The CleanSweep Conspiracy (4 page)

CHAPTER 4

Tanner

“W
hen did I first learn about CleanSweep?” Matt repeated, echoing his friend’s muted question. He was having a beer with Bryan, a buddy he’d known since high school. “It started with a story Tanner told me,” he began. He signaled for a fresh drink. The bartender placed a mug on the counter. Matt picked it up and took a long swallow, his face set in a frown. “You have to promise me you won’t tell a soul.”

Bryan nodded and drew his hand past his lips in a zipping gesture.

“It was Woodson who told me about the meat of it. I learned his last name, Woodson, just before his ‘unfortunate accident.’”

Matt thought about the TV report and the description of the crash as he talked. “You know that news anchor
—
Susan Payne
—
the one everyone seems to like? She mentioned something about mechanical problems, brakes not working. Then they showed a clip of what was left of his car after its tumble down to the bottom of a rather steep embankment.” He paused before continuing. “One man, an eyewitness, said it looked like he had been
accelerating
when the car went over the side. Does that sound like a problem with brakes to you?”

Matt scrolled through his memory, then turned back to his companion after glancing around. “Before I met Tanner Woodson, I’d heard about some hush
-
hush program being backed by the feds. Some new, highly classified method designed to troll e
-
mails, instant messages, and voice conversations. I had heard rumors of the story before I met Tanner, but they were like mere whispers, voices talking just out of hearing range.”

“When did you start to consider it more than a rumor?” Bryan leaned forward.

Matt shivered as a feeling much like paranoia began clawing at him. “Terrorism became our new preoccupation, Bryan. People like Charles Claussen like to fan the flames of everyone’s fears to justify probing into our private lives, to give our privacy the equivalent of a body
-
cavity search. We’ve all become obsessed with security. Just look at the jump in the number of people buying guns.”

After a pause, Matt continued. “Claussen thinks CleanSweep has a program powerful enough to troll through everyone’s electronic life. Tanner showed me the protocol. He said it was like a data scrub.” He gave an involuntary shudder. “A scrub is when a program goes through data to search for particular types of information
—
in this case personal information. Tanner told me CleanSweep could go beyond that, would electronically troll our streets to identify people he considers to be so
-
called errors. Claussen wants to do a scrub on
people
. Doesn’t that sound familiar?”

“Are you sure
you
aren’t the one obsessed, especially with this program of Claussen’s? It sounds way over the top,” Bryan said.

For a moment, the two sat in silence, sipping their beers.

Finally, Bryan shook his head saying, “C’mon. It can’t be as bad as all that, Matt. If people aren’t doing anything wrong, what’s the harm?”

“What’s the harm, you ask? A source said he was worried about the same things I’m talking about. We were having breakfast one morning. I can still remember the nervous way he glanced around the room and over his shoulder as he spoke. He even said he thought they knew we were having breakfast together. At the time, I was incredulous, like you. I laughed, telling him he sounded paranoid. He said that sometimes paranoia is justified.”

“You didn’t take him seriously, did you?”

“Not at the time. But I started asking around. No one seemed to know any real details, though rumors were flying that a new initiative was being considered based on PROFUNC, a nasty, malignant holdover from the Cold War. Another one of my sources said that this time, however, it wasn’t just Commies and pinkos being targeted
—
that the scope was much wider than we could ever imagine.”

“Wasn’t a story about something like that reported in the paper a while back?” Bryan asked. “I didn’t think it had much substance. It sounded more like crazy conspiracy theorists on ecstasy.”

Matt frowned. “I thought so at the time
—
until I overheard another conversation about it. I was on an elevator in Government Plaza. They were talking about something ‘worse than terrorism,’ one said. ‘Terrorism?’ I heard one ask the other. ‘Isn’t that what Claussen’s project is all about?’ ‘Something worse,’ the other one said, and then he stopped, realizing I was listening.”

Matt rubbed his left shoulder with his right hand, massaging a muscle as he talked to Bryan. “I remember wondering at the time what could be worse than terrorism. But when they realized I was on the elevator with them, they both clammed up.”

“And now you think it
is
worse? That whatever is going on is
worse
than terrorist attacks on our soil would be?” his friend on the bar stool asked, a sarcastic undertone lacing the question.

“I’ve heard enough rumors to believe it’s the truth. We are all being warned about terrorists coming from the outside. I’m convinced the real attack is coming from
within
.”

“I can tell you’re emotional about it,” Bryan said, hiding his feelings behind his mug.

