Magomet Timov
Argentine Archive № 1

© Timov M., 2022

© Aegitas publishing house, 2022

Introduction

April 16, 1945

20:36 local time

Bay of Genoa, 7 miles south of the Genoese port

Giovanni Renzi again used the Lord’s name in vain and lifted his greasy palms to the low night sky oozing with a dull, heavy rain.

“Pepo, you bastard!” he barked, trying to out-scream the roar of the downpour on the roof of the stubby superstructure of the schooner. “Where the fuck are you?”

His son, a twenty-year-old fool who volunteered to go with him on this voyage, responded from the bowels of the small engine compartment.

“Yes, Father?”

“What the devil are you messing around with? If we don't start this damn clunker in the next half hour, the oncoming storm will throw this tub onto the rocks south of Genoa Bay!”

“But, Father…”

The rain's cacophony made Pepo's voice hollow like he was speaking in a barrel. Old man Renzi just waved his hand. He raised his wet beard to the sky as if calling on all the saints to witness how useless an heir they had sent him.

He did not want to go to sea. Hunger, that unavoidable companion of these recent years, had forced him to push away from the mooring wall and try his luck on this rainy April day.

In the morning, while the weather was still relatively mild, they went out. They had thrown their nets out a few times; already some fish were splashing in the hold when the old 'Marconi' gurgled as if it had swallowed with a huge gulp of seawater. It sneezed twice and stalled.

All attempts to breathe at least some life into the engine got them nowhere; the schooner dangled lagged to the wave, taking the blows of foamy crests that came at it steeply. Both of them, father and son, were soaked to the skin. From somewhere on the Atlantic side, a sudden gust of wind drove in a vast bank of rain clouds, and all hell broke loose.

Water from above, water splashing at the bottom of the engine room, water wherever you look. And with no prospect of reaching the port, at least not till morning. The old man, of course, realized he was being unfair to his son: under the circumstances, no one could revive this tired old waterfowl. Most likely water was clogging the air filters, but it was almost impossible to make out anything in this pitch-black darkness and with such pitching and rolling.

On the bright side, these clouds made it impossible for those damn Americans to fly out here. Otherwise, he could expect some 'Mustang' or 'Brewster' pilot to get bored with his routine patrol and decide to harass the defenseless schooner. It was impossible to predict what these Yankees might get into their heads next. They were so drunk with the prospect of their imminent victory. Their regiments were already on their way to Genoa! Taken as a whole, Giovanni thought, the situation was not that unbearable. Sink? That has happened so rarely during his life at sea! They will get out somehow, just as they did before.

Pepo, a lanky fellow, scrambled out of the engine compartment’s pit. He stretched himself until his joints squeaked, and froze, looking somewhere to the side.

The old fisherman looked in the same direction and shuddered: a grey shroud of rain, some half a cable from the side of the schooner, thickened suddenly, grew cloudy, and became tangible.

The damned rain drowned out all other sounds. Something huge seemed to approach the small boat with all the inevitability of fate. Another boat?

The old man was already reaching for the time-darkened bell to signal a warning. Something made him pull his hand away at the last moment.

Like a ghost from children's fairy tales, the long body of a submarine, sailing on the surface, glided past the side. There was no rumble of diesel engines; the sub must have switched to its electric motors.

The boat crept forward and, at some point, came to a stop near the fishing schooner. Old man Giovanni stepped out of the wheelhouse to his son and covered his mouth with a broad palm, stifling his surprised cry just in time. Renzi knew that a German submarine would not just appear on the shores of an Italy that had become hostile overnight. The old man did not doubt this was one of Dönitz's boats. He had seen enough of these silhouettes during the last war. But what was she doing here, instead of looking for enemy convoys in the vast Atlantic?

He heard the creak of a cranked rack, somewhere above the waterline, around the wheelhouse. A hatch opened, and he heard the guttural sounds of German speech. Renzi listened intently: there were two talking. The old man was quiet, trying to make out every word.

Oberleutnant zur See Otto Wermuth, commander of submarine U-530, climbed onto the ring bridge of the wheelhouse and immediately threw the hood of his rubberized cape over his head. Yet this did not save him from the nosy sheets of icy April rain. He shivered in the chilly air and took a step to the side, making way for his first mate, Rudolf Schlitsch. Leutnant zur See Schlitsch served with the first commander of U-530 Kurt Lange. He was written off to shore in January because of his advanced age, for a submariner, despite him being only forty-two. Schlitsch knew everyone on board. From the start, he was an excellent first mate for the young and ambitious Wermuth.

They sent Otto himself to the boat as only a watch officer. Still, the deputy of Admiral Dönitz, Admiral Hans-Georg von Friedeburg, considered it appropriate to appoint a young twenty-four-year-old chief lieutenant as commander of the submarine.

“Well, where are they?” muttered Schlitsch with displeasure, looking around. It was almost impossible to make out anything in this grey haze; turning on a searchlight near a hostile shore would be complete madness. Otto shrugged.

“We are at the rendezvous point; the rest is no longer our concern.”

“Doesn’t it bother you that, right when the whole Reich is ready to put its head on the altar of victory, they’ve forced us to act as some kind of water taxi?” asked the first mate, raising the collar of his raincoat higher and wiping an icy drop from his nose.

“Do we have a choice?”

“I guess not.” Lieutenant Schlitsch was about to take a cigarette from under his cloak, but, wincing from the rain streams, he gave up this venture. And at that moment, from somewhere to the side, they heard the cautious clatter of the engine of a small boat.

“Signalman!” barked the chief lieutenant, waving a gloved hand at the invisible sailor. Above the deckhouse, from the antenna pin disappearing into the darkness of the night, a dazzling white searchlight beam descended. It smeared across the water’s surface, dotted with the crests of evil waves. In its spot, a cable from the narrow body of the submarine, a boat appeared of those on which the Genoese smugglers had fled to Corsica and Sardinia.

“Deck crew, get ready for mooring,” the first mate shouted, leaning over the ring-fence of the platform, and the distinct clatter of the sailors’ boot heels rolled across the deck.

Old Renzi was afraid to even sigh, although he knew well in his mind that they could not hear his breathing over the noise of the rain and the splashing waves. He watched with fascination as the boat approached the steep side of the submarine, from where the sailors threw a wooden gangway with rails onto its deck.

In the searchlight’s beam, several figures, shapeless in their rubber capes, moved from the side of the boat onto the submarine. The old fisherman fancied he could make out a female silhouette beneath one of them.

Practiced hands removed the gangway with ease. The boat’s engine rattled even more insistently, and, rolling away from the side of the sub, disappeared into the night. Darkness enveloped the sub again as the searchlight went out. The sub got underway and, picking up speed, dissolved into the muslin sheets of rain. The fisherman fervently crossed himself and, having uttered praise to the Virgin Mary, pushed his still-unsettled son towards the hatch of the engine compartment.

As soon as the boat departed, the chief lieutenant went down to the deck to escort the guests to their cabins, which they had prepared for them in advance. He saw several figures wrapped in raincoats in front of him, and stretched out and raised his hand in salute.

“Heil!”

In front of him stood a short man with a civilian bearing, despite the uniform under his raincoat. Otto Wermuth took a silent step back and leaned on the conning tower with his hand.

“Welcome aboard, gentlemen!”

His mother would not have recognized his voice now. On this wet and icy April night, Oberleutnant zur See Otto Wermuth realized this was the last voyage of his life.

Interlude

Tuesday, March 14, 1950

22:27

Stalin's dacha

Lavrenty Beria was sitting, immersed in the leather of the large sofa of the Great Living Room, and pondered. No, the purpose for which the almighty Master summoned him to his country residence today was, in principle, known to him. Not to say that he was not worried about the current situation after all. The status of the almost all-powerful Deputy Chairman of the Council of Ministers, who oversaw the USSR Ministry of State Security, the Ministry of Internal Affairs and the Ministry of State Control, was in a quite buoyant mood. And to sink it now would be a challenge, especially after the successful completion of the Soviet nuclear ‘deterrence’ program, as the cunning newspapermen characterized it.

But with some kind of scent unknown even to him, the former head of the NKVD felt clouds were gathering over him, and the danger came from Koba himself. He became too suspicious. Lately, his suspiciousness turned into some kind of persecution mania, and even the people closest to him feared this. Those who were not lucky have already disappeared from the political horizon, and some of them have disappeared altogether in the wilds of many camps. The rest became quiet, especially after the death of Zhdanov and the 'case of the poisoning doctors' that followed.

Beria buried his nose in the invariable dark kashne scarf. He did not throw off his coat, demonstrating to the Leader that he had arrived here only under the influence of circumstances and was striving again to take up his immediate duties as soon as possible.

