The CleanSweep Conspiracy (17 page)

Other cars spewed out thugs, too, one of whom smirked as he clasped a bloodstained baton. Holding up their hands in self
-
styled salutes, they assembled at street level and began to surge toward the square. Thousands of spectators had gathered to watch a limo parade of political celebrities and heads of state from all over the globe
—
they were real, no longer just images on television.

The uniformed hooligans began spearing their way into the crowd, raising their arms and smashing weapons on unsuspecting heads. Bone
-
crushing sounds combined with screams. Questioning heads began to turn away from the red carpet.

“Time to bash even more heads!” said one man. Looking at his watch, he gave a signal: “Now!”

With the first explosion, the crowd panicked, trying to scatter, trampling those underfoot.

A small child with pleading eyes stretched her arms up for help, only to be kicked aside. When the crowd dispersed, she was lying still on the concrete
—
with blank eyes that would never see a future.

• • •

The first big blast came from a high
-
explosive bomb strategically placed in the Distillery District. Its position was calculated to cause maximum damage as well as spread panic and confusion.

The walls of a historic brick building
—
a former factory
—
seemed to belch outward as the shock waves heaved away from the point of detonation. Then the walls collapsed inward as the trailing vacuum sucked them back in, the overpressure creating an earsplitting sonic boom.

The heat from the explosion released a thermal wave, and newly exposed, combustible material incinerated in microseconds. Fragments of bricks, plumbing pipes, window frames, and furniture spread into the street as small shards were expelled at supersonic speed.

For those closest to the blast, death came mercifully fast. The shock wave ravaged internal organs, shrapnel from debris shredded body tissue, and the fireball immolated whatever was left.

Over the next seven minutes, five regions in greater Toronto were targeted, with similar results. The shock waves could be felt throughout the entire metropolitan area. Entire blocks were leveled and left in flames, transportation was disrupted, and three bridges were destroyed.

The psychological shock waves, however, had yet to begin to spread.

• • •

A predetermined emergency signal from police headquarters placed the city’s nine regional offices and eight area field offices on a war
-
measures footing. All uniformed officers
—
on duty and off
—
received a text message that ordered them to report to their stations immediately. Detectives and command officers, along with support personnel, were mobilized for the duration. Each had a preassigned task.

Over seven thousand uniformed men and women were soon activated. Rumors flew, and few bothered trying to hide their apprehension.

The first clash with Free Eagle Militia ended with injuries on both sides.

A police commander screamed, “They’re storming a hospital!” as he ordered officers onto buses.

Police radio traffic described dozens of confrontations with rioters. Medical clinics were also being raided, with people being beaten and left for dead.

Firemen watched helplessly as buildings they couldn’t reach in time burned and collapsed. Many were seen kneeling with heads in hands, weeping at the destruction.

Emergency medical technicians rushed ambulances through thick smoke, dodging debris, yelling, “I can’t hear you. Say again?” as radio communications faded out and in.

• • •

“Implement exit strategy,” was the Free Eagle Militia’s final broadcast.

With that simple phrase, militia men and women began their withdrawal. Like ghosts fading into shadows, they disappeared, leaving a stunned populace, the sounds of hissing embers, sighing buildings on their way to collapse, and the haunting sound of screams
—
human screams that no longer seemed human.

• • •

At day’s end, fire and explosives had ruined the trendy Distillery District, the Kensington Market area, Spadina corridor, the near
-
west factory region, and the area surrounding Allan Gardens.

The personal statistics were staggering, with 337 deaths reported and over seven hundred people treated for severe wounds. Overburdened authorities were still tabulating the number of missing persons.

“The attacks were well coordinated, and particular groups were targeted,” noted an anonymous government source. “Hospitals and clinics were stormed. We have witnesses who claim they saw a homeless woman beaten and dragged into a van. Witness accounts also described armed men and women in camouflage
-
style uniforms.”

“I saw the uniform patches, clear as anything,” one witness said. “They said Free Eagle Militia. I’ve never heard of such a thing. I watched them torch a Jewish church
—
what do you call it? A synagogue. It was like something out of an old newsreel.”

The clash between police and uniformed mobs lasted over seventy
-
four hours total. Order was only restored when special agents from a new program called Operation CleanSweep took control of security. The Free Eagle Militia began a withdrawal soon after and left behind a city of dazed citizens, shrouded in smoke.

Curiously, not one militia member was ever arrested.

• • •

After the first blast in the civic square, police security forces spread out to line the street. They opened a passage through the crowds and started waving frantically. Under their direction, the convoy of limousines began speeding away, smoked
-
glass windows rolling up as they left the area in haste. Dignitaries caught on foot between their cars and the square were pushed back to the limousines, bodyguards forcing them inside with rough shoves, the TV cameras capturing the scene.

