Holding the crinkled e-mail, he stood up and walked to a window, looking at the lights still on in nearby office buildings.
“What have you done, Matthew Tremain?”
He went back to his desk and looked, page by page, through the file one more time. Creeping into his awareness with silence and stealth—the way a cat lowers its belly and slinks up on an unsuspecting bird—it came to him.
This guy has something on CleanSweep, and they don’t like it one little bit.
He stood up and began pacing. He thought about the flask in his desk drawer again, but knew it would now have to wait until this mystery was solved. Once Carling sank his teeth into a case, he put all thoughts of drinking aside.
I might be changing my mind about Matthew Tremain now. I rather like what I’m learning about the little shit. He’s like me back in the seventies. All he needs is my old tie-dye shirt, an Afro, and his fingers in a peace sign. Carling smiled as he paged through the file, although he knew the situation wasn’t one bit funny. Tremain knows something is going on over there. I can’t really blame him for not trusting anyone.
And then there was the e-mail response Matt had provided to Carling’s earlier questionnaire: “CleanSweep isn’t clean, but it is sure sweeping.”
Carling was beginning to agree. Carling considered himself old school, and was proud of it. He wanted to be that Norman Rockwell image of a cop in The Runaway painting of the friendly police officer and a young boy sitting at a soda fountain together. He laughed to himself, recognizing how corny that sounded. Still, that was the way his inner compass pointed.
He realized he was starting to like something about Matt, which made the case a bit more complicated. He even entertained the idea briefly that he and Matt might become friends. The absence of other meaningful relationships in his life played into such thinking, he knew. Carling didn’t have any real friends. He knew he would probably never even understand why he was suddenly having this new feeling about Matt. In truth, he didn’t try to all that hard.
He was responding to his gut instinct. Matt didn’t seem like one of the bad guys, and he was satisfied with that. He returned to his desk and opened his laptop. He started to type an e-mail to Matt, then stopped four words in. It was addressed to [email protected]. He quickly deleted the address and closed his computer.
It hit him like a shock wave: “They’re monitoring everything I do.”
Instead, he composed a handwritten note in neat, deliberate printing. When he finished, he put it in a small envelope and sealed it.
“Matt,” it read, “you need to watch your back.” He finished the note and signed it “KBO, Carling.”
He stood and picked up his battered fedora. He carried the hat and envelope to the garage, unlocked his car, and drove to The Beaches. He parked around the corner from Matt’s apartment building. When he got out, he looked around for any sign of a tail. Satisfied there was none, he walked into the building’s lobby. He used a master key to open a mailbox door, then he and slid the envelope into the slot under Matt’s name.
He had decided he wasn’t going to tell the high-and-mighty Angela Vaughn where Matt lived. Let her people find him. He laughed to himself as he walked back to his car. If I could barely find him, let them try, he thought with a grin. They don’t know the city like I do.
• • •
Matt had made it back to his apartment without being arrested. He hadn’t been reassured when Cyberia told him his apartment was still safe, but apparently he was correct. He was carrying three bags of groceries as he twisted through the open door to the foyer of his apartment building. “Thanks,” he said to the woman who had held the door for him. He watched her walk out and was starting for the stairway when he decided to check his mailbox. Placing the groceries on the floor, he searched his pocket for the correct key.
Matt’s usual stack of mail was composed of advertisements, so he didn’t bother to check it on a daily basis. He pulled out a handful and was about to throw it all in the communal trash bin when he noticed a small envelope.
“That’s odd.”
He threw the ads away, opened the envelope, and read Carling’s note.
“How did this CleanSweep business start?” The writer of the note asked a question the blogger had been thinking about for weeks now.
The detective’s note said CleanSweep agents knew who they were looking for but still didn’t know where he lived.
“How did this all start?”
