“Not just a bottle—a whole damn case. I offered him a bottle, but the greedy son of a bitch followed me into the store room and spotted the case. The station manager almost had my head on a platter when he found out. It was his own private stock.” Then, still chuckling, Berta leaned over the table and said, “And what about the time the SS cleared the whole train just before you were due to leave Krakow because they were convinced there was a smuggler on board.”
“Oh God, that’s right. I remember they searched every one of the passengers and tore through every piece of luggage.”
“And all the time you were standing right there with stolen documents hidden in your conductor’s pouch.”
Natalia’s neck tingled as she recalled the incident. “To this day I remember being absolutely terrified that I’d wet my pants.” She paused and was silent for a long moment. She put her hands up to her face, covering her eyes, remembering that day.
Berta touched her arm. “What is it? Something wrong?”
Natalia sat still, looking at Berta, trying to decide. Finally she said quietly, “There’s something else . . . something I never told anyone . . . something that happened later that day.”
“When, on the train?”
“Yes, just before we got to Warsaw. A man was walking toward me in the aisle of the first-class compartment, and just as we passed each other he suddenly stopped. He gripped my shoulder and whispered in my ear, ‘I know what’s in the bag.’”
Berta flinched. “Good God, what did you do?”
“Nothing—I mean, not right then. I turned around, but he walked away very quickly and passed through into the next car. A few minutes later we were in the station. I was petrified because I really didn’t know what he looked like. It all happened so fast, I never got a good look at him, and . . . I was afraid to get off the train. I was certain that he’d be there, waiting.”
“Did you meet your contact? Did you report it?”
“No. I said, I’ve never told anyone. Falcon was my contact—I guess I can tell you that now that it’s all over. Anyway, we’d just started working together the week before. I was afraid that he . . . this man, whoever he was, I was afraid he’d see us.”
“So, what did you do?”
Natalia dropped her eyes. “I destroyed the documents.”
Berta was silent.
“I rushed into the toilet inside the station and closed myself in a stall. Then I took out the documents—there were only about a half dozen pages this time—and I tore them up into little pieces and flushed them down the toilet.”
“Did you ever see the man?”
“No. Not then, or ever again. It’s almost like it never really happened, like I just imagined it.” She paused again, remembering the man whispering to her. She could almost feel his hand on her shoulder and his warm breath on her neck. “I didn’t meet Falcon that day, just got on the train again for the run back to Krakow.”
“And you didn’t tell anyone.”
“No, I was too . . . I don’t know . . . ashamed, I guess. It was the only time I failed to complete an assignment and I just couldn’t . . .”
Berta gazed at her for what seemed like an eternity. Then she took Natalia’s hand. “You did the right thing.”
Natalia pulled her hand away, pushed back her chair and got to her feet. “No, I didn’t. You wouldn’t have done that, not destroyed the documents. I should have taken evasive action, circled around through the opposite door of the station, seeing if I could spot him again.”
“But you didn’t know what he looked like. How would you have spotted him again? You did the right thing, and it’s exactly what I would’ve done.”
“But those documents could have been important. They were important, or else they wouldn’t have been passed along.” She stopped. Berta had her arms folded across her chest, an impatient set to her mouth. “OK, so you would have done the same thing. That doesn’t make it right.”
“Make it right? Christ, Natalia, don’t beat yourself up for something that happened a couple of years ago. Not after all you’ve done. Remember what we were taught: Survival is the most important thing. Live to fight another day.”
“I guess you’re right . . . as usual.”
Berta smiled. “Feel better now that you’ve got that off your chest?”
“Yeah, sure. Thanks.”
Berta put a hand on her shoulder. “Well, we lived through all that, so I guess we can get through the mess we’re in now. I’m going to try to get some sleep.”
Natalia nodded as her friend shuffled out of the room. Then she tossed back the vodka and sat down, staring at the empty glass.
