He made the call Lyons had requested.

"I trust that takes care of things."

"The helicopter," Lyons impatiently reminded him.

"Oh, yes. Of course." Follet put through the orders.

By the time he had hung up the telephone, Lyons was on his feet. "The car I drove here," he instructed. "Have it returned to the small parking strip near the women's gym at UCLA."

He was out the door. When the door slammed shut, Follet let the smile drop from his face. He reached into his desk and pulled out a fistful of darts. Slowly, with all the power his arm could produce, he drove each dart into the door.

Ellie Kay King had no trouble finding her friend, Mustav Zubimi. He was occupying a double seat on the school bus. When he saw Ellie he smiled. It had been a long time apart for two close friends.

"Kelly," he exclaimed, "so good to see you." His English was textbook perfect.

Kelly looked around, hoping none of the "guides" had heard the 290-pound weight lifter's warm welcome. With all the commotion outside the vehicle, none had noticed.

"Shhh. Move over," she whispered.

The iron pumper moved his large frame as close to the window as he could squeeze.

"Barely have room for you," he said. "And you're so skinny."

Kelly wedged herself onto the small space Zubimi had left her.

"What are you doing here?" he asked her.

Before Kelly could reply, gunfire sounded outside the bus. The last Zambian athlete was literally thrown on the bus. The bus was already in reverse when the last two "guides" clambered on board. The vehicle lurched forward and the whites distributed themselves up and down the aisle, guns in their hands.

Kelly wrapped her arms around Mustav and pulled herself up to his ear. She whispered. "Tell your teammates not to speak English. Tell them to pretend they know no English. We're being kidnapped. No time to explain."

Mustav, keeping his features calm, smiled and asked no questions. He leaned forward and whispered in one of his teammate's ears. Then he turned and whispered to a teammate sitting behind him. The word spread, Zambian athletes whispering instructions.

As the bus roared away from the parking lot, one of the guards spoke to an athlete. "What the hell are you doing? What's with this whispering?"

The athlete started talking a blue streak — in his native tongue.

"Sweet shit," the white muttered to himself. He pushed between two whispering athletes, hoping that he could communicate his wishes through violence.

As the bus ride continued, the guards began to relax and talk more freely. They openly insulted the athletes, believing the blacks could not understand a word they were saying. And they talked of their plans. In little time the Zambians knew they had been kidnapped by the Ku Klux Klan. Though fear gripped their well-tuned bodies, they kept a calm mask covering their features.

The kidnappers drove their catch through Lancaster, along Highway 14, until it ran into Highway 395. At one point, the vehicle's CB radio crackled on and the bus turned on to back roads for about twenty miles. Eventually it went back to 395 and continued on its course.

"We seem to be heading for Death Valley," Kelly quietly said to Mustav.

"I won't tell the others," he replied. "They may take offense at the name."

An hour later, they went through Townes Pass and began the steep descent into the desert. The brakes on the ancient school bus caused almost as much fear as the kidnapping itself.

Finally the bus came to a creaking halt in the desert, and the guides forced the athletes off. The blacks were handcuffed into the passenger seats of dune buggies. Soon the bus was on its way again, empty save for the driver.

The fleet of brightly painted dune buggies took off north across the rolling, windblown sand. The group looked like one of the area's many buggy clubs having an outing. But one thing set the convoy apart from normal club outings: trailing the group were three vehicles carrying large propellers. The whirling props obliterated all tracks.

Kelly tried to keep some kind of idea of the distance of their journey, but the changes in speed and the rolling sand made it impossible. In less than half an hour the cavalcade of dune buggies had made the trip and had arrived at a camp.

The young gymnast could hardly believe what she saw. Between two dunes was stretched a large piece of netting, supported by pipe that had been driven into the sand at a sixty-degree angle away from the netting. Ropes and stakes kept each piece of pipe from shifting forward. Accordions of barbed wire stretched around the pipe supports. The netting had bits of sand-colored material attached at irregular intervals. It yielded quite a bit of shade to the encampment beneath.

Someone from inside had already swung open a cattle gate that was also festooned with the dangerous, flesh-shredding wire. The dune buggies entered in single file, passing two alert guards holding submachine guns.

The inside of the compound had a large parking area. There were several tents. But what really caught the eyes of the athletes were the patio tables with brown umbrellas and sandbags for chairs, which were placed regularly around the perimeter.

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.