The Music Trilogy (47 page)

At that moment, Davina was singing one of Alejandro's favorite songs. "
Eres el hombre de mi vida. You are the man of my life...
"

As she sang the next song, she walked toward the audience, descending the steps toward the first row of seats. Still singing, she approached some of Florida's most famous residents. The dozens of lights with their kaleidoscope gels narrowed to her face. She moved closer to the audience and shook hands with a few of the ladies and lightly kissed some of the gentlemen on the cheek.

Ernesto Martinez didn't like it. Davina was off the stage, too far from him. He followed her every movement.

Davina was singing a slightly faster melody now but she continued to greet the delegates in the front seats. She stopped in front of Zeferino da Cunha, her friend from Brazil and embraced him. Still singing, she looked inquiringly at the young woman in the beautiful silk dress sitting next to him. Yes, Zeferino nodded, this was she. “My fiancée,” he whispered. Davina squeezed her hand and, still singing, started back up onto the stage.

Alejandro was briefed as soon as the plane was at cruising altitude. Apparently there had been an infiltration at the Spanish Embassy in Havana. There was a collaborator among the staff and Alejandro had been chosen to find this person. His thoughts about who this might be were abruptly interrupted as the plane suddenly lurched forward and pitched down sharply.

“What’s going on?” he shouted into the cockpit over the noise of the engines.

“We’ve lost our hydraulics,” the pilot said.

“Is there anything I can do?” Alejandro said.

“No. Assume crash position in one of the back seats. And put a life vest on.”

Alejandro did as he was told, frustrated that he could not help the situation. How he hated to idly wait, especially when he was forced to wait for something that he knew would come to no good. He tried to push away the memories of crash landing in Egypt, Davina at his side.

“Davina,
amor
, I love you,” he whispered, as the small jet screamed toward the black water below.

Davina was finishing a song on the stage when suddenly her throat froze and a flash of heat rushed through her body. She felt as if she were having a heart attack but that was ridiculous. She was too young for that, too healthy. But what was this feeling, this rock forming in her chest? She breathed deeply, trying to take in more air. She couldn’t get enough air. She stepped toward the backdrop, trying desperately to conceal the burning in her eyes and the invisible fingers tightening her lungs. She thought she would never reach the curtain, such a short distance that now seemed like miles. California was closer. She pushed herself, worried that her legs would give out. Come on, come on, just a few more steps. She could see Alejandro’s hand reaching out to her, but when finally she reached the backdrop, Alejandro was gone. She turned back to her audience.

The maestro and the musicians knew something was amiss and continued playing. Davina finally reached behind the curtain. B.A. caught her as she fainted. He slapped her lightly on the cheek.

“Davina, what’s wrong? Davina?”

Martinez brought over a glass of water. She took a sip and a deep breath, and she closed her eyes. Again Alejandro flashed in front of her.

“Davina, talk to me,” B.A. said.

“I’m sorry. I’m not sure what happened. My voice froze for a second and I felt hot all over.” She didn’t mention that she had seen Alejandro. “Anyway, I’m fine now. The audience is waiting.” She stood to go.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” B.A. asked.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.”

Davina returned to center stage, nodding to her maestro. She began to sing again. The audience had not suspected anything amiss.

The lights, including the four five-hundred-watt quartz lamps at each corner of the stage, flooded the platform. It was momentarily blinding. For Martinez and B.A., it was enlightening. Now they knew. The explosives Grady bought were triggered by heat.

Martinez spoke into his two-way radio. “Light engineer, cut the lights! Cut the lights, all of them!
Now!
”

The engineer did as he was ordered and the entire stadium blackened, leaving only the security people roaming the crowds with their flashlights. A few shrill screams could be heard from the bleachers but there was no panic. On the contrary, the crowd thought it was part of the show and began flicking their lighters, giving the sensation of hundreds of fireflies invading the stadium.

But a blackened stadium was not in Simon Grady’s plans. He moved quickly from where he had positioned himself in the crowd on the field and crept up to the sound and light console. Johnny Thornton was behind it. Grady grabbed a light reflector and hit Johnny over the head with it, knocking him to the ground. Grady turned on the main switch. The entire stadium was instantly bathed in light except for the four quartz lights at the corners of the stage; these took a full minute to come back on. The audience now saw a very different show on stage.

B.A. was screaming. “Martinez, that’s it! I can see the det cord.
Pull it out!
” B.A. grabbed Davina and literally threw her toward the back of the stage, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he hoped she was still as agile and athletic as she was as a kid. He rushed at one of the four quartz lamps and yanked at the det cord that connected the small pack of explosives to the light fixture. Martinez did the same at another lamp.

Peterson and Rodrigo, who understood from watching the other two men what needed to be done, went for the remaining two lamps. They both reached for the det cords just as the lights came back on. They were a split second too late. The heat generated by the lamps triggered both detonators.

The left side of the platform exploded, hurling Petersen and Rodrigo through the air like broken dummies onto the middle of the stage. The klieg lights above came crashing down. Davina saw the heavy steel coming right at her and ran, but as quick as her reaction was, it was no match for gravity. A strobe landed on her head.

The audience was now out of control. People were screaming and trying to run in every direction. The stadium was in complete chaos. People were crushed underfoot by others trying to escape. Chilling screams of pain continuously pierced the smoke filled sky above the Orange Bowl and, as the crowds fought for the exits, the spot lights went into a wild frenzy and created their own feverish show forming circles of light in erratic designs that landed crazily on the faces in the crowd.

The stage was on fire, almost fully engulfed with flames.

