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.
That was supposed to be the case tonight—until the newsroom was turned on its ear by the fierce-looking men groping through files and equipment drawers. And they were doing it right in the middle of the newscast. Mark, the newsreader, had done his best to cover the distraction at first, but he finally gave up and just kept reading as if nothing were happening. Carl thought Mark should get an award for his performance.
Then they were gone, but they had left something unheard of in their wake: silence. It was as if they had whacked the newsroom beast over the head with a club, rendering it senseless and, worse, speechless.
Everyone’s eyes reflected fear. Someone finally let out a loud sigh, the kind of noise that could only be made after holding your breath for a long time, when exhaling slowly is no longer optional. It broke the thick tension in the newsroom.
“What the heck was that all about?”
The question on everyone’s mind had finally been voiced.
The silence snapped, and the newsroom beast came back to life. “You’ve all heard the say
ing ‘the show must go on.’” It was Karen’s voice. “Now move your asses, and let’s get this bitch on the air!” Karen dashed around, whipping her crew into some semblance of a team, screaming through the uproar made by staff, cast, and technicians.
Carl realized he had been holding his breath, too, and the escaped air made a hiss as it passed his lips. He looked up and saw Susan standing in the doorway of her office. He spotted uncertainty on her face, a look he rarely saw. It was more than indecision. It was fear.
He nodded his chin over his left shoulder, toward the storage room. Just when he thought she hadn’t caught his gesture and he would have to repeat it, she pushed away from the doorframe and followed him.
“What the hell was that?” she asked in a hushed voice, brushing her hair back in that certain way she had when she was tense. It was a gesture she kept hidden from everyone except Carl.
How many times have I noticed her doing that as I look through the camera eyepiece?
Being the best in the business came at a price, and she had a relentless need to be perfect.
“Did they find them?”
He understood her question. He knelt on one knee, reaching under the table. The media cards were still securely in place.
“No, but they knew what they were looking for. They took all my blank media cards.”
“This is getting serious.” She looked up at the ceiling, trying to think of something more to say. “That damn blogger, Matt Tremain, is right,” she said between clenched teeth. “It won’t stop with this search, will it?”
Carl flinched. “They didn’t find the cards,” he said. “I taped them to the underside of the table just before they came in here, but it won’t take them long to realize they only left with blanks. They’ll be back.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I have to keep them from finding these cards. We need to get them to a safe place. They hold all the interviews we have on CleanSweep, especially the ones with Mattie and Clifford. That’s pretty damning evidence. When we match this with the stuff the blogger has…”
He paused, looking thoughtful. “What if they’re waiting outside? I’m guessing they’re waiting for us to come out. They’ll be ready to search me—or maybe us?” He chewed at his lip in frustration. “Hand me my old camera—that one,” he said, pointing to one resting on a high shelf. “I have an idea.”
Susan did something unprecedented. She obeyed without question.
He motioned for her to sit while he looked at the vintage camera. “I haven’t used this in over five years. It’s ancient, a dinosaur.” He laughed as he opened a compartment on the side of the camera and pulled out a videocassette. “Look, there’s still a videotape in here, the kind we used back in the day.” He ejected a plastic case the size of a small brick. Carl picked up some nearby tools and sorted through them until he found the one he was looking for. He used a specially designed screwdriver to gently unlock and pry open the casing, revealing the tape. It passed over the recording head, wound from reel to reel.
“Hand me those media cards taped up under the table,” he whispered. He watched Susan kneel, noting vaguely how it created an immodest pose. She finally straightened up and gave the three small media cards to him. “I have the equivalent of more than two hundred and fifty of these tapes on just one card. Technology.”
Carl held one card between his thumb and finger as he reached for a pair of tweezers, then carefully used it to insert the first media card under one of the reels of the cassette. He repeated this with the other two cards until they were well hidden inside the dated, used cartridge.
“There,” he said, looking satisfied, and put the cover back on the cassette. “That’s the best I can do.” He reached up for a case on the shelf and pulled it down, rubbing the dust away with a cloth. “This sure brings back memories,” he murmured wistfully. He nestled the camera into the case as gently as if it were a baby swaddled in soft blankets.
“You carry it,” he said to Susan. “That is, if it doesn’t offend your on-air talent sensibilities or get me in trouble with the union.” She didn’t argue and accepted the case, swinging the strap over her shoulder.
He turned back to the workbench and picked up the case containing his working camera. “They can look through this all they want now,” he said. “They won’t find what they’re after.”
When they went back into the newsroom, the control center had returned to operating in full form: absolute chaos, barely under control. Carl led the way through the hooting and screaming interns and technicians. Everyone was racing around, trying to piece together what was left of their production as the clock approached the thirty-minute mark. They were halfway through the broadcast. Susan followed as Carl walked out of the newsroom and down a hall to a door leading to a short set of stairs that would take them to the parking garage.
