Double Fault at Roland Garros

by Jim Plautz

  Pete and Carlos dressed in separate areas of the locker room. Gregg and I sat with Pete and watched as a WTA trainer taped his ankles. There wasn’t any need for last minute strategy; we had discussed forehands and backhands last night. At this point it was mostly mental.

  I could tell that Pete was anxious and ready to get underway. Gregg gave him some last minute advice. “Once the match starts, Pete, it will be just another tennis match, just you and Carlos. Play your game and you’ll be fine.” It was a fine line between staying relaxed and being fired up for a Grand Slam Final.

  “Time,” an official announced as he peered around the lockers. “Let’s queue up by the door.”

  “It’s time,” Agbu said to Enrique and their three friends. “Any questions? Rico? Tito? Stefano, is the plane ready? Remember, everything starts after the third set is over. After you’re done, meet back here. If anything goes wrong, make your way back home any way you can. Good luck!”

  Enrique walked Agbu to the door. “Agbu, do you trust Al-Qaeda? Are they going to do their part?”

  “Don’t worry, they will do what they promised. I met with them earlier and everything is set. They are fanatics and they don’t give a damn about the Basque cause, they just see this as an opportunity to hurt the non-believers. We use each other.”

  “May God protect you, Agbu,” Enrique said softly, giving his nephew one last hug. He had a feeling that he would not see Agbu again.

  “Goodbye, Enrique. I love you.”

  Sunday morning Chris and Earl Donavon met with the French police and stadium security to coordinate their plans. The French were still staking out Agbu’s motel, but there was no sign of Agbu. “We missed him by a couple hours yesterday. I doubt if he will come back,” the Frenchman reported. “All we can do now is wait until he makes his move.”

  The French were convinced that Agbu was planning a chemical or biological attack, most likely using the Basque crop duster to disperse the deadly chemicals over the stadium. Precautions were taken. They expanded the no fly zone over the stadium to five miles and warned private airports to avoid this area, or run the risk of being shot down. In addition, the French air force would have two F-4 fighter jets and helicopters patrolling the skies. Hospitals and medical facilities were put on alert.

  Extra airport screening technology was installed at each entrance. All packages, purses and shoes would be screened. No beverages will be allowed into the stadium. Ticket holders were encouraged to arrive early and anticipate long lines.

  Chris focused on the what-if; what if the French were wrong, and the chemical threat was a diversion? Chris didn’t see how a small plane such as the Basque’ crop duster could get close enough to Roland Garros before being shot down. “He must have something else in mind,” Chris argued. “Agbu is no dummy.”

  “What about a suicide mission?” Earl asked. “Can we afford to shoot down an airplane loaded with chemicals?”

  “The Basque are crazy,” the Frenchman responded, “but they are not fanatics. This isn’t the Middle East. Catholics don’t blow themselves up, do they? However, just in case, we did consider the scenario of shooting down an airplane loaded with chemicals. I’m told there will be little remaining of the plane and any chemicals will be dispersed and blown away. The wind this afternoon should be 10-15 knots at an altitude of 200 feet. There would be little danger to the people in the stadium.”

  Chris was not convinced, but this was no time to argue. Her job was to protect the Simpsons. She was convinced that Agbu’s true motive was revenge on Jim Simpson for killing his brother, Anton. Her instincts told her that Agbu would come after them close-up and personal, but how would he do it? Earl’s question about suicide missions gave her reason to consider the possibility. Was Agbu that crazy?

  “Sorry about your sister losing yesterday, I was pulling for her. Let’s have a good match today and forget about all the bullshit,” Carlos said to Pete as they waited in the tunnel.

  Pete was surprised at Carlos’ overture. They had not spoken more than a few words to each other over the past two weeks. “You too, Carlos, good luck.” He much preferred to concentrate on tennis, rather than worry about all the gossip and side issues that swirled around the tournament.

  It was time. Pete preceded Carlos onto Stadium Court and received a warm reception from the crowd. Mary and I hugged each other as we watched our son walk onto the court. It had been a long road for us as well as Pete. I thought back to the first time he had asked me to play. Dad, I want to play like Borg.

