The CleanSweep Conspiracy (6 page)

Matt watched Tanner take a long swallow of the scotch and brush a hand back through his hair. It didn’t help. Spikes of unruly hair refused to get in line.

“I got on the elevator, and it stopped on the penthouse floor. Sitting behind the foyer’s single desk as I exited the elevator was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Her dark eyes drew me to her like magnets. Her features were perfect. I heard her speak my name in a low voice, as if I were in a dream
—
she had a slight accent that was utterly beguiling. I remember that I started repeating my wife’s name over and over in my head: Ann
…
Ann
…
Ann. The magic that gorgeous creature was weaving vanished in the instant I reminded myself about Ann.” Tanner laughed at the memory, and Matt laughed along with him, to be polite.

“You’re going to ask me about my first impression of him, eh?”

Matt nodded.

“He was not behind a desk, as you might expect. There wasn’t even a desk in his office. It was furnished like a museum, with elegant Victorian furniture. Clearly they weren’t reproductions. But two full walls and part of a third were nothing but floor
-
to
-
ceiling glass, giving the impression we were jutting out over the lake. The view from the top of the world can be awe
-
inspiring, and I was dutifully awed and inspired that day.

“Charles Claussen was impeccably dressed, and for some reason I noticed his shoes. He was wearing a pair of loafers. I have no idea why his shoes seemed important at the time. They looked Italian, or like some exclusive European brand. I guessed they cost more than two months’ mortgage on my new town house. I remember wondering if he was amused when he caught me staring at his shoes.

“When I first entered, he didn’t seem to acknowledge I was there. He was sitting on a sofa. Eventually he stood up, as if he had just seen that someone new was in the room. He offered me his hand in one smooth motion, a manner suggesting friendship. He didn’t beat around the bush. He asked me if I would be the one who would help him take Enseûrtech to the next level. There was no question in my mind that I was being interrogated. Sure, Claussen made it seem like a casual conversation with his hail
-
fellow
-
well
-
met manner. He asked questions and listened to my answers, nodding whenever it was called for. Then, abruptly, he stood and led me to the door. I knew my audience with the wizard was over. He was tired of my presence. He told me he wanted me to meet with his head of security, a woman named Angela Vaughn. We shook hands
—
all very formal
—
and suddenly I was left standing in the reception area, listening to the door close behind me.

“I was puzzled by the interview, wondering why it was so lacking in detail. I finally decided he had merely wanted to see me for himself. He already knew he had me in his pocket. What he didn’t know was that I was a master pickpocket.”

Tanner started to chortle. “I took one last look at the receptionist. I watched her as the door to the elevator closed. She sat, looking at me with a pose that told me she knew her job was to be the gatekeeper to a remarkable man and that she was indifferent to the effect she had on mere mortals
—
men like me.”

Tanner and Matt put the story to rest for a while and talked about Miles Davis. Tanner asked him if Matt had
Sketches of Spain
in his collection. Matt nodded, stood up, and walked over to adjust the playlist. They finished the last of the single malt, letting the trumpet music of Miles Davis tempt them with thoughts of flamenco dancers in Spain, transporting them to a sunny place
—
a far better place, they both agreed.

“You know the movie
The Wizard of Oz
?” Tanner asked. “That’s what I kept thinking about on the way home that day. That Claussen was sitting behind a screen, hoping he wouldn’t be exposed as the wizard was in that old movie. I watch it every year with my kids.”

He brushed a tear away when he mentioned his children. “The bastard didn’t know that I would be the one to pull back the scrim, the curtain, to let the world see him for what he really is. As much of a genius as Claussen may be, he didn’t see through my masquerade. Little did he realize he had just interviewed a mole who would bore into the truth, a closet Socialist intent on worming his way into the heart of that man’s most heavily guarded secret. That day, with a handshake, Claussen handed me the key to CleanSweep. I had a job that would allow me to discover how devious his plan really was. That’s why I’ve told you all this. History has shown us that dictators are the most vulnerable at the beginning of their reigns, but nobody takes action to stop them. You have to promise to
stop
him, Matt!”

