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I didn't know her name, but I called her Natasha Fatale. She was our spycraft instructor.
She really didn't impress me very much. That slinky black strapless gown, held more or less closed from navel to bust by x-lacing, and the black opera gloves, didn't turn me on at all. I thought her habit of strutting more or less sideways, right hand on hip, left hand holding a cigarette in a long holder, was just silly. The say she let her hair fall over one eye, Jessica Rabbit-style, was entirely impractical, as were her stiletto heels. I was also pretty sure her German accent was fake.
What really irked me was that she was trying to teach us how to be inconspicuous in enemy territory. If the East Germans didn't arrest her on sight the instant she crossed the Wall it would only be because they were laughing too hard.
"Now. Ze pistol shootink," she said, pointing at me. I shrugged, left the other students, and stepped to the firing line.
"Field-schtripping it!" she barked. I picked up the pistol. For a moment I was confused. I'd never handled one of the Taurus-Walther disposable .22 target pistols before. But when you squeezed the studs on either side of the fore-end, it slid off forward and took the barrel with it. The rest was pretty easy.
It was an interesting but useless weapon, the Taurus-Walther. Meant to be cheap, its Walther heritage meant that the plastic gun ended up costing more than a normal steel pistol. The trigger mechanism was an amazing piece of electronic complexity, with little color-coded screws for adjusting this or that all over its housing.
It was supposed to be untraceable because it had no serial numbers and (once you'd fired or removed the ammunition) would burn up in any ordinary fire, leaving no trace. I didn't like it. If I didn't manage to destroy it once I went in the field, the mission was blown. Only the CIA had ever been stupid enough to buy the things. We'd do far better if we arranged purchase of a stolen Tokarev from some East German street punk.
Even as I thought all this, I had the pistol apart. Then back together.
"Goot. Und now ze shootink at der target. You vill be shootink Becky Thatcher and you must be hittink her in the left eye."
Matching actions to words. Natasha strutted to the end of the sub-basement room and pinned a bullseye target on the backstop. The rings of the target circled a drawing of a smiling, braided little girl. Wondering just WHAT in the hell the CIA or Natasha had against Tom Sawyer's girlfriend, I carefully drew down on the target. I was using my left hand, just to show off.
Then the leg cramps hit. I jumped upright, swearing. Cats scattered.
I complain because I never remember my dreams. If this one was any indication, some people might say I am not missing much. Others might disagree. :D
She really didn't impress me very much. That slinky black strapless gown, held more or less closed from navel to bust by x-lacing, and the black opera gloves, didn't turn me on at all. I thought her habit of strutting more or less sideways, right hand on hip, left hand holding a cigarette in a long holder, was just silly. The say she let her hair fall over one eye, Jessica Rabbit-style, was entirely impractical, as were her stiletto heels. I was also pretty sure her German accent was fake.
What really irked me was that she was trying to teach us how to be inconspicuous in enemy territory. If the East Germans didn't arrest her on sight the instant she crossed the Wall it would only be because they were laughing too hard.
"Now. Ze pistol shootink," she said, pointing at me. I shrugged, left the other students, and stepped to the firing line.
"Field-schtripping it!" she barked. I picked up the pistol. For a moment I was confused. I'd never handled one of the Taurus-Walther disposable .22 target pistols before. But when you squeezed the studs on either side of the fore-end, it slid off forward and took the barrel with it. The rest was pretty easy.
It was an interesting but useless weapon, the Taurus-Walther. Meant to be cheap, its Walther heritage meant that the plastic gun ended up costing more than a normal steel pistol. The trigger mechanism was an amazing piece of electronic complexity, with little color-coded screws for adjusting this or that all over its housing.
It was supposed to be untraceable because it had no serial numbers and (once you'd fired or removed the ammunition) would burn up in any ordinary fire, leaving no trace. I didn't like it. If I didn't manage to destroy it once I went in the field, the mission was blown. Only the CIA had ever been stupid enough to buy the things. We'd do far better if we arranged purchase of a stolen Tokarev from some East German street punk.
Even as I thought all this, I had the pistol apart. Then back together.
"Goot. Und now ze shootink at der target. You vill be shootink Becky Thatcher and you must be hittink her in the left eye."
Matching actions to words. Natasha strutted to the end of the sub-basement room and pinned a bullseye target on the backstop. The rings of the target circled a drawing of a smiling, braided little girl. Wondering just WHAT in the hell the CIA or Natasha had against Tom Sawyer's girlfriend, I carefully drew down on the target. I was using my left hand, just to show off.
Then the leg cramps hit. I jumped upright, swearing. Cats scattered.
I complain because I never remember my dreams. If this one was any indication, some people might say I am not missing much. Others might disagree. :D