  Carlos followed seconds later and received a mixed reaction from the French crowd. The international media had been unmerciful in their criticism of the French tennis fans that had booed Ambre in victory. Many in the crowd gave Carlos a warm welcome and there was a vocal, flag-waving contingent of vocal Spanish fans that were solidly behind Carlos.

  The match was about to start and the lines entering the stadium were long, just as they had anticipated. They hoped that security guards would be too busy to check everyone thoroughly. Enrique waited nervously as the tennis fans in front of him passed through the gate scanners and security people checked packages and purses. Many of the people were frisked. He watched with relief as Rico was searched and then allowed to pass through. The explosives they carried were undetectable to this type of sensor, just as Bruno had promised.

  What Bruno did not know was that an additional level of security had been added since he was terminated. The cameras above the security entrance were taking pictures of each man and computers immediately matched these photos against a database of known terrorists and criminals. Enrique was in that database.

  “We have a definite hit,” the technician reported. “It’s Enrique, Agbu’s uncle.”

  Enrique was unaware of this development as he passed through the scanner without setting off the alarm, and was still confident when he was asked to step to the side for a routine body search. He first suspected that something had gone wrong when his arms were seized and he felt the handcuffs on his wrists. He looked up and was glad to see Rico disappearing into the crowd. At least one of them would be successful.

  Police found the explosives hidden inside the lining of a camera case, protected by a plastic plate that made them undetectable to the scanners. It was another example of the terrorists finding a way to stay one step ahead of the latest security systems. It was an ongoing battle.

  Chris tried to figure out what Agbu had in mind and Enrique wasn’t talking. The explosives were dangerous, but not nearly enough to cause widespread damage. Chris didn’t believe the Simpsons were the target. Agbu would want to do that himself. What was he up to? She never considered that Agbu’s sole objective was to create panic and drive the crowd into the waiting grasp of Al-Qaeda, but she did consider that he might not have been acting alone.

  “Ray, get me those security tapes showing Enrique in the queue.” Twenty minutes later she had her answer. “See Enrique watching that young man in the next line going through security just ahead of him. Watch closely, that’s the same man that ducks into the crowd when Enrique is arrested. See how they make eye contact?”

  “He fit’s the description of Rico, one of the three men that disappeared with Enrique when we raided Vitoria-Gasteiz,” Pierre concluded. “Let’s get his description circulated and find him before it’s too late. He is wearing a yellow shirt and a blue cap. He shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

  Rico was accounted for. Where were the other two men? Chris wondered. What are Stefano and Tito up to?”

  Rico watched as security guards pull Enrique out of the queue, and waited, hoping that this was just a routine search. The handcuffs told him otherwise and Rico knew he must act quickly. He cast one final look back before he lost himself in the crowd. Minutes later he purchased a souvenir T-shirt and hat, discarding the yellow shirt and blue cap he had worn into the stadium. Dark sunglasses completed his impromptu disguise. It was now up to him to plant the explosives that would create panic and d
rive the crowd from the stadium. Without Enrique, there was only enough Semtex for ten charges and he would need to place them carefully to accomplish their objectives. Rico set about his job, saving two devices for the targets inside the Philippe Chatrier stadium court. The tennis match had just started and there was no need to hurry, it would be at least a couple hours before the third set was completed.

  Pete won the toss and elected to serve. I felt this was a good omen, knowing how important it was that Pete got off to a good start. His first serve was a 128 MPH ace up the middle that just clipped the service line, 15-love. I thought back to that first tennis match in New Port Richey where Pete had started the match with an ace. Gee, I couldn’t believe that was eight years ago. Someone once said that the days go slow, but the years go fast. How true when you watch your kids grow into adults.

  Pete held serve and went on to win the first set, 7-5 breaking Carlos in the 12th game with the help of two uncharacteristic errors from Carlos’ backhand that gave him two break points. He only needed one as he ripped a winner up the line after a 23-stroke rally, but who’s counting. Mary was so excited that she spilled her cola, but didn’t seem to notice.

