The Katyn Order (5 page)

Then what? The Russians weren't coming in to help. That much Natalia knew for certain. Where she grew up, danger had always come from the monster to the east. She inhaled the stale cigarette smoke deeply and thought about her brother, Michal, and the one letter she'd received, sent from a Russian prison camp somewhere near Smolensk. Most of the words had been crossed out with thick black ink, but he had said he was being well-treated and would be home soon. That had been five years ago. Natalia took a last drag on the cigarette then grimaced and ground it out. If there was a force on earth more evil than Hitler's Germany, it was Stalin's Russia and his secret police, the NKVD.

A drink, she needed a drink to clear her head. She took a bottle of vodka from one of the brightly painted, green-and-yellow cabinets on either side of the sink, poured some in a glass and swallowed it. She poured another, carried it back to the table and sat down, looking out the window again.

Gradually, her thoughts turned to the AK commando standing off by himself during last night's briefing, the same one she and Rabbit had encountered in the hospital square that day—the sharpshooter. The man they called Wolf.

Natalia had heard about him. She'd heard he was an American, trained by the British and dropped into Poland years ago. Perhaps it was just a myth, or a rumor: things like that were rampant among the operatives of the AK. But it could be true. There were some like him, she knew, covert agents trained as assassins and dropped behind the lines with instructions to kill high-level German officers. They were highly skilled and deadly, with no identity, no background—and nothing to lose.

Another burst of artillery jarred her back to the moment, and Natalia flinched at a shadow in the doorway.

Berta stepped into the kitchen and whispered, “Sorry if I startled you. I couldn't sleep. Apparently you couldn't either.”

“Oh, I'm fine, just a little restless. But you were snoring up a storm when I left the room.”

“The damn artillery fire woke me. Christ, sometimes I have this dream that one of those screaming cows lands right in my bed. Probably be as good a way to go as any, I guess.”

Natalia took a deep breath and held up the glass of vodka. “Maybe this will help. Want one?”

“No, if I get started I'm not going to want to stop. I'll save it for your birthday party.”

Natalia smiled but felt a sudden twinge in her stomach. Her birthday was a week away, and she would turn twenty-nine. She wondered if she would live to see thirty.

“You didn't go with Falcon last night?” Berta asked with a shiver and grabbed her coat from the hook.

“He was drunk again, and I don't need that.”

“Getting a bit tired of him are you?”

“I don't know . . . maybe . . . it's getting annoying. He's way too possessive, like I'm a piece of his property.”

“Well, if you decide to dump him, let me know. I could use a good roll in the hay right now.” Berta sat down and dropped her elbows on the table with a heavy sigh. She was several years older than Natalia, with gray streaks running through her short brown hair. She had been a dispatcher for the railway during the time when Natalia was making her courier runs from Krakow to Warsaw.

“It looks like I'm losing my ‘cocktail chucker,'” Natalia said, changing the subject.

“Rabbit?”

“He's being reassigned to sewer duty. It was announced at the briefing. You weren't there.”

“I was exhausted,” Berta said. “Besides, sometimes I feel better not knowing too much.”

“Hah, you
always
want to know what's going on.”

“I used to . . . in the days when there were just a few of us making decisions, running our own show, like we did during those years on the railway.”

Natalia nodded. “You ran a good operation then, Berta. I learned a lot from you.”

Berta shrugged and sat back in the chair. “You always knew what you were doing. I just covered your tracks once in a while when you took a few too many chances.”

“Or when I was just plain stupid, like the time I ordered the Gestapo agent off the train because he didn't have a ticket.”

Berta laughed but caught herself, trying not to wake the others. “Christ, I'd almost forgotten about that. He wanted to have your head on a platter, bitched and carried on like a madman.”

“Well, he also didn't have his ID, claimed he'd left his wallet at home, so I didn't know who he was. Just another arrogant ass who spoke German.”

“And there were plenty of those characters around.”

“Didn't you give him a bottle of cognac or something to calm him down?”

