He was only a few blocks from the hotel when he realized he was being followed. The sudden rain had emptied the big square, so there were only a few scattered umbrellas, no crowd to melt into. Footsteps you could hear, keeping a steady pace with his. When he stopped by one of the streetlamps, haloed in the misty drizzle, the footsteps stopped too. Not professional, then. In Berlin they'd be almost on top of you before you knew, your skin tingling with it, the fear. But maybe the Italians weren't as well trained. Or maybe he was imagining it, so close now, escape just hours away, alert to any sound, ears turned up like a dog's.
- From Shanghai: A Novel by Joseph Kanon
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