Читать книгу Argentine Archive №1 - Magomet Timov - Страница 6

July 27, 1950

Not far from Valparaiso

Chile

Redrick Walsh sat high on the ocean shore and watched the whitish crests of the waves lick the cold sand of the beach. Gray wisps of clouds hung over the leaden surface of the waters, ready to burst into the fine, disgusting rain so common at this time of year. Fierce storms have always accompanied the middle of winter here in the Southern Hemisphere, on the deserted Chilean coast, has always been accompanied by fierce storms, sometimes throwing fragile fishing boats onto the coastal cliffs.

Walsh didn't like Chile. In either Cuba or Colombia, conditions were the same: a mild, almost resort climate, cheap drinks, affordable girls. And a minimum of work, a paradise for a field agent of any intelligence agency in the world! But here…

Redrick spat from the high rocky shore down towards the even gray view of the cold beach. An impoverished country whose only importance to American democracy lay in its copper deposits and its ability to control a young part of the Pacific Ocean. The ports were in disgusting condition, and there were practically no roads. Half-starved people grabbed any job they could get their hands on. Here, in such a nutritious broth, American corporations felt like fish in water.

The center-left government gladly admitted northern ‘investors’ into the country, who dished out bribes in abundance left and right. American bankers and businessmen have already subjugated the leading industries. They also monopolized trade, leaving the local elites the opportunity to ‘rule’ at their pleasure, but only in the interests of foreign monopolies.

Ordinary people survived as best they could. Most of the dissatisfied went to the East, where a relatively calm Argentina prospered beyond the Andes range.

Walsh himself secretly dreamed of at least crossing the Andes, if not to return to the States. At almost forty, he was already thinking about retiring from the intelligence service and settling in some small house on the sunny California coast. San Francisco would be fine. He only had to complete the case here, and he could write an appropriate report on the incident.

Redrick Walsh had been in charge of the so-called ‘station’ of the US Central Intelligence Agency in Chile for two years. Coming from naval intelligence, he entered World War II with the rank of lieutenant commander at the naval base in Pearl Harbor and witnessed the first defeat of the American intelligence service, which missed the concentration and subsequent attack on the harbor by a Japanese aircraft carrier formation.

Stunned by the explosions of the bombs. Stunned by the sight of the Arizona ripped apart and carrying away to the bottom of the bay in a few minutes the lives of thousands of American sailors. Crushed to the ground by bursts from the machine guns of Japanese Zeros. Walsh realized at once that naval intelligence was not his strong point. He was not a coward. In fact, during that very attack on Pearl Harbor, he organized the calculation of some half-broken anti-aircraft battery and resisted the second wave of bombers, now targeting the city itself. And they even shot down one and knocked out a second Japanese fighter-bomber. Redrick earned the Silver Star for this.

The heroism of the lieutenant commander was deservedly appreciated not only by the fleet but also by the direct leadership. After the theater of operations moved somewhat away from Hawaii, and life in Honolulu returned somewhat to normal, they transferred Walsh to the intelligence office. He engaged there in strategic planning for his service in the Philippines and Malaysia until the end of the war.

He had to work for some time in the apparatus of the occupation forces in Okinawa after the war. There he helped deploy an intelligence network, now against his recent ally in the Far East – the Soviet Union. Here he was successful enough and was about to end his career in intelligence, but another restructuring occurred. In America, they systematized the work of the many intelligence services, bringing everything under one umbrella.

In 1947, US President Harry Truman passed the National Security Act, because of which the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) relinquished some of its powers in information gathering. It shifted this onto the shoulders of the newly created entity – the CIA or the US Central Intelligence Agency. The basis of the CIA was the Office of Strategic Services, but the structure also included representatives of army and navy intelligence. So, Walsh got into the ‘office’.

The new leadership appreciated his organizational and other talents and, after certain retraining at the ‘Farm’ near Williamsburg, he went to conquer the expanses of Chile.