Tanner then got up and walked to the door with a slight wobble
—
hardly noticeable. “Where’s my jacket?”

It was on a nearby table. Matt handed it to him and watched him leave without another word, not even a good
-
bye. He’d walked out that night with his shoulders back, head high, proud to have played his small role in history.

Matt had watched Tanner’s back as he walked to the elevator. For some reason, Tanner’s gait reminded him of a scene in
To Kill a Mockingbird
, at the point in the story when Reverend Sykes says, “Miss Jean Louise, stand up. Your father’s passin’.” Matt straightened up in his doorway, his show of respect to the man passing by
—
not realizing Tanner was also passing out of his life.

That was the last time Matt ever saw Tanner.

Two days later, when Matt heard about Tanner’s “accident,” he knew immediately it wasn’t a coincidence.

Later, when he needed courage, Matt thought about that memory of the last time he had seen Tanner alive
—
the memory of the way he looked walking away that night. Matt played that image back in his mind like a recorded video, whenever he wished to honor the man who had started him down this dangerous path. The man who gave him proof of CleanSweep’s evil intent.

CHAPTER 7

Nose for the News

“S
he’s on the way,” someone shouted, “and she’s fuming!”

Nobody had to ask who or why. Interns and reporters alike scrambled while picking up papers, trying to find a good reason to be going somewhere else. It didn’t matter where, as long as they escaped her wrath.

Camera crews, the audio man, and the floor director all headed for corners
—
anywhere out of the way.

Carl knew why she was in a foul mood
—
unpleasant, even for her. Susan Payne generally stomped around, walking in a manner that warned everyone to stay out of her way. That day, she stormed into the newsroom with exceptional fury. Carl Remington, her cameraman, watched her grab a run
-
sheet from the counter, stare at it as if it were emitting a nasty odor, and then dash to her office.

She thrived on being the center of attention. She knew her coworkers referred to her as “Hurricane Sue,” and she secretly encouraged the nickname. Her audience ratings were consistently over the top, and viewers loved her. Her colleagues admitted she was the best damn television reporter in the business, and her office wall was a massive collection of trophies and awards, along with photographs of her with every entertainment celebrity, sports hero, and politician of any significance.

Whenever there was a breaking news story, viewers expected to see her in the foreground, wearing a serious expression like a uniform, looking into the camera, her solemn voice reassuring viewers they were getting the very latest and most accurate news.

Seven years ago, when Carl had joined Action 21 News, the news director had taken him aside. “You’re going to be Susan Payne’s cameraman. I have to warn you
…
” he said with a snigger, “the most dangerous place in the world to be is between Susan Payne and a photo op. You must be good.” He paused for a moment. “She asked for
—
no,
demanded
—
we hire you.”

Carl watched as two young interns tried to dodge her fierce look. He enjoyed witnessing their discomfort. Carl wasn’t afraid of her, not anymore. They had been a team for almost eight years now, and he knew her moods almost before she did. No, he wasn’t afraid of her, not at all.

Another cameraman had once told Carl that he didn’t like her very much. “How can you work with someone like that?”

“Because she’s a damn good reporter, the best I have ever worked with. In fact, maybe the best in the business. I respect that,” Carl had answered. It was the truth.

He preferred to assume the feeling of respect was mutual, but he suspected there was only one person Susan Payne actually admired
—
and that was Susan Payne. Personal feelings didn’t matter to either Susan or Carl. They didn’t have the time or inclination for petty emotions to get in the way of their work. They were proud professionals, and Carl knew that Susan appreciated the significance of having a pro aiming at her through the camera’s eyepiece.

The news director, on one occasion, had said, “You’re the finest cameraman around, and she knows it. She’s lucky to have you doing the point
-
and
-
shoot.”

Because Carl had already read the run
-
sheet she was now holding, he knew why Susan’s mood was worse than usual. The Susan
-
Carl team had been scooped
—
and by a kid. An intern for the competition, no less. Carl cringed.

