Passport to Danger (2 page)

A low voice boomed a sentence in French through the stadium speaker system. That was followed by the same sentence in Spanish, then in English: “Volunteers, please report to your captains for afternoon orientation.”

“Cover for me?” Jacques asked. “If anyone asks,
tell them I'll be right back.” Frank and Joe deposited their lunch trays and dishes on the mess counter and left the tent. The music revved up, filling the air with high-pitched guitar whines and pounding bass thumps. Frank could feel the vibrations in his stomach and instinctively nodded his head to the beat. Then another noise pierced through the music. It was a higher pitch than the lead guitar, more of a tight squeal. And it seemed to be coming from near the locker room.

Shielding his eyes from the sun, Frank looked up toward the band, but the sound wasn't coming from there. It was behind him, and it was getting louder. The sound began to chase all the other noises out of the stadium; it filled his ears. Frank wheeled around. Streaming down from the sky with a whistling whine was a large metal canister about the size of a bucket—and it was coming right at him.

“Hey, Joe! Everyone! Get off the field.” Frank quickly pulled a few people out of the way and pushed them toward an exit. As the whining canister neared them, more people noticed it. Joe joined Frank in herding people to safety. Finally they headed for the exit themselves.

“Hit the deck!” Joe yelled as he looked back one last time. The metal missile was about to crash into the ground. “Now!” Once inside the large exit ramp, Frank and Joe dove for the floor.

With a deafening thud, the canister hit the ground and shattered. Pieces of metal shrapnel flew around the field. A couple of shouts from the vicinity of the band told Frank that some lethal pieces might have hit that area.

“Are you okay?” Joe asked, scrambling to his feet.

“Yeah,” Frank said. “Anybody hurt out there?” he called out.

There were a few grumbles from around the stadium, but no screams of pain.

The Hardys walked back onto the field and checked out what was left of the strange missile. Joe touched a piece of it with the toe of his shoe. “What do you think—”

“Fireworks,” Frank interrupted. He looked down toward the opposite goalpost. Two members of the fireworks crew were running across the field toward them. “Look,” he said, pointing to them. “I'll bet it was an unexploded firework.”

“I'll go check out the band,” Joe said. “I think I heard some yells when the thing exploded.” He streaked up the aisle steps to where the band had been rehearsing.

When the two men from the fireworks crew reached Frank, they were frantic and chattered nonstop to each other and to him—at first in quick Italian. “English?” Frank asked. “Do either of you speak English?”

“I,” one of the men said. “I speak English.” He wore faded blue coveralls with a patch on the front pocket that read
MACRI MAGNIFICO
on the first line and
SYLVIO
on the second.

“Your name is Sylvio?” Frank asked. When the man nodded, Frank continued his questions. “What
happened? Was this part of a firework?” He pointed to the small hole in the ground and the pieces of twisted metal.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Sylvio said. “An accident, a terrible accident. We don't know how it happened. We have called the medics. They will be here soon.”

“I'll take it from here,” another man said, coming up behind Frank. He spoke English, but with a heavy French accent. “I am Officer Binet.” Frank saw the stadium security badge on the man's jacket. “Are you hurt?” he asked Frank. “Is anyone hurt?”

“Joe?” Frank called out to his brother. “How's it look up there?”

“We've got some injured here,” Joe said. Frank watched as his brother helped some of the players lie down, took pulses, and covered the bass player with a jacket.

Frank listened as Officer Binet interviewed the fireworks crew members, but they didn't offer any more than he'd already heard. Then he and the officer joined Joe in the stands. A few of the players had minor shrapnel wounds from the metal that had exploded. When the EMTs arrived, they patched up the wounded before taking them to the hospital. Frank and Joe finished giving their statements to Officer Binet, and then he left.

“Looks like they're getting back to work,” Joe noted as they walked across the field. The volunteer squad was slowly gathering under the goalposts.

“Come on,” Frank said. “I want to check the fireworks setup first.”

“What are you thinking?” Joe asked.

