The CleanSweep Conspiracy

by Chuck Waldron

  If anyone was curious about Carling, they didn’t show it, except with a furtive glance in his direction every now and then.

  “Time!” someone shouted. The room was instantly quiet, and all eyes turned to the clock, the second hand sweeping to the top. “We’re going live in five, four, three, two, and…now!”

  The central monitor had been displaying bars and tones, but it immediately changed to show a face in high definition—a man with a serious look. Then came a split-screen view of two announcers.

  “From World News headquarters in New York, this is Roger Follet.”

  “From National News in Ottawa, this is Bryan Carroll.”

  “Reporting live from Channel Five in the Waterloo region, this is Susan Payne.”

  Carl adjusted a camera on his shoulder. They had agreed earlier that a shoulder cam would lend a certain authenticity to this as an investigative report. He signaled Susan, and Matt could see the broad grin on the cameraman’s face. All eyes turned toward the monitor.

  “Thank you, Roger and Bryan. This is Susan Payne, reporting from Kitchener, Ontario,” she said, pausing to brush a wisp of hair back. It was unneeded, but Carl knew it was one of her signature moves.

  “Today you are going to hear about the real story behind CleanSweep…” She paused for dramatic effect before continuing. “How it almost brought a great city to its knees.”

  By the time she finished her report, the world had become aware of the deception that Claussen, Waverly, Overstreet, and Spencer pulled had off, and the conspiracy was completely exposed.

  “It was public-private enterprise collaboration at its very worst. CleanSweep will be the dictionary definition of that expression.” She paused for dramatic effect and turned to Camera One, the floor camera. “Did the government misjudge? Did they underestimate the potential for rioting? I’m telling you that an inner circle, in fact, judged it quite accurately. All they needed was a little help from people like Charles Claussen, and the money from his cronies, with Waverly greasing the rogue government wheels. While Toronto was the intended target this time, the conspirators hoped this would work as a template that could be used worldwide.”

  Turning back to Carl’s camera, using poise and an evenly modulated voice, she laid out the facts for viewers like a verbal buffet. She started with Tanner’s death, pointing out that it wasn’t an accident, as had been reported earlier. She honored his bravery, explained his role in bringing the evil of CleanSweep to light. She followed that by describing Matt’s investigation into CleanSweep, and his blogging.

  “A key person in this story is my friend and fellow journalist, Matthew Tremain.” Pausing for emphasis, she then continued, “Matt Tremain brought this to the attention of our government and was rebuffed. They claimed the story was preposterous. However, our parallel efforts uncovered the facts, now showing that it was indeed not only preposterous—it was also pure evil.”

  Matt lowered his head as he listened. It wasn’t only in response to hearing her mention his name, her praise. It was the memory of Tanner that her reporting dredged back up. The pain rose to the surface, and Matt was touched when Carling put a hand on his arm, an offering of both comfort and congratulations.

  Susan continued, reporting on her role in the investigations, surprising Carl by adding, “It was a team effort. I couldn’t have done it without the help of a man you, the viewers, can’t see. That’s because he’s behind the camera right now: Carl Remington.” Carl’s red face failed to hide his embarrassment.

  Viewers noticed a slight shudder as Carl’s rock-steady camerawork developed a short-lived but quite uncharacteristic wobble.

  Carling’s head snapped up when he heard her tell viewers about his role in the story. He was sheepish, and felt his face blushing.

  “We are now going to play a portion of a taped recording made during a weekend CleanSweep planning retreat. The voices of Charles Claussen, Winston Overstreet, Richard Waverly, and Donald Spencer can be distinctly heard discussing what we now know was the planning of a diabolical conspiracy.”

  A hastily prepared graphic filled the screen behind her.

  Susan looked to the side and down. Carl captured the perfect image of her striking a thoughtful pose while it played. She turned back to the camera once it had finished, then paused. After a few seconds, she said, “Back to you, Roger and Bryan.”

  Her image on the monitor faded and was replaced by Roger Follett sitting in front of a huge wall graphic in bold colors that had been put together by his graphics department in haste. He looked down at a script on his news desk. “The prime minister of Canada and the president of the United States just released a joint statement denying any knowledge of this plot. An emergency combined task force of agents from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and the Federal Bureau of Investigation has been formed, and arrests are taking place as we broadcast this news story.”

  As Roger Follet turned toward a side camera and maintained his best solemn gaze, he concluded his story. “We will be back after a word from our sponsors.”

  • • •

  The newsroom at the studio in Kitchener was silent—church quiet, in fact—until someone started to applaud. It began as a slow clapping. Then others joined in, and soon everyone had risen to their feet and begun to shout. They realized they had just played a small part in history.

  “Bravo!” someone yelled.

  The station cameraman rushed up to Carl to shake hands and acknowledge his professionalism. Several people turned to Matt and Carling. They now realized the full importance of the parts they had played in the story. Soon the blogger and detective were being mobbed with backslaps and shouts of “Well done!”

  Susan stood alone in front of the bank of monitors. It had provided the perfect backdrop for her report. It was almost as if people wanted to honor her privacy, a reverence held for a person of high office, the type of person you didn’t approach unless invited.

