The CleanSweep Conspiracy (12 page)

CHAPTER 15

Lion’s Head

T
he breathtaking escarpment forming the distinctive Lion’s Head loomed over the shoulder of a solitary angler. He sat in his boat, holding a beer in one hand and a fishing rod in the other. The man was a “here and now” type, not given to introspection, but for some reason he sat thinking about how he’d ended up sitting in that boat that day.

It was well beyond time to leave Detroit, he knew. The decision had been made for him when a friend whispered, “Big Julie is looking for you. The word is you owe over forty large.” Big Julie, aka The Legbreaker, worked for a notorious loan shark. It was obvious he got his nickname from the way he persuaded people to repay their loans. Big Julie was a man people genuinely feared.

To put distance between himself and Big Julie, he had made the drive from Detroit to Lion’s Head, located on the Bruce Peninsula in Canada’s Ontario Province; it only took a tad under six hours. But the distance between the remote location and the city might as well have been separated by an ocean, as the saying goes. At least that’s what he hoped.

After hitting his mother up for some travel money, and with Big Julie hot on his trail, he took what he hoped was an ingenious route. There were five ways to get from Lower Michigan to Ontario: two bridges, a tunnel, and two ferries. Guessing Big Julie would have eyes on the bridges and tunnel, the best choice seemed to be the Bluewater Ferry.

“Fishing trip,” he fibbed to the Customs and Immigration officer on the Canadian side.

That was a little over two years ago now. Nevertheless, the thought of Big Julie still gave him the shivers.

He liked living there. The locals didn’t ask too many questions. His talent as a carpenter and his willingness to lend his skills to the resort community soon made his reputation. Living on a cash
-
only basis kept curious immigration questions diverted.

That day, a mile out on the water, he saw the face of the escarpment to the south, the one that looked like a lion’s head. He sat in his boat admiring a string of fish. The day seemed nearly perfect. The boat rocked gently as he placed the stringer over the gunwale and twisted the cap off a new bottle of Cracked Canoe beer. With the bottle in one hand and his pole in the other, he was about to take a swallow when a helicopter, sounding like a she
-
devil when it was finally overhead
—
a banshee
—
came round the head of the lion. He almost pissed himself.

Hearing that impressive sound made him do something unimaginable, for him. He dropped the beer. The bottle clanked on the aluminum hull and started spinning, vomiting froth. The helicopter passed directly overhead, at less than a hundred feet of elevation. The downdraft from the chopper’s rotor rocked the boat, and Scotty put his hands over his ears, ducking reflexively.

Looking up with a mixture of fear and awe, he saw the sky
-
beast rise abruptly and turn as if rotating on a pin, then strike off to the north, passing over the government dock.

“What the
—
”

• • •

Charles Claussen, the pilot, was alone onboard. He looked at his map and the straight line marking the flight path from Toronto to Lion’s Head. The link pointed to north by northwest. Charles Claussen had covered the 133 miles in slightly less than forty minutes. He was at the controls of the fastest helicopter his money could buy. It had been custom built for him. He chose a design based on the Sikorsky X2 and powered it with a light helicopter turbine engine. The craft utilized advanced blade technology to both dampen noise and maximize speed.

He knew that by the time he silently counted “one thousand and one” to “one thousand and ten,” at top speed, his helicopter would have traveled over a mile. He’d asked the manufacturer for the best, and the designer had adapted an antitorque system design, allowing replacement of the conventional tail rotor. That made it one of the quietest and fastest helicopters on the market.

Earlier that morning his corporate jet had landed at Billy Bishop Airport. After clearing customs, he ordered his pilot to wait, saying, “I will be back the day after tomorrow.” Before leaving the airport on Toronto’s waterfront, Claussen filed a flight plan outlining an itinerary that would take him past Owen Sound and on toward Tobermory at the tip of the Bruce Peninsula
—
right to the point where Georgian Bay empties into Lake Huron. His plan indicated he would be landing on private property near Tobermory.

