"Who are you to tell me what to do?" Dix asked.
"I'm temporarily in charge of Olympic security," Lyons replied.
"And as his assistant," Pol said, "I'd like to know how you found us here in the first place."
Facing the head of Olympic security and his assistant — perhaps assistants — Petra Dix was losing a little bit of her practiced cool. She was beginning to think that pedaling herself out of there might be the best idea the security head had had. She surrendered a few trade secrets.
"We intercepted police broadcasts. We were too late to see any of the shooting, but when I saw the body count, I just figured you guys were around. We drove around campus until we finally found you. I, ah, I set up a little trap to get you on tape, but she spoiled it." Dix pointed an accusing finger at Babette.
Babette laughed. "You must have forgotten that you used that same trick on me last year. Your act's wearing thin."
Having heard her story, Lyons once again excused her from further action. "You really should go now," he said. "Beat it."
Dix stole another look at the portapak hanging against her hip. Disdaining to pick up the broken camera, she climbed in beside the cameraman whom Gadgets had dumped between the two parked cars. The other cameraman was still crouched in the back of the van.
Babette walked over to the passenger side of the van and caught the door before Dix could slam it shut. She reached in and removed two objects from the side of the portapak.
"What are you doing?" Dix snarled.
"I stored these there during the fight," Babette explained. "We may need them again."
"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?"