The CleanSweep Conspiracy

by Chuck Waldron

  Richard Waverly, however, made Claussen pucker like an unpleasant taste. There was just something about him. Power and money slipped through the man’s fingers like sand, and his promises were as hard to hold onto as quicksilver. Claussen didn’t have a choice but to woo him, though. Waverly was crucial to making CleanSweep a reality.

  “Ulrich,” said Overstreet, the host, turning to the server. “We’re through with dinner. Bring out the other wine now. Put the bottles and glasses by the fireplace. We need the table cleared for later.”

  “Certainly, sir—as you wish.” Ulrich bowed and turned to the other two table staff. He ordered them into the kitchen with a wave. “Mr. Overstreet and his guests are not to be disturbed.” As if it were choreographed, they all turned and left the room in unison.

  Ulrich came back into the room carrying a silver tray that held four bottles and glasses, expertly balanced. He placed bottles and glasses on separate side tables, and with an obsequious bow returned to the kitchen, leaving the four men alone in front of the fire blazing in the granite fireplace. The initial silence was broken by the occasional hiss and spit as large, burning logs settled in the grate.

  “Can he be trusted?” Claussen asked. “Your man, Ulrich?”

  “Ulrich is my majordomo and has been with me for more than thirty-seven years. I have absolute confidence in his discretion. He will see to it that nothing leaves this room.”

  Charles Claussen didn’t feel convinced, but said nothing.

  Even at this time of year, the temperature dropped quickly at night. Winston stood and prodded the dwindling fire, stimulating more flame. He peered at the fireplace for a long time, as if he were trying to recall something. Finally, he put the poker back in the stand on the hearth and turned. He walked over to a bottle and gently poured some wine, swirled it in the glass, and breathed in its aroma.

  “Gentlemen.” He raised his glass.

  The other three stood as if they were marionettes whose strings had just been pulled. They raised their glasses and waited.

  “Like the vintner of this wine, we have toiled in our vineyards long and hard, waiting for a vintage crop. It’s time to turn the fruit of our project into not just good wine, but outstanding wine. And Charles here,” he said, placing his hand on Claussen’s shoulder, “will be our master vintner.”

  Charles Claussen basked in the praise.

  They engaged in small talk for a time after that, but were obviously all eager to hear what Claussen had to say.

  “Why don’t we take our wine and glasses,” Winston said, “and move back to the dining table to see about the project—the excellent plan our friend Charles has prepared for us? I’m assuming you have something for us in that shoulder bag. You haven’t let it out of your sight.”

  Claussen had waited years for this moment. Oh yes. I do have something for you, he thought. The four men walked to the table, trying to outdo one another in appearing nonchalant. In truth, they were like children in a candy store. Charles could hardly contain his own excitement, either. The room was bursting with tension as he put his case on the table.

  Ulrich waited near the table—it was his duty to guarantee total privacy for the foursome.

  “I will call you on the radio if we need anything,” Winston said. He was the last to reach the table, having stopped to ensure the doors were all locked so they would not be disturbed.

  Ulrich would stand guard just outside the room. He kept his hand resting on the butt of his weapon, a version of the Israeli Jericho 941 semiautomatic pistol, a .357 Magnum special. The kitchen staff and other servers were gone, had been driven away in a minibus. The security team had radioed that the compound was in lockdown and secure. Ulrich had left nothing to chance.

  At the dining table, Winston put both hands on the table and leaned forward to watch Claussen, whom he considered his protégé, remove a video player from its case

  “This is my proposal, in high definition. I’ll project it onto a screen for easy viewing.” He reached into another compartment and retrieved a flash drive, inserting it into the side of the player. Then he began unfolding a specially designed piece of equipment that opened in several stages until it became a four-by-six-foot screen. He positioned it at the end of the table.

  He heard murmurs of surprise as the projector filled the screen with an image. Claussen’s handpicked graphic artist had crafted a bold insignia designed to foster a benevolent image. The program’s title, CleanSweep, was artfully embedded into the logo.

  He handed each man a wireless headset. “I personally designed and fabricated these sets to a specially calibrated, fixed frequency. I’ve tested each one individually to make sure their range is limited to just our immediate circle,” he said, waving his arm around the table. “If you step more than a few feet away from the table, you will lose the audio quickly.”

  Spencer stepped back and nodded. “I don’t hear anything but static at this distance.”

  Claussen went on. “Stay close. I want to make sure you hear the soundtrack to accompany the images you’re about to see. We can pick up the dialogue without having to be concerned that anyone can overhear us. As Spencer found out, all anyone will hear is static if they back more than three feet away from the table.”

  “You’re a genius when it comes to technology,” Spencer said.

  They all knew that technological innovations were the foundation of Claussen’s immense fortune.

  When the headsets were in place and the men were ready, Claussen pushed the Play button.

  The logo faded away, and the soundtrack began to play in quality, digital stereo. Charles Claussen had supervised the presentation’s musical selection and had personally selected Henryk Gorecki’s Symphony No. 3, known as the Symphony of Sorrowful Songs. He savored the subtle irony of the choice. The composer had been inspired by the words a prisoner left behind, scratched on the wall of a Gestapo prison cell during World War II.

