The Katyn Order (6 page)

She was a Polish woman in her thirties, not especially attractive, but well-endowed, and apparently willing to trade sexual favors—and information—for her life. According to the report Adam had studied, Heisenberg kept her in an apartment beyond the West Station in the Ochota District and visited her every morning.

With the hazy eastern sky behind him and ominous clouds of black smoke from the fires in the Wola District ahead of him, Adam continued west on Jerusalem Avenue. He kept to the side of the wide thoroughfare staying out of the way of the heavily armed German convoy rumbling toward him. The convoy was headed east, toward the City Center, and as he sped past Adam counted at least a dozen Panther tanks and twice that number of trucks towing heavy artillery. Hundreds of conscripted soldiers—Hungarians, Serbs, Ukrainians and a smattering of Russians—were crammed elbow-to-elbow in the back of the trucks, all destined to serve as cannon fodder against the AK while German SS officers hung back and watched the show.

Ten minutes later Adam made a hard left turn off Jerusalem Avenue, then maneuvered carefully through a maze of shattered residential streets pockmarked with craters and littered with debris. He finally stopped in front of a three-story apartment building he had scouted out the day before in a neighborhood Heisenberg had obviously decided to spare for the time being. It was an east-west street, and Adam parked the motorcycle pointing into the haze of the rising sun.

Adam took his time as he killed the motorcycle's engine, climbed off the seat and set the kickstand, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror. Artillery shelling had commenced in the City Center, and thumping detonations echoed through the area, rattling windows and keeping pedestrians off the streets. The SS trooper in the front passenger seat of the Horch jumped out and opened the rear door. Heisenberg emerged and headed straight into the building. A man on a mission, Adam thought.

Still watching the rearview mirror, Adam removed his goggles and pulled off the helmet as the SS trooper got back into the front seat of the car. The driver lit a cigarette and held out the pack to his partner. Adam glanced quickly up and down the street then, turning to his left, he slipped the Walther P-38 out of the holster and held it tight against his right leg. In a brisk but unhurried motion, Adam took three strides toward the car.

The driver squinted into the smoggy sunlight with a hand over his eyes. It was already a warm day, and the window was rolled down.

Adam stepped up to the car and, without a word, fired a single shot into the side of the driver's head. He took a step to his left and shot the other SS trooper between the eyes.

He wasn't sure if the sound of the artillery would drown out the gunshots, but he wasn't about to waste any time. Holding the pistol at his side, he walked up to the apartment building and pulled open the door. The apartment was number 2B, on the second floor, and he took the steps quietly, two at a time, holding the gun out in front. He didn't see Heisenberg. The man must have gone right to work.

Adam stopped at the second floor landing and took a breath. He could still hear the artillery shells. He reached with his left hand for the handle on the door marked 2B and pulled it downward. It was locked.

He took another breath and stepped back, pointed the pistol at the door handle and fired. With the gunshot reverberating off the walls of the confined space like a cannon blast, Adam kicked open what was left of the door.

Across the room, Heisenberg knelt on the floor facing the sofa with his pants down to his ankles. He whirled around clumsily and struggled to stand up, stumbling over his bunched-up trousers. The woman sat on the sofa with her nightgown unbuttoned to her waist, her eyes wide in confused terror.

Adam fired a shot into Heisenberg's groin. The SS officer's eyes bulged. Then he curled into a ball, gasping for breath and clutching at the bloody mass that gushed from between his legs. Adam took a step closer, looked down at him and fired a second shot into the back of his head.

The woman shrieked wildly, the SS officer's blood dripping from her face and bare chest. She stared at Adam in horror. Then she scrambled off the sofa and ran to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

Adam turned to leave but stopped at the shattered door leading to the hallway. He stood there for a moment. Then he cursed under his breath, marched over to the bedroom door and kicked it open.

