The Katyn Order (9 page)

She whirled around and slapped him across the face.

Falcon seemed stunned for a second, then punched her in the side of the head, a hammer blow that sent a searing bolt of pain like an electric shock all the way down her back. He grabbed her by the throat and shoved her to her knees. “You bitch! Now I'm not good enough?”

“Falcon!” Pierre shouted. “That's enough!”

Without taking his eyes off Natalia, Falcon roared, “Shut up and get out of here or you're next!” He squeezed hard on her throat. “We'll see who's not good enough.”

Natalia reached into her pocket, fumbling for the pistol. Her head felt like it was split in half, and she could barely breathe. She tried to break loose, but he was too strong, his fingers digging into her throat. Her vision began to blur when she saw a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye.

Falcon's grip abruptly fell away.

Natalia tumbled backward, coughing and gagging, trying to catch her breath. She saw Wolf, his hands clutching Falcon's shirt, driving the larger man backward toward the building.

Falcon's arms flailed wildly as Wolf shoved him to the ground, then kicked him hard in the groin.

Falcon howled and rolled onto his side.

Wolf grabbed him by the hair, lifted the big man off the ground and drove his fist into his stomach.

Falcon coiled up into a ball.

Wolf turned toward Pierre. “Pick him up and get him out of here,” he said with an unmistakable tone of menace.

Pierre motioned toward the other commando, who grabbed Falcon under the arms and dragged him into the building.

“I'm sorry,” Pierre said. “I should have stopped him sooner. Once he gets worked up he just—”

“Forget it,” Wolf said. “Just keep him away from her.”

Pierre nodded, then put a hand on Wolf's shoulder. “I've been meaning to thank you . . . for taking care of that bastard, Heisenberg.”

Wolf lifted Pierre's hand off his shoulder and turned him back toward the pub. “I was just doing my job. Now take Falcon back inside and keep him there.”

Natalia got to her feet, blinking away the stars that danced in her vision, and gently touched the side of her face. She opened and closed her mouth, relieved that her jaw wasn't broken.

Wolf stepped up and took her elbow. “I think we'd better go.”

21 A
UGUST

T
HEY WALKED QUICKLY
away from the pub and across Old Town's central market square. In the last five days the enemy shelling had advanced eastward, and now more than half of the Medieval buildings lay in ruins—three centuries of history reduced to rubble piles of multi-colored stucco, shattered leaded-glass windows and broken roof tiles. Flames flickered up through the wreckage, lighting the night street. The acrid odor of smoke hung heavily in the air as groups of AK commandos huddled around their bonfires and pots of soup with rifles slung over their shoulders. They passed around bottles of vodka and cigarettes, glancing up occasionally when a particularly loud artillery burst echoed through the square.

Adam was three paces ahead of the woman in the railway conductor's uniform. He detoured around a massive heap of smashed bricks and glanced down into a crater where the remains of the mermaid statue, the symbol of Warsaw, protruded from the smoldering debris. Her sword pointed to the sky as if she were sending an appeal to heaven. He stepped over the keystone block of a smashed archway, cursing under his breath for letting his guard down. What the hell had he been thinking? Falcon was a drunken lout; there was no doubt about that. But the woman was an AK commando, and she was carrying a gun. Adam sensed that she was used to Falcon's behavior and could've handled him by herself under normal circumstances.
Except the crazy bastard went nuts when he saw me.
And that, Adam knew, was exactly the kind of situation he couldn't afford to get mixed up in.

The woman caught up to him and grabbed his arm, jerking him to a halt. “I'll be fine,” she said with determination. “You don't have to go out of your way. Really, I'm fine.” In the light from the bonfires, Adam could see the welt on her left cheekbone was turning black-and-blue.

Suddenly the ground shook, and a fireball belched into the air from a shattering blast somewhere in the City Center. The commando groups began to disperse, carrying their cups of soup into what was left of the narrow alleyways leading away from the square. Adam motioned toward the north end of the square. “We should get off the streets.”

