The CleanSweep Conspiracy (25 page)

The previous night’s rain was a faint memory by then.

Or had it rained two nights ago?
Matt tried to think back. The cold front had swept past, departing without notice
—
now history. The brilliant morning sky was Hollywood perfect, a breathtaking cerulean, cloudless blue.

“Walk, don’t hurry. They look for anyone in a hurry. Odd thing
—
they don’t have checkpoints to stop people and ask for identification. They just trust their facial recognition technology for surveillance.”

People who live in a city with streetcars know they make a unique sound, a reverberating metal
-
on
-
metal cadence, a sound Matt always associated with a children’s book that was a gift from his nana. He had grown up reading and rereading his cherished
Barbapapa
, and the characters’ shape
-
shifting was accompanied by their chant,
“Clickety
-
click
—
barba
-
trick
…
clickety
-
click
—
barba
-
trick
…
clickety
-
click
—
barba
-
trick.”
“Clickety
-
click
—
barba
-
trick.”

That was what he thought back to now as the streetcar approached from the east, with a reassuring sound of a clanging bell to warn jaywalkers. The car rumbled to the stop where Clifford and Matt stood waiting, and the doors
whooshed
open. An old woman glared as she stepped down, shouldering between the two of them as they stepped hastily up to board. The streetcar was already filled with riders, and there was little room. The two men edged back as far as they could, each grabbing for an overhead handhold as the driver lurched the car forward.

In five stops their streetcar passed through a newly erected fence and left the burned
-
out district behind. The transformation was magical. This part of the city was still in pristine condition. People walked the streets as if the destructive riots had never taken place.

Once it reached the part of the city untouched by riots, the streetcar spat out most of its riders. When there was a vacancy, Clifford joined Matt on a seat.

After looking around, he whispered, “Don’t stare up or let those cameras get a look at your face.” He looked over his shoulder, observing an office building they were passing. “We should be safe along this part of the route, but once we pass Spadina, we will be back in another riot area, the one to the west. They will be looking for anyone who stands out until then.”

They rode in silence. Most of the riders got off at stops in the city’s center. Soon there were only a few riders left.

“You can call me Cliff now.”

Matt reddened, feeling as though he had passed an exam in school. To deflect his embarrassment, he waved his arm and picked up a different topic. “If you squint, it all looks normal,” he said, watching the car gradually empty of more commuters on their way to some appointed place. Each stop was the same
—
until they reached Spadina Avenue.

“Yeah, until you see the barriers,” Clifford replied, almost in a whisper. They approached another fence separating the city core from the riot’s destructive path through the west end. The streetcar rattled on through.

“It looks just like the east end,” Matt said, “in some ways even worse.” In contrast to the undamaged midtown, the view when they entered the west end was the same as it had been in the Distillery District: a stark reminder of the destruction caused by the riots.

“It was the fire here that did the most damage. Look at that building,” Clifford pointed. “That looks like arson to me. A fire of that intensity
…
the building skeleton frames stripped bare of their facades
…
”

Twenty minutes later, the car passed another threshold and fence. “Look,” Matt said. “This far out, it’s still undamaged, except for that sooty film on storefronts.”

“That’s just from the smoke,” Cliff said.

A camera mounted over the driver started blinking red.

“We have to get off. I don’t like that light blinking,” he said, a panicky edge evident in his voice.

“I’m right behind you,” Matt said in a muffled voice.

He followed as they disembarked at the next stop, trying not to hurry. They walked to a side street.

When they were around the corner, they found an alcove leading to the back door of a café. A man wearing a stained apron walked out, tossed garbage in a large Dumpster, and went back in without paying any attention to them. They stood by the trash container and tried to ignore the stench from the garbage.

“Who knows?” Cliff said when Matt asked if it was safe there.

“Do you have any idea where I can get a burner phone?” Matt wanted to know.