B.A. had been struck by a beam from above. He slowly opened his eyes as the smoke filled his nostrils and made him cough. Davina lay face down. He tried to get up to reach her but the pain tore through him and he collapsed. He tried once more and, to his amazement, his muscles responded, although slowly. Jean stood on the side of the platform, apparently unhurt, but in obvious shock. Her eyes were glassy, focused on something, and when B.A. followed her line of sight, he saw a body. Rodrigo had taken the full impact of the explosion and most of his torso had been blown away, leaving a river of blood.

“Jean!” he shouted. “Move! Help me with Davina.” But Jean did not move. The heat of the flames and the boards of the stage were getting hot. The fire had already destroyed most of the platform and was heading for their corner. B.A. used all the strength he had to reach Davina. Then he picked her up and got to Jean. “Come
on
!” he screamed. “Jean!” Finally her eyes moved and she looked straight at B.A., then at Davina. Jean started screaming hysterically, thrashing clenched fists. B.A. punched her and let her fall on his other arm. He carried the women, one on each of his shoulders, down past the backdrop and behind the stage. Fortunately the crowds had not stormed that part of the stadium; there was no exit there. B.A. thought they would be more or less safe, at least for a while. He had to leave them. He had to contact emergency medical staff. Davina needed help and fast.

B.A. went back onto the stage, what was left of it. He saw Peterson, dead. Martinez jumped off the stage just before a flaming beam came crashing down in exactly the same place he had been standing.

“Martinez! Are you alright?”

“Yes,” the sergeant answered. “You?”

“Fine. What about the microphones, can they be used?”

“The ones at the console are probably still intact,” Martinez said. “Jesus Christ, you’re bleeding like a stuck pig. I’ve called emergency help.”

“I’m okay. I’m going to the light booth to see what I can do. Davina and Jean are behind the stage. See if you can get a chopper to lift them out of here.”

“Right, I’ll see what I can do but I don’t think a pilot will land in this chaos.”

B.A. made his way to the booth where Johnny was passed out on the floor. He sat him up and shook him. “Hey! You okay?”

Johnny mumbled. His head was pounding.

“I’m FBI. We’ve got a panic on our hands and I need your help. You with me?” B.A. shook his shoulder again.

“Yeah, yeah...”

“I need a working microphone connected to all the speakers in the stadium and I need it now.”

“Okay, okay.” Johnny arranged the wires and cables to their connections. He could feel his heart pounding in his throat. “Is Davina Walters okay?”

“She’s hurt. Come on, let’s go!”

“My sister and her fiancé were in the first row.”

“I don’t know about them. Listen, if we don’t stop this panic now, thousands of people will be killed.”

“Okay, we’re on,” Johnny said, handing him a microphone.

“Please remain calm!” B.A. said into the mic, as calmly as he dared. His deep voice boomed over the loudspeakers. “Do not panic. There is no danger. Walk,
walk
toward the exits. There is no danger. The fire is contained to the stage. Do not panic.”

Ambulances, police cruisers and fire trucks arrived en masse. Hospitals and trauma centers were on alert. Helicopters hovered over the Orange Bowl. The stadium was bathed in light. The choppers took turns, like giant flying insects of all colors, some with red crosses, some green or brown and khaki, and others still had television channel logos and numbers. They were suspended in the depressing sky of smoke and bright raw light, waiting in a formation coordinated by the police from their own perch in the sky. B.A.’s announcement helped, but there were still casualties. Now the medical teams were finally getting to the wounded. The stage was charred rubble and the VIP section, the front rows and the chairs in front of the stage on the field had all been kicked and turned over. Bodies lay on top of several of them.

Martinez thought about his pregnant wife. He had lost sight of her and couldn’t find her. His mind was in a million different places. Petersen, his lieutenant, was dead. Martinez could hardly breath. He did not know if it was because of the fumes and the smoke or his anger at himself for not having prevented this disaster. He should have done something when they had Grady in custody, even if they couldn’t pin anything on him. He watched as the firemen extinguished the flames on the stage. Suddenly he was overcome with the smoke and fell to the ground. Firefighters rushed to him and put an oxygen mask over his face. Martinez inhaled deeply. It helped. He could breathe now. He had to find Isabel. His heart tightened at the thought of anything happening to her. She was the most important thing in his life. She had brought happiness and joy to him and now she was carrying a part of them both.

For the next twenty-four hours, the press was very busy. It was the hottest news in the world.
BOMBS EXPLODE IN MIAMI’S ORANGE BOWL STADIUM… HUNDREDS INJURED, SEVEN KILLED… SINGER DAVINA WALTERS IN CRITICAL CONDITION… POLICE SUSPECT SERIAL KILLER…

Jacques and Monique were sipping champagne in bed at their home on the Avenue Foche in Paris when the call came.

“Jacques?” the voice barely whispered.

“
Oui
? Who’s calling?” he asked, immediately alert. The voice sounded familiar.

“This is Melina,” Davina’s mother said.

“Melina! How nice to hear from you.”

“How is Monique? Is she alright?”

“Yes, she’s wonderful.”

“I wanted to speak with her but I’m afraid I’m not in the right frame of mind, please apologize to her.”

“Melina, is something wrong?”

“You haven’t heard the news?”

“No, I haven’t. What?”

Melina started to sob.

“Melina,
please
, tell me what is wrong!”

Monique watched the horror in Jacques’ eyes as he listened.

“
Oh, mon Dieu…
no, oh no!” he said. “I’ll make some calls and get right back to you.” Jacques put the receiver down. He covered his face with his hands. He turned on the television, switching the channels until he found what he was looking for. He and Monique sat in silence, both stunned beyond belief. They watched the reportage of the explosion and the reporters interviewing the families of the deceased and the injured. They saw the stage go up in flames. The concert had been taped to be run as a special on American television, so there was plenty of footage. The television also showed pictures of the former Miss Florida, Jean Conrad, and Simon Grady, her ex-husband.