Stag was beyond fatigue. He was so tired that he twitched all over as though a million ants were crawling under his skin. He lit a cigarette and leaned back against the building as the ground shook beneath his feet. The battle had surged into Old Town and degenerated into a savage street-by-street, building-by-building bloodbath that Stag knew was hopeless. German artillery bombardments and Stuka attacks continued around the clock, and the civilians still in the area huddled in their cellars like frightened rodents. Artillery shells exploded just a few streets to the west, and Stag realized that he was risking his life just standing out in the open. But he’d been suffocating in the cellar command post, and a moment in the outside air, though polluted with smoke and dust, was a relief.
Suddenly Stag heard the all-too-familiar, high-pitched scream of a Stuka dive-bomber. It was coming from his left and closing in fast. He dropped the cigarette and started for the doorway when he saw an automobile careening toward him, bouncing along the cobblestones. He waved desperately at it, warning it off, but then a shattering blast knocked him face down onto the marble foyer just inside the doors.
Stag struggled to his feet. His ears rang and his head pounded. Blood dripped from his nose. He leaned against the wall to catch his breath as the whine of the enemy aircraft receded into the distance. He waited for a moment, then stepped slowly through the doorway and peered down the block.
A three-story building had collapsed into the street. Just beyond the rubble-pile, a black, four-door auto lay on its side, the roof caved in, the left front wheel still spinning. Stag put his hand over his mouth to keep from choking on the dust, and stepped closer. Then he stopped and leaned against a broken lamp-post for support. The body of a large man hung out the driver’s door of the wrecked auto. Half of his skull had been ripped away.
Stag didn’t have to go any closer to know that it was Falcon.
The ammunition cellar was empty now. The final crates of weapons had been hauled out since Natalia had last been there the previous night. Strangely, the kerosene lantern was still lit. With her boot, Natalia nudged the five-liter metal can next to the post. It was empty, like the rest of the cellar. Barely able to keep her eyes open, she wandered to the far wall, slumped down on the earthen floor and took a bite from a half rotten potato. It was the only thing she’d had to eat all day.
The jarring explosions outside were coming closer. The cellar walls shook, cracks widened and chunks of mortar dropped from the ceiling. The Germans had pounded Old Town with unrelenting ferocity for three straight days, and in the streets above the cellar St. John’s Cathedral and the Royal Castle lay mostly in ruins.
In the escalating chaos Natalia’s commando unit had been decimated, and those that survived were hunkering down wherever they could. Even so, she’d managed to find a way through the rubble to come to the cellar every night, hoping he would be here. But she knew from the battle raging in the streets that time had run out. She was filthy, hungry and exhausted. And all she could think about was Wolf.
It was crazy. What did they have? A few hours of conversation, a few brief hours when they each let down their guard? She hadn’t been surprised when he didn’t show up that first night, but she’d come back every night since, hoping he would return. She was disappointed, perhaps even saddened, but not surprised. Anything could have happened. He could have been sent on another mission, he could be injured, he could be…
She shook her head. It could also be that he just decided not to come. She knew what he was.
No, that wasn’t right.
She knew what he’d become. What the war and the killing had turned him into. She didn’t have any idea what this man called Wolf had been like before, except an enthusiastic American boy who loved baseball.
The potato slipped from Natalia’s hand as her eyes closed, and her head drooped to her chest. She had almost drifted off when she felt someone shake her knee. She looked up, her eyes bleary. She couldn’t focus in the dim light.
He knelt in front of her, leaned close and whispered, “Natalia.”
Wolf? “My God!” She grasped his hand. “I’m so glad to see you. I’ve been—”
“We’re evacuating Old Town.”
She stood up abruptly. “Evacuating? When?”
“Tonight. I just got the word from Colonel Stag. General Bor has ordered the AK to evacuate Old Town. It’s the only way to save the civilian population.”
“What? That’s crazy! These Nazi bastards have been murdering civilians for five weeks. Why would they stop now?”
“Bor has made an arrangement with the German Commanders. If the AK evacuates Old Town, they’ll let the civilian population leave peacefully. We can’t hang on any longer; it’s the only way. The entire district will be pulverized to dust in the next few days.”
Natalia wiped the grime from her forehead. “So, what happens to us, the AK? They’re just going to let us walk out?”
Wolf shook his head. “The deal is, we lay down our guns and surrender. Then the Germans will treat us as prisoners of war instead of insurgents.”
“Like hell they will!” Natalia hissed.
“Colonel Stag is giving every AK operative in Old Town a choice. Assemble in the square at noon tomorrow and lay down our arms—”
“Or?”
“Or escape, at midnight tonight, and regroup in the south end of the City Center.”
She glanced at her watch. It was a little after ten. “Escape how?”
Wolf was silent. But she already knew the answer.
They sat on the dirt floor, a few meters apart, facing each other but not talking. The shelling was almost constant, the damp ground trembling beneath them, the air musty and thick with plaster dust. Adam scratched at the dirt with a stick, twisting it into the ground, still seething at the blatant lie he’d been told by the Russian general, Kovalenko. He’d known it the instant the general said, “We’ll be there soon.” He could see it in the man’s dark eyes. It was nothing but a fucking, bald-faced lie.
“The Russians aren’t coming, are they?”
Adam flinched. “What did you say?”
“The Russians aren’t coming.”
Adam cleared his throat. What the hell?
“I could have saved you the trip,” she said sarcastically. “They’re devious, murdering barbarians, and they will never—not in a million years—lift a finger to help Poland.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That’s where you went. They sent you across the river to talk to the Russians.”
“Jesus Christ, Natalia, how did you—?”
She smiled at him. “I guessed. But it makes sense. Sooner or later Bor and Stag had to find out for sure. The Russians would never talk directly with the Poles, so they sent you. You’re an American. You’ve been gone for three days, and now we’re evacuating.”
Adam stared at her, unable to respond.
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
He kept silent.
“And I’m willing to bet that whatever lying, son of a bitch Russian you talked to assured you they were coming in to help. That we should keep on fighting and they’d be here soon. I’m right about that too, aren’t I?”
Adam glared at her, slowly shaking his head. “I said once before, you ask too many questions.”
“And you’re an expert at silence. But it doesn’t make any difference now, does it? We’ll all probably die before we get out of here.”
“I can’t talk about it.”
“Can’t… or won’t?”
He didn’t respond. What is it about her? No one had ever been able to get under his skin like this.