The lock clicked almost inaudibly, the high door to the bedroom opened, and Stalin entered the living room with an inaudible step. He knew how to walk like a cat. He had learned on the rocky paths near his native mountains. Yuft boots almost silently crossed on the carpet, a jacket without shoulder straps and insignia, soft breeches. Nothing from the image of the Generalissimo, replicated by newsreels and many ceremonial photos.

Stalin walked to a long table, on which a helpful assistant had laid out some documents. He nodded to Beria as if he had only recently seen him.

“Hello, Lavrenty. Thank you for coming so quickly.”

Beria chuckled:

“When was it ever different, Koba?”

Stalin moved his moustache as if about to say something but then waved his hand, grabbed a piece of paper from the table and pushed it across the green tabletop towards Beria. The latter got up heavily from the plaintively groaning sofa, stepped up to the table, and took the sheet. It was a transcript of the report of one of the illegal agents. During his tenure as Commissioner General of State Security, he had seen enough such documents, and now he recognized them at a glance. He raised his eyes to Stalin as if asking permission.

Stalin chuckled, squinting slyly:

“Since when did you become so timid, Lavrenty? Read, we want to hear your opinion on this issue. The comrade reports exciting things.”

Stalin, meanwhile, went to the window at the far end of the hall and examined the riot of snow whirlwinds behind the tall windows. The storm refused to let Moscow and the Moscow region leave its embrace. The tall pines that surrounded the dacha were covered with shaggy caps of snow. Nothing outside the windows showed that this was not a January blizzard, but quite an ordinary spring day in March.

While Beria was reading the report of the head of the American station, Koba thoughtfully twirled the old, darkened pipe in his fingers. These days he smoked rarely. Even the once-beloved 'Herzegovina-Flor' no longer brought its former joy. The taste of tobacco seemed to dissolve his lungs, and no longer spun his head like before.

A slight rustle of paper at the table informed Stalin that his old friend and assistant had finished reading. The Father of the Nations slowly turned to him, jabbing in his direction with the shank of his pipe:

“Tell me, Lavrenty. Why, when you were the State Security Commissioner, if I may say so, such news was more or less predictable, but today it falls like snow on one’s head?”

Beria leaned back in his chair and chewed his lips, carefully choosing the words for an answer. Once upon a time, Koba lapped up the solutions he offered, but that was then.

When the pause exceeded critical limits, the Deputy Chairman of the Council of Ministers, weighing every word, said:

“This is the first time I have heard about this American project, Comrade Stalin.”

The phrase 'Comrade Stalin' had long become a conversational signal between them, words that define the parties' relationship at a certain moment. Now they became highly official. And it could not be otherwise.

In his report, the head of the US residency reported that the Americans, realizing that they did not seem to be winning the nuclear race and, perhaps, would lose shortly, threw enormous funds into developing bacteriological weapons. The relevant special services of a potential enemy could not ignore the experience of the Soviet Army, which destroyed similar Japanese laboratories during an unprecedented raid across the Gobi and Khingan sands. Then the tremendous scientific potential in this area fell into the hands of Soviet specialists as a trophy, and now the Soviet Union had some advantage in similar developments. In addition, Kurchatov, who did not stop at the success of the Semipalatinsk test, was actively working on the hydrogen weapon project.

And yet, the Americans tackled bacteria. As if forgetting about the 'nuclear race'. There was something wrong with that.

Finally, Stalin parted his lips and quietly said:

“We believe that this is just a distraction from our former 'allies'. Viktor Semyonovich, of course, is not the last in his business, but his eagles gave up. The facts show, Lavrenty, that the Americans and their allies will throw their major resources into creating an even more powerful nuclear charge, such as the one Kurchatov thought up.”

Beria chewed his lips, thinking for a moment.

“No,” he replied after a while. “They do not have enough scientific potential. We are now going head to head on all issues. Einstein refused to cooperate with them, and they have nowhere to get more fresh ideas.”

Stalin chuckled, and Lavrenty Pavlovich heard the sarcasm in it.

“And have you, by any chance, forgotten about the Germans, genatsvale? About those who worked with Heisenberg? After all, they were on the verge of creating a bomb back in 1945. If it weren’t for the Norwegian saboteurs who destroyed the heavy water plant in Telemark, who knows where the war would have gone in the end?”

Beria nodded severely:

“Yes. Then a doctor… Debner, I think, worked on the hydrogen bomb project. However, he did not achieve success.”

Stalin shook his head:

“We didn't give him time, Lavrenty; they just had some kind of delay. But now they have both money and time…”

Beria chuckled.

“So what? We know almost everything about their Los Alamos operation. The whole Manhattan project was an open book to us.”

Stalin turned sharply to him.

“And who’s talking about the Americans, Lavrenty? Or did you forget we know they removed all the German nuclear personnel and equipment from Austria at that time?”

Beria threw up his hands:

“Then I don’t understand the essence of the problem!”

“The fact of the matter is that no one understands its essence. Let me try to explain. Tell me, Lavrenty, do you think 'ODESSA' simply provides legal services to former Nazis or is it something more significant?”

Beria was silent. He knew Stalin well: Koba did not need opponents at such moments to keep the conversation going. He has learned something and is just practicing his rhetoric on the country's former head of intelligence and counterintelligence.

Having held a pause worthy of the Moscow Art Theater, Joseph Vissarionovich solemnly said:

“According to our intelligence, many of the German nuclear physicists could hide in Latin America. Presumably in Argentina. Or in Brazil. They left in the spring of 1945 with the direct mediation of the Vatican and Croatian extremists. In Genoa, German submarines picked them up and secretly transported them to the warmer lands. What do you think of this idea?”

“Not much,” Beria responded grumpily. “It’s neither better nor worse than any other I’ve heard. Quite a viable idea. I remember in 1945, several suspicious German submarines were sighted off the coast of Argentina. It’s true, but there were no passengers on them.”

Stalin raised his empty pipe to his mustache, thoughtfully sucking on the mouthpiece. He shook his head.

“From Argentina, our agent reports that the local special services are chasing some person there. They call him 'Archive № 1'. Why shouldn't he be one of those nuclear physicists, eh, Lavrenty?”

And Stalin burst out laughing at his rhetorical question as if at a good joke. Beria smiled politely, supporting the Boss. He had his thoughts on the mental abilities of the head of counterintelligence, but it was not his intention to put a spoke in Abakumov's wheels. He was a vengeful peasant and could shit on people on a large scale.

Stalin suddenly broke off his laughter. His eyes instantly became prickly, his gaze piercing Beria as if trying to pin him to the wall.

“That's just it, Lavrenty Pavlovich. Do what you want, but find us this 'archive'. We desperately need it. It was not enough for the Americans to get ahead of our scientists, the eagles. The matter will be completely rotten. How many nuclear weapons carriers do they have, eh, comrade Beria? And how many do we have? This is while our big-headed experts launch their rocket. Everything hangs in the balance, it’s all a bit unreal. What would you say, eh?”

“Parity,” Beria prompted cautiously; Stalin nodded energetically, becoming like a Chinese dummy. But only for a second.

“We don't trust Abakumov,” he said sharply. “We are not satisfied with how have gone under him. So many agents were killed for less than the smell of tobacco. Was it different while you were in charge?"

Beria winced with his cheek. The Leader was playing a game of his own, that was clear. And why did the Chief Scout bother him, I wonder? But aloud, Beria only said:

“After the Victory, I had no time to engage in intelligence, Koba, I had Los Alamos.”

“But you are in charge of the MGB, right?”

There was an awkward pause.

“That's right, I understood the task. My authority?”

“The widest,” Stalin said, throwing up his hands as if showing the size of these same powers. “People, equipment, money. Everything you need is yours.”

“I understand.” Beria got up, pulled down the hem of his long black coat, and took his hat from the sofa. “Everything is as usual: grab your bags, the train’s leaving the station.”

Stalin hid his smile in his mustache:

“It has never been different in this country, Lavrenty. Well, it probably won’t be. Unless, after us…”

He sauntered around the table and held out a broad palm; Beria shook it. Beria realized he was stepping onto a very slippery path, going against Abakumov. He was a narrow-minded man but vindictive, and Lavrenty Pavlovich didn't want another intradepartmental war now. He couldnot afford one now.

From the security room, Beria dialed a familiar number. Looking sideways at the lieutenant colonel on duty, frozen in a respectful stupor, he murmured into the phone:

“Pavel Anatolyevich, my good man, are you still awake? Good. There is a case, no delay. I'll drive up in about forty minutes to Neglinka. Hop over to our place, meet me there. We need to talk.”

He hung up the receiver and, pushing the door open, stepped into the arms of the playing storm.

Pavel Sudoplatov, a legend of Soviet and foreign intelligence, a master of special operations and currently the head of the DR (saboteur) department of the USSR Ministry of State Security, engaged in sabotage at American military bases and the headquarters of their NATO allies around the world, settled down on the soft seats of the car and shook Beria's outstretched hand.

