Montezuma’s Revenge

“No names!” X snapped and a censorious rumble muttered around the room. “We do not break security here. Meeting adjourned.”

There was the scrape of chairs and louder voices now as they rose to leave and Tony’s protest went unheard. X was already out of the room through a small door and there was nothing more that could be done.

“Congratulations,” Sones said before leaving and Tony wondered just what had happened and how he had become involved. Art expert? Well, he certainly knew more about painting than anyone else in this room, and apparently the entire Bureau as well. And perhaps the whole operation wasn’t a bad idea after all; he would certainly not mind being away from the gilt G-man badges and the ubiquitous Sophie Feinberg for a while. He had never even had a chance to ask where the painting was supposed to be, maybe it wasn’t in Washington, it could even be as far away as New York City where all the big galleries were. It would be pleasant to take a trip. All in all, there was really nothing to complain about. When E-Davidson came up to him he was actually smiling at the prospect ahead.

“Welcome aboard,” Davidson said with a hint of equality, almost respect, in his voice. “We’ll make this a clean operation.”

Once they were sealed in Davidson’s office Tony began to have his doubts.

“You have been checked out on weapons?” Davidson asked.

“What weapons! I’m an art historian ...”

“A good cover, stick to that story. But never forget you are a member of the Bureau with clearance and with that goes responsibility. You were in the Army, good training, mortars and the kind of heavy stuff we don’t usually use.”

“Mortars? Please, I was a radar technician. Sure, I did the bayonet course and the dummy grenade thing in basic training, you can’t avoid it, but the bayonet is not of much use in a radar installation. I barely qualified as low marksman on the Mi.”

“We generally carry smaller weapons than a rifle, hard to conceal, but being a military man you will have no trouble changing around. This is our standard weapon, the snubnose .38 Smith & Wesson.”

Davidson did a very quick thing with one hand and a singularly deadly looking revolver appeared, pointing a round eye at Tony who moved back unhappily.

“Let’s get down to armaments and check you out on yours,” Davidson said, rising, as the gun disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.

“Hold on one second, please. Art specialist is one thing, gunman something else altogether different.”

“A good act, keep it up, wonderful cover. A little briefing and you will be all right.” He led the way to the door with a friendly hand on Tony’s back to keep him moving. “Old Fred will check you out. If there is anything to know about weapons he knows it, a great guy. You being a military man you may have weapon experience that we don’t so there is no need to stick with the .38 just because we do. Old Fred will know.”

Old Fred, a Michelangelo sanguine study in wrinkles, liver spots, drooping eyelids, toothless gums and Punch nose reaching to protruding chin, radiated an aura of palpable disgust the instant Tony gingerly took up the preferred revolver.

“Not with the finger tips, blast it, grab and clutch firmly like you was shaking hands, a real firm handshake. Keep the arm straight with the elbow slightly bent, raise above the head, your profile to the target, drop down onto the target, squeeze your whole hand not just your trigger finger and ...” BLAM BLAM BLAM “... put the slugs right through the blasted bull just like that. Now you try.”

Tony took up the still smoking weapon gingerly, then grabbed it too tightly at the growled command so that the first shot went off while it was still pointed at the ground, screaming and ricocheting away down the concrete length of the shooting range, curses muttered in his ear as they grabbed his arm and pointed it in the right direction. His next shot caused the gun to jump in his hand so the web of flesh between his thumb and forefinger tore. This hurt and it distracted his attention so he held the revolver even more loosely for the next shot and this time it leaped from his hand and clattered on the floor. This released him to suck at his wounded member while the morose men looked down in gloom that bordered on despair upon the discarded weapon.

“I can’t see how close I came.” He peered hopefully over his hand at the distant target.

“One hit the ceiling, one hit the blasted wall,” Old Fred said, bending arthritic limbs to scoop up the .38. “Probably because you had your eyes closed when you pulled the trigger.”

“I know,” Tony said apologetically, wrapping his handkerchief around the wound. “But I licked that habit with the Mi. I could show you if you had an Mi one here.”

“We do,” Old Fred said and, after a measured amount of puffing and clatter, he produced it from a cluttered armory apparently hung with all the weapons of destruction known to man.