  Our happiness was short-lived as Carlos came roaring back. He settled down and began playing the dominating brand of tennis that had earned him three clay court titles leading up to the French Open. Carlos combined artistry and power like no other clay court player with the possible exception of Roger Federer. Unlike Federer, Carlos was totally comfortable on clay and glided around the surface. His speed and agility were amazing and his groundstrokes were heavy and reliable. At net, he displayed the deftness of John McEnroe. Pete fought for every point, but Carlos was unbeatable. The set ended 6-1 and momentum was clearly on the Carlos’ side.

  “I’m not sure what Pete can do to beat him when he is playing this well,” I said to Mary as the players rested during the changeover.

  “It’s a long match, Jim. Let’s hope Carlos cools off.”

  “The third set was more of the same as Carlos jumped off to a four-love lead and won by the identical 6-1 score. There was nothing Pete could do. To his credit, he fought for every point, but Carlos was too fast and too strong.

  Pete wisely headed for the locker room after the third set ended. He needed to do something to change the momentum of the match. It was like taking a timeout in basketball, hoping to cool off the opponent. Maybe the delay would slow Carlos.

  The scuba diver dropped over the edge of the small boat into the polluted water of the Seine River. Clouds covered the evening stars and crescent moon, made it easy to swim the 200 meters undetected to his target. Forty minutes later the charges were placed. Twelve hours later Muhammad gave the signal.

  The first bomb exploded while Pete was in the locker room changing his shirt, and Paris’ oldest bridge across the Seine, often called the walking bridge, disintegrated under the force of five ounces of C-4, crumbling into the water taking 14 pedestrians to their deaths.

  The second bomb exploded moments later at the Musee d’Orsay art gallery currently featuring a heralded exhibit of French Impressionists. Priceless works from Monet, Manet, Cézanne, Degas and other French masters disappeared in smoke, lost forever to the world.

  The third bomb exploded in downtown Paris when a suicide bomber drove his explosive-laden 1994 Peugeot into French police headquarters. Nine police officers and civilians were killed and many more wounded.

  Muhammad watched from his vantage point as French Police raced towards the scenes of destruction, leaving only a skeletal crew to guard Roland Garros.

  The crowd heard none of these, but they were able to see a small, single engine plane flying slowly towards Roland Garros dragging a banner proclaiming “Basque Independence.” They watched as two, F-4 military jets swooped down on the plane and a helicopter approached from the north. Instructions to the fighter pilots were clear, “blow it up unless he turns in 10 seconds.” Stefano got the message and at the last minute slowly turned away, followed by the military escort.

  Tito was the youngest and had the easiest job. From his perch outside the stadium, he could see the huge Jumbotron in the courtyard, which allowed him to watch the tennis and listen to the noise of the crowd. He had played tennis in high school and was a huge fan of Carlos. Even after he lost the first set, Tito remained confident that Carlos would come back. Simpson was playing well, but it was obvious that he was overmatched, Carlos was too good. Tito enjoyed watching Carlos dominate the 2nd and 3rd sets, and was so excited that he almost forgot his assignment. Moments after the third set was finished, Tito ambled over to the new statute of the legendary four horsemen. His large bag of popcorn was almost finished as he placed the bag next to the feet of Rene Lacoste and slowly walked away. He didn’t look back as the four horsemen disintegrated, together with a British family with two small children that had stopped to admire the statues of the great French tennis legends.

  The huge explosion shook the stadium and stunned the crowd. They learned later that the statue of the Four Horsemen had been destroyed. A few headed for the exits as security officials tried to maintain order, but most of the fans stayed in their seats unaware of the wanton destruction throughout Paris.

  Security guards converged on the statue despite pleas from the French Police to maintain their stations. During the frenzy, security cameras were unattended when a young man with a players’ pass approached the players’ entrance moments after the explosion. Nobody took the time to check his tennis bag or wonder why a player would need his tennis racquets when the tournament was almost over. The statue of Rene Lacoste and his three friends had served its purpose. Agbu was inside the stadium.