The work of a ‘station chief’ in Chile could well be considered a sinecure. On the one hand, the local government was quite loyal to the United States, being fed from the generous palm of Uncle Sam. On the other hand, there is an incredibly boring existence in an area that no one showed any genuine interest in. A minimum of industry, a pocket army, an equally impotent fleet. What geopolitical interests could there be? The picture was, however, different as far as American industrial corporations were concerned.

True, there was one moment that warmed Walsh's soul. The day before, Colonel Snyder from the European department phoned him on a closed line and said a headquarters representative with certain powers was rushing over to meet him. And it was here, a few miles from Valparaiso, on the disquieting ocean shore. Walsh didn’t quite understand why there were these conditional measures of secrecy in Chile, but something told him that there was going to be a change in his fate. As an experienced scout, Redrick trusted his intuition, and as a rule, it did not deceive him.

Now Commander Walsh pulled back the sleeve of his cloak and glanced at the dial of his army watch: it was three o’clock. The messenger, if he arrived in Santiago, should have shown up by now. The wind blew in from all directions on this part of the shore, and there was nowhere to hide. But when a soft “Hello!” came from behind him, Redrick shuddered and turned around sharply.

A stranger of average height, dressed like himself in an elegant cloak of European cut, smiled at him from under a gray Tyrolean hat. Laughing blue eyes on an inconspicuous face without signs of vegetation looked benevolent from behind round glasses, like those the German minister Goebbels used to wear.

The stranger wore strong alpine boots made of buffalo leather, and soft woolen trousers lay on them in heavy folds. He was holding an ordinary black umbrella cane in his hands.

“Good afternoon, Commander Walsh,” the stranger continued, in a velvety voice more befitting of a porter in a fashionable Monte Carlo hotel than a secret agent. “I hope I didn't startle you with my unexpected appearance?”

After recovering from the first shock, Walsh put on one of his most pleasant smiles and said in an even voice with a touch of hospitality:

“Not at all, sir. I’m here for the sake of meeting you, and not at all for admiring the local inhospitable landscape. To whom do I have the honor of speaking?”

The stranger cast an expressionless glance at the endless lead-steel expanse of the ocean and casually said:

“Alfred Rosenblum. I came from Lausanne. Especially, my good man, for your soul.”

The emissary laughed a pleasant laugh with a hint of subtle superiority Europeans have over representatives of the New World. Walsh swallowed this bitter pill silently, waiting for him to continue. In the end, he is in his field, why not let the guest show all the cards himself.

The guest continued.

“The ‘stable’ decided that you should change your golf course, which this country undoubtedly is, for a baseball court. They see Argentina in this context. In the sense, that baseball is a purely American game, and in the vastness of the local pampas you will have to play it without holding back.”

Redrick chuckled and looked Mr. Rosenblum straight in the eye.

“And by what rules will I have to play in Argentina, sir? I hope you can explain them to me?”

The representative of the European residency smiled:

“My dear Mr. Walsh, of course, I’ll explain. That is why I came here from the other end of the world. You don’t think I left the Lausanian oysters for the sake of the local ceviche? I’m not a fan of spicy dishes, dear friend. We in Europe try to protect our stomachs in the old-fashioned way, not like you young people here, among mountains of spices and peppers. As for the rules, they are, as always, simple: America comes first, and we have to achieve here only a positive result. A victory.”

Walsh nodded in response, and he asked the question that the situation itself had already seemed to suggest for some time:

“And who will we play against this time?”

Mr. Rosenblum suddenly stared at him and said in a low voice:

“Against the Council, son… Against Russian agents here, in the very ass of the world.”

Walsh turned to the ocean, watched for a while as the heavy shafts rolled repeatedly onto the gray sand. Then he said:

“What the devil are these Russians doing in Latin America?”

“That’s a topic for a separate conversation, and we will still have a lot of time to chat on the way to Buenos Aires. An airplane is already waiting for us at the airbase near Santiago de Chile. You, my friend, have five hours for everything. Transfer the ‘station’ to your deputy for the time you’ll be away from your post. As far as I know, your successor is already preparing to fly to Chile. We'll talk about the rest in your office and on the plane. This mission is very important for the White House. There hasn't been an event as secret as this since the Manhattan Project. Come on, it's time to go to your office.”

