“He turned down all the offers of a cabinet appointment, didn’t he?” Claussen said.
“And he knew exactly what he was doing,” Winston replied as he paused to refill their glasses. “His hands would have been tied if he had a cabinet position—by public scrutiny. His way allowed him to be the master puppeteer, pulling the strings, unseen by any audience.
“In that movie The Wizard of Oz, the great and mighty Oz was revealed to be a fake when Dorothy pulled back the curtain. Waverly is like that, as we joked earlier, but he’s no fake. He’s not just hiding behind a scrim. He’s cleverly created a bulletproof curtain that will shield him from any attacks.”
“And you’re sure he’s on board with CleanSweep?
“Let me show you something.” Winston stood and walked to a small table in the corner. He took a small key from his pocket and unlocked its single drawer. He pulled out an envelope affixed with a notarized seal that straddled the edges of the flap. “Take a look at this,” he said, motioning Charles over.
Winston turned on a lamp and placed the envelope in the cone of light. “There’s an opener in the drawer.”
Charles sliced open the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper. As he scanned the document, his eyes widened and a broad smile graced his face. He read the text aloud.
LION’S HEAD ACCORD
This accord serves to define the formal agreement between the federal government and CleanSweep Enterprises, Ltd., and contracts with CleanSweep, Ltd. to implement and manage a pilot project to ensure the security of citizens living in the area designated as the Greater Toronto Area (GTA).
By special order of the government, this confidential decree grants agents of CleanSweep emergency powers to conduct inquiries, make arrests, interrogate detainees, and keep in confinement persons found to be a danger to the public order.
Agents of CleanSweep will be armed and will carry warrants that establish their powers of arrest and detention. Persons detained by the officers will not be entitled to appeal, and the right to habeas corpus is hereby suspended for individuals identified by CleanSweep as enemies of good order.
Agents of CleanSweep are also authorized to operate proprietary surveillance systems, with the authority to analyze all information acquired thereby, as needed to meet the terms of this accord.
Further, agents of CleanSweep will have access to the databases and surveillance records compiled by any local, regional, and federal police agencies.
The agents are granted instant subpoena power to obtain any private surveillance records of any commercial establishments, bank ATMs, traffic cameras, and any other recording equipment used within the area.
This order is granted by emergency legislation, enacted in secret session, for the well-being of the people.
Signed and dated,
Richard Waverly, Special Government Counsel
“You’ve had this all along, damn you!” Claussen said. His smile contradicted his attempt to sound annoyed.
Winston knew his protégé was ecstatic. “That’s my copy,” he said. “Waverly and I prepared it this past Monday to have it ready for this meeting. The decree is ready for quick implementation, but let him have his moment tomorrow when he officially hands you your personal copy. Can you act surprised?”
“What? Surprised at what? I have no idea what you are talking about.” He grinned as he handed the paper back to Winston.
In the kitchen, in a locked drawer, Ulrich’s radio recorded the sound of the two men laughing and laughing as they put the accord back in the envelope, back under lock and key. Their voices soon began to reveal how stressful the meeting had been and how the long hours had affected them.
“I need my sleep,” Winston said.
The hole in his sock no longer bothered Charles.
He savored the rich Courvoisier and said to his friend, “This is the best night of my life.”
CHAPTER 19
Once in Motion
The following morning, Winston Overstreet stood alone, hands clasped tightly behind his back. From the back deck of the lodge, he watched his last guest leave—Charles Claussen. Winston heard the helicopter’s engine whine, and the rotors began a slow turn until they gradually picked up speed. Claussen sat in the pilot seat with his hand on the controls.
Charles knew the windshield’s reflection kept his face concealed, but he still worked to hide a grin from view.
When he returned to Billy Bishop Airport in Toronto, his corporate jet had been prepped and, engines running, made ready to go. As soon as he landed the helicopter, he would transfer to the plane and be on his way back to his home office. Toronto had been the perfect choice for a trial run.
The city had no idea what lay in store.
Once airborne in the helicopter and heading southeast toward Toronto, he pressed the microphone switch. When the flight-plan formalities had been approved by the air traffic controllers, he changed to a separate frequency.
“It’s a go. I want the compliance team at secret home-base airfield in”—he looked at his watch—“two hours and thirty-six minutes. I expect all implementation details by then.”
He didn’t wait for an answer; he simply closed the communication circuit.
Annoyed didn’t begin to describe his reaction when the traffic coordinator came on again. Claussen was given instructions that would delay his arrival in Toronto by seventeen minutes. He was furious, especially when he learned the delay was due to a huge gathering for the annual gay pride parade—all the television helicopters were hovering over it.
Altering course out over Lake Ontario, a view of Niagara Falls over his shoulder, he turned back north for his approach to Billy Bishop Airport. After finally landing in the designated area, he had to force himself to remain seated until the rotating blades came to a complete stop. He unfastened his shoulder harness, picked up his leather case, and stepped onto the tarmac.