“I’m looking forward to some diving and hiking,” he said as he started the helicopter, waiting for the turbine to begin its low whine. He knew Graham, the mechanic, was an avid diver who often explored the shipwrecks that had made Tobermory and the Bruce Peninsula region famous.

“I envy you, man!” Graham shouted just before Claussen closed the door.

Charles really had other plans for the trip, however
—
and they had nothing to do with diving. He checked to make sure his small attaché case was secure as he waited for full power. When it was time, he shifted the controls so that the craft lifted gracefully from the tarmac. He turned it in a 360
-
degree sweep of the area, checking for other air traffic. Satisfied it was clear, he pulled back on the stick that combined the cyclic and collective functions needed to fly the craft.

Once he had gained enough altitude, he dipped the nose and pointed to the northwest. He paid scant attention to the city passing below, which was soon replaced by farmland. He cross
-
checked his progress with the GPS and made a check mark on his chart as he passed Orangeville on his left. He made subsequent marks as he left smaller communities in his trace. Everything was going as planned.

With land behind, his flight took him over the crystal
-
clear, blue waters of Georgian Bay. He enjoyed the solitude, which was broken only twice by brief radio communications as traffic controllers acknowledged his path.

He knew he would need all of his concentration for the project ahead. Showtime would start as soon as he landed.

Looking out ahead, he saw a bump on the horizon. It grew rapidly in size until he could make out the outline of the side of a cliff. The striking rock formation shaped like the head of a lion marked the point where the face of the Niagara Escarpment rose majestically from the waters of Georgian Bay. From his angle, it looked like a proud lion indeed. He knew other locations in the world used the same name, but Claussen was most inspired by the splendor of how the limestone jutted up out of the lake, forming spectacular cliffs and caves. He believed
this
lion’s head was unique.

He nudged the nose of the helicopter toward the headland. It was the formation of the cliff that gave it its name. He knew the small port village lying just around the corner claimed the name as well.

Not usually given to sport, Claussen allowed himself a brief moment of amusement and excitement. He put aside all thoughts of CleanSweep, the plan he had dreamed about for years, the plan he had staked everything on. He had committed his life and nearly all his money to making it a reality, and the idea of his dreams coming true at last was intoxicating. He was about to meet with the people who would hand over the keys to the power he needed to complete his vision.

He was overtaken by a feeling of exhilaration and gave in to an impulse; he pushed the stick forward and nosed the craft into a steep descent.

Reducing altitude and diving, he experienced the thrill of high
-
speed flight at wave top. He leveled off and banked around the cliff. Turning west and rounding the head of the lion, he saw a man in a skiff pass just underneath him. Charles laughed at the man’s obvious alarm, and then pulled back on the stick as he realized he was going too fast and was dangerously low. He glanced at the altimeter and saw the indicator go from fifty to just over one hundred feet as he passed over the boat, and he realized he must really have given the man quite a fright.

Amusement over, he regained altitude and glanced down at the large power yacht docked at the government wharf.

“Ah, Spencer is here.” He smiled.

He leveled off as he passed Dyer’s Bay on his left. He made a sharp turn east to skirt the escarpment jutting in that direction. He hugged the coast until he reached the Cabot Head lighthouse. He was almost at his destination.

Spotting a small lake, he turned inland just past the lighthouse. The lake was surrounded by hectares of wilderness. He knew the privately owned lake was accessible only by a single paved road. He made a final turn to land and waved down to the armed guards as he did. Nobody would ever make it to this place uninvited.

The house was more than a cabin in the woods
—
it was a grand lodge built on the edge of the lake. Jutting out from stony outcroppings, it was a masterful combination of granite and wood that blended perfectly with the rustic surroundings.

A heliport was situated behind the carriage house, exquisite landscaping hiding its existence from view at ground level. He guided his craft to an expert landing and listened to the turbine engine pinging itself to rest.

