"What are they?"

"Limpet mines. But it turns out we won't have to blow you up after all." Babette giggled at her own joke.

"Get me out of here," Dix demanded. "They're all crazy."

The driver needed no further encouragement. The cameraman in the back was warning Dix. "Jesus, Petra, you're going to get us killed one of these days."

"Shut up, wimp," Dix snarled. The door closed. They left rubber on the parking strip.

Lyons raised an eyebrow as Pavlovski returned, juggling two squealers.

"Those two transmitters are designed to be attached magnetically to a car," Gadgets explained. "Babette put the two strong magnets right by the tape storage on the recorder. I'm afraid the tape Petra Dix was so anxious to get out of here won't have a thing on it."

"Too damn bad," Blancanales said, unable to keep a straight face. "That's a heartbreaker."

When the laughter had subsided, Lyons told his partners that he was going to go to Edwards Base to arrange transportation and backup. "We've got to move on our plan," he said.

Lyons handed his rifle to Politician and headed for the car the FBI had left for him.

"I must get back to my team," Babette said.

Schwarz volunteered to go with her. He jogged over to the trailer to rid himself of excess weapons and to pick up a radio. He found the borrowed gym bag and loaded it before he set off.

Pol was left to guard the fort.

9

Klaus Boering knew he had the upper hand, but he was not enjoying it. The man in front of him was bumbling, verbally stumbling. He'd break any moment now. All of Boering's carefully laid groundwork was beginning to bear fruit. But something was making him feel uneasy. Very uneasy.

"You are finished in America," Boering told Zak Wilson, a lanky black eight-hundred-meter man. "When your stupid amateur committee finds what you've done with the money, you'll be banished from competition. Your name will be shit. You can take money, Zak, for wearing a particular running shoe — giving it your endorsement — but you have to put that money into a fund, put it away until your amateur days are over. You've spent it. And they're going to find out. That nosy reporter will find out, I know it."

Zak Wilson looked at Boering with contempt. Sure, he had accepted some cash. Most athletes do. Most put it in some hokey trust fund — a little cash pool that they can dive into when their athletic days have ended. But Zak had spent loads of his bread. He had wined, dined, bought antique cars, and spent and spent. Now this blackmailing bastard was threatening him, saying he'd take away Wilson's amateur status. If he lost that, he'd have nothing. He needed his amateur status to compete in the Olympics, which he planned to use as an international forum for his talent. Once his talent was exposed, he could cash in on it and retire.

Boering continued. "So why suffer? You'll be welcome in Russia or any Warsaw Pact nation you choose. We're not so silly there. We don't worry so much about amateur status. A little spending. We hide such petty crimes. In Russia you'll be treated with respect. With respect comes reward. Money."

Wilson shifted uneasily in his chair. He was thinking, churning the situation over and over in his head. Boering hadn't been a coach for twenty years without learning how to manipulate, push people.

When Boering had been activated for this project, he had thought it was a waste of a mole, a mole buried thirty years deep. He had made his mark on the West German swim team. Then, with the aid of the KGB, he had quickly moved into coaching. Using his pipeline with the Soviet Union, he had kept up to date on the Soviet's expertise in swimming and had become one of the most respected coaches in the NATO block. That was all the KGB controllers had ever asked of him — until now. Now he was to round up a group of black Americans and convince them to leave their country.

Once involved, it had taken Boering little time to understand the importance of the task he had been assigned. It was indeed worthy of a thirty-year mole. Couple his project with project "Klandestine" and all of Africa would fall in line with the Communist ideology.

Zak Wilson broke the silence.

"What do you want? What do you want from me?"

"I just want to help you, Zak. After the Games, why don't you join the other black athletes who are escaping the pettiness of this country. Why don't you come to where you are appreciated?"

"What other black athletes?" Wilson asked.

"You wouldn't want me slipping your name into conversations. Why would I mention other names?"

"There aren't any others."

"There are, but you'll have to take my word for it. I refuse to compromise anyone."

"Shit. Lay off that 'compromise anyone' crap. You don't think I know who tipped off that nosy reporter?"

"Really, Zak..."

"Save your bullshit and your 'reallys' for the suckers. How soon?"

"Immediately after the Games I'll arrange a scholarship for you. Then you can go to your new country, decide to stay — officially — and you'll have no trouble here before you leave."

"No trouble. What do you think I've got now? I've got damn Feds crawling all over me. I've got a reporter crawling all over me. After the Games is too damn late. Man, you're no use to me."

Zak Wilson, caught between a rock and a hard place, headed for the door. Boering waited until the angry runner was almost out before he spoke.

"I do have a couple of athletes leaving tonight. Can you be ready on time?"

"Tonight. Yeah. I can be ready."

"The University Elementary School at UCLA campus. North section where Sunset turns south. I'll be in the school parking lot at 7:30. I'll be in a large limo. Clear?"

"Clear. Anything else?"

"Bring only one small bag. Don't worry about what you leave behind. Everything you need will be provided."

"I'll be there."

"See you in two hours."

Zak slammed the door behind him.

Boering leaned back in the chair and stared at the door. No sense getting up to lock it, he thought. More sheep on the way. Boering, sitting in the lap of luxury in a hotel suite, could not shake that feeling that success, something that usually came with long, hard work, was coming a bit too quickly. Too easily.

A knock sounded on the door.

"Come in," Boering called. "It's not locked."

In walked Lighting Sam Jackson.

"Man," he gasped, a little out of breath. "I damn near bumped into Zak Wilson out there. I saw him getting into the elevator. I made it to the stairs before he saw me, but just barely."

"Zak was coming from here," Boering said with a smile.

Jackson relaxed visibly. "Zak Wilson. Zak Wilson is coming with us. What was his price?"

"Not everyone is as greedy as you are, Sam. Some people are moving to a socialist state strictly on principle."

"Yeah, right," he replied sarcastically as he rejected the offer of a chair, choosing the bed instead.

Jackson sat silent for a second, then asked: "You got it?"

"Of course, but I have a few questions."

"No questions this late in the game."

"Why now, Sam? Why leave now instead of after the Games? Why the others?"

"I've already told you."

"Tell me again."

Jackson sighed; "It's those Feds who came in after that gymnast was killed. They know the score and they know someone's been after the brothers to leave the country. They're dangerous dudes. I told you when I saw you earlier that anyone who was still going to go would want to go now before those guys get any closer to the truth."

"It seems you were correct. There will be a carload leaving this evening. It's too bad. After the Games would have made a lot greater impact, more of a show."

"Who's going tonight?" Jackson asked.