“That’s hard,” Cliff said. “They’re outlawed now. I know CleanSweep tried to locate all the ones they could before they issued orders to ban all sales.” He thought for a moment. “There have to be people willing to take a chance for the right money,” he said. “For some, it’s always about money. I know a place we might try. It’s a long walk
—
and it’ll be even longer because we’ll have to wend our way there using side streets.”

“I need to contact Susan and Carl and Cyberia.”

Cliff looked at Matt. If he was curious about names he didn’t recognize, he only said, “I’m glad to hear that sound in your voice. You don’t seem so damn scared now.”

“Well, I am scared as hell, but it’s like you said earlier. I don’t think we have any choice, do we?”

“No,” Cliff said, “we don’t.”

“I need a couple of phones. Then can we get back to my apartment?”

He thought for a moment. “We’re on the opposite side of town, and I don’t want to try the streetcar
—
not with that red light we saw blinking above the driver’s head. Let me think of a way. You live on the east end, don’t you?”

I bet you know damn well where I live,
Matt said to himself.

Arriving at what the swirling sign said was Chuck’s Barber Shop, Matt tried to remember when he’d last seen a barber pole. They walked in as a bell on the door jangled, and waited until the single customer paid and left.

“What’ll you have, gents?” The barber blew clippings from a comb and wiped it on his apron.

Cliff walked over and started talking in a voice so low Matt couldn’t hear, but he knew his friend was negotiating with the barber. Finally, the barber nodded and walked to the back of the store, returned, and handed a box to Cliff. When they walked out, Matt had the two phones he would need. In fact, he had three
—
an extra.

Cliff borrowed one to make a call. When he finished, he said, “It shouldn’t take long. We wait fifteen minutes.”

A truck pulled up near the barbershop. It turned out to be a truck used to deliver bottled water
—
a precious commodity that was in high demand after the riots. The driver nodded to Cliff and Matt, then he got out and showed them how to duck under the bed of the truck.

Once they were down there, they noticed an opening to a compartment. “It’s not visible from the top,” the driver said. “Besides, they don’t stop the water trucks; they just wave us through. Hunker down.”

The driver made so many stops that Matt lost count. Finally the driver shouted, “We’re here!” He crawled under the truck to open the compartment and help them down. Cliff and Matt stepped out the back, stretching away cramps they’d gotten from riding curled up in that small compartment, hidden under water bottles.

“I owe you,” Cliff said as he embraced the driver.

“Is he worth it?” the driver asked, nodding at Matt.

“More than you will ever know. I know the risk you took to get us here, and I won’t forget it.”

Matt was amazed to see they were in an alley on the block right next to his building. They hurried from the driveway to the apartment building’s entrance.

A woman standing in the shadows of a doorway on the other side of the street took a phone out of her bag and began making a call.

CHAPTER 31

A Nagging Thought

A
fter Cliff was gone, Matt walked to the basement
—
to his safe room.

Matt sat at his computer. As he waited to connect with Cyberia, he thought back to an earlier conversation; something Cyberia had said earlier kept nagging at him.

You don’t know how close they are to knowing where you are,
the Russian had warned. The screen flickered, and a messaging program connected him with his friend.

I was in line, waiting for coffee, when I first got your warning,
Matt typed.

The memory of his fright as he read that SOS warning text was still fresh in his mind. He had responded to the danger and had managed to avoid detection
—
so far. He almost couldn’t remember everything that had happened since that day: the danger, the riots, Stinky, Mattie, Cliff. It was all at risk of becoming a blur. Now, back in the security of his safe room, he started to feel safe once more.
Or do I?

Is our connection secure?
Matt typed when he saw the familiar name on the screen.

He knew the Russian
—
screen name Cyberia
—
lived somewhere in the greater Moscow area. He was part of Matt’s close
-
knit group of six electronic friends.

We can never be sure,
the unnerving response came back.
The best we can do is keep this communication under six minutes. Let’s time it to make sure.

How did you find out they were after me?
Matt typed.

