She took another sip of the schnapps, then set the glass down. She stared at it, tapping long, painted fingernails on the table. “Ja, natürlich, but what’s in it for me?”
Andreyev reached over and put his hand over hers, to stop the tapping. “You could stay alive.”
From the window of the train, Dmitri Tarnov watched the peasants who trudged along the muddy roads and queued up at rail stations. Germans slogged westward while Poles, Ukrainians and Czechs headed eastward in the postwar confusion. He soon tired of the dreary scene and sat back in the seat of his first-class compartment. Perhaps most of them would starve along the way, he thought. It would save everyone a lot of trouble.
But Tarnov had more important matters on his mind. He wasn’t pleased about returning to Krakow. God knows he’d had enough of Poland over the last few years. But, thanks to Kovalenko, he had no choice. What the hell did that arrogant bastard think he was doing, sneaking an American diplomat into Sachsenhausen? It was a damn good thing Vygotsky had been there, or he might never have known. Tarnov felt a slight twinge of guilt as he thought about Vygotsky, but it passed quickly—just another casualty of war. As it turned out, the whole incident might actually have been a stroke of luck.
Tarnov had been frustrated for months after tearing apart Wawel Castle, searching for the one thing he knew would ruin him. But it wasn’t there. And it wasn’t among all the documents and diaries the lunatic Frank kept, because they’d been handed over to the Americans, and Tarnov knew that if they had found it, the entire world would know the secret . . . and he’d be rotting away in a Siberian gulag.
As the months passed, Tarnov had actually dared to believe it had gotten lost. Then, out of the blue, a Goddamn American diplomat representing the Polish Government had waltzed into Sachsenhausen and discovered that his uncle—a university professor from Krakow named Ludwik Banach—had been released into Hans Frank’s personal custody. Five years ago.
That had to mean something. Why would Hans Frank arrange for a Polish university professor to be released from a concentration camp into his personal custody? And what had Banach been doing all those years in Krakow? Did he have access to Frank’s personal papers? Had he seen the document? Did he have it?
The notion was crazy and so far-fetched it hardly seemed worth pursuing. On the other hand, it was the only lead he had.
Tarnov’s anger swelled the more he thought about it. Who the hell was Ludwik Banach? More important, where was Ludwik Banach—and what did he know? He stood up and headed for the officer’s dining car. He needed a drink.
Thirty-Seven
11 JUNE
A LONG, BLACK MERCEDES pulled up in front of the King William Tower in the center of Berlin’s Grunewald District. As Adam approached, a British corporal jumped out of the vehicle. He muttered a quick, “Good evening, sir,” and opened the rear door.
“Looks like the British military is traveling in style these days,” Adam quipped as he got into the auto.
The corporal merely nodded.
Adam settled into the plush leather seat, wondering what was going on. He had received a message from Colonel Whitehall the previous day, inviting him to dinner. He hadn’t known the SOE leader was in Berlin. And the note was vintage Whitehall: terse and to the point, revealing nothing about the real agenda.
Adam recognized the Black Bull insignia of the British Eleventh Armored Division on the corporal’s sleeve. “You boys did a hell of a job at Normandy,” he said, trying to make conversation.
The British soldier glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “You’re a Yank? Were you there?”
Adam shook his head. “No, I was desk-bound in London. Working with SOE.”
“Lousy job, that is. I’d take on the bloody Krauts on those beaches again instead of this gig if I had my way. Hate these damn spooks, I do. And hobnobbing with the fuckin’ Russians? No good will come of that, mind you.”
Adam smiled. “So, how’d you wind up here, working for Whitehall?”
“Whitehall?” The driver snorted. “That ol’ fart don’t ever talk to the likes of me. I don’t work for him; no way I’d want that. I just drive his car and listen to the load of crap he dishes out to whoever’s ridin’ with him. That’s all they think I’m good for after taking a load of shrapnel in the knee at Antwerp.”
