The Click

(A century later)

Meta was cleaning the dinner dishes from the night before. Yennie had driven

down to Greve during his visit to Florence. They spent the evening talking about family and friends, and home. Both were black Jews of Ethiopian heritage living far from DanSheba. Because Yennie wasn’t one to boast but rather downplay his accomplishments, it wasn’t until late in the evening, after a bottle of wine or more, that Meta understood fully the powerful position he held in the American government. And then it wasn’t until around three in the morning, well after he had returned to Florence, that she realized how opportunistic that could be for the plan she had been hatching over the past dozen years. The problem had always been how would she start, who would she need, and how could anyone believe such an outlandish story, especially considering the world didn’t even know her people existed? In the middle of the night it occurred to her. She was about to give birth to a plan and hoped the elders would approve it.

It was now after eight in the morning and the evening dishes were mostly in the dishwasher. She stopped what she was doing and looked for her scud. Within minutes she heard Yennie at the other end greeting her, then raised him onto a holographic screen that projected from her scud.

“Yennie, are you leaving today or tomorrow? I forgot what you said.” “Actually on Thursday. Why?

“Do you remember our discussion last night about my great granduncle, Jonathan? “Meta, you didn’t get me drunk. Of course I remember it. But you never explained

exactly what got him killed other than he had stolen some sensitive documents.” “Do you have a minute, right now?”

“As you can tell, I am in a very long line waiting to see Michelangelo’s David. I’d say I have more than a minute. What’s on your mind that we didn’t discuss last night? Wait. Let me call you back on a secure line. When the call comes in it will ask for a code. Hit the name of the high school I attended back home.”

He called her back; she entered the name of the high school, then proceeded to tell him exactly what got Jonathan DeCarlo killed and her plan in fair detail. She could see on her holographic screen he was skeptical at first but warmed up to the idea after overwhelming her with question after question.

“This is our chance, Yennie, finally. Can you help?

“Truthfully I can’t say. It won’t be up to me. However, I think the president and her press secretary would be willing to listen if I catch them at the right time. Why don’t you come into Florence tomorrow and we can continue this conversation there.

“The bank closes at five. How about we meet for a late lunch, say around three. There’s a wonderful café in the Piazza Santo Spirito.”

The next day ticked by slowly for Meta but eventually presented itself as a stream of excitement flowing through her veins as fast as the towns passed between Greve and Florence: Chiocchio, Strada in Chianti, and eventually the Stazione di Santa Maria Novella in Firenze. At the same time she wondered if this was really the right thing to do and whether the American president could be trusted. It has been almost thirteen years since their scientists confirmed the truth so outrageously outlined in those ancient documents she had hidden away, a truth that DanShebans knew well before the indisputable evidence was in. Nevertheless, knowing the truth, even having indisputable scientific evidence, was one thing, convincing the rest of the world another, especially the president of the United States. But mostly, up until then the village elders insisted that DanSheba had to keep a low profile. Too much was at stake. They were slowly softening to the idea that maybe, just maybe, her people had a greater obligation to their fellow man than protecting a race of people that lived in the shadows for thousands of years.

Meta and Yennie lunched under a blue canopy on one edge of the piazza just steps from the Basilica di Santo Spirito which during the Renaissance served as a morgue for the destitute; where Michelangelo secretly dissected the cadavers in order to learn his trade. It was there that Meta explained in even more detail her plan. Yennie appeared to still be taking it all in when they left together and walked across the Arno River along the scenic Ponte Vecchio Bridge and doubled back on the other side of the river to the Banco di Firenze on Via de Tornabuoni.

“So this Smotecal Decretum is like an important order or law that a smotec executes. And what does it look like again?” Yennie asked as the bank came into view.

“You will see shortly.”

Yennie followed Meta across the bank lobby to a series of gadgets protecting the vault containing customer deposit boxes. She first took her right hand and placed it on a Palm/Finger reader. Once it was firmly in place a green light lit up indicating she should place her two eyes in a binocular-like device that was designed to scan her pupils. Once she did that, a lid popped up allowing her to punch in a pass code causing an impervious steel door to unlock. Meta led Yennie in and it was there that he had his first look at a real Smotecal Decretum … and a red hardback diary entitled Top Secret. He put both in his briefcase and they quietly left the way they came.

