Adam sat silently in the rear seat of the GAZ-11 as Captain Andreyev drove back to the Kommandatura. A dozen questions rattled around in his mind, but he doubted Andreyev would be likely to answer any of them. He seemed a decent sort and, unlike Kovalenko, there had been a flicker of recognition in his one good eye when he saw Adam for the first time in Berlin. Adam was certain Andreyev remembered him from the meeting outside Warsaw but, like his boss, he hadn’t acknowledged it. He wondered how Andreyev felt about the lie Kovalenko told him that night, how he felt about watching the Nazis destroy Warsaw and the valiant fighters of the AK.
It was almost midnight when they arrived at the Kommandatura. The area appeared deserted except for Adam’s borrowed Jeep. He bid Andreyev good night and walked across the gravel parking area.
As Adam approached the Jeep, the headlights suddenly flashed on, freezing him in place. He shielded his eyes as three figures moved toward him, silhouetted against the glaring light.
Major Tarnov came into view, followed closely by two NKVD riflemen. “You out late, Mr. Nowak,” Tarnov said, in fractured English.
“The Kommandatura is in the American sector, Major Tarnov, in case you hadn’t noticed. There is no curfew here.”
From the corner of his eye Adam noticed Captain Andreyev getting out of the GAZ. “Mr. Nowak was at a meeting with General Kovalenko,” Andreyev called out.
Tarnov kept his eyes on Adam but shouted at Andreyev in Russian and motioned for him to get back in his car.
Andreyev walked toward them slowly and responded in English. “I am under instructions from General Kovalenko to see to it that Mr. Nowak returns safely to his billet.”
“I don’t give fuck what order have, Captain!” Tarnov shouted. “This man harbors fugitive, Ludwik Banach, enemy of Soviet Union.”
Adam took a step closer to Tarnov, ignoring the riflemen, who abruptly raised their weapons. “Harboring a fugitive? What the hell are you talking about, Major? I haven’t seen Ludwik Banach in six years!”
“Turn around, Mr. Nowak, hands behind,” Tarnov hissed. He motioned with a flick of his head, and the two riflemen stepped forward.
Andreyev shouted at Tarnov in Russian.
Tarnov shouted back but stopped abruptly as two Jeeps roared into view and skidded to a stop. Four American Eighty-Second Airborne troopers armed with submachine guns jumped from the Jeeps and sprinted forward, instantly surrounding Tarnov’s group. The Russian riflemen spun around, shielding Tarnov between them, pointing their weapons at the Airborne troopers.
“Tell your men to stand down, Major Tarnov.” Colonel Meinerz marched into the circle of light, pointing a finger at the Russian. His bearing was firm and authoritative.
Tarnov glared at Meinerz but didn’t respond.
“Tell your men to stand down,” Meinerz repeated sharply.
“This man harbors fugitive. He is under arrest.”
“On whose authority?” Meinerz demanded.
“My authority! Commanding officer, NKVD in Berlin!” Tarnov barked an order in Russian, and one of the rifleman reached for Adam’s arm.
Instantly the American Airborne troopers closed in.
“Don’t anyone move!” Meinerz shouted. He stepped closer to Tarnov. “The Kommandatura is within the American sector, Major. If your men lay a hand on Mr. Nowak, I will order these troopers to shoot them.”
Meinerz and Tarnov glared at each other.
The NKVD riflemen stood their ground, but their eyes darted around nervously.
Adam’s heart beat faster. He clenched his fists and shifted his feet slightly, ready to take out the rifleman who’d reached for his arm.
Finally Tarnov shouted another command, and the riflemen lowered their weapons. His face contorted in rage, Tarnov pushed past Meinerz and stalked across the parking area to another auto that had been concealed in the shadows.
As Tarnov’s car sped away, Adam finally relaxed and unclenched his fists. Meinerz slapped him on the back. “Fucking NKVD.”
“How did you—?”
“Captain Andreyev called me… just before you left the Adlon.”
Adam turned to Andreyev, who said, “General’s orders.”
Kovalenko’s final words of caution echoed in Adam’s mind. What the hell is going on?
“This isn’t the end of it,” Andreyev said.
Thirty-Six
CAPTAIN ANDREYEV HESITATED at the top of the stairs, peering into the gloom of the shattered building, one of the few still standing in Berlin’s Mitte District. While the Mitte had always been the political and commercial center of Berlin, Andreyev found it hard to imagine this shattered section of the city would ever reach those heights again. The entryway of the building was littered with chunks of plaster and bits of broken glass, the window at the far end boarded up. An array of odors assaulted his nostrils—charred wood and masonry dust, human sweat, tobacco and stale beer.
An abrupt burst of light penetrated the murkiness as a door swung open at the bottom of the stairs and two figures emerged, laughing and stumbling. The larger of the two was a Red Army officer, who finally managed to grip the handrail on his third try and pulled an inebriated woman up the steps. The couple staggered past Andreyev and lurched through the outer door into the night.
Andreyev descended the staircase, following the din of laughter and drunken shouts, and peered through the smoky haze of the Rats Keller. A long, copper-topped bar was packed three-deep with sweat-soaked Red Army soldiers, all of whom looked as though they’d been there most of the day. Behind the bar, two beleaguered Germans hustled back-and-forth, shoving mugs of beer and glasses of schnapps into dozens of out-stretched hands.
In the center of the stifling room, a few couples swayed listlessly to the barely audible crooning of Frank Sinatra. Small, round tables covered with heavily stained red-and-white checkered tablecloths lined the perimeter of the room. While Andreyev enjoyed some American music, particularly jazz, Sinatra wasn’t his style and neither was this disgusting German beer hall. The less time he had to spend here, the better.
It didn’t take long for Andreyev to spot her, sitting alone at a table in the far corner. She had silky, black hair tied to one side with a pink ribbon and cascading over her bare left shoulder. The dress was yellow, slinky and low-cut, designed for business in the shadowy world of after-hours Berlin. She nodded when their eyes met, her fingers resting gently on the rim of an empty glass.
Andreyev snapped his fingers at a waiter—a boy of no more than sixteen—ordered two glasses of schnapps and slid into the chair across the table from her. “Fraulein Schmidt?” he asked quietly, though if he’d shouted no one would have heard him over the raucous clamor in the ancient drinking hall.
She eyed him curiously, then fished a package of Chesterfields from a black beaded purse, withdrew a cigarette and held it up, waiting for a light. “That depends on who wants to know.”
Andreyev took his time. She appeared to be in her late thirties, her voice was husky, her German refined and cultured, a native Berliner, he thought, upper-class, aristocratic… at least she used to be. Finally, he pulled a lighter from his shirt pocket and flicked it open. When she leaned forward to catch the flame, he took hold of her wrist, squeezing it just enough, communicating with his eyes don’t fuck around with me.
When he let go, the woman sat back and took a short, nervous puff, exhaling quickly.
The drinks appeared. Andreyev tossed the schnapps back in one gulp and pulled out his own pack of cigarettes. “Now, shall we talk?”