You can thank Tanner. The password I needed to get in was in that file he gave you. Tanner used it to access the back door to the CleanSweep master computer system. I took that way in to start monitoring their communication traffic. I filtered everything so I would know when your name was mentioned. The alarm went off, and I read the order for your arrest. It came directly from Vaughn, Claussen’s head of security. The only good news is that he apparently wants you alive.

When I saw my photograph flashing on the subway,
Matt typed,
on display for all to see, I was sure it was over. Then the screens went all wonky
—
nothing but snow.

I cut the connections just in time. I deleted the feed,
Cyberia typed. Then he stopped, the screen patiently waiting for Matt to type a response.

I made it back to my building and didn’t know what to do next. Now I can’t begin to tell you what I’ve been through, and I still don’t know what to do. I can’t tell you how important
—

What about the reporter?
Cyberia cut in.
What do you know about her, about what she knows and what she’ll do?

I used to watch her on camera and figured she was just chasing the latest headline. Now I know she’s serious and a professional. I didn’t know what to make of the detective. He came out of the blue,
Matt typed.
He wanted to make contact. It’s weird, but this cop is on to something. He says it’s something I should know. He gave me some names of people to interview. I met them and
…
Matt couldn’t tell anyone about Mattie, not yet.

Be careful,
Cyberia typed.
An inherent distrust of the authorities is hardwired inside our Russian DNA. How do you think we survived the czars
—
and what followed? I’ll see if I can get into the police computers and check him out for you.

I don’t know what I would do without you. Thanks, but I do trust him. It’s a gut feeling.
Matt looked at the screen after he finished typing that. He didn’t trust anyone the way he did Cyberia, however.

A new message box popped up. He saw it was from Ubari, the screen name of another trusted friend in Matt’s Internet circle. Ubari could be male, female, young, or old
—
he had no idea. The electronic trail for Ubari led to a public computer in the lobby of a hospital in Owando, a city in Africa. All Matt knew about Owando was what he had learned from Google Maps. It appeared to be a small town along the N2 motor route in the Congo, beside the Kouyou River.

I’ve been monitoring the time. You need to finish soon,
Ubari’s message flashed and disappeared.

Matt typed as fast as he could.
If I’m not able to get CleanSweep exposed, their “success rate” may cause others to adopt the CleanSweep model. They could export it to other urban areas. Soon cities everywhere will think they can get away with the same thing. Claussen was behind the riot, but we need proof.

Be careful. We’ll revert to texting next time. Don’t get burned by the sun,
Cyberia typed before the screen went blank.

Matt didn’t waste any time. He turned off his computer. He had no idea what Cyberia meant with that cryptic reference to being burned by the sun.

That was then; this was now. Matt knew he was in danger.

• • •

Someone spotted Matt. Soon afterward, an alarm sounded in CleanSweep headquarters. Charles Claussen used it to try and forget an angry episode with his son at breakfast. As he stepped off the elevator to his office and started down a wide corridor, he was confronted by a young woman waving a paper and blocking his path. She filled him in on the reason for the alarm.

Claussen bellowed, “I want the bastard in handcuffs before my coffee gets cold!” He stomped into his office.

Vaughn heard the yell and ran to his office, knowing Claussen meant Matt Tremain. She cursed at the new receptionist for giving Claussen the news. Angela Vaughn had wanted to get to him first, to spin the story and tell her boss they still didn’t know precisely where Matthew Tremain was. She knew Claussen would be furious
—
or worse.

Standing in front of his desk, she tried to think of something to say, something that would reassure her boss. She knew it was better to tell this man bad news straight, with no chaser. It would be a mistake to misinform him, to wrap bad news in a lie. She thought about what she needed to say. The report from the field confirmed her worst fears. Her agents still had no idea where Matt Tremain was. They didn’t know where he lived
—
they just were going on a sketchy report.

