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 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
