The Katyn Order (46 page)

“What if I do?”

“If you do then you'll know that he met a man named Wolf last Friday.”

Again, he didn't answer.

Natalia leaned forward. “This is important. The man called Wolf is an American who fought with the AK in Warsaw. He needed to make contact with the Górale. We think he may have run into trouble, and we need to find him.”

The blond man grunted. “You're AK, and you're running around with a fucking Russian. How stupid do you think I am?”

Andreyev broke in, his tone of voice sharp and authoritarian. “Have you seen any other Russians around here in the past few days?”

The man hesitated.

“If you did, they were probably NKVD. If they find Wolf before we do, they'll not only kill
him,
but they'll also kill every one of the Górale that Tytus took him to meet.” Andreyev paused and then added, “And after that, they'll come for you.”

“They're going to come for all of us sooner or later,” the man said. He was silent for another moment, his eyes flicking back and forth between Andreyev and Natalia. “Yes, I know Tytus met a man called Wolf,” he said finally. “He took him to a chapel farther up the mountain where they made contact with the Górale. Tytus left him there and came back the next day.”

“Have you seen any Russians around here?” Andreyev repeated impatiently.

“Hell, all the time. Red Army hooligans, usually drunk and looking for trouble. We're with the local militia, and they like to push us around.”

“What about NKVD?”

The blond man tilted his head toward the bar. “Tell him, Jacek.”

The man named Jacek spoke up, but stayed firmly planted on the bar stool. “It was early yesterday morning, before dawn, a group of NKVD riflemen and a man in a black trench coat. They headed farther up the mountain.”

“How did they know where to go?” Andreyev asked.

A sudden emotion passed over the blond man's face. He grimaced. “They took Tytus with them—after they murdered his wife.”

Natalia slapped her hand on the table. “Jesus Christ! It's Tarnov! We've got to get up there. Now!”

Andreyev pushed his chair back slightly, and put both hands on the table. They were empty. “Is there anything else we should know?” he asked the blond man.

The man looked down at Andreyev's hands and smiled. “The one in the black trench coat drove back into town yesterday evening,” he said, “along with two of the riflemen. They went to the bus station and forced the manager to open all the lockers. Then they headed back toward Krakow.”

Natalia's stomach lurched. “Shit!”

On Thursday evening Tarnov had dinner alone at a restaurant just off the Rynek Glowny in Krakow's Stare Miasto District. It was located on the ground floor of a small hotel whose name he couldn't pronounce, a small, simply decorated establishment that he'd frequented with Hans Frank back in the days when the Russians and Germans were allies. Frank had always enjoyed Krakow, Tarnov recalled, thought it was a magnificent city, filled with glorious Medieval treasures and rich history.
The man was a fool.

Tarnov tossed back his glass of vodka and poured another from the bottle the waiter had left on the table. How could he have trusted a lunatic like Frank with the only copy of Stalin's Katyn Order? He thought back to the previous evening. Of course, the order wasn't in a locker at the Nowy Targ bus station. He wasn't surprised. He had suspected Nowak was lying, but he couldn't waste any more time. He'd had to take care of the Kovalenko business. But Nowak and those Górale sheepherders would pay dearly for their sins, and Tarnov knew he'd get what he wanted, one way or the other.

His dinner arrived, the house specialty, a fried pork cutlet in thick sauce with a potato pancake. Tarnov sighed, forcing himself to relax. It was too late to drive all the way back tonight. Nowak was secure for the moment, locked in the mountain chapel under heavy guard. And now, with Kovalenko out of the way, he'd be able to operate without interference. But first, there was one last issue to deal with.

When Tarnov finished, he lit a cigar and sipped cognac, occasionally glancing at the hand-carved clock on the fireplace mantel. A bit later his aide, a young and eager NKVD lieutenant named Resnikov entered the restaurant. Resnikov had committed more than a few “indiscretions” over the years, particularly with young boys. Tarnov had protected him from the do-gooders within the NKVD, and Resnikov was grateful. He could be trusted.

Resnikov removed his hat and stood at the table until Tarnov acknowledged him and gestured for him to sit.

