“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.”
Seven
GENERAL ANDREI KOVALENKO 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.
His attention was diverted by the sound of an approaching automobile, and he abruptly turned away from the riverbank. A black four-door GAZ-11, streaked with dust, pulled up and stopped behind a long line of idle T-34 tanks. A Red Army captain named Andreyev emerged from the backseat and walked briskly across the gravel road to meet the burly, broad-shouldered general. The captain saluted smartly and held out an envelope. He was taller than the general but very thin, almost gaunt. The left side of his face was scarred from shrapnel wounds, and he wore a black patch over his left eye. “Orders from Marshal Rokossovsky’s headquarters, sir.”