Читать книгу Argentine Archive №1 - Magomet Timov - Страница 5

June 15, 1950

Bolshaya Dmitrovka

Moscow

The pub on the corner of Bolshaya Dmitrovka and Stoleshnikov Lane was overcrowded. The vaulted basement, streaked with dripping plaster and mold, never suffered from a lack of visitors. A convenient location in a very historical place of the capital, practically in its cultural center. Its past, shrouded in urban legends and no less turbulent present, made it a place of pilgrimage for various categories of writers, sculptors, poets and the remaining creative population of the big city.

According to rumors, here, in the company of Mayakovsky, ‘Uncle Gilyai’, the singer of Zamoskvorechye Vladimir Gilyarovsky himself, who forever glorified pre-revolutionary Moscow in his wonderful essays, read his obscene poems here. Supposedly, even Bulgakov himself used to come here to taste local beer with Tver crayfish, but people of sober thought, of course, categorically disagreed with this.

Anyway, but Yama – which was not its official name, but the locals surely called it that – was a beerhouse that served as the hangout for dozens of artists and musicians who already considered themselves the capital’s bohemians. These were not the same bohemians who frequented places like the restaurant Sovietskiy (the former Yar), or the prestigious Metropol. Their wallets were simply too light.

Andrey Fomenko, a graduate of the Moscow Mechanical Institute, sipped his already lukewarm beer and enjoyed the spectacle of Naum. He was a local tourist attraction and a talented landscape artist from Neglinka. Traditionally he was unshaven, with an oily, soiled robe draped over his naked body. This contrasted with an ever-present bright blue chic bow on his long, thin neck. At that moment, he was talking to a visiting farmer. By some miracle, he had become separated from his organized tour, and Naum was trying to convince him to buy one of his works. It was a dull landscape of a dreary, rainy day on the Arbat, disguised as a French watercolor.

The funny side of the situation was that it could have been a perfect fit for either Moscow in the miniature or Montmartre. The visitor to the capital sipped on his third mug of frothy beer, to the fierce envy of the poor artist. He let Naum’s watercolors pass him by.

Swallowing the saliva coming up his throat, Naum was about to drop the price again. He had already dropped it from three rubles, hoping to gain at least a couple of beers. Still, at that moment, his future benefactor set aside a plate with the remains of crayfish. In one rich gulp, he downed half his mug. Belching and plopping a straw hat on his immense bald head, he lifted a thick, overstuffed briefcase. From it, a stick of cervelat sausage he had bought in Yeliseyevsky was defiantly sticking out. He unexpectedly winked at Naum and, with a brotherly slap on the artist’s shoulder, thundered with a commanding manner:

“You don't know how to sell your work for a profit. It would be simpler, dauber, to share bread with your friends over here for the health of Sidor Petrovich from Magnitogorsk. Besides, I have to go. My wife probably already got a caviar mosque on Kazansky…”

With these words, he thrust several crumpled gold pieces into the wet palm of Naum, who still did not believe in his luck. He pushed those present with his elbows, clutching his briefcase under his arm. Like an icebreaker, he gradually made his way to the exit, vaguely looming in the pale spot of tobacco smoke.

Those few coins, by local standards, might as well have been Flint’s mysterious treasure. Andrey watched with interest as some of the forever cash-strapped local regulars started circling Naum like sharks around a shipwrecked sailor.

Naum quickly put his magical watercolor deeper into a large black folder he always carried around, but more for the show, since he rarely sold anything here. Furtively looking around, he made his way through the crowd and showed up at a table close to Andrey. Andrey swiveled and placed a mug with a foam cap in front of the artist, who was still crazed with his unexpected wealth.

Naum took a royal sip and stood there for a while, blissfully savoring the first sensations. Only then did he turn to the student and ask him:

“Well, Physics, can you do that?”

Andrey laughed:

“You are a lucky man, Naumushka. You’ve made a killing!”

Naum looked offended, which made his already brown eyes completely dark:

“He wanted to buy my ‘Rain on the Arbat’.”

“And yet he didn’t! He just felt sorry for you!”

Naum took another sip of beer and winked at Andrey:

“Well, physicist, I see you seem to be popular.”

“What are you talking about?” Andrey jumped up, looking around the lilac twilight of the hall.

“Oh, yes,” said Naum, pointing his unshaven chin at a dark corner, “Over there. He’s been looking at you for half an hour.”