CHAPTER 15
Lion’s Head
The breathtaking escarpment forming the distinctive Lion’s Head loomed over the shoulder of a solitary angler. He sat in his boat, holding a beer in one hand and a fishing rod in the other. The man was a “here and now” type, not given to introspection, but for some reason he sat thinking about how he’d ended up sitting in that boat that day.
It was well beyond time to leave Detroit, he knew. The decision had been made for him when a friend whispered, “Big Julie is looking for you. The word is you owe over forty large.” Big Julie, aka The Legbreaker, worked for a notorious loan shark. It was obvious he got his nickname from the way he persuaded people to repay their loans. Big Julie was a man people genuinely feared.
To put distance between himself and Big Julie, he had made the drive from Detroit to Lion’s Head, located on the Bruce Peninsula in Canada’s Ontario Province; it only took a tad under six hours. But the distance between the remote location and the city might as well have been separated by an ocean, as the saying goes. At least that’s what he hoped.
After hitting his mother up for some travel money, and with Big Julie hot on his trail, he took what he hoped was an ingenious route. There were five ways to get from Lower Michigan to Ontario: two bridges, a tunnel, and two ferries. Guessing Big Julie would have eyes on the bridges and tunnel, the best choice seemed to be the Bluewater Ferry.
“Fishing trip,” he fibbed to the Customs and Immigration officer on the Canadian side.
That was a little over two years ago now. Nevertheless, the thought of Big Julie still gave him the shivers.
He liked living there. The locals didn’t ask too many questions. His talent as a carpenter and his willingness to lend his skills to the resort community soon made his reputation. Living on a cash-only basis kept curious immigration questions diverted.
That day, a mile out on the water, he saw the face of the escarpment to the south, the one that looked like a lion’s head. He sat in his boat admiring a string of fish. The day seemed nearly perfect. The boat rocked gently as he placed the stringer over the gunwale and twisted the cap off a new bottle of Cracked Canoe beer. With the bottle in one hand and his pole in the other, he was about to take a swallow when a helicopter, sounding like a she-devil when it was finally overhead—a banshee—came round the head of the lion. He almost pissed himself.
Hearing that impressive sound made him do something unimaginable, for him. He dropped the beer. The bottle clanked on the aluminum hull and started spinning, vomiting froth. The helicopter passed directly overhead, at less than a hundred feet of elevation. The downdraft from the chopper’s rotor rocked the boat, and Scotty put his hands over his ears, ducking reflexively.
Looking up with a mixture of fear and awe, he saw the sky-beast rise abruptly and turn as if rotating on a pin, then strike off to the north, passing over the government dock.
“What the—”
• • •
Charles Claussen, the pilot, was alone onboard. He looked at his map and the straight line marking the flight path from Toronto to Lion’s Head. The link pointed to north by northwest. Charles Claussen had covered the 133 miles in slightly less than forty minutes. He was at the controls of the fastest helicopter his money could buy. It had been custom built for him. He chose a design based on the Sikorsky X2 and powered it with a light helicopter turbine engine. The craft utilized advanced blade techno
logy to both dampen noise and maximize speed.
He knew that by the time he silently counted “one thousand and one” to “one thousand and ten,” at top speed, his helicopter would have traveled over a mile. He’d asked the manufacturer for the best, and the designer had adapted an antitorque system design, allowing replacement of the conventional tail rotor. That made it one of the quietest and fastest helicopters on the market.
Earlier that morning his corporate jet had landed at Billy Bishop Airport. After clearing customs, he ordered his pilot to wait, saying, “I will be back the day after tomorrow.” Before leaving the airport on Toronto’s waterfront, Claussen filed a flight plan outlining an itinerary that would take him past Owen Sound and on toward Tobermory at the tip of the Bruce Peninsula—right to the point where Georgian Bay empties into Lake Huron. His plan indicated he would be landing on private property near Tobermory.
