The Katyn Order

by Douglas W. Jacobson

  It was almost five o’clock, and the Rynek Glowny was busy with pedestrians returning home from their jobs and queuing up at the few shops with something to sell. A scattering of people sat in the cafés around the perimeter of the market square, sipping watered-down beer and cheap wine.

  Natalia smiled at the driver of a horse-and-carriage that passed by. The horse snorted, its hooves clopping loudly on the cobblestones. The driver tipped his hat. She grinned to herself and glanced toward the Mariacki Church, then stopped dead in her tracks.

  In front of the church, two khaki-uniformed NKVD troopers were questioning a petite young woman with short black hair, who had been riding a bicycle. Natalia kept her eyes focused straight ahead and quickened her step as she passed by. It could be anything, she told herself. The NKVD was always questioning somebody about something. But Rabbit’s words flashed back like a thunderbolt. Those two NKVD agents you shot! They knew all about it!

  As she continued across the Rynek Glowny, Natalia felt completely exposed, as though she was the only person on the immense square, and someone would shout her name from the top of City Hall Tower and freeze her in her tracks. Then a car would roar up and a half-dozen agents would leap out and—

  She shook her head as she reached the south end of the square, turning quickly onto Avenue Grodzka where another horse-and-carriage passed her going in the opposite direction. She thought it was going to be a long time until noon tomorrow.

  Fifty-Three

  21 JUNE

  ADAM’S HEAD HURT like hell. The throbbing sensation along both temples woke him, and he struggled to sit up. It was dark. He blinked, then reached up and felt for his glasses. Remarkably they were still there. He blinked again and saw a thin shaft of light above his head.

  “Adam?” It was a man’s voice, a whisper, close by.

  “Zygmunt?”

  “Yes. Thank God you’re alive.”

  “Are Piotr and Krystyna here?” Adam began to make out forms as his eyes cleared. Zygmunt was sitting up. Next to him, two shadowy humps lay on the floor.

  “Piotr’s still unconscious,” Zygmunt said. “He was bleeding badly. I tried to stop it, made a tourniquet with my belt.”

  “What about Krystyna?”

  “Over here.” Zygmunt motioned with his hand, and Adam crawled closer.

  Krystyna lay curled up, breathing shallowly, her arms wrapped around her protruding belly. There was something white around her neck.

  “I did the best I could. Tore strips from my shirt,” Zygmunt said. “There was some holy water in the bowl near the door. I think the moisture helped ease the pain a bit.” He touched her shoulder gently. “Adam is awake,” he whispered.

  “Adam?” Krystyna tried to lift her head but cried out and stopped. “Are you hurt?”

  Adam struggled to hold back the tears. He touched her shoulder. “I’m fine. Don’t try to move.”

  “How is . . . Piotr?”

  “He’s still unconscious,” Zygmunt said, “but the bleeding has stopped.”

  “That’s good . . . isn’t it?” she whispered in a raspy voice. “Can you . . . move me closer?”

  Slowly, with Zygmunt holding her shoulders and Adam her legs, they slid her a meter or two across the wooden floor, now sticky with congealed blood. Adam could feel her body jerk as she struggled to hold back her screams. She rested her head on Piotr’s chest, then took his right hand and placed it on her stomach. “It’s moving. Can you feel it?” she whispered to her husband in a barely audible voice before drifting off.

  Adam felt Piotr’s forehead. It was cold and clammy. The big man’s breathing was erratic.

  “I loosened the tourniquet every fifteen minutes or so, judging by the angle of the moonlight,” Zygmunt said quietly. “After a few hours, the bleeding had slowed enough to take it off. He was also shot in the side, just above the hip, when they attacked us in the wagon. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

  Adam nodded and caught Zygmunt’s eye in the gloom of the chapel, silently acknowledging his efforts. The Górale were incredibly self-sufficient, they had to be, but in this case it probably wouldn’t be enough. “What about Krystyna?”

