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 yo
u 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.