It took several weeks for Yennie to get the ear of his boss, Press Secretary Dillon Burber, and several more weeks for the two of them to get President Andrea Wainwright’s attention. To say she was thunderstruck by the documents being handed over to her would be an understatement. She was horrified, especially considering she had just celebrated her seventieth. Nevertheless, months went by without the subject being raised again and Yennie knew better than to raise it himself even though he promised Meta he would, when the time seemed right. Just when he had summoned the courage to remind Dillon of their earlier conversation, the Press Secretary popped of his

office and handed him a three page confidential document as well as the Smotecal Decretum and red diary.

“The president wants you to implement this,” Dillon said without more. Before Yennie could focus on the document, Dillon was gone. He quickly read

through all three pages and sighed. He was conflicted. What had he started? What had they started? Then, with another sigh and a great deal of ambivalence he pulled out his scud and called Meta.

After putting the president’s plan into action, one political and policy disaster after another seemed to put it out of everyone’s mind, except Meta’s, and Yennie was reminded of that often. Finally things quieted down just long enough for the plan, blessed by the president, to unfold— which seemed to take place mostly after the sun went down. The White House always appeared that much brighter to Yennie as he came and went during the late evening hours, as they plotted against the Cūtocracy. While he remained focused, every once and a while he caught himself dreaming of an extended vacation at home far away from the insanity that consumed Washington DC. But not now, he thought as he looked at the restroom mirror and stared at the dark red circles around his black eyes. Fortunately his short cropped hair never needed combing and deodorant often took the place of a shower.

He took a deep breath, left the restroom, and walked down the hall to the third office on the right. The magnetic triadic arcs under translucent domes lit up the room in a way only the noon sun could and it seemed more extreme given the time, almost midnight. Dillon Burber was born and raised in Seattle and hated overcast skies and dimly lit rooms or so he told Yennie on many occasions. President Wainwright’s Press Secretary hugged the back of his chair with his spine erect and his eyes focused on his aide now sitting across the desk from him. Dillon’s physical appearance, his short, thin frame, and thick head of uncombed hair may have matched his public demeanor, E-flat according to most reporters, but it didn’t match his ferocious private demeanor, Yennie learned quickly after they met. He attended college with the president, Louisiana State

University, and was more protective of her than the president’s entire security team. Few people reached the president’s ear without first beating on Dillon’s eardrum.

No one knew that better than Yennie, whose black skin made its own statement under Dillon’s MTA dome-shaped fixtures. He graduated from Princeton University with honors, and after interning on the Wainwright vice presidential bid, Dillon hired him. Eventually he became the Press Secretary’s primary aide. At the moment, he had in his hand the lab results they both had been anxiously waiting for.

“Well?” Dillon sat even more erect waiting for the verdict.

“It’s authentic. There’s no doubt about it.”

“How could they tell?” Clearly Dillon wanted to cover all his bases. The president’s reputation depended on.

“They analyzed the paper, the toner particles forming the print, and the ink making up the signature, the watermarks, and the seal itself which turned out to be gold. They all go back to the period we are interested in. What we have is a secret Smotecal Decretum and there is no doubt about its authenticity.”

“And the signature itself, how do we know it’s the signature of Innocent II?” Yennie smiled. “First, because our best handwriting expert, probably the best in

the world, says so as do the others. Second, we’ve managed to lift a fading fingerprint off the paper that seems to match his. Third, we were able to lift a partial print off the seal, a crisp print, that our people are confident is his.”

“In that case my young friend, I believe we have our smoking gun. I will give this information to the president.” Dillon Burber sat further down in his chair and was now smiling. “One more thing; does everyone in the loop understand …”

“Yes. The Smotecal Decretum and the diary have been classified Top Secret.”

“All right. Then you take the lead, Yennie. I don’t even trust the NSA. Make it a very subtle leak.

“Then what?

“We will see where it takes us, who we’re dealing with. We can’t afford a screw up, Yennie. We need the public on our side if we are to succeed.”