From the other side of the tent, security officers with suspect photos from the flash report. “I think I just saw them over there.”
“Uh-oh,” said Serge.
“What do we do?” said Felicia.
“Quick.” Serge raised a skirt of white linen. “Under the table!”
They both dove beneath.
“Serge,” said Coleman. “What are you doing down here?”
“Shhhhhhh!” Serge pointed underneath the tablecloth at shiny cop shoes.
“Excuse me?” said a police officer.
“Yes?” said Savage.
The bulletin photos again. “Have you seen these people? A witness thought they saw you talking to them.”
Ted gave the pics a closer look. “Seem familiar, but I’m not sure.”
The officer looked around. “Are they still here?”
“No.” Ted gestured out a tent flap. “Left a while ago. Said something about a flight to South America.”
“Thanks.” The officer walked away, talking in a radio mike.
The linen table skirt lifted. Ted’s face upside down: “Coast is clear.”
Felicia crawled out and dusted herself off. “We have to stop the speech.”
“We have to get him out of here,” said Serge. “I doubt they’ll use a sniper twice. The backup plan will probably be up close and personal.”
“Someone near the stage?” said Felicia.
“Or on it.”
They turned to move quickly toward the rear of the tent.
Nope. Cops gathered with printouts and arm motions.
They turned left.
Other officers huddling with pages.
To the right.
Someone else handing out more pages. In fact, in every direction, everyone seemed to be studying photos of Serge and Felicia.
Serge reached down for a hem of linen. “Everyone, back under the table!”
Coleman turned his face in the dirt. “Weren’t you just here?”
“Shhhhh!” said Serge. “I have to think.”
“So what’s the plan?” asked Ted Savage.
“Now pinch-hitting in the bottom of the ninth.” Serge placed a hand on his shoulder. “We need your help.”
“Me?”
“Bases are loaded and Casey’s at bat.”
Serge adjusted a bow tie. “How do I look?”
“Perfect,” said Ted.
Felicia balanced a silver tray. “They just gave you these uniforms?”
“Said I needed them for undercover agents.” Ted grabbed a flute of champagne off the tray. “I love my new badge!”
The pair worked the tent in a sinuous route, circulating with trays that allowed them to make abrupt detours without suspicion when officers approached… gradually working toward the back of the stage.
More agents appeared; the couple made about-faces on opposite sides of the tent, crisscrossing again in the middle.
“This is like Pac-Man,” said Serge.
“Shut up,” said Felicia.
Finally, the goal line. They stood halfway up the side steps, where it wasn’t unusual for the help to stop and listen to a few words, maybe snap a picture.
“I don’t see how anyone can get through the net,” said Felicia. “The place is crawling with security.”
“But looking for us.”
“True.”
The crowd burst into applause. The bald president of a former French colony smiled and raised his arms in appreciation. The left side of his military jacket was weighed down by countless, impressive medals representing the accomplishment of buying a lot of medals.
Felicia watched the president being spirited off to waiting blondes. “That means Guzman’s next.”
The president of Costa Gorda walked toward the podium to a stout ovation.
Serge took a heavy breath. “Why the hell does he have to give this stupid speech with all that’s happened?”
“Because he’s a real leader.” Felicia began clapping. “This is why the people love him.”
The crowd became one massive, undulating organism. Tiny flags waved. Cell phones held up to capture the moment. A giant beach ball bounced in back. After repeated acknowledgments from the president, they finally settled down.
“Look at that mob,” said Serge. “It’s like a rock concert without the mosh pit… Wait, I was wrong. Those kids flying around over there.”
“The Young Independents,” said Felicia. “They really love Guzman.”
The president addressed the microphone. “Good afternoon…”
A louder roar went up.
Serge examined faces onstage, back and forth. Relatives, traveling assistants, cops, paramedics. Felicia checked the front rows of the crowd, cheering citizens, children on parents’ shoulders, news photographers.
“Nothing out of place,” said Serge.
Felicia’s eyes swept back the other way. “We need to stay alert. Anything could happen.”
And things happened, as they are known to do, in fast order.
Clouds rolled in across what had just been a clear sky. Wind began to whip. The park dimmed.
“I think they’re wearing caterers’ uniforms. We saw them heading toward the stage.”
Felicia watched security closing in. “What do we do now?”
“Pray for pandemonium.”
“What’s that noise?” asked Felicia.
Ripples of thunder from across the bay.
The crowd held programs and anything else over their heads.
“Starting to rain,” said Felicia.
“Regular afternoon shower,” said Serge. “Never seen snow.”
Outside the perimeter on Biscayne Boulevard, drivers lost traction and slammed through police barricades, scattering screaming pedestrians.
More yelling from the street as protesters used the opportunity to break free from their cordoned-off squares, attack one another, and hurdle the smashed barriers toward the amphitheater.
The security net that had been tightening on Serge and Felicia turned and ran from the stage.
Other agents rushed back to the main entrance of the VIP tent, where Guardian Mimes clogged the checkpoint, frowning and pulling their pants pockets inside out to show no credentials.
The aggressive windshield washers arrived, squeegeeing limo glass.
“Give us money!”
Another fracas. Young women chased someone running south on the sidewalk.
“Leave me alone!” yelled the Most Laid Guy in Miami.
Johnny Vegas sat on the curb and tossed a bouquet in the gutter.
A platoon of Guardian Clowns pushed through the crowd and squirted people with plastic lapel flowers. “Out of the way! This is serious!”
The High-End Repo Man jumped in a driver’s seat, speeding off in a stretch and running over a shark. A prime minister in back held on to the door. “Hey, you’re not my driver.”
