Douglas Jacobson - The Katyn Order

When Jerzy Jastremski left the library, following his Saturday morning shift, Tarnov was waiting for him, standing on the sidewalk next to a long, black Citroën.

“Dzień dobry, Mr. Jastremski,” Tarnov said as the slightly built librarian walked past, using the only Polish words he knew, or cared to learn.

Jastremski stopped. “Dzień dobry.”

“Speak English, Mr. Jastremski?” Tarnov asked.

Jastremski looked wary, but nodded.

“Allow me to give ride home,” Tarnov said.

“Thank you, but I prefer to walk,” Jastremski said in fluent English. He attempted to step past him, but Tarnov gripped the slender man by the elbow and shoved a pistol into his ribs.

“Get in fuckin’ car,” Tarnov snapped, “or you die right here.” He steered Jastremski to the black Citroën, pulled open the rear door and shoved him inside. Tarnov was dressed in plain clothes—a dark blue business suit and black trench coat—better for this sort of work than the NKVD uniform. He removed the trench coat, folded it carefully and climbed in the auto next to Jastremski.

“What’s this all about? Where are you taking me?” Jastremski asked as the Citroën sped through the streets of the Stare Miasto.

“Find out soon enough,” Tarnov said. “Now shut up.” As they drove on in silence, Tarnov became edgy. Time was running out, and he had to find Ludwik Banach. He had no idea whether Banach had what he wanted, or if Jastremski’s visitor was anyone worthwhile, but he was damned sure going to find out, and find out fast.

The auto proceeded up Wawel hill and around the castle to the area overlooking the Vistula River. The driver stopped the car and got out. He closed the door and stood nearby, looking out over the river.

“So, Mr. Jastremski, you had visitor yesterday?” Tarnov asked.

“Excuse me, a visitor?”

“At library. You had visitor.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean. Several visitors came to the library yesterday, like they do all the time, asking for help finding books.”

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!”

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.