He was relegated to watching his program, Action 21 News, prepare to go on the air live and to relate the evening news. The clock was a cruel master, the second hand sweeping relentlessly as it counted down. They were getting ready to report the story of an accident involving a school bus. The in
-
house Action 21 News team had scrambled to put the story to bed, but they didn’t have any raw video to edit. There would be nothing on the screen behind the newsreaders. The viewers would stare at the camera, knowing their award
-
winning Susan
-
Carl team had missed the story. The producer had to resort to having the news anchors read from a script while viewers saw B
-
roll from the files. The graphics person and floor crew clawed their headphones off as more scatological shouting came through. It was Karen, the director, venting her anger.

The only file copy of B
-
roll someone could come up with was a video showing a school bus with happy children waving from the window as it drove by. Worse, it was a tired
-
looking, clearly dated B
-
roll.

“What we
don’t
have,” Karen, the harried director, shouted through their earpiece, “is some actual friggin’ footage of the story!” She ripped her headset and microphone off, hurling it across the control room. “Where the hell was Susan when that story was happening?”

Earlier in the day, a young man had become an instant media hero when he ran out of a nearby dry cleaning store and pried open the emergency door of an overturned, burning school bus. He’d rescued the children and the driver, and a news camera had caught it all. Carl recognized it for what it was: the magnificent money shot. The video showed the hero wearing smoldering, tattered clothes as he held a young girl in his arms. They were both crying, and just as the camera moved in for a close
-
up of the tears, the school bus erupted into an enormous fireball behind them, followed by a terrific explosion. It was a shot sure to win an award.

Earlier, Carl had watched it three times, even though the story and video were broadcast by a competing station’s website. As he watched, he’d pushed the Pause button, so he could see the final picture as a freeze
-
frame. He looked for the credit for the shot. The camera operator’s name was Marcia Cameron, a reporter for a rival TV station
—
and a student intern. She had captured the scene flawlessly. Working the story alone, she had done it all. Her camerawork was perfect, and she even provided her own breathless voice
-
over.

Lucky bitch!
He wanted to be jealous, but recognized it as impressive work.

He and Susan had been miles away when it happened, assigned to covering an awards ceremony honoring a retiring court clerk.

Yawn.

Now he watched Susan storm around her office. She picked up a stapler and threw it at the wall. It wasn’t the first time she had done that. There were several holes in the drywall, all from the same stapler. It was a wonder the thing still worked. Next she booted her wastebasket out through the door, and it tumbled through the newsroom
—
papers scattering
—
propelled by a force an NFL kicker or European footballer would envy.

He noticed that, in spite of the angry display, her perfectly arranged hairdo remained in place. Not a strand was ruffled
—
unlike her nerves.

“The eye of a hurricane, always ready for the camera,” he thought.

Carl headed down a hallway, toward the storage room used by the mobile news reporting teams. He opened his locker and lifted out a case, placing it on a counter nearby. The case held two cameras
—
his “soul
-
catchers,” he called them. “Primitive peoples used to think a camera could capture their souls
—
now I do it in high definition,” he had once quipped to Susan. He’d once admitted to a close friend that he would lay down his life to save those cameras.

He placed one on the counter alongside the case, then pulled a cloth from his pocket. He started to clean his primary camera. It was already spotless, but it was a ritual he followed without question, irrespective of necessity. He buffed the identification plate. It belonged to him, an investment he had never regretted making. He reached into a compartment on the inside of the case and selected a blank media card. He could use the card to transfer images to a handheld editor, and use his Final Cut Pro software on it. The camera and equipment cost a small fortune, and the station had offered to pay for it, but Carl wanted it to be his own and was willing to make the sacrifice. He could do complete editing in the field, upload the files to the station’s FTP site using Internet or satellite links. The newsroom team often put his footage on the air live, knowing it would be polished, and the director trusted his close
-
cut field editing. He returned the camera to the case.

Next came his mic. He preferred a sensitive wireless lavalier mic for audio, and would attach it to the lapel of the person being interviewed. Susan, however, used a handheld
—
she liked to shove it in the face of her interviewees. She wielded it like a scepter.

Neither was really needed at all, because his camera had the latest in audio features and could pick up the background to his shots in high fidelity. But Susan was adamant about using the old, familiar equipment and claimed, “The viewers don’t trust it if they don’t see a microphone.”