  Chris was in the Security office high above Phillip Chartrier Court and was getting constant updates of the attacks throughout the city. She sensed that the chaos had only just begun. “This is a diversion, maintain your posts,” she yelled into her radio at the agents assigned to the Simpsons. “Keep them in their seats and be on alert.”

  “Watch for another plane,” she calmly suggested to her French counterparts. “That banner plane might have been a diversion. Get those jets back here.” The order to the F-4 pilots had just been given when a private jet appeared on the horizon heading straight at Roland Garros. It looked like the typical Boeing corporate jet and was probably just a private aircraft that was unaware they were entering restricted air space. The Roland Garros crowd was mesmerized as they saw the F-4s come over the horizon.

  “It’s not responding to our warnings,” the pilot radioed back.

  “It might be having radio problems,” a French official suggested.

  Chris looked at her French counterpart. “I don’t believe in coincidences, do you?”

  Pierre grabbed the microphone and calmly gave the order, “Shoot it down, NOW.”

  The crowd saw the missiles launched simultaneously from both F-4s. The Boeing 221 was only a half-mile from the stadium when it literally disintegrated before their eyes, looking like a huge fireworks display that lit up the sky. One moment the Boeing jet was there and the next moment it was gone. The crowd was starting to head for the exits until an announcement asked that they stay calm and remain in their seats.

  “Get a plane in there and test the air,” Chris ordered. “We need to see what we are dealing with.” Five minutes later they had their answer. Fortunately, the explosion was downwind from the stadium and presented no immediate threat to Roland Garros or the city. The decision was made not to evacuate the stadium, but the order was given to close the domed roof. It’s a little late for that, Chris thought to herself.

  “Chris, Ambre is outside and says she needs to talk with you.”

  “Not now, Ray, I’m busy.” Reports were streaming in about the bombings and Chris was trying to determine if there was a pattern. “What was the purpose of blowing up the statue?” she wondered.

  “Chris, I’m sorry to interrupt, but she says it’s important. She has information about Agbu.”

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p; It took a moment to sink in, but when it did Chris wasted no time getting to the door. “Ambre, what can you tell me?”

  “I think he is here in the stadium.”

  “Why?”

  Ambre related what happened three nights ago when she had met Agbu. “He asked a lot of questions about how players got into the stadium; which gate we use, are we searched and stuff like that.”

  “Did you give him a player’s pass?” Chris asked.

  “No, but it sounded like he already had one. There are a lot of Spanish players in this tournament,” which Chris knew was a classic understatement.

  “Ray, check the cameras to the players entrance and see if any players have been admitted in the last hour or so. We think Agbu might have tried to get in through the player’s entrance. Let me know what you find out.”

  “If he didn’t want your pass Ambre, why did he want to meet with you?” Chris asked. “It seems he was taking a big chance with so many people looking for him.”

  “Carlos was telling the truth. Agbu and I were more than friends and it was Agbu that got me into drugs. He still has a thing for me and might have been hoping that I would help him. He also wanted to talk about Pete.”

  “What about?”

  “Where Pete was staying, but I told him I didn’t know.”

  “Anything else?” Chris asked.

  “No, not really. We just talked about tennis and how it felt like to be in the finals. He wanted to know how the locker rooms were laid out, whether Lisa and I would get ready in the same part of the locker room, if we had assigned lockers, stuff like that.”

  “Did he ask about the men’s locker room?”

  “Yeah, the same kind of stuff. Where the lockers were. Did players have an assigned locker, and so on. I told him the story about the note I left in Pete’s locker room after the third set of his first round match, and the way I got past the guard at the door. Agbu got a big kick out of that.”

  “Pierre, get security down to the men’s locker room now. Agbu might be trying to get at Pete.”

  Agbu waited for the explosion and watched as security guards raced towards the cavity where the statue had been. It was a natural reaction that Agbu had counted on. Moments later he approached the player’s entrance where one security guard was left to guard the entrance. Dressed in sweats and carrying a large tennis bag with six racquets, Agbu looked like a tennis player.

