The majordomo walked back into the dining room with a tray full of lunch. He placed the food on the table and reached into his pocket to set the other, harmless, radio on the table where he knew Claussen would see it. It was a gesture intended to disarm any concerns that Claussen might have about a possible security breach.
It worked.
Ulrich thought about the twin receiver in the drawer and hummed softly as he carried the empty tray back to the kitchen. Someone with sensitive hearing would have detected the song he was humming: “The Internationale.”
CHAPTER 18
Hidden in the Details
“I’m stuffed—and tired,” Spencer grumbled as Ulrich cleared the lunch table. “I always need to schedule time with my personal trainer after spending time with you, Winston.” The rest of them knew Spencer’s idea of exercise was moving a chair closer to the table, and that his “personal trainer” was a chef, equally rotund.
Claussen was still annoyed that his presentation was interrupted earlier, just as he had been getting to the best part. “Spencer, it is clear that you’ve missed most of the appointments with your trainer,” he said, meaning it to come out in a lighthearted way.
He was immediately sorry—Spencer frowned.
“Will that be all, gentlemen?” Ulrich asked.
“Bring in the coffee. We need the afternoon to be interruption-free,” Winston said.
Ulrich returned with cups, saucers, cream, and sugar; once everything was arranged to his satisfaction, he left the room. All attention turned back to Claussen, who wasted no time outlining more details of CleanSweep. He described how teams would roam the streets in the urban areas, as well as patrol the back roads of the less-populated areas.
“We call the men in the teams ‘auditors.’ They are doing a special kind of audit, after all.”
Claussen went on. “CleanSweep audit units are formed in teams of four: driver, computer analyst, and two designated officers for arrest and detention.
“We prefer using customized Sprinter vans that feature the legendary Mercedes-Benz engineering—German, of course. The driver and computer analyst sit in the front, and the two ‘cleaners’ sit in two seats immediately behind. The rear of the van is designed to accommodate eight detainees. There are four seats on each side of a sort of companionway, with U-bolts welded to the frame. Cleaners can make sure certain high-risk prisoners are handcuffed to these and unable to escape.”
Claussen explained how his firm’s security specialists trained the sweeper teams. “To keep them from looking like Black Marias, the vans will be painted white and will display no identifying logos or signage.”
Charles started a video. “Watch this. It demonstrates how the operation works, using actual subjects,” he said as the camera panned over the shoulder of a driver. Two cleaners jumped out and quickly apprehended a homeless man. He was handcuffed and escorted into one of the van’s holding seats before surprise even registered on his face.
“Excellent! Exactly as planned,” an excited Claussen said over the video’s commentary.
When the team finished their demonstration patrol, the van was at capacity. They drove to a holding facility in a nearby neighborhood. “We have these small holding units in place throughout the greater metropolitan area already,” Claussen boasted.
“Were all those people actors?” Waverly wanted to know.
“No, just eight more people who will no longer befoul our city,” Claussen answered.
He pointed to the proposal while the others read, then watched as they looked back up to the video, which was showing the sweeper van unload its passengers.
“Isn’t it just like a scene of an ambulance pulling into the emergency room entrance to a hospital?” Spencer Abbot sounded impressed.
This was much different, however. Inside the doors of the facility, the detainees were herded down various hallways. Each passageway had signage for different types of detainees; homeless in one room, mentally ill in another, and handicapped in yet another. Criminals were divided into subcategories, depending on the type of crime they had committed. A camera zoomed in to follow a group of prisoners being directed into dormitory-type rooms.
“They’re waiting to be interviewed one-on-one,” Claussen said.
The video went on to show some detainees from the collection center boarding a bus; others were led to a special streetcar.
They listened to the voice-over. “Both departing vehicles were assigned to take passengers to the large intake facility. All this served to funnel men and women to a final assessment point.”
The commentary noted that when the final determination for treatment was made, each person would have an electronic chip implanted under the skin above the right elbow. From that point on, every person detained could be monitored, and with a mouse click, a computer would display their whereabouts.
“Bluetooth technology continually feeds their vital signs to the nearest cellular tower: pulse, blood pressure, and anxiety measurements. Then that data is relayed to our central computer,” the narrator said.
“Give me a report on detainee 12-4577,” a voice commanded.
The screen filled while a disembodied voice said, “Detainee 12-4577 is currently located at the intake facility near Spadina Avenue. She is designated as homeless, with no known family on record. She is scheduled for transfer to the lakeside facility in seventeen days.” More examples followed, and the men around the table seemed very pleased indeed.
“That is the gist of how it will work,” Claussen added. “What you saw in the video is how the pilot project was set up to demonstrate CleanSweep. When CleanSweep is fully operational, a network of trains will be used to transport the larger numbers of detainees we expect to have. They will be carried to that special camp—I mean, facility.”
Claussen was so excited he was spitting out a fine spray as he talked. “When this is online, we will see immediate, visible results. Imagine this in full bloom with the complete backing of the government. Fathers will soon be able to take wives, children, and even mothers-in-law out for a stroll without having to worry about gangs, panhandlers, or all the ugliness civil libertarians and liberal advocates have forced on us. I am proposing we become our own class of advocates—advocates who support real families and people willing to make a contribution to our world. We can get rid of the bloodsuckers who leech, who drain our precious resources.