  Zygmunt glanced at her, but Krystyna’s eyes were closed. “She was badly burned,” he whispered. “I’m afraid she’s going into shock. Infection will kill her if we don’t get help.”

  “Where are we?” Adam asked, but he thought he knew the answer as his senses started to kick back in—the hard wooden floor, a shaft of moonlight through an octagonal window. “The chapel?”

  “Yes. There’s just the four of us. They took Maria away.”

  Adam hadn’t known the third woman’s name, but he could imagine what Tarnov’s men did to her. He tried to stand, but a jolt of pain shot through his head. He felt nauseous again and leaned back against the stone wall. “How long have we been here?”

  “I’m not sure. Nine or ten hours at least.”

  “I’m sorry . . . it’s my fault, I shouldn’t have come.”

  Zygmunt shook his head. “They’d have killed us anyway. That’s the way they are.”

  Krystyna stirred and managed to turn her head toward the two men. “What document . . . is Tarnov . . . looking for?” she asked.

  The pain in her voice cut Adam to the quick. He touched her shoulder gently. “It has to do with . . .” He swallowed hard and continued. “It has to do with the murders of Polish officers back in 1940.”

  “Katyn?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tarnov was involved in that?”

  “Yes, he was.”

  She was quiet for a few minutes. Adam thought she might have drifted off again and leaned closer. In the moonlight he saw a tear trickling down her cheek. She blinked and their eyes met. “You’re not just a diplomat . . . are you?”

  Adam didn’t respond.

  “I saw how you . . . shot . . . those soldiers.” Krystyna reached up and brushed her fingers along his cheek. “I’m glad . . . you’re here now.” Then she closed her eyes again.

  Adam slumped back against the stone wall, sick to his stomach. He had the sudden urge to strangle someone. He’d never felt this helpless in his life. Krystyna was carrying Piotr’s child. Three days ago they were a young, happy couple who’d risked their lives for their country. They had been looking forward to peace and quiet, to raising a family in their simple mountain existence. Then I came along! This is my fault! Adam closed his eyes, clenching his fists, wishing with all of his soul for just three seconds alone with Tarnov.

  Several minutes passed as Adam leaned against the stone wall, forcing the rage to subside. It was Wednesday night, or more likely early Thursday morning. Natalia had said she’d wait until the middle of the week before coming to find him. But she wouldn’t come alone. They had discussed that. He had told her to use Kovalenko’s letter, or contact Whitehall, and he was certain that’s what she’d do. She was too smart, too well trained, to try anything foolish. She’d get help. Would she use her copy of Kovalenko’s letter and go to the Krakow police? Or would she contact Whitehall? Either way, Kovalenko would know that something had happened, and he’d take action.

  Unless they lied to me again.

  Adam pushed the doubts from his mind. It was too late to worry about that now. When he gave Natalia the copy of Kovalenko’s letter he’d made the decision to trust the Russian general. He sat quietly and listened for noises from outside. He couldn’t hear anything, but he was certain they were being guarded. Pressing both hands against his temples to ease the pain, he forced himself to keep thinking. The fact that Tarnov had locked them in the chapel instead of continuing to torture and kill the Górale villagers proved he was concerned about Kovalenko’s letter. Tarnov had to do something about that.

  Would he be able to track down Natalia?

  Another wave of nausea struck him, and Adam swallowed hard, wondering what else Jastremski might have told Tarnov under torture.

  The priest?

  Jastremski had said that everyt
hing flowed through the priest, so if Tarnov got to the priest . . .

  Adam massaged his temples again, trying to stay calm. Even if Tarnov learned about Natalia, it didn’t mean that he knew where she was. But Tarnov was desperate. He was going to do something, and Adam knew they had to get out of here before he returned.

  He glanced around in the shadowy darkness of the chapel. He remembered the structure from the night with Tytus when there’d been a lantern, and he realized an escape was wishful thinking. The building was about ten meters on a side and stoutly built, with a thick, wooden floor, no cellar, and solid stone walls. The single octagonal window was high in the peak of the roof and, at any rate, too small to crawl through. And there were NKVD rifleman outside.

