Free Covert One 6 - The Moscow Vector by Robert Ludlum

out of the police station, he had changed into a pair of jeans and a black turtlencck sweater, but the thin gray windbreaker he wore over the sweater offered little real protection against the piercing cold. Over his cupped hands, his eyes were busy scanning the surrounding environment.
    There, he thought.
    Just across the street from the police headquarters, a big, beefy, bearded man leaned casually against the side of a parked taxi, a Czech-made Skoda sedan. Beneath the caked-on grime and mud, the cab had so many dents and scrapes from minor accidents that it was hard to tell where its original paint job left off and the primer began. The driver looked Smith up and down, hawked once, spat to the side, and then slowly straightened up to his full height. “Hey, mister!” he called out in heavily accented English. “You need a taxi?”
    “Maybe,” Smith said cautiously, crossing the street. Was this huge bear of a man his promised contact? “How much would you charge me for a ride to the airport?”
    It was a natural question. Prague’s independent cabdrivers were notorious for doubling and even tripling their regulated fares for unwary or naive tourists. Even on the short run to Ruzyne, the city’s only international airport,
    that could add up to serious money.
    The big man grinned broadly, revealing a mouthful of tobacco-stained teeth. “For a rich businessman? I would charge a thousand crowns.” He lowered his voice. “But for a scholar like you? A poor professor? Nothing. You will pay me nothing.”
    Smith allowed himself to relax slightly. Scholar was the recognition word Klein had selected for this rendezvous. Against all appearances, that meant this rough, boisterous taxi driver was the Covert-One asset activated to help him get out of the Czech Republic in one piece. He nodded quickly. “Okay.
    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