The Click

by Steve Shear

Hitch only half listened as he watched the bright orange bag being dragged down the aisle toward the back of the plane. What astonished him most were the other passengers. They seemed to take little notice. “Only you Americans seem to think it’s okay to fly while in the throes of the Click.”

  Enough! Hitch had enough. He glared past her, went back to his seat and growled to himself.

  After passing through customs, Rajiv greeted him with a hug, and they drove on a cushion of air from the airport to the Union Hospital in Chembur, a suburb of Mumbai on the east coast. Most of the way there, Rajiv made small talk, seemingly trying to avoid how it was he found Nagasi in the first place. At the same time, Hitch couldn’t help but wonder why Rajiv thought there was a connection between Nagasi and Hitch’s promise to Edna, a promise Rajiv recalled from their time at the cemetery.

  Finally, after Hitch could no longer take the small talk, he coaxed his good friend to open up. According to Rajiv, he happened to be visiting a relative at the hospital when he came upon Nagasi, a very old Ethiopian Jew, in the next room. Initially they thought Nagasi had Alzheimer’s. Although rare, it was one of the diseases the past two hundred years of medicine had not been able to cure entirely. It seemed to raise its ugly head at the most inopportune times. While Nagasi claimed he was hit by a bicycle crossing the street, he got everyone’s attention when he began babbling something about the ERAM-V vaccine being a death sentence. Rajiv was told he kept alternating between a state of delusion and total control of reality, mostly the former according to the doctors, as he continued to mumble about the vaccine and insisted on referring to it as a death sentence. The old Jew claimed he was one hundred and two years old, and again the doctors were convinced he was mixed up. But Rajiv wasn’t so sure, especially after Nagasi kept jabbering about all his people living just as long, some even longer, deep in the jungle.

  So, maybe coincidences happen, Hitch thought as they pulled into the hospital parking lot. A few minutes later he and Rajiv stood at an opened door looking in on Nagasi, who was either sound asleep or unconscious. He surely looked old, Hitch thought. He had shoulder length gray-white hair and a goatee, and his skin was black with blotches of chalky gray, proof he probably wasn’t exaggerating too much about his age.

  “This talk, people even older in the jungle. You believe that shit?”

  “Storytelling and mythology are part of Indian culture, my friend. Like all cultures, sometimes we believe what we want to believe,” Rajiv answered.

  “Do we know where he lives?”

  “I assume in the area. As I understand it, he was once the principal at the Jewish School of Learning not far from here.”

  “Jewish School of Learning?”

  Rajiv put Oliver in touch with the head librarian at the city library, a Mrs. Ambika Patel. She spent most of her working life in Mumbai, in the Research and Analyst Wing of India’s counterpart to the CIA, as an R&AW analyst, before switching professions. Hitch rented a convertible, punched the address into the auto pilot/navigation system which glided him to the city library with little effort on his part. He still wasn’t convinced this trip would lead anywhere, but he had come this far and there was a certain strangeness in that fellow, Nagasi, that seemed authentic.

  Considering how Hitchcock found Ambika Patel, she willingly shared some information with him. She confirmed Rajiv’s understanding that Nagasi was the principal in a very private gated village, the Jewish School of Learning, just outside Chembur, a short distance from Mumbai’s east coast. Everyone referred to it as the “Black Jews’ Village” or merely the “School of Learning” because its inhabitants included only the black Jews, and because it was mostly made up of school houses for the village children from kindergarten through high school. Nagasi and the teachers lived in a separate home in the center of the village while the children and some parents lived in adjacent apartment buildings.

  After visiting with Mrs. Patel, Hitch went to the village, but unfortunately it was closed and everyone gone. They just disappeared, or so he was told by several locals hanging around the chained front gate supporting a large red and white No Trespassing sign. They also told him the Village of Learning had its own grocery store, and bank, believe it or not, and that the villagers mostly kept to themselves. They did run a small fleet of fishing boats and sold some of their catch to the locals. No one was entirely sure where all those students and teachers went or where they came from. Apparently, most of the neighborhood imagined a hidden city deep in the jungle but that was because everyone seemed to romanticize these strange people and their ways.

