The CleanSweep Conspiracy (7 page)

That was supposed to be the case tonight
—
until the newsroom was turned on its ear by the fierce
-
looking men groping through files and equipment drawers. And they were doing it right in the middle of the newscast. Mark, the newsreader, had done his best to cover the distraction at first, but he finally gave up and just kept reading as if nothing were happening. Carl thought Mark should get an award for his performance.

Then they were gone, but they had left something unheard of in their wake: silence. It was as if they had whacked the newsroom beast over the head with a club, rendering it senseless and, worse, speechless.

Everyone’s eyes reflected fear. Someone finally let out a loud sigh, the kind of noise that could only be made after holding your breath for a long time, when exhaling slowly is no longer optional. It broke the thick tension in the newsroom.

“What the heck was that all about?”

The question on everyone’s mind had finally been voiced.

The silence snapped, and the newsroom beast came back to life. “You’ve all heard the saying ‘the show must go on.’” It was Karen’s voice. “Now move your asses, and let’s get this bitch on the air!” Karen dashed around, whipping her crew into some semblance of a team, screaming through the uproar made by staff, cast, and technicians.

Carl realized he had been holding his breath, too, and the escaped air made a hiss as it passed his lips. He looked up and saw Susan standing in the doorway of her office. He spotted uncertainty on her face, a look he rarely saw. It was more than indecision. It was fear.

He nodded his chin over his left shoulder, toward the storage room. Just when he thought she hadn’t caught his gesture and he would have to repeat it, she pushed away from the doorframe and followed him.

“What the hell was that?” she asked in a hushed voice, brushing her hair back in that certain way she had when she was tense. It was a gesture she kept hidden from everyone except Carl.

How many times have I noticed her doing that as I look through the camera eyepiece?

Being the best in the business came at a price, and she had a relentless need to be perfect.

“Did they find them?”

He understood her question. He knelt on one knee, reaching under the table. The media cards were still securely in place.

“No, but they knew what they were looking for. They took all my blank media cards.”

“This is getting serious.” She looked up at the ceiling, trying to think of something more to say. “That damn blogger, Matt Tremain, is right,” she said between clenched teeth. “It won’t stop with this search, will it?”

Carl flinched. “They didn’t find the cards,” he said. “I taped them to the underside of the table just before they came in here, but it won’t take them long to realize they only left with blanks. They’ll be back.”

“What are we going to do?”

“I have to keep them from finding these cards. We need to get them to a safe place. They hold all the interviews we have on CleanSweep, especially the ones with Mattie and Clifford. That’s pretty damning evidence. When we match this with the stuff the blogger has
…
”

He paused, looking thoughtful. “What if they’re waiting outside? I’m guessing they’re waiting for us to come out. They’ll be ready to search me
—
or maybe us?” He chewed at his lip in frustration. “Hand me my old camera
—
that one,” he said, pointing to one resting on a high shelf. “I have an idea.”

Susan did something unprecedented. She obeyed without question.

He motioned for her to sit while he looked at the vintage camera. “I haven’t used this in over five years. It’s ancient, a dinosaur.” He laughed as he opened a compartment on the side of the camera and pulled out a videocassette. “Look, there’s still a videotape in here, the kind we used back in the day.” He ejected a plastic case the size of a small brick. Carl picked up some nearby tools and sorted through them until he found the one he was looking for. He used a specially designed screwdriver to gently unlock and pry open the casing, revealing the tape. It passed over the recording head, wound from reel to reel.

“Hand me those media cards taped up under the table,” he whispered. He watched Susan kneel, noting vaguely how it created an immodest pose. She finally straightened up and gave the three small media cards to him. “I have the equivalent of more than two hundred and fifty of these tapes on just one card. Technology.”

Carl held one card between his thumb and finger as he reached for a pair of tweezers, then carefully used it to insert the first media card under one of the reels of the cassette. He repeated this with the other two cards until they were well hidden inside the dated, used cartridge.

“There,” he said, looking satisfied, and put the cover back on the cassette. “That’s the best I can do.” He reached up for a case on the shelf and pulled it down, rubbing the dust away with a cloth. “This sure brings back memories,” he murmured wistfully. He nestled the camera into the case as gently as if it were a baby swaddled in soft blankets.