Someone in the crowd began crying out as the Free Eagle agents took their cue from the blast and started pushing people next to them, using batons and sticks to start bashing heads. Soon more people were screaming. Then the crowd began stampeding to get away. They trampled falling bodies, unmindful of who was getting hurt
—
the only thought most had was to get away, get to safety.

Blood pools and splatters were suddenly everywhere, accompanied by the sounds of bones breaking and horrible screams of pain and terror. Then a second blast sounded to the east, quickly followed by a black cloud of smoke.

Radios crackled as police, security guards, and undercover agents were given instructions in a voice that was close to panic. “Units one and three, stay where you are. The rest, proceed to the Distillery District.” That was only the beginning. Rioting, vandalism, beatings, and even worse extended over the next two days.

• • •

“This is Leonard Paulsen reporting for Action 21 News. I apologize for the poor quality of the video. We are operating from a temporary studio, and are using portable generators for power.

“The city has been the scene of unprecedented rioting over the past forty
-
eight hours. At latest count, there are hundreds dead and twenty
-
five hundred injuries reported. There is no way to estimate the damage in dollar terms yet, but the destruction of property has been enormous.

“Metropolitan Police Services Chief Claude Randall is urging calm and asking all residents to remain in their homes unless they are needed on urgent business.

“We are also requested to pass along an announcement from the new security organization,” the newscaster said, as he looked down at a paper he was holding, “CleanSweep.”

He turned to look back up at the camera. “When the all
-
clear is sounded, each citizen is to report to the nearest CleanSweep substation to be documented and issued with a new photo ID. There are no exceptions to this order.”

A map of the city appeared as the background, showing the locations of CleanSweep stations.

“Reports from the field indicate the city is returning to normal. Four areas of the city have received significant damage, with the Distillery District the hardest hit. All hospital and emergency rooms are operational except at Central Hospital; its patients have been moved to other facilities. The hospital is apparently so badly damaged it is not expected to reopen soon.

“This story just in,” the newsreader said next.

“Police have tentatively identified the person who apparently jumped to his death from the City View condominium building last night. According to a detective on the scene, it was Matthew Tremain, the well
-
liked investigative blogger. No further information is available, but a source did say that Tremain was undergoing treatment for depression.

“The suicide count is now up to fifteen, according to reports. Ever since the rioting began and the new regulations have been implemented, it has been difficult to access official records.

“In other news, there is still no word on the whereabouts of Action 21’s own reporter Susan Payne or her cameraman. Before her disappearance, Payne was working on a background story regarding Operation CleanSweep.”

After a brief moment, the screen went dark.

CHAPTER 21

After the Riots

T
he Ten
-
Eight was a saloon, not even worthy of the terms
bar
,
pub
, or
tavern
. Most would call it a dive, a dump, a place decent people should avoid. “Keep walking,” mothers would say as they passed it, noses turned up in disgust as they held their children’s hands tightly.

The place was deliberately uninviting. Smoked
-
glass windows discouraged scrutiny, a solitary neon sign winked a halfhearted invitation. Anyone happening by did so quickly. The front door was hard to open, another challenge meant to discourage all but the most tenacious visitors.

The neon sign flashed the numbers that made up the saloon’s name. It was an unofficial headquarters, a place preferred by a select group of off
-
duty police officers and detectives. A ten
-
eight signal in cop code meant “officer on duty,” making the name of the bar an irony
—
one that only patrons of this cop bar appreciated. That night, however, the bar was deserted except for the barkeep and two men sitting at the counter.

“The worst seventy
-
two hours of my life,” Carling grumbled. “The city’s ruined. I don’t know if it will ever recover. Look around
—
there’s nobody left.”

“Where were you when the balloon went up?” asked his friend.

Carling turned and stared. “What the fuck are you talking about? What balloon?”

Detective Sergeant Wallace Carling was nursing a beer and sitting next to Scott, a detective from his team and one of his few close friends.

“I heard it in a movie,” Scott said. “You know, when they knew the enemy was coming they would say the balloon was going up
—
something big was about to happen. So where were you”
—
he gestured in an upward spiral
—
“when this balloon went up?”

Carling thought about it for a moment. “I was alone, at my desk,” he finally said. “It was quiet. The other detectives in my unit were either off duty or out in the field when all hell broke loose. Phones started ringing on everybody’s desk, with no one except me there to answer them. Shortly after the phones began ringing, though, the emergency alarm Klaxon started in. That made an awful racket
…
a horrible sound.” There was hesitation in his voice as he related the memory.

“We half expected a disturbance like this, even trained for it. The assholes that organized this international conference should have known better
—
that something like this would happen. The summit is an open invitation to hooligans. What were they thinking?”