“Well?” Tarnov asked, setting his cognac snifter on the table.

Lieutenant Resnikov hesitated. “I haven't found anyone, sir.”

“Damn it!” Tarnov snapped. “I
know
there's someone out there, Lieutenant. Someone who has the other copy of Kovalenko's letter.”

Resnikov was silent, his eyes dropping to the table. After a moment he cleared his throat.
“Prastítye,
but with the general's death . . . does it matter?”

Tarnov glared at the young officer. “We can't take any chances. Whoever it is could still cause a problem.”

Resnikov sat up straight. “Give me an order, sir.”

Tarnov tapped his fingers on the cognac snifter. “Let's go over this again. When that librarian, Jastremski, revealed where Ludwik Banach went, he gave up Adam Nowak's name . . . his ‘visitor' at the library.”

The lieutenant nodded. “He couldn't stand to see his wife tortured.”

“And when you interrogated him a second time, he gave you the name of the priest, his contact in the smuggling operation.”

“
Da.”

“But when you interrogated the priest earlier today, he didn't provide any new names?”

“
Nyet.”

Tarnov continued to tap his fingers on the glass. The priest didn't have the copy of the Katyn Order. They'd already torn apart his quarters at the monastery and found nothing.
There has to be someone else, someone the priest was working with.

“The priest is still alive,” Resnikov offered, “though he's in pretty tough shape.”

Tarnov finished off his cognac and pushed his chair back. “Then go at him again, right now, until he gives you a name.”

21 J
UNE

T
HEY SLIPPED QUIETLY
through the forest, their moccasin-covered feet making barely any sound at all. It was approaching dusk on Thursday evening, and there were eight of them, the best of the Górale hunters in Prochowa. Three were armed with shotguns, the others carried their own hand-fashioned
ciupagas.
They moved quickly with an unspoken communication born of years in the wilds of the Tatra Mountains.

Casimir held up a hand, and the band of hunters stopped, melting silently into the trees. He caught the acrid odor of charred wood on the breeze and instantly knew what had happened. He made eye contact with Mikolai, his second-in-command. It was all that was necessary, and Mikolai disappeared, continuing on down the mountain in silent reconnaissance.

In less than a half hour Mikolai returned from the other direction, knelt next to Casimir and whispered, “Piotr's house is destroyed. The other two are intact.”

Casimir held his breath as Mikolai gave him the rest of the report. Piotr's neighbors had been shot, their bodies still lying in the grassy area between the cabins. Both of their wives were dead, one badly burned and shot through the head, the other one raped and stabbed. Mikolai had found her body inside one of the cabins. Piotr, Krystyna and Zygmunt were missing. “I also counted the bodies of eight NKVD riflemen, most of them shot in the head,” he said.

Casimir closed his eyes and breathed slowly, visualizing what must have happened. Then he looked at Mikolai. “The American?”

“Since he was on horseback, he must've arrived first and seen the fire. He probably shot the riflemen.”

“Then he must be with Piotr and the others,” Casimir said. “They're being held somewhere until this NKVD agent, Tarnov, gets what he's after.”

Mikolai's eyes narrowed. “The chapel.”

The blond man's name was Karol, and he and his militia comrade, Jacek, agreed to guide Natalia, Andreyev and Rabbit up the mountain, as far as the chapel. “The chapel's been there as long as anyone can remember,” Karol said as they bumped along the gravel road, all jammed into the GAZ-11. “It's used as a safe house, a way to send signals to the AK contact among the Górale.”

“You're AK?” Natalia asked.

“No. Tytus is the only one left. Russians took care of the rest.” He shot a quick glance at Andreyev. The Russian captain sat in the front passenger seat with his eye on Jacek, who was driving. Andreyev ignored the comment. “But I know where the chapel is,” Karol went on, “and Tytus told me what the signal was some time ago. Just in case. We can only drive partway. Then we have to walk.”

It was after dark when they arrived at a point where the gravel road turned to the left and headed back down the mountain. Jacek pulled the GAZ to the side of the road and shut off the engine.

