by Steve Shear
“This is the final call for Flight 67 to Mumbai. All remaining passengers should board at this time.”
“Kathy, maybe he didn’t hear it. Call Delahunt if it doesn’t get better in a day or two and let me know what he says. I have to go.”
“But, Dad…”
Hitch clicked Kathy off in midsentence and hustled into the jetport. Within minutes he found his seat in First Class.
“We will be departing for Mumbai momentarily. Please make sure…”
Ring, ring. It was Hitch’s scud again; this time he could see “Barnaby Bloom” across the screen. He put it on voice only mode. “Barnaby, what’s…”
“Elana hasn’t returned. I have to call the police.”
Hitchcock cringed, then sighed. “No! Not yet. I will have someone look for her first. He’s a safer bet. She’ll be fine. I promise.
Barnaby was not happy but agreed to give Oliver one more day before he would involve the police, which also meant involving VAMA. Hitch was sure of that. He had to reach Julian before they took off and complete the picture he had not quite finished painting earlier. He did, and Julian assured him he would find Elana if VAMA had her, and even if they didn’t he would find her.
Now he could relax, at least until he reached Mumbai. Rajiv had made all the arrangements. He would be meeting in late afternoon with Ambika Patel, the librarian he had met during his previous trip. That was his mental segue way back to the Cause and Elana Wu. Barnaby had been more forthcoming than he expected.
Shortly after graduating from George Washington University, American University hired Elana to work under Barnaby, who recruited her into his secret organization. Back then, she was an unwilling participant but had a gift for the science they needed like no one else he knew. Eventually, she came to trust her mentor even though he was a nonbeliever, a Jew no less, and she a practicing Ecclesian. That was in part because he had already stepped in to help her on a number of occasions, Barnaby confided in Hitchcock, but also because the mentor and student were truly fond of one another. As a result, he minced no words when the time seemed right. The Cause needed her; God needed her so He or She wouldn’t be made a mockery of; and mostly the human race needed her.
As Barnaby explained it to Hitch at the café, he had become a chieftain in the war against the world practically at birth. They were all underground of course—Jews, American Muslims, and atheists. The secret mission of the Cause was to rid humanity of the Click and find an antidote for that dreadful vaccine, that geriatric euthanasia that plagued the world, a mission Barnaby’s grandfather and father began. Both mysteriously disappeared, never to be heard from again. Yes, Barnaby Bloom and the others already knew what Oliver Hitchcock had hoped for with no more evidence than linkless references to imagined dissidents, wishful thinking, and several bottles of scotch.
But how do a handful of activists, relatively speaking, fight a sophisticated bureaucracy controlled by the major countries of the world under the watchful eye of an all-powerful Cūtocracy and VAMA, its ubiquitous enforcer? For the longest time Barnaby wasn’t sure, and wasn’t confident their knowledge and their fight would amount to anything. Then, Oliver Hitchcock and his connections with India and this man Nagasi fell into Barnaby Bloom’s lap as if it were meant to be, as if the dissidents could only be quieted for so long.
“What we need with absolute certainty,” Barnaby explained to Oliver at the café, “are large numbers of adults who have never been vaccinated. Only then will Elana and the Cause be able to learn how to make the antidote and begin making it in order to un-Click large populations. It has to do with infusing clean blood with Click-containing blood in a very sophisticated way and then subjecting the combination to a complex process of DNA swapping.”
For years the Cause scoured the planet for such people, but with no success. According to the intelligence developed over the years by the Cause, there were hints that such a group, and only one, existed somewhere in the unknown and impenetrable wastelands of India. That’s where Oliver and his newly found discovery, Mr. Nagasi, came in—hopefully.
“It’s just a matter of finding a large group of unvaccinated souls and the ballgame is over?” Hitch remembered asking.
Barnaby wished it was that easy, but unfortunately it wasn’t. He explained that they had to not only discover large groups of unvaccinated people but first they needed to prove to the world that the vaccine contained the Click; that it wasn’t part of God’s design.
