The Click

Oliver Hitchcock sat in his tiny hotel room listening to the traffic in downtown

Mumbai through the opened balcony door and sipping on a scotch and while he tried to reconcile uncomfortable thoughts flowing through his mind. Does he fly directly to Italy or go home first? Christopher’s V-Mark remained bluish-black, even more so, and the blistering seemed to be spreading. Kathy begged him to come home. She even intimated that Christopher might not live long enough for him to arrive in time. That was enough to make him make up his mind and fly back to DC before meeting with Meta DeCarlo. He was about to make arrangements when he once again unfolded Ambika Patel’s note:

Seek out Meta DeCarlo in Greve, Italy. Tell her the

fishermen of Bombay sent you.

Once again, he wasn’t sure what to do. Not like him. In the past he would have … “Damn it! This is not the past.” He decided to call Delahunt hoping the doctor would be more optimistic than his daughter. Dr. Delahunt was out of the office. Could one of the other doctors help him? Christ no! Jesus, he had to make the decision himself. He inched around his hotel room with the note in hand hoping for an epiphany, then walked down to the bar and ordered a martini, two martinis. Doubles. The TV over the bar was on the travel channel but muted. As he sipped his third martini, he watched a pretty young American girl with blonde hair walking across the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, Italy. The bright red Duomo rose in the background. The bartender looked over at him. “Have you been there?” he asked.

“A long time ago.” Hitch hesitated, then nodded to himself. “But I’m heading there from here.” Good! A decision was made.

In less than twenty four hours he was sitting on his balcony in Florence. A cool breeze crossed the Arno River and brushed over his face as he watched the tourists marching across the bridges taking photos, carrying bags, and holding hands. For three days he sat on that balcony, off and on, and Meta DeCarlo, whoever the hell she was, had

already canceled twice on him. Even if she were to lead them to an unvaccinated tribe of Ethiopian Jews, Elana Wu remained missing and without her nothing could be done. He was losing hope. He tried to shake the feeling by focusing on his immediate surroundings. By then he had become a familiar guest at the Lungamo Hotel on the south bank of the Arno River just to the west of the Ponte Vecchio.

The cool breeze, now chilly, seemed to beach itself on the balcony, causing him to shiver as his thoughts left his surroundings and came back to the problems at present, especially to Christopher’s condition. A few minutes later, his scud VIBRATED and he picked up the call after enabling its holographic mode. He could practically touch Barnaby’s furrowed brow.

“Oliver, where are you?”

“If you activate your holographic mode, Barnaby, you will see I haven’t left my hotel in Florence,” Hitch said sarcastically. “It appears this mysterious Ms. DeCarlo does not want to meet with me after all … and if she does …” He paused and finished up the scotch. “Like I’ve got all the fuckin time in the world. …”

“What about Elana?”

“My friend is taking care of it and I trust him with my life.” “Well … as long as he gets her back.”

“He said he will, which means he will,” Hitch barked into the holographic image in front of him as he refilled his glass.

“Quite so,”

A few minutes later Hitch clicked off and moseyed down to the hotel bar close to the TV. After a few minutes a news bulletin flashed across the screen. He and everyone else at the bar stared up at a demonstration in Washington D.C., taped earlier.

Crowds of people, Ecclesian Crusaders according to their signs, were marching down 15th Street heading toward Pennsylvania Avenue and the White House demanding that the president resign. They were practically rolling over the reporter trying his best to remain standing as they rushed by. Before he had a chance to speak, one of the signs smacked him hard on the shoulder knocking the poor fellow down.

No I’m sorry or excuse me, Hitch thought. Apparently, true believers didn’t have to apologize. Besides, they were all in a hurry to crucify Queen Wainwright. In fact, two of the spirited many racing past the reporter carried a banner in bright red letters as if written in blood urging those who could read to Burn Witch Wainwright just like they did the witches in Salem! The reporter stopped them and asked if they really meant that.