Five minutes later they arrived at St. Jacek's Church, a stout, gray fortress that stood alongside a copper-domed bell tower at the head of Dluga Street. Adam stopped, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure Falcon or any of his friends hadn't followed them. What he didn't need right now was any more attention.

He pulled open one of the thick, ornately carved wooden doors, and they stepped into a tiny vestibule with a stone floor and thick stone walls. It was cold and damp, with a musty odor that suggested the candles on the wall sconces hadn't been lit for many weeks. They passed through another set of double doors into a three-story-high sanctuary, illuminated only by the dancing light of nearby fires that flickered through the arched windows like demon's tongues. Moving slowly in the semi-darkness, Adam led the way down the marble steps to an aisle along one side of the sanctuary and motioned for the woman to slide into the last pew. The solid oak back and square posts were worn smooth over the centuries. He sat down beside her with his back to the wall, being careful not to get too close.

They sat in silence. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Adam noticed clusters of people scattered around the sanctuary, many of them asleep in the pews, others huddled close together holding children on their laps. A group of AK commandos sat on the steps that led to the altar, passing around a cigarette and talking quietly.

After a few minutes the woman leaned over and whispered, “You didn't have to get involved, but thank you anyway. I'm fine now.”

Adam nodded.

“I don't even know you, but it seems like I'm always thanking you for something,” she said.

“It isn't necessary. It was nothing.”

“Well, like I said, I'll be fine. You probably have to be somewhere.”

That's right, Adam thought. That's exactly what he should do: get up and leave. She probably would be fine. These things happened all the time, especially now, in this city under siege with no one knowing if they'd live through another day. A guy got drunk, a little disorderly, and his girlfriend got angry. No need for him to get involved. And he
couldn't
get involved.

But he didn't leave.

Time passed and the church was quiet, except for the creaking of wooden pews and a few anxious whispers that rippled through the sanctuary whenever an artillery blast rattled the windows and the brass chandelier suspended from the arched ceiling. Adam was exhausted. The nights were always the worst. Though the enemy tanks and infantry battalions usually retreated behind their lines after dark, sporadic artillery shelling continued. There was the ever-present threat that the next shell might be the one.

The woman cleared her throat and turned toward him. “So, why do they call you Wolf?” she whispered. “Is it because you're a loner?”

Adam hesitated then slid closer, keeping his voice down. “Wolves aren't normally loners,” he said. “They usually live in packs.”

“Ah, but sometimes a wolf is driven from the pack. Then he's a loner.”

Adam clenched his jaw as a shiver ran down his back.
Driven from the pack.
She didn't know how close she was.

“You know, the rumors are that you're an American.”

“I know. You said that earlier.”

“So, are you . . . an American?”

“I've already answered that.”

“No, you didn't. You merely asked me if you
sounded
like an American, and I said you didn't, which you don't because you have no accent.”

He looked away. “This is giving me a headache.”

“Hey,
I'm
the one with a headache. So, what's the answer?”

“You're very persistent, you know.”

“Yes, that's another of my bad qualities.”

“And annoying.”

“Yet another.”

Adam hesitated again, longer this time. There were other AK operatives who knew he was an American, though none of them knew any more than just that, not his real name, where he came from, nothing. So, it would be no real breach of security to tell her and, at any rate, there was little chance any of them were going to survive long enough for it to make a difference. He tensed at the crack of a mortar blast, followed by the muted sounds of men shouting outside the church. When it calmed down again, he said quietly, “Yes, I'm an American.”

“But your Polish is excellent. You have no accent at all. How long have you been here?”

“I was born here, in Krakow, as you guessed. My father and I immigrated to America when I was eleven years old.”

“And you came back? What on earth for?”

Adam contemplated her question. Emotions he'd not allowed himself to feel for many years flared up suddenly.
And you came back? What on earth for?
He knew why he had come back, but it made no difference now. A young man whose father had just died, returning to the country of his birth, searching for his roots, for the family he'd always longed for. But it made no difference; it had all been abruptly and brutally torn away.