“Come on!” Andrey stared at the stranger. He was dressed in a simple suit of a worker from the Moscow suburbs. On his head was a cap with a hard visor, breeches of an army cut were tucked into not too new, but neatly polished cowhide boots. A sturdy jacket over a clean, ironed shirt. In appearance about thirty, thirty-five. His face was unfamiliar.

To Andrey's surprise, the stranger intercepted his interested glance, smiled, and winked at him. His smile was kind and open. Andrey involuntarily smiled back. Naum eyed the student warily.

“Be careful with him,” the artist whispered hotly in Andrey's ear. “What if he is one of them?”

Naum vaguely waved his hand in the air, portraying these unknown people. Andrey only grinned condescendingly: the alarmist character of his friend was well known.

From somewhere inside the mess of smoke and beer fumes emerged the figure of a lean peasant with a mint in his mouth and an empty mug in his bony hand. Looking for buddies with dog-like eyes, he bleated:

“Splash a little something in the mug of a venerable participant in the heroic defense of Sevastopol! My throat’s on fire, it’s unbearable!”

Andrei gave by him a scornful look and turned away, and Naum glanced askance at the 'hero' and half-whispered his advice:

“Kindly get lost, Timon. My pal here, his uncle died at the ninth battery. Guys like you, who were rats in the rear, he kills in the alleyways. With his bare hands, no less.”

Timon's eyes widened to the size of a five-dollar coin. Grabbing his mug, he disappeared into the tavern's haze. Naum nudged his comrade with his elbow:

“What are you thinking about, good fellow?”

“I’ll get my diploma tomorrow or the day after. Then what? Distribution? In all likelihood, they’ll find me some hole in Upper Pupinsk, beyond the Urals. In that case, I can kiss all my dreams goodbye…”

“Oh, that.” Naum savored another foamy sip. “What did you expect, brother? That Moscow will greet you with open arms? There are enough engineers here.”

“And then some.” Andrey butted his stubborn head against his mug. “But I still hoped for the best, so to speak, all these five years. Yes, and the last course washed my head, so…”

"And why?” his pal laughed. “From what has accumulated in it over the past four? No, the rumors that you’ve been laying about this winter have been going around even here, in the Pit.”

“So what?” Andrey jumped up, shaking his blond locks. “That diploma is still almost with distinction!”

During the argument, the two did not notice as the stranger picked up his mug and moved closer to their table. Behind a heavy beer and a newspaper with his leftovers a little to the side, he listened with interest to their conversation. At some point, Naum glanced around and spotted him.

'Hey, comrade, we didn't invite you to our table,' he grumbled. The stranger flashed a broad smile:

“So? This spot wasn’t reserved, so I can sit here if I want.”

Andrey grabbed Naum by his sleeve and said:

“Come on, Naum, the comrade is right: in the pub and the bath, everyone is equal.”

“Indeed! I can get you a beer. How about that? We can drink and get to know each other at the same time.”

“Beer is good,” the artist said, as he tempered his anger with forgiveness.

“Great! Why don’t you take this,” he pulled Naum’s right hand closer and shoved some money into it, “and get a couple of chervontsy, and a beer for each of us. Oh, and ask old man Theophanes for a crawfish. I’ve heard he keeps a couple of buckets in the back. Tell him to get his shit together.’

“Right, like he’d listen to me,” said Naum with a crooked grin. He loved crawfish but didn’t want to deal with Theophanes. All the Countertops admired him for his cool temper and his enormous fists.

“Just tell him the Cat is begging and begging. I’m sure he won’t refuse,” the stranger said. “But you’ll need to hurry, or they’ll close and we’ll have neither crawfish nor beer!”

Despite glancing over his shoulder every so often, Naum went to the counter to confront the formidable Theophanes. The stranger leaned in closer to the recent student and raised his mug:

“Good evening, so to speak.”

Andrey looked at him gloomily.

“I don't drink with strangers in public places.”

“Oh!” the newcomer laughed. “Well, let's get acquainted. Kotov is my surname, common enough, of course, but I'm so alone, young and handsome. You can call me the Cat. The whole Arbat and Zamoskvorechye call me that.”

Andrey chuckled:

“Experienced, then. You from the thieves?”

The stranger shrugged.

“It depends on what you call a thief… So, in a way.”

Andrey shrugged his shoulders.

“Sounds complicated. For me, it’s easy: I’m Andrey…”

“Fomenko, Andrey Grigorievich, twenty-two years old, worker-peasant from the Chelyabinsk province, graduate of the Moscow Mechanical Engineering.” Noticing the astounded look of the future physicist, he shrugged his shoulders. “Have I got it wrong?”

“On the contrary, and this is disturbing,” Andrey muttered. “Will you surprise me further, or should we immediately part ways?”