Angela Vaughn never put her full trust in technology or electronic surveillance. She looked at the man who was supposed to be the master of such things. She didn’t know how to voice her suspicion that Matthew Tremain was purposefully avoiding his sophisticated methods by staying off the electronic grid.

“We still don’t know where he lives.”

That was about to change

• • •

That report came in as she was driving. Using the speakerphone, she listened to John Bristol, her best agent. He was in charge of the teams looking for Tremain.

“He’s nobody’s fool. He’s changed his location and hidden his identity; he dropped out of sight days ago. Our computer records have been altered by someone, we can tell, but we have no idea how
that
happened. We’re at a dead end. Whoever the hacker is
…
is damn good. We can’t seem to get ahead of him.”

Angela Vaughn stopped herself from reprimanding him. She knew he was good at his job, and this was no time to undermine his momentum. She listened instead.

“We finally caught a break, though,” Bristol went on. “One of our street spotters saw him this morning. She made sure he didn’t spot her, and she called in her initial contact. Tremain was being careful; she didn’t think he noticed her.”

“Why didn’t we catch him at the coffee shop?” Angela Vaughn demanded.

“Two businessmen walked past him and started talking to someone, blocking the way on the sidewalk. We managed to get down to the subway platform just as the train pulled out. They claim it was him
—
saw him plain as day. I know what you’re going to ask,” Bristol said. “Our cameras were starting to come back online, and before they went down again, we think we got a shot of him getting off at the next stop. One camera got a glimpse of someone who looked like it might be him waiting for a bus. We have no idea whether he went north or south from there, however.”

Bristol was one of the few people on her teams with whom she was on a first
-
name basis. He continued, “Angela, we had two agents near that subway stop. They interviewed two cops who were standing there. The two of them just shrugged and said they hadn’t seen a thing. I’m getting tired of the police not cooperating with us.”

“Leave that to me,” Angela said as she hung up. “Where have you gone this time, Matthew Tremain?” she asked aloud.

This is a real lead. We might have him.

• • •

Matt didn’t know how secure his location was, so he assumed it wasn’t safe. He had been painstaking when he’d designed the safeguards for his hidey
-
hole. He made sure no one could connect his real name to the apartment lease. He had no choice but to spend his own money designing the safe room in the basement of the building, but he knew it was worth it. The apartment manager might as well have worn a name tag that said “Greedy.” He took Matt’s money under the table and said he was reluctant to go down to the basement anyway. “Spiders and all kinds of creepy shit down there,” he’d told Matt.

Matt thought about his latest online conversations with Cyberia. They weren’t at all reassuring. It gave him some comfort to know Cyberia might be able to give him warnings in time for him to escape, but he knew it was time to say good
-
bye to his safe room. He had published his blogs from there, using electronic skips with pings bouncing through offshore locations. He had changed those bogus locations at random and hoped it would be enough to avoid being traced.

It wasn’t worth the risk anymore. It wasn’t safe to assume that he couldn’t be found. He had given this decision a lot of consideration, realizing he needed an escape plan. Shuddering, he decided it was time to put the plan in play.

By the time he was finished, all his equipment was destroyed. He used a huge magnet to obliterate every last trace of data. He pulled wiring from the wall and disconnected everything from the outside. His last step was to pour industrial
-
strength acid over the entire collection of electronics. Taking extreme care, he followed the warnings on the bottle and wore a breathing apparatus while he worked. Acrid fumes filled the room, and his eyes were watering as he walked out and locked the door behind him. It felt as though he had destroyed a part of himself, his own history.

Before leaving, he checked the concealed door hidden behind wall paneling, to reassure himself that it was ready. He kicked the paneling with his right foot, causing it to open slightly, and he stood looking at the door hidden behind. Thanks to a set of building blueprints left on a shelf in the basement, he knew it led to the former coal room and a sloping shaft once used for delivering coal to the furnace. It was long abandoned, but Matt knew it would provide a possible escape route if he needed one.