Adam stared at her, suddenly remembering the other information Jastremski had given him. “Do you know anything about two NKVD agents who were killed near Zyrardow three weeks ago?” he asked.
“Now you know why we can’t risk being caught together.”
Adam wasn’t surprised. Natalia was perfectly capable of shooting two NKVD agents if she had to. And she was right about the risk of being caught together, though at this moment he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her again. “Is there anything else I should know?”
Natalia stood up and stepped across the tiny room, wearing only her white cotton shirt. Adam suddenly felt aroused again at the sight of her small firm buttocks.
She lifted Banach’s journal off the top of the bureau and turned around, clutching it to her chest. “Today is Friday. If you’re not back by the middle of next week, I’ll come up there and find you.” She handed him the journal. “Take this with you.” Then she picked the rest of her clothes off the chair and began getting dressed.
Adam sighed and set the journal on the bed. He reached for his glasses, then got up and pulled on his trousers. He removed his suit coat from the hook on the wall, withdrew a folded sheet of paper from the breast pocket and handed it to Natalia. “It’s a copy of a letter of authorization,” he said, “from General Kovalenko of the Red Army. It requires all Russian Army officers to offer their assistance and cooperation. I have the original.”
“You have a letter of authorization from a Russian general?”
“Whitehall arranged it.” Adam explained how Kovalenko was an old friend of Whitehall’s—and half Polish.
“And you trust Whitehall?” Natalia asked skeptically.
Adam remembered Whitehall’s “deceptions.”
“I don’t know who to trust.”
“Has it occurred to you that all of these people could be after the same thing, but for different reasons?”
Adam remained silent, waiting for her to continue.
Natalia paced around the room, running a hand through her short-cropped hair. “We have the journal, so we know a few things for sure. We know that Hans Frank had a visitor in 1942—most likely it was Tarnov—who gave him a copy of Stalin’s Katyn Order. We know that the order exists, and we know what it says. As for the rest of your little group of friends—Whitehall, Kovalenko and Andreyev—they don’t know for sure that Stalin’s order actually exists. But they suspect that Tarnov gave Frank something that implicates the NKVD in the Katyn murders.”
“And they want to find it and make it public to expose the NKVD,” Adam said in agreement.
“Or, make sure it never sees the light of day. There are powerful forces at work here, Adam. And the question remains: Who do we trust?”
Adam rubbed the numb side of his face. He felt as if he were riding a runaway train barreling through a long, dark tunnel with no idea what was at the other end. Both Whitehall and Kovalenko had lied to him on more than one occasion. But he had to make a decision. “You have a copy of Kovalenko’s letter of authorization. Tarnov is desperate. If I get into trouble and don’t return on time you’re going to need help. Use that letter to contact Kovalenko or send a message to Whitehall. We don’t have any other options.”
She turned away and stepped to the window, parting the curtain a bit. The copy of Kovalenko’s letter slipped from her hand and fluttered to the floor. “We could leave,” she said quietly. “We could forget all this and go up into the mountains, cross over into Slovakia. We escaped Warsaw; we could escape this.”
Adam took her shoulders in his hands and kissed the back of her neck. “Is that what you want?”
Natalia was silent for a moment then abruptly turned around, facing him. “Yes, it’s what I want. But first, we have to finish this. The Russians burned my village to the ground, and they deported my parents to God-knows-where in Kazakhstan or Siberia.” She swallowed hard, her eyes glistening. “And they murdered my brother in the Katyn Forest. They murdered him—shot him in the back of the head—and threw his body in a ditch.”
Adam felt her tremble for just an instant, then she stiffened and glared at him. “We have to find that order,” Natalia said, her eyes suddenly cold and hard. “We have to finish this.”
Forty-Five
15 JUNE
THE AGING BUS CREAKED and groaned, black smoke belching from its exhaust pipe as it toiled along the gravel roadway following the River Raba south from Krakow. The engine labored and the driver jammed the transmission into a lower gear as they climbed the foothills of the Tatra Mountains.