“Why run, Andrey, if I’m here for you?” The Cat took a sip of his beer and looked cheerfully at his new acquaintance. “Don’t make your eyes round, boy. I'm not a devil from a snuffbox! Let's get some fresh air, and we’ll talk. I know more about you than just your origins. I can tell you about your mother, born a noblewoman. To her parents attracting the disfavor of the authorities, she married a metalworker and taught physics at a school. This is where you got your thirst for science. Your father, Grigory Kuzmich, perished in the war, buried near Rzhev as a senior sergeant, order-bearer and hero. Just like your uncle, who really died near Sevastopol. And his brothers, who almost reached Berlin. I also know about your three escapes to the front and your successes in that English entertainment, which we call boxing. Easy now!” He raised his hand when he noticed Andrey putting his hand in his pocket. “Piggy don’t bother. First, because I’m here strictly on business. My knowledge of some things should make you uneasy, on the one hand, and on the other, make you wonder where in a Soviet country such an informed comrade might come from. Now, if I’m, shall we say, an enemy spy, then you are right. There is simply nowhere without the lead. But what if it’s quite the contrary, comrade future physicist-engineer?”

Andrey carefully pulled his hand out of his pocket, in which there really was a respectable lead-filled cosh. This cosh was quite the substitute for brass knuckles and, unlike the latter, not illegal to carry. Fomenko did not dare risk it in the Pit without his little ‘helper’. He had a nasty experience before. But how did the Cat know about this? Or was he really one of ‘them’?

“Very well, how are we going to leave, comrade… Cat? Naum is about to return with the crayfish and beer. What will he think?”

“He won’t think anything,” laughed the Cat and there was something in it that Andrey liked. “We'll leave a couple of red ones for him on the countertop, and he'll forget about everything right away.”

With these words, he pulled out a pair of chervonets from a leather shovel purse and pushed them under the plate with the crayfish remains.

“Let's go,” he nodded to Andrey and, without looking back, moved through the haze to the exit. Andrey looked around helplessly, grabbed his crumpled cap from the counter and some pickled fishtails that were nearby, and followed him outside.

Naum arrived at the table only a quarter of an hour later but found only empty mugs and plates, from which the local punks even dared to clean the fish bones. Just a couple of lonely coins under the plate.

Naum put the mugs and crayfish on the marble countertop and looked around, just in case. Andrey and the mysterious stranger were nowhere to be found.

“Oh well,” said the artist to himself. “Looks like I’m lucky today!”

And he knocked away the first mug. Ahead was a wonderful evening, worthy of a genuine servant of the muses.

“And then we Comrade Kurchatov gave his lecture, and I finally realized that my vocation is nuclear energy.” Andrey stopped and stared at the Cat. He looked at him with a mocking squint. “Why are you so interested in this? You don’t look like you’ve even been through seventh grade, and now you’re talking about splitting atoms.”

The man pushed back his cap and threw some careful glances at either side of them. The Moscow evening was noisy all around. Girls in light dresses flocked along the Tsvetnoy Boulevard alley. Under the tree canopy, the old men crowded around the benches in groups, concentrating on their chess games played out, probably for years, since the pre-war days.

A gang of boys cheerfully drove a shabby bicycle rim without a tire in front of them. It rattled desperately along the gravel of the path and strove from time to time to run off into the roadside acacias. Still, the boys deftly guided it with a branch in the right direction.

The capital was moving away from the nightmare of war. Men in shabby tunics with bandaged wounds were becoming increasingly rare, and the city filled with crowds of workers eager to take their places behind the machines, which had missed those hands so much during those four terrible years.

Almost all the enterprises were working again. The morning crowds of workers hurried to the factory gates. In the evenings, tired but satisfied they lived through another peaceful day, the freshly painted subway trains delivered them to their homes.

Stalinist skyscrapers rose skyward. The new MSU building would soon adorn the Lenin Hills, just as the giant apartments on Kutuzovsk and Kotelniy Embankment reached for the heavens. And on Smolensk Square, the new building of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs stood tall and proud. Moscow grew and expanded, throwing off the last traces of the recent fighting with her discarded blackout camouflage.

Andrey noticed a moment’s confusion in his new acquaintance but interpreted it in his own way.

“What’s up, comrade? Haven't you been to the capital recently?”

Kotov turned to Andrey and laughed.

“Look at that… No, comrade Fomenko, I haven’t been out of here in a while. Business, you know. I just can't get enough of a peaceful Moscow. How everything has changed here. For the better, Andryusha, for the better, of course. Where is all this dullness, constant fear of bombing, balloons in the cloudy sky?”