“You carry it,” he said to Susan. “That is, if it doesn’t offend your on
-
air talent sensibilities or get me in trouble with the union.” She didn’t argue and accepted the case, swinging the strap over her shoulder.

He turned back to the workbench and picked up the case containing his working camera. “They can look through this all they want now,” he said. “They won’t find what they’re after.”

When they went back into the newsroom, the control center had returned to operating in full form: absolute chaos, barely under control. Carl led the way through the hooting and screaming interns and technicians. Everyone was racing around, trying to piece together what was left of their production as the clock approached the thirty
-
minute mark. They were halfway through the broadcast. Susan followed as Carl walked out of the newsroom and down a hall to a door leading to a short set of stairs that would take them to the parking garage.

They were walking up to their parked news van when a woman’s voice echoed in the silence: “Stop! Now!” Her tone was dark and rough.

“Drop the cases,” a man’s voice followed, much softer, in a way more feminine than the woman’s. “Put them on the ground.”

Carl looked at Susan and shrugged. Someone appeared with two sets of tripods, assembled them, and attached sets of bright lamps
—
the kind police used at crime scenes. Other men, on bent knees, started to rifle through the cases. One man began taking the cameras apart, causing Carl to flinch. Two other men faced Carl and Susan, ordering them to keep their hands visible. They began an expert pat down and, leaving nothing to chance, made sure they didn’t try to run. Carl sensed the tightness in Susan and moved slightly so his hand lightly touched Susan’s arm. It was a simple touch, but he felt her tension drain away. Carl smiled.

He recognized that it was an odd time for him to realize he might be in love with her.

He watched the men examine the cameras and cases. His legs went rubbery when they grabbed the one away from Susan
—
his old camera.

Did I hide the cards well enough?

He watched them take the old camera case and camera apart. A man who seemed to have the requisite technical skills examined the camera. When he pulled the cassette tape out of its slot, he stared at it for a long time, then finally tossed it on the hood of an adjacent parked car, discarding it as unimportant. He turned to the woman in charge, “Nothing, boss. I’m sorry, I mean
—
and
—
”

“You said your informant was reliable,” she cut him off with a harsh wave, her voice sounding like brittle fingernails on a blackboard. “Take everything. When you get back to headquarters, I want you to go over it all with a microscope. I want your report by the end of the day.” She turned and strode to a waiting car, not bothering to listen for a response.

Carl placed his hand on Susan’s arm as they watched the two cameras, cases, and accessories being loaded into the open door of a minivan, a Nissan Quest. The automatic door slid closed with quiet efficiency, and soon the van and chase car sped down the ramp of the parking deck. He pointed to the discarded cassette tape, still on the hood of a car. Forgotten.

“Are they gone?” Susan whispered.

Carl was surprised at the calm in her voice. He shrugged an answer and looked at the plastic cassette. “I think we just stepped in a big pile of shit.” It was the only thing he could think of to say. He picked up the cassette tape, holding it as if it were a stick of dynamite with a burning fuse
—
a very short burning fuse.

Carl sensed something else. It was a sudden change in their relationship, and it felt seismic to him. Susan was suddenly following Carl’s lead. Self
-
assured, with an inner strength, she often seemed fearless, rarely allowed any displays of affection. It wasn’t as if she had flipped a switch or had suddenly decided to surrender her power, giving the leadership role to him. It was something different.

She realized it, too, and finally put it into words. “This is one of those times when we need to rely on your expertise,” she told him, no doubt in her voice. “I’m damn good at being a journalist, but this is something big. It’s going to take both of us to work it, and it’s going to take your street skills and contacts.” She paused. “I’ve always known we’re a team. I wouldn’t be where I am if it weren’t for you.”

Carl was astonished at the admission, and felt his face redden. He turned his attention to the cassette and said, “We need to hurry. We have to warn Tremain.” He scrolled through the contacts on his backup cell phone, the one he used as a throwaway. Before he dialed, he turned to Susan. “We need to meet with him. The three of us have turned over a rock and some very nasty bugs are crawling into the daylight.”