“I was already publishing a blog,” Matt continued, “so I began writing a second one, dedicated just to this story. I posted that ‘as a society, we are running out of groups to marginalize’ piece. Demagogues always need a scapegoat to use to create fear and panic in the population, to get more votes for safety and security programs, get more money for bigger and more lethal weapons systems. I wrote that maybe a new class of people was being pinpointed, a new target to be demonized and marginalized
—
and if we needed to invent one, we would. That one, single blog entry generated a lot of responses, let me tell you.”

Matt could tell Bryan was still skeptical. “Tanner gave me a list of the people Claussen kept in his sights
—
all the people he considered misfits, or a drain on society.”

Matt took a final swallow and placed the empty mug on the bar. He nodded to the bartender for another. He could tell Bryan still wasn’t buying it. “Look, since prehistoric times, tribes have indoctrinated the young about the dangers of assimilation into other tribes. Elders told stories about how evil other tribes were, how it was ‘our tribe versus theirs.’

“At the turn of the nineteenth century, anarchists found bull’s
-
eyes painted on their backs and became the target of propagandists. They were demonized, used to create fear and panic. Newspapers declared that anarchists were out to destroy our very way of life. Soon people began to see anarchists lurking behind every tree. Then, when that fear faded, socialism and communism became the next great evils. They were quickly followed by the excesses of Nazism, and then by the many other fascist dictatorships since.”

Matt looked at the melancholy on his face in the mirror behind the bar. “I tried to keep what I was writing simple and to the point. People wrote to me saying they loved reading my blogs, and they began to believe in what I was saying. Some people, anyway.”

The bartender delivered another drink, but Matt didn’t pick up his mug immediately. He kept staring at his image in the mirror. He felt like he was talking to himself
—
that his friend was a silent, disbelieving audience refusing to acknowledge the truth.

“Add Catholic versus Protestant to the mix for religious seasoning. Wait, not to mention the demonizing of blacks
—
another excellent example of us
-
against
-
them. It all happens so quickly
…
”

Matt let his thoughts hover before continuing. “Soon after the events of September 2001, I wrote another blog post. Anyone who looked like they might be from the Middle East had instantly become an easy target. I tried to say we shouldn’t rush to judgment based on someone’s dress or beliefs. My in
-
box was bombarded with responses. Most of the people responding labeled me as the devil in disguise, and their responses were laced with vitriol. You should have read some of the crap that came in. People are always too ready to believe in a new Satan, and I was apparently one of the new Evil Ones.

“Today, a large number of people support the idea of erecting walls around the country, hoping they’ll somehow keep dangerous terrorists out. Nobody seems to know how many domestic terrorists we have, though.”

“I’m not surprised,” Bryan sneered. “I want to agree with you, but
…
”

Matt wondered if he was making headway, but he didn’t really think so. “When I began hearing the rumors about the program called CleanSweep, I was determined to find out who might be on this list of ‘new devils’
—
the ones they were going to target with propaganda. I asked one of my government sources to tell me who it considered the real terrorists now. She just shrugged and said they were all around us. That’s pretty cryptic, if you ask me. But it got my attention, I can tell you that.

“Then I sat down and did my best to write a counterargument to the arrogance of hate, to express the opinion that we were all in the process of being brainwashed into targeting a new, imaginary group.
That
wasn’t a popular opinion, I soon found out. But I felt obligated to keep on blogging about it. I came to the conclusion that truth was on an extended holiday, and that civil discourse was also on vacation. ‘Who are the real targets now?’ I wrote. ‘Ordinary people?’ That post
really
brought out the crazies.

“One guy wrote to me, saying it would be OK to give up some of our liberties to enhance public security. Another commenter honestly wondered what was wrong with surveillance programs. ‘The government,’ he stressed, ‘wouldn’t do something like that unless there was a good reason to.’ The idiot even said we should always trust the government.”

Matt shook his head, remembering a similar letter from another fanatic. He was simply unable to understand their simplistic points of view.

“Of course, some agreed with my blog, with the idea that we were already well down the slippery slope by then. One writer said our right to privacy was now a fading memory, that you couldn’t trust the government. I sided with that one, of course. The arguments flew back and forth in the blog’s comment section. I didn’t care what readers said
—
I was digging for anything I could find about CleanSweep. I thought it was some kind of new surveillance program. Something about it just didn’t feel right to me. If I could find out the truth, I decided, I would write about it. Now I realize how naive my earlier posts made me sound.”

Matt tinkered with his mug, turning it around and around. He felt a growing tension in the friend who sat beside him. Bryan was teetering between belief and disbelief, and Matt searched for something that would give him that definitive little push toward believing.