Andrey laughed.

“So when was it? Five years already have passed since then, or even more. If you recall, when the Germans have driven away from their trenches.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” laughed Kotov. "But before my eyes, there’s still that Moscow, unbroken, belligerent. But what am I talking about? Let’s move on to something more serious. So, you say, Comrade Kurchatov lectured you.”

Andrey gasped as he remembered the quiet talk of a lecturer that was not familiar to anyone. It was later that they were simply fascinated by this unknown speaker. At first, against the background of eminent professors, he was merely a modest man with disheveled hair. To them, he seemed to be an assistant professor, a ‘loser’ who accidentally came out to replace one of their venerable teachers. But only until that moment when he uttered the first sentence of the first lecture: “My friends, remember: man's life is not eternal, but science and knowledge cross the threshold of the centuries!” And then the journey to the fantastic country began, where the atom reigns.

“Yes, he was amazing!”

“Didn’t you want to work in this scientific field?” The Cat looked deep into Andrey's eyes, which made chills run down his spine, not from fear, but from the anticipation of significant changes.

“Of course,” the young man choked, suddenly frozen. “Who are you, comrade? We must now say goodbye, and it would be better if you’ll never cross my path again. I’ll surely turn your over to the first militiaman I can find and let them deal with you as they see fit.”

The Cat raised his hand.

“But, but, young man, you want songs, and I have them, as they say in Odessa. The organs are already nearby.”

He pulled a red booklet out of his inner pocket, and Andrey's eyes were drawn by the gold-embossed blue letters: ‘The Ministry of State Security of the USSR’. He slowly raised his head and looked into the eyes of this mysterious man.

“That’s what this entire show was for? You couldn’t just introduce yourself, and then there’s the suspicious conversation, hints… In fact, what have I done to interest your institution in the first place? I did nothing, couldn’t have done anything, nor was I ever involved in anything until now, as they say.”

The Cat burst out laughing:

“What do you think we’re doing, youngster? Despite the films you may have seen, we don’t spend our days jumping about the roofs. No, buddy, we have a lot of things to do in other areas as well. To begin with, I will introduce myself in the full form: Major of State Security Kotov, Sergey Vladimirovich. You, my friend, I know all about right back to the seventh generation, so don’t bother introducing yourself.”

“That much is clear,” Andrei muttered. “Even so, why am I here?”

Kotov scanned the surrounding area and nodded towards an empty bench:

“Shall we sit down? And talk?”

Andrey shrugged his shoulders and headed in that direction.

When they both settled down in the shade of a spreading willow, the major suggested in a conspiratorial tone:

“Would you like to work for the good of the socialist motherland?”

Andrey laughed, and Kotov liked his laugh: such a pure laugh, without mockery, open.

“But I’ll work for her benefit according to the distribution. Then I'll just get my diploma first. I’m going to some giant factory; they are building so many of them now. I’ll work hard and make the most of it.”

Kotov chuckled:

“Cheeky. A cheeky young man, taking into account who you’ve just involved in this philosophical conversation.”

“Why, I know who I’m talking to, comrade Major. It’s just that I have nothing to fear before Soviet law.”

Kotov looked absentmindedly at the sky: in the high June blue, cirrus clouds crawled lazily, slightly tinted by the sunset sun. He took his cap from his head, crumpled it in his hands, then put it next to him.

“And the artisan’s outfit suits you,” Andrey said unexpectedly. Kotov raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“Really?”

“Certainly! Even if Naum was led on by this masquerade. And he has a trained eye.”

“Flattering, flattering,” muttered the major, and looked intently into the eyes of the now-former student. “And if I offer you work in our department?”

Andrei even got up.

“Me? The Chekists? Well, how could you…”

“What’s wrong?”

“No.” Andrey was embarrassed. Kotov heeded his reaction.

Then he said:

“The country needs you, comrade Fomenko.”

Andrey was even taken aback. He plopped back onto the bench.

“What, mobilize? The war’s been over for, like, five years already. Or not?”

Kotov shook his head vigorously:

“No, young man. For us, and you, by and large, the war is not over yet. It’s not on the battlefields, not in the air, not on the ocean. The current war is going on for drawing boards, in scientific laboratories, at test sites. And it’s only people like you, young and talented scientists, who can win this war and allow the rest of the world to sleep comfortably. Yes, the stakes in this battle are no longer this that country: the entire world is in danger.”

“And you mean?”