  “What happened,” Agbu asked the guard as he quickly showed his player’s pass.

  “I don’t know,” he replied, still trying to see over the crowd that had gathered at the scene. “It was a big explosion. I hope no one is hurt.”

  “Me too,” the young man said as he walked into the stadium.

  It was only later that the guard realized that the young man’s face looked vaguely familiar. He should have looked more closely at the photos that security had provided.

  Agbu made his way towards the locker room when he witnessed the F-4s intercept the Boeing jet and blow it out of the sky. So that’s what Al-Qaeda had in mind, he thought. That is why they wanted Stefano to fly his prop-plane towards the stadium, as a diversion. Well, it didn’t work, but the chaos accomplished something more important. Agbu was smiling as he watched the domed roof slowly begin to close. He was still smiling as he approached the men’s locker room where Pete was changing clothes. He had 18-20 minutes to plant his devices and find Jim Simpson.

  The uniformed guard stationed outside the door to the men’s locker caused Agbu to turn down the other corridor and enter the unguarded door to the ladies’ locker room. The ladies championship had been decided yesterday, and the room was empty. The door to the unisex player’s lounge opened easily from the inside revealing a plush haven for players to relax before their matches or during rain delays. The latest video games were available to players and coaches, but today the room was vacant. Agbu neared the opposite door leading to the men’s lockers and saw the coded, digital lock. He depressed the six-digit code he had been given, *2007*, and turned the latch gently to the left. Nothing, the door remained locked. Agbu thought a moment and entered the code again, *2007*, and turned the latch to the right, and felt the click. He gently pushed the door opened and stepped into the men’s locker room, just as his friend had promised. Still dressed in his red Nike sweatsuit, Agbu walked around the corner and came face to face with Pete Simpson.

  “Hey, you scared me,” Pete said in surprise. “I didn’t know anyone else was in here.”

  He doesn’t recognize me, Agbu thought. He must think I’m a player. “Sorry, I must have fallen asleep in the lounge. Let me change and get out of here. I’ll get out of your way.”

  “No problem. I was just told something is going on out there and the match has been delayed. Carlos should be coming back here any minute.”

  Agbu knew he had to hurry, and quickly went around the corner to change into his street clothes, correctly guessing that security cameras had picked up his entry into the stadium. They would be looking for a man wearing a red sweatsuit and tennis cap, which were now hanging neatly in the closed locker, together with the bomb that was set to detonate in 15 minutes. It was ironic. Agbu had the weapons to kill thousands, but he lacked a knife or gun to kill the son of his mortal enemy.

  Tennis pros went often through three or four racquets a match, especially on clay courts where the heavy topspin chafed the strings causing the racquets to lose tension. New balls are provided every nine games in pro tournaments, and it was Ivan Lendl that began changing to a new racquet with each change of balls. It made perfect sense. Why take the chance of breaking a string during a crucial point? Lendl went a step further. All pros string their racquets to a preferred tension measured in pounds of pressure. Lendl’s racquets were strung at 72 pounds. John McEnroe strung his racquets loose, at 56 pounds to get the additional feel. The average pressure was probably 60-62 pounds on clay courts. The string hanging from the racquet stringer caught Agbu’s eye. It wasn’t the perfect weapon, but it would do. Simpson’s back was turned when Agbu slipped the noose around Pete’s neck.

  “Whaaa,” Pete tried to scream as he felt the string tighten around his throat, choking the air from his windpipe and preventing the noise from surfacing. It was only the quick reactions of a young athlete that allowed him to get his fingers inside the ever-tightening grip of the catgut that prevented him from breathing. Pete fought back, trying to reach back and grab his attacker with his free hand. He kicked with his stocking feet, wishing he had not taken off his shoes that were discolored from the red clay. The struggle went on for what seemed to Pete like several minutes, before he felt himself losing consciousness. His last thoughts were that he would never accomplish his dream of winning the French Open.