“I wish you good health, Lavrenty Pavlovich,” he greeted Beria in a non-statutory manner. Beria only nodded. Then he said to the driver: “Drive.”

The car rolled along the night-time streets of Moscow, covered by the March snowstorm. Beria flashed his glasses towards the night visitor:

“What, Pasha, have you been working in the office? Are your horses stagnating too?”

Sudoplatov grinned with only the corners of his lips. He knew the chain of command, and the familiar appeal of one of the state's top officials did not deceive him in the least. He has worked with Beria side by side since 1941. A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since then, but their relationship remained friendly, constructive. Still, Sudoplatov never behaved as if he and the once almighty People's Commissar were on equal footing. He was too bright for that.

“No, comrade deputy chairman, just work in droves. NATO members are actively rising in the East; we try not to give them a breather.”

Beria shook his head, examining the swirling snow outside the window.

“It’s spring, Pasha,” he said over his shoulder. Sudoplatov carefully waited for clarification. “Such is the spring, Fighter. Like everything with us, in one place.”

He glanced at the eminent saboteur. On Sudoplatov's open face, Beria's inquisitive glance could not read anything; he sat with a slight smile and patiently waited for the authorities to stop reflecting and start the main event.

Nodding to some of his thoughts, Beria said:

“Pavel Anatolyevich, there’s an opinion that you’ll have to do your favorite thing on a grand scale.”

“Which one, if you don’t mind me asking?” Sudoplatov replied simply, glancing sideways at his superior. “I’ve recently been, you know, managing several pans on the cooker at once. Who I have to cook for, you won’t believe…”

Beria nodded; he knew that representatives of various departments turned to his favorite for advice. This man had a wealth of work experience and the talent to back it up. No, for the talent that the Devil gave him, he must have been the Devil himself. Even Allen Dulles, the head of the recently created Central Intelligence Agency, taught his specialists from the experience of this man’s operations. Pasha was famous in certain circles. They cannot take this away from him.

“Even so, your talents, Pavel Anatolyevich, will be helpful to us. Particularly the one that allowed you to eliminate, with little fuss, the most diverse functionaries around the world. Only this time, we need to put the matter on an almost scientific basis. To do this, I suggest you think about creating two new structures in the MGB apparatus. Let's call them, for example, the Bureau. Or something else.”

“Bureau № 1 and Bureau № 2,” said the saboteur without hesitation, and Beria nodded.

“We can accept that as a working version.”

“And what activities will these structures engage in?”

Sudoplatov froze almost imperceptibly in his seat. Images of the 1937 terror, the general arrests, odious 'troikas', and overcrowded camps flashed through his mind. Really, again?

Beria seemed to read his thoughts.

“Not what you’ve just thought about. Don’t shrug it off, wolfhound. You had it written all over your face. There will be no return to that, don’t be afraid. You and your guys will carry out all your actions abroad. At the same time, Bureau № 1 will be the first to undertake the search and extermination of fugitive Nazis and their accomplices. Bureau № 2 will deal with our former comrades-in-arms from the countries of the socialist camp. It's no secret that the same Croats made a lot of money, leading former SS men on their 'rat trails'. Of course, not only Croats were involved. The same socialist Bulgaria of today, as well as our fraternal Czechoslovakia, fought with Hitler on one side of the front. So there is more raking to do. And you have to start with Argentina.”

Sudoplatov raised his eyebrows in surprise:

“And why so far away?”

Beria frowned.

“That’s another conversation. We’ll not conduct it here. Right now the most important thing is this: do you agree to organize the new departments? I’ll warn you right away: this is an unusual operation,” he said as he jabbed his finger at the ceiling of the cabin, as if someone almighty was hiding above him, “and they gave us carte blanche.”

“So, it's that serious?” Sudoplatov asked quietly. Beria chuckled.

“Not the right word, Pasha, not quite the right word.”

“I agree, Lavrenty Pavlovich, but you know me. I like it hotter, and there you are…”

“I know, Comrade Sudoplatov.” The tone of the deputy chairman became dry, and the saboteur pulled himself up. “While the trial is over, there are organizational issues. Start selecting your personnel for the new apparatus. Remember, the first goal is in Argentina. You were once in charge of the Spanish department in the NKVD? You have the cards in hand, comrade leader. Go forth, and with a song, as they say.”

Sudoplatov leaned back on the seat cushions and glanced out the dark window. The March storm continued to swallow a dark Moscow. And so far, the future of the famous intelligence officer, too, appeared only in dark tones. But he also knew that any darkness leaves at dawn. He knew better than anyone how to wait.

Part 1. Archive Number One

In an era of popular upsurge, prophets are leaders; in times of decline – the leaders become prophets.

Grigory Landau

Chapter 1. Bureaucrats

There is no better way to be successful in collecting and evaluating intelligence information than the intellectual fellowship of scientists and intelligence practitioners.

Ray Kline

May 4, 1950, morning

Moscow

Metrostroyevskaya street

Ivan Sarmatov, a final-year student of the translation department of Moscow State Pedagogical Institute, paced the square close to the institute's main building and pondered his immediate future. And on this sunny day in May 1950, it did not seem at all as cloudless as the dazzling blue spring sky.

The night before, after the last couple of classes, Lenochka, the secretary from the dean's office, jumped up to him, holding him by the button of his new suede jacket, which his father had brought to the prodigal son from the last symposium of anthropologists in Vienna, and chirped rapidly:

“Yakov Naumovich is expecting you tomorrow by 11 o'clock. Please don’t be late!”

And the dragonfly was about to flutter away, but Ivan grabbed her sharp elbow and held it.

“Wait a minute Lenochka, my little dear! Where are you going so soon? Don’t leave the most faithful admirer of your charm in the dark. Take pity! Tell me, why did our respected dean need me? I won't sleep now, dear!”

Helena hid coyly behind her fist. Why, perhaps the most eligible bachelor of the faculty, the son of the professor and academician Sarmatov himself, had just attested his admiration to her! But then, unable to contain the fresh news, she let it slip.

“Yakov Naumovich, the day before, asked for your personal file with the entire year’s ratings and your attendance history. He studied it the whole evening! So, Comrade Sarmatov, prepare to have your head washed.”

And she flew away, constantly looking back and smiling slyly.

Ivan winced. He knew perfectly well how many passes he had accumulated this year. Even the numerous donor certificates which he had received from the nearest blood transfusion station did not help. He had already been driven away from there at the end of a broom. The nurses angrily declared that as much blood as he donated simply does not physically fit in one person. They also claimed such a practice is not only harmful to his youthful body but also essentially vicious, since it allows the future teacher or translator, as will be the case, to skip out of class.

He remembered how his friend, Lyoshka Astafiev from Angren, had left the university in disgrace last year for much lesser transgressions. True, he did not have an academic dad, and they kept him last year solely for his merits on the sports path. He was an indispensable point guard in the institute's volleyball team. Yet, the time had come, and there was nothing to cover the many 'nb' marks in the register. Now, the time has come for Sarmatov to be held responsible for his walks with Tanyusha through the gardens and parks of the capital during classes and attending movie shows in the club on Pechatnikov at inopportune hours.

And now Ivan paced the square's path and concentrated on building a 'line of defense' before meeting with the dean, who was irreconcilable to truants. So far, everything came out weak. Somehow, nothing sounded convincing to his ears.

He turned up the sleeve of his suede jacket and, glancing at his watch, Sarmatov saw the time for reflection had passed. It was time to be put on Yakov Naumovich's carpet. Smirking, Ivan shrugged his shoulders against the chill and moved to the yellow section of the main building.

Ivan crossed the creaky parquet of the corridors, filled with the light of the May sun, and went up to the second floor. He stopped in front of a door with the inscription 'Dean of the Faculty of Translation'. He looked around. The corridors were empty, everyone was in some class somewhere. There were still ten minutes left until the end of the second pair of classes. All his acquaintances were in lectures or seminars, so there was no one to even ask for support. Exhaling sharply, Ivan pulled up his jacket and pushed open the door, which had darkened with time. He remembered, for no reason, that the former owner of this building, Moscow governor Pyotr Yeropkin, had arranged balls here, which even little Pushkin visited.

In the waiting room, Lenochka gave him a sympathetic glance. Contrary to her habit of chatting with other visitors, she jumped up from her table and disappeared behind the oak door of the dean's sanctuary. She jumped back out in a couple of seconds and, leaving the door ajar, squeaked:

“Yakov Naumovich is waiting for you, Comrade Sarmatov. Come in.”

Ivan shook his head in surprise and stepped into the bowels of the familiar study. His wait for an audience with the dean had never been so short. Helena whispered after him: “Give ‘em hell, Vanya!” The door slammed shut behind him like the lid of a coffin.