“I’m looking forward to some diving and hiking,” he said as he started the helicopter, waiting for the turbine to begin its low whine. He knew Graham, the mechanic, was an avid diver who often explored the shipwrecks that had made Tobermory and the Bruce Peninsula region famous.
“I envy you, man!” Graham shouted just before Claussen closed the door.
Charles really had other plans for the trip, however—and they had nothing to do with diving. He checked to make sure his small attaché case was secure as he waited for full power. When it was time, he shifted the controls so that the craft lifted gracefully from the tarmac. He turned it in a 360-degree sweep of the area, checking for other air traffic. Satisfied it was clear, he pulled back on the stick that combined the cyclic and collective functions needed to fly the craft.
Once he had gained enough altitude, he dipped the nose and pointed to the northwest. He paid scant attention to the city passing below, which was soon replaced by farmland. He cross-checked his progress with the GPS and made a check mark on his chart as he passed Orangeville on his left. He made subsequent marks as he left smaller communities in his trace. Everything was going as planned.
With land behind, his flight took him over the crystal-clear, blue waters of Georgian Bay. He enjoyed the solitude, which was broken only twice by brief radio communications as traffic controllers acknowledged his path.
He knew he would need all of his concentration for the project ahead. Showtime would start as soon as he landed.
Looking out ahead, he saw a bump on the horizon. It grew rapidly in size until he could make out the outline of the side of a cliff. The striking rock formation shaped like the head of a lion marked the point where the face of the Niagara Escarpment rose majestically from the waters of Georgian Bay. From his angle, it looked like a proud lion indeed. He knew other locations in the world used the same name, but Claussen was most inspired by the splendor of how the limestone jutted up out of the lake, forming spectacular cliffs and caves. He believed this lion’s head was unique.
He nudged the nose of the helicopter toward the headland. It was the formation of the cliff that gave it its name. He knew the small port village lying just around the corner claimed the name as well.
Not usually given to sport, Claussen allowed himself a brief moment of amusement and excitement. He put aside all thoughts of CleanSweep, the plan he had dreamed about for years, the plan he had staked everything on. He had committed his life and nearly all his money to making it a reality, and the idea of his dreams coming true at last was intoxicating. He was about to meet with the people who would hand over the keys to the power he needed to complete his vision.
He was overtaken by a feeling of exhilaration and gave in to an impulse; he pushed the stick forward and nosed the craft into a steep descent.
Reducing altitude and diving, he experienced the thrill of high-speed flight at wave top. He leveled off and banked around the cliff. Turning west and rounding the head of the lion, he saw a man in a skiff pass just underneath him. Charles laughed at the man’s obvious alarm, and then pulled back on the stick as he realized he was going too fast and was dangerously low. He glanced at the altimeter and saw the indicator go from fifty to just over one hundred feet as he passed over the boat, and he realized he must really have given the man quite a fright.
Amusement over, he regained altitude and glanced down at the large power yacht docked at the government wharf.
“Ah, Spencer is here.” He smiled.
He leveled off as he passed Dyer’s Bay on his left. He made a sharp turn east to skirt the escarpment jutting in that direction. He hugged the coast until he reached the Cabot Head lighthouse. He was almost at his destination.
Spotting a small lake, he turned inland just past the lighthouse. The lake was surrounded by hectares of wilderness. He knew the privately owned lake was accessible only by a single paved road. He made a final turn to land and waved down to the armed guards as he did. Nobody would ever make it to this place uninvited.
The house was more than a cabin in the woods—it was a grand lodge built on the edge of the lake. Jutting out from stony outcroppings, it was a masterful combination of granite and wood that blended perfectly with the rustic surroundings.
A heliport was situated behind the carriage house, exquisite landscaping hiding its existence from view at ground level. He guided his craft to an expert landing and listened to the turbine engine pinging itself to rest.
He raised the Plexiglas door, picked up his attaché case, and stepped out. He raised his arm to wave and smile to his host, who was standing on a large deck extending from the lodge. Claussen was pleased to see two other men standing there as well.