He looked up abruptly from the phone. Susan nodded, waiting for Carl to tell her what to do next.

“If the stories are true, they can track this,” he said, holding one phone up. “It has one of the latest SIM cards. They can track it with GPS technology.” He pulled an old flip phone from another pocket of his photographer’s vest. “I bet you haven’t seen one like
this
in years. Let them try to track it. I’ve had it since 1989.” He began laughing. “We like to think ‘new and improved’ is best, but sometimes the old ways have their plusses. Someone might still be able to eavesdrop on our conversation, but they won’t be able to pinpoint our location.”

“You’re one of the few people I know who would still have one like that.” She chuckled. “I’m sure glad you had that old camera. You saved our butts, using it for that hidden
-
card trick.”

“We can’t go to our homes.” Carl looked around, suddenly alert. “Where the hell did they all go? Why aren’t they keeping us under surveillance?” Then he held up his hand to indicate they should be silent and pointed to a doorway. It led down a ramp at the far corner of the parking deck. “I think those stairs take us to the alleyway behind the garage.”

At the foot of the stairs, he held up his hand again, listening for footsteps, voices, or other telltale signs that someone might be near. Satisfied, he dialed and, after a moment began talking, keeping his voice low.

“It’s me. We need to meet. Do you remember the place we first met?”

He waited, listening, and then said, “Yeah, that’s the place.” Carl looked at Susan while he paused. “Ask for Susie at the desk.” He smiled at the response that came from the phone.

“We’re meeting him. It’s arranged, Susan. Now we walk. We need to avoid the areas that were closed off after the rioting. We can’t use our cell phones unless absolutely necessary, and we don’t use credit cards
—
nothing that can be traced. It’s a long walk. Are you up to it?” He knew she was, but he said it to challenge her, to jolt her with energy and to keep shock and fear from creeping into her mind. It worked.

Susan shot him a withering look of disdain that caused him to relax. He knew she was returning to her old self, for better or worse. Carl slammed the cassette against the railing in the stairway to break it apart. He picked out the media cards and thrust them into his pocket. He opened the exit door, and the two of them stepped into the night.

CHAPTER 8

Bad News Travels Fast

A
ngela Vaughn stood at the office door of the one person who truly terrified her. She hesitated, knowing her career was on the line. The office of Charles Claussen didn’t need a nameplate
—
everyone knew it was his. Instead of knocking, though, she turned around and walked into a nearby alcove. She knew it was pointless to try and avoid what needed to be said. Still, a visit to the restroom was always a good excuse for delaying. She glanced at the men’s room door, on her right, then went through the one on the left.

She knew she had to face Claussen with the truth. She looked in the mirror, inspecting her own eyes to see if they betrayed any sign of weakness. Cupping her hands under the tap, she splashed cold water on her face. She didn’t have to worry about spoiling her makeup
—
she never used any. Angela Vaughn was, however, particular about her hair. She drew a brush from her handbag to begin smoothing away errant strands.

“I might as well get it over with.”

She was satisfied with her reflection and the tailored, dark
-
blue suit she wore, chosen with care to compliment her physique. At forty
-
two, she maintained a rigorous workout schedule, a habit formed during her days at the police academy. Her hand still reached for her police shield at times. Angela would still have been a cop, too, if it weren’t for the career seduction orchestrated by Charles Claussen.

For Claussen, seduction had never been about sex. He seduced people with offers of financial compensation and power. “Leave the police force and head up my security team
—
a specialty security team. You will have power beyond imagination.” She had liked that prospect a lot.

With a final look at the woman in the mirror, she turned, pushed open the door, walked back to Claussen’s office, and rapped softly on the door.

“Enter.” The word came through the door in a rich baritone.

Angela stepped in and closed the door behind her. She felt as if she were standing over a trapdoor. One false move on her part, and it would spring open. She would fall through and out of favor, with her name and memory forever rubbed out of the company history.

Charles Claussen played his role with an actor’s precision, knowing how long to hold a pause for just the right dramatic effect. He kept his silence, his eyes giving nothing away.

Angela crossed her arms, as if the gesture could somehow offer protection from his gaze. She was unaware of this nervous habit, but Claussen recognized it for what it was and waited before speaking.