They were walking up to their parked news van when a woman’s voice echoed in the silence: “Stop! Now!” Her tone was dark and rough.
“Drop the cases,” a man’s voice followed, much softer, in a way more feminine than the woman’s. “Put them on the ground.”
Carl looked at Susan and shrugged. Someone appeared with two sets of tripods, assembled them, and attached sets of bright lamps—the kind police used at crime scenes. Other men, on bent knees, started to rifle through the cases. One man began taking the cameras apart, causing Carl to flinch. Two other men faced Carl and Susan, ordering them to keep their hands visible. They began an expert pat down and, leaving nothing to chance, made sure they didn’t try to run. Carl sensed the tightness in Susan and moved slightly so his hand lightly touched Susan’s arm. It was a simple touch, but he felt her tension drain away. Carl smiled.
He recognized that it was an odd time for him to realize he might be in love with her.
He watched the men examine the cameras and cases. His legs went rubbery when they grabbed the one away from Susan—his old camera.
Did I hide the cards well enough?
He watched them take the old camera case and camera apart. A man who seemed to have the requisite technical skills examined the camera. When he pulled the cassette tape out of its slot, he stared at it for a long time, then finally tossed it on the hood of an adjacent parked car, discarding it as unimportant. He turned to the woman in charge, “Nothing, boss. I’m sorry, I mean—and—”
“You said your informant was reliable,” she cut him off with a harsh wave, her voice sounding like brittle fingernails on a blackboard. “Take everything. When you get back to headquarters, I want you to go over it all with a microscope. I want your report by the end of the day.” She turned and strode to a waiting car, not bothering to listen for a response.
Carl placed his hand on Susan’s arm as they watched the two cameras, cases, and accessories being loaded into the open door of a minivan, a Nissan Quest. The automatic door slid closed with quiet efficiency, and soon the van and chase car sped down the ramp of the parking deck. He pointed to the discarded cassette tape, still on the hood of a car. Forgotten.
“Are they gone?” Susan whispered.
Carl was surprised at the calm in her voice. He shrugged an answer and looked at the plastic cassette. “I think we just stepped in a big pile of shit.” It was the only thing he could think of to say. He picked up the cassette tape, holding it as if it were a stick of dynamite with a burning fuse—a very short burning fuse.
Carl sensed something else. It was a sudden change in their relationship, and it felt seismic to him. Susan was suddenly following Carl’s lead. Self-assured, with an inner strength, she often seemed fearless, rarely allowed any displays of affection. It wasn’t as if she had flipped a switch or had suddenly decided to surrender her power, giving the leadership role to him. It was something different.
She realized it, too, and finally put it into words. “This is one of those times when we need to rely on your expertise,
” she told him, no doubt in her voice. “I’m damn good at being a journalist, but this is something big. It’s going to take both of us to work it, and it’s going to take your street skills and contacts.” She paused. “I’ve always known we’re a team. I wouldn’t be where I am if it weren’t for you.”
Carl was astonished at the admission, and felt his face redden. He turned his attention to the cassette and said, “We need to hurry. We have to warn Tremain.” He scrolled through the contacts on his backup cell phone, the one he used as a throwaway. Before he dialed, he turned to Susan. “We need to meet with him. The three of us have turned over a rock and some very nasty bugs are crawling into the daylight.”
He looked up abruptly from the phone. Susan nodded, waiting for Carl to tell her what to do next.
“If the stories are true, they can track this,” he said, holding one phone up. “It has one of the latest SIM cards. They can track it with GPS technology.” He pulled an old flip phone from another pocket of his photographer’s vest. “I bet you haven’t seen one like this in years. Let them try to track it. I’ve had it since 1989.” He began laughing. “We like to think ‘new and improved’ is best, but sometimes the old ways have their plusses. Someone might still be able to eavesdrop on our conversation, but they won’t be able to pinpoint our location.”
“You’re one of the few people I know who would still have one like that.” She chuckled. “I’m sure glad you had that old camera. You saved our butts, using it for that hidden-card trick.”
“We can’t go to our homes.” Carl looked around, suddenly alert. “Where the hell did they all go? Why aren’t they keeping us under surveillance?” Then he held up his hand to indicate they should be silent and pointed to a doorway. It led down a ramp at the far corner of the parking deck. “I think those stairs take us to the alleyway behind the garage.”
At the foot of the stairs, he held up his hand again, listening for footsteps, voices, or other telltale signs that someone might be near. Satisfied, he dialed and, after a moment began talking, keeping his voice low.
The CleanSweep Conspiracy Page 6