Adam shook his head, driving the emotions back into the far corners of his mind. Then he leaned close to her and whispered, “If I tell you any more, I'll have to kill you.”

The woman laughed then stopped abruptly and clamped a hand over her mouth, looking quickly around the sanctuary. No one seemed to notice. “My goodness, I've forgotten who you are,” she whispered. “You probably mean it.”

Adam woke abruptly at the sound of an infant crying and people shuffling down the aisle. He was confused for a moment and struggled to get his bearings. Then he realized where he was. He turned his head slowly, working out the kink in his neck, and looked around. The sanctuary was brighter now, and he could make out the large wooden cross and two statues prominently displayed on the white stone wall at the front of the sanctuary. Under the arched windows on either side of the altar were two elaborately framed paintings. He was too far away and the light still too dim to make out the subject of the artwork, though it wasn't hard to guess.

Several other people were stretching and moving around. Adam glanced down at the woman curled up next to him on the pew, then raised his left hand and checked his watch. It was five thirty in the morning.
My God, we've been sitting here all night. When did I fall asleep?

He blinked and came fully awake at the sound of artillery fire in the distance, voices outside and the rumble of an engine starting up. As he shifted his weight, the pew creaked, and the woman lifted her head, looking at him with a puzzled expression. Then she sat up abruptly and rubbed her eyes. “What time is it?”

“Five thirty,” Adam said.

She stretched and ran her hands through her short brown hair. “Were you sleeping as well?”

Adam nodded, suddenly irritated with himself. In four years he had never just fallen asleep unless he knew exactly where he was and that it was safe. What the hell was he thinking? Besides, he had orders to meet with Colonel Stag at 0600. He slid out of the pew, removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Then he put them back on and said, “I have to go.”

She raised her eyebrows, but slid out of the pew after him. “Well, alright then, Mr. Wolf. I enjoyed our little chat.”

“I didn't mean to be rude . . . it's just that . . .” Adam backed up against the wall as an emaciated, middle-aged man and a hollow-faced, young boy squeezed past them in the narrow aisle. The man hobbled on a homemade crutch. He was missing his right leg. The blood-soaked trouser was pinned at the knee.

The woman waited until the man and boy moved farther up the aisle, then said, “Yes, I understand. You have to be somewhere. I do as well.”

“We shouldn't leave together.”

“No, of course not, you go first.”

Adam started for the door but felt a hand touch his shoulder. He turned back to the woman.

“Natalia,” she whispered. “My name is Natalia. Maybe someday you'll tell me yours.”

22 A
UGUST

T
HE SUN WAS COMING UP
as Natalia cautiously made her way from St. Jacek's Church to the women commandos' quarters on Trebacka Street. The streets of Old Town and the AK-controlled section of the City Center were feverish with activity as commandos lugging PIATs and mortars trotted through the rubble, heading for the barricades to relieve their weary comrades who had stood guard during the night. Gunfire cracked from rooftops, and artillery shells streaked overhead, exploding an instant later in the random destruction of houses and shops. Civilians burrowed deeper into their cellars as survival in Warsaw became a game of chance, with longer odds every day.

Near Trebacka Street, Natalia felt twinges of bitterness and anger as she passed the shattered remnants of the monument of Adam Mickiewicz, Poland's greatest poet. He was her father's favorite, and she would never forget the winter evenings in front of the fire when her father would read Mickiewicz's poems aloud, especially “Konrad Wallenrod,” with its thinly veiled depiction of the hatred between Russians and Poles. The monument had been destroyed by the Germans two years ago in their never-ending quest to stamp out Polish culture. Natalia's stomach tightened. Between the Russians and Germans, it was hard to decide who she hated more.

She quickened her pace as she turned onto Trebacka and glanced up at the second story window on the corner of the block-long building that housed their apartment. A young girl, perhaps five or six years old, sat in front of the window, combing her doll's hair. Natalia had seen her before, sitting in that same spot with her doll. As she'd done on the other occasions, the girl waved. Natalia waved back, wondering what would become of her.