Covert One 6 - The Moscow Vector (8 page)

You’ve got yourself a deal. Let’s go.”

With one final look around, he slid into the back seat and waited while the driver squeezed himself in behind the wheel. The Skoda rocked under the big man’s weight.

Before putting the taxi in gear, the driver swung round to look the American in the eye. “I have been told that you wish to arrive at the airport safely and discreetly,” he rumbled.

“That’s right.”

“And that there may be others who do not wish to see this occur. Correct?”

Again, Smith nodded, tight-lipped this time.

The big man smiled widely again. “Do not worry, Scholar. All will be well.

You can rely on Vaclav Masek.” He unzipped his bright red ski parka just far enough for Jon to see the butt of a pistol in a shoulder holster, and winked theatrically. “And on my little friend here if there is any trouble.”

Smith tamped down a worried frown. The head of Covert-One had warned him not to expect too much. “I can only get one man to you in time, Jon,” Klein had said. “He’s a contract courier, not a field operative, but he is mostly reliable.”

Smith made a mental note to have Klein update his file on Masek. The bearded giant seemed too boastful and far too eager to flourish his concealed weapon. That was potential trouble. It meant that the Czech cabdriver was either badly frightened and talking big to hide his case of nerves—or that he was too aggressive, spoiling for a chance to prove himself ready for more exacting and rewarding assignments.

He staved quiet while the taxi driver took them through the labyrinthine streets of the Old Town, across the Vltava, and up the winding road east of the Castle, a massive complex of churches, convents, towers, and government buildings dating back centuries. Through it all, the other man kept up a running commentary, pointing out tourist sights, swearing profanely at other drivers, and offering repeated assurances that they were making good time.

Definitely nerves, Smith decided. For all his bulk and bravado, Masek was a small, scared man on the inside. The Czech driver might be a competent clandestine courier, but Klein should never have asked him to step so far out of the safety of the shadows. Be fair, Jon, his mind coldly reminded him. This guv probably knows that a hit team has already tried to kill you once and that it may try again.

He sighed. Hell, he was feeling pretty tw itchy himself. He stared out the window, seeking calm in the neatly manicured gardens visible on either side.

The roof of the Belvedere, a lovely royal summerhouse built during the Renaissance, rose above the surrounding trees, sheathed in blue-green copper.

Minutes after heading downhill again just north of the Castle, the Skoda Curved three-quarters of the way around a busy traffic circle and came out heading west on a wide boulevard. Smith sat up straighter. They were on Evropska, a modern thoroughfare that ran straight to the airport. Off to their left, he could make out a sprawling patchwork of suburban houses, schools, and small industrial parks. On the right, a chain of three hills crowned with evergreens, oaks, and beeches climbed steeply above more rows of detached houses and shops. These forested heights stretched away to the north and east, reaching toward the river behind them.

Masek accelerated, pushing the taxi up to and then beyond the posted speed limit. Signs sliding past overhead indicated that the airport was only a few kilometers away.

Soon Jon caught fleeting glimpses of a narrow artificial lake through the bare branches of the trees lining the north side of the boulevard. Beyond the lake, the ground fell away into a rugged, broken landscape of dark woods and gray limestone cliffs.

“That is the Divoka a Ticha Sarka, the valley of the Wild and Still Sarka, a place of legend and violence,” the taxi driver explained grandly, nodding his massive head toward the shadowed gorge visible on the other side of the stretch of gray-green water. “Some say men and women fought a cruel and blood)’ war there long ago, before the dawn of history. It was a war waged for absolute power and dominion. According to the stories, a beautiful young maiden named Sarka lured the chief warrior of the men into that forest.

There, she made love to him, plied him with strong drink, and then murdered him in his sleep.”

Smith grinned. “Not exactly a cheerful place, I guess.”

Masek shrugged his broad shoulders. “Well, actually, it is a nature preserve now. Many people from Prague swim and camp there in the summer, when it is hot. We Czechs may be romantic, but we are also very practical.”

Suddenly, brake lights glowed red as the cars in front of them began slowing down. A line of orange cones angled across the boulevard, closing off the fast lanes heading west. By the side of the road, a portable electronic sign blinked on and off, repeatedly flashing a warning message in Czech.