“I not only mean it, but I would happily strike the first match,” Father Winterhaven exclaimed after he introduced himself and moved closer to the camera bearing a toothless smirk across his face ruddy red with drink.

“I guess that says it all,” the reporter declared. “I’m Gary Smith in the Nation’s Capital.”

The anchor quickly appeared on screen. “That was late morning, Washington D.C. time and was just one of hundreds of anti-Wainwright demonstrations around the world,” he announced from behind his desk. “And besides railing against the president of the United States, Cūtocrats everywhere are asking, who is Elana Wu? According to a recent Washington Post poll, as many as 32% of those polled believe the Click could be a fraud. At the same time rumors continue that Dr. Wu is really a heroin dealer who …”

The anchor paused in midsentence as he cupped one hand to his ear piece. “More news from Washington D.C. I’m afraid.”

The TV screen switched to a reporter standing on Pennsylvania Avenue with the White House behind him. The anchor’s voice could be heard off screen. “We go immediately to Robert Mabry on the scene. … What’s happening Robert?”

“Well, Judd, we are told an assassination attempt on President Wainwright less than an hour ago has been foiled. According to my sources one of the conspirators involved was a secret service agent assigned to guard the president. According to one particular source the agent is believed to be a member of the secret society known as the Tarsusians …”

“Tarsusians?” the anchor interrupted.

“An extremist arm of the Ecclesian Church that has been around since the early nineteen hundreds, a more violent spinoff of Opus Dei I’m told but they have stayed deep

in the shadows doing God’s work according to the strictest principles of Catholicism before its meltdown and the rise of Ecclesian religiosity.”

“And how exactly was the plot foiled, I mean …”

Just then Hitch felt a tap on his shoulder. “Mr. Hitchcock, please follow me,” a server said.

He jumped from his stool and followed the young man through the bar’s small kitchen and out the back door to an opened stripped down high-tech Speedster painted deep maroon with stainless steel strips running across the center of its hood and trunk. An attractive black woman with coal black hair, around fifty years old Hitch guessed, sat behind the wheel.

“Please get in, Mr. Hitchcock. We must hurry,” Meta DeCarlo said.

Rousseau pulled out the Blue Cube, fired it up, and began pouncing back and forth along the edge of its HS-Screen as NO DATA blinked within the greenish-blue haze. She was on her scud talking to one of Rosewall’s lieutenants in charge of the mission. “He has to come out sometime, George. He’s been cooped up in that fucking hotel for three days now which means I’ve been cooped up here, and I don’t like it.”

“How do you think we feel out here waiting? I …”

Just then the HS-Screen went live capturing Hitch as he stepped into the open and began glowing intermittently. “Hold on, there he is … behind the bar … getting into … Now stay with him, George, and take him out or Rosewall will have your ass, God damn it!”

Rousseau clicked off her scud and stepped up to greenish-blue haze, close enough to breathe in its magical ability to transport visions across the world. “As much as I hate to do this, Oliver, it’s beyond my control.” It surprised her how unemotionally conflicted she was, considering the order she just gave. She and Hitch had history, good and bad, serious and indifferent. He was the … she stopped herself; had to live in the present. This was the mission. If she was to survive there was no room for sentiment or even

ambivalence. After turning her back on him, she crossed the room and faced the wall mirror close enough to examine the blood vessels in the whites of her eyes. “I mustn’t be vulnerable,” she said to herself, aloud, to make sure it sunk in.

From there, through the mirror, she could see the Speedster wind through the countryside. George’s black SUV carrying him and two other lieutenants followed at a distance, laser guns fixed to its hood. Overhead an armed VAMA drone tracked their path. She swirled around and CLAPPED her hands.

The power of whatever sat under the hood of the maroon and silver striped Speedster kept Hitch glued to the back of his seat as Meta DeCarlo, seemingly relaxed and casual, cut corners at high speed and accelerated on every straightaway, sometimes lifting them as much as a foot off the ground causing all types of alarms on the dashboard to scream with fright. The souped-up engine’s high pitch WAIL killed any conversation. He was mesmerized by the beautiful woman sitting next to him. Her long hair blowing back, her steady hands on the wheel, the picture of something out of the movies. As she exceeded a hundred miles per hour, he tried to stay cool and stare ahead, but his eyes had trouble leaving her.