“When this comes to pass, we will interrupt the generational cycle of welfare dependence once and for all. We will simply stop them from breeding.”
When he finished the presentation, he looked around the room. There was no reaction for a moment, and for an instant he feared the worst—until Spencer leaped to his feet.
“That’s absolutely brilliant, Charles! More than that, it’s brilliant beyond my wildest expectations. My checkbook is open, and I am ready to give you a blank check.”
“You have actually put your plan into practice—tested it?” Waverly tried not to show he was impressed.
“We’ve run beta tests, to get it right,” Claussen said. He couldn’t suppress his glee.
Waverly wiped a tear away. “I’ve dreamed about something like this for years. We can finally get rid of the scum that are sucking us dry. You have my full backing. I’m talking with billions I can divert from secret accounts.”
Winston sat back, quiet. His broad smile spoke for him. He nodded to his protégé. Finally, he lifted his hand for silence. “This marks a solemn occasion, gentlemen. This country has been on a slippery slope ever since the Great Depression tilted our great country more and more to the extreme left. What our great friend Charles Claussen has done…” he said, pausing to patting Claussen on the shoulder, “is to give this great nation the backbone needed to set things right again, no pun intended!” He laughed heartily. “I am proud to call this man my friend, and I urge us to do what we know is right
. Let’s give this scheme our full support.”
“Like I said, done!” shouted Spencer.
“You can count on me,” Waverly added.
“Then I propose,” Winston said, “that we celebrate with another excellent dinner. I have asked Ulrich to decant some more of my special wine reserves. Since we are all leaving early tomorrow, we should get some rest, though. Early to bed, as the saying goes…” He turned to Charles and asked, “Is it OK for each of us to take your proposal to our rooms? We can digest it in private and then make our final recommendations?”
Charles Claussen already knew they supported him, and was only too happy to let them take the proposals if it would help them feel more like part of a team.
Dinner was splendid, with more expensive wines served in generous portions. When they were finished, they each picked up a proposal. Spencer and Waverly headed down the hallways toward their respective suites.
Winston stopped Claussen. “Now that Spencer and Waverly are gone, we have some time alone. I have ordered coffee and digestive biscuits to accompany a fine cognac. Please, join me in front of the fire. ‘The time has come,’ the Walrus said, ‘to talk of many things: of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax—of cabbages—and kings—’”
• • •
Ulrich watched the two men move to wingback chairs in front of the blazing fire. As he backed out of the room, he closed the door with the consummate quiet expected of a majordomo. He was, after all, a highly trained professional.
He unlocked the drawer that held the secret small recorder. He tested the recording by playing it back for a few seconds. Every word could be heard clearly. He took out the tape cassette and inserted another, then put the recorder back in the drawer. When he reached his quarters at the rear of the lodge, he opened a suitcase and took out a shipping envelope. He placed a label on a FedCo Courier envelope. As soon as the conference was over the next day, he would seal all the tape recordings in the envelope and enjoy a leisurely bicycle ride into Lion’s Head.
He hummed his off-key version of “The Internationale” as he undressed for bed.
• • •
The two friends sat in the dim light, the room’s quiet occasionally shattered by a strong, sputtering hiss-sss-sss. It sounded like a coiled snake that was preparing to strike. Charles and Winston watched logs roll over in the fireplace as bursts of flame momentarily chased away the shadows of the room. With a whimper, the fire would settle itself, and silence would return.
The longtime comrades were comfortable with lengthy periods of time passing between them in silence. Each held his snifter in the practiced, casual manner that men of privilege seem to adopt so well. From time to time, one of them would raise his glass to take a sip, mostly in silence, with the occasional sigh of satisfaction.
“L’Essence de Courvoisier cognac,” Winston said when Claussen asked. “I was staying with a friend in Zurich. You know him—Wilhelm.”
Charles nodded.
“I was surprised at the unusual taste.” He held up the bottle for inspection. “Wilhelm said its teardrop decanter and finely crafted crystal stopper”—Winston removed it from the bottle—“were inspired by signet rings Napoleon Bonaparte gave to his commanders in recognition of their noble acts.”
The two sat back in silence, enjoying the flavor. Winston looked over at Claussen as if judging whether the moment was right to ask a question. “I’ve been curious about something. Perhaps it’s impolite, but—”
“I would never think you impolite.” Charles held up his hand to reassure him.
“It’s your family’s background,” Winston finally said. “There’s always been an aura of mystery, some parts of the story hidden from view.”
“My family history on the paternal side is a carefully guarded secret.”
“Excuse my asking,” Winston said. “Forgive my inquisitive nature.”
The silence resumed between the two men, broken only by the occasional sizzle from a burning ember.