Mr. Rosenblum turned and walked towards the crevasse, where there was a path Walsh had not noticed before. He took one last look at the Pacific plain, the black clouds, then he pulled down his hat and followed the Center’s man to a car, which turned out to be waiting for them a hundred yards away, just around a sharp bend in the trail.

He thought that fate once again smiled on him: just recently he considered it was time to get out of this unfriendly country, and just like that, they told him where to go. Hell, not a terrible option when you think about it. If not for the Russians…

But here, fate itself was powerless.

July 28, 1950

Oval Office of the White House

Washington, D.C.

Harry Truman, the thirty-third President of the United States of America, sat at his desk. He was listening to the quiet man in the guest chair to the left of the countertop. Once again, the president noted to himself that the naval uniform suits him. Rear Admiral Roscoe Henry Hillenkoetter was the third director of US intelligence. He was also the first CIA director since the National Security Act had passed.

Hillenkoetter went the way of a proper admiral. He commanded the battleship Missouri during the Second World War. Afterwards, he led naval reconnaissance in 42–43 in the staff of Admiral Chester Nimitz, the commander of the Pacific Fleet.

In 1947, the Rear Admiral headed the Central Intelligence Group. It grew in a short time, through his efforts, to the size of a department. He was Truman's poster boy and never forgot to whom he owed his position as chief of clandestine services in the States. The rumor was that it was he who coined the secret slogan of this secret organization: ‘By 1948, more than the state’. Those were not empty words. By now, management has moved from the banal collection of information about events in the world to shaping those very events. Thus, the CIA became a government within the US government.

Truman listened to the Rear Admiral's report half-heartedly. He remembered the unofficial breakfast for the signing of the National Security Directive at the White House. His chief of staff, Admiral William Leahy, and the then first director of the CWG, Admiral Sidney Souers, both attended. He had presented them with a black cloak and hat, a wooden dagger, and a false mustache each. Truman had told them then: "You must accept these garments and their attendant accessories as my personal detective and director of the central office of intelligence."

And so the Central Intelligence Group, in a couple of years, proved to him that, in principle, a small intelligence organization cannot exist.

The President showed he had lost the thread of the admiral's report. Rubbing his tall forehead, Truman interrupted Hillenkoetter's monotonous reading with an impatient gesture. He said, staring into his eyes:

“Ros, let's stop here. The situation in Korea, of course, is acute. The commies are breaking into the South with terrible force, but I'm not interested in this now…”

The admiral closed the folder, put it on his knees. He stared at the head of state somewhere around the bridge of his nose. His face was the classic sea wolf of Jack London’s novels, and also impenetrable. Truman suddenly realized the admiral fit in perfectly on the bridge of a warship, like that same Missouri. He was also quite imposing right here, in the Oval Office. Well, wherever a person is, that is their place, but it is a rare quality to seem at home in such different locations.

The Republicans in Congress will not forgive him because intelligence practically clapped its hands to its ears. This allowed the North Korean army to invade the south of the peninsula. Now everyone, from UN officials to the heads of the leading world powers, is forced to puzzle over how to resolve the Korean crisis, which is descending into a full-scale local war. China has already climbed onto the heap, with the implicit support of the Soviet Union. Now the American fleet is heading into the conflict area at full steam. But it’s not even about this conflict. If the latest reports from South America are accurate, geopolitical domination will be decided there. And what will the head of the youngest yet most ambitious power structure in the world say to this?

“Admiral,” the President continued, “naval intelligence reported that not just fascist henchmen, but even some of the world’s leading nuclear experts, have built their nest in one Latin American country. Simply put – runaway German nuclear physicists. What do you know about this?”

