The CleanSweep Conspiracy Page 4

  “I wrote what I thought was a witty blog. It was really just a bunch of bull at first. I was only partly serious when I started, aiming at the truth with a sarcastic metaphor. That’s when I wrote that it felt like we were all sailing on a morality ship, the equivalent of the Titanic, hurtling full speed ahead even when we knew there were icebergs in the water. After all, our boat was unsinkable, eh?”

  Talking with his friend wasn’t helping Matt escape the demons chasing him. The booze was also increasing his depression.

  “After that, I posted another story speculating on the dangers CleanSweep presented to our civil liberties. When I read through the comments in response, one in particular grabbed my attention. I still remember it word for word. It read, ‘You compared CleanSweep to the Titanic. Do you want to know the real story behind CleanSweep? It’s the gigantic iceberg in our nation’s path, just waiting to be hit. You only see the top part, a mere tenth of the story. The CleanSweep iceberg will make what happened to the Titanic seem like an uplifting story compared to the damage it will create in our society. Can you handle the truth?”

  Matt looked at Bryan. “I can still see those words, daring me to probe further.” Matt let the words sink in. “That was my first encounter with Tanner.”

  With nothing more to say, Matt Tremain opened his wallet. He put enough money on the bar to pay for the beers, a generous tip included for the bartender. He nodded good-bye to his friend and turned to the door. His walk was sure and steady, completely contrary to the foreboding inside him.

  CHAPTER 5

  Iceberg Ahead

  Walking back to his car, Matt recalled his first meeting with Tanner.

  Tanner’s third text message to Matt had mentioned PROFUNC. The new program is based on it. They make it sound pretty by calling it CleanSweep, but it’s really a bunch of dirty little secrets.

  Matt sent a text back in return. What can you tell me about it? I looked it up. PROFUNC was a secret program from the fifties, a dinosaur, a program to round up Communists.

  He wanted to hear more about the reinvented version.

  That’s what makes it so insidious, Tanner had written back. No one takes it seriously because it doesn’t sound threatening—more like some kind of cosmic joke. Based on a failed program from the past, this new version, I can assure you, is no joke.

  Each exchange helped Matt begin to absorb the weight of what Tanner was saying. He tried to convince Tanner they needed to meet. Matt needed to look at this source eye to eye and judge his truthfulness. Tanner was reluctant to get together. However, his conviction burned white-hot through the words of his texting. He wasn’t avoiding the truth, he said. He was terrified of being caught.

  Matt finally made a direct plea: I need proof that this CleanSweep is as dangerous as you make it sound.

  If Tanner was correct, if this program was as evil as he claimed, Matt knew he would have to start posting about it on his blog. Some people labeled his style of blogging as trash journalism, but while he may not have trained as a reporter, he always verified his sources before going public.

  Tanner grudgingly agreed to meet but demanded secrecy, adamant about the choice of the location.

  Drive to the abandoned parking deck three blocks from the lakefront, on Cherry Street, and park on the third floor. You will know it—the one apparently slated for demolition. You’ll see the sign. They’re turning the site into upscale condos.

  Matt remembered driving to the location. Darkness filled the neighborhood, its nooks and crannies abandoned by sunlight. He circled the block three times, casing the garage and feeling disquieted by the surroundings. There wasn’t much in the way of street lighting in that area, a district of warehouses and abandoned factories. He saw signs promising offices, condominiums, and upscale shopping, their washed-out paint a sad reflection of faded dreams.

  Alarm bells began to sound in Matt’s mind as full darkness crept upon him. He felt like it was a setup.

  Matt had shared the evolving story in an e-mail to Cyberia, and described encountering Tanner online and hearing his story.

  His online friend had typed back, Look over your shoulder, Matt. Take nothing for granted. Always assume you are being watched, that someone is noting your every move and listening to every word.

  As he drove, Cyberia’s paranoia began to get to him.