The dean was sitting at the table, fingering the papers laid out in front of him. At the sound of the slamming door, he raised his head, took off his glasses, and glanced at the newcomer with a little squint.

“Sarmatov?” He glanced at the characteristic student's folder lying on top of the other papers, opened the first page, then slammed it again. “Why are you standing? Come in, sit down.”

“Hello, Yakov Naumovich,” the young man said as he plodded across the worn carpet, traversed by thousands of students, and sat down on a high-backed chair facing the all-powerful dean.

For some time, he looked at him in expectation, perhaps even with some kind of regret. Then, remembering someone, shook his massive head, grunted, and got up, calling to someone over his shoulder.

“He's yours, comrade. I pass him on to you, as they say, safe and sound.”

And the dean, grinning at some of his thoughts, exited. He left. His own. Office!

Dumbfounded, Ivan glanced in the direction where the dean nodded. Only now he noticed a stranger sitting to the side in a deep guest chair. The young man was astonished: he could have sworn when he had entered the room, this person was not here. Or he had not noticed him. He was so quiet and inconspicuous.

He was tall, not shorter than Ivan himself, in that he was at least six feet tall. The guest wore a beautifully tailored light gray European suit. An expensive shirt was unbuttoned around his neck, but a silk tie, Italian by the looks of it, was lying right there on the arm of the chair.

How old the newcomer was, Ivan would not have dared to say for sure: he could have been about thirty or well over forty. A muscular body, hidden under the expensive suit, belonged to an athlete, a sportsman. The face under the striped hat was rather Slavic – wide cheekbones, eyebrows, slanted eyes. The cold blue eyes themselves, however, gave him a detached, haughty expression, more Norman or Germanic. And those eyes scrutinized the student.

“Hello,” Ivan muttered, unaware of who he was dealing with at the moment. Yet, that Yakov Naumovich retired from his own office as if abandoning a sinking frigate led his thoughts in a certain direction.

“Hello.” The stranger's voice was soft and, in the circles of 'enlightened' youth, would be called velvety. Just enough to seduce the beauties on the Arbat, Ivan thought with quite a touch of envy. “Come, sit down closer.”

Sarmatov left his uncomfortable chair and moved to the chair, trying to spend as much time as possible dallying. He secretly hoped that the classes were about to end and the bell will save him. But the bell didn't ring, and the guest made himself comfortable in his chair. He threw one leg over the other, showing off chic black patent leather shoes and socks to match the suit. His first question immediately puzzled Ivan:

“How are you going to live, Falcon?”

For some time, Sarmatov stared blankly at the swaying toe of the stranger's patent leather shoe, pondering whether to send everyone and everything to hell right then and there. Yet the thought of what exactly his venerable father, academician, professor-anthropologist Pyotr Alekseevich would say at home, and in what tone, him from such rash action. He answered in his age-old habit, which so annoyed his teachers, the question with a question:

“What, I have options? Other than dropping out, of course?”

The stranger raised his eyebrows in surprise, looking at his counterpart with particular interest.

“Well, young man, there are always options. As well as a way out of any situation. Still, where does such pessimism about your future come from?”

“Don't you know?” Ivan snapped even more insolently. The stranger shrugged, which was an impressive gesture for his size, and reached into his pocket. Ivan watched his hand with sudden interest, as if right now, right at that moment, it could extract from the bowels of the stylish suit a scroll of indulgence for all his previous sins. But the hand returned with a round metal box, which the stranger held out to Saratov:

“Help yourself, it’s candy. You don't smoke, I know. Yes, and I've recently quit, a rubbish habit, more addictive than vodka. You don't drink, do you comrade?”

Ivan shook his head negatively. The stranger threw a candy into his mouth, put the box in his pocket, and laughed.

“Why do you think I have to deal with your attendance record? There is dear Yakov Naumovich for that. Let him care about your everyday academic life. No, my brother, I have entirely different reasons.”

Ivan sighed furtively, which did not escape the attention of the guest.

“Instead of sighing like a cow, you’d better consider why a major of the State Security was dragged to this charitable institution.”

The pointed look the stranger gave him dumbfounded Ivan. A minute passed. Another.

“Which major?” he muttered at last. The stranger laughed.

“Your freestyle wrestling coach said that you have excellent reflexes. And now you’re falling about. Was your coach kidding me?”

Ivan frowned:

“So far, I’ve had only three fights in my entire career on the mat. I’ve drawn two of them.”

“And I know it.” The guest was merry. “Okay, I won't torment you any longer. Come on, brother, let’s get acquainted! I am Kotov, Sergey Vladimirovich. For my own, ‘Yoshkin Kot’ or simply ‘Cat’.”

“Why ‘Yoshkin’?” asked Sarmatov. The visitor shrugged his shoulders.

“I come from Mariyka, from Yoshkar-Ola. There we have such a local character. And the 'cat', as you understand, is from the surname that I inherited from my father. Well, here’s my hand!”

He got up and held out his hand to Ivan, which turned out to be wide, like a shovel. Ivan also stood opposite, habitually shook it, and it felt as if his fingers were in a steel grip. Kotov was trying to determine how long the student could resist his vice-like grip, which was probably developed over many years of training.

Ivan strained his hand as best he could, sweat beaded on his forehead from the pain. This did not escape the attention of Sergey Vladimirovich, but he only smirked and did not loosen his grip. Ivan noticed he did not resort to underhanded tricks, like some of his strong wrestling partners. For example, he did not press his thumb on a certain dimple of his opponent’s hand, nor did he try to crush his fingers. Kotov played fair, and Ivan muttered honestly after half a minute:

“That's it, I'm done. I give up!”

Kotov released his grip, patted his shoulder with his palm:

“Well done. Few would have stood against me. Strong, young man.”

Kotov took his seat again.

“Thank you.” Ivan stood opposite and rubbed his throbbing hand for some time.

“Not at all. Let's get down to business. You study in the Spanish department, don't you?”

Ivan nodded, trying to predict the next question. What Kotov followed up with was unexpected.

“¿Te gustaría practicar el idioma en el país del idioma que estás estudiando?”

“Por supuesto, ¡y quién no querría esto!“

Ivan answered reflexively and suddenly froze. Kotov watched him mockingly. Then he nodded curtly at the wide sofa, where the dean usually offered a place to distinguished guests. Ivan sat down on edge and asked cautiously:

“So, you speak Spanish?”

“Have you noticed?” asked Sergey Vladimirovich, mischievous notes in his voice.

“On the contrary, you have excellent pronunciation,” Ivan said, encouraged by a delay in his punishment for absenteeism. “The real Español Castellano!”

“I know,” the guest replied with unexpected sadness. “This is bad.”

“Why?” snapped Sarmatov.

“Because, my dear Ivan Petrovich, should you meet all the requirements our service makes of candidates and we end up working together, we’ll need to go exactly where my ‘Castellano’ is poorly understood. Well, I can see in your eyes you’re astonished. I’ll repeat the approach, as our pilots say. Let me introduce myself: Sergey Vladimirovich Kotov, Major of State Security. Glad to meet you. And I came here precisely for your undoubtedly immortal soul, Ivan-sunshine-Petrovich. To make you one most interesting proposal, from my point of view. I want to invite you to serve with us.”

Ivan was incredulous. He looked at Kotov as if expecting a trick:

“I don't understand. For the authorities, or what?”

The major nodded.

“Exactly. At the MGB. Ministry of State Security. Just let's make a reservation right away,” he raised his hand, stopping Ivan, who was ready to jump up from his overwhelming feelings. “If you agree to cooperate with us, then immediately after passing your state exams, you’ll go to our school to take a special course. If, after what you have heard here and now, you refuse – wait, don’t interrupt your elders! – then, you’ll immediately forget about our conversation forever and ever. As they say, we talked and went our separate ways without consequences. I will ask you to sign the corresponding papers later. So?”

“I agree.” Ivan nodded quickly and caught Kotov's mocking glance. “What now? Did I say the wrong thing again? Was it necessary to sign an oath in blood or something?”

Kotov suddenly became serious.

“Don’t talk nonsense. I don’t care about your blood. Somehow, we’ll manage without it. But you have to sign something.”

He took out from somewhere from under the chair a voluminous briefcase, clanked the copper clasps, and pulled out a thin folder from its voluminous interior. It contained only one sheet of paper with neatly printed text. He took it, stared at it for a while as if it was a window. He then put it on the coffee table, which was next to the sofa, and pushed it over to Ivan.

“Read and sign. Do you have a pen, student?”

Ivan took out of his inner jacket pocket a fancy 'Parker' – a gift from his father and an object of his classmates’ envy. Without reading it, he signed the document with a flourish. Kotov grunted and took the paper. He looked with regret at the fresh signature, and with a sharp movement, tore it up.

Ivan jumped up:

“What are you doing! I signed that document!”