Adam glanced around at the handful of other passengers, then looked out the window and caught a glimpse of the peaks in the distance, remembering how he had hiked through these mountains during the summer of 1938. He had just completed his second term at the Jagiellonian University law school and had taken a break from the legal research he was doing for his uncle. It seemed an eternity ago.
The sun was setting in the western sky, casting long shadows over the grassy meadows nestled between rolling hills and pine forests. The tranquility of the bucolic scene was almost enough to make him forget the danger of the impending mission.
He was close to finding his uncle, but he felt as though he were running toward a door that was about to close. Tarnov and his NKVD thugs were out there somewhere—and they might not be his only problem. As his mind swirled with the uncertainty of who to trust, Adam glanced down at the journal he’d just finished reading. The story of his uncle’s incredible journey both haunted and inspired him. He recalled the opening words of his uncle’s first entry:
Eight months ago I descended into hell. I have seen the abyss, the dark chasm of depravity into which man can sink. And I am terrified. I am terrified the world does not know what is happening here. I fear most will not live to tell their story, so I will tell mine and pray that it will emerge from the darkness —that the world may know.
Exhaustion set in and Adam closed his eyes thinking about the afternoon with Natalia, wondering if he had finally emerged from the darkness.
When the bus shuddered to a halt at the station in Nowy Targ, most of the passengers collected their battered suitcases, baskets and canvas bags and trudged off the vehicle. Adam remained in his seat. The driver stood outside, smoking a cigarette, chatting with the departing passengers. Eventually a trickle of new passengers boarded the bus, including a stocky man in overalls and a faded plaid shirt, carrying a wicker basket. A few minutes later the driver tossed his cigarette butt on the ground and climbed back into his seat, and the bus lumbered on.
Adam was wide awake now, his senses alive as he sat on the stiff leather seat waiting anxiously for whatever was coming next. Reading his uncle’s story and knowing that he was still alive had filled him with a resolve and a sense of purpose that he hadn’t felt since Warsaw.
I fear most will not live to tell their story, so I will tell mine and pray that it will emerge from the darkness—that the world may know.
Banach’s words drummed in Adam’s head, over and over, and he now knew, deep in his soul, that no matter what else happened, the entire story—the bizarre encounters with the madman Hans Frank, the extermination of the Jews and, most important, the discovery of the Katyn Order—had to be preserved and shared with the civilized world. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Adam felt some comfort. If nothing else came of the years of gruesome warfare, the years of mindless death and destruction—finding Natalia and being reunited with his uncle would be enough.
The road grew narrower and the hills steeper as they climbed higher into the Tatra Mountains, the last purple hues of daylight sliding into darkness. The bus bounced along the pockmarked road for another half hour before finally shuddering to a stop. The man with the wicker basket stood up and moved to the door. Adam followed him off the bus.
They appeared to be in the middle of nowhere, and as the sound of the bus’ laboring engine receded beyond the hills, the blackness of the mountain night closed in around
them though the stars were incredibly bright. The man moved closer, and Adam tensed, clenching his right fist. He wished now he’d accepted the Browning 9mm pistol Natalia had offered. He’d insisted she keep it for her own protection. He hoped he wouldn’t regret it.
The man nudged Adam’s arm and said, “Follow me and stay close. It’s not far, but the road falls off into a ditch.”
They trudged along a gravel road in the darkness for perhaps a quarter of an hour. The hair on Adam’s neck bristled. He darted his eyes left and right, though he couldn’t see a thing in the black night.
Then a shadowy form emerged through the gloom. It turned out to be a modest building with a peaked roof, topped by a cross. Adam waited outside while the man pulled open a creaking wooden door and disappeared into the dark void. A moment later he reappeared in the doorway, illuminated by a kerosene lantern, and beckoned Adam to enter.
It was a mountain chapel, constructed of rough stones and hand-hewn beams, with a stone altar and three wooden pews. The stocky man looked at Adam and tipped his hat. “You may call me Tytus.”
