“Beria, the Commissar of the NKVD?”
“A second cousin, I believe. And Tarnov obviously believed that if he carried out the massacre at Katyn, Commissar Beria would be grateful, and Tarnov would move right up the ranks of the NKVD. But it never happened. Beria ignored him, and Tarnov languished in low-level assignments.”
“Well, that would explain Tarnov’s reputation.”
“For being a brutal, vindictive son of a bitch? Indeed it would. All of my contacts informed me that Tarnov was bitter, very bitter, and wanted revenge.”
“Revenge against Beria? That would be a dangerous game. What did he do?”
“Nothing. At least nothing I knew about… until now.” Kovalenko sat down at the desk again and crushed out the cigarette. “You will recall, Captain Andreyev, that when Tarnov showed up in Warsaw last January, he insisted on safe passage to Krakow.”
“He’d been given the authority, directly from Beria,” Andreyev said, “to take control of Frank’s headquarters in Wawel Castle.”
Kovalenko waved his hand dismissively. “Nichivó, never mind about his authority. That’s typical NKVD bullshit. The important thing is that Tarnov spent an entire week personally searching every room in the castle.”
Andreyev leaned forward, furling his brow. “What was he looking for?”
“Damned if I know. But it must have been extremely important to him. He also interrogated and beat the hell out of the few grunts Frank left behind. It seemed a little extreme at the time, even for an NKVD fanatic like Tarnov.”
“Some obsession with Hans Frank, it seems.”
Kovalenko continued. “Tarnov served in Poland from 1939 until the Germans drove us out in ’41.”
“Did he ever meet Frank?” Andreyev asked.
Kovalenko managed a wry smile. “A good question, Captain. A question I’ve been thinking about for some time. And now you’re going to dig into it and find out.”
Andreyev cocked his head, a concerned look in his eye.
Kovalenko sighed. “Da, I know what you’re thinking. Nichivó. Just be cautious. Go about it quietly, ask some questions. See what falls out.”
The captain nodded and got to his feet.
“One other thing,” Kovalenko said.
“Da?”
“Contact this American diplomat, Adam Nowak, and ask him to meet me tonight for a drink at the Adlon.”
“Do you think he’ll come… after what’s happened?” Kovalenko nodded. “He’ll come.”
Thirty-Five
CAPTAIN ANDREYEV PARKED the GAZ-11 in front of the Adlon Hotel and turned to Adam. “My instructions are to wait for you here. I believe you know the way.”
Adam stepped through the opening in the blackened front façades of the hotel, climbed the stairway and walked down the dim hallway, wondering what he was getting into. It had been almost two weeks since he’d heard from Whitehall about Major Tarnov launching an investigation into his uncle’s dealings with Hans Frank, and now he’d been abruptly summoned to a late-night meeting with General Kovalenko.
He stepped into the lavish dining room and glanced around. It was eerily quiet. The tables were set with the same white linens and sterling silver as before. But the lights were lower now, there were no vases with roses, and the room was empty except for a table at the far end where General Kovalenko sat smoking a cigarette. As Adam approached the table, Kovalenko snapped his fingers, and a waiter suddenly appeared carrying a silver tray with a bottle of vodka and two glasses. The waiter set the tray on the table and departed.
The general crushed out his cigarette in the cut-glass ashtray and glanced up. “Welcome back, Mr. Nowak. Have a seat.” When Adam sat down, Kovalenko filled both glasses and held his up. “Nazdaróvye!” he said, draining it in one gulp.
“Cheers,” Adam replied and did the same. It was Russian vodka, distilled from wheat with a sharp bite and a hint of charcoal. But it was ice cold and slid down Adam’s throat easily.
Kovalenko refilled the glasses, and they drank again.
The general thumped his empty glass on the table, his dark eyes meeting Adam’s. “So, your trip to Sachsenhausen was a success?”
Adam was sure that Kovalenko had been completely briefed on everything that had taken place. There would be no point in withholding anything. The only thing he was uncertain of was why Kovalenko had summoned him. “I found the information I was looking for.”
“So, it was a success. And this information pertained to a relative of yours—your uncle, to be more precise.”
Adam took a moment to light a cigarette. “Seems like you already know everything, General.”
“I know your uncle is the university professor who was released into the custody of Hans Frank, the German war criminal.”
“Then you know more than I do.”
“I doubt that,” Kovalenko said. “But do you know that Major Tarnov has issued an arrest warrant for him?”
Adam took a long drag on his cigarette. Meinerz had warned him that a warrant was likely to be issued, but hearing about it from a general of the Red Army was another matter. “My uncle is not a criminal,” Adam said in as even a tone as he could manage.
“How do you know? It has been many years since you have seen him. Is that not correct?”
“I know my uncle.”
Kovalenko persisted. “You have no idea what he has been doing, or what his relationship was with this mad dog, Frank, or why he was brought back to Krakow. Is that not correct?” The general glared at him. “But we all know what took place in Poland and Russia. We all know what happened at the hands of Nazi bastards like Hans Frank.”
Adam clenched his teeth. “Why did you ask to meet me, General?”
At that moment the waiter returned and set a platter of zakuska in the center of the table. He was a small man with a pasty complexion and black hair, slicked back and greasy. He avoided eye contact as he carefully placed a small plate and fork in front of each man, then backed away.
General Kovalenko reached over, speared an anchovy, placed it on a cracker and popped it in his mouth. “They’re from the Black Sea,” he said, “very good. Please, help yourself. It’s taken some effort to bring Russian food to this place.”
Adam detested anchovies and looked over the platter, filled with an assortment of cheese, caviar, marinated mushrooms, pickled herring and smoked salmon. He scooped some caviar onto a thin, rye cracker and took a bite.
Kovalenko refilled the vodka glasses, and they drank again.
Kovalenko casually looked over the zakuska platter, apparently not yet ready to explain the reason for the meeting.
“Why did you arrange for me to visit Sachsenhausen?” Adam asked.
“Perhaps I was in a generous mood,” the general replied as he speared a pickled herring. “But it seems your discovery has created a fuss with the NKVD—with Major Tarnov, in particular.”
“Because he thinks Ludwik Banach is a war criminal?”
Kovalenko nodded. “Of course. But that’s just NKVD bullshit. There are hundreds of collaborators and saboteurs out there: Poles, Czechs, Romanians, as well as Germans. This is something else.”
Adam leaned back and rubbed his palms on his trousers. “What do you mean?”
Kovalenko’s dark eyes narrowed, almost disappearing in the creases of his face. “What was your uncle’s relationship with Hans Frank?” Adam hesitated. “I don’t know.”
Kovalenko picked up the vodka bottle and filled both glasses. He lifted his and tilted it toward Adam. “Be cautious, Mr. Nowak.”