A grubby hand grabbed his coat. The scrawny kid seemed about nine and wore filthy rags reeking of smoke, dirt, and garbage. His narrow face and sharp suspicious eyes showed cunning and animal intelligence. In rapid-fire Italian, he said, “ Need help, padre?”
“Sí.” Daniel showed him the address.
The kid’s smile showed crooked teeth covered in plaque. “Sí, sí, I bring you.” He tried to pick up both suitcases, dropped the heaviest, and vanished.
Daniel recognized the woman holding the child by her heart-shaped face and full, stubborn mouth. A natural beauty in her early twenties, she wore no makeup, and her shabby wool coat could not hide how lean she was from the war years. Her dark eyes, once filled with playful mischief, now held a brittle sadness she vainly tried to disguise.
He stood. “Marina?”
“Ever see this guy?” Alex said.
Daniel studied the black and white photo of a grim bullet-headed man in his mid-fifties wearing a military uniform who was seated near an unusual banner. “No, I’d remember that face. It’s out of a wanted poster. Who is he?”
“He’s used several names since the war, but he’s a Croatian called Grgur Pavlovic, Nazi collaborator and head of the Ustase. Responsible for the murder of half a million Serbs, Jews and Gypsies. He is, or was, hiding at your delightful monastery, disguised as a priest. I need proof– a sighting, records, anything.
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