The Katyn Order (31 page)

“Me.”

“Yes, you. Kovalenko agreed with the arrangement. The plan was to bring you here to Germany as part of the war crimes team. That was your cover so you could operate freely between Kovalenko and me.”

“But the visit to Sachsenhausen?”

Whitehall sighed. “Just a little something extra—an enticement, so you'd be sure to accept the mission. We knew how you felt about your uncle. Kovalenko agreed to set it up. I couldn't tell you up front because Kovalenko insisted on meeting you face-to-face before we went any further. He's very cautious.”

Adam looked out beyond the terrace at the neatly manicured lawn, one of the few in the area being maintained. Then he turned toward Whitehall. “So, all of this about the Polish Government-in-Exile wanting to know what happened to Banach: Another of your
deceptions?”

“It seemed harmless at the time.”

Adam shook his head. “Yes, harmless—until I found out about Banach and Hans Frank.”

Dinner was an elaborate affair, served in a cavernous dining room of heavy beams, walnut panels and brass wall sconces. The four-meter long, highly polished oak table was set for four with heavy white china and gold-plated flatware. At one end of the room was a two-meter-high fieldstone fireplace with an enormous elk head over the mantel, and at the other end, a magnificent, gleaming black, Steinway grand piano.

Kovalenko presided over the group with a flourish, popping the cork of a twelve-year-old Mercier Brut to get things started, followed by an elegant white Bordeaux with the first course of salmon and white asparagus. “Tonight, gentlemen, we'll have none of that German cough syrup they serve at the Adlon,” the general proclaimed. Then, glancing at Adam he added, “I apologize for not being a better host when we first met, Mr. Nowak. The sauerbraten was little more than shoe leather.”

Even now, Adam thought, in the private company of Andreyev and Whitehall, the great general would not acknowledge their meeting in Warsaw. The meeting that ended in lies. “Well, I've never thought much of German food, General,” he said. “They seem more adept at starting wars than cooking.”

Kovalenko laughed heartily and slapped his hand on the table. “Well said, Mr. Nowak. Stanley, I'm sure you would agree with our American friend, wouldn't you? Even what passes for food in London is better than dumplings the size of hand grenades swimming in brown gravy.”

Whitehall set his fork down and touched the linen napkin to his lips. “My dear friend, I must say I'm surprised to hear you disparage the food in Britain. You always seemed to devour the fish and chips—and the Boddington ale.”

This time it was Andreyev who laughed, then quickly looked down at his plate and finished off the last of his salmon.

Kovalenko, who'd already finished, set his knife and fork on the plate. “You seem in a jovial mood this evening, Captain. Perhaps you could entertain us with a tune on the piano?”

“You play the piano?” Adam remarked.

Andreyev shrugged. “Yes, a bit.”

Whitehall chimed in. “The captain is being far too modest, Adam. I've heard him before. He's quite accomplished.”

Kovalenko pushed his chair back and lit a cigarette as Andreyev stepped over to the grand piano. “Yes, he is quite good . . . except for that disgraceful American jazz he seems to like. Bad habits he picked up when he lived there.”

“So, you spent time in the states?” Adam asked Andreyev, having suspected it given Andreyev's excellent English. “Where did you live?”

“Washington, DC. My father was a military envoy to the U.S. He was stationed there in the early thirties. I attended Georgetown University,” Andreyev added with another little shrug.

“The captain's family descends from aristocracy,” Kovalenko remarked with a hint of sarcasm. “But they became loyal Bolsheviks when it was the prudent thing to do.”

Andreyev took a seat at the piano with a sardonic smile, then, with a groan from the general, launched into a spirited rendition of Duke Ellington's “Don't Get Around Much Anymore.” When Andreyev finished, Kovalenko thrust his hands in the air as though surrendering while Whitehall and Adam applauded with enthusiasm.

Andreyev adjusted his eye patch and looked at Adam. “Perhaps a little something in honor of your birth country, Mr. Nowak?”

Adam sat back in astonishment as the Russian captain performed a brilliant interpretation of Chopin's Nocturne no. 2. Andreyev captured with incredible grace and style the essence of the nocturne's reflective mood, gradually becoming more passionate until, near the end, he executed a stunning trill-like passage that tapered off into a calm finish.