  Later that evening, well after dark, Hitch returned to the Jewish Village of Learning, this time with Rajiv. A brick wall almost as tall as Oliver surrounded the entire village. He estimated the village sat on at least a dozen acres. It was huge, he thought after walking the entire perimeter, huge and solid. The only entrance was through the main gate. It was constructed of thick steel posts that complemented the impervious wall. Between the steel posts they saw neglected landscape and debris held captive by the tallness of the walls and the absence of people. The apparent need for privacy and fortification begged the two onlookers to search the entire village, and scaling the wall was their best option. Before they did, however, they waited for the VAMA vehicles patrolling the streets to vanish. Christ! Even in this remote outpost across the world those bastards maintained a vigilance that could not be missed. Hitch never liked VAMA and now he even liked it less.

  He happened to be a master at picking other people’s locks. As a result, they had little difficulty keying their way into the buildings and wound up spending nearly four hours searching the classrooms, offices, and personal residences. The village interior had been meticulously cleaned of any solid evidence that might have incriminated the fleeing occupants. The whiteboards were white, the wastebaskets empty, the drawers and closets devoid of even the leftover lint from clothing. And yet, all the tables, chairs, desks, beds, digital book readers, even computation shells devoid of incriminating data appeared as if they hadn’t been moved during the cleansing process. Red dots were placed on all those items which were meant to stay, according to a poster on the wall. Anything with green dots was to be taken with them. It was as if the village citizens knew someone would be there in the middle of the night, begging for a hint of who they were. What better clues than the things they used on a daily basis, especially their book readers and the books they read?

  The book that received most of Hitch’s attention had fallen behind a heater. It had a green dot on its spine, which might as well have been a sign saying read me! And Hitch did, quickly, as Rajiv busied himself scavenging other areas. It was entitled The First Coming, and as best as he could gather it was about a community of Jews waiting for the Messiah to come.

  “Hitch, we must hurry,” Rajiv shout from another room. He closed the book and debated. Should he or should he not take it? He touched the green dot and looked at the heater. How did it get there? It was as if someone left it there on purpose. That thought, and curiosity, won the day. He stuck it behind his waistband under his shirt and went looking for his companion.

  Chapter Twelve

  Janine Rousseau hurried into her office, talking on her scud, making sure she doubled locked the outer office door. “Yes, yes. Thank you for the confidence, sir. I’m on it now.” She rushed over to her Blue Cube and punched the power-up button. Seconds later its holographic surveillance screen appeared larger than life with No Data flashing across its face. She quickly typed in some key coordinates and the name given to her by Rosewall. No Data changed to Incoming Data, the HS-Screen went greenish-blue, then all of a sudden the Ecclesian Basilica in Rome appeared. She zoomed in, hit the target button, tapped on the listening mode, and turned the volume up.

  High Minister McGivney in his black Cassock and skull cap, his image intermittently glowing within the greenish-blue haze, paced in front of the Basilica talking to someone on his scud. Rousseau knew him by reputation. A onetime viciou
s prosecutor in Rome with alleged ties to the Italian mafia before being drafted by Supreme Minister Pius early in the smotec’s term, he was thought to be a closet Opus Dei by some. Others even believed he was a Tarsusian, the more extreme wing of Opus Dei that was made up of the followers of St. Paul, who was born Saul of Tarsus. In any case, she had to keep tabs on him for her own good if not because Rosewall insisted. She watched with interest and listened after adjusting the sophisticated sound filter that took her some time to master.

  “I don’t give a damn how remote it is. If the Smotecal Decretum surfaced you must find it or else the church will have hell to pay,” he said sharply to someone on the other end. “Of course it’s bogus but since when does that matter. I need you to stay on this.” Rosewall wanted Rousseau to find out who McGivney was talking to.

  Just then, a priest approached from behind him. “Minister McGivney.”

  McGivney whirled around. “What?”

  “Excuse me sir, but His Sacredness, the smotec, wishes to see you right away.”

  “We’ll talk later, and I expect results,” McGivney said into his scud and clicked off.

  “Damn it,” Rousseau yelled to no one in particular and powered down the Blue Cube. “Who in the hell was he talking to?”

  “Who wez who talken to?” Oedipus asked as he walked into her office after unlocking the outer office door.

  “None of your fucking business. At least not yet,” she said, still steaming. “However, I do want to show you what I recorded earlier, and that will be your business.”

