Free Covert One 6 - The Moscow Vector by Robert Ludlum Page B

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