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.”