Hillenkoetter's cheek twitched. The president would not have noticed if he had not already been staring at his inscrutable face. The admiral answered evenly and calmly:

“We’ve been working on this topic for a long time, ever since the Argentines handed us those fugitive German submarines. Lengthy interrogations of the crews and commanders of the German submarines yielded practically nothing, but specialists of the Office of Strategic Services concluded that these two submarines brought some passengers to the coast of Argentina. The Argentine Coast Guard found nothing suspicious in the coastal zone, but this means nothing. Volksdeutsche Germans inhabit the entire coast near Buenos Aires. They were at one time very loyal to the Hitler regime and could well have sheltered the fugitives.”

Truman got up from his chair and walked to the large window, pulling open the curtains. He turned to the admiral.

“Go on, go on. It's all very interesting. As I understand it, it was not the party bosses of the Third Reich that arrived on these boats?”

“Yes, sir. Our specialists examined the cabins of the submarines with great care. They found nothing unusual until the radiation specialists intervened.”

“Radiation?”

“Yes. Our work on nuclear weapons had already reached the final test stages, and we knew perfectly well that the Germans had advanced quite far in their research in this area. Anyway, it occurred to someone to examine the cabins with a dosimeter…”

“And?”

The admiral smiled with one corner of his mouth.

“One compartment had a small spike. Not much, hardly noticeable, but this allowed us to assume that there were some radioactive substances or people who had direct contact with it, previously transported in it. Back then, it was not too alarming. The war was ending. We were head and shoulders ahead of everyone in the nuclear race. Real-world tests were just around the corner. We postponed that case. But now, after the Soviets have reached relative parity with us – not in terms of carriers of nuclear weapons, we are still far ahead of them with bombers – the time has come for a renewed search in this direction.”

Truman sat down in a chair opposite the admiral, leaned back.

“And you think that former Nazi scientists, if they exist, could help us make some kind of leap forward in the development of nuclear weapons of greater power?”

The admiral nodded.

“Exactly.”

“And what is being done in the search for these most mysterious physicists?”

“We’ll use our agents in Argentina and Chile in the operation, and use the Chilean ‘station’ for operational communication, since we still feel at home there. Argentina is more complicated. The local dictator, Juan Perón, is very independent, widely implements a policy of nationalizing enterprises and the natural resources of the country, encouraging trade unions and flirting with the Volksdeutsche. He is interested in investments, and the fugitive Germans brought a lot of gold there. But we already focused our residency on solving the problem.”

Truman rubbed his palms contentedly.

“Bravo, admiral, bravo! Consider yourself redeemed in my eyes for the Korean crisis. No, no, I can’t guarantee you that you’ll not resign from your current post. I can’t mess with both houses of parliament right now. But I promise you that you will remain in the Navy, regardless!”

“Thank you.” Hillenkoetter stood up quickly, bowed his head in a sign that he understood the president perfectly. “May I go now?”

“Go,” Truman waved his hand. “Leave the adventures in Korea to the military, focus completely on the Argentine problem yourself. The last thing we need is for the Russians to come to grips with it. And may God bless you!”

An old, but time-tested Dakota howled with effort, her engines trudging in a veil of clouds at a height of only six thousand feet. The leaky interior didn't add any comfort, but what could you expect from a glorified army truck with only wings?

In the cargo hold, the three gentlemen sat on the hard wooden side seats. Walsh glanced furtively at the third one. Rosenblum had introduced him only yesterday as soon as they returned to the station in Santiago. There, a big man was waiting for them, at least six feet and three inches tall, a broad-shouldered, tanned, blue-eyed blond, as if he had just stepped through one of those German posters of the society "Strength through Joy". Smiling with a dazzling smile, he held out a wide hand to Redrick and introduced himself:

“Martin. Martin Bohnenkamp.”

He spoke with a slight German accent.

“Martin represents the German… let's say, information service, with which we have been closely cooperating in the last year,” Rosenblum hastened to explain. Walsh nodded in understanding.

Why doesn't this surprise me? he thought. A quote from the British politician John Palmerston came to mind: "England has no permanent allies or permanent enemies – only her interests are permanent and eternal." So he shook hands with the German, who, perhaps five years ago, could have sat on the opposite side of the barricades. Although he looked no older than twenty-two.

