Missing In Rangoon

“He wanted to know why I was running.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Doctor’s orders. I’m still trying to understand how he found me in the middle of nowhere. I had a tail in the middle of nowhere. I could see him for miles. He made no effort to hide.”

Calvino handed Colonel Pratt a glass of whiskey.

“You were running with a group of foreigners. He probably picked you because you were the slowest runner.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. You’re probably right. The lion always takes down the weakest runner in the herd. Darwin said something about that. I think it was Darwin. It might have been Henry Miller.”

He drained his glass and poured himself another.

“I have a present for you,” said the Colonel.

“I hope it’s not jewelry. You know how people talk.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Pratt pulled a rolled red towel out of the suitcase and unwrapped it, his hand emerging with a handgun.

“Nine millimeter Walther PPQ. German made. Fifteen shot magazine. It has a short trigger pull. Light release. Polymer frame. Good grip and sharp sights set at the factory.”

“Are you selling me a gun?”

Pratt removed a second towel, a white one. He opened it and pulled out a second Walther PPQ. He passed the handgun to Calvino.

“This one is for you. I have a couple of shoulder holsters. And let me see…” he said, digging around in the bottom of the case until he found two boxes of ammo. “A box of PMC 115 grain hollow points, and a box of 147 grain gold dots.”

Calvino walked over and took one of the handguns.

“Does have a good grip.”

He turned the gun over.

“The magazine eject is that slider on the side. Both sides have a slider. Left-handed, right-handed.”

Calvino worked the slider with his thumb, and the magazine popped out. It was loaded.

“Didn’t you say something about just needing to talk to one or two people and then going back home?”

“I had some information at the shooting range that the people I want to talk to can play rough.”

“Imagine that. Multi-million-dollar racket to trans-ship cold pills into Thailand, and to think the people involved might resort to violence if you happen to get in their face. Learn something every day.”

Calvino smelled the barrel of the Walther. So far, the early evening had carried the scent of perfume and the smell of cordite from the shooting range. They blended in his nose and his mind like the haze following the sun into the ground. Smells can carry a reassurance, but in this case both smells promised to deliver surprise, pain and regret. While Calvino had been out waving at the local villagers, Colonel Pratt had been testing the sights, grips, range and reliability of the available weapons.

“Better to be prepared.”

“Like boy scouts, right? You know what I love most about places like Rangoon?”

The Colonel shook his head as he put on the shoulder holster.

“The Italian women?”

“The Burmese are still in the last century. Except at the airport, do you think you’d find a metal detector anywhere? Even the guards outside the hotel carry AK-47s. Guns are everywhere, and no alarms are going off.”

“The Walther’s made in Germany. Precision.”

“German guns, Italian women… All that’s missing is you playing some Joe Henderson on the sax, and we might almost forget why we’re in Rangoon.”