The woman cowered on the floor at the foot of the bed with black, mascara-streaked tears running down her cheeks. “Please, I didn't tell him anything,” she sobbed, pulling the blood-spattered nightgown over her ample breasts. “Nothing he didn't already know. He
forced
me to do it. He was a pig! I had no choice!”

Adam raised the Walther and fired a single shot through her forehead before he had a chance to think about it a second time. Then he holstered the gun and walked out of the room.

19 A
UGUST

T
HE MORNING WAS HOT
and windless, and the smoky haze that hung in the air made it difficult to see much beyond a hundred meters. But from his perch in one of the copper-clad twin towers of Holy Cross Church, Adam had a good view of Avenue Krakowskie. Farther down the avenue, beyond the AK barricade, a German bunker and machine-gun nest guarded the white stone walls and wrought-iron gates at the entrance to Warsaw University. Beyond the gates several hundred German soldiers patrolled the tree-lined pathways of the university grounds. The bodies of five Waffen-SS troopers and a handful of Ukrainian conscripts lay in the street between the university and the barricade.

The shelling had intensified during the night as German Panzer units attacked with greater fury since the discovery of Heisenberg's body. But the barricades protecting Old Town had held . . . at least for now.

Adam knew it had been a risk. Assassinations led to reprisals. But it wasn't something to be concerned about now. He'd followed his orders and it was done. Heisenberg was a murderous butcher who deserved to die, along with his collaborator girlfriend. But that didn't matter, either. Emotion played no part in it. The man was a target, and he had taken him out. It was that simple, just the way it had been ever since the British dropped him back into Poland. Identify the target and take it out.

It was close to noon when Adam heard someone climbing the staircase leading up to the tower where he'd been positioned since daybreak. Though the church was behind the barricades, in territory still held by the AK, Adam tensed and moved to a corner where he had a clear view of the top of the staircase.

“Captain Wolf, it's Rabbit,” a young voice called from halfway up the stairs. “I have a message.”

Adam relaxed. Though he had no official rank in the quasi-military organization of the AK, Rabbit always called him “captain.”

“Come on up,” he called back. “I promise not to shoot you.”

The skinny lad's blond head poked up through the opening, a broad smile on his face. He was one of the good ones, Adam thought, tough enough to be trusted and streetwise beyond his years, yet young enough not to worry about the inevitable consequences.

“I have a message from Colonel Stag,” Rabbit said. “You're to report to his headquarters immediately.”

Adam flicked on the safety of his American-made Springfield A4 sniper rifle and slung it over his shoulder.

“When are you gonna teach me how to shoot that rifle,” Rabbit asked a few minutes later as they walked through the barricaded streets of Old Town, shells bursting in the distance and thick, black smoke drifting in from the western districts of the city.

Adam laughed. “How old are you?”

“Thirteen,” Rabbit said, straightening up and throwing his shoulders back.

“This thing would knock you right on your ass.”

“The hell it would. I'm a lot tougher than I look, you know. Besides, I'd rather be a sniper than crawl through the damn sewers, dragging telephone lines.”

Adam laughed again. “Maybe some day, Rabbit. But, in the meantime someone has to know the way through the sewers. That may be our only way out of here.”

The boy kicked a stone. “Nah, we're goin' to beat these fuckin' Krauts. Me and the Conductor have fried a bunch of ‘em.”

“The Conductor?”

“Yeah, the one with the uniform. Remember that day in the hospital square? Me and the Conductor were caught in the middle of the street, and you took out three of those SS pricks, shot ‘em right over our heads. Damn, that was something to see. You
gotta
teach me to shoot like that.”

Adam shrugged. He remembered the day at the hospital, of course. And he had seen her again a few days later, sitting with Falcon at the briefing. But what did it matter? She'd probably just get herself killed, like they all would.

“We're going to beat these Krauts, don't you think?”

Adam put a hand on the boy's shoulder and nodded, marveling at the optimism of youth. He was about to respond when someone shouted at Rabbit from across the street. The boy said, “It's Bobcat, gotta go. See ya later.”