“Martin will be responsible for communications with the local Volksdeutsche who, scum, probably know a lot, but are unlikely to share their knowledge with anyone who, until recently, were their enemies on the battlefield.”

Walsh nodded in agreement. He had the same problem in Chile, too. He more than once faced open hostility from the local German diaspora towards the Americans and the British, who were trying to conduct their simple business in that country. It's a different matter for a corporation – they don't give a damn about anything or anyone.

“In addition, Martin is well-versed in hand-to-hand combat, strong, and will be quite adequate as a field agent.”

Well, Walsh did not doubt that. The biceps on this swag were thicker than Redrick's own thighs.

“Welcome to the team, Martin,” Walsh said. “Just call me Red.”

“Yes, sir!” the German snapped as he tried to click the non-existent heels of his soft shoes. In his navy raglan with the hood pulled down, he now looked more like a local fisherman than a resident of the Old World. Except, of course, for his blondness.

And so the three of them were heading through the Andes to the land of the pampas and ferocious gauchos. This is all that Walsh himself knew about this country so far. Well, not everything… Besides the gaucho, there was also the president – Juan Perón.

Walsh once again glanced at the dullness behind the window and tried to remember what he had dug up on this odious Argentinian politician.

Perón was born in 1895, in the village of Lobos near Buenos Aires. His father was quite a successful landowner, cattle breeder, and even worked as a bailiff. Thanks to his connections and finances, he could provide his son with a decent education. The future president graduated first from Collegio Militar (military school), and then from Escuela Superior de Guerra (military college).

Thus, the young Perón was destined for a military career from childhood. He went from a second lieutenant in the infantry to captain and entered the military academy in 1926. Perón successfully graduated in 1929 and he taught military history and strategy there. He even published several books in this area – ‘Notes on Military History’ and ‘History of the Russian-Japanese War’ and others.

With the rank of major, Juan Perón took part in the uprising against Argentine President Hipólito Yrigoyen in 1930. Afterwards, he served for some time as the personal secretary of the Minister of War in the new government.

After becoming a lieutenant colonel in the Argentine army, Perón worked as a military attaché in Chile. In 1939–1940 he was on a European business trip with the mission of observing the preparations for the Second World War by the leading powers. He had to determine the conditions for the neutrality of his country and the balance of forces between the two blocs – fascist and democratic.

Perón was by then already a very experienced diplomat, politician, and intelligence officer. He chose Italy as his place of permanent deployment. From there he traveled to Germany, France, Spain, and Portugal.

To get a complete picture of what was happening in Europe on the eve of the Great War, Perón met with both the Spanish Francoists and the Republicans. He even visited the German-Soviet border along the former Eastern Front of the First World War. Perón studied the tactics of the Alpine shooters in Italy, attended six-month courses in applied and social sciences at the universities of Turin and Milan. He interviewed Mussolini and high-ranking German military personnel. He showed interest in both Italian fascism and ‘Russian communism’.

Such a hellish mixture of a talented politician and military man could not but find a way out. Upon returning to his homeland in 1941, Perón joined a secret officer group intending to overthrow the existing order. Indeed, while still traveling through Italy, Perón published five books about Mussolini, describing his military methods and tactics.

And on June 4, 1943, a mutiny broke out, during which Perón, along with generals Ramirez and Rawson, overthrew the existing government and established a new government in Argentina.

Walsh chuckled at himself, assessing the Jesuit nature of Juan Perón. In the new government, he demanded for himself only the post of Minister of Labor and Social Security, which was strange for an obviously pro-fascist young man.

The new junta put an end to the then-conservative latifundist, pro-English-minded regime. This was easy, considering that the overwhelming majority of the masses hated the rich landowners and wealthy herders who were fattened by hired labor. People saw in them only henchmen of the British crown, and in their eyes, the rebels-fascists looked like the true patriots.

