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.
Desperately, Masek fumbled with the gearshift and ignition, trying to restart his battered cab.
It was too late, Smith realized abruptly, watching the gaunt-faced man bring his Russian-made Makarov up on target in what seemed like slow motion. The second phony cop had his pistol out, too. Hell.
Jon was already diving sideways toward the right-side passenger door when the windows on the left side shattered. Cubed shards of safety glass flew inward, shattered by the impact of several shots fired rapidly at close range.
One round hit Masek just above the left ear. The big man’s head exploded, blown apart by a copper-jacketed bullet moving at more than a thousand feet per second. Blood and bone fragments sleeted across the Skoda’s front seat and dashboard.
Another round punched into the cloth-covered seat close by Smith and ripped through a tangle of coils and springs. It ricocheted off the cab’s steel frame, tumbling upward in a shower of sparks, smoldering pieces of torn fabric, and white-hot metal splinters. Christ! He grabbed the handle, shoved the rear door open, and threw himself out onto the ground.
Moving fast, he rolled to the right and came back up crouched behind the taxi’s right rear tire. He risked one quick glance over his shoulder. Not far behind him the ground fell away sharply, descending ever deeper into the surrounding woods. Most of the trees here were ancient oaks and beeches, standing tall and leafless against the gloomy, overcast sky. There was almost no undergrowth, just a few small saplings and withered weeds.
Not really enough cover, Jon thought coolly. Just the tree trunks themselves. Anyone in pursuit would not have to work too hard to get a clear shot at him. If he wanted to run, he would somehow have to buy himself a