  She began to tremble, the script in her left hand shaking. Carl set his camera down and rushed to her side. There was a hush as the crowd watched him embrace her. The two clung to each other as he caressed the back of her head. Susan sobbed her relief.

  “It’s done. You did it—we did it.”

  Then he led her through the parting crowd until they reached Matt and Carling. The four joined in a circle. They could have been bowing their heads in prayer or huddling like a football team. It could have been either of those, but none of them ever spoke about what they said to one another at that moment again.

  The newsroom exploded with the sound of ringing telephones. As they were answered, people started to shout.

  “Susan, it’s for you on lines one and two.”

  “Matt, can you take line three?”

  “Carl, it’s the National News Network on line four.”

  “Detective Carling, it’s your chief on line five.”

  Carling didn’t look happy to hear that.

  CHAPTER 42

  Arresting Developments

  Friday morning rush hour was usually a crunch of traffic that clogged freeways and the major roads leading into the metropolis. On that Friday, however, an eerie quiet gripped the city, and the roads were stripped of cars. Television, radio, newspaper, and mass Internet mailings, combined with cars equipped with loudspeakers, all broadcast a single message: stay home unless it was an emergency.

  Carl squinted at the sunlight as they entered the city from the west. “Damn few pedestrians on the sidewalks,” he said. “If it weren’t for the military or police, there wouldn’t be any vehicles on the road at all.”

  He truly didn’t know what to expect when they pulled up to the first checkpoint.

  “It’s them!” a woman shouted.

  She was wearing a camouflage uniform and she waved over a squad of soldiers. They started cheering as other soldiers, posted at intersections, stoically clut
ched weapons at the ready. As the hint of light to the east grew into a dawning day, and anyone out and about was treated to the sight of a massive military and police presence. Military scout cars—usually only seen on television in war footage—were parked along curbs. Troops were stationed at all major intersections and other strategic points.

  A man in a police uniform ran to the car and peered in. “That’s Carling!” he said as he reached through the open window to slap the detective on the shoulder.

  Their surprise was complete for the foursome when they were assigned a police escort. Soon they were speeding through the streets, the escort car flashing its rotating blue lights to guide them.

  Passing CleanSweep headquarters, they saw men in military uniforms surrounding the building.

  “That was fast,” Matt said in a whisper, as if he were still afraid to speak his thoughts out loud. They were waved right through the next checkpoint. “It helps to have a police escort, eh?”

  “We need to get to work, Carl—tired or not.” Susan tapped Carl on the shoulder. “Pull over here.”

  He pointed and honked to signal to the escort. Then he slowed until the escort car braked and eased up alongside them.

  “Do you think you’re good from here?” the escort driver yelled back.

  Carl gave him a thumbs-up.

  “Good luck.” The window of the escort car went up, and the car drove off.

  Carl pulled over to the curb. The others watched as he walked back to the trunk. He retrieved a case, placed it on the hood of the car, and pulled out a camera.

  “A gift. The guys in Kitchener gave me this,” he told them. “Let’s get to work, Susan.”

  “So, you’re the boss now?” she asked, laughing. But Carl was already pointing the lens, looking for a shot.

  He held a radio tucked under his chin, pushed a button, and began a slow pan to the right as he spoke into the microphone. “I’m sending B-roll now. I’m live.”

  Susan faced the camera and walked down the sidewalk as Carl kept pace, the camera covering her while she talked. The two were soon far enough away that Matt lost the sound of her voice.

  Carling took the wheel. “What do these guys want?”

  He held up his police badge when two men with stern looks and camouflage uniforms suddenly walked up to the car. The taller one leaned in to examine his identification, but his stern-looking expression turned to a grin when he realized who they were. He walked away.

  Carling turned to Matt. “Where do you want me to drop you off?”

  “I can’t face going home,” Matt said. “Not yet. We’ve been driving all night, and now it’s after two in the afternoon. I think a drink is in order.”

  “The Ten-Eight it is,” Carling said. He saw the blank look on Matt’s face. “Copspeak. It’s the radio code for ‘officer on duty.’ We don’t use ‘ten’ codes anymore, but a retired beat cop opened the bar and called it Ten-Eight. Cops appreciate the irony. Guess who drinks there?” He started to laugh.

  “The barkeep almost lost his business after the riots, but there are still a bunch of us old-timey cops who will be there. I’ll vouch for you,” he said, and he laughed harder.

  Walking into the bar, Matt looked around. It was packed with men and women in police uniforms, with undercover officers in civilian dress mixed in. Matt and Carling stood in the doorway, silhouetted by strong sunlight. They appeared as dark shadows until they stepped in and closed the door. Everyone in the bar stopped talking. It was their custom to freeze out any unwelcome visitors.

  “Carling, you old degenerate!” Scotty yelled from the back of the room.

  A wave of recognition swept through the bar, followed by cheering. It was long, loud, and heartfelt—until Carling held up his hand.

  “Enough!” he tried to yell. But his protest only made the others cheer even louder.

  Matt watched Carling’s face slowly blossom into a dark red, then purple.

