As nobody lost in nowhere in no time, three hours passed like minutes for Pablo Cruz. His watch beeped at 8:00 a.m.
He woke feeling deeply rested and ready for the task at hand.
Cruz got up, dusted off his pants, put the cleric’s collar on, and then put on the excellent toupee. Then he exited the darkened storage facility into the basement hallway.
He put on a pair of conservative black-framed glasses fitted with photochromic lenses that adapted to changes in light, darker in sunlight, almost clear inside. Walking quicker now, Cruz left the subbasement and climbed the staircase. Beyond the door, he heard the din of a gathering crowd.
Cruz crisply opened the door and eased out into a stream of earnest youth from all over the world and their adult leaders and chaperones. He smiled at a young woman guiding a group of Asian teens, and she grinned back.
He got nods and smiles for the next five minutes as he circled the arena, taking note of all law enforcement before heading inside. Cruz entered from the rear, farthest from a stage set in a rainbow of bunting.
Many of the seats off the floor were already taken. To get on the floor, Cruz showed badges identifying him as the Reverend Nicholas Flint of the First Baptist Church of Nebraska, part of a church group that included a choir from Omaha that was set to sing as part of the congress’s opening ceremony.
He showed his badges three more times, moving past television cameras, and soon found himself at the back of a throng of people, young and old, who were pressed up against barriers set well back from the stage. His glasses kept lightening in tint until they showed just a hint of gray.
Cruz reached up to adjust his collar and withdrew a sliver of translucent graphite as sharp as a sewing needle.
The assassin fitted it between his right index and middle finger, waited until more people filled in tightly behind him, then used it to prick the rear end of a young woman in front of him. She yelped, grabbed her butt, and spun around. Cruz looked at her through the glasses.
“I just got bit too,” he said. “Someone told me the place is infested.”
That made her frown. “Really?”
“Just heard it,” he said. “Can I get by? I’m supposed to get pictures of the choir. They’re in my group.”
She brightened. “Sure, Reverend.”
“Bless you, child,” he said, and he slipped past her.
Forty minutes later, the arena was packed, and Cruz was where he needed to be, one row of bodies off the front and to the far right of the stage behind a contingent of teenagers rallying around a sign that said FLORIDA. There were signs from fifty states and one hundred countries all over the arena.
Cruz kept looking around in wonder and awe, as if he couldn’t believe how lucky he was to be there. The stage began to crowd with dignitaries. The small church choir from Kansas filled the risers to stage left, almost directly in front of the assassin.
At 9:57 a.m., a silver-haired woman with a big smile on her face walked to the dais and tapped the microphone.
“Welcome to this year’s meeting of the World Youth Congress!” she cried, and the arena erupted in applause.
Cruz clapped his approval, keeping his eyes fixed on her, not glancing at any of the eight burly men wearing suits and earbuds with their backs to the stage who were scanning the audience.
When the clapping died down, the woman said, “My good young friends, I am Nancy Farrell, chairman of this year’s congress. Today, I have the distinct honor of introducing a new friend who will open your congress with an exciting announcement. Young ladies and gentlemen of the world and of the future, it is with great pleasure that I introduce the president of the United States, James B. Hobbs.”