Mystic Navigation

By Matthew Laxton

A grief-stricken Swedish woman searches for a reason to live while the Second World War rages in Europe. A Russian visitor may be not what he seems.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781326982898

Book preview

Mystic Navigation

Mystic Navigation

by Matthew Laxton

Author's note

This is a work of fiction with some references to actual people and places and historical events.  The events have been dramatized to make for an entertaining narrative and almost all of the characters have been invented by the author and are not intended to correspond to any real people.  I apologise in advance for any possible distress caused by correspondence to real events.

February 1944

Petter was calm, for the most part. 

Waking up was the worst.  He felt a dry, almost painful panic as he looked around and realised how long it would be until his daily tour in the exercise yard. 

He would close his eyes and force himself to think of a beach he had once visited in Denmark.  The beach seemed to run the whole length of the small country with great rolling waves that crashed in and the endless wind bringing the smell of the sea to his nostrils.

Petter rolled over, opened his eyes and stared at the floor.  As he watched, a small beetle crawled across the floor of his cell and, encountering the wall under the single window, turned and walked back in the opposite direction.  The black insect maintained a reasonably straight course on the floor, despite investigating possible food items several times during the journey.

Petter was bored, utterly bored.  In the last three years he had not remained still whilst awake for a period longer than four hours at any time.  Now he had been stuck in this cell for the best part of three days.  The cell was warm and dry and did not smell.  Petter had been unlucky enough to experience the interior of a Russian prison and knew that if he were now incarcerated in a similar institution the chances are that it would be cold, damp and would reek of human waste and fear.  By comparison Petter was quite comfortable.  He had slept for much of the first day and since then the Swedes had been treating him well and he was even allowed to exercise regularly.  

Ever since he had been a child he had hated to be closed in.  He was never happier than when he was out in a field.  Even a dense forest made him feel afraid as if the trees were closing in around him.  He shuddered at the thought and just then there was the sound of locks being disengaged and the door opened slowly.

Mr Isakov.  How are you feeling?  My name is Robert Landström and I am head of the Swedish secret police.

Petter considered the man, a tall, grey-haired individual of approximately sixty years of age.  If Landström had not announced his calling Petter would have thought him an academic of some sort, a technical subject such as mathematics or physics.  As Landström spoke, his eyes betrayed little emotion but his manner suggesting a little timidity and no little sympathy.  Petter felt absurdly touched by this small outpouring of humanity until he remembered that Landström could probably easily still have him shot as a spy.

I am quite well, thank you, said Petter.

Landström studied the Russian as if trying to determine if he was already lying.

Yes, said Landström, drawing out the letter 's'.  There was a long pause that Petter found slightly disturbing.  Landström seemed not to notice but finally started to speak again.

Your commanders have been informed of your situation, said Landström.

This sounded ominous to Petter.  He merely nodded.

And I have talked to my superiors, at length, continued Landström.  You have an interesting history, sir.

Thank you, said Petter.

Yes, indeed.  There are many broken hearts in your past.

Petter said nothing but just looked evenly at the Swede.

And now you have taken to killing police officers.

Petter looked at Landström.  I swear to you that is not true.

Landström looked at him for a long moment.  There was something about the gaze of this academic man that made Petter trust him.  Petter looked at Landström's fingers and saw tell-tale signs of long term nicotine abuse. 

Before taking the name Petter Isacsson, Pyotr Isakov had been born and grown up in Russia.  His family had been privileged and his father, seeing the writing on the wall in the years leading up to the revolution, had taken his family and left for Sweden in 1913.  The newly-graduated Petter had been twenty-two years of age and could well have stayed in Russia but for his innate curiosity and his largely-unmet need to explore the world.  For all his intelligence, Petter was an insular boy, closer to his family than any of his friends and he did not miss Russia.  His good looks and affluence had made him very popular with girls and the exotic nature of his foreign accent did nothing to reduce his allure.

