24. Bomb in London (6 pgs.) – Champions Renaissance

ACT I - CHAPTER 24

BOMB IN LONDON

Saturday April 21, 2018

Her Majesty’s Royal Mariners’ Stadium

London England

Alexandre was playing an important match in London at Her Majesty’s Royal Mariners’ Stadium. He wore a Boris T‑shirt under his team’s shirt. There were thirty minutes left. Among the audience were many guards armed with machine guns. Others worked with dogs or metal detectors. After the Manchester attack, that was the new normal. “The United Kingdom will never be intimidated by terrorism,” the prime minister had said. The attack had opened the debate about stadium security worldwide. “Protecting football fans is our priority at the World Cup,” the Russian president had stated.

Victoria, with her diamond tetrahedron hanging around her neck, watched from the VIP stands with Patrick, Alexandre’s representative. His team had to win to stay in the European Cup Championship.

With twenty‑five minutes left, Alexandre asked to be substituted. He had pain in his right calf. He had not recovered well from an injury sustained playing for France in a friendly the previous week.

He sat on the bench. The coach gave instructions at the edge of the field.

Five minutes from the end, Octavio Ramírez, one of his team’s defenders, committed a serious foul on the opposing attacker, Bernardo Zamora, a Spanish scorer who played for Los Caballeros del Rey. The foul was outside the area, but the free kick was very dangerous.

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The Spanish attacker rolled on the ground. His teammates pounced on Ramírez and one struck him in the face like a boxer. A pitched battle broke out, but the referee regained control. Zamora could not get up and was carried out on a stretcher.

The referee expelled Ramírez and the boxer. If the opposing team scored from the free kick, Alexandre’s team would have almost no chance to qualify for the final.

While this was happening, Alexandre was checking messages on his cell phone. He looked up and saw a man on the steel marquee that covered the stands on the other side of the stadium. The man seemed to have a megaphone.

“What is that man doing there?” Alexandre asked another player on the bench.

“Where?”

“There, on the marquee that covers the public.”

“I do not see it.”

“He’s standing on the marquee on the other side of the pitch.”

“Now I see it. I don’t know,” the other player said and returned to the game.

Alexandre found it out of place. He kept watching the man as the referee ordered the barrier to take the free kick. At that moment his phone vibrated. He read a text from Boris’s number: THE STADIUM WILL EXPLODE! GET OUT NOW!

“We have to get out of here now!” he told his companions, standing up, but they did not react. “This is going to explode!” he exclaimed. They looked at him without seeing him, listened without hearing. They continued watching the game. He ran up the stairs to where Victoria and Patrick sat. “Let’s get out of here!” he said when he arrived.

“What is happening?” Patrick asked.

“This is going to explode!” Alexandre said.

He took Victoria’s hand and they ran down the stairs. Just before the referee whistled the free kick, someone shouted, “Allahu Akbar,” and then an explosion. The heavy steel canopy over the stadium collapsed onto the crowd. Bombs placed at its pillars detonated, the structure fell and crushed hundreds of people.

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The referee ran, waving his arms, and suspended the match. Players fled to the dressing rooms. Spectators stampeded to escape. Guards and police urged calm over loudspeakers to avoid a crush, but it was useless. Dozens were crushed beneath the canopy and in the stampede. The toll: a hundred dead and a similar number injured.

News spread worldwide in less than a minute. Images taken on cell phones circulated on social networks, only to be deleted and reuploaded again and again.

“How did you know what would happen? You scare me!” Victoria said.

“I only saw one man on the roof of the marquee and it seemed strange,” he replied.

“But how could you be sure a bomb would explode?”

“I just wanted to get out of the stadium. I had a bad feeling.”

“Why?”

“There have been so many terrorist acts lately that when I saw the man with the megaphone, I took it for granted,” he added, completing his lie. He could not tell her that Boris had warned him. Surely his hacker friends had discovered it.

When they arrived at the hotel it was full and the atmosphere was frenetic. When they saw Francisca in the bar, she ran toward them.

“Oh! How happy it makes me to know that you are well!” she exclaimed and hugged them. Alexandre raised an eyebrow when he noticed the gold chain with a light‑green diamond tetrahedron at her throat, the same colour as Victoria’s eyes. “I couldn’t reach you by cell. There’s no signal,” she added.

“Alexandre saw the extremist and told us to get out,” Victoria said.

“How did you know he was an extremist?” Francisca asked.

“It was a hunch.”

“And that was enough to make you leave the stadium?”

“I had a bad feeling. I don’t know. Something told me to go out,” he said, looking away and thinking, I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you about Boris.

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“Maybe your guardian angel warned you,” Francisca said, looking at him tenderly and thinking, I know who he is.

