“Are you really going to dive?” Bill Bergman was clearly not eager for this adventure. He had plenty of other things to think about, things that seemed a lot more important. Modin knew Astrid’s whereabouts. Nobody else did. He had to make sure that nothing would happen to Modin.
“You’re still sick. Your sense of balance is off, and I don’t think you can dive without that, Modin.”
“Oh, we’ll see,” Modin said.
He went to get the sea chart and put it on the table. Nuder and Axman were still eating. Bergman had put aside his plate long ago; he had lost his appetite. His friends’ calm demeanor and their friendly, chatty conversation irritated and alienated him. It was as if they lived in a parallel universe. They were in full control of their lives, while his own life could careen out of control at any moment, collapse, and vanish under a thick layer of despair, never to rise again. If Astrid disappears for good, it’s the end for me. I’ll never forgive myself. Why am I taking these risks? For Sweden? Hardly. For Modin? Maybe. Ewa was right; he had to divorce himself from his friend.
Easier said than done.
Bergman looked out the blurry window. He wanted to be at home in his apartment and snuggle up to his daughter, eat potato chips, and relax. He didn’t ask for this. Didn’t need it. Didn’t want it. Modin’s insane. If he is right with this conspiracy theory, they will kill us all.
Modin, however, was in his element. He pushed everything aside to make room for the chart, spread it on the table, and marked the positions from the logbooks of both the Visborg and the Herkules, using a pair of compasses. Their position was one nautical mile from the Understen lighthouse, and around nine nautical miles to the northeast of Black Island.
“Fuck, it is deep down there,” Nuder said. “The chart says it is 730 feet to the bottom. Maybe the deepest trenches in the area. What do you guys think?”
“Great, another new record,” Bergman said in mock excitement. “Don’t count on me. I never do 700 feet this early in the season. Or late, for that matter. Actually, I just don’t do 700 feet. Period.”
“There must be some anchorage and a link to the Understen lighthouse,” Nuder said, completely unaffected by Bergman’s sarcasm. “The equipment needs power and some kind of center where data can be gathered and monitored. There’s likely to be a cable from somewhere near the lighthouse. If, that is, Understen is connected to the mainland underwater in some way. There is no other suitable spot in the area. The military has shut down all their systems along the coast. The end of all wars, you know.”
“Yes, yes, we know,” Modin said. “Anyhow, I think you’re right, Nuder. We’ll have to start looking around the lighthouse. We may find the end of a wire, or a cable rather, and could follow it.”
“People aren’t even allowed to moor at Understen.”
“In that case, we’ll have to work at night,” Axman said.
“Defense uses video surveillance,” Nuder said. “A camera that is linked directly to Military Intelligence. Mind you, that’s the only thing that they’ve got out there, as far as I know. Might work.”
Nuder’s voice was positive and optimistic. With a smile he got up and sat on the sofa in the corner. He pulled a boat magazine from the shelf and began to read. In the silence that followed, you could hear the rustling of the pages he turned. Nuder had said his piece and would leave the details of the plan to others.
“We’re not going to do anything out at Understen tonight,” Modin said. “We’ll just fill the diving tanks this evening and then take it easy. I have to plan this out carefully.”
“Go ahead and plan, by all means,” Bergman said. “I want to have a word with you later. About Astrid.” He looked out the window again and saw that the bodyguards had started the grill on the rocks near the sea cottage. There was quite a lot of smoke.
Modin was not like everyone else. The M/S Estonia disaster had altered his views on risk-taking. The loss of his family seemed to have rendered him immune to empathy. He just didn’t understand that Ewa had a hard time dealing with the absence of her daughter.
“She’s alive, that’s the main thing,” Modin had told him the last time Bergman asked about Astrid. “Isn’t that enough?”
Bergman glanced out the window again. He thought he saw something moving in the reeds.