Douglas Jacobson - The Katyn Order

“He’s NKVD,” Andreyev replied. “You never know with them.”

The general gestured toward the phone. “That was the American, Colonel Meinerz, the head of their War Crimes Investigation Team. He wants to know why the NKVD is demanding that Hans Frank’s records be sealed. It was the first I’d heard of it. Apparently, Tarnov called him and didn’t bother to inform me.” Kovalenko leaned over the desk. “And how did Tarnov find out about the American diplomat’s visit to Sachsenhausen?”

“I think Major Vygotsky, the commander of the camp detail, was the leak, sir. He’s disappeared.”

The general pulled a cigarette from a crumpled pack and snapped his gold-plated lighter three times. It didn’t light. “Goddamned piece of shit,” he grumbled and tossed it into the wastebasket.

Captain Andreyev pulled out his own lighter and lit the general’s cigarette.

Kovalenko stared at the younger officer, thinking, considering. Andreyev had been with him a long time. The young officer had put his own life at risk, and lost his eye, rescuing Kovalenko from a Luftwaffe attack in Stalingrad. He could be trusted. And now, perhaps, he could be useful. “What I’m about to tell you, Captain Andreyev, stays between the two of us.”

Andreyev nodded.

Kovalenko continued. “I first encountered Dmitri Tarnov in 1940, while I was serving out my sentence in Siberia, thanks to the treachery and deceit of the NKVD. It was in late April, a miserable, rainy night, and I was swabbing the floor in the kitchen of the guard’s mess hall…” He paused as Andreyev raised his eyebrow. “Yes, swabbing the floor. As hard as it may be for you to believe, Captain, that’s what those of us who were caught up in Stalin’s great purge were reduced to… until they needed us again in ’41.” He took a long drag on the cigarette. “As I said, I was swabbing the floor, and I overheard a conversation between three NKVD officers sitting around a table in the mess hall with a bottle of vodka. One of them was quite drunk and was bragging about an assignment he’d just carried out in the Katyn Forest.”

Andreyev pulled his chair closer. “Tarnov?”

“Da, Tarnov. He’d just returned. And he was bragging about it, bragging how he’d carried out the execution of four thousand Polish officers—‘Polish dogs,’ he called them—and bulldozed their bodies into a ditch.”

Andreyev whistled softly and adjusted his eye patch. “So it’s true… about Katyn? It was the NKVD?”

“Of course it was. And that son of a bitch Tarnov was directly involved. More than twenty thousand Polish officers and members of the intelligentsia were all intentionally murdered, at three different locations. One of those locations was in the Katyn Forest. I heard him boast about it with my own ears.”

“Does Tarnov know that you overheard?” Andreyev asked.

Kovalenko shook his head and pulled out another cigarette, which Andreyev lit for him. “No, he never knew I was there.” The general stood and walked over to the window, looking out over the ruins of Berlin. “I’ve been loyal to Russia, Captain Andreyev. Even after being fingered by the NKVD in the purge of ’37, even when we invaded Poland in ’39. As you know, I’m half Polish, yet I remained loyal and did my duty. But what happened at Katyn…” Kovalenko was silent for a long time, smoking his cigarette, staring out at what little remained of Berlin.

Andreyev cleared his throat. “Is there anything you can do about it… about Tarnov and Katyn?”

Kovalenko turned around and smiled at his young protégé. “Perhaps. For years, especially after ’43 when the Katyn massacre became public and Stalin blamed the Germans, I tried to find out as much as I could about Tarnov. He’s related to Beria, you know.”

“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.”

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.