At first, General Pedro Ramirez led the junta. But he looked ever more towards emissaries from Washington, which did not suit both Vice President Farrell and Perón himself. These two figures united on January 26, 1944, and called for a break in relations with Japan and Germany. Thus, enlisting the support of the Americans themselves, they toppled Ramirezin short order, replacing him with Farrell.

Perón became vice president while still handling social issues. He secured the support of most trade unions. Under his guidance, they restructured in the image and likeness of Mussolini's syndicates. And when in October 1945, on the balcony of the presidential palace, the weak-willed Farrell, who was nothing but a political figure, kissed Perón and officially handed over power to him, the popular masses strongly supported it.

The military realized they were, as the saying goes, caught with their pants down. Yet, it was too late to do anything with the newly made president. The ‘descamisados’ saw him as the only people's leader. When the army tried to detain Perón or arrest him, the crowd simply took him away from the soldiers.

Perón himself called his ideology ‘Justicialism’. He was building a system based on an alliance of trade union associations. In it, everyone registered with the state administration. Mass nationalization began: railways, heavy and light industry, energy, infrastructure, medicine, and education became state-owned.

Half-destroyed Europe desperately needed Argentinian produce: meat, grain, and steel. This formed a favorable external economic environment. The profits from trade that entered the country did not become frozen in stabilization funds and did not settle in the pockets of those in power. Instead, the government invested it in various industries and the social sphere. When these injections were not enough for some of Perón's projects, the funds came from the large owners. The country flourished as never before.

At the end of the forties, Argentina was seriously considering joining the ‘nuclear club’ of powers. It was then that the United States remembered the weak ‘firing’ compartment of one of the German submarines interned from Argentina. And they strained in earnest. The White House's plans did not include expanding the elite ‘atomic get-together’ to one more member – especially not the unpredictable and pro-fascist Argentina. Under the leadership of Perón, not controlled from Capitol Hill, she could complicate the life of the states in Latin America, where Uncle Sam's bankers and entrepreneurs got accustomed long ago to behaving like it was their backyard. The White House could not let that happen…

Walsh blinked as yet another unexpected maneuver from the absent-minded pilots shook him from his reverie. Redrick’s stomach was somewhere in his throat as the plane banked to the right without warning and descended to the ground along some unthinkable trajectory.

Out of the corner of his eye, Walsh noted Rosenblum and Bohnenkamp were not exactly masculine specimens from a brochure. The first covered his mouth with a checkered handkerchief and tried his best not to empty his stomach into his own hands. The German simply bent his head to his knees and clasped the back of his head, freezing in the fetal position.

He noted the surprised look of the American and explained with a pale smile:

“The instructor at the base taught us this way. He said that in the event of a plane crash, this position gives the maximum chances of surviving the impact.”

Walsh shrugged his shoulders, got up, and walked towards the cockpit. The floor tilted thirty degrees to the left. He had to rest against the wall and grab the straps on the ceiling. Pulling open the corrugated door of the cockpit, he stuck his head in and almost staggered back. Through the windshield, heavy thunderclouds appeared to be rushing straight towards him.

The co-pilot, in his canned glasses and flight helmet, turned to him.

“Something wrong?” he asked in an ordinary voice, raised over the noise of the engines and the elements outside.

“Why is our descent so steep?”

“A simple precaution,” the pilot explained without a trace of concern in his voice. “In Argentina, the government does not particularly like us Yankees. So, we won’t land at a standard airfield, but at a private one owned by a local cattle breeder. He has a couple of his own planes, and he sometimes provides, not for free, of course, services to local smugglers. To us too, from time to time.”

At that moment, the plane broke through the lower layer of cloud, and pampa floated below them, overgrown in places with rare, but tough and dense bushes. And in front of them lay the endless expanse of the Atlantic.

“To the left, at eleven o'clock,” said the commander. The plane banked and now Walsh saw the landing strip. It was highlighted by bonfires on the sides with a ‘T’ sign laid out in white panels at the start of the strip. Only a couple of hundred yards separated the shore from the end of the strip.