Adam thought he’d noticed a limp when the corporal walked around the car. “That’s the top brass for you,” he said, “playing their own little chess game. They don’t care who gets caught in the crossfire.”
The corporal nodded again, and they drove in companionable silence the rest of the way through Grunewald, the “mansion colony” developed by Otto von Bismarck in the late nineteenth century for Berlin’s elite. The winding roads led them through a largely undamaged, heavily wooded area populated with vast estates and hunting lodges situated along streams and small lakes. The peaceful serenity, less than an hour’s drive from the shattered ruins of central Berlin, was almost impossible for Adam to comprehend, though he found some satisfaction in the overgrown lawns and shuttered windows of the mostly vacant estates. If it were up to him, he’d burn down the whole damn country.
They turned off the road, and the corporal parked the Mercedes in the center of a broad circular drive. Adam stepped out and stared in awe at the massive, three-story stone structure towering above him. A pair of granite lions flanked broad marble steps that led up to a slate terrace at least ten meters wide. At the top of the steps and across the terrace was the main entrance—double oak doors, five meters high, framed by granite pillars encircled with serpents.
One of the doors creaked open as Adam approached, and a butler appeared, a tall, regal-looking man wearing a pince-nez and a black tuxedo. The butler bowed slightly with a curt, “Guten tag, Herr Nowak,” and motioned for him to enter.
Adam was shown into a richly paneled and elegantly furnished drawing room lined on one side by floor-to-ceiling leaded glass windows overlooking the terrace. Stanley Whitehall hoisted his rotund body off a leather chair and lumbered across the room, holding a whiskey glass in one hand.
“Good to see you again, old chap,” Whitehall said. “Care for a drink?” He held up the glass. “Glenlivet, from Scotland.”
Adam barely heard him as his attention was drawn to the presence of another person in the room. A large, broad-shouldered man in a Russian Army uniform stood with his back to him, pouring a drink at a sideboard.
General Andrei Kovalenko turned around and said, “Good evening, Mr. Nowak.”
Adam stiffened, then glanced back and forth from Kovalenko to Whitehall, dumbfounded.
The Russian general stepped up to him and held out a glass. “Have a drink, Mr. Nowak. Stanley will explain it to you. Captain Andreyev will be arriving any moment, and he and I must have a little chat. Then I’ll find out what the cook is preparing for dinner. I understand the former owner of this mausoleum used to throw parties for Hermann Goering.”
Kovalenko closed the door behind him, and Whitehall gestured to the leather chairs on either side of the fireplace.
Adam eyed him suspiciously and then sat down.
“Andrei uses this house for certain meetings that are better held outside of the Russian sector,” Whitehall said. “He and I go way back. I met him in school in London in 1910. His mother brought him there after his father was killed in the Russo-Japanese War. She was Polish.”
Adam almost spilled his drink. “Kovalenko’s mother was Polish?”
Whitehall nodded. “Born in Warsaw, daughter of some nobleman. His father was a Russian Army officer, who was stationed there. In ’04 his father left for Manchuria and never returned. His mother moved the family to London a few years later. Apparently she had traveled there when she was growing up and had connections.”
Adam took a long swallow of the whiskey, allowing the mellow liquor to slide down his throat. He set the glass on a side table. “So, you knew that I met Kovalenko during the Warsaw Rising?”
“Of course
.”
“But I was under cover!” Adam exclaimed, his voice rising. “Even Colonel Stag didn’t know who I was. Christ Almighty, did Kovalenko know—?”
Whitehall held up his hand, interrupting him. “Kovalenko remembered meeting a certain American, an envoy representing the Polish Government, who came across the river for a secret meeting. He didn’t know who you were at the time, of course. I filled in the blanks for him after the fact. Apparently he was impressed with how you held your ground with one of his officers.”
“Then my meeting Kovalenko again here in Berlin was not just a coincidence.”
“A minor deception. But necessary.”
“Necessary? Jesus Christ!” Adam got to his feet and paced around the elegant room. He stopped and turned back to the pudgy, sly man with whom nothing was ever as it seemed. “Are you going to tell me what the hell’s going on?”
