The Katyn Order (19 page)

By noon, a temporary command post was set up in the barely recognizable central square in Old Town. Nothing remained standing. The Royal Castle, home of Poland's royalty for three hundred years had been leveled, together with St. John's Cathedral, which had stood on the same site since the fourteenth century. The merchant houses and guild halls, the shops, cafés, art galleries and museums were reduced to piles of rubbish. The windblown, snow-covered streets were deserted and, save for a few stray dogs struggling through the snowdrifts, not a single sign of life remained.

Russian tanks, fitted with plows, had pushed back enough of the rubble to erect a headquarters tent. Diesel-powered generators and heaters were set up and a communications center established to serve notice that the Red Army was now in control of what little was left of Warsaw.

When General Kovalenko's car pulled up in front of the headquarters tent, two Red Army soldiers scrambled to attention and one opened the rear door. Kovalenko stepped out, glanced around quickly, then entered the tent. He handed his greatcoat to a soldier at the door and surveyed the cadre of officers scurrying around with messages and instructions for the regiments that were about to enter the wasteland of Warsaw.

Captain Andreyev sat at a table in the center of the tent studying a report. He stood up and saluted smartly.
“Dóbraye útra,
General,” Andreyev said loudly enough to stop all activity inside the tent. “Welcome to Warsaw.”

Kovalenko grunted and waved his hand, signaling everyone to carry on, then stepped over and tossed his hat on the table. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket.

Andreyev produced a lighter and lit the general's cigarette. “You have a visitor,” he said.

Kovalenko blew out a cloud of smoke and sat down at the head of the table. “A visitor? Here?”

Andreyev nodded. “An NKVD officer. Major Tarnov.”

“Tarnov? What the hell is
he
doing here?”

“He arrived first thing this morning in his own automobile, as soon as we crossed the river. Do you know him?”

Kovalenko thought back to a dreary, rainy night in Siberia in 1940. But Andreyev didn't need to know about that. At least, not yet. “I know the name, that's all. What does he want to do, hunt down rats in the sewers? There's nothing left.”

Andreyev shrugged. “He wouldn't say. Just insisted on talking with you as soon as you arrived.”

Kovalenko stood up. “Go get him. Let's find out what service we can provide for the secret police.”

Andreyev left the tent and returned a few minutes later accompanied by a short, stocky NKVD officer. Andreyev stood back as the officer stepped up to the table, saluted the general and said, “Major Dmitri Tarnov, NKVD 105th Frontier Guards Division.”

Kovalenko nodded without speaking.

Tarnov continued. “I have orders to detain and interview any terrorist insurgents of the AK held in your custody.”

Kovalenko studied the thick-necked NKVD officer, who obviously didn't recognize him from the incident in Siberia. Then he smiled, sat down and took a long drag on his cigarette. He didn't offer Tarnov a seat. “Well, Major Tarnov, did you look around when you arrived in Warsaw this morning? If you did, then you must have noticed that there is nothing left—no buildings, no churches, no houses. There's no fucking
people
left, Major, let alone
terrorist insurgents.”

Tarnov appeared unfazed. “We understand that several thousand AK terrorists escaped from the German Wehrmacht at the time the city was evacuated. I have orders to—”

Kovalenko cut him off with a wave of his hand and addressed Captain Andreyev. “Captain, please explain to our guest what we know about the fate of the AK in Warsaw.”

Andreyev stepped up to the table. “Of course, you realize, Major Tarnov, that the Red Army was not present in Warsaw at the time of the evacuation. However, we understand that more than ten thousand members of the AK surrendered to the Wehrmacht and were subsequently sent to POW camps in Germany.”

Tarnov nodded impatiently. “Da, we have the same intelligence, Captain. But we also know that there were several thousand more AK insurgents who slipped through, blended in with the civilians and escaped. What can you tell me about—?”

Kovalenko cut him off again. “We don't know anything about them, Major Tarnov. They could be anywhere. Now, unless there's anything else, we are quite busy this morning.”