“But you haven't read it.” Metal rumbled in the Major's voice, which made Ivan's nose seem to freeze like the Arctic suddenly rose.

“You broke two commandments of the Chekist at once,” Sergey Vladimirovich continued, “you didn't follow my orders and didn't read what you were signing. You can consult your friends at the Moscow University Law School about the perniciousness of the latter fact, even in everyday life. They’ll explain everything to you.”

“But I…”

“I understand. You trusted me. Flattering, but it doesn’t absolve you of responsibility for your actions. Seems I have to do everything with you more than once.”

From somewhere, the major took out a second sheet of the same kind – the twin brother of the first – and handed it to Ivan.

“Read and sign.”

Sarmatov nodded and read the paper, which turned out to be a statement that he undertakes to keep state secrets, not to communicate with foreign citizens or inform the relevant services about inevitable contacts, and so on, and so on. After reading to the end, he looked up at the grinning Kotov.

“All clear?” he asked sarcastically. Ivan nodded.

“It seems like it, yes. Can I sign?”

“Go ahead,” the major said as he nodded. “The most important thing is that you have no questions now. Questions that arise, we’ll answer elsewhere.”

From the face of Sarmatov, who signed the paper, it was clear that he had a lot of questions, but they were all irrelevant. After handing the sheet to the major, Ivan asked anyway.

“And where am I going to work? You hinted at a Hispanic country.”

Kotov put the sheet into a folder, the folder into the briefcase. He snapped the locks shut and, putting the leather monster aside, said:

“The hot Spaniards will be both mulattos and creole. In the meantime, we will assign you to Bureau № 1, kid. This is your main workplace, after you pass the exams, of course. And any outstanding tests, by the way. I can’t cancel your ninety-four hours of truancy, so I’ll have to correct the situation myself. In terms of study, of course, if we find you skipping out, so be it, we’ll write you off.”

Ivan nodded once.

“Thank you. But at the bureau, I’ll shift papers or do translations there, right? Bureaucracy, in a word.”

“Whatever the authorities say, you will do.” Kotov raised his finger instructively. “And to the point. From now on, you don’t belong to yourself. By the way, how will the venerable Pyotr Alekseevich, your old man, react to your choice? Will he approve?”

Ivan shuddered: in this mess, he forgot about the attitude of the venerable academician to the gloomy service, which was supervised by Lavrenty Pavlovich Beria himself. Sarmatov senior was extremely disloyal to the authorities. Well, he’ll have to face it, and he will have nowhere to go. Ivan is already an adult, and he has almost graduated from the institute, so it will all be figured out somehow.

Ivan expressed himself in a similar vein. Kotov just shrugged his shoulders, as if saying, do as you know. Picking up his briefcase from the floor, he remarked to Sarmatov:

“Sarmatov is from the word…”

“The Sarmatians were a Scythian tribe in antiquity,” Ivan hastened to explain.

He was already rather tired of explaining the origin of his surname to everyone, as many strove to find some Tatar or Uzbek trace in him, even though Ivan had no external resemblance to these peoples. Even though he had somewhat darker skin and dark hair, he looked more like an Italian or a Greek. The blood of his ancestors, of course, had an effect. Some of them lived in the foothills of the Caucasus, like his maternal great-grandfather, the wise Vakha, about whom legends circulated in the Sarmatian family.

“Scythians, you say,” the major muttered to himself, then smiled. “And what a glorious tribe. How did Blok put it? 'Millions of you, we are darkness, and darkness, and darkness! Try it, fight with us!’ It’s decided: you will be Skiff from now on, forever and ever. Amen, as they say, kid. See you in another life.”

“What is it like?” Ivan did not understand. The major shrugged his shoulders.

“You will see in due time. Greetings to Yakov Naumovich.”

The young man watched in amazement as the high door inched shut behind this mysterious man. Then the dean entered it, and Ivan lost all his sentimentality.

As predicted, a storm broke out at home. Sarmatov the elder, perching like a granite block behind his desk and raising an academic beard to the portraits of leaders hung on the walls of his study, shook the air with tirades that would have done honor even to the great orators of antiquity, like Lysias and Demosthenes.

He recalled his ancestors, who laid their heads on the altar of science, refusing, however, the modest offer of his wife, dearest Olga Arsenovna, to list them. And to her remark that the great-grandfather of the great academician and the beacon of anthropological thought was, in fact, a Yaitsk Cossack, he only blushed more and walked the Bolshoi Petrovsky Bend throughout his dynasty from the twelfth generation, who did not realize at one time the greatness of the victory of the Great October Revolution and that's why it was nearly the end of his, Pyotr Alekseevich's, career, almost ruined by their non-proletarian origin.

Ivan sat on a sofa upholstered in striped fabric and took in his father's dressing down in silence. Things were going the way he thought they would, so he was not too upset. Dad was predictable, like the seasons changing, but he did not need to make any more waves. That could have caused unwanted complications. And so far…

In the meantime, dear Olga Arsenovna moved to intercede for her son. At forty-five, she kept almost all the charm of youth thanks to her complaisant character and natural intelligence. She had a grace worthy of a royal maid of honor. She pulled out from the corner cabinet the cherished tray with the silver chalice, a green glass decanter, and lemon slices. After pouring some 'Shustov', as she called the Armenian brandy, she put all this beauty in front of the bright-eyed Pyotr Alekseevich. The academician's beard changed vector toward the chalice. He stared furiously at his wife for a second. Then, suddenly limp, plopped down on his carved back chair and burst out laughing.

“Well, Olenka, respect! As usual! You will always find a 'valid argument' in a dispute…”

The wife humbly lowered her eyes and, sitting down on the sofa next to her son, whispered:

“How do you think the wife of an academician should react to such escapades? Just look for another ‘valid argument'.”

The professor shook his head, then swept the chalice away with his hand, which was worthy of a port bumpkin, and, with a grunt, knocked it away in one gulp.

“This is cognac, Petya. Armenian, as you like it,” Olga Arsenovna said reproachfully. The academician looked in bewilderment at the bottom of the empty chalice:

“Yes? That's bad luck, and I haven't tasted it in my heart. Well, let’s fix that.”

He filled the second cup himself, and it soon followed the first. Pyotr Alekseevich froze, savoring the bouquet of the fine drink, and then, softening, he cast a now interested glance at his son.

“Now tell us, poor son, why… Why did you have to play this game with the state? For example, do you yearn to be a translator at an embassy? That’s worse than being a desk jockey! Or am I missing something?”

Finally, after waiting for the opportunity to get a word in, Ivan explained:

“Father, you have always taught me dignity and patriotism concerning our motherland. As I understand it, they are giving me the opportunity here and now to show my patriotism in full measure.”

The father took a hard look at his son.

“I guess you don’t understand the structure that took you for a zugunder suddenly. Although, how could you? You didn’t live in the thirties. A car in the courtyard at midnight, the rumble of boots on the stairs, the dampness of the Lubyanka cells. You do not know what it’s like to live in constant fear, awaiting arrest, camera, a summary execution!”

Ivan had his father's blood in his veins: he also could not stand it when someone opposed him.

“And Uncle Misha, your own brother, did he also shoot and torture innocents?”

“What’s Mishka got to do with it?” This took professor aback. “He… He was doing a whole other thing.”

“Yeah, he caught spies on the front line and liquidated the bandit underground in Western Ukraine after the war. I remember very well. That’s where he laid down his head, by the way. And you spent the entire war at the university, sitting in the subway, hiding from the bombing. Do you think I forgot those years?”

“I had a reservation!” the professor jumped up, insulted. “Someone had to prepare for the future, too!”

“Aha.” Now Ivan suffered somewhat, as even his anxious mother put her hand on his. “Anthropologists, of course, are the backbone of modern troops! And a low bow to you for that!”

“What do you know, brat!” The venerable scientist’s voice flew into a soaring falsetto, glaring into the eyes of his son. He then turned and went limp. In Ivan’s eyes was something beyond all reason.

Ivan took his mother's hand from his and, grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair, rushed out of the room, slamming the door.

The professor exhaled and sat down. His wife went up to him, put her hands on his shoulders from behind, and kissed the incipient bald spot on the powerful back of his head.

“Oh, Petyunya, Petyunya. But our boy has grown, and you didn't notice during your lectures and seminars.”

“Yes,” was the only answer Pyotr Alekseevich could find. “And now, what I can do?”

“What can you do?” the wife laughed. “Live, dear, live on. Let's go to the kitchen. I'll make your favorite pancakes.”

June 14, 1950

17:55

Two kilometers northeast of the village of Nakhabino

The first building of the Higher Intelligence School of the USSR Ministry of State Security was a compact two-story affair. In intradepartmental correspondence, it was simply referred to as ‘the 101st School’, and was nestled under the canopy of an enormous stand of pine trees. Even with aerial photography using the most modern equipment, it would be problematic to determine what was hidden under the continuous green carpet of the Khlebnikovsky Park forest.