“I don't know,” Frank said. “We've got demonstrators outside threatening to mess up the tournament and saying they're going to tear down the stadium. Then suddenly there's this so-called accident. I just want to check it out.”

The Hardys walked around the edge of the field to the opposite end where the fireworks crew had set up. A large trailer stood about forty yards from the field and anchored the small compound. On the side of the trailer were pictures of exploding fireworks and the words
MACRI MAGNIFICO.
Nearby was a small tent full of electronic equipment.

“Hi, Sylvio,” Frank said, spotting the man he'd talked to earlier. “Did you figure out what happened?”

“No, no, no,” the man said. He was sitting at a small console with a computer and an electronic display monitor. “We don't know,” Sylvio added. “We're trying to find out.”

Joe walked over to the console. It looked like the kind of sound equipment he'd seen at concerts. Frank wandered over to join him.

“So you run this whole show with computers?” Joe said, surveying the setup. “Is that how you coordinate the launches?”

“
Si.
Yes,” Sylvio answered, nodding. He seemed
very nervous. “It's all computers now. They say which fireworks we fire, when we fire them, how high they go, when they explode—everything. It's all very… very… it's precision, you know? So no accidents, no mistakes.”

“Unless someone messes with the computer,” Joe said under his breath.

“You better go,” Sylvio said. “Mr. Macri told us that no one should talk about this. I don't want to be fired. I need my job.”

“No problem,” Frank said. “It's okay. We won't tell anyone you talked to us.” He couldn't shake the notion that Sylvio knew more than he was saying. Frank scribbled the phone number of the apartment where the Hardys were staying on a corner of paper he tore from his volunteer notebook. “If you get in trouble, just let us know. We'll stand up for you. And feel free to call us if you find out anything more. We'll never tell who told us.”

Sylvio shook his head, but he pocketed the scrap of paper.

As the Hardys left the Macri fireworks compound, Joe saw something in a short hedge, glinting in the sun. He reached under the green leaves and pulled out what looked like a small gold soccer ball. It was bigger than a charm—more like something hanging off a key chain. “Anybody drop this?” he called back to the crew, holding it up. No one stepped forward, so Joe dropped it in his pocket.

The Hardys rejoined the volunteer squads and went back to work. “Okay, so we had a minor accident this morning with the unexploded firework canister,” the volunteer coordinator was saying as they walked up. “We're lucky there wasn't a big crowd here. But even if there had been, this stadium has a lot of features that can handle security problems.”

He told them to open their security and evacuation guides. “Remember what you learned this morning. Although Le Stade can hold up to a hundred thousand spectators, they can all be evacuated in fifteen minutes because of the unique layout of the exits. If this incident had occurred when we had a full house, we would be counting on you to help with the safe and orderly removal of specatators. Okay, everybody, break into your individual teams and familiarize yourselves with your jobs.”

Joe and Frank followed their team captain to the sidelines. When the captain called for someone to go to one of the locker rooms to gather more towels, Frank eagerly volunteered. “I'm going to take a detour through the fireworks setup,” he told Joe in a low voice. “Cover for me if the captain starts to wonder where I am.”

When Frank reached the area that Macri Magnifico had staked out for their operations, most of the crew was gone. Frank was relieved to see that only Sylvio was still hanging around.

“Oh no, oh no,” Sylvio said when he saw Frank
walking toward him. “We're not supposed to talk to anyone. Strict orders from Mr. Macri. No talking.”

“Just tell me if they've found anything suspicious,” Frank said. “I won't let anyone know how I found out.”

“Ah, what difference does it make anyway?” Sylvio cried, throwing his hands up. “I'm probably going to be fired. It's my program, so it's my fault.”

“Program?” Frank said, his attention focused. “Do you mean the computer program?”

“
Si,
” Sylvio said. “
Si,
the program. They think it was my mistake, but it wasn't. The program is different from what I created. It's been changed. Someone has written in new trajectories—new flight plans for the effects.”