Five
16 AUGUST
THE FOLLOWING MORNING Adam woke up an hour before dawn, precisely as he’d planned. He dressed in the Waffen-SS uniform and gave his black boots a quick shine. He checked the clip on the Walther P-38 and slipped the pistol into the holster on his waist, then strapped a second holster to his right leg, just above the ankle. He inserted a knife with a black walnut handle into the ankle holster, slipped on his red-and-white AK armband and left his room.
Adam walked briskly across the cobblestone expanse of Old Town’s central square, mostly deserted at this hour save for a few groups of commandos huddled around bonfires near the immense Gothic façade of St. John’s Cathedral with its towering spires and ornate wrought-iron gates. He passed under the two-story-high arch of Queen Anne’s Corridor that connected the cathedral to the Royal Castle and glanced at the clock high in the castle’s onion-dome tower, though he knew exactly what time it was. He continued south, past the soaring granite column topped with a bronze statute of King Zygmunt III overlooking the Medieval streets that wound through the ancient city.
The eastern sky was brightening, but the persistent sooty haze hanging over the city would blot out the sun for most of the morning. Old Town and much of the City Center were still firmly in the hands of the AK, and Adam passed a barricade where a group of commandos stood guard, waiting nervously for the attack that would come at dawn. He shouted a greeting and made sure they saw his armband so he didn’t get shot.
Fifteen minutes later he crossed into the German-held area of the City Center and arrived at Pilsudski Square. He removed the armband and checked his watch. He had a few minutes to spare.
At the far end of Pilsudski Square stood Saxon Palace with its colonnade-topped arcade housing Poland’s Tomb of the Unknown Soldier connecting the two symmetrical wings. The palace was now the headquarters of the German garrison. Every morning at precisely 0500, a black Horch driven by a single Waffen-SS trooper rendezvoused with a motorcycle at the palace arcade and picked up SS-Hauptsturmfuhrer Heisenberg in front of the equestrian statue.
Fortunately for Adam, the motorcycle driver, also a Waffen-SS trooper, was as predictable in his habits as Heisenberg. He always arrived at Pilsudski Square ten minutes ahead of time to smoke a cigarette before driving on to the palace. There was normally no one else in the square at that hour.
At exactly 0450 Adam heard the rumble of a motorcycle engine and watched the single headlight beam as the vehicle pulled into the square and stopped less than ten meters away. Adam hung back in the shadow of a large oak tree and waited while the driver killed the engine and parked the motorcycle on its kickstand. The driver removed his leather helmet and goggles, then reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes.
Adam removed a cigarette from his own pack and held it unlit in his left hand. Then he removed the knife from his ankle holster, held it tight against his right leg and stepped out of the shadow, approaching the motorcycle driver who had just lit his cigarette. “Guten Morgen, Unterscharführer. Would you give me a light?”
The startled motorcycle driver turned abruptly. Adam casually held up the cigarette. The driver hesitated, staring at Adam in the gray predawn light. Then he appeared to recognize the uniform and held out the cigarette lighter. “Ja, ja, you surprised—”
In one swift movement, Adam e
xtended his right arm and thrust the knife into the driver’s throat. He stepped back quickly out of the way as blood spurted from the wide-eyed man’s neck. The mortally wounded driver’s mouth opened wide as he staggered forward, reaching for Adam. Then his knees buckled and he collapsed.
Adam removed the knife, wiped the blade on the dying man’s pant leg and slipped it back into the holster. He put on the helmet and goggles, kick-started the motorcycle and drove off to meet Herr Heisenberg.
As he entered the palace arcade, Adam flicked his right hand in a quick wave to the SS trooper behind the wheel of the Horch, then stopped the motorcycle in front of the black auto. A moment later the image of a tall, solidly built SS officer appeared in the cycle’s vibrating rearview mirror. SS-Hauptsturmfuhrer Heisenberg with another SS trooper at his side, walked across the arcade in long confident strides toward the waiting automobile. The SS trooper opened the rear door, and Heisenberg disappeared inside. Then, to Adam’s surprise, the SS trooper opened the front passenger door and slid in next to the driver.