An entire complex of buildings, several obstacle courses, its shooting range. All this was reliably hidden from prying eyes by a forest that stretched towards Balashikha for many kilometers. Several specially prepared security ‘secrets’ protected this top-secret installation from the overly curious.

Even though it was evening time and the classes had already ended, the meeting in the office of the head of the school, Major General Svetlov, continued. Extracurricular and operational. Besides Yuri Borisovich himself, there were also Lieutenant General Sudoplatov, Svetlov's old colleague and long-time friend, as well as Major Kotov himself.

A mountain of cigarette butts already decorated the crystal ashtray. The angled, small handwriting of the 'father of the scouts', as his cadets called the Major General among themselves, covered the table. Pieces of paper, some diagrams only comprehensible to those present, and several folders of personal files of actual cadets of the school.

Svetlov threw his tunic, decorated with many awards, over the back of a chair. The others also unbuttoned their tunics. Sweat had already appeared on Sudoplatov's forehead from the tense discussion, and judging by the flushed face of the Cat, he was having a hard time holding back his emotions. After rereading what he had written, Yuri Borisovich nodded in satisfaction:

“Well, colleagues, I think we’ve come to a compromise, haven't we?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Sudoplatov shook his head. Kotov glanced at him but said nothing. Svetlov raised his eyebrows in surprise:

“What’s wrong with you now, my good Pavel Anatolyevich?”

Sudoplatov got up from the table, strode across the office and stopped at a large window overlooking the parade ground, along which a platoon of cadets from the last set was marching at random. They were recently students from purely civilian universities, who still did not understand the science of army marching, even when guided by the elderly sergeant who was decorated with the Order of the Red Banner.

Without looking away from this picture of local everyday life, he said:

“Yura, let's not fool each other. Comrade Beria has set before us an almost impossible task to find a group of people in a foreign and hostile country in the shortest possible time. Thanks to the 'efforts' of Comrade Abakumov, we have lost almost all of our residency there, and it stranded who remained without communication and the opportunity to work effectively. We have to create a new structure from scratch, which will deal with very sensitive matters far beyond the borders of our motherland. And that’s just the start. But…”

He turned and raised his index finger to the ceiling.

“But you, as the head of one of the first intelligence schools, do not want to meet me halfway and lend me a few of your classes, where Comrade Kotov and I will prepare the main and backup groups for this assignment. You must understand, Yura, this is only for the summer until we formalize a new department. Then we will have both classes and bases. And people.”

He nodded at the personal files of the intelligence school cadets:

“Don’t be angry, Major General, but I cannot use any of the guys you proposed: it’s not quite what we’re aiming at.”

Svetlov shrugged his shoulders, and in this innocent gesture, Sudoplatov caught the grudge. Minor, but one of those that, left unspoken, can turn into persistent hostility. And then he clarified:

“Don't dance before me like a gypsy, comrade General. Just understand our situation. For example, how long does it take to prepare your eagles, huh?”

“The standard course is three years,” Svetlov replied reluctantly, suggesting further development of the conversation. And he was not mistaken.

“That's it!” Sudoplatov picked up the topic with ostentatious enthusiasm. “Three years, General! Three. And we have at most six months.”

The major general had already raised to his mouth a silver trophy cup holder with a glass of hot tea, which a quick adjutant, a junior captain from the 'promoted' graduates of party schools had just conveyed. He almost spilled this tea on his shirt.

“Dammit! How long?!” Putting down the glass, he spun to the 'king of saboteurs’. Sudoplatov grinned, and Kotov, with difficulty, restrained his smile.

“Six months is the maximum,” the lieutenant general repeated. “The Americans are unlikely to let us have more time. The big game begins anew, and then we’ll see who’s going to roll who.”

“Everything is, as always, on short notice,” the head of the intelligence school grunted, but Sudoplatov just threw up his hands.

“We do not set the deadlines. Life itself determines the pace of the operation. So all we need from you now are training classes and several instructors: shooters, cryptographers, extreme driving specialists. You see, friend Yura, we do not need to train illegals. It’s not your fault we have a completely different task. After all, you prepare illegals for the long haul. There is the fleshing out of their background, impersonation, embarkation, and debarkation. And we’re going to train operatives, specialists, for a single action. They have no time to overload their brains with all of your sciences. Their task is to infiltrate, find, steal, or destroy. And not at all to live for years and decades under someone else's guise.”

Yuri Borisovich shook his head.

“Somehow you can do it all. Some dashing cavalry attack, you know. Checkers and 'charge!'”

“And we rarely work in any other way.” Kotov inserted his two cents and winked at Sudoplatov. He just grunted, “Just so, Major. Just so.”

The major general sighed, carefully picked up the ill-fated glass, sipped the fragrant boiling water, and shook his head.

“Well, I don't know, Pasha.” Sudoplatov noted this 'Pasha' as a good sign. “You are probably right about something. In the end, you know better. I do not have all the information. Of course, I will give you an audience. I’ll only check with the higher authorities. Not a problem.”

Pavel Anatolyevich nodded in relief.

“Further, I will also pick some specialists. Just tell me which ones you need. It's summer now, people are mostly free. Use them, as they say. And I’ll also provide a temporary place to stay on my territory, until the fall, free dormitories aplenty. But the secrecy of this whole thing within the framework of our school, you, pigeon, kindly provide yourself.”

Sudoplatov chuckled. Svetlov had worked in Poland for quite a long time by the end of the war, and now Polish words slipped into his vocabulary from time to time.

“Let’s shake on it.” Pavel Anatolyevich held out his hand to the major general, who shook it.

“There is another snag, my dear friend,” Sudoplatov began. Yuri Borisovich was wary:

“How clever you are, brother rabbit. As our American ‘friends’ say there: The claw is stuck, the whole bird is lost? That’s how you make concessions. Okay, tell me what’s going on.”

Now everyone smiled. They found a common language. And Sudoplatov continued:

“Civilian specialist instructors will have to be given access to the site.”

“And how do you imagine that happening?” This alarmed the head of the intelligence school. Pavel Anatolyevich raised his hand reassuringly.

“Don’t get excited, Yuri Borisovich. These people have all the clearances and then some. At their levels of secrecy, you and your people will need a head start.”

Major General was taken aback:

“Really? How’s that?”

“Our operation is an echo of Los Alamos, Yura. The race begins again.”

The major general collapsed on a chair, pulled back the collar of his shirt, and wiped his sweating chest with a handkerchief he had taken from his breeches pocket.

“Now I understand this high level of secrecy and your haste. In short, I’ll provide you with everything you need. I’ll select the best specialists, and I’ll try to protect your people from excessive communication on the school grounds. When are you ready to start?”

“Immediately,” Sudoplatov said without hesitation. He turned to Kotov:

“How is our first candidate? Ready?”

“Yes, Comrade Lieutenant General, Skiff will take his last state exam tomorrow and shortly afterward arrive at his designated location.”

“And the other one from your team? Any ideas or candidates?”

“Already selected, comrade Sudoplatov. One Fomenko, Andrey Grigorievich, a graduate of the Moscow Mechanical Institute. He is suitable in every way.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Sudoplatov nodded. “I’d like to interview them both. I’ll wait for them the day after tomorrow in the office that I hope dear Yuri Borisovich will provide us. Isn't that right, comrade Major General?”

Svetlov only nodded with restraint. As a career intelligence officer, he sensed at the level of reflexes what exceptional events were now unfolding in this God-forsaken corner of the Moscow region.

And behind the open window, the commands of the front-line sergeant drowned out the chirping of forest birds.

Chapter 2. Physics and Lyrics

Are you familiar with the expression “You can’t go above your head”?

It’s a delusion. A man can do anything.

Nikola Tesla

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 101st 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: 101st 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 101st 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?”

Chapter 3. Confrontation

It turned out that "universal human values" fully coincide with the national interests of the United States.

Leonid Shebarshin

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

101st 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.

Chapter 4. Art of War

Modern espionage is mainly economic, scientific, technical and financial.

Claude Silberzan

End of August 1950

Moscow region

“I still don't understand. What have we got to do with it?” Ivan threw aside a blade of grass, which until now he had chewed in a state of deep thoughtfulness and sat down, dusting off his shirt. The peaceful, warm August day confidently rolled towards sunset. On the smooth surface of a mirror-like pond, rings diverged from healthy fish playing around.

On a slope overgrown with silky grass, Andrey sat on a couple of steps with a fishing rod and watched the motionless float with pretentious attention. Nearby stood a rumpled bucket of grass he had begged from the sergeant-mechanic in the garage. He intended it for the ‘rich catch’, so often colorfully described by local fishermen on their bikes. In fact, a couple of frozen minnows floated in its warm water.