  She powered up the Blue Cube once again and typed in some instructions. Oliver Hitchcock appeared through the same greenish-blue haze, leaving the airport in Mumbai with another man, an Indian. Hitchcock glowed intermittently. They were then seen going into and out of a hospital. Rousseau paused the holographic content and laughed.

  “Had it not been for Rosewall and my dead bartender friend Rudy, I would never have keyed in on my even better friend, Oliver Hitchcock,” she said looking at Oedipus and laughing once again. “Imagine him involved in this mess I have been asked to clean up. If this isn’t a juicy coincidence I don’t know what is?”

  “Ya, and your dead friend wouldn’t be so dead if he wadn’t so greedy.” Oedipus laughed.

  “Now this is what I really want you to see.” She unpaused the holographic content, and they both watched Hitchcock go into and out of the Mumbai City Library. Again, his image intermittently glowed. He was then followed into and out of a taxi where he stood in front of what looked like a school.

  “Now comes the best part,” Rousseau announced.

  The HS-Screen went fairly dark since what had been recorded had taken place at night, but the images were clear thanks to long-range infrared technology that projected from the protolytes above. Hitchcock continued to glow intermittently, this time in shades of gray, as he stood at the front gate of the Jewish School of Learning with his Indian friend. They saw the two jumping the wall. They managed to get into the buildings. What they found, Rousseau’s magic Blue Cube could not tell, since the Cūtocratic Protolytes it relied on could not pierce through opaque objects, unfortunately Rousseau thought. Nevertheless, she would find out.

  “Wat es the CIA doin in Mumbai?”

  “Clearly Hitchcock is not on CIA business or they would have scrambled our signal. This is personal.”

  “Why botter wit heem. He’s a Beater trying to save heez kid, dats all. Ezn’t dat wat we learned from da dead bartender?”

  “Oedipus, this isn’t just any Beater. He’s up to something.”

  “Like wat?”

  “Not your problem. Orders are to scare the hell out of him.”

  “Dat’s all?”

  “Dat’s all. I mean that’s all, for now.” Rousseau sneered at Oedipus. “You better watch your Belgian butt. The man’s a living legend. Mess up and he’ll cut your throat. You leave for Mumbai tonight.”

  The following morning Rousseau sat at her desk eating banana slices and blackberries while talking with Oedipus on her scud. She had him on holographic mode which meant his face and all of its warts were close enough to touch.

  “Where are you now?”

  “Sittin een my ATV een front of heez friend’s ouse. Once ee leaves, I will follow eem and, as you say, scare dee ell out of eem.”

  “All right. You don’t have to call back when he comes out. I’ll have both of you on my little Blue Cube.” She clicked off and Oedipus’s holographic image vanished. After leaving her bananas and berries, she moved to where the Blue Cube was hidden, pulled it out from under a stack of files, powered it up, and typed in the necessary instructions. Less than a minute later Oedipus appeared on the HS-Screen sitting in his opened all-terrain vehicle, his image glowing intermittently. Hitch’s friend’s house appeared within the greenish-blue haze.

  Rousseau beamed. She could not get over her toy. It was so much more powerful than even the best scud. At the same time, she knew having it was utterly illegal and if discovered could get her thrown in jail. The General assured her that would not happen. Nevertheless, she kept it under a blanket of files when she was not there, and she kept the outer office door locked even when she was there. The only other person with the combination to that door was Oedipus and he could be trusted with her life. That was because he owed his to her. When she was CIA spying in her native Paris for the Americans, God that was years ago, she was the field officer in a major sting operation that involved Oedipus as a minor player. Something about him played well within her gut and she cut him loose. Otherwise, he would still be in someone’s dungeon deep underground, if not already dead.

  She engrossed herself in another project when a short squeal came from the Blue Cube as Oliver Hitchcock stepped out of his friend’s home. She quickly tapped in some additional instructions calling for a split screen, and the HS-Screen showed Oedipus on one side and Hitchcock, now intermittently glowing, on the other side. She sat back in her chair and smiled. “Okay my love, this little venture should let you know we are keeping tabs on you.”

