Silently.
It took a moment for his eyes to get used to the darkness, though Pronti knew the layout well: The warehouse was built like a huge horse stable, with six-foot-high dividers separating the ground floor into storage areas. All but one were filled with trash and piles of old, rotting building materials. The remaining one contained a tall stack of cartons and pallets, a recent delivery from a company letting out space here. The floor here was clean, dust-free, and he could walk to the cartons and hide behind them without fear of his target seeing footsteps. He now did so, and he waited, listening to the creaks from overhead, closing his eyes from time to time to concentrate more clearly.
Blood…
His target returned to the top of the stairs, and Pronti could hear him walking down them carefully. As soon as he stepped out of the stairway, he’d return to the front door or walk through the center aisle. Either way he would present his back to Pronti and the wicked club.
His tactically trained ears—like a bat’s—would sense exactly where the son of a bitch was, and Pronti would step out, swinging his murderous weapon. He cocked his head and listened. Oh, yes, just like the old days…in the army. Fond memories, troubled ones too. He would bore Mario with his exploits in the service as they sat together over meals or wine.
He thought now of that time on the Po River…
Then Pronti grew stern with himself. Be serious here.
This is battle.
The footsteps descended the stairs and stopped. The victim was debating which direction to turn.
Left to the door, straight?
Either way, you’re about to feel my fury…
Pronti took the club in both hands. He smelled the iron nut, close to his nose. Blood and rust smell similar and his weapon was about to reek of both.
But then…What’s happening?
There was a thud—a footstep—followed by another, then another. In the back of the warehouse! The intruder had not taken the direct route—past him through the clear center aisle—but had picked one of the areas filled with construction trash, along the side wall. Pronti had assumed it impassable.
Well, no, my friend, you’re not escaping me.
Pronti stepped from his hiding space and, holding the rod in two hands, stalked silently toward the rear of the structure, where his victim would be making for the back door, Pronti assumed. This would work just fine. The man would go to the door…and Pronti would crush his skull.
Quiet…quiet…
When he was nearly there, another footfall—close—made him jump.
Yet no foot was to be seen.
What is this?
Another thud.
And the bit of brick rolled to a stop in front of him.
No, no! His soldierly training had failed him.
The footsteps, the thuds, were not that at all. They were a distraction. Of course!
Behind him, the voice barked a command.
The order, delivered by, of all things, a woman, was in English, of which he spoke very little. But it was not much of challenge to deduce the meaning and so Pronti quickly dropped the rod and shot his hands into the air.
Amelia Sachs slipped her gun away.
She stood over the skinny, unshaven man, who sat defiantly on the floor of the warehouse. He wore filthy clothing. Pete Prescott was beside her, examining the metal bar he’d carried. “Quite a weapon.”
She glanced at the rod. Yes, it was.
“Il suo nome?” Prescott asked.
The man was silent, eyes darting from one to the other.
Prescott repeated the question.
“Alberto Allegro Pronti,” he said. He said something more to Prescott, who fished a card from the man’s pocket.
This confirmed his identity.
A string of strident and defiant Italian followed. Sachs caught a few words. “He’s a Communist?”
His eyes shone. “Partito Comunista Italiano!”
Prescott said, “It was dissolved in ’ninety-one.”
“No!” Pronti barked. More Italian followed. A lengthy, fervent monologue. Sachs guessed he was a holdout from the old movement, which had lost relevance to all but a few.
The man rambled on for a moment, now grimacing.
Prescott seemed amused. “He said you are very good to have fooled him. He’s a trained soldier.”
“He is?”
“Well, I don’t know about the training but he probably served. In Italy all men used to have to serve a year.” Prescott asked him a question.
Looking down, Pronti answered.
“It seems he was a cook. But he points out that he did take basic training.”
“What’s his story? And tell him no politics please.”
It seemed that he was homeless and lived in an alley about a half block away.
“Why was he going to attack me?”
Prescott listened to the man’s response with a cocked head. Then explained: “Until a few weeks ago he was living in this warehouse, which had been abandoned for at least a year. He’d even put a chain and lock on the back door, so he could have access whenever he wanted and feel safe from street thugs. He had it fixed up nicely. Then the owner or somebody leasing it came back to store things and a man threatened him and threw him out. Beat him up. And he kicked Mario.”
“Who’s Mario?”
“Il mio gatto.”
“His—
“Cat.”
Pronti: “Era scontroso.”
Prescott said, “The man who threw him out was…unpleasant.”
As most cat-kickers would be.
“Today he heard someone and assumed that the man had come back. Pronti wanted to get revenge.”
“Was someone here earlier?” She mentioned the broken bottle.
Pronti’s response, Prescott said, was that, yes, some workers either dropped off a shipment for storage or picked something up. “About two hours ago. He was asleep and missed them. But then he heard you.”
Sachs dug into her pocket and handed the homeless man a twenty-euro note. His eyes grew wide as he calculated, she was sure, how much cheap wine it might buy. She displayed the composite picture of the Composer and the passport photo of Malek Dadi.
“Have you seen them?”
Pronti understood but shook his head in the negative.
So, the most logical explanation for the Post-it was that it had been given to Dadi by someone in the camp, maybe as a possible lead for a job when he was granted asylum.
On the slim chance, though, that there was a connection to the Composer, she said, “You see him.” Pointing to her phone. “You call me?” Mimicking making a phone call like a stand-up comic and pointing to herself.
“Nessun cellulare.” He offered her a disappointed pout. As if he’d have to give back the euros.
“Is there a place near here where I could get him a prepaid?”
“There’s a tabaccaio a block or so away.”
The three of them walked to the tiny quick-mart and Prescott used Sachs’s cash to purchase a phone and some minutes for text and voice.
She entered her number into the phone. “Text me if you see him.” She handed him the Nokia and another twenty.
“Grazie tante, Signorina!”
“Prego. Ask him how his cat, Mario, is? After getting kicked.”