“Alo, garage!” Ivan looked around, picked up some old root, took aim and threw it, trying to knock the cap off his friend's head. Andrey, without turning around, merely shook his head as the rotten missile flew past. “I'm talking to you!”

“And what do you, rotten intelligentsia, want to hear from an ignorant descendant of male spawn?” asked Fomenko over his shoulder, hiding his grin. “That the Cat was mistaken, and we are pounding pears in vain? The wrong contingent, so to speak? What are you unhappy about?”

Ivan stretched himself until his joints creaked, exposing his face to the last warm rays of the setting sun. He breathed in deeply the scent of the nearby forest.

“Such beauty… Everything suits me just fine. It's just not clear why our valiant intelligence service needs us when there are such a lot of wolfhounds around! Remember yesterday, on the obstacle course, that healthy one from the fourth platoon? Both agility and stamina! How he, after ten kilometers of cross-country running, pinned Mikolaichuk to the mat! Such power! Hooking, grabbing, strangling, everything in a few seconds! And what are we?”

“What are we?” Andrey asked, still calm. His attention was riveted to the float, which suddenly came across the still water in a gambling dance and froze again. “The Cat trains us according to his special program.”

“Yes, the program,” spat Sarmatov. “Dialectology, geography, chemistry and physics. I thought I would at least shoot a bit. There isn’t even a shooting gallery session on the schedule, never mind the actual shooting range. Look, look how those cadets are doing their best! They’re so soaked, you can throw away their t-shirts tonight! And here we sit as if preparing for a school Olympiad, scribbling notes.”

Andrey climbed backward up the slope, bouncing as he went along. At the same time, he pulled the line out of the water. A limp strip of duckweed nestled on the empty hook.

“That’s the last time I believe anyone about fishing spots,” he muttered, winding the line onto the reel and fixing it on the rod. “Here, Vanya, I don’t understand your displeasure. After all, as far as I remember, no one dragged you here by your ears, did they? So why are you getting snotty now? Haven’t changed your mind, have you?”

Ivan also got up, brushed the grassy dirt off his pants, straightened his shirt.

“Not really, my friend Tom. You shouldn’t hold your breath for that. My father can’t lure me back, even with a fattened calf. He’s so convinced what he knows about life is right, his preachy morals will make your head explode.”

“You are too hard on him, Skiff, he only wants the best for you.”

“I wish… Well, it’s my business. And as for our training, I will confront the Cat, so to speak, and let him explain why the country needs two halfwits like us. Tonight, during our free time. Okay, let's go. Our ‘break’ is just about over. Evening formation is coming soon.”

The friends reeled up the rest of the fishing rods, scattered on the grass of the embankment, and headed towards the nearby forest. Behind the dark canvas of trees, it was impossible to see the high concrete wall of Special School № 1.

Immediately after dinner, Ivan found the Cat, as he had promised he would, in the echoing vaulted corridors of the school and blocked his way:

“Allow me to appeal to you, Comrade Major of State Security!”

Kotov grinned into his mustache:

“Proceed, cadet Skiff.”

“Cadet Fomenko and I… Cadet Tom would like to clarify some aspects of our training. Do you have time for a short private conversation?”

Kotov shrugged his shoulders:

“Why not? Do you have any special events scheduled for the evening?”

“No, everything is according to the general schedule: free time until lights out.”

“Fine! So, come to the ‘red corner’ at quarter after eight tonight, and we’ll chat about this and that. Dismissed, cadet Skiff.”

Ivan clicked his heels and, turning around smartly, went in search of Andrey. Kotov looked after him slyly. Well, at least all is well with the statutory appeals of the glorious academician’s son. But how it all began…

A group of newly minted cadets was jogging along the path to the top of a lonely hill on which stood some rare birches. Kotov stood in the shadow of one of them, hiding from the scorching rays of the July sun, and watched the stopwatch in his hand. When the last fighter almost crawled to the top of the hill, the major cut off the control time with a sharp wave of his hand and ordered:

“Group – stop! Five minutes’ rest.”

The cadets, soaked in sweat, fell into shapeless heaps on the grass, not even bothering to throw off the rolls of their greatcoats from their shoulders. Reinforced by the bitter experience of past marches, only their submachine guns did not slip from their trembling hands.

Captain Kasatkin, responsible for the general physical training of the first-year reconnaissance cadets, grinned to himself. A ten-kilometer cross-country run in full gear was a pleasure for an already perfectly trained fighter. He could not say the same for these ‘unfinished ones’, as the captain referred to them with a combination of irony and contempt.

Obviously, this is where the board vetted the candidates by their physical condition. They gave preference to individual sportsmen in the kinds of sports that fit the profile: boxers, wrestlers, shooters, pentathletes, and other athletes. However, in the physical training of the future scout, participation in any sport was only beneficial. Yet even the athletes at first succumbed to the load that fell on them in their first month of training. The instructors did not distinguish between them and those who, in civilian life, only accepted sports in a contemplative form. From the stands of the stadiums, as it were. The reasoning at the school – and not without reason – was that of ‘hard in training – easy in battle’ and was the principle that most regularly guided this Suvorov school. As a rule, this approach was borne out by experience in the real world. In any case, with physical training, the same Captain Kasatkin held the opinion that ‘It’s better to be too naked than to be too small’. The leadership was in full agreement with this and gave this ‘sadist and fanatic’, as most of the cadets considered him, carte blanche in everything.

Kotov slipped the stopwatch into the pocket of his wide riding breeches and stepped out of the shadows:

“Skiff, Tom – to me!”

Two cadets jumped up with the speed possible after such a strenuous march and ran up to him, stretched out ‘into the front’.

“You’re still three kilometers away from that hillock. Hill 236 on the map. Off you go! Clock’s ticking!”

The guys looked at each other, and gritting their teeth, set off in the direction indicated. Kasatkin, who arrived in time to hear this, looked mockingly at the major.

“Why are you torturing those kids, Cat?”

The major chuckled:

“Better me than the sadists from the enemy counterintelligence… Or do you disagree, Captain?”

“Well, I’m all for it,” Kasatkin said, though he was confused. “Only the standards apply to everyone, and you’re working this pair to death…”

“They are not ‘everyone’,” the major said nonchalantly and, having saluted the captain, set off after his soldiers. The captain shrugged.

“As you say, Comrade Major, as you say… Tokmo rarely escaped from death on foot…”

“And neither from me,” said Kotov, showing off his amazing hearing to his confused subordinate without turning around. “Get your men on their feet and get to the hill.”

It was like that about a month and a half ago. Today, such crosses are childish compared to what they had to experience and learn in such a short time. These two, undergoing special training through an accelerated course, showed amazing results in all disciplines. The major was glad that he had chosen the correct candidates. It was he who suggested recruiting not yesterday's schoolchildren or demobilized conscripts, but graduates from specialized universities who had received excellent knowledge of the disciplines necessary for their future assignments. And athletes at that, of course.

And this doctrine of choice justified itself. Skiff and Tom have already passed subjects that were taught to ordinary cadets at the end of the second and third years of the special school. Their academic higher education and the general level of erudition stood these recent Moscow students in good stead.

They had no need for actual combat experience in the upcoming assignment, despite the selection committee’s recent emphasis on it. They will become representatives of intelligence on a qualitatively new level – intellectual, scientific, technological. The current situation posed these challenges, and they had to be met.

At a quarter after eight, both cadets showed up at the door of the ‘red corner’. Ivan glanced at Andrey and pushed the shutter aside and looked inside.

“May we?”

The major sat in the far corner of a vast room filled with straight rows of folding chairs, like in movie theaters. At a small stage, Kotov had set a table and settled down beside it. Two more chairs were empty, waiting for the cadets.

“Come in, cadets. Come in, have a seat. As I understand it, this might be a long conversation. But as my grandmother used to say, there is no truth in one’s legs.”

Yesterday's students did not hesitate, taking their places opposite the major. He looked them over with a calm gaze.

“Should I start, or will you explain the essence of the problem yourselves?”

Ivan breathed in and started:

“Comrade Major…”

“Sergey Vladimirovich,” Kotov interrupted him quietly.

“What?”

“No ranks here, Vanya, so call me by my first name and patronymic, okay?”

“Yes, comrade… Sergey Vladimirovich. In general, we’d like to understand what moral and professional qualities separated us from millions of our compatriots? And why are we not allowed to spend most of our free time with the other cadets, instead having to sit in our rooms? Well, something along that vein…”

Ivan looked back at Andrey for support, but he just nodded. Kotov looked at their frowning faces and burst out laughing. The youths looked at each other again, and now Andrey asked:

“Was that not the right way to put it?”

Kotov shook his head, then raised his palms, soothing them.

