James Becker - Echo of the Reich

“You make it sound almost legitimate,” Bronson remarked. “Selling guns, I mean.”

“That’s the funny thing about the arms business. It’s one of this country’s biggest industries, and Britain sells everything from pistols to aircraft and warships to other nations, knowing bloody well that some two-bit dictator in the middle of Africa will use the weapons to make his program of genocide that bit more efficient. And the people who run the British arms industry get invited to tea at Number Ten and are given knighthoods and all the rest. But if a freelance businessman like me gets caught selling a twenty-two-caliber target pistol to someone, he’ll end up in the slammer for a few years, and so will the buyer. Makes no sense to me.”

Bronson guessed that Weeks was treading a familiar path, though what he was saying was undeniably true-yet another demonstration of the arrant and arrogant hypocrisy of most politicians. Ever since Tony Blair had famously “banned handguns,” the only people who owned weapons in Britain were criminals, and the Labor Party had somehow managed to spin this obvious lunacy into a piece of good news for the public.

“Okay, you want a pistol, right? And some ammo, obviously. I’ve brought three along, but it all depends on what you want to spend and if you think you’re going to bring it back to me.”

“I’ll try, but I don’t know how this is going to pan out.”

“Then you probably won’t want this one,” Weeks replied.

He reached over to the backseat of the car, where a couple of coats had been draped, apparently casually, and pulled out a wooden box secured with metal catches. Weeks snapped them open and lifted the lid. Inside, set in a shaped recess, was a small black semi-automatic pistol. He lifted out the weapon, showed Bronson that there was no magazine fitted, then pulled back the slide and handed it to his companion-basic safety precautions to ensure that the weapon was unloaded.

“Smart. A subcompact Glock,” Bronson said, recognizing it immediately. He turned it over in his hands. The butt was very short, allowing the weapon to be held by two fingers, the third finger nestling in a recess at the front of the magazine when it was in place. “A nice piece of kit, but I don’t know if I can afford this. Which model is it, and what’s it chambered for?”

“It’s a Model Twenty-six, so nine millimeter, with a ten-round magazine. I’ve got a Model Twenty-seven as well, to take the forty-caliber Smith and Wesson round, but that’s a bit more expensive, and really that cartridge is a bit of a handful in a pistol this small. I’ve got a standard magazine, as well as one of the factory plus-two models that gives you twelve rounds altogether, and a spare mag from a Glock Seventeen that’ll fit. That holds the usual seventeen rounds, but it sticks out a hell of a long way. If you wanted that, you’d probably be better off with just the Model Seventeen right from the start.”

Bronson nodded, looking down at the compact pistol. “It’s ideal, Dickie, but these are expensive little buggers. How much are you asking?”

“That weapon’s virtually new, and they are pricey. But for you, as a deal, you can have it for six hundred, plus twenty for a box of Parabellum. And I’ll give you four hundred if you bring it back when you’re done.”

Bronson shook his head and reluctantly handed back the weapon. “Too rich for me,” he said. “I was hoping you’d got something for less than half that.”

Weeks nodded. “I have,” he said, “but you won’t like it as much.”

He replaced the Glock in the box, closed the catches and returned it to the backseat, then rummaged around under the coats and took out another box, bigger and more battered, showing signs of its age.

He opened this box, took out the pistol and did the usual safety checks, then handed it to Bronson.

“It’s another Glock,” Weeks said. “This one’s a Model Seventeen, with two standard magazines. It’s been around for a while, but it works well. Dead reliable, these pistols.”

Bronson nodded as he inspected the weapon. It was a bit battered and there were several smears of what looked like paint on the polymer grip, but all the damage was cosmetic and the firing mechanism itself seemed in good working order as far as he could tell. There was really only one problem with it, apart from possibly the price.

“I’m not bothered about the way it looks, Dickie, but this is a full-frame pistol, and I don’t know if I could keep a weapon this size hidden in my pocket or wherever. I really need something a bit smaller.”

Weeks smiled at him as Bronson handed back the Glock 17. “Well,” he said, “if the Twenty-six is too rich for your tastes, I’ve only got one other option.”

“And this is the one I’m not going to like,” Bronson suggested.

“Exactly. This is the cheap and cheerful option, this week’s special offer.”

He returned the box to the backseat and this time reached into the pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a small black pistol, pressed the release, which dropped the magazine out of the butt, and then worked the slide. A small cartridge flew out of the weapon and landed in his lap; clearly the pistol had been loaded. Then he passed it over to Bronson.

For a few moments, he didn’t recognize it. Although it was small and compact, the pistol bore more than a passing resemblance to the venerable Colt Model 1911, for many years the standard sidearm of the American military, albeit scaled down.

“What is it?” Bronson asked.

“It’s a Spanish-made Llama XV, chambered for twenty-two Long Rifle.” Weeks held up the ejected cartridge so Bronson could see it, then fed it into the top of the magazine. “It’s not exactly a man-stopper, but it’d probably be enough to win any argument you’re likely to get involved in. Most people who own these guns seem to like them. And it’s cheap, so if you have to throw it away, it won’t matter.”

Bronson nodded. The fact that it was Spanish didn’t bother him. Decades earlier, Spanish pistols had been something of a joke, badly made Astras and other makes proving unreliable and sometimes as lethal to the person firing the weapon as to whoever it was pointed at. But all that had changed, and modern Spanish pistols-and, okay, the Llama was a few years old-were as good as anything available anywhere. And the Spanish also made one of the best pure combat pistols ever designed, the SPS.

The. 22 Long Rifle cartridge was a little small, certainly a lower caliber than he had hoped to find, but in the right hands it was still lethal. Bronson knew that Israeli assassination teams routinely used weapons in that caliber, because it could be silenced more effectively than full-bore weapons-meaning those of nine-millimeter caliber and above-and as long as the target was engaged with a head shot, the bullet was as deadly as anything else out there.

He looked across at Weeks. “How much?”

“For you, my friend, a century, and for that money I’ll throw in a couple of boxes of ammo as well. Bring it back, and I’ll give you sixty for it.”

Bronson hefted the weapon and racked the slide back a couple of times, checking the tension in the spring and getting the feel of the pistol. He could easily hide it in his clothing-he’d had breakfast with Weeks and walked around the streets for several minutes, and he’d never even guessed the man had the weapon in his pocket-and it was certainly cheap enough. And, he hoped, he wasn’t going to get involved in a firefight. What he needed was a weapon to get him out of trouble, to end a confrontation that he wouldn’t otherwise be able to walk away from. And for that, almost any working pistol, of any caliber, would probably be enough.

He looked across at Weeks. “I’ll take it,” he said.