But even if the Cause could prove to the world that the Click was man-made, goodness would not necessarily be drawn to their side. Government after government and their handpicked population experts paid homage to the Click. Without its presence, divine or not, they argued humanity would swell its way through all its critical resources, eventually into war, and ultimately extinction in the not so distant future. The Click was God’s way of protecting a most valuable creation, the Earth and its inhabitants, and if not God’s way then Mother Nature’s. Either way, the Click still served to keep in check humanity’s inability to temper its need to procreate to reasonable levels. That’s what the Cause was up against. Barnaby was not going to paint a prettier picture than that for its newest member.
But first things first, Hitch recalled him saying. Hopefully, if they were able to prove the present vaccine contained the Click and could produce an antidote in large quantities, they would then worry about doing battle with goodness and the issue of future overpopulation, especially if the antidote worked on people in the throes of the Click, and that included Christopher.
By the time Hitch finished that happy thought, he was jolted back to the present by turbulence and a shaking scotch and water on his tray. Ding, the “fasten seatbelt” light went on. He thought about Kathy and how abrupt he had been during their last conversation. He would call her as soon as he met with the librarian, Ambika Patel.
It was early evening when a taxi stopped at the dead end of a cul-de-sac cramped with parked cars. Hitch asked the driver to wait, then got out and took a deep breath. He heard Indian music before reaching the sidewalk. As he weaved around several vehicles double parked, his scud rang. Barnaby’s face appeared on the screen. He clicked on and was immediately bombarded with concern.
“Oliver, they seized all her work including her research on ERAM-V. Now they know everything, even that we’re looking for an unvaccinated population.”
Hitch tried to sift through his own thoughts about that revelation while the Indian music continued to blast through the house he was approaching as if its sole purpose was to annoy him. “Well fuck ’em. We’ll let the whole world know what it is she, you all, already know. I must run now but I will shoot you over some contacts at the Washington Herald, one in particular. Her name is Amy Winkler. Send her everything that VAMA seized.”
“But…”
“Gotta go, Barnaby. Do as I say, and I’ll get back to you later.” Hitch clicked off and knocked hard on the door to compete with the voices and music on the other side.
Ambika Patel opened the door and standing behind her was Rajiv, which didn’t surprise Hitch. He followed the two of them into the house ringing with laughter and song, through bellowing pungent clouds of smoke from the sweet aroma of hashish. Several people stood around a piano in one corner singing in their native tongue, Marathi, a language he once could understand if spoken slowly. All the people celebrating were Indian except for two black men.
Mrs. Patel led Hitch into a combination guest bedroom and study at the far end of the house, and the two of them sat down between guest wraps thrown across the bed. A few minutes later Rajiv brought in two glasses of red wine and quickly left.
“Welcome to my home, Mr. Hitchcock,” Ambika Patel said with a thick but enchanting accent he recalled from their last meeting as she raised her glass to his. “It is true that my dear husband, Kailash, left us less than three weeks ago, and it is equally true that this is how we mourn his passing. He was a school teacher living an honest, happy, and productiv
e life and died a timely and peaceful death. What more could one ask for? We are happy for him and this is how we show it.”
What more could one ask for? Quite possibly ten or fifteen more years of happiness and productivity, Oliver Hitchcock thought. He then explained what brought him to her home, originally planning to talk for at most twenty minutes. It took far longer than that at his host’s insistence. He described Christopher, his daughter Kathy, and both Barnaby and the Cause. Most important, he explained what they knew about the Click and how desperate they were to find large numbers of men and women who had never been vaccinated. All the time, Mrs. Patel listened intently without giving away her own thoughts. That made Hitch uneasy. She hadn’t flinched at the idea that the Click was manmade, and yet she hadn’t argued with him. It was as if…
“I don’t know if I can help you, Mr. Hitchcock. I have people I must talk to. In the meantime, please come into the living room and have some refreshments. I am sure Rajiv will join you.”