“There is a reason for my self-imposed secrecy,” Claussen said, finally breaking the stillness. “My grandfather’s name was Otto Klausmann before the records were altered. It was simple, really. He subtracted a few letters and changed the K to a C, and became ‘Claussman.’ He did that to obscure his past. He didn’t even bother changing his first name. He made his Nazi record disappear in 1945, just as the war ended.” Claussen sipped his cognac and considered what more to tell his friend.
“He was a high-ranking member of the National Socialist Party. He’s still alive, and still has his membership card. The party paid for his education, and he used his credentials as an engineer to design and oversee construction of the ghettos in Poland. He was decorated, and even received a medal from Der Führer in person. He is quite proud of his work.” He paused, then continued, “It’s all misunderstood today. He told me it was more important today than ever to have a place to put undesirables. ‘Get rid of the ones not like us,’ he used to say.
“A lot of what happened then was misunderstood and has been twisted today to make it sound worse than it was,” Winston said. His voice had an oily timbre to it. “Was he ever under suspicion, you know, with immigration?”
“A warrant was issued for Otto Klausmann—imagine, branding him a war criminal!” Charles spat out his disgust. “Fortunately, Otto Claussman is spelled with a C and only one N. I hope that isn’t—”
Winston held up a hand to show he understood. Claussen continued. “Today, people have been brainwashed to think Nazis invented the idea of racial purity. My grandfather taught me otherwise—how to recognize the truth.
“‘Today, everyone is confused about the difference between ethnic cleansing and genocide,’ he says. I once asked him to explain what he meant. He told me there was nothing inherently wrong with certain forms of ethnic cleansing—nothing wrong with cleansing certain groups of people. He called it ‘population relocation’ for some, ‘purging’ for others.
“A proper investigation could be conducted, and remaining workers with special skills could be diverted to jobs tailored to them. Those with general skills could be assigned menial labor, and the rest…
“Once, he saw me frown at the idea. He said he was convinced it was humane, reassured me that people like to live among their own, after all.
“‘As for the others, killing for its own sake is wrong,’ Grandfather insisted. ‘It robs a nation of its noble soul. We should have continued to use people for labor and to provide other services.’ He told me he had calculated a diet that would keep people at healthy work capacity with a minimal caloric intake. If he’d had his way, the wasteful killings would not have occurred. He said it was a distraction, and he knew it would not be tolerated by the outside world.
“‘Killing,’ he told me, ‘should be targeted, applied only to those who could never be contributing members of society.’ We won’t make that mistake with CleanSweep. Any need we have for eliminations will be done in a way that is humane and discreet. We aren’t monsters, after all.
“My father tried to keep us apart. He told me to forget that Nazi stuff. He insisted on my becoming a good citizen.”
Charles smiled. “Ah, but mein Grossvater would always find a way to tell me stories,” he said, proudly using the German word for grandfather. “Did you know the history of ethnic cleansing goes back to the early Crusades?
“He said the Americans practiced it, actually, with the native population. Talk about population relocations. Just read about the Trail of Tears sometime. Then Mexicans who happened to get in the way of national expansion to the west became targets, too. Perhaps that explains why there is still a backlash against immigrants speaking Spanish to this day.”
Winston nodded and sipped cognac, listening intently.
“The United States may have even slipped over the line and practiced a bit of genocide—if some of the stories from the ear
ly days of US involvement in the Philippines are accurate. Not to mention Wounded Knee.”
“And then there was the practice of slavery,” Winston noted.
“I don’t even know how to fit that into a category,” Charles admitted. “I do know that we must learn not to give in to excess. We also need to find a way to disguise any missteps if we slip up every now and then.”
Charles did something highly uncharacteristic next. He loosened his tie, and as if to emphasize such behavior was unconventional for him, he removed his loafers, using the toe-to-heel method to ease them off. His frown conveyed annoyance as he noticed a small hole in the toe of his left sock.
“I’ve never seen you so relaxed,” Winston said.
“Thanks to you,” Charles said, holding up his glass in a faux salute. “Thanks to you, my dear friend, this weekend went exactly as we’d hoped. Maybe even better.”
“Spencer and Sir Waverly,” Winston said with a sneering stress on the word sir, “were already on board. You didn’t have to worry, Charles. Waverly simply had to play the role of a politician and go through the due diligence of seeing the proof. He and his kind never make a move without knowing they have a strong tailwind at their backs. When the outcome is favorable, he will claim it was because of his leadership.”
Charles sipped cognac, knowing Winston had more to say. He was comfortable letting him set a leisurely pace.
“If the outcome turned unpleasant, a man like Waverly would be the first one giving media interviews to show he was against it from the start,” Winston snorted.
“He’s behind CleanSweep completely, though, yes?”
“He was from the beginning. He only needed you to flesh out the details he could use to spin the facts. He is possibly the most powerful man in government. No, make that the most formidable. Let me tell you how that influence came about,” Winston said. He leaned back in his chair.
“Waverly never set out to be a public figure. He was comfortable letting the face of the government be the representatives people already saw in the news. His prize was the power of money. He knew if he controlled money it would yield the ultimate influence in power.”
The CleanSweep Conspiracy Page 14