“That throws off your whole plan, right?” Frank asked.

“
Si.
That's what happened on the field. The canister didn't go high enough. It came down too soon, before it exploded in the air. It was like a bomb when it landed—like a grenade.” Sylvio closed his eyes and then looked back at Frank. “We don't know how much damage is done to my program. We may have to cancel everything for tomorrow night. It's terrible. Terrible!”

“Who could have access to your program?” Frank asked.

“No one!” Sylvio said. “It's secure!” He was getting more agitated. “Go now,” he told Frank. “I am
already in trouble. I will be in more trouble if they see me talking to you.”

Frank backed out of the tent. “No problem,” he said. “Remember, I'm on your side. You have my number. Call me if you find out anything.” He couldn't tell whether Sylvio trusted him enough to call or not. But he knew it was worth a try to encourage him to call.

Frank hurried to the locker room to get the towels, which were kept in a corner linen closet. The room was quiet when Frank opened the door. Dim and shadowy, it was lit by only one small overhead security light that indicated the location of the exit.

As Frank reached for the light switch, he noticed a bulky silhouette ahead. It looked like a figure kneeling near one of the benches in front of a bank of lockers. Without taking his eyes off the figure, Frank quietly closed the door behind him, but the click of the latch startled the kneeling figure. The person jumped up, and Frank slammed his hand into the light switch.

As light bathed the room, a figure in bright red disappeared around the lockers toward another exit. Frank hurried to the bench where the person had been kneeling. His heart was pounding; he was sure he wasn't going to like what he saw.

He was right. There, sprawled on the floor next to the bench, was the Brazilian amateur soccer coach, Gabriel Sant'Anna.

“Coach! Can you hear me?” Frank called to the still body on the floor. He checked the man's pulse. “Whew.” Frank let out a breath of relief. “His pulse isn't very strong,” he said to himself, “but at least he's got one.”

As Frank was checking the coach, the door behind him opened. “Hey,” Frank said, getting to his feet. “I need some help. Coach Sant—”

The slamming door interrupted Frank's words. He rushed to see who'd been there, but the hall outside was empty. Whoever had rushed out the door was gone.

Frank ran to the security phone on the wall and called for help. Then he went back to the unconscious coach. He knew better than to move the
man or try to revive him with water. But he also knew that sometimes even unconscious people can hear. So he continued to talk to Coach Sant'Anna and assure him that help was on the way.

As Frank talked, he looked around. The coach's left hand was twisted awkwardly under his leg. Lying under a nearby bench was a blue pen.

The paramedics and a stadium security officer arrived quickly. Frank told the security officer what had happened and about the figure he'd seen running out of the locker room. The officer called the Paris police, then took off along the the path the mysterious person had taken.

The paramedics administered an IV of fluids and medicines to Coach Sant'Anna and loaded him onto a gurney. When they lifted the coach's body, Frank spotted a faint blue line on the floor. As the medics wheeled the gurney to the ambulance waiting outside, Frank knelt back down next to the bench.

Three more blue lines were scratched on the floor under where the coach's hand had been twisted. Together the lines formed a capital
M.

“Frank!” Joe's voice echoed around the banks of lockers. “Frank! You in here?”

“Over here,” Frank called out. He stood to greet his brother, Jacques, and a few other volunteers.

“Are you all right?” Jacques asked. “We saw the medics come in, then roll someone out.”

“It was Coach Sant'Anna,” Frank said. He decided to keep all the details to himself for the moment. “I found him unconscious,” he said. “I don't know what happened.”

“This day has been one of calamity,” Jacques observed, running his hand through his hair. “You Americans say it well: It has been
unreal
. Come on. We have to tell the rest of the crew what happened.”

“You all go ahead,” Joe said. “I'll help Frank get the towels.”

Jacques and the others returned to the field. Frank gathered the towels he'd come to get and filled in Joe on the details of what had happened.

“Do you think this means anything?” Joe asked, looking at the faint blue
M
on the floor.