“Shit,” Masek muttered. He took his foot off the accelerator and stomped down hard on the Skoda’s brakes. The taxi decelerated sharplv. Frowning and grumbling under his breath, he swung into the suddenly crowded right lane, forcing his way into the narrowing gap between an old Volvo and a brand-new Audi. Horns blared behind them in protest.

Smith leaned forward. “Road construction?” he asked quietly. “Or an accident?”

“Neither,” the big man replied, nervously chewing at his lower lip. “That sign says the police have set up a special traffic checkpoint and that we must be prepared to stop.”

“What are they looking for?” Jon heard himself ask.

Masek shook his head irritably. “I do not know. Drunk drivers? Drugs?

Stolen goods? Or maybe only bald tires and broken taillights.” His knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “It could be any of those things. The authorities greatly enjoy handing out tickets and collecting special fees.”

Smith peered through the windshield as the taxi inched slowly ahead.

They were roughly one hundred meters from the exit marked Divoka Sarka. It fed onto a much narrower side road that veered off into the woods. A lone patrolman wearing the peaked cap, black winter jacket, and blue snow pants of the Czech national police stood there, rhythmically waving a bright orange baton to keep the traffic moving. Even’ so often, he would step out with an up-raised hand and signal one or more of the oncoming cars or trucks off onto the exit beside him, emphasizing his orders with short, sharp jabs of the baton.

The American watched closely, looking for a pattern in the way vehicles were selected. He frowned, unable to detect one. The bored-looking patrolman seemed to be allowing most cars and trucks to roll right on past him, only occasionally pulling others off the boulevard in ones or twos. That meant this was probably just a random spot check.

Probably.

“Shit,” Masek muttered again as the policeman jabbed his baton at them.

Thev had been plucked out of the passing parade. Glumly, the cabdriver spun the steering wheel sharply to the right. They turned onto the exit, trailing the short line of other cars and trucks already diverted off Evropska.

Smith glanced back through the Skoda’s rear window. A late-model black Mercedes with tinted windows swung onto the park access road close behind them. Frowning now, he turned around.

They were in among the trees now. Light filtered down through a maze of bare branches overhead. The police checkpoint was just ahead. He could see a pair of unmarked cars, also Czech-manufactured Skodas, parked on the shoulder, near another row of orange traffic cones. Two more uniformed patrolmen were posted there, apparently asking the drivers of each vehicle a few quick questions before waving them on.

One of them approached the taxi. He looked old for his rank, with a gaunt, sallow face. Under his peaked cap, his eyes were expressionless. He bent down and rapped sharply on the driver’s side window.

Masek quickly rolled it down.

The policeman held out his hand. “Show me your driver’s license. And your taxi permit,” he snapped in rapid-fire Czech.

Hurriedly, the big man obeyed, handing over the required papers. Visibly fretting, he waited uneasily while the patrolman skimmed through them. Apparently satisfied, the sallow-faced officer contemptuously tossed both the license and the permit back into Masek’s lap. Next, he peered into the backseat.

One dark eyebrow went up. “Who is this fellow? A foreigner?”

Smith kept his own mouth shut.

“Nobody important. An American businessman, I think. He’s just a fare I’m taking to the airport,” Masck mumbled in answer. The big man was openly perspiring now. Tiny droplets of sweat slid down his forehead. Smith could sense the fear growing inside the cabdriver, gnawing away at his confidence and self-control. “He says he has a flight out this morning.”

“Don’t panic,” the patrolman said with a disinterested shrug. “The American should still make his trip on time.”

“Then we can go now?” the cabdriver asked hopefully.

The policeman shook his head. “Not quite yet, friend. I’m afraid this is not your lucky day. The government has another flap on about vehicle safety, especially for taxis. That means a complete inspection.” He turned away, calling toward his colleague. “Hey, Edvard! We’ll take this one.”

Smith’s eyes narrowed. Something about this man’s profile tugged at his subconscious, sounding a faint but insistent alarm. Looking more closely, he noticed a tiny perforation, some kind of piercing, in the man’s earlobe. That was odd, he thought. How many middle-aged Czech cops wore jewelry off-duty?