Redrick closed the cockpit door, staggering back to his seat. His companions gave him exhausted, questioning looks.

“Let's sit down,” Walsh said and set an example for everyone, gripping the brace on the wall near the window. He might have imagined it, but he could swear he heard his colleagues let out a barely restrained sigh of relief.

The plane once again slid down. Under the window, a flat dirt pad rolled by, then the wheels crashed against the runway. The plane throttled down and rolled along the ground.

Rosenblum looked at his checkered handkerchief, which he had pinched over his mouth just a minute ago, then waved his hand and, pulling off his hat, dabbed his overheated bald spot with the same piece of cloth.

“Does anyone know these pilots?” he asked for no reason.

Walsh just shrugged.

July 29, 1950

American Embassy

Buenos Aires

The embassy’s third secretary, Joseph Barkley, hung up the phone and brooded. At thirty-five, he could be quite content with life. Well, at least for now.

Work in a place that’s warm in every way imaginable, not just the weather. Golf on Saturdays with advisor Wrightley, a beautiful wife, the prospect of transferring somewhere closer to the coveted Capitol… This idyllic situation lasted almost three years, until he received the call from Washington today. They told him that a plane carrying CIA agents crossed the Argentine border. It had landed without incident at the Casa Nuestra ranch, a couple of hundred miles from the Argentine capital. Barkley knew this ranch, which served as a temporary base for the American special services, and therefore, he had the right to expect the collapse of his entire well-established world order soon.

From his experience at the embassy, he knew that the appearance of employees of this secret department in a particular country usually preceded, if not a coup d’état, then at least the profound upheaval of the local state system. That was the last thing Barkley wanted right now. Two years later, when he leaves this very hospitable land, would have been ideal, but not now…

After shifting several papers on his table, Barkley again picked up the phone and barked a short, "Come in!" The office door flew open. Alan Cowan, his twenty-seven-year-old assistant, an ambitious guy who had arrived from Washington as reinforcement, slid in without a sound. Cowan followed the classic path of a junior diplomat. A successful Harvard graduate, a job in the ‘entourage’ of a senator from Louisiana, and a coveted appointment to the diplomatic corps. True, they did not send him to Europe, as Alan had dreamed, but it did not bother this talented young man at all. Alan, with his pale, almost Scandinavian skin, carried out any order Barkley issued and proved himself to be irreplaceable. There was no service the efficient assistant would not be ready to provide. And he always fulfilled his assignments with unstinting zeal.

Looking faithfully at the chief with his whitish eyes, continually brushing his unruly straw bangs from his forehead, Cowen opened his ever-present notebook, ready to take shorthand.

“It’s like this, young man,” said the imposing Barkley as he leaned back in an antique, probably Victorian, armchair of dark rosewood. “We’re being visited by a representative delegation of the ‘knights of the cloak and dagger’. At their head is a certain Redrick Walsh – he was in charge of their station in Chile. Dig up for me everything that you can find in the public domain. Well, and for what you can’t find… There are all kinds of rumors from Washington and the Big Apple. Dig into your connections in the Joint Chiefs, representatives from the military. Well, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you.”

“What am I digging for?”

“Everything. I want to know, before I feel the pain in my gut, if these guys prefer the cloak or the dagger. And what can we expect from them here? Tomorrow afternoon, I will traditionally report on the situation in the country and the city to Ambassador Griffiths. He’s very sensitive about the facts I provide him, so you, my friend, must try your best.”

Cowan clicked his heels like an army cadet and nodded with his blond bangs.

“Of course, Councilor Barkley. As always, Councilor Barkley.”

The secretary chuckled. ‘Councilor’. Before he would reach this status, of course, he still has many mountains to climb. The adulation of the boy. Even so, it's nice, and there's no need to hide it. And the arrival of these ‘spies’. Maybe this is a chance? As Seneca used to say? Chance does not scream about itself. It is always there, quietly waiting for you to notice it.

