CHAPTER 17
Breakfast with Friends
The group of four basked in the glow of the early morning sunrise. They sat around a table in the conservatory, where the glass panes had been tinted to mute the light. Ulrich served breakfast with consummate skill; coffee refills and additional portions were placed before the guests without their even being aware of his presence. Plush carpeting softened his footsteps. At a nod from Winston, the majordomo made a final sweep of the table, gently removing all the plates and flatware, but leaving the cups and a carafe of hot, delicious coffee. Winston insisted on a robust blend, shipped in weekly from a company that roasted specialty coffees. The manager of the coffee company personally attended to his order’s roasting and shipping. That made sense: Winston wanted to make sure he always had the very best coffee, so he’d bought the company.
Claussen peered at his comrades over the rim of his cup. He savored the taste and enjoyed the moment. He was about to reveal the final details of Project CleanSweep. If this day went as planned, he would be able to begin implementation within weeks, if not days.
The highly caffeinated brew he was drinking, combined with his nervous tension, raised his heart rate perceptibly; he could feel his entire body pulsing, in fact.
He was ready.
“Gentlemen,” he said, placing his cup down, “I promised you further details. But before we begin…” He lifted the leather attaché case and put it on the table. It was the case he had never let out of his sight. The fasteners opened with a click, and he raised the lid. He removed an electronic device the size of a compact digital camera. He extended an antenna and turned the gadget on.
“This was simple to make. And after thinking about the radio Winston uses to communicate with the kitchen, I want to guarantee that we will have no eavesdropping. You are about to hear critical, sensitive details. Various people on my staff were assigned to various parts of CleanSweep’s development, but only I have the entire picture. By the time we break for lunch, the four of us will hold the future in our grasp.” He paused for effect and looked at each of the other three men in turn.
Winston sat back in his chair, trying to look nonchalant. Spencer likewise gave the impression of trying to be casual, but his eyes gave him away—Charles saw the intense look of a predator reflected in his bright eyes. His bleary-eyed appearance of the night before had been replaced with keen interest in what he was about to hear.
Charles looked across the table at Waverly and saw a man who would do anything to stay in office. He knew Waverly had built his political empire in the shadows. He was power incarnate—free from public scrutiny and free of the wearisome check of the media. The sneer from last night was gone, replaced by a palpable desire to increase his power and by his curiosity about just how CleanSweep could fit his purposes.
Judging the moment, Charles Claussen pulled four folders from his case, and handed one to each of the other three men. The cover had the same insignia that had opened the video presentation the night before, a bold design with the term CleanSweep artfully embedded in the graphic.
“Before I begin,” Claussen said, “I would like to make a personal observation. You are about to hear the details of a far-reaching plan that will shape our world for the better. It is not without some risk. Earlier attempts at social engineering have each contained a fatal flaw—or two.”
The other three men waited, willing to let Claussen set the pace.
“Let’s start with Joseph Stalin and Adolf Hitler, the Big Two. They let the personal rivalry between them turn into a vendetta. They were both blindsided by greed. They worshiped at the altar of expansion. They each believed in their right to global supremacy, and they were obsessed with exporting their brand of ideology.
“Focus on those issues was a distraction. It took their attention away from an essential internal goal. They should have remained focused on eliminating the undesirable elements that were eating away at their countries from the inside, like cancer. They both allowed their egos to sway them from programs that were designed to cleanse,” he paused, as if searching for the right words to say next.
“To be frank, they didn’t invent ethnic cleansing, but they tried to perfect it. Stalin swung a blunt hammer and was successful at getting rid of those he considered to be the disagreeable detritus of the Soviet Union—enemies. Then he became obsessed with his imaginary enemies. His big mistake was eliminating his best military thinkers just before he needed them the most.
“Hitler, on the other hand, was more of a planner. He insisted on systematic processes. First, the Germans organized their intelligence gathering. They began identifying what they saw as the negative elements in their midst, both political and social. Then they organized a way to take unwanted people into custody for questioning and detention. Their organized network of work camps was brilliant.
“Imagine what he could have accomplished without the unnecessary wars for Lebensraum, the German word translated as ‘living room.’ He should have finished the internal cleansing before he tried to expand Germany’s borders.
“My own grandfather was an engineer for Hitler, and proud to have helped design many of the camps. He helped supervise the construction of the walled ghettos in Poland as well. He created spaces that funneled people into a single location, making it easy to transport them to work camps later.”
Claussen’s eyes filled with tears, an unexpected display of emotion. “He’s the one who gave me the inspiration for CleanSweep, and also offered advice on how to avoid the pitfalls, the mistakes both Hitler and Stalin made.”
Waverly started to say something, but Claussen held up his hand.
“Let me finish, please. The Germans were skilled craftsmen who misused their tools. The people in their camps were valuable resources, like tools. They should have been taken care of and used—not abused. With a minimum of food and basic health care, they would have continued to be productive workers. My grandfather even devised a formula for the exact amount of daily calories that would be needed to keep people strong enough to work.”