The family had lived in Sweden for only a few months when Petter was approached by the Russian government to work as a spy.  Russia was building networks of spies throughout Europe and the Nordic countries were no exception.  Petter's plan for his exploration of the world was put aside and, after a six month training period in Russia, Finland and Sweden, he became a full member of the Russian secret police, the NKVD.  Until this day Petter had never found another employer.

In his work for Russian intelligence he had been one of the cornerstones in a network of informants, friends and fellow agents that covered Sweden from Lund to Kiruna.  As Petter learned more about Sweden he had come to love his adoptive country almost as much as the country where he had been born, fifty-three years ago.  During the last few years, especially after the beginning of the war in Europe, Petter had begun to suspect that there was another force at work in Sweden.  Informants claimed to not know anything, friends found alternative activities and fellow agents were beaten or killed in mysterious circumstances.   Petter had traced an important part of this enemy to the very top of the Swedish intelligence service but when he had been about to expose who he imagined to be one of the leaders of this ring he had been framed for the murder of a policeman.  Incarcerated in a jail in Södertälje, Petter wondered what would happen.

Do you mind? said Landström, indicating the second bed.

Petter shook his head and Landström sat down facing the Russian.  Landström took out a silver cigarette case and opened it, offering one to Petter.

Petter and Landström lit up and smoked together in silence for a few minutes.

I believe you, said Landström.  The question is, who do you suspect?

Petter shook his head.  Who do I suspect killed your police officers?  You must be mad if you think I will tell you that.  How do I know you're not in bed with them?

Landström smiled thinly.  'With them', he repeated a little sadly.  You have been investigating this I suppose.  Of course you cannot know that I am not involved in such a group.  But at least I believe you.

Petter looked at the Swede.  The man's grey eyes betrayed very little.

Watch your back, said Petter.

Landström nodded and got to his feet.  All right, he said.  Have it your way, tough guy.  But you could be here for a while.

Maybe I will be comfortable here.  Avoid the war.  Could be nice.

That does not seem like your style, as the Americans say.

I'm getting old.

Aren't we all?

Landström knocked on the door to request the guard to let him out of the cell where he left Petter alone.

As darkness fell on February 23rd 1944, a force of seventy-five Ilyushin IL-4 bombers of Russia's long range bombing group took off from Stalingrad and headed towards Finland.  The force split over the Baltic, the majority of the planes continuing to attack Helsinki while twelve flew towards neutral Sweden. 

The twelve Russian planes arrived over the town of Södertälje, situated to the South and West of Stockholm, at 3:20 am.  They dropped a total of thirty high-explosive devices and turned for home.  Five planes dropped their bombs on the town of Strängnäs, sixty kilometres to the North-West.  Bombs also fell in the Northern Stockholm archipelago.

Four persons were injured in the raid.

Cyrillic identification was found on bomb fragments.

The door opened and woke Petter from a nap.  He blinked at the sudden increase in light.  Robert Landström stood in the doorway.

Petter Isacsson, you are herewith released, said Landström.

Petter stared at him for a few seconds.

Did you understand what I said? said Landström.

I understand the words, but I still think I am dreaming, said Petter.  He looked at the floor and stretched his arms and legs, pulse racing at the thought of freedom.  He started putting his boots on. 

What happened? said Petter.

It was Landström's turn to be silent for a short time.  The Swede was obviously weighing up what to say.

Let's just say that your landsmen have intervened.

Petter was surprised; Russia had put pressure on Sweden on his behalf.  He could not believe it.  He stood up and followed Landström to an office where his possessions were returned to him and two simple forms were completed.  Petter could not help feel that at any moment Landström would change his mind and put him back in his cell.  The Swede accompanied Petter to the front door of the police station.  Petter stood and looked up at the grey clouds of an overcast autumn day and felt his heart soar.

Landström smiled grimly as Petter was about to leave.  Thanks, said Petter, offering a hand, which Landström shook.

It might be in your interests to leave Sweden as soon as you can, said Landström.  You are being released today and I have no reason to ask you to stay in the country but all that can change very quickly.