  Somber music unfolded like a flower opening to bloom, and sorrowful images filled the screen. The first was a photograph of a man in the terminal stage of AIDS, taken just before his death. The other three men flinched, and Spencer even turned away from the screen.

  “Watch carefully, my friends,” Claussen insisted. “This is what we are fighting, what we are up against.”

  That image transitioned to show two men embracing, then quickly changed to show two women kissing.

  “Disgusting,” Waverly muttered. “That’s why we need a marriage law that defines it as a pact between a man and a woman, as God intended.”

  The next series of images showed young men of color in gang clothes, an aging Asian woman struggling to carry a string shopping bag, and a toothless man wrapped in a blanket on a park bench as he held a coffee can in outstretched hands, hoping for a handout. The voice-over said the man was so lazy he couldn’t even bother to get up to beg. There were many more examples like those, each photo chosen to demonstrate the people Claussen considered detritus—social misfits. The images had been carefully chosen to evoke loathing.

  The last image showed two men walking away, the camera smoothly zooming in on the yarmulkes they wore. Then the video faded to black.

  “Wouldn’t our world be better if we didn’t have to see such things?” the voice-over said.

  Gorecki’s haunting melody faded and segued into different music that featured an edgy beat. The musical change made a statement: something new, something to pay attention to. Fresh images showed graphic videos with scenes of rioting and destruction so familiar from the newscasts during the economic conference in 2010, and from several riots at sporting events in the years following.

  Images blended long shots and close-ups, with frame after frame capturing people wearing balaclavas and other disguises to keep from being identified. A soundtrack of sirens and police whistles ran over scenes of windows being smashed, stores looted, and cars o
verturned. The last scene was a long camera pan of hoodlums setting a police cruiser on fire.

  Waverly sneered as he watched police officers forming a phalanx and moving in, swinging batons. The sound of their clubs hitting flesh could be clearly heard over the shouting and sirens.

  “See that?” Waverly stood and pointed to an officer delivering a brutal blow with his baton. “That goon the police officer is hitting is getting just what he deserves.”

  The other three nodded in agreement and made no comment when the camera zoomed in on police officers to show how black tape had been used to cover their badge numbers.

  The sound effects on the video faded and a voice-over condemned the protesters as gangsters, Communists, agitators, thugs, mercenaries, and criminals. There was no reference to the thousands of peaceful demonstrators: mothers, fathers, aunts, and uncles. Ordinary people who wanted to vent their displeasure at the way the ruling class was ruining the economy and their way of life. Claussen had personally overseen the editing, of course, making sure that any such views were left out of this presentation. He paused the video, knowing the men at the table needed no further convincing.

  “Someone has to stand up to the hoodlums,” Winston said smoothly, and the others harrumphed in agreement. “Decades of permissive parenting have led us to this point. It’s time to remind the spoiled-rotten youth that their party is over.”

  “Hear, hear,” Spencer said with a self-important sputter.

  “That was the background. Now watch what comes next,” Claussen said, resuming the video.

  The hymn “How Great Thou Art” began playing in the background, the perfect, uplifting soundtrack to underscore how Claussen’s plan would rescue society from itself. He smiled inwardly, knowing the others wouldn’t appreciate the parody of this musical choice. Research by a noted musicologist had pointed out the similarities of that great hymn to the “Horst Wessel Lied,” the infamous Nazi rallying song. A careful listener could recognize the parallels between the two melodies. Claussen thought it was the perfect touch—his evil plan camouflaged by a great religious hymn.

  The music rose in volume as blueprints and renderings began to appear. The voice-over described new construction and plans for the modification of existing buildings as the video displayed scenes bathed in a warm glow. People could be seen strolling along beautiful walkways threading through landscaped atria.

  “The centerpiece of CleanSweep,” the voice-over stated, “will be the headquarters for our new national security service. CleanSweep will be built in the downtown core.” An image of a multistory, glass-and-chrome building filled the screen.

  Charles put the display on pause again. “I studied the strategy Disney used in Central Florida in the early 1960s. They secretly purchased land over an extended period of time. Nobody knew who the buyer was. They were able to outmaneuver speculators, and the secret for the amusement park was carefully guarded until they made the official announcement that established Walt Disney World near Orlando. I did the same, and I’ve had a team clandestinely negotiating for the past five years.” He paused for effect. “Now we can put that real estate to good use, for a change.”

  He restarted the video.

  The scene shifted from renderings of the headquarters building to structures in another location. “This is an example of one of the planned intake centers,” the voice-over went on, in a perceptibly excited tone. The music in the background now transitioned to the soothing, repetitive melody of a Philip Glass composition.

  “We make sure the buildings are constructed to the highest security standards, without sacrificing detainee comfort. Each inmate can expect clean accommodations,” the voice-over explained as a picture of dormitory rooms appeared on the screen. “Each person can expect a plain but healthy meal. You will, however, note the absence of luxury items. This is intentional.”