“Then the camps in Germany turned into killing machines,” Winston said.
“That was part of their mistake,” Claussen said. “They worked able-bodied internees to death, convinced they could be replaced by the next trainload of workers. That was inefficient—something any engineer could have told them.
“As their camps became jam-packed, they needed a way to get rid of people who would never be productive workers, though. To be sure, they had to dispense with those prisoners who put a strain on already-scarce food supplies. For those people, the extermination techniques, while necessary, were ghastly. I don’t want us to make the same mistake.” He pointed to the cover of the report. “As you read this, you will see that our procedures have been designed to make sure the methods for any necessary ‘eliminations’ are compassionate.”
He looked at each of the three in turn to judge their reactions.
“CleanSweep also isn’t about world domination,” Claussen continued as the full import of what he had just said registered with the other three men.
“I am suggesting a plan that will serve as a template. We will start with a pilot project, and once we show how effective…Well…” He stopped. “Open your folder and take out the map. It’s not stapled to the rest of the report.”
He waited while the others looked at the letter-size, full-color maps in their folders.
“You will note the red line, which is the border of the area to be initially covered by CleanSweep. Look at the outline that starts in the east of the city and extends in an arch over it. It continues westward, and from there the line sweeps down to the lake.”
Charles started to laugh. “Compare that to this map.” He held up a map of the entire country. “This region,” he began, pointing to the area he had just indicated on the map, “has a large population according to the latest national census
. While it is only a small dot on the map of our nation, it will provide a sufficient statistical sample, enough to prove viability. It will serve as a template. If we can make CleanSweep work here, it can be transplanted to any city.
“More than eighty-five percent of the crime and social evils we face are rooted in urban areas. Turn to the first two pages. The figures there are the latest. These outline the problem the country faces. I can start with immigration.
“Our area shows the nation’s largest growth in numbers of immigrants. Many are illegal. Hand in hand is the surge in gang activity, homosexuals, the mentally ill, the homeless, and other bloodsuckers—all freeload off welfare programs. All of them claim they are merely victims of an uncaring government and society, but they line up, waving signs demanding their so-called ‘entitlements’ from that same government.
“Immigrants arrive with the idea that this country owes them something. We used to screen new applications to make sure they fit in with our true conservative values, supported our belief in hardworking families and faith. Now, just like they’re doing to our good American neighbors to the south, they stream through our porous borders like cockroaches. The liberals in charge even pay the airfare for terrorists disguised as refugees!”
Spencer and Waverly both harrumphed in stereophonic unison.
My amen corner, Claussen thought.
“Let us move on now to the details of CleanSweep’s operations. It was the summer of our discontent,” Claussen said. Then he added, “With apologies to Shakespeare and Steinbeck.” He waited for his audience of three to turn the page to the next part of his proposal. “This country was proud to sponsor the 2010 international conference. Our leaders assured us it would showcase our nation and our city in the best international light.”
The others nodded in understanding.
“Instead, the liberal media had a field day with the rioting and delighted in showing photographs and videos of burning cars, broken windows, and crowds on the rampage everywhere. The scenes still live on TV, YouTube, Facebook, and the like today. And we will never know the damage caused by all the private instant messaging and texting.
“Our fine police did what they could. The city police force was bolstered by hundreds of officers from all over the country. It was a small army of police, in fact. It was an integrated security force, but it was still outmaneuvered. Turn to page eleven and the map.” He waited while the others flipped pages.
“They set up five patrol areas in the city. The goal was to document, or at least card, people who were up to mischief.”
“There were plenty of those,” Waverly said with a sniff. “All the agitators slipped in across our roadblocks. They were just looking for a way to make us look bad.”
“Our police officers were very busy,” Claussen went on. “They used the carding system to interview hundreds. Of course, civil libertarians whined and complained, as expected.”
“Don’t they always?” This came from Spencer.
“Documenting citizens in noncriminal interactions is a valuable tool. The police know how valuable it is to be able to sift through gathered data and weed out the criminals.” Claussen smiled. “All they were doing was recording some names, ages, names of associates, religion, and skin color. Then they sorted it all by codes for categories like ‘routine investigation’ or ‘suspicious activity.’ I did a little research of my own, and I know it’s a practice used by police all over the world—and has been for decades. But should we be surprised it caused a predictable knee-jerk reaction from liberals?” Claussen’s voice dripped with venom.
“They want to make the police look like the bad guys. It serves their aim,” Waverly added.
Claussen glared at the interruption. “My computer team gained access to the police records and the database from that summit. It’s a treasure trove, lists the criminals among us. So-called interactions with the public turned up thousands of pocket-size cards called field information reports.”
“If someone isn’t doing anything wrong, they shouldn’t object,” Spencer Abbot said.