Adam watched with a smile as Rabbit ran up to the taller, dark-haired boy called Bobcat and punched him in the arm, then ducked out of the way as Bobcat took a swipe at his head. A moment later they were both running down the street, laughing and calling each other names.

The AK district command center had been moved from Pilsudski Square to the cellar of the Polonia Bank building in Old Town. Located just a few streets off the central square, the bank was nestled in the middle of a row of three-story, seventeenth-century merchant houses and guild halls that had so far withstood the sporadic shelling with only a layer of soot darkening their multi-colored façades.

As Adam descended the staircase and entered the crowded, smoky room in the cellar of the bank, a brawny commando with a shock of jet-black hair and a scowl on his face brushed past him and stomped up the stairs.

Adam watched the commando for a few seconds, then glanced around the hot, stuffy room, lit with bare bulbs strung across the wood-beamed ceiling. He spotted Colonel Stag at a small table in the far corner, away from the other AK officers, who were poring over maps and scratching out dispatches for the runners.

The colonel waved his hand for Adam to join him. His face was heavily creased and pasty-looking, his eyes showing fatigue. “We've been instructed by General Bor to make contact with the Russians,” Stag said as soon as Adam sat down, not wasting any time with small talk. “The situation here is getting critical, and it's imperative we know their intentions.”

“Has there been any movement on their part?” Adam asked.

Stag shook his head. “No, they're still sitting there on the east bank of the river, south of Praga. They've had firefights with the Germans up and down the river, but our scouts report they've shown no inclination to move into Warsaw.” Stag leaned over the table and lowered his voice. “The Russians won't talk with us directly, of course, so as soon as we can set it up, we're going to send you over there.”

Adam stiffened. He understood the reality of the situation. As historical enemies, Russian officers would never communicate directly with their Polish counterparts, would never acknowledge them as equals, even though since 1941 they were technically allies. “What makes you think they'll talk to me?”

“You're an American. Our intelligence people have made some probes and have reason to believe they'll receive you.”

“Even though I've been fighting with the AK and carrying out orders given by Polish officers?”

“The Russians won't know that. They might know who General Bor is—and maybe who I am and one or two of the other officers, if their spies are any good. But there are thirty thousand insurgents fighting here and, even if they cared, it would be impossible for them to know who you are. Hell, you've been so deep under cover
I
don't even know who you really are.”

“So, when I get over there, who or what will they think I am?”

“A story is being planted that you're an American emissary from London, representing the Polish Government-in-Exile.”

Adam thought about it for a moment. “Does anyone else know about this?”

Stag shook his head.

“What about Falcon? As I came in he almost knocked me down stomping out of here. He looked pretty pissed off about something.”

“That's just the way he is,” Stag said with a shrug. “He's been badgering me for a week to let him lead an assault on the German garrison at Saxon Palace. It's out of the question, of course. Without armored protection, they'd get slaughtered, but he doesn't see it that way. Just between you and me, I think he also wanted to be the one to take out Heisenberg.”

Adam nodded. He'd met Falcon only once but knew him by reputation as a fearless fighter, though something of a bully and impulsive, prone to taking unnecessary risks. He folded his hands on the table and looked at Colonel Stag. “Will I have a name, identification?”

“Nothing, no name, no ID. That's the way it's being set up.”

“So there's no record. No matter what happens, I was never there.”

Stag rubbed a hand on his stubbly chin and smiled. “That's the idea. It may take a few days to get everything set up, so just be ready to go.”

“Who will I be meeting?”

“A Red Army general named Kovalenko. We don't know much about him except that he's in command of an armored division just south of Praga and he reports directly to Rokossovsky.”

19 A
UGUST

G
ENERAL
A
NDREI
K
OVALENKO
was furious. From his vantage point on the east bank of the Vistula River he watched the smoke rising from Warsaw and knew they were running out of time. The AK insurgency had lasted almost three weeks, longer than anyone had thought possible, but the Germans were bringing in reinforcements. Very soon, he knew, it would be too late.