The dune buggies stopped inside the gate. The prisoners in them were freed and motioned to stand in a cleared area. The buggies were then parked side by side in the parking area.
When Mustav was freed, he went to stand near Kelly. He nodded toward the patio tables and then leaned down and whispered. "Look at the crazy guard posts."
"Shut up," a nearby guard spat.
Kelly and Mustav turned to face the guard, puzzled looks on their faces. Mustav began to talk in his native tongue.
"Speak English," the Klansman guard replied.
Most of the captors were middle-aged and potbellied. Two or three younger, fitter men were among them. One of the lean, younger ones spoke up. His drawl was overwhelming.
"Shit, Ned. English is their national language. They're pulling your leg." Leg became a three-syllable word.
Ned, angered at being made a fool of, glared at Kelly. "Maybe you'd like a little rifle-butt massage?"
"Jerk," Kelly snarled.
The enraged Ned swung the rifle butt at her head. A huge black hand plucked the M-16 out of midair, then twisted it out of the grip of the guard. Before anyone could react, Mustav, still holding the weapon by the barrel, passed it to another guard. The stunned guard accepted it. The weapons that were pointed at Kelly and Mustav relaxed.
"Take it easy, Ned," a young, hard-looking Klansman instructed. "We want them alive and unharmed if possible. If one of them gets too lippy, use the sandbags."
Ned wasn't about to take it easy; his pride was bruised. He made a move toward the mountainous Mustav. Kelly's foot shot out. The Klansman felt his testicles being driven hard into his guts. He fell in a moaning heap.
Again the guns went up.
The young Klansman took charge. He ordered the guards to move the captives out of the baking sun and into one of the two large tents.
As the athletes were being placed in their pen, one of the hardmen took care of Ned.
"Shoot the silly shit full of morphine and put him to bed. He's no use to us like this," another of the young men said. The other guard dragged the moaning man through the sand to a tent on the far side of the parking area.
The athletes all lay flat on the sand floor of the tent. The floor was dug four feet into the ground, below the desert surface, and was much cooler than outside.
From their travels with the talkative guards they knew they were being held until the Klansman received one concession from the Olympic Committee. Then, supposedly, they would be returned. Somehow the athletes doubted this part of the plan.
"Well," Mustav mumbled, "what have you got up your sleeve, Kelly?"
"I went to the airport with an FBI man," she said, "and met three of the toughest guys I've ever seen. They were in that gunfight that caused our quick exit. They know we're gone. I'm not saying they'll find us for sure, but they're our best bet. Until they get here we obviously have to take care of ourselves."
"What were you doing with Feds?" Mustav asked.
Kelly's eyes misted over.
"I was at the gym training when these guys — these hoods — came in and tried to shoot Babette. They tried to kill Babette because she's a defector, I guess. They hit... they killed Tracy Shaw. Babette got away."
"Holy," Mustav muttered. "These guys are really playing for keeps."
"Mustav," another athlete said. "Why didn't you do something when you had that man's gun?"
"We'd have been slaughtered," Kelly answered for him. "He should have just let me pay the price for baiting that idiot."
"What happens if your men don't find us?" someone questioned.
"We take them out when they least expect it," Mustav answered. "We must prepare, plan together. No more back talk, no resistance. We have to help them relax."
"There's three of them out there that really scare me," a female athlete said.
"I know which three," Kelly said. "They're younger, harder looking. We'll have to be extra careful around them."
"The rest of them seem as nervous as we are," Mustav said.
"Let's soothe them," Kelly instructed. "Scared people are the dangerous ones."
The group agreed then lapsed into silence.
11
Sam Jackson was the last man to arrive at the school parking lot. He was swinging a small flight bag and swaggering. Lightning Sam Jackson was proud of himself; he had dramatically changed his economic standing. By selling out he had moved up in a world he believed conspired to keep him down.
"You're late," Boering snapped.
But the KGB mole did not look at Jackson. Instead, his eyes were fixed on a man who had been following the large boxer.
Jackson grinned at the mole. "I knew you wouldn't leave without me. I'm prepaid."
He slung his flight bag into the open trunk.
"Who's that behind you?" Boering asked.
"Damned if I know. Some wino who asked me for a buck."
The wino was a squat, roly-poly man whose body looked and smelled as though it had not benefited from a bar of soap or a razor in days. He was wearing an old suit that was a good tailor away from a good fit: in some places it was short, in others it was long. The wino was about to accost the boxer again. Boering stepped forward and the derelict veered toward him.
"Can you give me a buck for a bowl of soup?" the wino slurred. "I haven't had anything to eat all day."
Jackson stepped in front of Boering and gave the pudgy drunk a shove. "Beat it," he said, his voice dripping with contempt.
The wino staggered back a few steps and swayed. He looked at the boxer with loathing.
''No nigger treats me like that,'' he screamed. And then he charged. Fists flailing like windmills, the wino was inches from Jackson when the lightning-quick boxer showed off his reflexes, stepping easily to one side. The attacker went headfirst into the trunk of the car. Jackson laughed and grabbed the man's legs, stuffing the rest of his body into the trunk. He slammed the cover.
"What did you do that for?" Boering snarled.
"I couldn't hit the little shit," Jackson replied. "I'd have killed him."
Boering fished the car keys out of his pocket and unlocked the trunk. Jackson reached in, grabbed and lifted the drunk and deposited him on the ground. The wino curled up in a ball and began sobbing. Jackson gave a short snort of disgust and walked to the limousine, climbing into the front seat. Four of his teammates, three in the back and Zak Wilson in the front, were already in the car.
"Greetings, fellow traitors," he said as he hopped in.
No one answered.
Boering climbed in and started the car. The air conditioner blasted out a stream of cold air. Jackson, Wilson and another athlete looked back as the car pulled away. The lone figure still lay huddled on the parking lot.
Boering drove toward the San Diego Freeway. After covering two blocks he pulled over to the curb and stopped the car. He reached across his passengers and removed what looked like a cheap transistor radio with a short antenna from the glove compartment.
"What's that?" Jackson asked.
"A precaution," Boering replied.
Boering told the athletes to step out on the sidewalk. He approached them with the gadget and carefully scanned them, pointing the antenna at all parts of their bodies.
He came up empty. The KGB agent then turned his attention to the car. When he reached the back of the car, the instrument began to squeal. It took him only ten seconds to find the transmitter. It was fastened magnetically under the bumper. He removed it and opened the trunk. There were no squeals from the baggage or the inside walls of the trunk. However, a quick exploration under the car revealed another transmitter near the back of the vehicle.