  Hitchcock drove along the streets of Mumbai with Oedipus close behind, although it didn’t appear to Rousseau that Hitch knew he was being followed. Just as she was thinking that, his convertible rose higher above the pavement and accelerated. Even she could hear the whine of his electrotomic isothermal engine responsible for both the air cushion below and the propulsion pushing him forward. He made a quick right turn and then a left into an alley. Rousseau could only imagine Oedipus’s grin as he kept up. She didn’t know a driver as good as him.

  Once Hitchcock exited the alley, he made for the highway and the two raced neck and neck as the ATV, also whining as it chewed up hydrogenated acetylene fuel, careened into the convertible’s side several times. Hitch reversed thrust and slammed on his brakes, allowing Oedipus to take the lead, then rammed into his back end. They seemed to be playing with one another. This time Oedipus slammed on his brakes and maneuvered behind Hitchcock. Again, the convertible accelerated, dipped slightly, and veered off at the next exit. It merged onto a narrow road paralleling a mildly steep ravine on his right. The ATV stayed close behind. Within seconds, it easily caught up, crashing its heavily reinforced front end into the convertible with sufficient force to cause the convertible’s blanket of air to quake under the chassis and its tires to slam to the ground. For a moment Rousseau thought Hitchcock was going to vault into the ravine. “God damn it, Oedipus, we need him alive!” she yelled at the HS-Screen.

  Just then the convertible’s cushion of air regained its footing and moved Hitchcock into the left lane where she saw him reverse thrust and slow down, allowing Oedipus to catch up. Now neck and neck, each swerved into the other, bam, bam. Hitchcock sped up and moved into his right lane where he slowed down once again. Oedipus moved to his left and overtook the convertible. Just as he turned into Hitch’s front end, the convertible engine’s reverse thrust slowed him down as he turned hard to the left. It caught the ATV’s unprotected backside
, bang. Oedipus lost control and spun into the ravine below. Hitchcock dropped to the ground and slammed on his thrusters. He stopped at the top of the ravine as a ball of fire shot up into Janine Rousseau’s office. She sprang from her desk and practically fell into the greenish-blue haze being engulfed by the flames. Oh my! She was witnessing the demise of her lieutenant. She could feel the tic pulsating in her eye and her lower lip quivered.

  Hitchcock raced from his car down the ravine, searching to his left and right. The ATV smoldered, but Oedipus was not in it. Seconds later, she saw him glowing, intermittently, within the bushes a hundred feet down. Hopefully he was still breathing. She quickly turned the volume up on the control center and to her relief heard her stooge groan. Apparently, Hitchcock heard it also as he rushed farther down the ravine toward him. By then, the Belgian seemed at best semiconscious. Hitchcock pulled out Oedipus’s scud and his wallet then tapped on the scud. Even Rousseau could see VAMA flash onto the scud screen. “Jesus!” And it only got worse. She watched Hitchcock undress Oedipus until he was entirely naked. She then watched him tap once again on Oedipus’s scud. Suddenly, she heard a ring, and she flinched. Resolved not to show weakness, she picked up her scud from the desk and took the call. He switched the scud into view mode and placed Oedipus’s naked body within its crosshairs.

  “Hey, Janine. Next time don’t send a boy to do a man’s job.” He disconnected and headed up the hill toward his convertible with Oedipus’s clothes in one hand.

  Rousseau swiped her bowl of half eaten bananas and berries onto the floor, crash, and shut down her toy. Swish, the HS-Screen vanished. The tic in her eye began ticking once again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  All the way back to his hotel, Hitch couldn’t have been more delighted. Now more than ever he knew he was on to something. Janine would not have sent her thug all the way across the world just to play games, and clearly she didn’t want him to use deadly force. He couldn’t help but smile as he threw pieces of clothing from the convertible, one at a time. Once he scattered Mr. Oedipus Mertens across the road, he had to think carefully. Why was she taking him so seriously? Did it really have to do with Christopher? But what else? Hell! Nothing else! But what had he learned? He learned that some unknown bloggers, probably before he was born, took issue with the Click and were expunged. And then there was Nagasi, an old man, quite probably delusional, who claimed to be a hundred and two. And he claimed not to have been vaccinated. Hitchcock swore he saw a V-Mark on Nagasi, but maybe he was mistaken. And what about Rajiv? Could all of that have been a coincidence? Hitchcock didn’t believe in coincidences. Nevertheless, he was willing to put common sense aside when it came to his grandson.