“That’s it,” he said and nodded to Cowan, who, flickering like a pale shadow, disappeared behind a door that didn’t even slam. Barkley chuckled: the capital school…

He got up and walked over to the large window, behind which sad streams flowed along a cobbled path after a long day’s rain. The winter here was, as always, mild, but neither sunny nor pleasant. The southern hemisphere, the proximity of Antarctica… He could not wait for September. Or better yet, a transfer somewhere in the Caribbean. The diplomat shook his head, fending off his delusion. If the latest news is anything to go by, there will be a lot of work soon. This is a real chance to catch God by the beard.

Barkley returned to his chair and studied the documents that had come from Washington with the last diplomatic pouch.

July 29, 1950

101^st School, Y.B. Svetlov’s Office

Moscow region

“Thus, the American special services built up their naval grouping in the South Atlantic. The official version, voiced by the Committee of Chiefs of Staff to the Press, is a global exercise with British allies in the Falkland Islands region. We should note that the Falklands is a historically disputed territory between England and Argentina, and we can only call these maneuvers provocative.”

The major from the information service closed the folder and froze, looking expectantly at Svetlov. He exchanged glances with Sudoplatov, who was present for the report.

“Well, what do you say to that, Pavel Anatolyevich?”

Sudoplatov shrugged.

“Everything is as we expected. Perón is toying with the idea of possessing an atomic bomb. The country is at the peak of economic and social growth. They have the whole of Europe from the palm of their hand – the supply of grain and meat from Argentina is steady. It is in such a situation that our mission becomes extremely important.”

“There is one more news item,” the major said. Svetlov turned to him.

“Good, I hope?”

“It depends on how you look at it, Comrade Major General. Commander Walsh, the head of the CIA ‘station’ in Chile, whom we know, arrived in Argentina illegally on a private plane. With him are two more whose identities we have not yet established. One is definitely an ethnic German; the other is clearly from Europe. They landed near the coast; the exact place is unknown to us. Naturally, they didn’t use the state airport. Perón now has a tense relationship with the Americans. We may assume that it has something to do with our ‘Archive’.”

“Most likely, the Americans want to intercept the physicists themselves before the Argentine special services got down to it. Juan Perón isn’t up to it yet. But now – it’s just right,” grumbled the head of the intelligence school, and took out a pack of Kazbek from the desk drawer and pushed it to Pavel Anatolyevich. He addressed the major:

“You can go, Major. Thank you.”

The major turned around statutorily and left the office. Sudoplatov refused the proffered cigarette.

“Something’s not quite right today, Yura. I feel it in my bones. Our ‘allies’ have stirred. To me, it seems these maneuvers have the sole purpose of diverting attention from something that will happen on the mainland. We almost missed the flight of this Walsh! If not for our man in Santiago, we would have been completely in the dark now.”

“I agree,” Svetlov nodded. “Such pieces don’t have the habit of moving themselves across the chessboard. And who is this third person with him, the European? Who do we have in Buenos Aires? I don’t remember having any of mine there, after the last issues we had…”

Sudoplatov shook his head.

“That’s the problem, Yura. In Latin America, our position is very weak. Since the war, our diplomatic relations with Mexico, Uruguay, and Argentina have been pale, to say the least. We don’t even have an ambassador in the latter, just an observation mission that we established in 1946. True, appointing an ambassador is being considered, as far as I know. There are a couple of field agents we can pull in from Chile or Brazil, but this is actually quite unrealistic. Our guys will have to work in isolation, relying only on themselves. By the way, how’s their training going? Moving forward?”

Svetlov chuckled.

“It is coming along at quite a pace. Talented guys… Ugh, let’s not jinx them…”

The head of the intelligence school tapped on the countertop. Sudoplatov laughed:

“Yura, you are a communist, but you still fall into your grandmother's superstitions…”

“You know, Pavel Anatolyevich, as one clever man said: ‘If a black cat crosses your path, spit on the omens. Just turn around and go to the other side of the street."

“Well, it's certainly hard to disagree with that,” said the ‘king of sabotage’ as he made a helpless gesture.