Finally he yelled out. “You always drive like this?”

“Only when we’re being followed,” she yelled back, first pointing skyward, then behind her.

Hitch pivoted to the rear. No car, then glance upward. No plane that he could see. He looked for the side mirror but it wasn’t there, then to the rearview mirror. It wasn’t there either. “How the hell do you know …”

Please, Mr. Hitchcock, just hang on.”

The Speedster dropped to the unpaved road below with a THUMP and broke hard, causing it to slide sideways creating a rising trail of dust between them and the black SUV that had just come into view. It then raced towards what appeared to be a dead end as a steel shield rose from its rear. ZING, ZING, ZING. Hitch could hear laser shots

ricochet directly behind him while the ROAR of the SUV closed the gap. The VAMA drone dipped downward through clouds that seemed to magically appear and into view. Still glued to the back of his seat, Hitch couldn’t believe what he was witnessing, didn’t expect such excitement, as the speedometer registered 115mph. He looked over at Meta DeCarlo who calmly steered the Speedster toward high brush and no discernable roadway.

“This may get a bit choppy, so once again hang on,” she suggested.

Rousseau became entranced with the chase, so much so that she pierced the holographic images in front of her. She even began clapping her hands in anticipation of the catch … and the demise of her dear friend, causing the optics to momentarily quake, causing Rousseau to jump. He and that woman were heading into a raised thicket of green that clearly would provide little support for the pneumatic blanket of air that normally maintained proper altitude. Surprisingly, it glided over at least two hundred yards of entangled weeds as if they formed a landing strip before dropping downward and bouncing onto a rock bed of sorts and then rising again. From Rousseau’s line of sight the speedster seemed to fly over a narrow crevice fishtailing onto a slightly tamer raised gravel road. After straightening out and rising, it flew down that road leaving the black SUV to suddenly reverse thrust its engine in braking mode. Clearly George did not know how to cope with the crevice and the higher ground on the other side.

She watched in frustration but was still hopeful as the VAMA drone circled wide in order to swoop down, then followed the Speedster paralleling railroad tracks. From her vantage point she could also see the road veer away through an open field making it a perfect target. Rousseau held her breath. Finally, she could check Hitchcock off her list. All of a sudden, instead of veering into the open field, the Speedster dropped down and slammed on its brakes, creating more dust.

“What the fuck?” Rousseau stared into the HS-Screen wondering what the hell they were doing. In the meantime she could see the drone coming back around behind the

stalled Speedster. Closer, closer, dropping, dropping. Rousseau was so close she could practically pee into the greenish-blue mist that would witness Oliver’s final demise.

With the Speedster dead still, Meta looked back at the drone, then at her companion. “This could be dicey,” she declared just as rockets rained down on them. Not only could they hear the EXPLOSIONS to their left and right, but they were so close they could feel the ground vibrate their cushion of air. All of a sudden Hitch felt the back of his seat give him a huge kick between the shoulder blades as Meta floored the Speedster. Within seconds they were straddling the railroad tracks doing 140mph as the explosions behind them were catching up.

Less than a mile up the tracks a tunnel popped into view. “What the fu …” WHOOSH … everything went black. The Speedster raced out of the tunnel and into a thick forest, invisible from both protolytes and drones.

No sooner Hitchcock disappeared in the tunnel, NO DATA began blinking on Rousseau’s HS-Screen. “Damn it! Dam it!”

She hurled an empty tin coffee cup across the room just as Oedipus entered. He ducked. SMACK it bounced off the wall and onto the floor. “Why can’t anybody make a decent product?”

“Wat?”

“This damn Blue Cube. You’d think it could see through a fucking forest. What the hell good is it if anyone can hide from it by standing under a shit’n tree?”

