Tarnov glared at the thin, pale man, laughing internally at Jastremski’s feeble attempt at bravado. We’ll find out in a few seconds just how brave you really are, you worthless piece of shit. Tarnov reached in his pocket and withdrew a key. He dropped it into Jastremski’s lap. “Recognize, Mr. Jastremski?”
Jastremski’s pale complexion became white as chalk. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead.
Tarnov smiled. “Yes, of course you do. Key to your apartment. I not return to your wife when we haul her out two hour ago.”
“My wife? What’ve you—?”
Tarnov suddenly smashed his fist into the older man’s face, snapping Jastremski’s head back against the window. Blood spurted from his nose and mouth. He slumped in the seat, holding his hands over his face.
Tarnov leaned over and grabbed him by the shirt, jerking him forward. “That is what I did to your wife, you AK shithead.” He shoved Jastremski hard against the door and screamed at him, “You have one minute to name visitor, what you tell him and where he go!” He leaned closer. “Or I drive you to jail, and you watch while we chop wife into pieces and flush her down fucking toilet!”
Forty-Seven
ACTIVITY AT THE KOMMANDATURA was at a fever pitch. With the Potsdam conference rapidly approaching, military officers and diplomatic agents from America and Great Britain flooded into Berlin. There were no taxis, and the buses to and from the aerodrome were crowded and stifling hot and usually arrived without most of the luggage. The accommodations assignment desk on the main floor of the Kommandatura was in chaos, and the tempers of those waiting in the endless queue were getting short.
Stanley Whitehall was lucky. His bag had made the trip from the aerodrome, and he pushed his way through the crowd, then slipped into the backseat of a long, black auto with Soviet flags mounted on the hood.
A half hour later, Whitehall was ushered into General Kovalenko’s office in the Soviet Military Administration building on Wilhelmstrasse. The general sat at his desk, scowling and thumbing through a thick report. Captain Andreyev, who had been standing near the windows, stepped forward and shook Whitehall’s hand. “Good to see you again, Colonel. I trust you made it in without too much difficulty?”
Whitehall set his briefcase on the floor and wiped perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief. “God, it’s a bloody mess at the Kommandatura and even worse at the aerodrome. Gone less than a week and I barely recognize the place.”
There was a loud thud as Kovalenko dropped the report on his desk and stood up, stretching and rubbing his eyes. “And this is just the beginning,” he growled. “Wait until the entourages of three heads of state start pouring in here, yapping and whining about everything from the bed sheets to the color of the china. It’ll be worse than fighting the damn war.” The burly general took two large strides around the desk and clapped Whitehall on the back. “Come, my friend, have a drink.”
Kovalenko sat across from Whitehall on one of the two leather settees in front of his desk while Captain Andreyev produced a bottle of vodka and three glasses from a cabinet. “So, Adam Nowak is off to Poland?”
“That he is,” Whitehall replied. “A bit skeptical perhaps. I can never tell if he trusts me or not.”
The general roared with laughter and slapped Whitehall’s knee. “You’re SOE, Stanley. No one should trust you!” He raised his glass and added, “No one except me, of course.” He downed the vodka in one gulp and turned to Andreyev. “Tell Stanley what we know about Dmitri Tarnov.”
Andreyev finished his drink and set the glass on the table. “We’ve confirmed that Tarnov left Berlin by train several days ago. No one at the NKVD is saying anything. They clam up whenever Tarnov’s name is mentioned. But we’re certain he went to Krakow.”
“He’s gone rogue,” Kovalenko said. “He’s out there on his own on this, probably with a group of thugs he’s got something on and knows he can trust. But he’s not working within official NKVD channels.”
“He can get away with that?” Whitehall asked.
Andreyev nodded. “Regardless of how Beria treated him, Tarnov is still a relative. And that gives him status. He’s used it ruthlessly over the years through intimidation, blackmail, performing favors, just enough so he’s got his back covered.”
Kovalenko stood up and reached over his desk. He picked up the report he’d been studying and held it out to Whitehall. “This is the preliminary agenda for the conference. Buried on about page two hundred is some obscure reference to the Polish borders remaining as they were set at Yalta. That’s it.”
Whitehall leafed through the report and dropped it on the table, shaking his head. “Stalin’s got what he wants. The question of Polish elections is dead, unless Nowak gets his hands on that document—assuming of course there actually is a document that implicates the NKVD in Katyn.”
Kovalenko shook a cigarette out of the pack of Lucky Strikes that had been lying on the desk. He lit the cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke in the air. “There’s a document, Stanley, and it has everything to do with Katyn. Tarnov gave it to Frank, and now he wants it back.”
“How can you be so certain?” Whitehall asked, watching the general closely.
Kovalenko’s eyes narrowed. “I know Tarnov. I know his type and how they operate. There is a document, and I’m certain it’s a copy of Stalin’s Katyn Order.”
“Even if Nowak finds it, will it make any difference?” Andreyev asked.
Whitehall continued to watch Kovalenko for a moment, but the general’s expression was unreadable. Then he turned to Andreyev. “It depends on what the document actually says. If there is proof the NKVD committed the murders at Katyn and it’s made public, it could be just the ammunition Truman and Churchill both need to stand up to Stalin and press the case for Poland.”
Andreyev shook his head. “If that happens, Tarnov is finished.”
Whitehall turned to Kovalenko who stood looking out the window, rolling the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. “How much help will your letter of authorization be if Nowak gets stopped in Poland?”
Kovalenko took a long drag on the cigarette. “If he gets stopped by the Red Army or the Polish police he’ll be fine. If it’s Tarnov, or anyone under his control, he’ll be in trouble. That’s why I made a copy for him to give to his contact—what’s her name?”
“Natalia,” Whitehall replied, “and I suspect she’s more than just a contact.”
Kovalenko shrugged. “Well, if anything happens, and she gets word back to me, I can protest loudly enough to get him out of there. No one—not the NKVD or even Tarnov—can afford a public controversy with this conference coming up.”
“What about that message she sent?” Andreyev asked Whitehall. “The bit about, we are not pathetic pawns on the perilous chessboard. Do you know what that means?”
Whitehall shook his head. “It’s a phrase Banach used in some paper he wrote back in the ’30s. A phrase Hans Frank also used in one of his writings. That’s what convinced Adam that Banach and Frank knew each other before the war. Damned if I know what it means, though.”
Forty-Eight
ADAM STACKED THE LAST of the split logs onto the wagon, brushed the dust and woodchips off his shirt, and looked at the tall, husky man holding the double-ended axe. “Is that it?” he asked.
The man brushed his blond hair back and replaced his wide-brimmed hat. He smiled broadly and laid the axe on top of the pile of logs in the wagon. “That’s it for now. We should head back; we’re late for supper.”