Гарри Гаррисон - Montezuma’s Revenge

“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.

“I usually use a sling.” Tony took the wood and blue steel weight of the rifle and hefted it gingerly, trying to remember the drill instilled in his youthful synapses so many years earlier. “The clip goes here?”

“That’s right, very blasted good, and here’s the sling.”

“Prone position was the only way I could fire and qualify.”

“Prone position,” Old Fred agreed in a hollow voice.

It took a while to attach the sling and adjust it to the correct position, to set the sights—Old Fred finally did this himself, muttering under his breath while he did so, load and lock, to sprawl on the hard concrete and keep the wavering target in the sights, to eventually squeeze off the shots at a fresh target. It was with a feeling of satisfaction that Tony climbed to his feet again, rubbing a bit at his sore shoulder. When the target came whizzing back along the wire Old Fred took one look then went into his shop and began rattling tools. Davidson examined it more closely, on both sides in case he had missed something.

“Good?” Tony asked.

“One bullet hit the target, nicked the edge.”

“I’m a little rusty. If I had a chance to brush up ...”

“No, I don’t think that is possible. Not enough time. In any case, the old Mi rifle isn’t the sort of thing that can be hidden in your hip pocket. Any other weapons you are familiar with?”

“Not really.”

“Wait! You’re an Indian, I almost forgot, probably a gee whiz with the tomahawk?”

“Davidson, please, I grew up on a farm, then in a small town. The only tomahawks I ever saw were in a western movie.”

“The bow and arrow maybe or,” still hopeful, “the scalping knife?”

“And maybe the bow and arrow will fit in my hip pocket? The same goes for that scalping knife, which I never heard of before this instant.”

“No knife?”

“Not really. I used to whittle ...”

“That’s it, Fred! The French cigar case, that’s the one we need.”

It dropped onto the counter top with a heavy thud, its weight out of keeping with its innocent appearance. A pocket case of nicely tanned leather, smooth as though from long use. Davidson slipped it open so that the greenish ends of four cigars could be seen and held it out to Tony.

“I normally don’t smoke cigars, but ...”

He pulled at a cigar but it would not come free.

“They are dummies. What you really want to do, as you hold it out, is to press with your thumb here.”

There was a nasty snicking sound and a shining blade, at least six inches long, snapped out of the end of the case causing Tony to start and jump back.

“Very handy thing to have.” Davidson put the point of the knife on the counter and leaned all of his weight upon the case to force the blade back up into position. “A seventy-five-pound spring behind that blade. Just jam it against your target’s side, below the rib cage so it doesn’t get hung up in the bones, and press the release. The spring does all the rest. It will give you security.”

“I would feel far more secure without it.”

This unprofessional remark was ignored and the zip knife-cigar case became his property after he had signed the proper form. Old Fred showed far more enthusiasm as he checked over Davidson’s .38 and oiled the springs on the agent’s fast-draw holster.

“When do we leave?” Tony asked.

“In about an hour.”

“Will I have time to pack a bag?”

“What for? We are just going across the river to McLean, Virginia, to make our contact.”

So much for the travel plans, Tony thought. McLean. The phone rang and Old Fred answered it. In a way it was probably better. Get the matter over with and done and back to work. Fred called Davidson to the phone then entered his shop and closed the door behind himself. Open the G-man badge and fingerprint-kit shop and get it rolling, then ask to be reassigned back to the National Gallery. Anyone could take over once things were rolling, even Sophie for that matter. And it would be a pleasure to see the last of her. Davidson had hung up and stood, frowning with thought.