Was the perp inside?
Well, for certain, someone was. Ercole could see a lamp within the farmhouse, and a presence was revealed from the motion of shadow. And it was not an animal. All species have distinctive locomotion, and Ercole knew nonhuman movements very well; these shadows were from a Homo sapiens—unsuspecting, unconcerned—as he walked around the interior of the place. And, though the light was fading, he could still make out in the grass and a stand of old wheat what appeared to be the tread marks of a truck. Some of the vegetation had returned to near upright, suggesting to Ercole that Antonio Albini—if indeed the suspect, the devil, this was—had been inside for some time. The officer guessed that he had driven into the farmhouse before first light and, after a long day of unconscionable industry, planned to slip away when dusk bathed the soft hills here in deepening blue light.
Which meant soon.
Albini’s modus operandi was to find such abandoned locales for his crimes but to travel to and from them only in the dark, to avoid being seen. The mastermind usually checked out his lairs ahead of time, and Ercole’s exhaustive detective work had found a witness up the road, a farmworker, who’d reported that someone fitting Albini’s description had examined this building two weeks ago.
“He was behaving in most suspicious ways,” the grizzled man had said. “I’m certain of it.” Though Ercole guessed that the conclusion was only because the worker has been speaking to a police officer. It was how he himself might have spoken to a cop when he was young and hanging out in the Spaccanapoli, or a nearby Neapolitan square, and a Carabinieri or Police of State officer would ask him, in a bored voice, if he’d seen what street thug had made off with a purse or had cleverly lifted an Omega off a careless wrist.
Whether the intruder had acted suspiciously or not, though, the farmworker’s observation was enough to follow up on, and Ercole had spent much time conducting surveillance of the farmhouse. His supervisor thought long shots like this should not take as much time as Ercole allotted to them. Still, he could behave no differently. He pursued Albini the way he would have sought the notorious serial murderer, or murderers, known as the Monster of Florence, had he been an officer in Tuscany many years ago.
Albini’s crimes would not go unpunished.
Another flicker of shadow.
Now a frog called, hoping to impress a mate.
Now a tall stand of neglected wheat bent in a breeze like parishioners before a priest.
Now a head appeared in the window. And yes! It was the villain he’d worked so hard to capture. Round, porcine Antonio Albini. Ercole could see the bushy hair surrounding the bald pate. His urge was to duck, escaping the demonic gaze from under wizard’s brows. The suspect was not looking outward, though. He was gazing down.
The lamps inside went dark.
And Ercole’s heart twisted with dismay.
No, no! He was leaving now? While it was still light? Perhaps the deserted nature of the area gave him confidence that he would not be seen. Ercole had thought he would have plenty of time, after verifying the identity of the occupant, to call for backup.
So the question became this: Should he apprehend the man alone?
But, of course, he realized that it was no query at all.
He had no choice. Arresting Albini was his mission and he would now do what he needed to, at whatever risk, to snare the prey.
His hand dipped to the Beretta 9mm on his hip. He took a deep breath and continued through the field, picking his steps carefully. Ercole Benelli regularly studied the procedure books of the Carabinieri, as well as those of the Police of State and the Finance Police—not to mention the law enforcement agencies of other countries and Europol and Interpol, as well. While he had not had many opportunities to effect arrests by himself, he knew the approved techniques to stop and control a suspect.
Pausing at the relic of a harvester, then continuing on to a Stonehenge of oil drums for cover. He was listening to the thuds from inside the garage attached to the farmhouse. He knew what had made the disturbing sounds and grew all the more infuriated at Albini’s crimes.
Move, now!
And with no more cover, he hurried into the driveway.
Which was when the truck, a four-wheeled Piaggio Poker van, burst from the garage, speeding directly toward him.
The young officer stood his ground.
Some seasoned criminals might think twice about killing a police officer. In Italy there was still honor among villains. But Albini?
The truck didn’t stop. Would the man be persuaded by Ercole’s pistol? He lifted the large black gun. Heart throbbing, breath coming fast, he aimed carefully, as he did on the range, and slid his finger off the guard to the trigger. The Beretta had a very light touch and he was careful to apply no pressure yet, but merely caress the steel curve.
This, not honor, it seemed, had the desired effect.
The ungainly truck slowed to a stop, the brakes squealing. Albini squinted and then climbed from the vehicle. The plump man stomped forward, stopped and stood with hands on hips. “Ah, ah, what are you doing?” he asked, as if genuinely confused.
“Keep your hands visible.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m arresting you, Mr. Albini.”
“For what?”
“You know very well. You have been dealing in counterfeit truffles.”
Italy was, of course, known for truffles: the most delicate and most sought after, the white, from Piedmont, and the earthier black from Tuscany. But Campania too had a vital truffle trade—black ones from around the town of Bagnoli Irpino, near the Monti Picentini Regional Park. These truffles were respected for their substantial taste; unlike their paler cousins from central and northern Italy, which were served only with plain eggs or pasta, Campanian fungi had the fortitude to stand up to more substantial dishes and sauces.
Albini was believed to be buying Chinese truffles—much cheaper than and inferior to the Italian—and palming them off as local to distributors and restaurants throughout Campania and Calabria, to the south. He had gone so far as to buy—or possibly steal—two expensive Lagotti Romagnolo, the traditional truffle-hunting dogs. The beasts now sat in the back of the truck, looking Ercole over cheerfully. For Albini, though, they were merely for show, since the only hunting he did for truffles was on the docks to find which warehouse held the shipments from Guangdong.
Weapon still aimed in Albini’s direction, Ercole now walked to the back of the man’s Piaggio Poker truck and, peeking under the canvas tarp covering a portion of the back bed, could see clearly a dozen empty shipping cartons, with Chinese characters on the side and on the bills of lading. And beside them buckets of dirt holding dozens of gray-black truffles: the thuds that Ercole had heard moments before, Albini loading the vehicle.