The sun was already high over the tin roofs in the Östermalm district of Stockholm, an area with upscale apartment buildings. In this area, the locals sought one another’s company in bars and nightclubs between their eight-hour shifts, all around the clock. They kept an eye out for potential partners with similar values. They bought delicacies and other fine foods at the chic Östermalm market hall and visited the shops on Grev Turegatan and Stureplan nearby. These locals would never be seen straying west of the Sveavägen artery that ran north to south right through the middle of the inner city.
It was getting warmer, and during the day, temperatures were almost at summer highs. Within a month, the city’s regular residents and white-collar workers would be replaced by tourists. The locals would move out to Båstad and Torekov after Midsummer, and would only gradually come back during mid-August, when school started again.
Chris Loklinth was at work at Special Ops, which was housed in the Army Museum building; his department occupied the third floor of one wing.
He was looking forward to his vacation, when he would be sailing his yacht. He tended to cruise to the southeastern part of the Baltic, and last summer he had even been to the Kaliningrad enclave. He liked long, adventurous voyages. His wife was less into that kind of recreation, but Lieutenant Colonel Loklinth didn’t care all that much. She had no say in the matter. He had repeatedly told her that she was more than welcome to stay at home if she didn’t want to tag along. He was better off on his own anyway. What is more, he appreciated Russian vodka, which was a medicine for most things, even loneliness. His wife usually did as he suggested and stayed at home.
The summer weeks on his yacht were the only time he could relax. For the rest of the year, he had to be on full alert 24/7, saving his country and safeguarding his own and his department’s position. Unfortunately, this often meant covering up the mistakes and fuck-ups made by politicians, top officials, and other staff, both now and in the past. One example was the Brothel Affair that had exploded in 1976 and recently flared up again in the media. A carbon copy of the Profumo Affair in London in the 1960s. The Brothel Affair, a “Class I dossier,” was kept in the Special Ops safe along with the Class I dossiers on Olof Palme and other celebrities.
Loklinth unlocked the door to the archive that was hidden behind a drape in a vault connected to his office and stepped inside. In his mind, he was right in the middle of the Brothel Affair and went over to the shelf marked 1976. Never give up, he told himself as he opened an old newspaper, the very same paper that was now blowing new life into some same old shit.
He breathed deeply, pondering the affair that had once nearly brought down the Swedish government. Special Ops had been involved. It would have been a shame if they had missed such an opportunity—a pure home run. Using hidden cameras and microphones, they had collected a lot of material for potential extortion. Some of the full view shots of politicians, celebrities, and top business directors were real beauties, enough for many years of power. A portion of the material could still be used even today.
Before he closed the heavy door, he picked up Anton Modin’s dossier. Then the door slammed shut, and Loklinth locked it with a key on a chain attached to his belt.
He sat down at his solid wood desk, placed the dossier neatly in front of him, and leafed through it. It was worn and well-thumbed and had a vaguely unpleasant smell. Geez, I have to clean up this archive. Who would I trust to let in there to do the job? Have to ask Captain Lundin—he’s a good hand and the only one I can trust inside the secret DSO archive.
Bob Lundin was the sort of guy who followed orders without asking questions. He could work like a machine. He would clean up the scenes of accidents, could take on people who had an attitude, and when he wasn’t on duty, he was busy working out and fine tuning his intellect in courses around the world. He was a dangerous man with ambitions to reach the top; Loklinth was grateful he had him on a short leash. But his youthful exuberance sometimes annoyed him—yesterday he commented about the old security system in the DSO office and criticized that it was too easy to breech. Who the hell would dare to break in here. God? Ridiculous.
Loklinth himself had thinning hair and was getting older. No more youthful exuberance. But that didn’t matter. The fact was, he had the perfect profile for his line of work, and age was not important. Everyone knew that.
What else do they know about me? he wondered. Nothing. No one knows what I really do at work, not even my wife. I am saving the country is what I am doing, for fuck’s sake!
He put on his reading glasses and focused on Anton Modin’s dossier. After meeting Modin out at Beckholmen, he was sure that this was the last chapter of this business. Modin knew that he would shy away from nothing if he endangered the status quo. No matter how hard it might hit him personally.
The first page had Modin’s personal details along with a photo of a young man wearing a commando beret and a 1959 green field uniform. Modin looked grim and determined in that one, and Loklinth could not help smiling at what he saw. Modin had been so eager, willing to do whatever it took for the good of the country. In the picture, it seemed as if he was ready to walk past the photographer and brush him aside to get to work. Vintage Modin! Over time, he developed a deep loyalty. He believed in his service for the good of the country. He was moldable and did more or less everything he was ordered to do. He was the perfect operative.
In that photo, taken in 1984, Modin was 19 years old. A little fair hair peeked out from under one side of his beret. He looked well-built and lean. Bright blue eyes, a little cleft in his chin, high cheekbones, and a broad neck. According to the accompanying data, Modin was born on November 2, 1965, in the Katarina parish of Stockholm. He was unmarried at the time the picture was taken, and weighed 190 pounds at six-foot, two inches tall.
Loklinth knew that Modin couldn’t be bribed, so you had to scare him into submission, and that was difficult at times. And the deal he had struck the previous summer with Special Ops had made the situation even more complicated. The solution to the Modin problem had not been proposed by Special Ops but by the Minister of Justice.
The naïve bitch liked him! You can’t bargain with your worst enemies, you have to exterminate them, Loklinth thought. Otherwise you, in turn, won’t keep your job long. History demonstrated this over and over again. Eradicate and destroy. Then there’ll be peace and quiet.
Problem was that Modin had been like a son to him. I loved him like a father once, Loklinth reminisced. Still do, actually, but he’s the black sheep of the family. Started back in the 1990s, when he explored the background of the M/S Estonia ferry disaster. And he just keeps going. No one can protect him now. He’s got a couple of Security Service suits in his pocket, but what good will that do? He doesn’t stand a chance. Too bad he doesn’t understand that. Could have made a great boss here at Special Ops one day.
Loklinth got up, his waist sweaty from leaning back in the chair. He then lined up another chair, which had been standing against the wall near the entrance to the vault.
Who the hell keeps moving the furniture around in here?
Suddenly his legs began to shake. He slapped his thigh lightly, but the trembling did not stop. He sank down on a chair. His scalp had begun to itch terribly, and he scratched so hard he drew blood. It took several minutes for him to recover, still sweaty and now shaken.
“Bob! Come in here! Lundin! On the double!” he yelled through the office door that he had left open.
“We have to put an end to this Modin business.”