He picked up a paper and looked at it, then let it fall from his grip and drop back onto the desk, fluttering like a poorly made paper airplane. “I’m not going to like what you’re about to tell me, am I?”

Angela only knew one way through this situation, and that was the direct way. “We searched everywhere, went through everything,” she said. “We tore the Action 21 newsroom apart. Nothing! We took the guy’s camera and case apart and found zilch. We dismantled his backup camera and looked for any place he could have hidden any card or cards. We know they recorded their interviews on three media cards. We just
—
”

Claussen cut her words short. “I’m not interested in what you
didn’t
find,” he said evenly, letting the words hang in the air. “I want to hear what you are doing now, to find those cards. I want to know
when
you are going to find them. What are you planning to do now?”

Angela felt a bead of moisture forming on the left side of her upper lip but resisted the urge to wipe it away. “We have a team at Payne’s condo right now. They are tearing it apart. If the cards are there, they will be found. The cameraman’s apartment is too obvious. He wouldn’t hide them there, but I have another team taking it apart just in case he actually did. I have my best people on this.”

What could I be missing?
she wondered, shifting her weight slightly from one foot to the other.

“We’ve also checked safe deposit boxes. Don’t ask me how we got into them,” she added.

“I am asking,” he snapped.

She started to shift her weight uneasily again, but caught herself. “I have a special agent trained in covert snooping. He went through the files of Susan Payne’s attorney. He found a key and recognized its purpose. It was a simple matter for him to duplicate the key.”

Angela scrolled through her thoughts, recalling what they had found in the safe deposit box. “We went through the box, computer files, e
-
mail accounts, wireless phone records. We’ve looked at all of it. Not a damn thing,” she said, careful not to shrug.

His eyes sparked when she cursed. She knew he hated swearing, or anything scatological. She looked at him and braced herself to report the bad news to him.

“All of this is my fault,” she admitted, telling him about how they had surprised and searched Susan and Carl as they were leaving the studio. “There was a brief moment when they weren’t under surveillance in the parking garage.” She watched Claussen, waiting for a reaction. When there was no rejoinder, she went on. “I take full responsibility. We were focused on inspecting the equipment when Susan and her cameraman just disappeared.”

Angela saw a flash of anger in the eyes of the man in front of her. “We don’t know where they went
—
yet. But there’s more,” she hesitated. “Matthew Tremain has also dropped out of sight. We had a team
—
”

“Stop.” Claussen pounded the top of his desk. It was uncharacteristic. “I’ve heard enough of your pathetic explanations!”

The room filled with quiet. Claussen had sound barriers built into the walls of his office, to protect his conversations from being overheard. The soundproofing also kept outside noise from intruding. Angela could only hear a slight ticking from the expensive watch her boss was wearing. She could feel the throbbing of her heartbeat and felt the veins of her neck pulsing as her heart raced. She began to lose track of time. When Claussen finally spoke, his voice was colder than ice.

“
Ça va
,” he said with a shrug.

Angela couldn’t believe what she’d heard
—
the sudden shift in tone, the almost nonchalant shrug, and the seemingly indifferent attitude.

“They have to be stopped,” he went on. “You know it better than anyone. That’s why I hired you
—
to protect CleanSweep, to keep it hidden from view.” She heard a hint of anxiety tiptoeing behind his words. “If they go public, everything I have worked for will be ruined. I will not let these amateurs win.”

Claussen got up and moved calmly over to his head of security. He leaned in so close she had to tilt her body backward to avoid contact. His minty breath brushed her cheeks like a feather.

“You have forty
-
eight hours.” He pointed to his watch. He didn’t need to add any overt threats or warnings. She knew what awaited her if she failed. She had the files on those who had disappointed Claussen. Reputations had been ruined
—
and worse. In fact, she had been party to the “worse,” at his command.

He walked across the room, opened the door, and motioned her to leave with a nod. The grilling was over. As Angela walked out, the door closed softly behind her. Claussen, the master of self
-
control, would never show anger by slamming a door.

Angela felt the floor shifting under her as she walked down the corridor, intent on survival.

“At least I didn’t fall through that trapdoor
…
yet.”