“And you may call me Wolf,” Adam replied. At the front of the small chapel, an intricately carved crucifix was attached to the stone wall above the altar. The Christ figure had a sorrowful expression. “What do we do now?” he asked.
Tytus pointed to the small octagonal window above the crucifix. “We wait. They’ll see the light in the window.” He looked at Adam curiously. “You’re an American?”
Adam nodded, assuming that Jastremski had told him. “But I was born in Krakow. I came back in ’36.”
Tytus snorted. “I won’t ask why. Jastremski told me a bit about your background, and I don’t need to know any more. It’s not healthy.” He was silent for a moment then said, “You know the Górale?”
“I’ve read about them and met a few during a camping trip up in this area back in the summer of ’38.”
Tytus pulled an intricately carved pipe out of his shirt pocket. He took his time filling it with pungent, stringy tobacco, tamping it down and lighting it. He appeared to be in his mid-forties, with thick fingers, jet-black hair and the weathered complexion of a man who made his living working outside. He took a couple of puffs from his pipe, then pointed the stem at Adam. “I’ve known the Górale all my life. They come down to the lower valleys every year in the spring to work on the farms during the planting season. They come back in the fall for the harvest. In between they pretty much keep to themselves up in these mountains, tending their herds. If you’re honest with them, they will do anything for you. They’ll open their homes, share their food, give you clothing. But they can be vindictive and cruel as hell if they are deceived. Honor is everything. I don’t know what your business is up here, and I don’t want to know, but I’ll tell you this. Do not lie to them.”
He puffed on the pipe, then pointed it at Adam again. “They’ll be suspicious of you at first. They always are with outsiders; it’s in their blood. But be patient and do not lie to them. Not if you want to get out of here.”
“I know they fought as partisans during the war,” Adam said, “and the Nazis made them pay.”
Tytus nodded, exhaling a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke that helped take away the dampness. “Freedom is everything to them. No matter what the Germans did to them—and the Russians later—the Górale fighters kept the routes open all the way to Slovakia. A lot of weapons and contraband passed over these mountains.”
“And Polish soldiers,” Adam said, remembering rumors of the escape routes back in Warsaw.
Time passed, the heat from the lantern slowly taking away the chill of the night air and the clammy stone walls. Then Adam heard sounds in the distance, the muted clopping of hooves and creaking wagon wheels. The sounds drew closer, until they stopped outside the chapel. Tytus held up his hand, signaling for Adam to remain where he was. A moment later the door creaked open, and a figure filled the doorway.
He was a huge man, with a barrel chest, broad shoulders and long, flowing blond hair. He wore a wide-brimmed felt hat, a black vest over a white linen shirt and coarse, heavy trousers with an embroidered, red strip down the outside of each leg. The big man glared at Adam suspiciously. Then he turned to Tytus and nodded. Without a word, he motioned for them to follow and stepped back into the night.
Forty-Six
16 JUNE
DMITRI TARNOV RECEIVED A TELEPHONE CALL in his office early Saturday morning. “We’ve heard from our contact at the library,” the voice on the other end said. “Jastremski had a visitor yesterday.”
“Yesterday? What the fuck is wrong with you?” Tarnov roared. “Why in the hell didn’t someone call me right away?”
Silence.
Then the voice stammered, “I don’t . . . Someone should have—”
“Nichivó! Forget it, you moron. Who was it? Anyone she knew?”
“Nyet. Nobody she’d seen before. She said he was well-dressed and wore eyeglasses, looked like a business man.”
Tarnov slammed the phone down.
When Jerzy Jastremski left the library, following his Saturday morning shift, Tarnov was waiting for him, standing on the sidewalk next to a long, black Citroën.
“Dzień dobry, Mr. Jastremski,” Tarnov said as the slightly built librarian walked past, using the only Polish words he knew, or cared to learn.
Jastremski stopped. “Dzień dobry.”
“Speak English, Mr. Jastremski?” Tarnov asked.
Jastremski looked wary, but nodded.
“Allow me to give ride home,” Tarnov said.
