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 Brothers 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."

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