“I just want to say that we need you as a consultant on… Shall we say nuclear power?”

Fomenko began to rise from the bench again, momentarily speechless.

“But I…”

“You want to say, young man, that you did not specialize in this profile but only listened to the full course of lectures on the subject, right?”

“Well, about that…”

“So it's not a problem,” Kotov said as he slapped him with his wide palm on the back. “All the missing knowledge you can get from those who are working on the subject. And then already advise us in the process, so to speak.”

“In the process of… what?”

Kotov raised his forefinger.

“Now that is, as they say in the novels, my friend, a completely different story. Just decide for yourself, you are with us or not? If not, then consider today's meeting as if it didn’t occur.”

“What if I say yes?” Andrey asked in a hoarse voice. Kotov smiled:

“Then we'll talk.”

“Yes,” Andrey breathed out. For a moment, the major simply looked into his eyes, then got up and pulled on his coat.

“Come on,” he said.

“Where?” asked Andrey, automatically rising from the bench. Kotov chuckled.

“To a bright future, young man,” he said mysteriously and rushed along the alley to the exit from the park. After hesitating for a second, Andrey rushed after him.

June 17, 1950

22:50

Stalin’s office

Kremlin, Moscow

Beria was sitting on a bulky, uncomfortable couch, which he had long ago christened Stalin’s 'Procrustean bed', and waited patiently while Stalin read to the end of his memo. It has been like this since he had just taken up the post of People's Commissar of Internal Affairs of the USSR. Although he and Joseph Vissarionovich have always had a simple relationship, he never spoke to him, except through the lengthy memorandum.

Stalin reading his memos had become a kind of ritual between them. Beria knew that once Stalin has finished reading, some time will be spent pacing the small office with quick steps. Then he will stop and, with his hands behind his back and looking at the Kremlin courtyard, utter the traditional: “And how should we evaluate all this, Comrade Beria?”

And only after that their real productive conversation will start. He continued to wait. And he was not mistaken in his expectations.

Stalin finished reading. He put the printed text aside, then put the still unlit pipe in the crystal ashtray. He got up heavily, put his hands behind his back, and went to the window. Without turning around, he asked over his shoulder:

“And so, Lavrenty? Did the Germans really evacuate their physicists to Latin America? And how do we assess all this now, Comrade First Deputy Chairman of the Council of Ministers?”

Lavrenty Pavlovich knew the Master grasped the essence of the question.

“As I understand it, you will visit these gentlemen at their home, aren’t you, Lavrenty?”

Beria paused, which implied a respect for the Leader's ability to grasp the essence of things stacked up by bureaucrats. Only then did he cautiously answer:

“Koba, in March you set a problem for me. Now, I propose a solution. It’s a tough one, I agree. We’ll be up against the murder of Trotsky for some time, and there’s going to be a full-scale manhunt, not only for Nazi criminals but also for their henchmen. But with the case I’m reporting, both of our new Bureau members will be just a cover for the primary operation. We simply have to prevent the proliferation of nuclear weapons in the world. Well, to the extent possible, of course.”

Stalin turned to him, brought his right hand behind his back and shoved it under his lapel jacket in a Napoleonic manner. For some time, he stared at Beria, then nodded his massive head. His tobacco-reddened mustache moved in a predatory way:

“Hopefully, this time, you won’t have any leaks. There’s a lot at stake here. And you’re proposing to use some very green youngsters. How does this fit in with the principal aim?”

Beria was ready for this question and clearly stated:

“Sudoplatov and I have considered all options and settled on this.”

“Explain.”

“If you please, Joseph Vissarionovich.” Beria always knew how to grasp this line, beyond which the 'familiar' Koba suddenly gained a name and patronymic. “Three people are proposed for the group. The commander of the group was an experienced ‘illegal’ intelligence officer, a professional to the marrow of his bones, who had practiced in one of the Spanish-speaking countries. Two operatives will be sent with him, one of whom is preparing to work with the local population and liaise with the embassy. The second is a consultant on nuclear physics. This will allow us to determine just how interested our country should be in these secret German physicists if they really exist.”

“Do you realize, Comrade Beria, that you’ll have practically no time to train these boys?” Stalin went to the table, took out a box of 'Herzegovina Flor' from the drawer. He gutted one cigarette and, having spread it on a piece of paper, filled his pipe with the tobacco.

“That's right, Comrade Stalin, I understand. We’ll prepare them based on the 101^st school, but according to a separate curriculum. They won’t have contact with the rest of the cadets. I believe they’ll be able to fulfill their tasks in six months.”