  “For example,” the voice went on, “there will be strategically placed, flat-screen, high-definition TV screens, but they will broadcast only educational messages and important announcements. Sorry, detainees,” the voice added in the manner of a sports commentator giving a play-by-play, “you won’t be watching any games or movies on these televisions.”

  Claussen’s demonstration video showed a variety of ways to transport inmates from place to place. “The buses will be wrapped with the CleanSweep logo and graphics, windows tinted to thwart anyone trying to look in. No onlookers need to be bothered by the sight of undesirable people being transported.”

  A streetcar image filled the screen as the voice-over continued. “Specially designed trolleys have also been wrapped with graphics. Like the buses, they all have controlled entrances and exits, to make sure the vehicles are secured against escape.”

  The next video showed a passenger train. Gone were the familiar VIA Rail logos. This train also had windows that screened the passengers from the view of curious onlookers. It would depart from a dedicated quay near the railroad terminal and would not stop until it reached a top-secret location. “A reeducation camp,” the voice-over intoned.

  An aerial shot zoomed over a wilderness site as the voice-over explained, “This is a facility designed for reforming misbehavior, a place where we can shape detainees’ reestablishment, eventually returning them to society as contributing members.”

  The view on the screen was a flyover of a large facility under construction. “This hush-hush location will be known only to a few during the planning stage. It is designed as a place where internees can develop healthy bodies and healthy minds, free from the influence of insect-like human parasites that breed in today’s urban milieu.”

  The four men around the table watched the final segue, back to a view of a classical capitol building. An army officer in dress uniform was standing proud, his hands behind his back at parade rest. As the camera panned to a waving flag, a rousing rendition of the national anthem played while credits scrolled on the screen. Claussen turned the player off, and each man sat in quiet contemplation. He could read their faces. They had just been given a glimpse of the future—and were pleased with what they saw.

  “Impressive,” Winston said finally. “What about the details, Charles? What about that place where the Devil hides?”

  “Where is that camp?” Waverly interrupted, insistent. “I’ve never heard of anything like that.”

  “The details are on this flash drive, gentlemen,” Claussen said. He held it up, clutched in his hand. “I can assure you the plans have been thoroughly vetted. I can swear to you I have gone over them personally, and the details were polished until the last i was dotted and the final t was crossed.”

  He picked up a glass, looked at the wine remaining in it, and took a satisfied swallow before continuing. “The camp, my dear Waverly, was built with my own money. My construction team will keep the secret. It was constructed in a place where the need for formalities like building permits don’t exist. Let me put it this way: the construction workers had to travel far to the south to warm up after they were finished.”

  That brought out a hearty laugh.

  “You really expect to rehabilitate those people?” Spencer Abbot wanted to know.

  “Impossible,” Waverly insisted.

  “Gentlemen.” Claussen held up his hand and smirked. “I left out one or two small details. The site was designed with…” He paused to think of the right words. “How can I put this? I have planned for certain ‘disposal facilities.’ Certainly the four of us are realists. We know that many of these people are beyond redemption.”

  “Let’s take a break and return to the fire to enjoy some more wine. We can look at the rest of the details later, Charles.” They all stood at Overstreet’s suggestion.

  Claussen realized this was the same as fishing. He could tell by their eyes that they had swallowed the bait. Now he had to carefully reel them in, taking care to keep them on the hook until they were safely in his net.


  It was late when they returned to the table, but they were eager to get another session in before the evening ended.

  “Terrific! Absolutely brilliant.” Spencer’s words were slurred from the wine. “That’s an outstanding video. My board of directors would love to see a video making Spencer Enterprises look that good.” He made it sound like the joke it wasn’t.

  Waverly offered a different critique as he waved his wineglass with a gesture that conveyed arrogance. It was a practiced motion, one he used to impress his political devotees—as well as rivals. It had little effect on the other three men in the room, but they tolerated one another’s mannerisms. They needed Waverly’s political connections—especially his access to the treasury.

  “Sir Richard always looks like he has a broomstick jammed up his backside,” Winston had confided to Claussen two weeks earlier. “Still, we need him.”

  “He’s sold his soul to get elected and reelected. His deal with the Devil will pay off for our project now,” Claussen said. “You and I, Spencer, we earned our money. When we spend it, it’s gone, and we have to go back to work if we want more. But Waverly keeps filling his pockets with taxpayer money. For him, taxpayers are a gift that keeps on giving.”

  Unlike Spencer, Waverly was completely lucid, seemingly unaffected by the wine. His glass was still nearly full, Claussen noted.

  “Your people would do Hollywood proud, Claussen, but the video is just that: a moving picture. A fantasy. I need details if I am going to recommend funding.”

  Claussen thought, You’re salivating at this prospect, you pompous ass. You’ll be the easiest fish of all to reel in.

  Claussen turned to the host. “Let’s get some much-needed sleep. I’ll have the rest of the presentation ready for tomorrow morning. We will need our wits about us. Waverly,” he said, his tone close to a sneer, “you will get all the particulars you need—and then some.”