He leaned forward, head down, and raced sideways until he reached the ramp to his corporate jet. He was eager to get back to his nerve center. The door scissor-folded into the fuselage behind him. He strapped himself into his seat and waited for the plane to taxi to the runway. When they reached altitude, he unstrapped his seat belt and walked forward to tap the pilot on the shoulder.
“That damn parade had to be today, didn’t it? Can we make up the time?”
“Easily,” said the pilot as he began a quiet conversation with air traffic control.
Once the jet landed, the pilot taxied at maximum speed to the corporate hangar and a waiting limousine. Claussen ran down the stairs without even acknowledging the slight bow from the driver as the man held the door open for his boss.
Claussen looked at the two men squeezed into the jump seats, their muscled arms straining their suit fabric. Angela Vaughn was waiting for him in the backseat of the limo.
“Tell me,” he ordered and sat back, waiting for one of them to start.
Murray Stewart, his chief of team operations, started first. “We’re on target. The training is complete, and squad leaders are going over every detail to make sure their teams are prepared to hit the ground running.”
“Facilities?” Charles snapped.
“The signs are going up now,” Reid Harris said. “The substations are ready to go. The detention center on Spadina is already open for business.” He waited for a laugh. Nobody did, though—least of all Claussen. “Headquarters on Broad Street has drawn a lot of attention from the curious,” he added. “Now they will know what it is.”
“What about transportation?” Charles wanted to know.
“Everything has been tested, retested, and then tested again. The sweeper vans have all been inspected for any mechanical problems. Buses and streetcars are ready,” said his chief of operations.
“What about up north?”
“The Moon Lake facility is fully operationa
l. All personnel, from the facility manager to the cook’s helper, have been trained—”
“Security?” Claussen broke in.
“Tight,” Harris said, sounding offended. “The Moon Lake perimeter is secure, and all surveillance countermeasures are in place. Thanks to the program you designed, the satellites overhead will only see an image of what the pine forest looked like before construction began.”
Angela Vaughn nodded, reinforcing that security measures were all in place.
“What have we done about the contractors?” Claussen continued firing questions at his team in a machine-gun staccato.
“They have all been relocated,” Stewart said. No one in the limo needed to ask for a definition of relocated.
Charles tried to hide his excitement behind his harsh questioning. Finally, he turned to Angela. “Is our ‘distraction’ ready?”
“The e-mail from Waverly’s staffer came in.” She clicked her smartphone and looked at the screen. “The global economic conference has been scheduled, with the headquarters at the Royal York Hotel and overflow at the Sheraton and Trump Tower. People attending will like the old-school feel of the historic hotel.
“We have arranged an outdoor ceremony to be held in the square in front of City Hall. That will funnel thousands of people into a contained area, as planned. It will be perfect.”
“It has to be,” Charles almost spat as he spoke.
“I have arranged for Brunner and his hoodlums to do their part. We are already flying some in. Others are coming by train, and the rest will arrive by cars or vans. At my command, they will move in and start creating chaos. After the riots in 2010, the police think they’ll be ready this time,” she sneered. “But Brunner has over nine thousand men and women coming, all trained to incite violence.”
Nobody spoke as Charles Claussen digested the information. “What about secondary targets?”
“We’re ready, sir. The Distillery District is targeted. We have arranged for them to take out two key subway stations,” she said, working hard to avoid looking smug. “A team is designated to place explosives and bring down the overhead expressway at the Spadina ramp.” She smiled. “That should mess things up for a long time.”
“Waverly has promised,” Claussen said, “that when we can demonstrate that the police have been totally overwhelmed, he will see to it that the federal government will implement the Emergency Powers Act and place the metro area under national control. CleanSweep will become a reality.”
He stopped when his personal phone beeped. He listened, his hand closing tight around the instrument. His face turned white. The others, fearing the worst, waited.
Finally, he spoke. “Mein Grossvater ist tot!”
He stared at the phone for a moment, then looked up. “I dedicate CleanSweep to SS-Gruppenführer Otto Klausmann.” He choked back emotion.
The only sound after that was the hum of the tires as the suspension system of the limo smoothed the ride.
CHAPTER 20
Camp Free Eagle
“I don’t trust the reports.”
The morning after Claussen got back from Lion’s Head, Angela Vaughn stood in his office, remaining motionless as she watched him pace. He was striding from one side of his office to the other and had his hands clasped at his back. He stared out the window. Eventually, he wheeled around. “I want to see the training camp for myself. Make it happen!”
“Yes, sir.” Vaughn nodded. The meeting was clearly over, so she turned to the door. She was already making plans as she walked back to her office. This would be her fifth phone call on this topic. Her boss wanted to see Camp Free Eagle. She grimaced, wondering how Brunner ever came up with that name.
Angela was uncomfortable around Brunner. He always insisted that she call him “Gustav,” and he tried to ingratiate himself with her. She knew his real first name was Ralph, and she laughed inwardly at his attempt to make himself seem more Germanic. She liked to annoy him by calling him “Gus” and watching him blush in anger.