He raised the Plexiglas door, picked up his attaché case, and stepped out. He raised his arm to wave and smile to his host, who was standing on a large deck extending from the lodge. Claussen was pleased to see two other men standing there as well.

“It’s time
—
and I’m ready.”

CHAPTER 16

Men of Mystery

H
e was the last to arrive. After unpacking and changing clothes, Claussen joined the others for dinner. He unfolded his dinner napkin and placed it on his lap, looked around the table, and wondered why he had ever allowed himself to feel intimidated by the three men sitting with him. He worked hard to cloak a feeling of smugness.

“I could buy and sell them all
—
well, maybe not Winston.” A slight smile curled on his lips.

He speared a piece of stewed elk and lifted it to his mouth. Chewing slowly, he savored the flavor, infused with a juniper
-
and
-
cranberry reduction. He reached for his glass of wine. Charles had nodded in approval earlier when his host, Winston Overstreet, told the server to decant the bottles in advance of the meal.

Charles loved to play at matching knowledge of wine with his host. “Hmm,” he mused. “I taste red cherries and oak, with a hint of olives and smoke. Wonderfully complex, I would say.”

Charles Claussen looked at the four bottles of Chateau Petrus Pomerol on the table, one in front of each place setting. He looked at the label, knowing Winston could only have found the rare 1961 vintage by special order or at auction
—
along with a price tag of close to $4,000 a bottle.

He knew Overstreet liked to think of himself as the quintessential country squire. He was sitting with one leg casually crossed over the other. His chair was turned, allowing him to glance out over the lake as they talked. He held his wineglass just so, in an affectedly lackadaisical manner that fooled nobody at the table. There was never anything nonchalant about Overstreet.

Spencer Abbot sat to Winston’s left. He looked uncomfortable in outdoor clothes, likely purchased in a hurried trip to an outfitting store in preparation for the weekend. Claussen sneered, thinking Spencer was more at home in yachting whites and a captain’s hat, although he was fairly certain he
never
touched the helm or any controls of his ship. “I have people to do that,” he’d once said.

Claussen had flown over the megayacht moored at the government dock in Lion’s Head.

“I was close enough to the ground to see the awed looks on the faces of the crowd of locals staring at your
little boat
,” Claussen said as he took a sip of wine.

Spencer liked to toss nautical terms around. “The twin engines will get her up to twenty
-
three knots cruising speed, fast enough for waterskiing.” He snorted wine and laughed, wiping his nose. “They told me I would need a crew of three, but they didn’t consider that I’d also need a chef,” he said as he patted his ample stomach.

The fourth man at the table said little, but that was his custom. He preferred to keep himself behind a scrim of silence. He was like an incarnation of the curtain dividing the action on stage from the levers, pulleys, and costume changes going on backstage.

“You sometimes remind me of the Wizard of Oz, Richard,” Winston said, turning. “Except we all know you aren’t the fake he was.”

Richard Waverly was a fourth
-
generation politician, often referred to as an “überconservative,” a label he privately wore with pride. He quietly used the family fortune to back anyone ready to promote his views. He had once confided to Claussen that he had studied all the great tyrants and dictators in history. “I’m determined to learn where they went wrong and how to avoid making those mistakes when our time comes.”

The two were clearly like
-
minded.

He was a veteran politician and knew what it was like to both win and lose elections. He liked winning better. In fact, he’d only lost one election. The experience had taught him that lots of money
—
and a lack of ethics
—
were surefire ways of staying in office.

He was called “Sir Waverly” derisively behind his back; his own staff detested him almost as much as his opponents did.

Richard Waverly was, however, a member of an elite political inner circle at the epicenter of power. Claussen knew that while the party leaders and power brokers may have considered themselves to be the ones in charge of the nation’s coffers, when Waverly pointed, the money would move in whatever direction he indicated.

Claussen looked around the table as he finished his glass of wine, considering his dinner companions. He respected Winston and thought of him as a person almost his equal. Spencer had a seemingly bottomless fortune. A man with that kind of money was easy to tolerate when he shared certain views.