The group was silent as Andreyev stepped back to the table and took his seat. Adam watched Kovalenko as the burly, gray-haired general cleared his throat. Then with a softness in his eyes Adam had not seen before, he nodded at Andreyev and refilled the captain's wine glass.
This is the same man who lied to me and watched Warsaw burn? We played Chopin in Warsaw, you son of a bitch, and you sat on your ass while the Nazis destroyed us.
Adam shook his head, unable to comprehend the nature of men that allowed them to appreciate fine music one moment and act as deceitful manipulators the next.

But Kovalenko recovered quickly, standing up and striding over to the sideboard where a dozen bottles of wine were lined up. “How about our second course?” he announced loudly, and the butler appeared an instant later. Kovalenko uncorked a refreshing Sancerre, and the sumptuous meal proceeded with lemon sherbet, followed by thinly sliced veal, acorn squash and two bottles of Chateauneuf du Pape '38.

After dinner they adjourned to the terrace with cigars and cognac. Despite the good-humored spirit of the evening, Adam was still edgy in the presence of the Russians. He remembered what Natalia had told him about the Russians burning her village; about the disappearance of her parents, relatives and friends; about her brother, most likely among the thousands of Polish officers murdered at Katyn and dumped into a ditch. He took a sip of cognac and watched Kovalenko and Andreyev, who were bantering easily with Whitehall. Despite his prejudice against Russians, Adam found himself rather liking Andreyev, feeling some connection with him. He decided he'd better be cautious about that.

Halfway through his second cognac, Kovalenko finally came to the point of the evening. “Gentlemen, I suggest we address the issue that brings us here tonight. I asked Captain Andreyev to see if he could find out what our NKVD friend, Dmitri Tarnov, was up to the last few years. It seems he found a rather—shall we say—
intimate
source.”

Andreyev set down his glass and leaned forward. “She's a German woman who followed Tarnov around for a few years until he tired of her. Hans Frank introduced them.”

“Frank?” Whitehall exclaimed. “Tarnov had dealings with that monster?”

“A
lot
of dealings,” Andreyev said. “From '39 to '41—while Germany and Russia were allies—Tarnov traveled to Krakow on a regular basis, collaborating with Frank on the plunder of Poland. What the woman told me the other night, however, was new information.”

Adam and Whitehall exchanged glances. Kovalenko reclined in his chair, puffing on his cigar.

Andreyev continued. “As you can imagine, contact between Tarnov and Frank stopped after Germany invaded Russia in June of '41. Tarnov returned to Moscow and took the woman with him. However, a year and a half later, in the fall of 1942, when it looked as if Germany might win, Tarnov made a secret trip to Krakow.”

Adam stared at the Russian captain in disbelief. “How the hell did he manage that?”

Andreyev smiled. “The woman said it was pretty complicated, a lot of stops at out-of-the way places and—”

“Bloody hell! He took her along?” Whitehall blurted.

Kovalenko roared with laughter. “That's my favorite part. The son of a bitch apparently couldn't get along without her. And then he was stupid enough not to shoot her when he finally dumped her.”

“What happened in Krakow?” Adam asked.

“According to the woman, Tarnov carried a briefcase that he never let out of his sight the entire trip,” Andreyev said. “She told me that one evening they were invited to Frank's private quarters at Wawel Castle. Only the three of them were present, and late in the evening, after dinner and quite a few drinks, she recalled Tarnov removing a file folder from the briefcase and handing it to Frank. She asked him about it later when they were alone, and Tarnov said it was a secret document about Poland that very few people knew existed. She claimed Tarnov was always boasting about his connections and his access to high-level orders.”

“He cut a deal to save his own skin,” Whitehall muttered.

“Exactly right! The fucking traitor!” Kovalenko snapped, glaring at the other three. “And what do you suppose that document was? What do you think he gave to Frank in exchange for his personal safety if Germany defeated us?”

The group was silent as the question hung in the air.

Whitehall finally spoke up. “General, now might be a good time to tell Adam what you know about Tarnov.”

Kovalenko turned to Adam. “You don't know whether to trust me or not, do you, Mr. Nowak.”

Adam looked him in the eye. “No, General, I don't.”