  After a moment Zygmunt said, “They’ll be expecting me back in Prochowa.”

  Adam turned toward him.

  “My horse was tied behind the wagon,” Zygmunt continued. “I told Casimir that I would head back at first light today. If I don’t return by noon he’ll know something’s happened. They’ll come looking for us.”

  Fifty-Four

  21 JUNE

  ON THURSDAY MORNING Rabbit sat at the small table in the caretaker’s quarters and carefully spread marmalade on his third slice of black bread. He hadn’t eaten this well in months, and he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had marmalade. The living quarters, which adjoined the caretaker’s workshop in the lower level of the Church of Archangel Michael and Saint Stanislaus, consisted of the kitchen, a small sitting room, bedroom and a bathroom. Rabbit had spent the last two nights on the sofa in the sitting room, which was the most comfortable place he’d slept since the NKVD raided the safe house in Lodz.

  He’d had nightmares about that terrifying incident almost every night since it happened, and it was something he wondered about now as he finished the thick, chewy piece of bread. During the entire two months of the Rising in Warsaw, he’d never had nightmares, not even after his friend Bobcat had been killed by the flamethrower in the sewer. That had been the most horrendous thing he’d ever experienced, and certainly he was a lot closer to Bobcat than he was to Zeeka or Hammer or the other AK operatives in Lodz. But there was something so evil about the Russian NKVD that even now he shivered as he thought about it.

  Leopold had been busy in the workshop, and at precisely eight o’clock he stepped into the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee. Just as he had done the day before, he spread marmalade on a slice of bread, put the coffee and the bread plate on a tray and left to deliver them to the priest, saying he’d be back in a few moments.

  Rabbit finished his breakfast, cleared off the table and went into the workshop where Leopold had set up several wood-framed window screens that needed scraping and painting. They had to meet Natalia at the wireless site at noon so there was no time to lose. Rabbit got right to work.

  Scraping the dried-out, flaking paint from the first screen, Rabbit thought about Natalia and her friend, who she said was off on “a mission.” She’d been vague about both the friend and the mission, and he wondered what could have been important enough to make her leave the safe house in Lodz. But he was glad she did. If she hadn’t, she’d be dead. Like Hammer. And Zeeka . . . He wouldn’t think about that.

  It was almost nine thirty when Rabbit finished scraping all the screens and was ready to start painting. He wondered where Leopold was. He needed the old man to show him which paint to use. The caretaker had said he’d be right back when he left to deliver the breakfast to the priest. That had been more than an hour ago.

  Rabbit stepped outside and walked around to the courtyard to check the gardens that surrounded the fountain, but Leopold wasn’t there. He climbed the winding stone steps that led to the main entrance of the church, but the doors were locked. Can he be doing some chore for the priest?

  Out of curiosity, Rabbit walked around to the other side of the church and the adjoining monastery. He stood off at a distance. It would be very out-of-place for him to enter the monastery, he thought. He had not met the priest—other than the few minutes he’d spent whispering into the confessional screen—and he certainly couldn’t just knock on the door and ask for Leopold.

  He decided to go back to the workshop and wait when something caught his eye. The arched wooden door of the monastery was ajar. And there was a black object on the ground next to the door. Rabbit took a few steps closer. It looked like a shoe.

  He took a few more steps, coming still closer.

  It was a man’s shoe: black leather and freshly polished. It certainly wasn’t Leopold’s. The caretaker had been wearing his work boots that morning. Rabbit picked up the shoe. The laces were still tied, and there were scuff marks on the heel and along one side.

  Rabbit suddenly dropped the shoe and spun around. He backed up against the wall of the monastery, his eyes scanning the courtyard.

  Nothing.

