The Katyn Order (37 page)

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.

16 J
UNE

D
MITRI
T
ARNOV 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 shoved 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!”

17 J
UNE

A
CTIVITY AT THE
K
OMMANDATURA
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.”

Kovalenko sat across from Whitehall on one of the two leather settees in front of his desk while Captain Andreyev produced a bottle of vodka and three glasses from a cabinet. “So, Adam Nowak is off to Poland?”

“That he is,” Whitehall replied. “A bit skeptical perhaps. I can never tell if he trusts me or not.”

The general roared with laughter and slapped Whitehall's knee. “You're SOE, Stanley.
No one
should trust you!” He raised his glass and added, “No one except
me,
of course.” He downed the vodka in one gulp and turned to Andreyev. “Tell Stanley what we know about Dmitri Tarnov.”

Andreyev finished his drink and set the glass on the table. “We've confirmed that Tarnov left Berlin by train several days ago. No one at the NKVD is saying anything. They clam up whenever Tarnov's name is mentioned. But we're certain he went to Krakow.”

“He's gone rogue,” Kovalenko said. “He's out there on his own on this, probably with a group of thugs he's got something on and knows he can trust. But he's not working within official NKVD channels.”

“He can get away with that?” Whitehall asked.