  When he turned into the abandoned parking garage, he brushed that warning to the side. The arm of the ticket dispenser at the entrance to the parking deck was out of order and hung down at a right angle, like a broken arm. He maneuvered the car past the barrier, his headlights sweeping an abandoned vehicle on the first floor that looked like it had taken up permanent residence.

  He drove to the access ramp leading to the next level, and continued up. Derelict vehicles were parked haphazardly on the second floor.

  In for a penny, he remembered thinking, and continued to the third level, following Tanner’s directions.

  All his doubts about the meeting floated to the surface. Then his heartbeat and shallow breathing combined to sound like the beat of an edgy soundtrack of discordant modern jazz. He wondered suddenly what he had available in the way of protection. Only the pen in his pocket. It seemed scant comfort.

  The truth may be a powerful weapon…until you’re in a real fight, he thought.

  The third level was deserted, and as soon as he arrived he felt close to convincing himself to turn and leave. The feeling this was all a wild-goose chase was strong, and growing stronger by the second. For a moment, he was tempted to put aside his pursuit of the story behind CleanSweep and just return to a blissfully ignorant life. Instead of driving away, however, he shifted into park and rolled the window down, leaving the motor running. He’d listened for sounds but heard only the quiet purr of his own engine, along with an odd pinging sound coming from under the hood. It was a sound he’d never noticed before. The noise distracted him.

  A sudden movement to his left caused Matt to stop breathing. He was suddenly unable to speak or shout for help. He forced himself to take a deep breath, to shake off the paralysis. His legs felt useless, and he suppressed a sudden urge to piss. Then a man stepped out of the dark, his arms down at his sides to show an absence of any threat. As he walked closer, Matt saw his face more clearly. The face wore a look of panic and paranoia—a look he knew mirrored his own. Making a fateful decision, he turned off the motor and stepped out of the car. The dome light sparked like a camera flash, blinking obscenely bright. He was quick to close the door, careful to make as little noise as possible. In spite of his attempt, the door latch sounded like a pistol shot in the stillness.

  His paranoia meter had gone viral, registering ALERT, LEVEL RED.

  “Are you…the blogger, Wordster?”

  Matt heard his username, the other man’s voice just above a whisper. Nodding yes, he’d held out his hand.

  The other man didn’t take it, but leaned forward and whispered, “I’m Tanner.”

  “Matt,” he’d replied, matching the other man’s hush. “Call me Matt.”

  Tanner stood quietly for so long Matt wondered if he would ever move or speak. He watched Tanner’s head swivel, scanning in every direction. When he seemed satisfied that they were alone he motioned Matt to follow him, a finger to his lips to signal silence.

  Matt walked back to his car, retrieved his keys, and pulled a moleskin notebook out of his pocket before following. Their footsteps echoed in the gloominess as they walked toward the stairwell entry. Matt braced himself as Tanner opened the rust-covered door, expecting it to whine in protest. But the door opened without a sound. Tanner pointed a flashlight at a can of spray lubricant on the floor. “I checked this location out yesterday; the door was almost rusted shut.”

  When they were safely out of sight in the stairwell, Tanner unbuttoned his shirt to retrieve a file folder wedged down the front. He handed it to Matt and pointed
a small flashlight at the pages so Matt could read it. There were thirty-four pages of text and diagrams in all.

  As Matt turned each page, he felt a knot in his stomach tighten. “Is this true? How could this be?” he wondered aloud.

  “Now you realize what I meant about seeing only the tip of the iceberg,” Tanner said.

  It wasn’t a question.

  Matt felt Tanner’s gaze on him as he absorbed the contents of the file. Everything he was reading had been happening right in front of them, right in the public eye. In Matt’s mind, everyone had suddenly become a willing collaborator.

  “Do you see them all around us anymore? How many street people do you see any longer?” Tanner snarled in a hushed voice. “They used to be everywhere. Now, how many homeless people are sleeping on heating grates, or pushing carts down alleys? All the people who’ve been deemed unsuitable…” Tanner didn’t finish.

  Matt thought about it, but didn’t have an immediate response. Tanner continued.