Tarnov withdrew an envelope from a leather folder and laid it on the table. “As a matter of fact, General Kovalenko, there
is
something else. I have further orders. And these orders come directly from Commissar Beria.”

Kovalenko leaned back in his chair. “That's very interesting, Major. What orders do you have from the Commissar of the NKVD that brings you here to Warsaw—other than hunting for the remnants of a defeated nation's Home Army?”

“These orders do not concern Warsaw or the AK, General Kovalenko. These orders require that you provide me with safe passage to Krakow immediately.”

Kovalenko ignored the envelope. “You want safe passage to Krakow? What the hell for?”

“I am not at liberty to answer that, General. I am on official NKVD business, and it is imperative that I get to Krakow and the former German headquarters at Wawel Castle immediately.”

Kovalenko took another drag on his cigarette.
What's so important at Wawel Castle?

Tarnov persisted. “You
are
moving on to Krakow, are you not, General? Our information is that—”

Kovalenko abruptly ground out the cigarette in an ashtray. Then he shoved his chair back and stood up, towering over the NKVD officer. “
Da,
Major Tarnov. We are heading on to Krakow. The Germans are retreating, and we will be moving into Krakow within the next few days.”

“My orders require me to get to Krakow immediately, General. I must request that—”

“Goddamn it, Major, are you deaf? I don't give a shit what orders you have. The Germans are retreating from Krakow now, as we speak. Red Army units will be moving in within the next few days.
That's
when you'll get to Krakow.”

Tarnov nodded. “Very well, General, I will pass that along to Commissar Beria.” He gestured toward the envelope. “If you'd care to inspect the orders?”

“I don't have time to inspect your orders, Major. Show them to Captain Andreyev on your way out.”

Three days later, the Red Army entered Krakow. For the second time in the war, the city had escaped major damage. The Germans had fled, and Krakow had been taken without a shot being fired.

General Andrei Kovalenko sat in the backseat of the GAZ-11 with Captain Andreyev as they drove along the narrow, cobblestone streets of the ancient city, the Mecca of Poland for a thousand years. They drove through the Rynek Glowny, Krakow's central market square dominated by the Baroque, fifteenth-century Mariacki Church and the colossal Renaissance façades of the Cloth Hall. They passed the City Hall Tower, proceeded south along Avenue Grodzka and up the hill to Wawel Castle.

In the auto right behind them was Major Dmitri Tarnov of the NKVD.

8 M
AY

S
TARTLED BY THE SOUND
of an approaching truck, Adam scrambled off the dirt road and crawled into the high grass. He lay flat, holding his breath. It was well past midnight, a dark night, and the Red Army soldiers in the truck were probably drunk. But that only made them more unpredictable and dangerous.

As the vehicle passed by, a bottle tossed casually from the back landed less than a meter away and broke, splashing the left side of his face and his left eye with vodka. Adam exhaled slowly but didn't move for several minutes, cursing himself for his lack of vigilance. Here on the Baltic coast, with the sea less than fifty meters away, the noise of the wind and surf made it difficult to hear anything. And he was tired, dog tired, but that was no excuse. The area was crawling with Red Army troops and NKVD agents, hunting down the AK. There was little margin for error.

He waited another minute then stood up slowly and glanced around in the darkness. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the liquid from the left side of his face. He could barely feel the cloth against his skin due to the numbness, a result of the bullet wound that had mangled his left ear and come within a centimeter of ending his life at Raczynski Palace the previous September. He'd also lost most of the hearing in that ear, which was probably why he hadn't heard the truck until it was almost too late. Another reason to remain vigilant, he thought, cursing again.

He stepped back on the road and continued on, looking back over his shoulder every few paces. He knew from the map he'd studied that the road ran along the crest of a high bluff, which descended down sandy cliffs to the sea. There was no moon, and he found his way along the road by staying near the edge where the high grass rubbed against his leg. He kept his eye on the white foam of breaking waves on the beach below, which formed a half moon shape as it curved around a bay.