  Carlos entered the locker room and saw immediately what was happening. “Agbu, what are you doing,” Carlos screamed as he entered the locker room and raced to break Agbu’s stranglehold on Simpson. Carlos threw his boyhood friend against the lockers, “Are you crazy?”

  Security guards appeared at the door and Agbu ran for his life. Didn’t Carlos understand? he wondered. It didn’t make sense, Carlos should have understood. Agbu raced through the player’s lounge and escaped through the women’s locker room with a single thought in his demented mind, he had to find Jim Simpson.

  Carlos turned Pete on his back and administered mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, fighting to breath air into Pete’s lungs until the trainers arrived and took over. Chris raced into the locker room moments later and Carlos told her of Agbu’s escape, and provided a description of what Agbu was now wearing. He had ditched the red sweat suit and was now clad in a black t-shirt. Chris broadcast the description and then alerted the security team watching the Simpson family. “Bring Jim and Mary to the locker room, Pete’s seriously hurt. But be careful, Agbu is out there and might be looking for Jim.”

  Chris glumly watched as the emergency medics arrived and tried to pump life into Pete’s limp body. There was no sign of life. Chris felt
a terrible sense of failure and sat down, trying to hold back the tears. It had been her responsibility to protect the Simpsons. Part of her wanted to give up as she watched Pete’s face turning blue from lack of oxygen, but something was eating at the back of her mind, not allowing her to wallow in self-pity. Her professionalism took over. What was bothering her? There was something she was missing, but what was it?

  It hit her like a ton of bricks, Agbu’s tennis bag. “Ray, what happened to the tennis bag Agbu was carrying?”

  “I don’t know. We checked the cameras in the player’s lounge and he still had it when he entered. It’s here.”

  Chris discovered the bag in the next aisle lying in front of several locked, lockers. “It’s empty,” she thought. “Where is his red sweatsuit?”

  “Get these lockers open,” she screamed. Chris had a premonition they were searching for more than the sweat clothes, and she knew they didn’t have much time.

  “I’ll get a master key from maintenance,” someone yelled.

  There was no time. Chris pulled her 38-caliber pistol and told everyone to stand back, as she blew off the lock in front of her. The door popped open, revealing an empty locker.

  “Stand back,” she shouted as she blew off the lock to the left. Nothing!

  “Stand back,” she repeated as she blew open the locker to the right, revealing the red sweat suit and a crude, but deadly bomb on the floor of the locker.

  Chris didn’t hesitate, grabbing the bomb and racing to the shower room where she dumped the explosives into the three-foot deep sauna. She fled the small room slamming the door behind her. Seconds later the bomb exploded, knocking everyone in the locker room to the floor. The water and heavy door did their job, minimizing the impact of the explosives and saving many lives, including mine.

  Mary and I arrived in the locker room just as the bomb detonated, throwing us back against the door. Mary was hurt, but nothing could stop her from getting to Pete who was lying on the floor gasping for breath.

  Agbu raced out through the still-unguarded ladies’ locker room and into the corridor before anyone could react, and exited Court Chartrier through an emergency exit leading into the pedestrian mall. Glancing skyward, he saw the dome was now almost completely closed. In a few moments the massive, steel arches would slide together, closing the electrical circuit and igniting the explosives that would collapse the dome. Agbu stopped and watched, anticipating the satisfaction he would have when the dome that Simpson built was in ruins. He regretted that he wouldn’t see the look on Jim Simpson’s face when the stadium collapsed in front of him. Agbu closed his eyes and thought of Anton. This is for you, my brother.

  Agbu waited for the explosion and the resultant turmoil, but nothing happened. There was no explosion. Something was wrong! Agbu opened his eyes and saw that the dome was closed, but nothing had happened. Bruno had promised it would work. He contemplated his next move when he spotted his friend Rico walking towards him across the mall. Agbu motioned to his friend to join him at the nearby brasseire where they could order a sandwich and be less conspicuous. Rico told him about Enrique being detained by security guards at the gate and was surprised that Agbu didn’t seem to care. He was preoccupied.

