free vacation like that. Not bad at all. Do you incur expenses and overtime as well?” Modin laughed and did not expect an answer.
“We have a fixed schedule,” Urban said and reached for the coffee cup. “Nice place you’ve got here,” he said as he looked out over the inlet. Modin detected neither irony nor envy in his voice, just indifference. “And where are we staying?”
“In the sea cottage. Once you finish your coffee, we’ll take a stroll down there. Take your time, gentlemen.”
During the rest of the conversation it emerged that Urban had been working with the police for fifteen years and had been handpicked for the bodyguard unit of the Security Service two years earlier.
“You do a few years there,” he said without revealing what he thought his opinions on the matter were. “Then you get promoted,” he continued “Being a bodyguard is a springboard within the Security Service. Not many stick the course. You get fed up in the end.”
Urban lived in the quiet low-rise garden suburb of Bromma, not far from Bromma Airport, just outside Stockholm, and was married with two children, five and seven years old. A girl and a boy. Max, on the other hand, was not married and never had been. He worked out at the gym, did a lot of traveling, and had a good time, living as he did in a two bedroom apartment on the Hantverkargatan Parkway on the central Stockholm island of Kungsholmen, a stone’s throw away from Security Service Headquarters. Max had been with the bodyguard unit longer and was happy there. It was often very quiet and he spent his time reading and resting his muscles, which usually ached from exercise. It was all relatively boring, but his trips, especially those by plane, compensated nicely.
Modin was beginning to relax. Urban and Max were a couple of perfectly decent guys. They were younger than he was, but seemed competent enough. He felt that having them around for a while would not interfere too much with his daily routine.
He gave them a guided tour of the property and then went to retrieve the bed linen for the sea cottage.
The sea cottage, which stood thirty yards from the main building and not far from the pier, had a bunk bed, two recliners and a small table, plus an open fireplace. There was also a kitchenette with running water, a sink, and a stove. A fridge stood in the corner. Modin had stocked it the day before with beer and bottled water. By now, the beer had to be ice cold. The bodyguards saw this and a slight look of satisfaction crossed their otherwise blank but friendly faces.
A car approached along the gravel track on the other side of Modin’s house. All three standing by the sea cottage could hear the gravel crunching even before the car drove into view. Max scooted over to the corner of the main building and saw that a black Lexus was gliding in over the incline in the woods, its engine already in neutral. Modin could tell that he had tensed up and was reaching for his personal weapon as he scanned the car’s approach to the house.
Without slowing down, the driver steered the car off the gravel track and into Modin’s front yard. The vehicle came to a gradual halt. The engine was turned off.
Modin waved a greeting as he walked to the car. It was Bill Bergman. He stepped out, but froze when he saw the two men in suits. For a second or two, fear showed in his eyes until he realized that they were bodyguards here to protect Modin.
Modin knew that Astrid’s absence had worn his friend down; his eyes and his posture clearly showed that worry about his daughter was eating at him. Modin suspected that his ex-wife, Ewa, did not make things any easier. She must be furious by now, Modin thought. Not seeing your daughter for eight months could break the strongest will. He wondered whether it would be possible to bring Astrid home soon. He dismissed the thought when the bodyguards went to Bergman and checked his ID.
It’s still too early. She’ll have to stay in the U.S. for a while longer. I must tell Bergman more when the opportunity arises. But now it’s a question of being on heightened alert.
Half an hour later, John Axman turned up in his old BMW 318. By that time, Modin had explained the arrival of his guests to the bodyguards. John Axman was a police officer working in the IT department. He was a forensic scientist, mostly charged with examining the hard drives and web traffic of criminals. He was 39, six-foot-one, and weighed some 190 pounds. He was obviously well trained and muscular. His crew cut accentuated his lively green eyes. As usual, he was elegantly dressed in light gray pants and a gray jacket over a thin light blue shirt and white athletic shoes. His chiseled features made him handsome in a way that made both men and women admire his looks. Axman had a boyfriend, an artist who was in Paris to focus on his painting and would soon be coming home.
Axman had an array of talents that Modin found useful during his expeditions. He was a licensed helicopter pilot and an excellent diver with training from the Swedish Navy. But most importantly, he always turned up when needed.
“Hi,” he said in a jovial tone of voice. He was in the best of moods.
Axman greeted the bodyguards and then sat in one of Modin’s garden chairs. They chatted about their respective jobs for a little while.
Suddenly, there was the roar of an engine in the reeds. Max slid instantly behind a hedge, gesturing to Urban. Urban got up, his hand on his holster and moved toward the water’s edge. A large RIB came gliding into the inlet. Urban pulled out his gun and held it in front of him with outstretched arms.
“It’s Harry Nuder,” Modin shouted. “Look, our Hulk.”
The large RIB had three huge outboards that could reach a maximum speed of 75 mph.
Nuder was standing at the wheel proudly as he steered the craft carefully into the inlet. He was wearing a blue windbreaker over his powerful torso, had a gray sealskin cap on his head, thick gloves on his hands and pilot-style sunglasses in his nose. He was unshaven and had the look of a bear that had just woken in its lair. He was inquisitive, eager, and had masses of self-confidence.
Modin, Axman, and Bergman strolled to the landing stage to meet him.
Urban and Max looked over their shoulders and scanned the surrounding terrain. They seemed on their toes, looking at one another somewhat uneasily. Had they received instructions from their boss, Göran Filipson, instructions Modin didn’t know about?
Urban, the father of two, seems more anxious than the situation would merit, Modin thought, but he is trying his best to hide it from the rest of us.