Adam trudged on, alternately glancing over his shoulder and down to the beach, until he was at the midpoint of the bay. He paused and listened to the crashing surf for a moment, then stepped off the road and walked carefully through the high grass to the edge of the bluff.

Am I early?
He glanced at his watch but couldn't make out the numbers in the darkness. It had been close to midnight when he'd snuck around the outskirts of the seaside town of Ustka, staying clear of the marauding Red Army soldiers. He had followed the back routes and footpaths until he reached the coast road, and he guessed at least an hour had passed before he was surprised by the truck. That had been at least a quarter of an hour ago. The rendezvous was set for 0200. Not much longer.

Time passed. Adam knelt in the grass, staring into the blackness of the sea. Several times he thought he'd spotted a light and stood up, then nothing. The wind was stronger here, and the noise of the pounding surf enveloped him completely. With his spine tingling, he looked back toward the road every few minutes, making sure no one was sneaking up behind him.

He'd been on the move for seven days ever since receiving the message from London at an AK safe house in the Tuchola Forest. Seven days of plodding along muddy, rural roads on foot; in the back of ox carts; in ancient trucks owned by sympathetic peasants, who shared what little food they had. Seven days of avoiding the Red Army and, above all, the NKVD. But Adam was used to that part, he'd been a hunted man for years—first the Germans, now the Russians.

A flash, out at sea, slightly to his right.

He peered into the blackness. Nothing.

He waited.

Another flash, then a second. He was certain of it.

He glanced back toward the road, then slid down the sandy cliff on his butt, tumbling over at the bottom. He got to his knees and shook the sand from his woolen cap. He removed his glasses and wiped off the sand with his handkerchief, being careful with the cracked left lens. He put them back on and scanned the shoreline until he spotted several wooden pilings silhouetted against the foaming surf. That was the spot. He took one last glance at the top of the bluff then sprinted across the beach to the pilings.

Adam braced himself against one of the rough, wooden posts—the remains of a pier long since vanished—and stared in the direction where he'd last seen the flash. The spray soaked him instantly, the chill of the piercing wind driving straight through to his bones. Within minutes he was freezing and felt dizzy. The occasional dizzy spells were another result of the bullet wound last September. He'd had his thirty-fourth birthday two weeks ago, but on nights like this he felt twice his age. He clung tight to the post, shivering and waiting for the dizziness to pass.

He saw it again. Another flash.

What did the message say? Three quick flashes? Answer with two flashes?

Adam reached into his pocket for the flashlight he'd taken from the AK safe house. His hand trembled from the cold as he held it and fumbled for the switch. He flicked it on and off twice, wondering if it were strong enough.

Then he glanced back at the bluff again.
Goddamn it!

Headlights bounced along the coast road.

He turned back toward the sea and was startled when he saw the light almost on top of him. Then, out of the gloom, the shape of a boat appeared, its rounded bow rising and falling in the surf. He flicked the flashlight again, twice, as the boat swept ashore.

Two figures emerged, one holding a line, the other racing toward him. He was a large, husky man, wearing a black rubber suit, his pistol drawn. He shouted in English, “We are looking for Oskar!” The voice was deep and strong, the accent British, the words expected.

Adam shouted back, “Oskar has taken the train.”

A gunshot from the bluff—

The British marine fired back—

Then he grabbed Adam's arm. “Let's get out of here, chum. You're off to London.”

10 M
AY

T
HE HOTEL ROOM
in London was small but clean, with fresh sheets and a private bath. There were clean clothes in the bureau, a new suit in the closet and room service. Adam thought he'd died and gone to heaven.

The first day after his arrival, he had stumbled about in a fog. The entire journey seemed surreal, like something he might expect to see in the cinema—tough men in a rubber raft, a submarine, a small twin-engine plane. He'd been whisked to the hotel in a limousine with instructions to get some sleep and, in no uncertain terms, to stay put.

By the afternoon of the second day, Adam was restless. He wore clean clothes for the first time in many months. The food was good, the best he'd had in years, and more than he could possibly eat. Apparently his hosts had special connections. He couldn't imagine that even Londoners ate this good in wartime.