The policeman looked back at Masek. “Park over there,” he said, pointing toward the side of the road, indicating a space between the two unmarked cars. “Then just sit tight. We’ll have you out of here as soon as possible.”

“Yes. Yes. Of course.” With a shaky smile, the taxi driver nodded obse-quiously, bobbing his massive head up and down. He steered the Skoda over onto the grassy shoulder, backed in carefully between the parked cars, and then slowly reached down to switch off the ignition. His hands were trembling.

“No, don’t,” Smith said abruptly, still looking out the window. “Leave the engine running for now.” Both of the Czech policemen were bending down to talk to the driver of the black Mercedes. There were no other cars waiting to go through the checkpoint. The tree-lined access road behind them was completely empty.

He shook his head, irritated at himself. What was lie missing? Those little alarm bells inside his head were growing louder. It was time to play it sate, lie

decided. “Give me your pistol, Vaclav,” he said quietly. “Now.”

“My pistol?” The big man’s eyes widened in surprise. Warily, he glanced over his shoulder. “Why?”

“Let’s just say that I’d like to avoid any unfortunate accidents,” Jon told him, careful to speak calmly. There was no point in spooking the other man —

not yet, anyway. Not until he could figure out why his fight-or-flee instincts were hammering so hard on the gates of his conscious mind. He thought fast.

“Do you have a permit for that weapon?”

Reluctantly, Masek shook his head.

“Swell. Just swell.” Smith frowned. “Look, these cops are already looking for trouble. Getting a ticket for something like a burned-out brake light is bad enough, a real pain in the ass. But do you really want to get nailed for carrying

an illegal firearm?”

The cabdriver turned even paler beneath his full, tangled beard. He swallowed hard. “No, I do not,” he admitted. “The penalties for such offenses are very … severe.”

“Then give it to me,” Smith said forcefully again. “Let me handle this.”

Eagerly, Masek unzipped his parka and tugged the pistol out of his shoulder holster. His big hands were shaking even harder now.

Jon reached across the seat and took the weapon away before the other man could drop it. The pistol was a CZ-52, a Czech-manufactured au-toloader using the same 7.62mm round as the Second World War-era Soviet Tokarev. Once a standard Warsaw Pact military sidearm, thousands had been sold as “surplus” to private citizens—both legally and illegally. He made sure the manual safety was still set in the middle “safe” position and then hit the magazine release. There were eight rounds inside the small clip, the standard load for a pistol of this make. He slid the magazine back in and again glanced out the window.

Outside, the two Czech policemen slowly straightened up from the black Mercedes. After exchanging a few muttered words, they turned in unison and stalked back toward the parked taxi.

Smith stiffened.

Each man’s face had become a rigid, unreadable mask, utterly without any discernible emotion. It was as though some terrible force had erased all traces of humanity from them, leaving the surface features, but wiping away any real Slgn of life and personality. One of them, the older patrolman who had checked Masek’s papers reached down almost casually and drew the sidearm holstered at his side.

And suddenly Jon knew where he had seen this man before.

On the Charles Bridge, he realized grimly. Fading back before Valentin Petrenko’s wild, desperate swings right after burying a knife deep in the Russian scientist’s stomach. Like his two comrades, the gaunt-faced man had been wearing a small silver skull, a death’s head, in that tiny piercing in his right ear.

This “police checkpoint” was a trap, a carefully arranged killing ground.

For one long, terrible moment, time itself seemed to stop, but then Smith’s trained reflexes kicked in. A sense of movement and the ability to act came flooding back into the once-frozen world around him. “Get us out of here!”

he shouted to Masek. “It’s a setup! Go! Go!”

Horrified, the big man slammed the Skoda into gear, stamped down on the accelerator, and reversed, frantically trying to get enough maneuvering room to pull forward out onto the narrow road. Smith thumbed off the safety on the pistol he had taken from Masek, pulled back on the slide and let it go, moving a 7.62mm round from the magazine into the firing chamber.

And then he was thrown forward as the taxi crashed into the empty car parked close behind and rocked to a stop. Glass and torn metal crunched.

Jarred by the collision, the Skoda’s engine stalled out and died.