“Thank you, but I prefer to walk,” Jastremski said in fluent English. He attempted to step past him, but Tarnov gripped the slender man by the elbow and shoved a pistol into his ribs.
“Get in fuckin’ car,” Tarnov snapped, “or you die right here.” He steered Jastremski to the black Citroën, pulled open the rear door and shoved him inside. Tarnov was dressed in plain clothes—a dark blue business suit and black trench coat—better for this sort of work than the NKVD uniform. He removed the trench coat, folded it carefully and climbed in the auto next to Jastremski.
“What’s this all about? Where are you taking me?” Jastremski asked as the Citroën sped through the streets of the Stare Miasto.
“Find out soon enough,” Tarnov said. “Now shut up.” As they drove on in silence, Tarnov became edgy. Time was running out, and he had to find Ludwik Banach. He had no idea whether Banach had what he wanted, or if Jastremski’s visitor was anyone worthwhile, but he was damned sure going to find out, and find out fast.
The auto proceeded up Wawel hill and around the castle to the area overlooking the Vistula River. The driver stopped the car and got out. He closed the door and stood nearby, looking out over the river.
“So, Mr. Jastremski, you had visitor yesterday?” Tarnov asked.
“Excuse me, a visitor?”
“At library. You had visitor.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean. Several visitors came to the library yesterday, like they do all the time, asking for help finding books.”
Tarnov glared at the thin, pale man, laughing internally at Jastremski’s feeble attempt at bravado. We’ll find out in a few seconds just how brave you really are, you worthless piece of shit. Tarnov reached in his pocket and withdrew a key. He dropped it into Jastremski’s lap. “Recognize, Mr. Jastremski?”
Jastremski’s pale complexion became white as chalk. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead.
Tarnov smiled. “Yes, of course you do. Key to your apartment. I not return to your wife when we haul her out two hour ago.”
“My wife? What’ve you—?”
Tarnov suddenly smashed his fist into the older man’s face, snapping Jastremski’s head back against the window. Blood spurted from his nose and mouth. He slumped in the seat, holding his hands over his face.
Tarnov leaned over and grabbed him by the shirt, jerking him forward. “That is what I did to your wife, you AK shithead.” He shove
d Jastremski hard against the door and screamed at him, “You have one minute to name visitor, what you tell him and where he go!” He leaned closer. “Or I drive you to jail, and you watch while we chop wife into pieces and flush her down fucking toilet!”
Forty-Seven
17 JUNE
ACTIVITY AT THE KOMMANDATURA was at a fever pitch. With the Potsdam conference rapidly approaching, military officers and diplomatic agents from America and Great Britain flooded into Berlin. There were no taxis, and the buses to and from the aerodrome were crowded and stifling hot and usually arrived without most of the luggage. The accommodations assignment desk on the main floor of the Kommandatura was in chaos, and the tempers of those waiting in the endless queue were getting short.
Stanley Whitehall was lucky. His bag had made the trip from the aerodrome, and he pushed his way through the crowd, then slipped into the backseat of a long, black auto with Soviet flags mounted on the hood.
A half hour later, Whitehall was ushered into General Kovalenko’s office in the Soviet Military Administration building on Wilhelmstrasse. The general sat at his desk, scowling and thumbing through a thick report. Captain Andreyev, who had been standing near the windows, stepped forward and shook Whitehall’s hand. “Good to see you again, Colonel. I trust you made it in without too much difficulty?”
Whitehall set his briefcase on the floor and wiped perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief. “God, it’s a bloody mess at the Kommandatura and even worse at the aerodrome. Gone less than a week and I barely recognize the place.”
There was a loud thud as Kovalenko dropped the report on his desk and stood up, stretching and rubbing his eyes. “And this is just the beginning,” he growled. “Wait until the entourages of three heads of state start pouring in here, yapping and whining about everything from the bed sheets to the color of the china. It’ll be worse than fighting the damn war.” The burly general took two large strides around the desk and clapped Whitehall on the back. “Come, my friend, have a drink.”
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