“It’s time—and I’m ready.”
CHAPTER 16
Men of Mystery
He was the last to arrive. After unpacking and changing clothes, Claussen joined the others for dinner. He unfolded his dinner napkin and placed it on his lap, looked around the table, and wondered why he had ever allowed himself to feel intimidated by the three men sitting with him. He worked hard to cloak a feeling of smugness.
“I could buy and sell them all—well, maybe not Winston.” A slight smile curled on his lips.
He speared a piece of stewed elk and lifted it to his mouth. Chewing slowly, he savored the flavor, infused with a juniper-and-cranberry reduction. He reached for his glass of wine. Charles had nodded in approval earlier when his host, Winston Overstreet, told the server to decant the bottles in advance of the meal.
Charles loved to play at matching knowledge of wine with his host. “Hmm,” he mused. “I taste red cherries and oak, with a hint of olives and smoke. Wonderfully complex, I would say.”
Charles Claussen looked at the four bottles of Chateau Petrus Pomerol on the table, one in front of each place setting. He looked at the label, knowing Winston could only have found the rare 1961 vintage by special order or at auction—along with a price tag of close to $4,000 a bottle.
He knew Overstreet liked to think of himself as the quintessential country squire. He was sitting with one leg casually crossed over the other. His chair was turned, allowing him to glance out over the lake as they talked. He held his wineglass just so, in an affectedly lackadaisical manner that fooled nobody at the table. There was never anything nonchalant about Overstreet.
Spencer Abbot sat to Winston’s left. He looked uncomfortable in outdoor clothes, likely purchased in a hurried trip to an outfitting store in preparation for the weekend. Claussen sneered, thinking Spencer was more at home in yachting whites and a captain’s hat, although he was fairly certain he never touched the helm or any controls of his ship. “I have people to do that,” he’d once said.
Claussen had flown over the megayacht moored at the government dock in Lion’s Head.
“I was close enough to the ground to see the awed looks on the faces of the crowd of locals staring at your little boat,” Claussen said as he took a sip of wine.
Spencer liked to toss nautical terms around. “The
twin engines will get her up to twenty-three knots cruising speed, fast enough for waterskiing.” He snorted wine and laughed, wiping his nose. “They told me I would need a crew of three, but they didn’t consider that I’d also need a chef,” he said as he patted his ample stomach.
The fourth man at the table said little, but that was his custom. He preferred to keep himself behind a scrim of silence. He was like an incarnation of the curtain dividing the action on stage from the levers, pulleys, and costume changes going on backstage.
“You sometimes remind me of the Wizard of Oz, Richard,” Winston said, turning. “Except we all know you aren’t the fake he was.”
Richard Waverly was a fourth-generation politician, often referred to as an “überconservative,” a label he privately wore with pride. He quietly used the family fortune to back anyone ready to promote his views. He had once confided to Claussen that he had studied all the great tyrants and dictators in history. “I’m determined to learn where they went wrong and how to avoid making those mistakes when our time comes.”
The two were clearly like-minded.
He was a veteran politician and knew what it was like to both win and lose elections. He liked winning better. In fact, he’d only lost one election. The experience had taught him that lots of money—and a lack of ethics—were surefire ways of staying in office.
He was called “Sir Waverly” derisively behind his back; his own staff detested him almost as much as his opponents did.
Richard Waverly was, however, a member of an elite political inner circle at the epicenter of power. Claussen knew that while the party leaders and power brokers may have considered themselves to be the ones in charge of the nation’s coffers, when Waverly pointed, the money would move in whatever direction he indicated.
Claussen looked around the table as he finished his glass of wine, considering his dinner companions. He respected Winston and thought of him as a person almost his equal. Spencer had a seemingly bottomless fortune. A man with that kind of money was easy to tolerate when he shared certain views.
The CleanSweep Conspiracy Page 11