Stalin thoughtfully lit his pipe and, blowing a ring of gray smoke towards the half-open window, remarked:

“We still think it's all a big gamble. It’s such a delicate matter, and we’re sending an old wolfhound and a couple of green boys…”

Beria shook his head vigorously.

“I don’t agree, Koba. Judge for yourself: after Abakumov’s capers, we have no active residency left in South America, so, no individual observers. Any newly installed network will immediately come under the scrutiny of the Argentine special services and, consequently, the Americans. According to our intel, Langley is already preparing their group for transfer to Argentina. We’re very limited in our actions, unlike our American friends. Since the end of the war, they feel like they’re in their own backyard in Latin America. But the ambassadors won’t help us – what remains of the network is barely enough to collect pine trees from a forest. These three will be next to impossible to account for because they’ll act like amateurs. We need their impartial observations, along with their fresh eyes.”

“And if they catch them?” Stalin narrowed his eyes slyly. Beria shrugged his shoulders.

“In war, as in war. We will renounce them. Or neutralize them before they land in an Argentine prison or an American safe house.”

“Just like that?”

“Yes, Koba.” Beria sighed and got up. “It seems to me that is the only way to break through all the barriers and find this most mysterious 'Archive’. Then, if necessary, they can connect up with the rest. We cannot risk the last agents on this continent.”

Stalin walked over to the table, sat down heavily in his chair, leaned back.

“In other words, you’ve written out a one-way ticket for this trio, right, Lavrenty?”

Beria awkwardly his feet, then shrugged:

“In the worst-case scenario, Koba. Only in the worst-case scenario. They will have a minimum of information and won’t be a danger to us. The usual insurance. Losing of one or even three 'cogs' in the great machinery of the state won’t be critical.”

Stalin raised his thick gray eyebrows in surprise.

“And I didn’t think you could be so vindictive, Lavrenty. I honestly didn't.”

Beria shrugged his shoulders:

“What’s that got to do with me? The loving people quote your speeches all on their own.”

Stalin chuckled.

“Lenin, however, isn’t quoted in the pubs and at the market, is he, Lavrenty?”

Beria supported the joke:

“He isn’t quoted even in our Politburo, Comrade Stalin.”

“It’s all in vain! You need to know the sources. Here we were once not too lazy. We read. And now, a lot in this world is clear to us. Even if the author wasn’t completely right. By the way, when are you going to send the group?”

Beria did not even look into his unchanged leather folder.

“I’ve already mentioned.”

“You won’t have six months, Lavrenty. This is the catch. They need to be in Buenos Aires no later than Christmas. Catholic, of course. Don’t think this is by our whims. We operate with reports from many services and roughly represent the military and the political situation in the world. In short, preparations should be completed no later than November. Plus another couple of weeks. Make sure it happens.”

Beria put the folder aside, straightened his shoulders:

“Of course, Comrade Stalin. We'll manage.”

“That's great.” The Leader of all the peoples of the Union slowly puffed on his pipe and suddenly smiled. “Come on, lay it out, Comrade Beria. What else do you have up your sleeve? You didn’t come to see me tonight with only this problem.”

Beria grunted and again took up the folder, carefully dropped the fasteners, and finally opened it.

“As always, you are perceptive, Koba. There is, besides Argentina, one more problem we have. And if only that.”

June 21, 1950

14:35

Special installation of the MGB: 101^st School

Major General Svetlov looked at the folders in front of him, of which there were two. Personal files of the new cadets. They had just been brought to the location yesterday under the close supervision of Kotov. Yuri Borisovich knew the major for what seemed like a million years, but was constantly surprised by his ability to always find himself amid some odious events or adventurous operations of his home department. How many of his graduates Svetlov had handed over to him was unimaginable, but the General knew for sure that they all returned from their missions intact and relatively unharmed. Kotov’s reputation as a lucky man and wonderful intelligence expert was firmly entrenched.

But these two definitely caused to the head of the 101^st School some bewilderment, if not outright doubt. He couldn’t think of a more seemingly incompatible pair!

One is a darling of fate, the son of successful parents, who was born, as they say, with a silver spoon in his mouth. A professor's apartment, a prestigious university, female fans, the Lord did not deprive them of their appearance. Knows three languages, is erudite, bold and prudent at the same time.

The other came from a simple working-class family. His father was buried somewhere around Rzhev, so the son came to conquer Moscow and entered, not just anywhere, but the Mechanical Institute. He took the nuclear physics course by the same Kurchatov, without even knowing he got lectured by the creator of the first Soviet atomic bomb. Athletic, strong. It goes without saying that this university scarcely took any other kind.