  “Have you placed the charges?”

  “Eight of them, I’m saving the last two for the closing ceremony like we discussed.”

  “Give them to me, and give me your cell phone. I’ll handle it from here.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Get out of here. Find Tito and try to get home.”

  “Should we wait for you?”

  “Don’t bother, my friend. I don’t think I’m going to make it.”

  “Good luck Agbu,” Rico whispered, kissing his friend on either cheek, before heading out of the stadium.

  “That’s him,” one of the security officials told his partner, holding up a picture that French officials had developed from the security cameras. “Stop right there, and raise your arms above your head,” the guard commanded.

  Rico had been walking in a daze thinking about his conversation with Agbu. He looked up and saw two guns pointed at his chest and made the right decision, he surrendered.

  Miraculously, Pete recovered quickly from his near-death experience and was sitting up and talking, albeit softly. “I want to play,” he whispered in a raspy voice.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Mary and I said in one voice. “Tennis isn’t that important.”

  “Yes it is, this is what I have been dreaming about since I was twelve, and who knows if I will ever get another chance. Besides, I feel fine,” he said, standing up to emphasize his point.

  “Doctor, tell him he can’t play,” I said.

  “Well, Mr. Simpson, there is really no medical reason stopping him. His larynx was severely bruised, but he’ll have a sore throat for a couple weeks whether he plays or not. Playing tennis won’t cause any further damage.”

  “Chris,” Agbu’s still out there. Do you think he will try again?”

  “He might, but I think he’ll come after you, not Pete. I’ll be with you the entire time. Besides, I just heard from the French that Roland Garros is no longer in any danger from the chemicals, so it’s up to tournament officials if they want to continue.”

  George Hawes had made his way to the locker room. “It’s up to the players. Carlos?”

  “Let’s do it. I agree with Pete, who knows when we will get to play in the finals of the French Open again?”

  “Okay, I’ll make the announcement to the crowd. We’ll start in 30 minutes, and allow a ten minute warm-up.”

  “Pete, there is somebody outside waiting to see you. Should I let her in?” I said for Lisa’s benefit.

  Lisa smiled and Pete nodded his head.

  It was obvious that Ambre had been crying, but the tears erupted unabated as she saw that Pete was all right. Chris posted guards outside both doors, and we went into the players’ lounge to give the kids some privacy.

  Susan Peterson spent the long intermission in the offices of stadium security officials, courtesy of an invitation from her French police friend, Georges Caron. He had sat with Susan during the match and suggested she would be more comfortable getting out of the sun while they waited to see if the match would resume. Georges had been a great friend during the trip. She was not aware that George’s friendship was partially due to a call he had received from the doctor explaining her fragile mental condition. “She hasn’t been well since her husband was killed and I’m afraid that this trip might push her over the edge. Watch out for her if you can.”

  Georges needed no further prodding. Susan’s phone call announcing her trip had awakened unpleasant memories and feelings of guilt. There must have been something more he could have done to prevent Bill Peterson’s senseless killing. “This is something I need to do,” he explained to his boss.

  Mrs. Peterson was fascinated with the weapons spread out on the table; knives, screwdrivers, box cutters, spray canisters of mace and even a small 22-caliber handgun. “Where did these come from?”

  “They were all confiscated today,” the security official explained. “Most people say they had forgotten to take them out of their purse or handbag. The woman had a permit for the gun, but didn’t understand that it was no good in here. She can pick it up tomorrow.”

  They listened, as the announcement came over the intercom that the match would be resumed in 30 minutes. It was not unexpected, as few people knew about the attack made on Simpson in the locker room. Susan had mixed emotions. The television picture of Agbu and Carlos kept flashing through her mind. She wanted so much for Pete Simpson to win but knew enough about tennis to see that Carlos was too good. The gun was not on the table when Georges and Susan returned to their seats.

  Agbu didn’t see Rico get arrested. He had already broke into the maintenance room found the equipment he needed. The uniform was a size too large, but it would do. The yellow hardhat and utility belt completed his disguise. Fiv
e minutes later he was climbing the inside of the dome in plain view of television cameras and fifteen thousand tennis fans and security guards. The pain in his leg was almost unbearable, but he continued upward. He was hiding in plain sight.

