“Wait a minute, where’s Julia Steerback?” Harrison Bolt asked.
“She’s dead, murdered by her own brother,” Modin said quietly
The commander’s eyes became slits and his few wrinkles were exposed to the morning light.
“Can I see her?”
“She’s down in the bunker on the other side of the islet,” Modin said. “She’s been dead for two days.”
Modin got a lump in his throat. Even though he didn’t want to think about it, he realized that he had to accept the truth. He could have said so to Bolt without his voice trembling. But he was glad that Bolt did not have any more questions for him.
They went to the archive under the hill. Two crew members from the USS Key West followed. Bolt had motioned to them with his hand and they had immediately gone and grabbed an empty aluminum coffin. Bolt was carrying a small cloth bag. He walked with a straight back, his arms hanging loose.
Modin glanced toward the cottage and saw Filipson coming toward them, who had just arrived by helicopter.
It was as if Filipson didn’t see Harrison Bolt. He only addressed Modin: “I’ll take it from here, Modin. You’re safe now. The Swedish authorities are taking over. I’ve been in touch with the Minister of Defense, and he has given us free rein. My men from the Security Service are conducting arrests at your house as we speak. The Coast Guard is taking the rest to Stockholm. People are already cleaning up your place. The Swedish government will pay for any damage on your house. We’ll even foot the bill for the cat food for your sweet cat.”
Göran Filipson stopped talking and looked at Modin, still ignoring the U.S. Navy officer.
“You mean you have arrested Crack of Dawn,” Modin said. “Special Ops’ Crack of Dawn?”
“I know you are upset, Modin. I really am sorry. I just want you to know one thing. Crack of Dawn doesn’t exist anymore. It was disbanded in the mid-1990s. These guys were an underground cell, working for…” He stopped talking and spread his arms wide. “Yes, who knows? All kinds of criminal syndicates who were willing to pay. You will receive an apology from the government.”
“An official apology? Crack of Dawn is an organization funded by taxpayer money. They belong to Special Ops.”
Filipson didn’t reply.
“We are on our way to the bunker right now,” Modin said and gestured to Bolt.
Bolt and Filipson didn’t pay much attention to each other. It was clear that Bolt was not to feature in Filipson’s report and vice-versa. They walked side by side.
When they arrived at the archive in the bunker, Modin had the distinct impression that Harrison Bolt had known Julia personally. The American stood with his head bowed, honoring a Swedish woman.
“Can I bring her back with us?” Bolt said. “To Norfolk. Bring the boys and girls back home, you know.”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“She’s one of ours. Her real name was Julia Jones. She is an American citizen, employed by the NSA. I’ve been given explicit orders to bring her home. We always take care of our fallen members.”
“I thought she’d quit working for you and had moved home for good.”
“No, Mr. Modin. You never leave the NSA. She is, or rather was, still on an assignment for the U.S. Administration. She was one of us. I have to take her. Those are my orders.”
“That’s how it is, Modin,” Filipson said. “She’s one of theirs. She’s an American. They’ve been given permission by the Swedish government. You’ll have to let her go.”
Modin’s head was spinning. Julia, an American agent? He could not deny that. What he did not understand was why. She had revealed the SOSUS installation to him. Why? What had she been thinking when she suggested she was a double agent? Did she want help to leave the service? Did I let her down? No, she was right in the middle of all this and knew she would never be able to leave. I will never find out who Julia really was. I won’t ever know if our relationship was real, if she ever loved me.
“Take good care of her and give her a worthy funeral,” Modin said quietly.
He understood that revealing the existence of the SOSUS installation had been an attempt to repay her debt to Sweden, and perhaps to reveal her love for him.
“The worthiest of funerals,” Harrison Bolt said and fumbled with the cloth bag.
Then he unfolded the Stars and Stripes.