Hitch followed her into the living room and his old friend was there standing by platters of Indian delicacies he hadn’t enjoyed since leaving his post there a decade ago. Rajima-Chawal, a curried red kidney dish beyond description. Pork Vindaloo, Rogan Josh, and Chungdi Jhola, a spicy gravy-based prawn curry, his favorite. Twenty minutes or so later the two black men he had seen earlier, owners of the East Bombay Fishing Company, were introduced to him. They were relatives of Mrs. Patel by marriage, she explained. After the introductions, Mrs. Patel led him back into the guest bedroom and left him alone. He waited patiently but was anxious to learn whether this trip would bear fruit. Who were those men really, and what did they have to do with his quest? Before he had a chance to ponder those questions, they appeared and began asking their own questions. They listened to the entire tale that Mrs. Patel heard an hour earlier. The older of the two men asked if he could see a picture of Christopher, and Oliver quickly pulled one from his wallet. After smiling at the photo, he asked if Oliver had a picture of Christopher’s V-Mark. Oliver found several on his scud. Both men studied them then the older one stepped into the hall and looked over at his host, nodding. The relatives by marriage then excused themselves and were gone before Oliver could even digest their presence. Once they left, Mrs. Patel led Oliver to the door and handed him a sealed envelope. Rajiv was nowhere in sight.
“Take this, Mr. Hitchcock, and go with God.”
It wasn’t until he climbed into the awaiting taxi that he opened the envelope and read the message.
Seek out Meta DeCarlo in Greve, Italy. Tell her the fishermen of Bombay sent you.
After he read the note and before they pulled away, he looked back at the Patel house. In the opened living room window, he saw Nagasi standing, smiling, giving him the two-finger peace gesture. He quickly opened his window, extended his arm out and returned the gesture. There was hope after all, he thought as they drove away. He would meet this Meta DeCarlo and Julian would retrieve Elana. Thank God for Julian!
Chapter Twenty-Two
Janine Rousseau stretched her calves and her spine in an attempt to relax as she stood next to General Rosewall in Rome. They waited for Minister McGivney, who would be travelling the tunnel from Ecclesia to the Cūtocratic headquarters, or so she was told by the general. Rousseau was aware of the tunnel but had never been in it or the room she was now standing in. She was nervous. McGivney’s reputation was not one of piety or good cheer. He would just as soon slit your wrist as shake your hand if he thought you showed any sign of resistance to his agenda.
The Minister was tardy but finally arrived and now stood comfortably in the quarters devoted solely to the needs of the Ecclesia. He wore a black robe trimmed in hot pink and a thick hot pink belt-scarf wrapped twice around his waist. He towered over the general, and his face seemed to exude an ogre type charm—a deadly charm, Rousseau thought. At the same time, the pockmarks under both eyes and rounding out his cheeks on opposite sides of a larger than usual puffed-up nose looked like a throwback to an earlier plague.
General Rosewall stepped forward to greet him and then introduced Rousseau.
“Ah! Ms. Rousseau. You are a beautiful woman, not the bulldog Rosewall speaks so highly of.”
Rosewall cringed slightly and Rousseau laughed. “Cannot a bulldog be beautiful also, Your Eminence,” she suggested as the Minister took her hand and kissed it.
“You are quite right, my dear, but keep in mind we need your bite to be more brutal than your bark. There is important work to do, as I informed your General earlier in the day.” With that tit for tat behind them, Minister McGivney, seemingly satisfied, turned back to General Rosewall and gave him a stern look. Without saying it, he conveyed his displeasure with Rosewall’s choice. Not that she was a woman, although there was that, thought Rousseau who seemed to read his mind, but mostly because she was sure he saw vulnerability in her eyes. It was a weakness she knew showed when nerves got the better of her, a weakness that would bubble to the surface at the most inappropriate times. Meanwhile, a figure stepped into the room quietly and stood in the shadows. Only Rousseau seemed to notice him or her enter.
“We’re doing what we can, Your Eminence,” Rosewall countered, clearly trying to ignore the Minister’s flirtatious ways with Rousseau and his stern look.
“Not enough! I tell you this Dr. Wu is a problem, more so than that pesky CIA agent or ex-agent, or whatever the hell he is.”