And these two, his instructors will have to mold into field agents in a short time. Moreover, according to a special program, since their task is supposed to be more than a little difficult. As a professional, Svetlov understood the almost complete hopelessness of this venture. But he also knew what was at stake. And who is behind the order to carry out this crazy operation?

The General opened the secret checklist of cadet Sarmatov, ran his eyes over the graph: great-grandfather, paternal grandfather, maternal line, father… Father… Academician, Professor Sarmatov, opposite the surname of a couple of special marks well-known to the general. However, Sarmatov-senior did not differentiate in the methods he chose to achieve his goal, which was getting to the top of his career. Copies of his denunciations were immediately and carefully filed with the meticulousness of the security personnel. The frequency of this aspect of Sarmatov the Elder’s activities changed during the 1937-38 period. During that time, his efforts increased the population of Siberia by 30–40 professors and academics. By a strange coincidence, all of them were involved in the exotic science of anthropology.

Later, the future academician tempered his passion, as they hinted to him that this way the scientific world would be left without the best of its scientists. At the same time, others produced a similar work of elegant literature, but now exposing him, Pyotr Alekseevich Sarmatov, as an English spy and morally corrupt. It was the end of ’39, just when Beria had taken the post of the People’s Commissar of Internal Affairs and replaced Yezhov. He sharply reduced repression and emphasized developing relations between the internal organs of scientific intellectuals. This saved an unworthy sexist from a long sentence because of those accusations of transgressions against the Soviet state. The General wondered if the son was aware of his father’s artifice, or blissfully ignorant. Judging by the way they are constantly at odds with each other, people close to his family might have been talking about him.

The intercom jingled, the voice of the attendant reported:

“Comrade Major General, Lieutenant General Sudoplatov has just arrived.”

Svetlov got up, pulled on his jacket, and pressed the feedback button on the intercom panel.

“Show him in. And invite Major Kotov, too. He should be at the shooting range now.”

“Yes,” the intercom clicked and fell silent. The general went to the window, pulled the curtains open. He loved to work like this, in the twilight, when nothing affects his train of thought, not even the joyous light of a warm June afternoon. He strained his ears, but he never heard the trampling of boots on the corridor carpet. The famous saboteur, whose exploits during the Great Patriotic War became the talk of the town among intelligence specialists, and his operations, dissected and laid out by analysts of Western special services on the shelves, formed the basic preparation of sabotage units in many countries, at the same United States, for example, came, as always, quietly. Svetlov grinned with the edges of his lips and turned to the door.

“Good afternoon, Pavel Anatolyevich. What are the fates this time?”

Sudoplatov saluted according to the charter, although he was a senior in rank. Nevertheless, he was on Svetlov’s turf and a guest. What is the chain of command between them? Taking off his cap, he wiped the sweat from his forehead and entered the office. The friends shook hands and settled down at the tea table in the far corner of the vast office.

“Still the same fate, Yuri Borisovich, and the same concerns.”

Svetlov smiled knowingly:

“You wouldn’t believe it, Pasha. I’ve just been going about the business of those two you sent me…”

“Are you talking about Sarmatov and Fomenko now?” asked Sudoplatov, just in case.

“The very same. The Cat’s already renamed them Skiff and Tom.”

“Tom?” For a moment, Sudoplatov thought. “Wait, wait. Well, Skiff, that's understandable. Sarmatov, Sarmatians, Scythians, Skiff. It’s a logical chain. But why 'Tom’?”

“Yeah, well, our friend from Mechanical knows how to play with a knife. Yes, this name fits him well. He says he used to do it in Moscow’s alleyways, but I think the guy also has talent, plus a boxing background. An interesting character, let me tell you, this Fomenko: the smartest guy, a mathematician from God, a physicist. But by looking alone, I’d swear he was a simple punk! Come on! Sarmatov’s a piece of work too. A professor’s son, but strong and wiry, as if all his life wasn’t spent between the pages of books, but he at least worked as a mule in the port of Odessa.”

“Yeah,” Sudoplatov grunted. “Kotov knows how to select personnel. You can't deny him that.”

“By the way, aren’t you overreacting by appointing him the leader of this group?”

“And what's the problem with that? Sergey Vladimirovich is an experienced specialist. He has more than one successful operation under his belt.”

“Yes, that’s it. He’s the most experienced. How old is he now? Remind me. It’s our Major fifty this year? Yeah, and by the way, why is he still on the shelf as a major?”

Sudoplatov chewed his lips, shook his head.