When the driver of the Horch tapped the horn, Adam gunned the motorcycle and led the car out of the palace arcade. Following the route described in the surveillance report, Adam drove south on Nowy Swiat, turned onto Jerusalem Avenue and headed west, all the while working out a revision to his plan. With two SS troopers in the car, the knife was useless. Fortunately, he had a few extra minutes to think, since they weren’t headed directly to the Wola District. Heisenberg’s enthusiasm for murder wasn’t the only reason he was an early riser. He had a girlfriend.
She was a Polish woman in her thirties, not especially attractive, but well-endowed, and apparently willing to trade sexual favors—and information—for her life. According to the report Adam had studied, Heisenberg kept her in an apartment beyond the West Station in the Ochota District and visited her every morning.
With the hazy eastern sky behind him and ominous clouds of black smoke from the fires in the Wola District ahead of him, Adam continued west on Jerusalem Avenue. He kept to the side of the wide thoroughfare staying out of the way of the heavily armed German convoy rumbling toward him. The convoy was headed east, toward the City Center, and as he sped past Adam counted at least a dozen Panther tanks and twice that number of trucks towing heavy artillery. Hundreds of conscripted soldiers—Hungarians, Serbs, Ukrainians and a smattering of Russians—were crammed elbow-to-elbow in the back of the trucks, all destined to serve as cannon fodder against the AK while German SS officers hung back and watched the show.
Ten minutes later Adam made a hard left turn off Jerusalem Avenue, then maneuvered carefully through a maze of shattered residential streets pockmarked with craters and littered with debris. He finally stopped in front of a three-story apartment building he had scouted out the day before in a neighborhood Heisenberg had obviously decided to spare for the time being. It was an east-west street, and Adam parked the motorcycle pointing into the haze of the rising sun.
Adam took his time as he killed the motorcycle’s engine, climbed off the seat and set the kickstand, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror. Artillery shelling had commenced in the City Center, and thumping detonations echoed through the area, rattling windows and keeping pedestrians off the streets. The SS trooper in the front passenger seat of the Horch jumped out and opened the rear door. Heisenberg emerged and headed straight into the building. A man on a mission, Adam thought.
Still watching the rearview mirror, Adam removed his goggles and pulled off the helmet as the SS trooper got back into the front seat of the car. The driver lit a cigarette and held out the pack to his partner. Adam glanced quickly up and down the street then, turning to his left, he slipped the Walther P-38 out of the holster and held it tight against his right leg. In a brisk but unhurried motion, Adam took three strides toward the car.
The driver squinted into the smoggy sunlight with a hand over his eyes. It was already a warm day, and the window was rolled down.
Adam stepped up to the car and, without a word, fired a single shot into the side of the driver’s head. He took a step to his left and shot the other SS trooper between the eyes.
He wasn’t sure if the sound of the artillery would drown out the gunshots, but he wasn’t about to waste any time. Holding the pistol at his side, he walked up to the apartment building and pulled open the door. The apartment was number 2B, on the second floor, and he took the steps quietly, two at a time, holding the gun out in front. He didn’t see Heisenberg. The man must have gone right to work.
Adam stopped at the second floor landing and took a breath. He could still hear the artillery shells. He reached with his left hand for the handle on the door marked 2B and pulled it downward. It was locked.
He took another breath and stepped back, pointed the pistol at the door handle and fired. With the gunshot reverberating off the walls of the confined space like a cannon blast, Adam kicked open what was left of the door.
Across the room, Heisenberg knelt on the floor facing the sofa with his pants down to his ankles. He whirled around clumsily and struggled to stand up, stumbling over his bunched-up trousers. The woman sat on the sofa with her nightgown unbuttoned to her waist, her eyes wide in confused terror.
Adam fired a shot into Heisenberg’s groin. The SS officer’s eyes bulged. Then he curled into a ball, gasping for breath and clutching at the bloody mass that gushed from between his legs. Adam took a step closer, looked down at him and fired a second shot into the back of his head.