Whitehall nodded. “Of course, that’s why you’re here. Care to sit back down?”
Adam glared at him, then sat down.
“When Kovalenko’s mother died, he went back to Russia and joined the army, though he’s always been somewhat conflicted, given his Polish heritage. At any rate, he advanced through the Red Army officer corps until Stalin’s purge in ’37, when he was fingered by the NKVD for having connections with foreign intelligence.”
“Because of his mother being Polish and her associations in London?”
“Probably. That’s how things work in Russia.”
“Let me guess: he was exiled.”
“To Siberia, along with several hundred other officers . . . those they didn’t execute. For good measure, they also arrested his wife and threw her into Lubyanka prison. Then, when the Germans invaded Russia in ’41, the Red Army needed officers and he was reinstated. But, to keep him in line, his wife remained in prison—where she died a year later. He’s never gotten over it. His hatred of Stalin, Beria and the NKVD is very deeply rooted.” Whitehall stood up and plodded over to the sideboard. He refilled his glass and returned with the bottle, setting it on the table next to Adam. “Do you remember the night you and I had dinner in London?”
Adam refilled his own glass. “Yes.”
“You made a comment that night . . . about the Russians murdering thousands of Polish officers in 1940.”
“The Katyn Forest massacre; you didn’t believe it.”
Whitehall sat back in the soft leather chair, balancing his drink on the arm. “Another deception, I’m afraid. I most certainly do believe it. What’s more important, Kovalenko believes it. He’s convinced it was all conceived and carried out by the NKVD, and he’s been working behind the scenes to help us find proof.”
“What makes you think Kovalenko can be trusted? The son of a bitch lied to me about coming to the aid of the AK. Then he and his men sat there on the other side of the river while Warsaw was burned to the ground.”
“Yes, he can be trusted. Can you imagine how an atrocity like Katyn must have affected him? He’s part Polish, and to have his countrymen commit a crime of that magnitude?”
“Goddamn it, Stanley! If he’s part Polish, how could he watch Warsaw burn? How could he let hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians—”
“He was following orders, Adam. You know how things work. Kovalenko didn’t make that decision.” Whitehall abruptly leaned forward and set his glass on the floor. “Look, there are larger issues at stake here. We all know what’s going to happen to Poland.” Before Adam could respond, Whitehall pressed on. “Stalin’s going to swallow up Poland and everything else east of Germany. It’s a disaster, and no one’s going to stop him. Churchill saw it coming two years ago. He laid it all out for a select few of us at SOE. ‘Get proof,’ he said. ‘Get proof about Katyn—one of the most despicable war crimes in history—something even the Americans can’t ignore.’”
Whitehall glared at Adam, jabbing a pudgy finger in the air. “If there is actual proof that the NKVD carried out those murders in the Katyn Forest, and it’s made public before the start of the Potsdam conference, it might be just enough to slow down the tidal wave of communist domination that’s about to wash over Europe.”
“And you think a Russian—a general in the Red Army—is going to help you with this?” Adam couldn’t keep the scorn out of his voice.
“Kovalenko contacted me a couple of months ago,” Whitehall replied. “He said he had a lead. It had to do with this NKVD officer, Tarnov.”
“Tarnov? The same bastard who’s—”
“Yes,” Kovalenko said, “the same bastard who’s issued an arrest warrant for Ludwik Banach. Kovalenko was on to something, but he had to proceed cautiously. You can imagine how dangerous this is for someone in his position.”
Whitehall’s shoulders sagged. It was a warm night, and the drawing room windows were open, a gentle breeze floating through now and then. His starched white shirt was wet with perspiration. “We needed a go-between,” he continued. “Someone who could travel back and forth from Britain to Germany without raising a lot of flags, preferably an American . . . but also someone fluent in Polish, someone who knew the country and could go there if necessary. He asked me to get someone I trusted.”
“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.
The Katyn Order Page 23