Richard Waverly, however, made Claussen pucker like an unpleasant taste. There was just something about him. Power and money slipped through the man’s fingers like sand, and his promises were as hard to hold onto as quicksilver. Claussen didn’t have a choice but to woo him, though. Waverly was crucial to making CleanSweep a reality.

“Ulrich,” said Overstreet, the host, turning to the server. “We’re through with dinner. Bring out the other wine now. Put the bottles and glasses by the fireplace. We need the table cleared for later.”

“Certainly, sir
—
as you wish.” Ulrich bowed and turned to the other two table staff. He ordered them into the kitchen with a wave. “Mr. Overstreet and his guests are not to be disturbed.” As if it were choreographed, they all turned and left the room in unison.

Ulrich came back into the room carrying a silver tray that held four bottles and glasses, expertly balanced. He placed bottles and glasses on separate side tables, and with an obsequious bow returned to the kitchen, leaving the four men alone in front of the fire blazing in the granite fireplace. The initial silence was broken by the occasional hiss and spit as large, burning logs settled in the grate.

“Can he be trusted?” Claussen asked. “Your man, Ulrich?”

“Ulrich is my majordomo and has been with me for more than thirty
-
seven years. I have absolute confidence in his discretion. He will see to it that nothing leaves this room.”

Charles Claussen didn’t feel convinced, but said nothing.

Even at this time of year, the temperature dropped quickly at night. Winston stood and prodded the dwindling fire, stimulating more flame. He peered at the fireplace for a long time, as if he were trying to recall something. Finally, he put the poker back in the stand on the hearth and turned. He walked over to a bottle and gently poured some wine, swirled it in the glass, and breathed in its aroma.

“Gentlemen.” He raised his glass.

The other three stood as if they were marionettes whose strings had just been pulled. They raised their glasses and waited.

“Like the vintner of this wine, we have toiled in our vineyards long and hard, waiting for a vintage crop. It’s time to turn the fruit of our project into not just good wine, but
outstanding
wine. And Charles here,” he said, placing his hand on Claussen’s shoulder, “will be our master vintner.”

Charles Claussen basked in the praise.

They engaged in small talk for a time after that, but were obviously all eager to hear what Claussen had to say.

“Why don’t we take our wine and glasses,” Winston said, “and move back to the dining table to see about the project
—
the excellent plan our friend Charles has prepared for us? I’m assuming you have something for us in that shoulder bag. You haven’t let it out of your sight.”

Claussen had waited years for this moment.
Oh yes. I do have something for you,
he thought. The four men walked to the table, trying to outdo one another in appearing nonchalant. In truth, they were like children in a candy store. Charles could hardly contain his own excitement, either. The room was bursting with tension as he put his case on the table.

Ulrich waited near the table
—
it was his duty to guarantee total privacy for the foursome.

“I will call you on the radio if we need anything,” Winston said. He was the last to reach the table, having stopped to ensure the doors were all locked so they would not be disturbed.

Ulrich would stand guard just outside the room. He kept his hand resting on the butt of his weapon, a version of the Israeli Jericho 941 semiautomatic pistol, a .357 Magnum special. The kitchen staff and other servers were gone, had been driven away in a minibus. The security team had radioed that the compound was in lockdown and secure. Ulrich had left nothing to chance.

At the dining table, Winston put both hands on the table and leaned forward to watch Claussen, whom he considered his protégé, remove a video player from its case

“This is my proposal, in high definition. I’ll project it onto a screen for easy viewing.” He reached into another compartment and retrieved a flash drive, inserting it into the side of the player. Then he began unfolding a specially designed piece of equipment that opened in several stages until it became a four
-
by
-
six
-
foot screen. He positioned it at the end of the table.

He heard murmurs of surprise as the projector filled the screen with an image. Claussen’s handpicked graphic artist had crafted a bold insignia designed to foster a benevolent image. The program’s title,
CleanSweep
, was artfully embedded into the logo.

