But his smile never wavered and he recovered instantly. He lifted a cordless microphone to his lips and began to speak. "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Cirque Fantastique." Calm, pleasant, commanding. "We have a wonderful show for you today. And to begin I'm going to ask your indulgence. I'm afraid we're going to inconvenience you a bit but I think the effort will be well worth it. We have a special performance outside the tent. I apologize. . . . We tried to get the Plaza Hotel inside here but their management wouldn't let us. Something about the guests not agreeing."
A pause for the laughter.
"So I'm going to ask you to hold on to your ticket stubs and step outside into Central Park."
The crowd began murmuring, wondering what the act might be.
He smiled. "Find space anywhere nearby. If you can see the buildings on Central Park South you'll be able to watch the act just fine."
Laughter and excitement now in the seats. What could he mean? Were daredevils doing high-wire acts on the skyscrapers?
"Now, lower rows first, in an orderly manner, if you please. Use whatever exit is near you."
The houselights went up. He saw Katherine Tunney standing at the door, smiling and motioning people to leave. Please, he thought to her, get out. Leave!
The audience was chatting loudly as they rose--he could vaguely see them through the blinding lights. They were looking at their companions, wondering who should be the first to leave. Which way to go. Then they began to gather children, collecting purses and popcorn containers, checking for their ticket stubs.
Kadesky smiled as he watched them rise and amble toward the exits to safety. But he was thinking:
Chicago, Illinois, December 1903. At a matinee performance of Eddie Foy's famous vaudeville routine at the Iroquois Theater a spotlight started a fire that quickly spread from the stage to the seats. The two thousand people inside raced to the exits, jamming them closed so completely that firemen couldn't get through the doors. More than six hundred in the audience died horrible deaths.
Hartford, Connecticut, July 1944. Another matinee. At the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey circus, just as the famous Wallenda family was starting its renowned high-wire act, a small fire started in the southeast side of the tent and soon devoured the canvas--which had been waterproofed with gasoline and paraffin. Within minutes more than one hundred fifty people had been burned, suffocated or crushed to death.
Chicago, Hartford, so many other cities too. Thousands of terrible deaths in theater and circus fires over the years. Was that going to happen here? Is that how the Cirque Fantastique, how his show would be remembered?
The tent was emptying smoothly. Yet, the price of avoiding panic was a slow exit. There were still many people inside. And some, it seemed, remained in their seats, preferring to stay inside and miss the spectacle in the park. When most people had left he'd have to tell them what was really going on.
When was the bomb set to go off? Probably not right away. Weir would give the latecomers a chance to arrive and take their seats--to cause the most injuries. It was now 2:10. Maybe he'd set it for an even time: quarter past or 2:30.
And where was it?
He had no clue where one might leave a bomb so that it would do the most damage.
Glancing across the tent to the crowd massing at the front doorway he saw Katherine's silhouette--the woman's arm beckoning to him to leave.
But he was staying. He'd do whatever was necessary to evacuate the tent, including taking people by the hand and leading them to the door, pushing them out if he needed to and returning for more--even if the tent was falling in sheets of fire around him. He was going to be the last person out.
Smiling broadly, he shook his head to her and then lifted the microphone and continued to tell the audience what a delightful act awaited them outside. Suddenly loud music interrupted him. He glanced at the bandstand. The musicians had left--as Kadesky had ordered--but the bandleader stood over the computer console that controlled the prerecorded music they sometimes used. Their eyes met and Kadesky nodded in approval. The leader, a veteran of circus life, had put on a tape and turned the volume up. The tune was "The Stars and Stripes Forever."
*
Amelia Sachs pushed through the crowds exiting the Cirque Fantastique and ran into the center of the tent, where marching music was blaring loudly and Edward Kadesky was holding a microphone and enthusiastically urging everyone outside to see a special illusion--to avoid panic, she assumed.
Brilliant idea, she thought, picturing the horrific crush if this many people raced for the exits.
Sachs was the first officer to arrive--approaching sirens told her other rescue workers would be here soon--but she didn't wait for anyone else; she began the search immediately. She looked around, trying to decide the best place to leave a fuel bomb. To cause the most fatalities, she supposed, he'd plant it under some bleachers, near an exit.
The device--or devices--would be bulky. Unlike dynamite or plastic explosives, fuel bombs must be large to do significant damage. They could be hidden in a shipping container or a large cardboard box. Maybe in an oil drum. She noticed a plastic trash container--a big one, which would hold about fifty gallons, she guessed. It was just to the side of the main exit and dozens of people were walking slowly past it on their way outside. There were twenty or twenty-five such bins inside the tent. The dark green containers would be the perfect choice to hide bombs.
She ran to the one nearest her and paused at the drum. She was unable to see inside--the lid was in an inverted V-shape with a swinging door--but Sachs knew the door wouldn't be rigged to trigger the detonator; the brass told them he was using a timer. She took a small flashlight from her back pocket and shone it into the messy, foul-smelling interior. The bin was already more than half full of paper and food wrappers and empty cups; she couldn't see the bottom. She shifted the drum slightly; it was too light to hold even a gallon of gasoline.
Another glance around the tent. Still hundreds of people inside, heading slowly for the doors.
And dozens of other trash bins to check out. She started for the next one.
Then she stopped and squinted. Under the main bleachers and right near the south exit of the tent was an object about four feet square, covered by a black tarp. She thought immediately about Weir's trick of using a cloth to hide himself. Whatever was under the cloth was virtually invisible and was big enough to hold hundreds of gallons of gas.
A large crowd was within twenty feet of it.