“I wish we all had one,” Alexandre said and thought, Mine’s guardian angel name is Boris.

In the hotel bar they watched shocking images of the wounded and dead-on television news. Everyone was terrified. Some argued about immigration policy.

A family of Muslims emerged from the elevator. The father, a five‑year‑old daughter, and the mother wearing a hijab. They walked quickly through the lobby toward the exit to catch a taxi. A group of nationalist fans ran into the hotel. When they saw the family, they attacked. The man and woman fell and were kicked repeatedly while hotel guards and others tried to stop the attackers. It was total chaos.

“These Muslims must be killed! Let them go to the desert where they come from!” a fanatic shouted. The little girl cried as her parents were beaten. A psychopathic coward kicked the child in the back. She flew into the air. Seeing the scene, Alexandre’s anger was so great that he ran, leapt and kicked the attacker’s head as if kicking a bowling ball. The attacker collapsed instantly, unconscious. His right‑foot instep had struck the temple squarely.

The lobby was packed with people screaming and running. At that moment he pulled his hood back on. Although everything had happened very quickly, some people recognized him. Chaos continued. Without warning, machine‑gun fire sounded at the hotel entrance. The Royal Special Forces fired into the air. At least ten officers entered the lobby in combat gear. An officer saw the little girl in her father’s arms. The soldiers escorted the Muslim family to an ambulance.

When they returned to the bar, Alexandre was limping.

“Let’s go somewhere safer,” Francisca said. They left through the hotel’s side door and got into the same armoured car that had saved Alexandre in Munich.

“I hope I haven’t broken my instep,” Alexandre said, grimacing in pain.

“When we arrive, we will heal you,” Francisca replied.

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Yellow drove through London streets to Mr. Walker’s building. They took the elevator to the 15th‑floor apartment, where they had held the philosophical meeting after the bomb on Mr. Walker’s plane. Francisca remembered, with shame, how drunk she had been when she kissed Alexandre. Victoria recalled the suffering she felt seeing the photos.

Once again, the city stretched before them: Parliament House, Big Ben, and the Thames Wheel. Limping, Alexandre walked to the couch and turned on the television.

They immersed his right foot in a bucket of salt water.

“It will reduce the swelling,” Francisca said, while Victoria examined him as if she were a traumatologist.

The news played on the plasma screen. Among the images, a man in a hoodie kicked a hotel guest in the head. The camera angle hid his face.

“Some witnesses claim Alexandre Duval, famous player from Club de Los Reyes de Barcelona, caused this Traumatic Brain Injury,” a journalist said live.

“I don’t regret it, and I would do it a thousand times,” Alexandre said aloud and thought, I will not regret punishing Lenel.

The journalist did not mention the kick to the little girl. Other shocking news dominated. Gruesome images of crushed bodies appeared only once. Alexandre wondered, Brave journalists defying cowardly bosses? Perhaps humanity have a chance.

The prime minister condemned the attack briefly on TV, followed by the Russian president:

“I condemn the cowardly terrorist attack in London and affirm that all measures have been taken to make a tragedy like this impossible at the next World Cup.”

Images of other world leaders condemning the attack followed. A new terrorist group claimed responsibility, but another Muslim group said they were impostors.

“Since Muhammad died, they have never agreed on a leader,” a religious expert explained.

An independent journalist suggested the attack was a British false flag to tighten immigration laws. Distinguishing real news from fake news had become impossible.

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“The purge of terrorist immigrants is necessary to recover Europe,” declared a far‑right French leader. Days earlier, the government had crushed nationalist revolts, suppressing those burning Muslim cars and businesses.

“This reminds me of the Weimar Republic,” an elderly German interviewee said.

Across Europe, indiscriminate immigration policies allowed terrorists to infiltrate alongside honest Muslim families. Neo‑Nazi groups in Germany sought Hitler’s return and formed a political party.

Irrational groups fought, claiming to act for humanity, killing each other. Alexandre watched the circus of madness spread like fire. Can it be stopped? We have to finish the book and publish it quickly! he thought.

They moved into the master suite, watching TV in bed. Alexandre leaned over his swollen foot. Only the first and second metatarsals hurt; tarsals and phalanges were fine. He touched his pocket. Boris GPS was there.

They ordered pizzas and soft drinks.

“My wrist hurts.”

“Which one?” Francisca asked.

“The one next to you,” he said. She brought another container of salt water.

“Take off your shirt,” Francisca instructed, applying ointment to his sore left shoulder.

After the treatment, they placed him in the middle of the bed on feather pillows so he could continue watching the news.

Both goddesses returned in pyjamas, laying beside him, one on each side, as if seeking his protection. They fell asleep with their heads on his chest. He hugged them, shielding them from the world’s madness. Soon after, he turned off the television and slept.

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