Page 13 of Dead Fall

Few in history had ever matched Dirlewanger’s cruelty. He was reviled by most of the Nazi high command. Hitler and Himmler, however, were quite taken with his methods.

Under his command, citizens were rounded up en masse and massacred regardless of age or sex. Hospitals, with patients still inside, were burned to the ground, while nurses were whipped, gang-raped, and hung naked alongside the doctors outside. As it was happening, depraved Nazi soldiers sang a popular German drinking ballad called “There’s a Hofbräuhaus in Munich.” Thousands more victims across the city, including many wounded resistance fighters recovering in field hospitals, were shot and set on fire with flamethrowers.

Winston Churchill pleaded with President Franklin Delano Roosevelt for help, but was refused.

By the time America did eventually come around it was too little, too late. Adding to the horror of it all, most of the supplies airdropped to the Poles, including desperately needed ammunition, ended up being recovered and used by the Nazis.

Once the revolution had been smashed, the Germans looted anything of value and then razed most of what few buildings had been left standing. Warsaw was reduced to rubble.

The atrocities committed by Dirlewanger and the Nazis were some of the worst of World War II. When all was said and done, 20,000 members of the AK had been killed and more than 200,000 of Warsaw’s citizens had been slaughtered.

Harvath visited multiple locations of the resistance and ended his tour at the Warsaw Rising Museum. It was a solemn experience, particularlythe “little insurgent” room, dedicated to the youngest members of the uprising. By the time he got back to the Old Town, he was ready for a drink.

As the Mondrian was a collection of suites and apartments spread across a series of separate, historic buildings, there was no traditional “lobby bar” that he could drop in on.

Instead, he found an excellent place nearby called Podwale Bar and Books. Complete with dark wood paneling, a fireplace, and shelves of leatherbound books, the place had a true British colonial feel to it.

He found a table, away from the piano player, with a view of the front door. The thought of sitting upstairs in the cigar bar and enjoying a Cuban, or one of the establishment’s exclusive, hand-rolled cigars, had crossed his mind, but he decided to save that experience as something he and Sølvi might do together later.

Instead, he focused on Podwale’s extensive whiskey selection. After studying the list, he ordered a Laphroaig, checked his watch, and settled back. Sølvi’s flight wouldn’t land for a few more hours still.

It felt good to relax.Reallyrelax. The whole time he had been in Bucharest, there’d been an underlying tension. It was like purgatory. He was on the bubble and could be called up at any moment and sent into action, yet no call ever came.

But now, here in Warsaw and waiting for Sølvi to show up, it felt like he was on a vacation of sorts. He could let his guard down, just a little bit, and think of things other than work. It was healthy and, despite whatever consequences might await him once the weekend was over, he was glad to have orchestrated this little personal, covert operation.

When the waitress delivered his drink, he thanked her and took a sip. It had a smokey taste with a nice, long finish. The warmth of it going down only served to put him deeper into relaxation mode.

He was taking his second sip when the app on his phone pinged with an encrypted text. It was from one of his colleagues in Northern Virginia, except the man didn’t appear to be back in the U.S. The text read:Just arrived. We need to meet.

Fuckwas the first word that popped into Harvath’s mind. Setting his whiskey down, he typed back:Where are you?

Not far.

If the guy was standing around waiting for him to touch down in Bucharest, he’d better have a comfortable place to sit. It was going to be a long wait.

Harvath was about to explain that he had taken off for the weekend, when another text came in. It was a map of Warsaw with a digital pin placed near the zoo on the other side of the Vistula River.

Harvath didn’t know why the office had come looking for him, but they had found him. Whatever was going on, sending someone in person meant that it was serious.

Downing his drink, he left some cash on the table and exited the bar. He had a bad feeling that his vacation was about to come to an abrupt end and an even worse feeling about what was to follow.

CHAPTER 4

Making certain that he wasn’t being followed, Harvath hopped the tram and rode across the Slasko-Dabrowski Bridge. At Praski Park, he got off and walked the rest of the way to No. 8 Florianska Street on foot.

It was a tasteful, French-style apartment building of creamy white stone, topped with a copper roof that had weathered to a fine verdigris. Finding the name on the directory he had been instructed to look for, he pressed the corresponding button. Seconds later a buzzer sounded and the door unlocked.

A fully exposed, ornate, wrought-iron elevator anchored the lobby of polished marble. Its cage was inset with stained glass panels and reminded Harvath of the Grand Hotel in Mexico City.

As attractive as it was, he opted for the stairs. Elevators could be death traps—especially if the wrong people knew you were coming.

On the fourth floor, he made his way down the hall to a pair of large, oak doors and knocked. A scurry of noises from the other side told him that the man he was here to see wasn’t alone.

There was the sound of heavy breathing as the lock was turned. Then, as soon as the door was opened, the two enormous, white dogs were upon him.

Harvath smiled as he scratched the animals along their throats and behind their ears.

The little man who owned them allowed it to go on for a few more minutes before calling his Caucasian Ovcharkas—Argos and Draco—back into the apartment.

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