  It took ten minutes to scale the steel girders leading to the top of the dome and another five minutes to find the problem. The wire sending the ignition spark to the Semtex had been severed when the steel slabs came together. What are the odds of that happening, he thought, one in ten? No matter, five minutes later he had placed the detonation fuse next to the Semtex and began his descent, receiving light applause from many of the tennis fans watching his progress. Agbu waved acknowledgement to the crowd, being careful to keep his face hidden from the television cameras. Rico’s cell phone, which he would use to detonate the explosives, was securely fastened to his belt.

  Agbu reached the bottom just as Carlos and Pete Simpson were leaving the locker room and heading toward the entrance, followed by security guards. Mary and I walked with Chris, and brought up the rear of the entourage. They passed within ten feet of Agbu, but nobody recognized him in his disguise. The players walked side-by-side like old friends with Carlos’ arm on Pete’s shoulder, a fact not unnoticed by the television cameras and commentators. “Something’s happened during the 90 minute break,” John McEnroe said. “They weren’t even talking the first three sets.”

  “Maybe it has something to do with that plaid scarf Simpson is wearing around his neck?” Bud Collins added. “It looks like something from one of my outfits.” In fact, it was a scarf that Ambre had given Pete for luck, and an attempt to camouflage his neck injury. It didn’t work.

  The cameras zoomed in for a close-up. “Look at his neck,” Mary Carillo exclaimed excitedly. “That’s either the biggest hickey I’ve seen or someone has been choking him,” not realizing how close her second guess was to the truth.

  Carlos and Pete emerged from the tunnel and the crowd rose as one to give them a standing ovation. Both players hesitated and waved to the crowd. The live images on the scoreboard clearly showed Pete’s injury and the applause increased. 90% of the crowd had stayed and the noise was deafening. Mary and I watched from the tunnel behind the players, holding hands and enjoying the moment. Pete was finally getting his due after living in Lisa’s shadow for the last two weeks. He earned it.

  Susan Peterson watched from the first row of her box seat, only twenty feet away from the players. She had calmed down since she had left the security office and was resigned to the likelihood that Carlos would eventually beat Simpson for the title. Maybe it was the horrible bruise on Simpson’s neck, or maybe it was the crowd screaming, but something inside of her snapped. Susan would say later that she didn’t remember pulling the gun out of her purse, taking off the safety and firing until Georges knocked the gun from her hand. She remembered none of this.

  Georges would blame himself for getting caught up watching the players and not reacting in time to stop her. He knew there was something he should have done although he didn’t know what. The gun landed next to Carlos who slowly fell to the red clay clutching his white tennis shirt that was slowly turning blood red.

  Mary and I heard the shots and feared the worst. We raced out of the runway and saw Pete on the ground, holding Carlos in his arms. There was so much blood on both players that I wasn’t sure if Pete had been hit. “Are you hurt?” I yelled as I reached Pete.

  “I’m okay, but Carlos is hit bad. Some lady up there shot at us,” he said nodding his head towards the box where police were holding a sobbing woman.

  “Come on Pete, let the doctor work on Carlos,” I said pulling him to his feet. I looked down at Carlos and thought he was breathing, but couldn’t be sure. Paramedics already had him hooked up to a breathing machine and were attempting to stop the flow of blood. I noticed the small handgun still lying next to Carlos and absent-mindedly picked it up.

  I was still holding the gun when a small explosive device landed at my feet and Agbu appeared at the tunnel entrance holding his cell phone above his head. “Simpson, this is for my brother, Anton.”

  Chris later told me Agbu had already entered all nine digits to the phone number that would have detonated the explosives at my feet and the explosives wired into the roof, killing my entire family instantly and bringing the dome down on the 16,000 tennis fans packed into Philip-Chartrier stadium. I shot him three times in the chest before he could depress the green, send button.

  Epilogue