"Ellie King will be with the FBI agent at the airport," Carl continued. "We'll get filled in on the way to UCLA. Then we'll grab Pavlovski, discover what sort of tactics the KGB's using to pressure the blacks and wrap it up in time for lunch."

"Miracles," Gadgets said, rolling his eyes heavenward.

Lyons got up and heaved two heavy wooden cases and one suitcase onto the table. He dumped out the contents of the suitcase.

"Special underwear from NASA to you," Lyons said, holding up what looked like long Johns with no sleeves and short legs. Heavy plates could be seen through the material.

"Just what we need in the heat of L.A.," Pol said, "long underwear. I'd rather get shot than sweat to death."

Lyons ignored the complaints. "Pay attention. I'm only going over this once. These are Kevlar on the outside. The Velcro-fastened pockets hold ceramic trauma plates. The inside is what NASA invented — it's full of micro tubing. The fluid is pumped by a miniature motor that'll keep going on three nine-volt alkaline batteries for twenty-four hours.

"This pouch is the fluid reservoir. You put the small chempacs in there and they'll supply either three hours of heating or cooling depending on which pack you use. It's sweltering in L.A. now, but we're going to be three very cool dudes."

The trio stripped down and donned their outer-space gear. Complaints were tossed about. "We look ridiculous... stupid..." But behind the complaints was the knowledge that the outfits could be lifesavers.

Lyons dipped into one of the cases and produced three breakaway shoulder rigs and three silenced Beretta93-Rs.

"These go on next," he said. "You'll find pockets on the sides of your vests with extra clips provided."

"You're using a 93-R?" Gadgets questioned. "You prefer a Python."