Of course, he could skip all that equipment completely and send the raw footage live using the camera’s built
-
in satellite transmitter. Susan liked using that satellite feed sometimes, believing the style imparted uncensored authenticity to a story.

Carl pretended he was aloof when it came to Susan’s mannerisms. She was an award winner and a pro, and he admired her professionalism. He was only miffed she had never recognized her cameraman when she received her awards. He was well aware that Susan was self
-
centered and egocentric
—
these characteristics were needed in her line of work, especially for a woman. She was oblivious to
—
or perhaps just indifferent about
—
the power she had over other people.

Carl knew his camera had the ability to make or break a talking head like Susan. All it would take was a slight maladjustment of the focus or an unflattering camera angle. Carl knew colleagues who would stoop to that to sabotage reporters they didn’t like, but Carl was a professional. He would never consider doing such a thing, especially not to Susan.

After repacking his camera and equipment, he was ready to follow tomorrow’s news, wherever the chase might lead him. He locked the camera in its case.

He had no idea the news was about to come to him.

Carl heard banging doors and raised voices. He raced back to the newsroom.

“What the
—
”

“Who the hell are you?” It was Karen’s voice, and there was alarm in her tone.

“We have a warrant. Stand aside,” an unfamiliar voice commanded.

“I don’t appreciate your
—
”

“Shut up and get out of our way.” The man didn’t raise his voice, but the threat was clear.

Karen demanded to see the warrant. Carl watched her face turn crimson. “I’m calling our lawyer!”

Carl didn’t have his camera set up, something he later regretted. But this was the newsroom after all, a place to report news, not to film it. The newsroom had become a scene of disorder and pandemonium. Without his camera at hand, Carl did the next best thing. He took out his smartphone and started to record the scene
—
until a man came over and grabbed it away from him. The man was one of seven or eight in suits who seemed to be taking charge. Maybe there were more, but Carl had stopped counting. These were the type of men nobody argued with. They all had shaved heads and looked like weight lifters
—
these men spent serious time in gyms. Some were wearing dark glasses to allow them to see better in the bright studio lighting. No one was smiling as they fanned out and began entering the private offices in pairs.

Suddenly a woman marched through another door, waving a paper. “Here is the warrant. Everyone needs to stand aside. Nobody touches anything: papers, flash drives, computer discs, media cards, or electronic equipment. Is that clear?”

“No, it’s not at all clear,” Karen said, but her voice sounded hesitant. She looked at the woman, who was clearly in charge. “We have rights. This is a newsroom.”

“I don’t need to explain anything. This,” she said, pointing to the paper in her right hand, “grants search
-
and
-
seizure power to CleanSweep agents. Those powers supersede all existing procedures. Go ahead, call your lawyer. He can’t do a damn thing about it.”

“You can’t do this!” someone yelled.

“This isn’t right!” another person said.

The anger and self
-
righteous tones slowly faded. The newsroom egos realized they were up against some truly frightening people.

Carl, sensing real danger, edged slowly back, slipped out, and closed the door behind him. He raced back to the storeroom. He reached into a side compartment of his camera case and took three media cards from a side pocket. He spied a roll of duct tape on the counter and picked it up. Kneeling quickly, he taped the media cards to the underside of the table. He had just stood up again and was putting the duct tape into a drawer when the door opened so hard it banged against the wall.

“What the hell are you doing?” a man demanded.

Carl stood there quietly. He was ready for them, and merely shrugged his shoulders. Three men walked in and began to search the room, looking in cupboards, drawers, and closets. They rummaged without regard and seemed to know exactly what they were looking for. Carl hoped his apprehension didn’t show as he watched one of the men take all the remaining blank media cards in his camera case. The man nodded to the others, then placed the cards in a plastic bag. Carl recognized it for what it was: an evidence bag.

They wouldn’t find anything on those cards. He just hoped they wouldn’t look under the table.

When they had finished, he followed them back to the studio.

Like a magician, Karen, the director, waved her hand like it was a wand, and the six o’clock news went live. On schedule. Just like it had every Monday through Friday for the past ten years.