The Burial Hour (Lincoln Rhyme 13)

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.

"You accuse me wrongly! I have done nothing illegal, Officer..." He cocked his head.

"Benelli."

"Ah, Benelli! You are perhaps an heir to the motorcycle family?" Albini's face beamed. "The shotgun family?"

The officer said nothing in response, though he was at a loss to figure out how the criminal planned to leverage a famous family connection to his advantage, had one existed, which it did not.

Then Albini grew serious. "But honestly. All I do is sell a product for which there is a need and desire and I charge a fair price. I never said they are from Campania. Has one person ever said I have made that claim?"

"Yes."

"He's a liar."

"There are dozens."

"They, then, are liars. To a man."

"Even so, you have no import license."