  “Hey, Carling!” someone shouted. “Who’s that with you? You brought a civilian to the Ten-Eight?”

  It was Matt’s turn to feel embarrassed, and he felt like turning to leave. In fact, he started to do just that.

  Carling stopped him. “This,” he yelled over the noise, “is the freaking blogger that started it all!” He held up Matt’s arm. “Matt Tremain, the guy we were all supposed to be chasing. He’s my guest, and I expect him to get the same respect you give me.” He ducked as napkins and straws started being hurled at them.

  “That means he picks up the next round,” a woman yelled, and everyone laughed.

  Carling looked over at the barkeep. “I thought you were out of stock.”

  “Look around,” the man answered back. “They all brought in cases of beer to donate to the cause. Some brought liquor, and Sarah even brought a bottle of white wine—which, by the way, is still unopened.”

  That announcement was met with jeers and booing.

  A radio monitor blared out an announcement, and everyone was quiet.

  “Until the TV people are back to broadcasting from the main studio, we’re following everything on the radio,” another woman said over her shoulder to Matt and Carling.

  “But look—they’re back on the air now!” someone said as the television set came on, displaying a stock photo of Overstreet.

  The volume was turned up to its loudest, and everyone yelled for the barkeep to turn it down.

  “The police caught Winston Overstreet packing a suitcase. He never made it to his car.” That was met with a chorus of booing and hissing.

  The screen showed a scene from Winston’s upscale condominium; it was like something out of a television cop show. The camera panned to the right as two military trucks pulled under the porte cochere at a high rate of speed and braked to a sudden stop. Men and women in uniform jumped out and adopted combat stances, holding weapons at the ready. Men in suits poured out of a black SUV parked behind them. The one obviously in charge started issuing orders, and the uniforms dispersed to their posts. It was all being covered live by Action 21 News, with Susan Payne providing the voice-over.

  Matt and Carling looked at each other, knowing who was aiming the camera.

  On the television screen, they watched the building’s concierge jumping around as if she were barefoot and stepping on hot coals. Trying to speak, she was overwhelmed by the uniformed presence—clearly she had no clue about what was unfolding.

  “Hand me the master entry card, now!” a deep voice boomed.

  She was trembling as she complied. “It’s the master—key card,” she barely got the words out before the man grabbed it from her and raced to the elevator. “The Overstreet suite is on the third floor,” he said, ordering people in uniforms right and left through each stairwell.

  An over-the-shoulder camera shot followed the team leader, who nodded as the door to Overstreet’s unit was smashed in. Everyone rushed inside to find the occupant leaning over a suitcase. Susan Payne’s voice could be heard, and Carl got a great camera angle—his money shot. Everyone in the bar watched Overstreet straighten, then turn to face the onslaught. He had a resigned look on his face, and he slowly raised his hands to show he wasn’t armed.

  As they left the building, the concierge had held up her smartphone to take her own souvenir video—she had apparently recovered from her earlier shock. It was destined to become one of the iconic photographs of the day, the high-and-mighty, secretive billionaire Winston Overstreet being escorted through the overdecorated lobby of his condominium building at gunpoint.

  • • •

  With the skyline of Miami fading behind them, Spencer stood alongside the captain, urging more speed for his yacht, Mockyachta. Spreading his feet farther apart to steady himself, he grabbed a handrail to counteract the pitching motion of the ship.

  “Hurry, damn it! Don’t stop.”

  The captain star
ted to put his hand on the speed control panel. “It’s no use—we have to stop. It’s the coast guard.”

  “You stop when I tell you to stop,” Spencer said, reaching to push the captain’s hand away from the throttle. Then he ran to the starboard side door and looked up at the red-orange plane with a stripe, a twin-engine turboprop CN-235 maritime-patrol aircraft. It was circling overhead, just above stalling speed. Spencer shook his fist at the plane and felt Mockyachta slowing in the water. The yacht came to a stop, and rolling swells caused the boat to pitch even more.

  Evans, his head of security, rushed up the ladder leading to the control room. Spencer barked an order, and Evans pulled out a pistol, held it to the captain’s head, and ordered the ship ahead at full speed.

  “You’re both crazy,” the captain said, but did as he was ordered.

  The copilot of the plane overhead looked down, saw the growing wake, and radioed back that the vessel hadn’t stopped. “They’re getting underway again.”

  The ship’s captain increased the speed, but he carefully adjusted the controls for three-quarter power—a move that went unnoticed by Spencer and Evans. He made another unseen adjustment, and the boat slowed even more, but still not enough to capture the attention of his bosses. The captain was no fool. Seeing the specks on the horizon, he knew the coast guard or navy was sending fast ships to intercept them. He also turned the wheel a bit at a time, until Mockyachta was heading directly toward its pursuers.

  When Spencer saw them and realized what his captain had done, he yelled in a panic, “Idiot! Turn this thing around—now!”

  A loud boom sounded—a warning shot across the bow. That put an end to the pursuit.

  The captain said, “I’m not dying for this,” and turned off the power.

  Evans holstered his weapon as Spencer stood, looking out the wheelhouse window at the approaching coast guard cutter. He was actually looking far beyond the horizon, and picturing his prison cell.