“We can take care of her,” Rosewall insisted, then turned to Rousseau who puffed out her chest.
“For sure. After all, she’s vacationing in one of my luxury suites.”
“And if the Supreme Minister’s not worried about the Smotecal Decretum, we should eliminate all of them, the Chink in the dungeon, Oliver Hitchcock, and this Professor Bloom. Cut the legs off the so-called Cause,” the General continued.
A burst of laughter rose from the shadows. A man stepped into the light, causing McGivney to snap at him. “You’re late.”
“Who might you be?” General Rosewall asked, clearly agitated by the intruder’s presence and the surprise.
“I’m sorry, my dear General. Let me introduce my secret weapon. Julian Iscar, please shake hands with General Rosewall, chief Mountie for the Cūtocracy. I believe you know his bulldog, Ms. Rousseau.”
Rousseau glared and Julian winked back after shaking hands with the General.
“Your Eminence, if it pleases, may I have a quick word with you in private?” Julian asked.
The Minister stepped into a far corner, waving for Julian to follow. Rousseau eyed the two whispering for several minutes before they returned to the center of the room.
“General, I’ve had second thoughts. For now, I do not want you to eliminate anyone. If there’s anything to the old black Jew, who no doubt you are aware of, and an unvaccinated village in India, we must find out exactly what it is.” The Minister gave an order, not a request. He then turned to Julian and purposely ignored Rousseau. “The General and I have other business to discuss. If you don’t mind we can carry on a bit later, possibly at dinner this evening.”
Julian nodded then took his leave prompting Rousseau to catch up. She was pissed but hid her anger well as she raced past him, then sauntered into the hall with Julian shuffling behind her.
“The Church can handle this,” Julian said.
“No! VAMA will take charge.” Rousseau turned back to Julian hoping her confidence was enough to put him down.
Instead, he snickered. “You had your chance with Hitchcock and blew it, you and that Belgian buffoon of yours.”
Rousseau marched into Julian’s face. “Don’t fuck with me, Julian, or I’ll let Hitchcock know who you really work for.”
Without looking for a reaction to her threat, she pivoted away and once again sauntered through the lobby and onto the street like the sexy siren she was. She drew second looks from the Italian men as they passed by and relished every ogling glance.
Rousseau exited Regis International Airport the following
morning just as Oedipus pulled up to the curb in their VAMA hearse. She started to get in the back but instead rode up front. After buckling in, she sighed.
Oedipus looked over. “Not happy?”
“Rome is a bitch. Let’s go.”
“Maybe dis will cheer you up,” her driver said as he handed her a satchel. “Your share of da laundry.”
She unzipped the satchel and peeked inside. Wads of paper cash. She grinned as Oedipus peeled away over the whine of his electroatomic isothermal engine and rose to a cruising level inches above the ground.
He dropped Rousseau off at her house. Once inside, she immediately proceeded to the wall safe and hid away the cash. After closing the safe, she stood there staring at the photo of her and her daughter in front of the Eiffel Tower. She kissed her fingertips then touched her daughter’s lips. At the same time, she spoke softly in French, “Pour toi mon amour. For you, my little darling.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The White House press room was nervous with noise waiting for Dillon Burber, the Press Secretary, to make his grand entrance. Reporters sat at desks in semicircular rows around a podium standing on an oval platform. All the desks were outfitted with computer shells and the names of the organizations assigned to those desks. More than a dozen cameras and their operators stood on another platform behind the reporters. Dillon was only five minutes late when Yennie, sitting to one side in the corner, began shaking his right foot in nervous anticipation. He and Dillon had gone over a number of times what they had hoped to accomplish. At the same time, he—they—didn’t want it to seem staged, nor did the president. Nevertheless, he knew how unpredictable a press conference could be and the whole world was watching. Yennie hadn’t seen that many TV cameras at any of the previous sessions.
Just when he thought he should go back and check on Dillon, the Press Secretary stepped into the room.
“Sorry I’m late, guys, and I apologize for the short notice,” Dillon Burber said as he walked up to the podium. “Before I take questions, let me address an explosion in the recent news cycle.”