No one is safe these days, said Petter.

Landström nodded in his sad way.

Petter walked down the three steps to the street level, turned and looked up the road.  It had been dark when he had been brought to this police station where he had been held these days and he realised that he had no idea where he was.  The police building was the largest in the street which otherwise was dominated by two long and boring lines of three-storey flats.

Is this the way to town? he asked, pointing, but when he turned around, Landström had disappeared.  Petter did not care; he was outside.  He shrugged and walked for a while until he found a public telephone.  He fished a few coins from his pocket and dialled a number that he had committed to memory.  He arranged to be picked up and taken to a hotel. 

The driver gave him a small bag that contained fresh clothes and toiletries and left him at the door of the hotel without a word.  Petter went inside and asked for a room.  As he was standing at the reception desk, Petter glanced at a pile of newspapers and was horrified by the headline; 'Russians bomb Södertälje and Strängnäs'.  His blood turned to ice.

Once installed in a moderately comfortable room, he sat and read everything he could find about the bombing and was relieved to discover that no one had been hurt in the raid.  Russia had not taken responsibility for the bombing but eyewitnesses had found parts of bombs with Cyrillic lettering.  He still could not believe that the bombers had something to do with his sudden release but slowly he realised that there could be no other explanation.  He wondered what would be expected of him when he returned to Russia.

There was a knock at the door and Petter got to his feet.  He realised that he had dozed off and was not yet entirely conscious.  He crossed the room and opened the door.  There was his superior, a short, rotund, sixty year old man called Yevgeny Orlov, who said nothing until Petter had closed the door.

Have you heard?

Petter nodded.  Orlov never let personal weakness and human frailty and emotion get in the way of business.  Petter had begun to believe that the man was some sort of machine powered by vodka and cheap cigars and satiated by a dubious taste in women.  In his defence, Orlov never pretended to be anything else than what was entirely obvious.

We have a bit of a situation.

Yes.

Did you hear that the siege of Leningrad is over?

Petter shook his head.

Things are running a bit emotional in Moscow.  I suggest that you do not go to Russia.

Petter was surprised. 

The reason for that is if you go there I will never get you back in Sweden.  Instead go somewhere else.  I have managed to get you a post in Britain.  In London.

Petter looked at the painting on the wall, a nondescript print in a vaguely Carl Larsson-esque style typical of the kind of artwork that hung in hotel rooms everywhere.  In the picture, two women were resting, sitting on the ground in a field on a sunny day.  The picture gave an impression that much work had preceded this rest period.  He thought about the amount of work that he had put into building the Swedish network.

You must have got close to someone important, said Orlov.  Do you know who?

Petter shook his head.  Someone murdered a policeman that was going to tell me about someone high up in the Swedish secret police who worked for the Germans.  The only thing I have learnt is I think I might have smelt some perfume at the place where my informant had been murdered.

A woman or a very vain man then, said Orlov.  He gave Petter a piece of paper with a name on it.

Report to Bromma airport in Stockholm as soon as you are able.  Find the man whose name is on the paper.  He will get you to London.  We will take care of Sweden for a while without you.  Good luck.

And with that Yevgeny Orlov left the room leaving Petter to wonder what had gone wrong.

Six months later

Anna awoke from a light sleep to the faint sound of the church bells.  She rolled over very carefully so that she faced the windows but even the gradual movement caused pain in the left hand side of her torso and down her right leg.  She lay still for a time while the stabbing sensation reduced in intensity. 

After a while she felt better and the pain had at least cleared her head a little but as she tried to sit up she was hit by a wave of nausea so intense that she was certain that she would be sick.  The sensation reminded her of the morning sickness she had endured while pregnant.  She lay back on the bed and dozed fitfully.