  “Have you seen any baggy pants lately? Do you see any kids dressed in ‘gangsta’ clothes? They’re the tip of the iceberg. Claussen has more targets.”

  Those questions loitered in Matt’s mind while he read. When he finished the last page in the file, he felt numb to the bone. While his fingertips leafed through the information, a black hole opened in his mind, a hole filled with unanswered questions.

  This can’t be.

  Finally, he said it out loud. “This can’t—”

  “It’s Claussen,” Tanner spat the name out, making a face that looked like he’d just swallowed vinegar.

  “Charles Claussen? What does he have to do with this?” Matt had asked, waving the papers. “What’s your angle? Charles Claussen is a great—”

  Tanner held up his hand, cutting off Matt’s words. “Everyone wants to think he’s an outstanding city leader, the paradigm of everything this country stands for.”

  • • •

  Matt later wished his first meeting with Tanner had ended there. He was sorry he hadn’t gone straight home that night, sorry he hadn’t fed his notes directly into the shredder with one hand while sipping a glass of single malt with the other. He came to wish he’d never heard of Tanner, never learned the true nature of CleanSweep. But, standing in the stairwell of the parking deck that night, he’d suddenly realized that it was too late to turn back. He’d never be able to put this toothpaste back in the tube.

  Like a moth, he was drawn closer to the flame of truth.

  CHAPTER 6

  Tanner’s Story

  Tanner picked different locations for future meetings, luckily nothing as dreary or grim as that abandoned parking garage on Cherry Street. Once it was even a subway platform where Tanner used the noise from passing trains to mask his words, whispering new chapters of his story to Matt. On other occasions, the two of them strolled on nearly deserted sidewalks, always on the alert for anyone following. At their final meeting, they walked along the lakefront as the wind snarled at them like some enraged creature.

  Matt felt his distress grow as Tanner filled him in on the last of the details he had learned about CleanSweep. During the night of that last meeting, Tanner said, “Now you have the rudiments of CleanSweep. You can see how dangerous it is…” Tanner’s voice faded into the dark.

  They sat on a bench on the boardwalk, by the beach, halfway between two lampposts, in the half-light. Matt strained to read the latest batch of papers but gave up. The pale light made it impossible for him to make out the tiny print. “I can read these later,” he’d said as he folded the papers together and stuffed them in a leather case. Turning to look at Tanner, he saw only his most prominent features—those that were visible in the shadows.

  Tanner was crying, and he didn’t seem ashamed. “I don’t know if I’m relieved, depressed, or both,” he finally said. “I wasn’t sure whether it was the right thing to do when I made the decision to talk…to tell you.”

  Matt waited for him to finish, but Tanner fell quiet, staring out at the lake. Matt wondered what he saw in that darkness.

  “We both know how important this is,” Matt said, knowing the words, though intended to be comforting, sounded rather lame. “How did it happen? CleanSweep, I mean? How did it get to this point without…I’m searching for the right word. I guess scrutiny comes close—”

  “I can’t talk about it anymore now,” Tanner said, the words bitter. He was seething with emotion. “I think I have just signed my own death warrant by disclosing this to you. I thought about contacting the government, telling the president, a real reporter.”

  The “real reporter” reference hurt Matt more than he cared to admit.

  “CleanSweep’s reach is so pervasive, as soon as I made contacts like that…Well, I don’t need to explain, do I? It’s in your hands now.”

  Recalling that night later, Matt wrote to Cyberia, “I knew the story was dangerous. An alarm needed to be sounded, the way sirens sound the warning of an approaching tornado. Storms draw near, and you see flashes of lightning and feel the first whispers of the wind. You see it coming while there is still time to seek shelter.”

  While he sat with Tanner, however, he felt at a loss for words. He wondered if they were already too late to sound the alarm about CleanSweep.

  Thinking about all their conversations and the information in the documents, Matt finally was able to see the form, the context of the story. He was starting to see how the individual parts were woven into a whole.

  It’s going to take nerve, courage I may not have, he’d thought. No, I do have what it takes. I learned to go toe-to-toe with those bullies in school. I won’t back down now.