“Not just a bottle—a whole damn
case.
I offered him a bottle, but the greedy son of a bitch followed me into the store room and spotted the case. The station manager almost had
my
head on a platter when he found out. It was his own private stock.” Then, still chuckling, Berta leaned over the table and said, “And what about the time the SS cleared the whole train just before you were due to leave Krakow because they were convinced there was a smuggler on board.”

“Oh God, that's right. I remember they searched every one of the passengers and tore through every piece of luggage.”

“And all the time you were standing right there with stolen documents hidden in your conductor's pouch.”

Natalia's neck tingled as she recalled the incident. “To this day I remember being absolutely terrified that I'd wet my pants.” She paused and was silent for a long moment. She put her hands up to her face, covering her eyes, remembering that day.

Berta touched her arm. “What is it? Something wrong?”

Natalia sat still, looking at Berta, trying to decide. Finally she said quietly, “There's something else . . . something I never told anyone . . . something that happened later that day.”

“When, on the train?”

“Yes, just before we got to Warsaw. A man was walking toward me in the aisle of the first-class compartment, and just as we passed each other he suddenly stopped. He gripped my shoulder and whispered in my ear, ‘I know what's in the bag.'”

Berta flinched. “Good God, what did you do?”

“Nothing—I mean, not right then. I turned around, but he walked away very quickly and passed through into the next car. A few minutes later we were in the station. I was petrified because I really didn't know what he looked like. It all happened so fast, I never got a good look at him, and . . . I was afraid to get off the train. I was certain that he'd be there, waiting.”

“Did you meet your contact? Did you report it?”

“No. I said, I've never told anyone. Falcon was my contact—I guess I can tell you that now that it's all over. Anyway, we'd just started working together the week before. I was afraid that he . . . this man, whoever he was, I was afraid he'd see us.”

“So, what did you do?”

Natalia dropped her eyes. “I destroyed the documents.”

Berta was silent.

“I rushed into the toilet inside the station and closed myself in a stall. Then I took out the documents—there were only about a half dozen pages this time—and I tore them up into little pieces and flushed them down the toilet.”

“Did you ever see the man?”

“No. Not then, or ever again. It's almost like it never really happened, like I just imagined it.” She paused again, remembering the man whispering to her. She could almost feel his hand on her shoulder and his warm breath on her neck. “I didn't meet Falcon that day, just got on the train again for the run back to Krakow.”

“And you didn't tell anyone.”

“No, I was too . . . I don't know . . . ashamed, I guess. It was the only time I failed to complete an assignment and I just couldn't . . .”

Berta gazed at her for what seemed like an eternity. Then she took Natalia's hand. “You did the right thing.”

Natalia pulled her hand away, pushed back her chair and got to her feet. “No, I didn't. You wouldn't have done that, not destroyed the documents. I should have taken evasive action, circled around through the opposite door of the station, seeing if I could spot him again.”

“But you didn't know what he looked like. How would you have spotted him again? You did the right thing, and it's exactly what I would've done.”

“But those documents could have been important. They
were
important, or else they wouldn't have been passed along.” She stopped. Berta had her arms folded across her chest, an impatient set to her mouth. “OK, so you would have done the same thing. That doesn't make it right.”

“Make it
right?
Christ, Natalia, don't beat yourself up for something that happened a couple of years ago. Not after all you've done. Remember what we were taught: Survival is the most important thing. Live to fight another day.”

“I guess you're right . . . as usual.”

Berta smiled. “Feel better now that you've got that off your chest?”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

Berta put a hand on her shoulder. “Well, we lived through all that, so I guess we can get through the mess we're in now. I'm going to try to get some sleep.”

Natalia nodded as her friend shuffled out of the room. Then she tossed back the vodka and sat down, staring at the empty glass.

16 A
UGUST

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
Adam woke up an hour before dawn, precisely as he'd planned. He dressed in the Waffen-SS uniform and gave his black boots a quick shine. He checked the clip on the Walther P-38 and slipped the pistol into the holster on his waist, then strapped a second holster to his right leg, just above the ankle. He inserted a knife with a black walnut handle into the ankle holster, slipped on his red-and-white AK armband and left his room.