He handed each man a wireless headset. “I personally designed and fabricated these sets to a specially calibrated, fixed frequency. I’ve tested each one individually to make sure their range is limited to just our immediate circle,” he said, waving his arm around the table. “If you step more than a few feet away from the table, you will lose the audio quickly.”

Spencer stepped back and nodded. “I don’t hear anything but static at this distance.”

Claussen went on. “Stay close. I want to make sure you hear the soundtrack to accompany the images you’re about to see. We can pick up the dialogue without having to be concerned that anyone can overhear us. As Spencer found out, all anyone will hear is static if they back more than three feet away from the table.”

“You’re a genius when it comes to technology,” Spencer said.

They all knew that technological innovations were the foundation of Claussen’s immense fortune.

When the headsets were in place and the men were ready, Claussen pushed the Play button.

The logo faded away, and the soundtrack began to play in quality, digital stereo. Charles Claussen had supervised the presentation’s musical selection and had personally selected Henryk Gorecki’s Symphony No. 3, known as the
Symphony of Sorrowful Songs
. He savored the subtle irony of the choice. The composer had been inspired by the words a prisoner left behind, scratched on the wall of a Gestapo prison cell during World War II.

Somber music unfolded like a flower opening to bloom, and sorrowful images filled the screen. The first was a photograph of a man in the terminal stage of AIDS, taken just before his death. The other three men flinched, and Spencer even turned away from the screen.

“Watch carefully, my friends,” Claussen insisted. “This is what we are fighting, what we are up against.”

That image transitioned to show two men embracing, then quickly changed to show two women kissing.

“Disgusting,” Waverly muttered. “That’s why we need a marriage law that defines it as a pact between a man and a woman, as God intended.”

The next series of images showed young men of color in gang clothes, an aging Asian woman struggling to carry a string shopping bag, and a toothless man wrapped in a blanket on a park bench as he held a coffee can in outstretched hands, hoping for a handout. The voice
-
over said the man was so lazy he couldn’t even bother to get up to beg. There were many more examples like those, each photo chosen to demonstrate the people Claussen considered detritus
—
social misfits. The images had been carefully chosen to evoke loathing.

The last image showed two men walking away, the camera smoothly zooming in on the yarmulkes they wore. Then the video faded to black.

“Wouldn’t our world be better if we didn’t have to see such things?” the voice
-
over said.

Gorecki’s haunting melody faded and segued into different music that featured an edgy beat. The musical change made a statement: something new, something to pay attention to. Fresh images showed graphic videos with scenes of rioting and destruction so familiar from the newscasts during the economic conference in 2010, and from several riots at sporting events in the years following.

Images blended long shots and close
-
ups, with frame after frame capturing people wearing balaclavas and other disguises to keep from being identified. A soundtrack of sirens and police whistles ran over scenes of windows being smashed, stores looted, and cars overturned. The last scene was a long camera pan of hoodlums setting a police cruiser on fire.

Waverly sneered as he watched police officers forming a phalanx and moving in, swinging batons. The sound of their clubs hitting flesh could be clearly heard over the shouting and sirens.

“See that?” Waverly stood and pointed to an officer delivering a brutal blow with his baton. “That goon the police officer is hitting is getting just what he deserves.”

The other three nodded in agreement and made no comment when the camera zoomed in on police officers to show how black tape had been used to cover their badge numbers.

The sound effects on the video faded and a voice
-
over condemned the protesters as gangsters, Communists, agitators, thugs, mercenaries, and criminals. There was no reference to the thousands of peaceful demonstrators: mothers, fathers, aunts, and uncles. Ordinary people who wanted to vent their displeasure at the way the ruling class was ruining the economy and their way of life. Claussen had personally overseen the editing, of course, making sure that any such views were left out of this presentation. He paused the video, knowing the men at the table needed no further convincing.