Jeffery Deaver - The Burial Hour

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.’

‘What is the harm, though? Has anyone gotten sick? No. And, in fact, even if they are from China, they are of equal quality to those from our region. Smell them!’

‘Mr Albini, the very fact that I cannot smell them from here tells me they are vastly inferior.’

This was certainly the case. The best truffles give off a scent that is as far ranging as it is unique and seductive.

The crook offered what appeared to be a smile of concession. ‘Now, now, Officer Benelli, do you not think that most diners would have no clue as to whether they were eating truffles from Campania, from Tuscany, from Beijing, from New Jersey in America?’

Ercole didn’t doubt this was true.

But still, the law was the law.

He lifted the handcuffs off his belt.

Albini said, ‘I have euros in my pocket. Many euros.’ He smiled.

‘And they will be logged into evidence. Every last one of them.’

‘You bastard!’ Albini grew agitated. ‘You can’t do this.’

‘Hold your hands out.’

The man’s eyes were cold as they dipped to Ercole’s gray uniform, scornfully focusing on the insignia on the cap and the breast of the open-necked jacket. ‘You? Arrest me ? You’re a cow officer. You’re a rare-species officer. You’re a fire warden. You’re hardly a real policeman.’

The first three charges, while insultingly toned, were accurate. The fourth comment slung his way was false. Ercole was a full-fledged police officer with the Italian government. He worked for the CFS, or State Forestry Corps, which was indeed charged with enforcing agricultural regulations, protecting endangered species, and preventing and fighting forest fires. It was a proud and busy law enforcement agency that dated to the early 1800s and counted more than eight thousand officers in its ranks.

‘Come along, Mr Albini. I’m taking you into custody.’

The counterfeiter growled, ‘I have friends. I have friends in the Camorra!’

This was decidedly not true; yes, the crime organization, based in Campania, was involved in rackets surrounding food and wine (and, ironically, the end result thereof: garbage), but no self-respecting gang leader would invite into the fold such a small, weasely operator as Albini. Even the Camorra had standards.

‘Now, come on, sir. Don’t make this difficult.’ Ercole stepped closer. But before he could restrain the criminal, a shout of alarm rang out from the road. Indistinct words, but urgent.

Albini stepped back, out of reach; Ercole too moved away, lifting his weapon and swiveling, thinking that perhaps his assessment had been wrong and that Albini was indeed connected with the Camorra, and that there were conspirators nearby.

But he saw that the shout had come from a civilian bicyclist, a young man pedaling a racing bike toward them quickly, bounding unsteadily over the rough terrain. Finally, the cyclist gave up and dismounted, laying down his bike and jogging. He wore an almond-shell helmet, and his kit was tight blue shorts and a black-and-white Juventus football team jersey, emblazoned with the stark sans-serif Jeep logo.

‘Officer! Officer!’

Albini started to turn. Ercole growled, ‘No.’ He lifted a finger, and the chubby man froze.

The breathless cyclist reached them, glancing at the gun and the suspect. But he paid neither any mind. His face was red and a vein prominent in his forehead. ‘Up the road, Officer! I saw it! It happened right in front of me. You have to come.’

‘What? Slow down. Take your time.’

‘An attack! A man was waiting at the bus stop. He was just sitting there. And another man, in a car parked nearby, he got out and, in an instant, he grabbed the man waiting for the bus and they began struggling!’ He brandished his phone. ‘I called the police but the officer said it would be a half hour before anybody could be here. I remembered I saw your Forestry truck when I rode past. I came back to see if you were still here.’