Karol took the lead, and the group set off up the mountain, following a narrow pathway that dropped off sharply into a ditch. Rabbit followed behind Karol with a bounce in his step, clearly enjoying the adventure. Jacek was third, then Natalia. Andreyev brought up the rear.

The path wound through thick stands of conifers. Though it was dark, the moon was rising, and Natalia could make out Jacek's shadow in front of her. The underbrush tickled her fingers, and it was deathly quiet save for the muted thump of their footsteps on the dirt path.

They had trudged along for about ten minutes when Natalia heard an owl hoot off to her right. A moment later there was a second hoot, from her left.

A sudden flash of movement.

Jacek's shadow disappeared.

Natalia stopped, but before she could turn her head, a hand clamped tightly across her mouth. Another hand grabbed her elbow, and in an instant she was on the ground being dragged off the path and through the underbrush. She struggled, kicking her legs, but it did no good. Her assailant was too strong.

Then he stopped. Terrified and barely able to breathe, Natalia looked up. The moonlight was brighter, and she could tell they were in a clearing. A shadowy figure crouched in front of her. It was a man with long hair flowing from beneath a wide-brimmed hat. He held something in his hand that looked like a long pole with an axe head on the end. Natalia remembered reading about the strange weapons in school. She was amazed they still used them. Slowly the man lowered his hand from her mouth but maintained his grip on her elbow. He raised his forefinger to his lips.

A moment later the underbrush rustled, and another man with long hair and a wide-brimmed hat suddenly appeared, dragging Rabbit. The boy kicked furiously and shook his head back and forth. The man stopped and put a knee on the boy's chest. Still struggling, Rabbit turned his head and caught Natalia's eye. Even in the moonlight she could see the fury in his eyes.

The man gripping Natalia's arm leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Tell the boy to settle down.” He spoke Polish, but his accent was strange.

She turned to Rabbit and whispered. “It's OK. Just . . . do as they say.”

Rabbit glared at her defiantly. But a moment later he gave in.

Another man stepped into the clearing and knelt down in front of Natalia. This one also carried a
ciupaga,
but he was older, with leathery skin and white hair. “If I let you sit up, you must promise not to make a sound,” he said.

Natalia nodded.

The older man motioned to Natalia's assailant who released her elbow. Natalia sat up.

“Who are you? And what are you doing here?” The older man asked.

“Who are
you?”
Natalia shot back. “Where's the rest of our group?”

For an instant he looked amused, but his expression changed quickly, becoming serious. His eyes were dark, black pits. “My name is Casimir. And the rest of your group is unharmed . . . for the moment. Now answer my question.”

These were obviously Górale, and Natalia felt a glimmer of hope. “I'm looking for Wolf,” she said.

He frowned.

Goddamn it, is he using his real name?
“Adam Nowak,” she said quickly. “I'm Adam's friend, Natalia. He came up here last week, searching for his uncle, Ludwik Banach. Have you seen him?”

Casimir studied her, his expression now curious. “And you and your friends just barged in here, stumbling in the dark, hoping to find him?”

Natalia felt her face flush, and she struggled to control her impatience.
I'm so close, so damned close!
“Yes, that's exactly what we're doing. Now, please tell me. Have you seen him?”

Casimir stood, held out his hand and helped her to her feet. The Górale hunter holding onto Rabbit did the same. “I've met your friend, Adam Nowak,” Casimir said. “He was ambushed by the NKVD yesterday. We believe your friend and a few of our people are locked in the chapel—which at the moment is heavily guarded by riflemen.”

He paused at a rustling in the underbrush. A moment later Karol, Jacek and a very disgusted looking Andreyev were pushed into the clearing by three Górale hunters carrying shotguns.

One of the hunters shoved Andreyev a step forward. “This one's Russian,” he said to Casimir. “The other two are friends of Tytus.”

Casimir stepped up to Andreyev. “Are you NKVD?”

“No,” Andreyev replied curtly.

“Who sent you here?”

“He's a friend,” Natalia said. “He's helping us.”

Casimir kept his eyes on Andreyev. “We found Tytus' body in the forest on the other side of the chapel.”

“We had nothing to do with that,” Andreyev said.