  He glanced down at the shoe again, then put his hand on the thick wooden door of the monastery and gave it a gentle push. The heavy door creaked on its hinges and swung inward, revealing an alcove.

  An image flashed through Rabbit’s mind of the knife he’d used to slice the bread that morning, and he wished it were in his hand right then. He stuck his head into the alcove. “Hel—” His voice caught. He coughed and tried again. “Hello?”

  He stepped into the alcove and knocked on the door to the priest’s private quarters.

  No response.

  He knocked again, but this door was also ajar and it swung inward a bit.

  Rabbit put a hand on the door and pushed it open. He took a step, stopped and listened. He took another step and found himself in a tidy, simply furnished parlor with two chairs on either side of a fireplace. On the other side of the room was an archway that led to what appeared to be a dining area. He grabbed the iron poker from the hearth and stepped across the wood-plank floor to the archway.

  He stopped and listened, but the only sound was his own breathing. He exhaled slowly and peeked around the archway.

  Two of the chairs were overturned, and Leopold lay in a pool of blood in the center of the room. His throat had been slit.

  Rabbit tightened his grip on the poker, his eyes darting around the room. Holding the poker in both hands, he stepped carefully around Leopold’s body and pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen.

  Nothing.

  He crossed the dining room, checked the bedroom and the toilet.

  There was no sign of the priest.

  Still gripping the poker, Rabbit slowly backed out of the priest’s quarters and through the alcove. He stood with his back against the thick, wooden door, looking around the courtyard, trying to comprehend what had happened.

  While he was scraping screens in the workshop on the other side of the church, someone killed Leopold. But why? And where was the priest? It was almost certainly the priest’s shoe Rabbit had found. Kicked off during a struggle? Did whoever killed Leopold, abduct the priest?

  Rabbit checked the courtyard one last time, then sprinted to the gate. He glanced down the long, walled street, then dropped the poker and walked away from the church without looking back.

  Twenty minutes later Rabbit found himself at the same pathway leading down to the Vistula River where he’d met Natalia after going to “confession” at the church on Tuesday. There was no one around, so he followed the path to the bench and sat down, staring out at the slow-moving water. Was it the NKVD? They’d been hunting for him ever since Natalia shot two of their agents three weeks ago. Did they follow him to Krakow and to the church?

  Did they get Natalia?

  Rabbit stood up and paced around. Something didn’t make sense. Why would they arrest the priest? And why didn’t they come into the caretaker’s quarters and get him? They killed Leopold, why not him?

  Then it dawned on him. They weren’t after him. Whoever it was came to arrest the priest. This had nothing to do with the NKVD agents Natalia shot. This was something else, and Leopold had gotten in the
way.

  He walked down to the riverbank and tossed a stone in the water, watching the ripples drift outward in ever-widening concentric circles. When he met Natalia after going to confession at the church on Tuesday, she had told him about her friend who was on some type of mission. She had instructed him to ask the priest about Jastremski. But it was obvious there was more to it than that. And whatever was going on, it was also obvious by what just happened that the whole thing was starting to fall apart.

  Rabbit walked back up the hill to the pathway and looked in both directions. A man on a bicycle rode past, and he could see other people strolling toward him from the direction of the castle. He couldn’t stay here. He wouldn’t be meeting Natalia at the wireless site until noon, and he had no idea where she was now. He needed to get lost for a couple of hours.

  Natalia paced around the tiny third-floor room, checking her watch every five minutes. She tried to sit and read the newspaper she’d picked up earlier that morning, but she found herself reading the same sentence over and over, with no idea what it said. The walls seemed to be closing in on her. She was frustrated and angry. She should have gone up to Nowy Targ yesterday, though she had no idea what she would have done once she got there.

  But something had gone terribly wrong; she was certain of it. And here she was, still in Krakow, waiting for a reply to her wireless message while Adam might be . . . She checked her watch again. Still two hours before she was to meet Leopold and Rabbit at the wireless site, but she had to get out of the room or she’d suffocate.