“So wat do we do now?”

“We find out who in the hell that woman is, that’s what!”

Oedipus nodded and left Rousseau searching the area for Oliver Hitchcock, without success. In frustration, she turned the Blue Cube off just as Oedipus reappeared.

“Some olt German guy eer. Calls eemself, Herr Volkmar …” “Never heard of him.”

“I’ll get reet of eem.”

“Do that.”

Oedipus turned to leave. “Sometin bout a proposal … ant Elana Wu.” Rousseau did an about-face. “Elana Wu?”

“Yeah.”

“Bring him in.” Rousseau quickly wheeled the Blue Cube in a corner and covered it with a blanket.

Oedipus led an elderly gentleman in. Without being asked he sat himself down in Rousseau’s favorite chair, put one leg over another and pushed back as if he were making himself comfortable in his own study. Right away that pissed her off just enough to bite her tongue. She would teach this old fart whose office he was in, but first needed to know his connection with Elana Wu.

Meta DeCarlo’s Speedster pulled under an overhang adjacent a two story stone home surrounded by a vineyard and trees sufficiently dense to guarantee privacy. Two levels of outdoor stone steps led up to a porch along both the side and back of the house. Meta led her guest up the stairs and onto the porch where he could just see the piazza in Greve over the vineyard and trees.

“Welcome to my home, Mr. Hitchcock.”

“Oliver. … You are certainly wicked behind the wheel.”

Meta Grinned. “Necessity is the mother of reckless driving, I’m afraid.”

“Reckless? I’d say reckless would have been letting those rockets explode in our

back seat. …Meta?”

“Yes, please, just Meta.”

Oedipus stood by the door as Rousseau sat across from Herr Volkmar still sitting comfortably in her favorite chair. She was seething but managed to laugh nevertheless, as a bag of white powder hung down from one hand.

“You may be a friend of Dr. Wu, Herr Volkmar, but you see we have no choice. We have to make sure she is no longer a menace to the good citizens of this country. And since she is a Chinese citizen …”

“Are you done?” the old man said in a drawn out German accent before Rousseau could finish her thought.

“Done? I’m just getting started.” This time she didn’t laugh.

“I think not. You see, as we speak, Dr. Wu is now in my custody.” The old man’s penetrating glare convinced Rousseau he was serious.

“Check it out,” he continued and sat up as if he were about to depart. Rousseau wanted to shove her fist between his eyes and rip off his large German nose but once again bit her tongue. She nodded to Oedipus who stepped out while Herr Volkmar smirked in her direction, while she glared back with the intention of killing the bastard any moment.

Oedipus returned and merely shrugged causing Rousseau to go weak in the knees and flush in the face. She didn’t need a mirror to feel it. Nevertheless, she managed to gain her composure.

“Now for my proposal. You will call off any attempts by VAMA to harm Oliver Hitchcock, Dr. Wu, Barnaby Bloom and anyone else assisting them.”

She began laughing uncontrollably. She couldn’t help herself. “And why in the hell would I do that?”

The old man stood and stepped toward Rousseau, close enough that she could feel his breath. “Because if anything happens to them, I’ll give the order to tear out that black heart of yours and have it rot in the vacant cell below.” He smiled and started to walk out. “Oh, one other thing. Don’t bother following Hitchcock or the others with the blue toy you’re hiding. I’ve had the signal scrambled.”

Herr Volkmar scooted past Rousseau, picked up the tin cup she had thrown at Oedipus earlier, and handed it to him.

Yennie Tawahada sat comfortably on the couch in his office, having just clicked off his scud.

“Well?” Dillon Burber asked standing in the doorway.

“You can tell President Wainwright that Oliver Hitchcock is with Meta now. They are just about to have lunch together.”

“And Elana Wu?”

“I’m afraid she’s still missing, at least that’s what Meta was told by Mr. Hitchcock.”

“Alright, but keep me posted.” Before Yennie could respond, Dillon was gone.