The most vivid dreams always came to Anna when she dozed.  As she dreamt, Anna was transported to childhood and her nine year old self was walking with her mother and father in the woods near their home when her parents fell into a huge pit.  They seemed to be unharmed but quite unable to take themselves back up to where their daughter stood.  Anna started to cry and her mother, Monika, tried to comfort her, smiling and issuing reassuring messages that they would ‘fix the problem together’.  Anna refused to be placated and cried with more intensity at which her father, Anders, intervened.  He did not become angry but did raise his voice slightly.

You are not helping, my dear, said Anders.  You have to help us.  Go to the neighbours, the Östlunds, and fetch help.  If they are not home try the next house until someone is there.  We will be perfectly all right here.

So Anna left her parents in the pit and ran to the Östlunds’ little pink house that was only a few yards from her own house.  Despite the fact that she was upset Anna still registered a mild feeling of confusion as she ran past her own home, as if her legs wanted her to go inside.  She hammered on the door of the pink house and to her intense relief; it opened to reveal Kristina Östlund, a huge woman with a scar on the left hand side of her face that terrified Anna.

Whatever is it my dear? said Kristina Östlund.  Anna had been told to not stare at people but she could not help looking at Kristina’s scar, a purple and scarlet narrow strip about three inches long stretching from the woman’s forehead to her cheek.  Mum said that Mrs Östlund had fallen a few years ago and Anna dared not pry.

Mum and Dad, they are trapped.  Please help, cried Anna.

What? Trapped?  Trapped how? said Kristina.

They fell into a pit, said Anna.

Kristina looked at the girl.  Into a pit? she said doubtfully.  Anna Johansson, if this is one of your stories, I’ll be talking to your mother again.

It’s not a story, I promise, pleaded Anna.

Kristina grudgingly gathered her coat and followed Anna outside, closing the door behind her.  She did not lock her doors, not even at night.  The two of them walked quickly along the street but Kristina stopped dead in her tracks outside Anna’s house.

What’s the meaning of this? said Kristina.

Anna was mystified.  What? she said.

Kristina pointed towards Anna’s house and there at the kitchen window stood Anna’s father, washing up.

Anna started to cry and Kristina took her by the arm and marched her to her own front door.  She knocked and the door opened to reveal Anna’s mother.

Is everything all right? said Monika.

No, everything is not all right, said Kristina.  Do you think I have nothing better to do than run around after your daughter’s daydreams?

Monika looked from her daughter to her neighbour and her mouth opened slowly but no words came out.

I give up, said Kristina and turned on her heels and went back into her own house.

Anders Johansson had joined his wife at the door.  Come inside, he hissed at Anna.

Anna walked into the house, her feet dragging on the floor as she did so.

Pick up your feet, said Anders. 

Anna turned to face her father.  But you were in trouble, I was trying to help you and Mum, she wailed.  How did you get out?

Out?

From the pit?

Anders looked to the ceiling for a couple of seconds.  Go to your room, I will come and talk to you in a minute, he said.  Monika touched him on the shoulder. 

Anna turned, trudged up the stairs to her room and threw herself onto her bed.  A few seconds later she raised her head and grabbed her favourite toy; a black teddy bear called Jonny.  She thought again about the walk in the woods and wondered about the pit and who or what lived there.  She wondered if she dared to go there by herself tomorrow after school.  Mum would not miss her for a while and would think she was playing with friends; Anna had done that before and got away with it.

Anna could hear heated conversation from the kitchen but could not make out any words.  After a few minutes the house went quiet except for someone climbing the stairs and Anna held her breath trying to guess who it was.  It sounded like her mother.

The bedroom door opened and Anna’s mother came into the room.  Anna felt a small sense of triumph for a second, for guessing correctly.

Tell me what happened today, said Monika steadily.

Anna explained about the walk and the pit and Kristina.  Her mother looked at the floor while she talked.

Nothing more than that, darling? said Monika.

What? said Anna.

Monika shook her head slowly; her silver hair flowed gently back and forth across her face.  She tucked her hair behind her left ear and smiled at her daughter.  It’s nothing to worry about, she said.

Anna had been confused but not been worried about herself up to that point.  She had realised that no-one else had the same