  Matt didn’t realize he was already in the eye of the hurricane. That night, after they finished their conversation on that bench, they stood, and Tanner stunned him by stepping forward and embracing him. Matt felt self-conscious, ill at ease with the physical contact and the intimacy with a man he realized he really didn’t know. He’d tried not to show his awkwardness. Looking back, he realized the embrace for the gift it was.

  Tanner knew I would need reassurance and courage in the time ahead.

  “I believe in you, Tanner. I can’t let fear stop me from telling the truth about Claussen and CleanSweep.”

  As they embraced, Tanner whispered, “This won’t end well for me. I won’t be around to celebrate another anniversary with my wife.” He’d choked off the words, unable to continue.

  “That’s nonsense—”

  Tanner clutched him tighter, preventing Matt from finishing the thought.

  “Cali and McHale are young; they will soon forget what their father looks like. If you thought I was doing this for myself, you were wrong,” he said, his words boiling with rage. “You believe that this is all for me? I’m doing this for my wife and two precious children. I want them to live in a world where CleanSweep is eliminated and its cancer is cured before it can grow and spread.”

  Matt realized then that he would never again know anyone as brave as Tanner.

  Tanner stepped back. “There’s no further need for secrecy. Total secrecy was necessary until I could give you the whole story. I also wasn’t sure I could trust you at first.”

  That bit stung Matt.

  “Now you have to go public with it and sound the alarm, spread the word. They’ll soon figure out it was me who started this, that I was your source for all this information about CleanSweep. They’ll come after me—hard.” Then he added, “And then they will come for you as well. Be ready.”

  The two decided a commemoration of some sort was in order, though certainly not a celebration. Matt mentioned that he had a bottle of single-malt whiskey back at his apartment. Tanner nodded silent acceptance. By the time they’d walked to the nearby apartment building, Tanner had wrapped his motives in a shroud, any misgivings invisible to further scrutiny. When Matt opened the door to hi
s flat, Tanner sounded almost cheerful.

  “Nice place.”

  Matt laughed. He knew Tanner said it because it was expected. The “nice place” was, in reality, just a small flat. The front door opened to a large room, a small bedroom was off to the right, and a kitchenette lay straight ahead. The kitchen area had a window that faced a brick wall six feet away. Matt had moved in over twelve years ago, and had never once opened that window. The apartment was only a place to sleep and eat. Housekeeping wasn’t Matt’s strong point—nor was it a priority.

  With a sheepish shrug, he rushed to push magazines, newspapers, and an assortment of junk mail to the end of the sofa so he could offer Tanner a place to sit.

  He was pleased, in some way, that Tanner felt relaxed enough to kick off his loafers and put his feet up on the coffee table. As his guest leaned back, Matt wondered if he was falling asleep—until Tanner’s head jerked up suddenly. An eager light had returned to his eyes. “You said you have some scotch. I’m ready to talk about some other stuff around the edge of the story.”

  Matt walked to the kitchenette. Opening a cupboard, he pulled out a bottle of Glen Garioch. It was nearly “chockablock,” as his father might say. Somehow, he found two glasses that passed a cleanliness inspection and turned the bottle up, filling them precisely. It seemed perfect for a night like this.

  “Cheers,” Tanner said after Matt handed him the glass. Like saying “nice place,” it was something said out of habit. There was little to cheer about in that room.

  “Cheers,” Matt replied, not wanting to be impolite.

  Tanner started talking, fast, as though he didn’t have much time.

  “Claussen is a genius. I give him that. He saw a need and had the vision to come up with an answer. Can we have some music, please? Jazz, if you’ve got it.”

  His unexpected request caught Matt off guard, but he nodded, got up, and walked to his desk. He didn’t ask what kind of jazz Tanner liked, he just chose Miles Davis from his playlist. Miles Davis was Matt’s favorite, especially Miles’s groundbreaking album, Birth of the Cool. He set the system to play the tracks at random, and the first song that came from the speakers was “Deception.” Matt savored the irony.