It wasn’t a question.

“We knew there was bound to be a repeat of the 2010 riots, but this was far more serious than we ever imagined.” He took a slow sip of beer, wiped the foam from his lips, and looked in the mirror behind the bar.

Do I really look that tired?

“Some wiseass came up with the bright idea that any detectives who were not working undercover should suit up or have their uniforms nearby for the duration of the conference. They were prepping us for a riot. Hell, it wasn’t a riot, it was
riots
—
plural. Someone at the top of our food chain thinks the mere presence of uniforms provides a feeling of security. So I hurried to my locker and put on my uniform.”

Carling took a long drink, then grunted. “I haven’t worn mine in years, and it was too tight for comfort. Then I saw my reflection.” He grimaced at the thought. “Where the fuck did all those rioters come from anyway? They were prepared, I tell you
—
organized.”

Scott just nodded.

“I needed this break. We all did,” Carling said. “This is the first real one I’ve had since the riots started.”

“That’s the same for me, for sure,” Scott mumbled. “All I’ve had time for is grabbing a quick bite and a smoke.” He rubbed his glass on his forehead to cool it. “Damn, it’s hot for this time of the year. I’m beat.”

“How could this have happened? We heard rumors about intelligence pointing to a riot or disorder, but this went so far beyond that!” Carling was almost shouting. “The other riot back in 2010 looks like child’s play next to this. This was prearranged, I tell you.” He banged his empty mug down on the counter.

For the usually taciturn Carling, this amounted to a soapbox speech.

“I haven’t had much sleep in the past seventy
-
two hours, and I know it’s the same for you,” Scott said. He signaled Randy, the bartender, for another round. “I’m surprised you’re still open,” Scott said as he placed the beers on the counter.

“I’m totally out of draught beer and down to a few cases of bottles, mostly the crap nobody will buy
—
except in an emergency,” the barkeep grunted. “When my inventory’s gone, it’ll be lights out. I’m calling it quits. Hell, I even sent all my people home. What’s the use of even locking the door? The city’s gone to crap now. What’s left of it? I just don’t care anymore.” He hid his tears behind indignant words.

Randy walked away, picked up a cloth, and started polishing empty glasses while muttering obscenities. Watching the pointless cleaning, Carling reflected how people often filled a vacuum with ritual, especially when they were at a loss.

“How much sleep have any of us had?” Carling said. “I fell asleep at my desk a couple of hours back, right in the middle of filling out a form. When I snapped awake to someone coughing, I decided it was time to head here.”

Scott nodded. “I was almost asleep behind the wheel, waiting to get waved through a snarled intersection. I looked up at a uniform rapping his nightstick on the window. He started to yell at me, so I held up my cap and badge. He just walked away, mumbling about how wrinkled and crappy I looked in my out
-
of
-
date uniform.”

“There was something strange about this riot,” Carling said in a strident tone. “It was like the UK riots, where people used instant messages, cell phones, and the like
—
you know, to orchestrate stuff. This time, it was clear from the get
-
go that someone was directing things, calling the shots.” He stared at the beer glass in front of him. He hadn’t taken a drink from his new pour yet. “This was well organized, I tell you.”

“I sensed that, too,” Scott agreed.

“We knew who the usual student troublemakers were from intelligence reports. They also have a certain look about them. It wasn’t them, not this time. A lot of the guys this time looked like bikers. I saw more than one prison tat, for sure
—
”

Carling was about to add something more when the door burst open. Two men stood framed in the doorway, the bright sunlight silhouetting them from behind.

“We thought we would find you two here,” one of them said.

“It’s about time we got a break,” the other one said as they walked in. “Ain’t this a freakin’ awful mess?”

“Jimmy! Brian! it’s a relief to see you’re OK. You guys better hurry and order before Randy runs out of beer,” Scott said. “On me.”

After they had ordered, the foursome moved to a booth. Nobody spoke at first; they just sat, drinking their beers, four veteran cops with a total of eighty
-
seven service years between them. All wore the same shocked expressions and had pale and drawn faces.

“Before you guys got here, we were talking about where we were when this all began,” Scott said.

“I was in the middle of the sweetest dream
—
you know, getting laid,” Jimmy said. “At least I think it was a dream, because I was alone in bed. My cell rang and woke me up. It always means trouble at that time of the night. My feet hit the floor, and I was chasing the sleep away, trying to remember where my uniform was.”

“I thought we would be assigned together,” Carling said. “But with all hell breaking loose, I ended up with a bunch of rookies on a bus heading to the north end. The smoke was so thick in some places the driver had to slow to a crawl.”

