"You'll see when you get there. If I told you those trouble-makers will be taken care of, would you wait until after the Games?"

"Me personally, or all the athletes who are planning to desert the sinking ship?"

"Both or either."

"I doubt anyone would. I know I wouldn't. Anyone gets curious, it would be too easy to find out how many times you and I have talked. I think the others are crapping themselves even more than I am. Let's move this. I want to make a deposit into a bank here."

"You can always take it with you," Boering said. "Then you'll have the money in a place where you can get at it."

"I want the money now."

Boering steered the subject on to a new course.

"You think those Feds you're all running from will try to stop you tonight?"

"If they know what's coming down they will."

"Who would tell them?"

"Not me. Nobody. I don't think anyone has the nerve to tell those vultures anything. Whoever squeals will probably be taken into a quiet room somewhere and wrung out like an old undershirt. Mind you, I think they'll find out anyway. We're not dealing with turkeys."

"Then," Boering said, "one way or another, I'd better assure that we're not delayed."

Jackson stared at the ruddy-faced man. "You do what you have to. I still gotta get to the bank."

Boering reached behind his chair and produced a plastic shopping bag. He tossed it to Jackson. The boxer caught it and dumped the contents onto the bed. Stacks of fifty— and hundred-dollar bills littered the bed. Jackson started counting the bills in the bundles, his eyes aglow.

"You really don't have to go to all that trouble," Boering remarked, watching the boxer count the cash. "I'd be a fool to short you this late in the game."

"No trouble at all," Jackson said. "I've gone short so long, believe me, this is no trouble."

The counting was rapidly completed and the bundles tossed back into the bag.

Colonel Frank Follet crumpled the piece of paper and threw it across the room. The tightly packed paper bounced off an aerial photograph of Edwards Air Force Base and came to rest between Victory's torch and wings. Victory was a piece of plastic mounted on a cheap stand. Follet had won the trophy in 1969 at the base's annual dart tournament. Colonel Frank Follet was as competitive as they come.

"Rat shit," the acting commanding officer of Edwards snarled. He said it to himself, having carefully waited until he was alone before throwing the paper — and a slight tantrum.

Twenty-one years of career service without attaining a command. Then, when General Bogart was sent to the European theater on only twenty-four hours' notice, Follet found himself not busily sewing stars on his uniforms, but merely being appointed acting CO. That stung. He had gone to his room in the officers' quarters and taken dart target practice on a photograph of the face of General Bogart. He had emerged from the room twenty minutes later ready to take over his temporary command.

But he had also emerged a determined man. He had vowed he would show the idiots in the Pentagon that Bogart's failure to recommend Follet to replace him at Edwards was an act of spite — the act of a small mind unable to admit that his would-be replacement had a superior mind. He had vowed he would run Edwards so damn well anyone who was sent to the base as new commander would look like a jackass by comparison.

The first thing he had done as acting commander was double the fatigue duties. He wasn't out to win friends, he was out to win respect from high places. The lawns were cut twice as often, buildings that had not been painted for two or more years were given brand-new coats, inspections were doubled and the standards became more rigid. He would have the spiffiest base in the service or there would be hell to pay.

Then he had learned about the Soviet trawler. One of the lieutenants on radar duty had been glancing at a scope that was really a monitor of a scope operated by the Coast Guard. Questioned by Follet, the young lieutenant had reported that the image was that of a Soviet trawler. It was just outside the U.S. territorial limit and was being monitored from the radar on a small ship that was tagging the Russian vessel. The image was then bounced comsat to all military bases in the area.

It had not taken Colonel Follet long to realize that this was a golden opportunity to flex his muscles and impress some people. The trawler, according to all concerned, was probably a spy ship. Follet deduced that if it in fact was a spy ship, it was probably carrying a helicopter. And when that chopper went on its mission, the man who planned the interception would be lauded. Follet reasoned that if the other bases were paying as little attention to their monitors as the Edwards base had been, it would be easy for him to steal the show. He assigned a man to watch the monitor.

He was feeling quite pleased with himself, but then the memo came from Washington. It said that some Washington pimp had been put in charge of national security. It said that because of potentially explosive problems at the Olympic Games, this Washington pimp needed — and was to be given — full cooperation. It was signed by the President of the United States.

Follet had crumpled the note up and tossed it, but now he picked it back up. Again he swore.

The telephone rang. He snatched it up and growled into it.

It was the secretary to the base commander.

"The gate is on the line, sir. They have an unidentified male who claims to have presidential authority. He's got some sort of crumpled-up document that looks authentic. He's asking for you."

Follet was tempted to order the nut locked up. But he would never get near a command if he did that to political errand boys. He had played politics for twenty-one years; he knew how the system operated.

"Have him escorted to my office," Follet said finally.

A jeep loaded with MPs screeched up to escort Carl Lyons to the base commander's office.

"Go right in, sir," the secretary said after Lyons had been dropped off. "Colonel Follet's expecting you."

The royal treatment was a bit much for Lyons. Such plastic respect did not give him a good feeling. It made him gag.

He entered the colonel's office. Follet, six foot three, lean, came striding around the desk with his hand thrust forward.

"Glad to meet you, sir," the colonel said, squeezing lies between his teeth. "I'm Colonel Follet. Come to assume command?" he asked. His voice was pitched high and weighted with a tone that was too eager to please.

Lyons supplied his name, then said, "Listen, I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not interested in taking over. But I do need some close cooperation."

"Anything at all, Mr. Lyons. Name it."

Lyons sat down without being offered a chair. Follet frowned at the breach of etiquette. Lyons bit his lip.

"I need your fastest helicopter — one that can take three passengers and gear — on standby at the UCLA campus."

Follet, now sitting behind the large desk, continued to frown. "I'm afraid we can't do that," he said. "Landing inside city limits other than at specific helipads isn't done except in an emergency.''

"This is an emergency," Lyons said. "Have it ready to take off in ten minutes. I'll go back to town in it."

"Then you're taking full responsibility?"

"Yes," Lyons said, his voice tough as iron. Lyons had no trouble conjuring up a look of menace. The Able Team warrior was a menacing man.

"No trouble then," the colonel said. "Anything else?"

"I want a troop of Marines on standby at Twenty-nine Palms. I want you to phone the CO at that base and confirm my identity. That'll save me time.''

Follet's jaw clenched, yet he managed to force a small frozen smile onto his face. Lyons had to grin — the colonel's face looked like it was going to crack.