The woman shrieked wildly, the SS officer’s blood dripping from her face and bare chest. She stared at Adam in horror. Then she scrambled off the sofa and ran to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
Adam turned to leave but stopped at the shattered door leading to the hallway. He stood there for a moment. Then he cursed under his breath, marched over to the bedroom door and kicked it open.
The woman cowered on the floor at the foot of the bed with black, mascara-streaked tears running down her cheeks. “Please, I didn’t tell him anything,” she sobbed, pulling the blood-spattered nightgown over her ample breasts. “Nothing he didn’t already know. He forced me to do it. He was a pig! I had no choice!”
Adam raised the Walther and fired a single shot through her forehead before he had a chance to think about it a second time. Then he holstered the gun and walked out of the room.
Six
19 AUGUST
THE MORNING WAS HOT and windless, and the smoky haze that hung in the air made it difficult to see much beyond a hundred meters. But from his perch in one of the copper-clad twin towers of Holy Cross Church, Adam had a good view of Avenue Krakowskie. Farther down the avenue, beyond the AK barricade, a German bunker and machine-gun nest guarded the white stone walls and wrought-iron gates at the entrance to Warsaw University. Beyond the gates several hundred German soldiers patrolled the tree-lined pathways of the university grounds. The bodies of five Waffen-SS troopers and a handful of Ukrainian conscripts lay in the street between the university and the barricade.
The shelling had intensified during the night as German Panzer units attacked with greater fury since the discovery of Heisenberg’s body. But the barricades protecting Old Town had held . . . at least for now.
Adam knew it had been a risk. Assassinations led to reprisals. But it wasn’t something to be concerned about now. He’d followed his orders and it was done. Heisenberg was a murderous butcher who deserved to die, along with his collaborator girlfriend. But that didn’t matter, either. Emotion played no part in it. The man was a target, and he had taken him out. It was that simple, just the way it had been ever since the British dropped him back into Poland. Identify the target and take it out.
It was close to noon when Adam heard someone climbing the staircase leading up to the tower where he’d been positioned since daybreak. Though the church was behind the barricades, in territory still held by the AK, Adam tensed and moved to a corner where he had a clear view of the top of the staircase.
“Captain Wolf
, it’s Rabbit,” a young voice called from halfway up the stairs. “I have a message.”
Adam relaxed. Though he had no official rank in the quasi-military organization of the AK, Rabbit always called him “captain.”
“Come on up,” he called back. “I promise not to shoot you.”
The skinny lad’s blond head poked up through the opening, a broad smile on his face. He was one of the good ones, Adam thought, tough enough to be trusted and streetwise beyond his years, yet young enough not to worry about the inevitable consequences.
“I have a message from Colonel Stag,” Rabbit said. “You’re to report to his headquarters immediately.”
Adam flicked on the safety of his American-made Springfield A4 sniper rifle and slung it over his shoulder.
“When are you gonna teach me how to shoot that rifle,” Rabbit asked a few minutes later as they walked through the barricaded streets of Old Town, shells bursting in the distance and thick, black smoke drifting in from the western districts of the city.
Adam laughed. “How old are you?”
“Thirteen,” Rabbit said, straightening up and throwing his shoulders back.
“This thing would knock you right on your ass.”
“The hell it would. I’m a lot tougher than I look, you know. Besides, I’d rather be a sniper than crawl through the damn sewers, dragging telephone lines.”
Adam laughed again. “Maybe some day, Rabbit. But, in the meantime someone has to know the way through the sewers. That may be our only way out of here.”
The boy kicked a stone. “Nah, we’re goin’ to beat these fuckin’ Krauts. Me and the Conductor have fried a bunch of ‘em.”
“The Conductor?”
“Yeah, the one with the uniform. Remember that day in the hospital square? Me and the Conductor were caught in the middle of the street, and you took out three of those SS pricks, shot ‘em right over our heads. Damn, that was something to see. You gotta teach me to shoot like that.”
The Katyn Order Page 4