“Fair enough, at least you're honest. Well, you can trust me on this. Dmitri Tarnov carried out the murders at Katyn. He did it to curry favor with Commissar Beria, who happens to be his second cousin. But it didn't work out the way Tarnov had hoped. After it was all over, Beria cut him loose, and Tarnov's dream of a high-ranking position in the NKVD never materialized.”

Regardless of what Adam thought of Kovalenko's trustworthiness, there was a look in the general's eyes that left no doubt what he had just said was true. “Is there any proof?” Adam asked.

“Tarnov wasn't acting alone, of course. This atrocity was orchestrated at the highest levels of the NKVD. Something of this magnitude required an order—probably signed by Stalin himself and the other members of the Politburo.”

Adam turned to Captain Andreyev. “You think that's what was in the briefcase? Wouldn't an order like that be top secret and securely locked away in the Kremlin?”

“Perhaps someone made a copy.” Whitehall chimed in. He addressed Kovalenko: “Tarnov's woman-friend said he was always boasting about his connections. As a relative of Beria's he'd know certain people, he'd have access to things normally above his station, wouldn't you say, General?”

Kovalenko nodded. “It's possible.”

Adam absently rubbed the numb, razor-thin scar on the side of his face. “Are you suggesting that Tarnov gave a copy of the Katyn Order to Hans Frank? Why would he do that? He's NKVD. That would be committing suicide.”

“Not if he thought the Germans would win,” Andreyev said.

“Of course!” Whitehall exclaimed. “It makes perfect sense. When the graves at Katyn were discovered, Germany and Russia blamed each other for the murders. Think of the leverage Hans Frank would have had with Hitler if he possessed actual proof that the NKVD conducted the massacre. They were prisoners of war—
officers,
mind you—murdered in cold blood. Tarnov gave a copy of the Katyn Order to Frank in return for his protection if Germany won the war.”

“But Frank never used the information,” Adam said.

“No, he didn't,” Andreyev responded. “Frank's window of opportunity closed a few months later, when the tide turned and we had the Wehrmacht on the run.”

Whitehall nodded. “Quite right, by then Frank would have been preoccupied with saving his own neck—and avoiding capture by the Russians. He couldn't have risked any connection with that order.”

“So, what did he do with it?” Andreyev asked.

“Obviously, no one knows,” Whitehall said, “not even Tarnov, who must be desperate to get it back.”

“Wait a minute,” Adam cut in. “We're all just speculating here. The woman just said that Tarnov gave Frank a document. We don't know for sure what it actually was.”

Kovalenko, who had been silent for the last few minutes, took two long strides to the round wicker table and grabbed the bottle of cognac to pour another drink. Waving the bottle in the air he glared at the group. “Six months ago Tarnov tore apart Hans Frank's headquarters at Wawel Castle looking for something. And now, since this revelation about Ludwik Banach and Hans Frank, he's ordered that all of Frank's records be sealed, as though he's terrified there's something he missed. He's obsessed with trying to find something, and I think we all know what it is.” Kovalenko filled his glass and stepped over to Adam, holding out the bottle. “You'd better have another drink, Mr. Nowak, because Dmitri Tarnov hasn't yet found what he's searching for . . . and now he's going after your uncle.”

12 J
UNE

T
HE NEXT DAY
, Adam was summoned back to the estate in Grunewald. It was chilly and overcast, with occasional drizzling rain, a dreary day that matched Adam's mood. He hadn't slept well, and not just because of recurring dreams of wide-eyed corpses. Listening to Andreyev play Chopin had re-opened all the wounds of the Warsaw Rising: the hundreds of AK commandos who lost their lives, the tens of thousands of innocent civilians killed and maimed, the churches and monuments, the history, the culture of a great city . . . all destroyed.

And the conversation after last night's dinner had also gnawed at him all night. Could there actually be a document, a written order, authorizing the secret murder of thousands of Polish officers? And could Tarnov have managed to obtain a copy of that order and given it to Hans Frank? If that were all true, then Dmitri Tarnov was far more desperate—and far more dangerous—than Adam had imagined.

Whitehall was waiting for him in the drawing room, dressed casually in gray flannel slacks and a black cardigan sweater. But the butler still wore a tuxedo as he efficiently served coffee and produced a tray of biscuits and jam. When he left the room, Whitehall said, “We've received a message from your contact in Krakow.”