Covert One 6 - The Moscow Vector by Robert Ludlum

Author:Robert Ludlum [Ludlum, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2011-05-22T11:07:32+00:00

Chapter

Twenty-Six

Moscow

It was the evening rush hour and hundreds of Muscovites worn out after a long day’s work packed the steep escalators serving the Smolenskaya Metro Station. Among them were three people, one of them a tall, strong-looking man in his mid-fifties. He carried a heavy canvas duffel bag slung over one shoulder and wore a martyred expression as he patiently shepherded his dod-dering, elderly mother and his equally ancient father off the escalator.

“We’re almost outside, little mother,” he said gently. “Just a little farther now.” He looked back over his shoulder at the older man. “Come now, Papa.

You must do your best to keep up.”

Up at the top, a growing crowd of increasingly unhappy Metro riders were pressing up against the barriers leading to the street, restlessly waiting for a chance to run their magnetic tickets through the machines and leave the station. But most of the ticket-readers were shut down, forcing everyone in the crowd to funnel through the three barriers that were still in service. Exasper-ated murmurs swept through those milling in line when they saw the reason for the slowdown. Squads of gray-coated militiamen were deployed at every entrance and exit. They were busy carefully checking the faces of everyone entering and leaving the Smolenskaya station. From time to time, they pulled people away in ones and twos for closer questioning—often, but not always, lean, dark-haired men or slender and attractive, black-haired women.

After scrutinizing the identity papers of the most recent pair hauled before him, Militia Lieutenant Grigor Pronin tossed the cards back and then waved the worried-looking man and woman away. “Fine,” he growled. “Everything’s fine. Now move along!”

He grimaced. He and his entire unit had been tied up in this ridiculous manhunt for hours, stuck here on pointless, glorified sentry duty on orders from the Kremlin. No Chechen terrorist had ever looked anything like the photographs he had been shown. Meanwhile, he thought bitterly, Moscow’s real criminals must be having a field day—mugging, shoplifting, and stealing cars to their black hearts’ content.

Pronin swung round in irritation at a sudden outbreak of loud cursing and swearing from the barrier. People were pushing and shoving one another near one of the ticket machines. He scowled. What the devil was wrong now? The militia officer stalked closer, angrily laying one hand on his holstered sidearm.

The crowd at the barrier saw him coming and fell silent. Most stepped back a pace or two, leaving three people still gathered around the machine.

One, a tall, silver-haired man, seemed to be trying to gently urge a plump, much-older woman through the narrow opening. Stooped over a cane, an elderly man with long whiskers and dirty, matted white hair leaned heavily against the railing on the other side, feebly motioning the woman on. Two medals pinned to his dirty coat proclaimed him a veteran of The Great Patri-otic War against Fascism.

“What’s the trouble here?” Pronin demanded grimly.

“It’s my mother, sir,” the silver-haired man said apologetically. “She’s having trouble with her ticket. She keeps sticking it in the wrong way round.

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