The CleanSweep Conspiracy Read online

  They’d sat, neither looking at the other, yet recognizing something important in the intimacy of the moment.

  Tanner spoke first. “As I said, Claussen’s a genius, but I really should have added evil genius. He’s the worst kind of evil. He appears normal. So normal, in fact, that if he were knocking on your door, you would open it wide and offer a grand welcome.”

  He looked at the glass in his hand and drew it up to take a long, slow swallow. “I have some interesting notes about his background—especially his grandfather.” He reached into his pocket and tossed a flash drive to Matt, who caught it in midair. Then Tanner continued, “It’s all there. You can read about it later, when you’ve got the time.”

  Matt held the flash drive in one hand and his glass in the other, his eyes fixed on the man sitting on his couch. He had been tempted to take a sip from his own glass but pushed the urge aside, waiting instead for Tanner to continue the story.

  The quiet exploded when the glass slipped from Tanner’s hand. Shards of glass splintered on the floor and a pool of scotch began spreading in an irregular pattern. It reminded Matt of a TV show’s version of a blood pool at a murder scene. Matt stared at it, fascinated and immobile, as he heard Tanner utter a mournful cry, a howling heartbreak full of anguish, despair. It was a sound he never wanted to hear again.

  Tanner gazed down at the shards and Matt’s cherished Glen Garioch, now seeping through the cracks of the hardwood floorboards. He seemed puzzled, like he didn’t know what to do next.

  “I should…Do you have something to clean—”

  Waving his hand, Matt signaled for him to stay seated and finally pulled himself up out of his own seat. He walked to a closet and came back with a broom and dustpan. He did his best to sweep up the remaining liquid and pieces of glass.

  “Not a very clean sweep,” Tanner joked. “Pun intended!” If Tanner meant it as funny, it came out humorless.

  Matt emptied the contents into a trash can and leaned the dustpan and broom against the wall. He didn’t bother to look for a cloth to wipe the floor. “I guess we need to keep our shoes on now, with all the broken glass,” he said, walking into the kitchenette.

  He found another tumbler, not quite as clean as the first, and filled it anyway.

  Tanner’s hand was shaking as he reached out and took it from Matt’s grasp. “I’m so sorry,” he apologized. He rubbed tears away with the sleeve of his shirt. “I don’t really know what got into me.”

  There wasn’t much Matt could do or say. He felt unable to help or to provide compassion, so he remained quiet as they sat listening to the minor blues strains of “Israel” that played in the background. Matt told Tanner that he liked the John Carisi composition and was glad Miles had included it on the album.

  In a disembodied voice, Tanner began the Claussen story again. “He thought he knew me, but I really pulled one over on him.” Tanner chuckled as he took a sip, his hand a bit steadier. “Claussen recruited me when I was still in school, working on my doctorate. I was almost ready to graduate. One of his talent scouts sidled up to me one day and said he was from Ensûrtech, one of Claussen’s companies. Slithered, I should say, rather than sidled. It seems a more appropriate word now. In truth, he was a snake.”

  Tanner looked at his glass as if in sudden surprise. It was already drained. Matt leaned over and refilled it, generously, to the top.

  “They told me I would be fast-tracked at Enseûrtech. Except the fast track turned out to be more like a fast treadmill. I was soon running so hard I never had much time to really examine what I was doing.

  “I had already been pursued by all the big-league players. They lined up at my door: Google, Apple, Microsoft. But I turned them away and went with Enseûrtech. Poor choice, if you ask me now. But it was my destiny. No, not mine, just destiny—the future. It held what it held for me and my family. That’s what led me there.”

  “How were you recruited?” Matt asked.

  “What was the guy’s name? Oh yeah, Hammond, Don Hammond. No, it was Dan. Hell, it doesn’t matter, Don or Dan. He had a corporate jet waiting with engines purring, and whisked me off to Pittsburgh. We flew from there to Houston and then back to Enseûrtech headquarters. It was an impressive building, all glass, intended to overwhelm visitors. I was awed—maybe incredulous would be a more accurate description. I was ready to sign, hell I was salivating at the offer even as the wheels were touching down at some small airport on the outskirts of another city. Before we got off the plane, I was signing a contract, my head reeling from the effects of the champagne.”

  “What was your field of study…you know, in school?” Matt had asked as if he were conducting an interview—in a way he was—but he was simply curious at that point. He wanted to fill in some of the “why” of Tanner’s story.

  “It’s always been about computers. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve had a love affair with computer technology. I was finishing my doctorate in computer science when they targeted me.” Tanner took a few moments then, smiling and musing over some memory of a happier time.

  “Where was I? Oh yeah, going to work for the devil. It was toward the end of my third month working for Enseûrtech, and an e-mail popped up on my monitor from Claussen’s PA, his personal assistant. The e-mail was a demand disguised as an invitation. I was expected to make my appearance to give a kneel-before-the-king performance before the almighty Charles Claussen on the following afternoon. I knew that declining such an invitation was not an option.” Tanner smiled, remembering the story.

  “The subway wasn’t crowded that day. When I got to Claussen’s building, the guard at the security desk recognized me and called me by name as I walked through the door. I was flattered, I admit.”

  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, abrup
tly, 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

  “She’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.