Adam walked briskly across the cobblestone expanse of Old Town's central square, mostly deserted at this hour save for a few groups of commandos huddled around bonfires near the immense Gothic façade of St. John's Cathedral with its towering spires and ornate wrought-iron gates. He passed under the two-story-high arch of Queen Anne's Corridor that connected the cathedral to the Royal Castle and glanced at the clock high in the castle's onion-dome tower, though he knew exactly what time it was. He continued south, past the soaring granite column topped with a bronze statute of King Zygmunt III overlooking the Medieval streets that wound through the ancient city.

The eastern sky was brightening, but the persistent sooty haze hanging over the city would blot out the sun for most of the morning. Old Town and much of the City Center were still firmly in the hands of the AK, and Adam passed a barricade where a group of commandos stood guard, waiting nervously for the attack that would come at dawn. He shouted a greeting and made sure they saw his armband so he didn't get shot.

Fifteen minutes later he crossed into the German-held area of the City Center and arrived at Pilsudski Square. He removed the armband and checked his watch. He had a few minutes to spare.

At the far end of Pilsudski Square stood Saxon Palace with its colonnade-topped arcade housing Poland's Tomb of the Unknown Soldier connecting the two symmetrical wings. The palace was now the headquarters of the German garrison. Every morning at precisely 0500, a black Horch driven by a single Waffen-SS trooper rendezvoused with a motorcycle at the palace arcade and picked up SS-Hauptsturmfuhrer Heisenberg in front of the equestrian statue.

Fortunately for Adam, the motorcycle driver, also a Waffen-SS trooper, was as predictable in his habits as Heisenberg. He always arrived at Pilsudski Square ten minutes ahead of time to smoke a cigarette before driving on to the palace. There was normally no one else in the square at that hour.

At exactly 0450 Adam heard the rumble of a motorcycle engine and watched the single headlight beam as the vehicle pulled into the square and stopped less than ten meters away. Adam hung back in the shadow of a large oak tree and waited while the driver killed the engine and parked the motorcycle on its kickstand. The driver removed his leather helmet and goggles, then reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes.

Adam removed a cigarette from his own pack and held it unlit in his left hand. Then he removed the knife from his ankle holster, held it tight against his right leg and stepped out of the shadow, approaching the motorcycle driver who had just lit his cigarette.
“Guten Morgen, Unterscharführer.
Would you give me a light?”

The startled motorcycle driver turned abruptly. Adam casually held up the cigarette. The driver hesitated, staring at Adam in the gray predawn light. Then he appeared to recognize the uniform and held out the cigarette lighter.
“Ja, ja,
you surprised—”

In one swift movement, Adam extended his right arm and thrust the knife into the driver's throat. He stepped back quickly out of the way as blood spurted from the wide-eyed man's neck. The mortally wounded driver's mouth opened wide as he staggered forward, reaching for Adam. Then his knees buckled and he collapsed.

Adam removed the knife, wiped the blade on the dying man's pant leg and slipped it back into the holster. He put on the helmet and goggles, kick-started the motorcycle and drove off to meet Herr Heisenberg.

As he entered the palace arcade, Adam flicked his right hand in a quick wave to the SS trooper behind the wheel of the Horch, then stopped the motorcycle in front of the black auto. A moment later the image of a tall, solidly built SS officer appeared in the cycle's vibrating rearview mirror. SS-Hauptsturmfuhrer Heisenberg with another SS trooper at his side, walked across the arcade in long confident strides toward the waiting automobile. The SS trooper opened the rear door, and Heisenberg disappeared inside. Then, to Adam's surprise, the SS trooper opened the front passenger door and slid in next to the driver.

When the driver of the Horch tapped the horn, Adam gunned the motorcycle and led the car out of the palace arcade. Following the route described in the surveillance report, Adam drove south on Nowy Swiat, turned onto Jerusalem Avenue and headed west, all the while working out a revision to his plan. With two SS troopers in the car, the knife was useless. Fortunately, he had a few extra minutes to think, since they weren't headed directly to the Wola District. Heisenberg's enthusiasm for murder wasn't the only reason he was an early riser. He had a girlfriend.