“Well, he went on this business trip to Casablanca, remember?” Svetlov nodded. “The trouble was, he had to pull out one idiot who got involved in some pretty nasty stuff. From the ambassadors. And he had to take him out by sea, underwater, with a respirator. Our submarine was waiting for them in neutral waters. No, everything went by the book, without loss, as they say. Only the ambassador had shit his pants, in the most literal sense. When the submariners dragged him aboard, he smelled like your village toilet.”

Svetlov burst out laughing:

“I understand. Comrade, from being overwhelmed by the situation, no doubt. And what happened next?”

“Well, to the reasonable question of one of our sailors, 'What’s that smell?’ Kotov, without hesitation, replied: ‘International politics, comrade!’”

Svetlov slapped his knees with his palms.

“Oh, that Cat! To the point, however. So?”

“So, the ambassador turned out to be the son of a high-ranking Soviet comrade, as, incidentally, it usually happens with them.”

“What, you don't like ambassadors? You like confronting diplomats?”

“I respect diplomats, but I don’t like ambassadors,” agreed Sudoplatov. “Especially ones like that. Thieves. This son did a number on the major, they say, he is apolitical, publicly violated the foreign policy of the Soviet state and more in the same vein. Our Major, of course, tried to clear it up as best he could, but the Abakumov Cat was frozen in rank. Although they were awarded him a medal for that operation. It was painfully beautiful, the way everything turned out. So why doesn't Kotov's age suit you?”

“Judge for yourself, Pavel Anatolyevich. Our hero still ran with elements from the tsarist secret police and smashed the Basmachis near Kokand into pieces. But this is such an extraordinary task that requires giving nothing but the best. Yes, even these two young guys tagging along. Will this be sufficient?”

At that moment, Major Kotov entered the office, then froze at the threshold and asked:

“Comrade Lieutenant General, permission to address Comrade Major General?”

“Granted,” Sudoplatov nodded. Kotov turned to Svetlov:

“Comrade Major General, group leader major Kotov, reporting as ordered!”

“Come in, have a seat.”

Kotov walked over to the table and sat down on a bench, standing a little to one side.

“Here comrade, the Major General has some doubts. Will your age be a hindrance in carrying out this task? You know full well under whose control this operation falls. Failure is not an option.”

Kotov's face gave nothing away. He just narrowed his eyes slightly.

“Not at all, Comrade Lieutenant General. Age is no obstacle to this mission. On the contrary, what is needed here is experience, and as you know, it only comes with the years.”

“I agree,” Svetlov nodded. “Consider me almost convinced. In the meantime, tell me your wards.”

Kotov stepped up and spoke, carefully choosing his words:

“It is difficult to make any solid conclusions. We have been working together for less than a week. But one thing I can say: the team, we are blind.”

“They are so different. Origin, upbringing, and worldview, finally.”

“I would start with the latter: with the worldview of both, everything is in order. They are honest Soviet citizens, fully dedicated to their Soviet homeland and ready to serve her wherever she orders. As for the origin, Comrade Lenin addressed that in one of his articles.”

“That’s quite enough, demagogue,” Sudoplatov laughed. “Wrap it up. We already understand everything. In the end, you picked up the staff, and you will have to disentangle everything if it comes to that.”

“When has it ever been otherwise?” Kotov shrugged his shoulders. Sudoplatov nodded in agreement. “Then here's to you, my friends. The last one, so to speak.”

Svetlov and Kotov were tensed, realizing a hundred jokes had run out and, judging by the tone of the lieutenant-general, for a long time.

“You won't have six months to prepare. Four months at most. Cat, you must be in Argentina by Catholic Christmas, no later. Considering the transfer plan, which involves moving through several third-party, so to speak, countries, and the sea passage, the entire preparation process should be completed by mid-October. That’s how it is.”

Svetlov frowned. The major paused for a moment, as if lost in thought, then his face lit up with a contented smile:

“And how was it different during the war? Now, the base is better, and there are plenty of excellent instructors. And these guys are smart, by God! We'll manage.”

Svetlov shook his head:

“We, for our part, will make every effort, of course. And for another four months yet.”

“Four months is not one hundred and twenty-seven days,” Sudoplatov snapped harshly. The faces of his audience immediately hardened. “We’ll get through this.”

“That's right,” the scouts answered, keeping to the charter, and rose from their seats. Sudoplatov nodded.

“Then let's get down to business,” he said and took out a folder from his briefcase with a ‘Top Secret – Exclusively for internal use’ stamp on the front. “I hope everyone here understands that we will actively confront the American intelligence agencies?”