Douglas Jacobson - The Katyn Order

Unless they lied to me again.

Adam pushed the doubts from his mind. It was too late to worry about that now. When he gave Natalia the copy of Kovalenko’s letter he’d made the decision to trust the Russian general. He sat quietly and listened for noises from outside. He couldn’t hear anything, but he was certain they were being guarded. Pressing both hands against his temples to ease the pain, he forced himself to keep thinking. The fact that Tarnov had locked them in the chapel instead of continuing to torture and kill the Górale villagers proved he was concerned about Kovalenko’s letter. Tarnov had to do something about that.

Would he be able to track down Natalia?

Another wave of nausea struck him, and Adam swallowed hard, wondering what else Jastremski might have told Tarnov under torture.

The priest?

Jastremski had said that everything flowed through the priest, so if Tarnov got to the priest…

Adam massaged his temples again, trying to stay calm. Even if Tarnov learned about Natalia, it didn’t mean that he knew where she was. But Tarnov was desperate. He was going to do something, and Adam knew they had to get out of here before he returned.

He glanced around in the shadowy darkness of the chapel. He remembered the structure from the night with Tytus when there’d been a lantern, and he realized an escape was wishful thinking. The building was about ten meters on a side and stoutly built, with a thick, wooden floor, no cellar, and solid stone walls. The single octagonal window was high in the peak of the roof and, at any rate, too small to crawl through. And there were NKVD rifleman outside.

After a moment Zygmunt said, “They’ll be expecting me back in Prochowa.”

Adam turned toward him.

“My horse was tied behind the wagon,” Zygmunt continued. “I told Casimir that I would head back at first light today. If I don’t return by noon he’ll know something’s happened. They’ll come looking for us.”

ON THURSDAY MORNING Rabbit sat at the small table in the caretaker’s quarters and carefully spread marmalade on his third slice of black bread. He hadn’t eaten this well in months, and he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had marmalade. The living quarters, which adjoined the caretaker’s workshop in the lower level of the Church of Archangel Michael and Saint Stanislaus, consisted of the kitchen, a small sitting room, bedroom and a bathroom. Rabbit had spent the last two nights on the sofa in the sitting room, which was the most comfortable place he’d slept since the NKVD raided the safe house in Lodz.

He’d had nightmares about that terrifying incident almost every night since it happened, and it was something he wondered about now as he finished the thick, chewy piece of bread. During the entire two months of the Rising in Warsaw, he’d never had nightmares, not even after his friend Bobcat had been killed by the flamethrower in the sewer. That had been the most horrendous thing he’d ever experienced, and certainly he was a lot closer to Bobcat than he was to Zeeka or Hammer or the other AK operatives in Lodz. But there was something so evil about the Russian NKVD that even now he shivered as he thought about it.

Leopold had been busy in the workshop, and at precisely eight o’clock he stepped into the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee. Just as he had done the day before, he spread marmalade on a slice of bread, put the coffee and the bread plate on a tray and left to deliver them to the priest, saying he’d be back in a few moments.

Rabbit finished his breakfast, cleared off the table and went into the workshop where Leopold had set up several wood-framed window screens that needed scraping and painting. They had to meet Natalia at the wireless site at noon so there was no time to lose. Rabbit got right to work.

Scraping the dried-out, flaking paint from the first screen, Rabbit thought about Natalia and her friend, who she said was off on “a mission.” She’d been vague about both the friend and the mission, and he wondered what could have been important enough to make her leave the safe house in Lodz. But he was glad she did. If she hadn’t, she’d be dead. Like Hammer. And Zeeka… He wouldn’t think about that.

It was almost nine thirty when Rabbit finished scraping all the screens and was ready to start painting. He wondered where Leopold was. He needed the old man to show him which paint to use. The caretaker had said he’d be right back when he left to deliver the breakfast to the priest. That had been more than an hour ago.

Rabbit stepped outside and walked around to the courtyard to check the gardens that surrounded the fountain, but Leopold wasn’t there. He climbed the winding stone steps that led to the main entrance of the church, but the doors were locked. Can he be doing some chore for the priest?

Out of curiosity, Rabbit walked around to the other side of the church and the adjoining monastery. He stood off at a distance. It would be very out-of-place for him to enter the monastery, he thought. He had not met the priest—other than the few minutes he’d spent whispering into the confessional screen—and he certainly couldn’t just knock on the door and ask for Leopold.

He decided to go back to the workshop and wait when something caught his eye. The arched wooden door of the monastery was ajar. And there was a black object on the ground next to the door. Rabbit took a few steps closer. It looked like a shoe.

He took a few more steps, coming still closer.

It was a man’s shoe: black leather and freshly polished. It certainly wasn’t Leopold’s. The caretaker had been wearing his work boots that morning. Rabbit picked up the shoe. The laces were still tied, and there were scuff marks on the heel and along one side.

Rabbit suddenly dropped the shoe and spun around. He backed up against the wall of the monastery, his eyes scanning the courtyard.

Nothing.

He glanced down at the shoe again, then put his hand on the thick wooden door of the monastery and gave it a gentle push. The heavy door creaked on its hinges and swung inward, revealing an alcove.

An image flashed through Rabbit’s mind of the knife he’d used to slice the bread that morning, and he wished it were in his hand right then. He stuck his head into the alcove. “Hel—” His voice caught. He coughed and tried again. “Hello?”

He stepped into the alcove and knocked on the door to the priest’s private quarters.

No response.

He knocked again, but this door was also ajar and it swung inward a bit.

Rabbit put a hand on the door and pushed it open. He took a step, stopped and listened. He took another step and found himself in a tidy, simply furnished parlor with two chairs on either side of a fireplace. On the other side of the room was an archway that led to what appeared to be a dining area. He grabbed the iron poker from the hearth and stepped across the wood-plank floor to the archway.

He stopped and listened, but the only sound was his own breathing. He exhaled slowly and peeked around the archway.

Two of the chairs were overturned, and Leopold lay in a pool of blood in the center of the room. His throat had been slit.

Rabbit tightened his grip on the poker, his eyes darting around the room. Holding the poker in both hands, he stepped carefully around Leopold’s body and pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen.

Nothing.

He crossed the dining room, checked the bedroom and the toilet.

There was no sign of the priest.

Still gripping the poker, Rabbit slowly backed out of the priest’s quarters and through the alcove. He stood with his back against the thick, wooden door, looking around the courtyard, trying to comprehend what had happened.