“I wrote what I thought was a witty blog. It was really just a bunch of bull at first. I was only partly serious when I started, aiming at the truth with a sarcastic metaphor. That’s when I wrote that it felt like we were all sailing on a morality ship, the equivalent of the
Titanic
, hurtling full speed ahead even when we knew there were icebergs in the water. After all, our boat was unsinkable, eh?”

Talking with his friend wasn’t helping Matt escape the demons chasing him. The booze was also increasing his depression.

“After that, I posted another story speculating on the dangers CleanSweep presented to our civil liberties. When I read through the comments in response, one in particular grabbed my attention. I still remember it word for word. It read, ‘You compared CleanSweep to the
Titanic
. Do you want to know the real story behind CleanSweep? It’s the gigantic iceberg in our nation’s path, just waiting to be hit. You only see the top part, a mere tenth of the story. The CleanSweep iceberg will make what happened to the
Titanic
seem like an uplifting story compared to the damage it will create in our society. Can you handle the truth?”

Matt looked at Bryan. “I can still see those words, daring me to probe further.” Matt let the words sink in. “That was my first encounter with Tanner.”

With nothing more to say, Matt Tremain opened his wallet. He put enough money on the bar to pay for the beers, a generous tip included for the bartender. He nodded good
-
bye to his friend and turned to the door. His walk was sure and steady, completely contrary to the foreboding inside him.

CHAPTER 5

Iceberg Ahead

W
alking back to his car, Matt recalled his first meeting with Tanner.

Tanner’s third text message to Matt had mentioned PROFUNC.
The new program is based on it. They make it sound pretty by calling it CleanSweep, but it’s really a bunch of dirty little secrets.

Matt sent a text back in return.
What can you tell me about it? I looked it up. PROFUNC was a secret program from the fifties, a dinosaur, a program to round up Communists.

He wanted to hear more about the reinvented version.

That’s what makes it so insidious,
Tanner had written back.
No one takes it seriously because it doesn’t sound threatening
—
more like some kind of cosmic joke. Based on a failed program from the past, this new version, I can assure you, is no joke.

Each exchange helped Matt begin to absorb the weight of what Tanner was saying. He tried to convince Tanner they needed to meet. Matt needed to look at this source eye to eye and judge his truthfulness. Tanner was reluctant to get together. However, his conviction burned white
-
hot through the words of his texting. He wasn’t avoiding the truth, he said. He was terrified of being caught.

Matt finally made a direct plea:
I need proof that this CleanSweep is as dangerous as you make it sound.

If Tanner was correct, if this program was as evil as he claimed, Matt knew he would have to start posting about it on his blog. Some people labeled his style of blogging as trash journalism, but while he may not have trained as a reporter, he always verified his sources before going public.

Tanner grudgingly agreed to meet but demanded secrecy, adamant about the choice of the location.

Drive to the abandoned parking deck three blocks from the lakefront, on Cherry Street, and park on the third floor. You will know it
—
the one apparently slated for demolition. You’ll see the sign. They’re turning the site into upscale condos.

Matt remembered driving to the location. Darkness filled the neighborhood, its nooks and crannies abandoned by sunlight. He circled the block three times, casing the garage and feeling disquieted by the surroundings. There wasn’t much in the way of street lighting in that area, a district of warehouses and abandoned factories. He saw signs promising offices, condominiums, and upscale shopping, their washed
-
out paint a sad reflection of faded dreams.

Alarm bells began to sound in Matt’s mind as full darkness crept upon him. He felt like it was a setup.

Matt had shared the evolving story in an e
-
mail to Cyberia, and described encountering Tanner online and hearing his story.

His online friend had typed back,
Look over your shoulder, Matt. Take nothing for granted. Always assume you are being watched, that someone is noting your every move and listening to every word.

As he drove, Cyberia’s paranoia began to get to him.

When he turned into the abandoned parking garage, he brushed that warning to the side. The arm of the ticket dispenser at the entrance to the parking deck was out of order and hung down at a right angle, like a broken arm. He maneuvered the car past the barrier, his headlights sweeping an abandoned vehicle on the first floor that looked like it had taken up permanent residence.

He drove to the access ramp leading to the next level, and continued up. Derelict vehicles were parked haphazardly on the second floor.

In for a penny,
he remembered thinking, and continued to the third level, following Tanner’s directions.

All his doubts about the meeting floated to the surface. Then his heartbeat and shallow breathing combined to sound like the beat of an edgy soundtrack of discordant modern jazz. He wondered suddenly what he had available in the way of protection. Only the pen in his pocket. It seemed scant comfort.