“They handed us riot shields and gear when I got to my assigned post,” Jimmy said. “It was downtown, and I didn’t see anyone I knew. We could hear gunfire
—
a lot of gunfire. There were a lot of worried looks exchanged between us.”

Scott jumped in. “I was watching TV
—
nothing special, just surfing for something to watch, when my phone started to vibrate. I didn’t want to wake Karen.”

They all knew she was a nurse at General, and they’d heard the rumors that two hospitals were mobbed, ER patients had been beaten, some killed. At least that was the buzz.

“Karen’s phone started to ring soon after mine,” Scott went on. “We both rushed to get ready, but at least she knew where her uniform was.” It wasn’t meant to be humorous, and no one took it that way.

“I think we were facing an organized attack.” It was Carling. “Maybe we still are. This was orchestrated. Mark my words: we’re going to hear how this has all been the work of terrorists. Then watch the government lay down the law
—
hard.”

Randy, the bartender, yelled over at that exact time. “Hey, guys!” He held up his hand and removed his earbuds. “They’re announcing something on the radio. It sounds something like, I don’t know, they mentioned a War Measures Act
—
at least I think that’s what they said.” They all waited as he replaced the earbuds. “All civil liberties are suspended. Now they’re saying something about CleanSweep. You guys know about some program called that?”

Carling’s head snapped up, and he was suddenly on full alert. “That blogger warned me about them! He tried to warn me that CleanSweep was more than an idea. I didn’t take him seriously at first
…
”

Are they really capable of
—
are they behind this somehow
—
CleanSweep?
Carling considered that thought, knowing they were indeed capable of it. Something tugged at the edges of his memory, and he touched his cell phone holster.

“I’m going to check an old message I have stored.” He tugged the phone out and saw it was working. “Hey, the phones are back up.”

All four started scrolling through their new messages in a frenzy.

“Karen’s safe!” Scott said as he began to cry. Nobody thought any less of him for it.

At the same time, the television screen behind the bar flickered on, and then a picture appeared. “Action 21 News,” the announcer said. Before the power went off, the volume had been on high to be audible in the always
-
crowded bar. Now it was so loud the four of them yelled at Randy to turn down the sound.

“We’re broadcasting from a mobile trailer. All the city’s television and radio studios were apparently destroyed in the rampage. We are hoping for a report any second now from Susan Payne. We hope she’s on the scene at Nathan Phillips Square, but so far there’s been no contact with her or her cameraman.”

The screen filled with aerial views that were riveting and heartbreaking, showing four areas around the city that were in ruins, smoke still curling up from many locations. The scenes were reminiscent of bombed
-
out cities from World War II. One was a vast area around the north edge of the city. Another huge scene of destruction lay in the center of the Distillery District. That popular restaurant and entertainment area had been reduced to scorched buildings with most of their windows broken out.

“Look at that,” Carling said. The camera aimed next at the botanical conservatory and gardens. “Look what they have done to that beautiful old structure
—
it’s in ruins.”

“Karen and I were married there,” Scott said. “Now
…
it’s gone.”

They watched the newscaster pause as he was handed a note. “There’s still no word from Susan Payne, not since the raid on our studio earlier.”

Behind the anchor, the screen projected background videos showing protesters gathering outside the conference headquarters in the days before the opening. Then the backdrop changed to B
-
roll footage showing hundreds of people walking back and forth on the sidewalk in front of the Royal York Hotel, carrying signs protesting every conceivable cause.

“Thugs and hooligans appeared without warning. It was like a flash mob. But this group had more than protest in mind,” the newsreader said, his tone subdued.

The screen behind the announcer showed yet another view of the carnage. Hundreds of fear
-
provoking men and women wearing militia
-
type uniforms could be seen rounding a corner, smashing windows, overturning cars, and firing weapons into the air. Suddenly the screen went blank.

“That was the last footage we received before our station and studio came under attack. We now know that four major sections of the city seem to have been targeted. The destruction was significant
—
” His voice broke, no longer dispassionate.

“The latest numbers available to us are that over four hundred and seventy
-
five people have been killed
—
nobody has an accurate count on the number injured. Five hospital emergency rooms and all of the downtown clinics have been overwhelmed. They appear to be the intended targets of attacks. There are confirmed reports of people who were waiting for treatment being pulled out of their chairs and attacked, many beaten severely. One clinic that received particularly vicious assaults was the Lifeline Clinic, popular with street people and the homeless. Another clinic attacked offered abortion services.”

The announcer stopped and looked up at the camera, the skin on his face stretched tight in a grimace. “This just in,” he said, looking at a sheet of paper handed to him from off camera. “The federal government has now enacted emergency legislation. All citizens are to report to one of the following sites to be documented and to receive individual identification cards.”