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laughed provocatively and toyed my cigarette suggestively
    “From guys like you.”
    He smiled and nodded.
    “He might be right.”
    At this point he reached into his jacket and removed a holstered Beretta 92FF. With a smooth and clearly well practiced motion he de-chambered the round, caught it and placed it upright on the table then removed the magazine and placed it next to it before placing the pistol flat on the table. 
    “You look like you’ve practiced that,” I said.
    “I have. They look the same. But they are unique.” 
    “You could say that about men.”
    “Touché,” he said and smiled. “But in reality they are very different. This one,” he pointed at his own gun. “Well this one doesn’t ever jam. It used to, design fault on the production run means the stock comes back too quickly and catches the round casing but I modified it with a different spring. Now you can fire off all sixteen rounds without it ever jamming.”
    “Clever you,” I purred seductively.
    “Now this one,” he pointed at my Beretta “This one hasn’t been modified. Which means its owner didn’t get it under warranty and get the recall notice.”
    “How intriguing,” I responded wondering were all this was leading.
    “Isn’t it? The problem with that is when it’s fired even when it doesn’t jam it clips the spent round and puts a small dint into the side of the casing. If someone was foolish enough to fire it and leave the spent casings behind then it makes it much easier to identify on the ballistics report.”
    He toyed with the gun somewhat suggestively. Amused by his disarming manner I settled my chin playfully on a hand and smiled at him, as a child would do listening to a favourite bedtime story.
    “And?”
    “Details. It looks perfect but it hides a simple flaw. That’s because it’s a fake. It’s not a genuine Beretta,” he said before he pointed at his own gun. “This one on the other hand doesn’t look so perfect, because it’s well used and it’s been modified to make it better at what it does. But it is a genuine Beretta and it’s flawless.”
    “Can I?” I asked gesturing at his flawless pistol.
    “Go ahead.” 
    I picked up the gun and gently caressed it as I might a man I wanted to perform a night’s bedroom gymnastics with. Engraved along the side was the trademark Beretta insignia and serial number. Unlike my pistol that had no serial number it was clearly stamped with a code that I recognised from my research as belonging to a special run assigned to law enforcement contract issues.
    “You are right. Totally flawless.” 
    I laid the gun down.
    “So I think you understand what I’m saying?” he told me.
    “Yes I think get the idea.”
    He was referring to Johnny and the fact he wasn’t who he claimed to be.
    “Back to this gun. Would you like me to tell you something we know about it?”
    “Go on then. As long as you promise me a fairytale story before bed.”
    “If you’re lucky. So this gun has been responsible for the death of three FSB officers, two SIS officers, several assorted bankers and nefarious businessmen, and most concerning, at least for our special friends. A CIA officer.”
    That came as quite a surprise because in all the jobs Johnny had given me I had never knowingly offed a CIA spook.
    “Really?” I said innocently.
    “Which is a problem because the CIA tend to take that sort of thing quite personally. It generally involves suspects getting all sorts of unpleasant treatment such as rendition, torture in Middle Eastern prison cells and a trip to the electric chair.”
    “Sounds unpleasant.”
    “It is. But of course not something you would need to worry about. I’m sure you are not the sort of person to do such a thing.”
    “Of course not. I’m a naughty girl, not deranged.”
    “But Johnny… well now there’s another question. What sort of person is Johnny?”
    “Maybe you can tell me?” I asked him.
    “There’s the thing. We can’t. We