Claussen was annoyed at this second interruption, but kept his bristling hidden. “The police also set up a temporary jail location to handle the sudden surge of arrests—over eleven hundred. It was the largest mass arrest in the city’s history.
“What I am about to tell you is a secret known only to a handful of my most trusted aides…” Claussen paused. The others leaned forward, eager to hear this part. Claussen knew that by talking in a low, dramatic voice, the others would be required to concentrate to hear him, would have to give him their full attention.
“My head of security, Angela Vaughn, sent me a report on the security provisions for two years leading up to the previous international summit. She had a contact in a small city to the west of here. He passed along a story about a man there by the name of Gustav Brunner. Well, to be accurate, his name is really Ralph Patterson, but he didn’t think that sounded Germanic enough. He changed it to Brunner, and it wasn’t long until he was leading a close-knit group of skinheads in goose-stepping, Nazi-saluting, and hanging swastika flags from their apartment balcony railings.
“The authorities moved quickly to make them remove the flags, claiming they were a symbol of hatred. I see that as yet another example of misguided local officials stepping on free expression. Do-good liberal activists soon made it uncomfortable for Brunner and his group to stay there. When Brunner’s companions tried to organize rallies and marches, their enemies made sure they didn’t get the attention they craved.
“I see you take excellent care of your plants,” he said, pointed to Winston’s greenhouse, visible near the garage. “You cultivate, prune, and fertilize. That’s what I did with Brunner. I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse,” he laughed at the movie reference. “With the right amount of recruiting, education, and money, Brunner became the perfect scapegoat.
“I arranged to fund and help him move his small band of followers to another location, a place with more fertile soil for his ideals. The political climate and soil in our fair city proved to be perfect for him. That area already had a significant number of citizens who, shall I say, naturally tilt to the right.” Claussen added, “Local minds were already pollinated by talk shows that fanned the political flames and promoted our way of thinking. Soon people were being drawn to his small-but-growing group. Brunner and company had little trouble finding recruits—he has quite a gift for oratory. He can seduce people over to his belief system.
“To put a fine point on it, I provided all the financing. I ordered Brunner to train teams of his best activists so they’d be ready for the next summit. Most of the destruction during the earlier summit was instigated by a small group of his men under their own impetus—and look at the public outrage that caused.
“In this proposal, I intend to show you how we can build on that summit’s experience and make sure the next global conference being planned will play into my—I’m sorry, our—hands. Brunner’s hooligans, his so-called Free Eagle Militia, will create a climate so frightening that everyone, even the sniveling liberals, will be begging for enhanced security. When they do, CleanSweep will be ready to answer their pleas. CleanSweep will roll out, and the public disturbance will be put down. Citizens will thank us.
“I have visited the camp where Brunner is training his private army, and I can assure you his team is made up of some pretty frightening men and women. They look like dangerous people—the sort you would gladly cross the street to avoid.
“Now, let me show you more of the details of the infrastructure I already have in place to facilitate CleanSweep’s swift implementation. I have funded this with my own resources—along with some help from Winston here.”
Winston stood. “Well done, my friend. I am sure I speak for the others when I say I am intrigued. Maybe this is a good time to break for lunch.”
Claussen was again annoyed by the
interruption. He would have preferred to get to the next part of the proposal, but he couldn’t risk alienating his host. “Of course. If you will, please give me back your copies of this report, gentlemen.”
“You are a stickler for security,” Waverly replied as he handed his copy to Claussen. “I like that about you.”
When all copies of the proposal were safely locked in Claussen’s briefcase again, Winston took a small radio from his pocket and whispered a command to Ulrich, who was waiting just outside the door. “Bring in our lunch now,” he said. He released the Transmit button.
Claussen looked at the small radio with growing alarm. “May I see that, please?” He held out his hand. Turning it over several times and looking carefully at the button, he tried to hide a frown. Finally, he asked politely if he could remove the battery cover.
“Of course you may. What’s the worry?” Winston respected Claussen’s fixation on things to do with security. “I only use it to call Ulrich.”
Claussen peered at the radio and did some mental reverse-engineering.
This is a nightmare, he thought. The fool has an outdated radio that is so old its transmissions aren’t covered by the security protocol I built into my signal-jamming program. But…what harm can it really cause? It can’t have much range. He reassembled the radio and handed it back to Winston.
“I wish you had told me you were using that,” he carefully kept his anxiety out of his voice.
“Is it a serious problem?” Winston asked.
“Probably not,” Claussen answered—but he wasn’t sure.
In the adjacent kitchen area, Ulrich smirked as he placed another radio in a locked drawer. It was a doppelganger to the one he had in his pocket, the one his boss used to call him, but its twin in the drawer had a particular feature. Tuned to the same frequency, it was covertly recording the conversations taking place around the table in the next room.
The CleanSweep Conspiracy Page 13