Her discomfort with Brunner was a reaction to something she didn’t want to admit to herself. Her pride at graduating from the police academy was profound. She remembered standing with the other new officers and shouting as they tossed their caps in the air. She had taken an oath to protect and serve, and had thought her conviction was unshakable. Now she was protecting and serving Charles Claussen and his idea of the way the world should be. Gustav Brunner was the poster boy for exactly how wrong Claussen’s ideas were. She had mortgaged her soul when she accepted Claussen’s offer to head up his security operations. Now she was most of the way down a very slippery ethical slope, and Camp Free Eagle was waiting for her at the bottom.
Back at her desk, she knew it was impossible to delay the unavoidable, so she reached for the phone. After calling the pilot and getting the details of the flight, she placed another call.
“Vaughn here.” She didn’t wait for a reply. “Put me through to Brunner.” Her gruff words should have been enough for immediate action on the other end. She found herself listening to some excuse, which made her wrinkle her nose as if a foul odor were invading her office space. “I don’t give a rat’s—” She didn’t finish; she heard the receiver on the other end drop to the desk and the voice of a young man shouting for Major Brunner.
“Major Brunner?” She almost laughed at the self-appointed rank. When “Major Brunner” came to the phone, she didn’t bother with explanations. “The boss and I will be there in”—she glanced at the digital clock in front of her—“a little over three hours. Arrange to meet us at the airport.”
She didn’t wait for his response, just disconnected the call without ceremony. She smiled in spite of herself, knowing she had probably sent the “major” into a state of high froth.
Less than an hour after placing the call, Angela was in the limousine with Claussen. He stared out the window and said nothing on the ride to the airport. She assumed he was thinking about his grandfather and didn’t intrude on his grief.
They didn’t have much in the way of luggage with them. The flight to the small airfield nearest Camp Free Eagle wasn’t much more than three hours. They would remain overnight at Brunner’s camp and return to corporate headquarters early the following morning.
Aboard the jet, she pulled the seat belt tight and waved away the copilot’s offer of coffee. Claussen didn’t speak to anyone; he just grunted and gestured to be left alone. The copilot nodded and walked back to the cockpit. Soon enough, the jet was airborne. Claussen was still silent, and Angela settled back in her seat, feeling the caress of the leather as she nodded off, drifting into an uncomfortable sleep.
Her eyes opened wide when she felt the plane shudder. She quickly gathered that the pilot was only banking to make the approach to the small airport. As Angela looked out, she saw the spiked peaks of a snow-capped mountain range to the north. It was a dramatic sight and one she usually enjoyed, but today her mind was on more important matters.
“Will he be there to pick us up?” Claussen was looking at her, but she couldn’t read his face.
“Yes, I told him to make sure he was. He’s calling himself Major Brunner these days, you know,” she said.
She detected the hint of a smirk on her boss’s face. They both retightened their safety harnesses as the plane lurched through turbulent air, the pilot doing his best to counteract the thermals rising between the mountains as they descended into the valley.
“We will touch down shortly,” the copilot said over the speaker.
The wheels of the plane screeched in protest as the aircraft landed, bounced, bounced again, and finally stayed on the tarmac. The reverse thrusters and brakes brought the jet to a stop at the end of the runway, and the pilot turned the plane and taxied back to a small group of hangars. They stopped next to a ramshackle building that served as a terminal.
Angela was glad to see Brunner standi
ng there, next to a Hummer.
The fool even has small flags fastened to the front fenders, she observed.
He was standing next to a woman. They were stiff at attention and both trying to look “military” in their camouflage uniforms.
“He’s a jerk, but he’s my jerk,” Claussen said, not bothering to hide his sarcasm.
“Wait, please, until the ramp is completely down, sir,” the pilot said as they stood in the cockpit doorway. “We will be ready to depart at 0800 tomorrow morning.” He took off his cap and tucked it under his left arm.
The door unfolded, and Angela led the way down the steps. She looked at Brunner and half expected him to salute. Instead, he ordered his assistant to grab the luggage and bowed as he opened a rear door for Claussen. The look he shot Angela told her she could open her own door.
She and Claussen occasionally turned to look at each other and share eye rolls as they listened to Brunner’s nonstop monologue on the forty-five-minute drive to the camp. It was obvious he was nervous and was hoping that a running commentary on the history of the valley and surrounding mountains would cover that fact up.
The woman in the front seat sat with a soldierly posture, her blond hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. She wasn’t expected to speak, but she turned occasionally to look at Brunner with evident admiration. Brunner was an expert driver—Vaughn conceded him that—easily managing the Hummer as the roads grew more demanding. They left the airfield behind and drove a short distance on a paved road. At an unmarked side road, he turned to the left. This road wasn’t paved, and it led them up to the foothills, the incline of the road increasing until they reached a stand of pines. Soon the road began to curve and twist. When they reached a meadow, it leveled off.
Angela saw the first checkpoint building in the distance. There wasn’t even a sign warning curious drivers to turn back. There was no barrier to stop an outright snoopy driver, but as they approached, two men walked out of the small building. She saw they were armed and looked as if they took their jobs very seriously; she guessed no unauthorized person would have been allowed to drive by.
The CleanSweep Conspiracy Page 15