The truth may be a powerful weapon
…
until you’re in a real fight,
he thought.

The third level was deserted, and as soon as he arrived he felt close to convincing himself to turn and leave. The feeling this was all a wild
-
goose chase was strong, and growing stronger by the second. For a moment, he was tempted to put aside his pursuit of the story behind CleanSweep and just return to a blissfully ignorant life. Instead of driving away, however, he shifted into park and rolled the window down, leaving the motor running. He’d listened for sounds but heard only the quiet purr of his own engine, along with an odd pinging sound coming from under the hood. It was a sound he’d never noticed before. The noise distracted him.

A sudden movement to his left caused Matt to stop breathing. He was suddenly unable to speak or shout for help. He forced himself to take a deep breath, to shake off the paralysis. His legs felt useless, and he suppressed a sudden urge to piss. Then a man stepped out of the dark, his arms down at his sides to show an absence of any threat. As he walked closer, Matt saw his face more clearly. The face wore a look of panic and paranoia
—
a look he knew mirrored his own. Making a fateful decision, he turned off the motor and stepped out of the car. The dome light sparked like a camera flash, blinking obscenely bright. He was quick to close the door, careful to make as little noise as possible. In spite of his attempt, the door latch sounded like a pistol shot in the stillness.

His paranoia meter had gone viral, registering ALERT, LEVEL RED.

“Are you
…
the blogger, Wordster?”

Matt heard his username, the other man’s voice just above a whisper. Nodding yes, he’d held out his hand.

The other man didn’t take it, but leaned forward and whispered, “I’m Tanner.”

“Matt,” he’d replied, matching the other man’s hush. “Call me Matt.”

Tanner stood quietly for so long Matt wondered if he would ever move or speak. He watched Tanner’s head swivel, scanning in every direction. When he seemed satisfied that they were alone he motioned Matt to follow him, a finger to his lips to signal silence.

Matt walked back to his car, retrieved his keys, and pulled a moleskin notebook out of his pocket before following. Their footsteps echoed in the gloominess as they walked toward the stairwell entry. Matt braced himself as Tanner opened the rust
-
covered door, expecting it to whine in protest. But the door opened without a sound. Tanner pointed a flashlight at a can of spray lubricant on the floor. “I checked this location out yesterday; the door was almost rusted shut.”

When they were safely out of sight in the stairwell, Tanner unbuttoned his shirt to retrieve a file folder wedged down the front. He handed it to Matt and pointed a small flashlight at the pages so Matt could read it. There were thirty
-
four pages of text and diagrams in all.

As Matt turned each page, he felt a knot in his stomach tighten. “Is this true? How could this be?” he wondered aloud.

“Now you realize what I meant about seeing only the tip of the iceberg,” Tanner said.

It wasn’t a question.

Matt felt Tanner’s gaze on him as he absorbed the contents of the file. Everything he was reading had been happening right in front of them, right in the public eye. In Matt’s mind, everyone had suddenly become a willing collaborator.

“Do you see them all around us anymore? How many street people do you see any longer?” Tanner snarled in a hushed voice. “They used to be everywhere. Now, how many homeless people are sleeping on heating grates, or pushing carts down alleys? All the people who’ve been deemed unsuitable
…
” Tanner didn’t finish.

Matt thought about it, but didn’t have an immediate response. Tanner continued.

“Have you seen any baggy pants lately? Do you see any kids dressed in ‘gangsta’ clothes? They’re the tip of the iceberg. Claussen has more targets.”

Those questions loitered in Matt’s mind while he read. When he finished the last page in the file, he felt numb to the bone. While his fingertips leafed through the information, a black hole opened in his mind, a hole filled with unanswered questions.

This can’t be.

Finally, he said it out loud. “This can’t
—
”

“It’s Claussen,” Tanner spat the name out, making a face that looked like he’d just swallowed vinegar.

“Charles Claussen? What does he have to do with this?” Matt had asked, waving the papers. “What’s your angle? Charles Claussen is a great
—
”

Tanner held up his hand, cutting off Matt’s words. “Everyone wants to think he’s an outstanding city leader, the paradigm of everything this country stands for.”

• • •

Matt later wished his first meeting with Tanner had ended there. He was sorry he hadn’t gone straight home that night, sorry he hadn’t fed his notes directly into the shredder with one hand while sipping a glass of single malt with the other. He came to wish he’d never heard of Tanner, never learned the true nature of CleanSweep. But, standing in the stairwell of the parking deck that night, he’d suddenly realized that it was too late to turn back. He’d never be able to put this toothpaste back in the tube.

Like a moth, he was drawn closer to the flame of truth.