“No, not at all… Everything’s in order. It's just no one’s ever asked that within these walls since the founding of this charitable institution. As you may have noticed, in general here, it is not customary to ask questions. But I understand you: this is the Suvorov style. ‘Every soldier must know his own maneuver…’ That's right, only in this case, a soldier must also think like a commander. I'm not talking about the army now, but about intelligence specifically. In our case, excessive knowledge is a burden, and therefore, our cadets learn about their assignments at the very last moment. But in your case, everything is different, and you felt it. Why?”

After a pause and noting the increased attention of the cadets, the major continued:

“Because you really are special. There are several reasons for this. To start with, you were the first to come here not from the army, but after graduating with university diplomas. This provided a certain intellectual starting level and set a new bar. Second, what you have to do is fundamentally different from most of the tasks that graduates of this institution usually face…”

“The country of the language we’re studying,” Ivan muttered. He remembered a conversation in the dean's office of his alma mater, that had suddenly seemed so long ago, as if from another life. Kotov heard this and nodded.

“You’ve almost guessed that right, although here only every first person becomes an ‘illegal’. But that’s not the point right now. Let me try to explain it in a simpler way…”

“Just try your best, comrade… ‘Cat’… We hope we are clever enough to understand,” Andrey said, inserting his two cents with maximum irony and winking at his friend. The major, however, did not hold with the cadet's humorous tone.

“The task the Party and the Soviet Government set before the three of us is extraordinary. Ordinary operators can’t pull it off, even those with extensive experience working abroad. I’ll clarify the situation as best I’m able to.”

He got up, tugged at his shirt, straightening its folds under the belt of the harness on his back, and went to the window. He tore open the heavy, dark-brown velvet curtains. The August evening was slowly dying behind the large glass panes.

“I want to make it clear, right away,” he said over his shoulder, “that tonight's conversation does not fit into the framework of your training course and is purely private…”

“Why…” Ivan began, but Kotov cut him off sharply:

“Don’t interrupt, Skiff. All in good time. I won’t dwell on the details. I’ll just brief you on the state of world politics and the situation surrounding the upcoming tasks. You’ve already realized, Ivan, that you’re going to act in Argentina. Tomorrow you’ll begin studying the features of this Latin American country. Its geography, climate, economy and political system. In the immediate post-war years, our intelligence mostly engaged in counter-espionage. We lost some of its positions on the world stage. In Latin America, especially, we weren’t always strong.

“After the Second World War, the Americans firmly settled there. This is unsurprising – Uncle Sam has always sought to warm his thieving paws on the wealth of others, and Latin America is oh-so-generous with its resources! However, we aren’t interested in these countries’ minerals. We’re looking for certain people, war criminals, hiding something from the world that is very important and no less dangerous for us and our country if it falls into enemy hands. When we find these people, we will have to determine on the spot the importance of what they have. Based on our findings, the Center will decide what to do with them.”

“That much is clear…”

Andrey shifted impatiently on the uncomfortable wooden seat. Kotov’s face showed nothing but polite attention.

“Our question remains: why us?”

The major was silent for a while, chewing his lips thoughtfully, as if trying out the taste and shape of his response first. Then he shook his head.

“Honestly, guys, it wasn’t my idea. The heads are quite a bit smarter. But in a nutshell… The idea is to attract the most educated people for the work, whom a future adversary would in no way be able to connect with our intelligence agencies. That is why we based your training on individual plans with minimal contact with the other cadets and teachers.”

“And we’re alone, just like that?” Ivan asked with the most innocent look. Andrey looked at him in surprise, and Kotov only grunted respectfully. But he answered:

“No, young man, far from it… Our intelligence would be good if we left it to chance: even or odd, hit or miss. History knows no subjunctive moods, and intelligence abhors accidents. Well, at least when we can avoid them as much as possible. Other groups are also preparing. And the most prepared contingent will go on a mission, believe me… So, as the leader of the world Revolution, Comrade Lenin used to say, ‘…study, study and study again!’ For now, I can only say that at this stage, you are number one. The rest is up to you. Go for it…”

September 14, 1950

16:20

Special Object of the MGB: 101st School

Pavel Anatolyevich Sudoplatov threw open the curtains in the study and froze for a second. Fiery September came into its own outside the walls of the building. The crimson of fall enveloped the suburbs, and the forests stood in their colorful splendor, but the sun was baking with summer-like heat, and several muscular guys in shorts and t-shirts were chasing the ball on the football ground.

Sudoplatov turned around and looked at the cadets, frozen in attentive anticipation. Skiff and Tom each took a desk in the first row. Their notes were closed, it even seemed they both were holding their breaths. Sitting in the ‘gallery’ – the back row – Kotov grinned at something through his mustache.

“Well, that’s it, lads,” the Major General said sternly, giving meaning to the situation. “Today, I’ll brief you on the upcoming mission. This is necessary, not only so that we imbue you with all the importance and complexity of the task, but also so that you understand the essence of the preparation that you will undergo in the future.”

He walked over to the blackboard and chalked ‘1943’ on the black surface.

“So, in ’43, the very middle of the Great Patriotic War, a turning point was about to occur. Soon, we would chase the Krauts along Piterskaya street or the old Smolenskaya, as we once did with Napoleon, doesn't matter…

“At this time, the famous physicist Niels Bohr fled from German-occupied Denmark to neutral Sweden. Through his equally famous colleagues, Lise Meitner and Hannes Alfvén, he turned to the Soviet Government and our physicists, in particular Kapitsa. He said that development was underway in Germany of super-powerful weapons based on the fission of an atomic nucleus. This wasn’t a complete surprise for us. The first time our scientists had heard about this back in 1940, they felt that the current technological base could not create such a weapon. Nevertheless, the Commission of the USSR Academy of Sciences for the Study of Nuclear Energy Problems took note. Under Professor Khlopin, they recommended the Government and all specialized scientific institutions keep track of all publications on this topic abroad.

“Before 1943, the British had already tried to launch the ‘Pipe Alloy’ project to create a uranium bomb. Our information showed they had absolutely no luck with this. The attitude of our command and government changed radically when information came from America about the first nuclear chain reaction that Fermi carried out. Clearly, the creation of a superbomb was not far off. They tasked us with coordinating the activities of various intelligence units and throwing all our resources into obtaining materials from the American research. Since it was the Americans, in the opinion of our leading scientists, who were the most advanced in this matter.

“The head of the American nuclear program was Oppenheimer. He was a 44-year-old physicist who wasn’t even a Nobel laureate. This surprised our scientists quite a bit, especially since he worked side-by-side with the same Niels Bohr, who advocated the termination of all research in this direction!

“I don’t need to go into the details of the nuclear race right now. Just imagine, the most brutal war known to mankind had already crippled the country. I myself, besides atomic espionage, also had to organize a partisan movement…

“Under these circumstances, suffering from a near-complete lack of financial, material and human resources, our scientists had to create from scratch a new branch of science and industry – nuclear power. We were helped to a great extend by intelligence collected by our brave illegal intelligence officers, who collected information about the so-called ‘Manhattan Project’. By your future colleagues, by the way. Thanks to them, we have not lagged far behind the United States in the development of nuclear weapons and could maintain parity and avoid a new, now thermonuclear war.”

Sudoplatov fell silent, walked over to the teacher's table, then poured into a glass from a half-empty decanter and drank it. He swallowed greedily as if reliving all the tumultuous events of those recent, terrible years…

“Well, that’s just words,” he said sharply as if at once sweeping aside the affairs of bygone days and urging people to turn to the present day. “There was a war going on, we had to solve many problems simultaneously, and we somehow got through it. By focusing on the Los Alamos laboratories, we somehow lost sight of the German physicists. They, too, turned out to have advanced quite far in their research. Fission of the atomic nucleus was discovered in Germany by Hahn and Strassmann back in 1938, independent of the work of scientists in other countries. Only when other countries generated similar reports, did the idea of turning purely scientific discoveries into a superweapon for the Third Reich take root.

“Given how the technology developed in Germany, the focus there was on creating a nuclear reactor. The Germans were quite successful. Constant Allied bombing, which destroyed their heavy water plants, frequently slowed their research down.

“Yet, in 1940, Germany was head and shoulders above the rest of the countries taking part in nuclear research. The lack of raw materials initially created some problems. Yet, after Hitler annexed the Sudetenland of Czechoslovakia in 1938, he had the uranium mines near the town of Jachymov at his disposal. The occupation of Belgium also gave him about a thousand tons of uranium oxide, imported by the Belgians from their African colonies. Invading Norway brought Germany the only heavy water plant in the world at that time, which is used to slow down nuclear reactions. All this together allowed the German Werner Heisenberg to create the world's first ‘uranium machine’, as the nuclear reactor was then called.

“The Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor and America's entry into the Second World War made the development of atomic weapons a priority for the United States. In Germany, with its lack of resources, funding for nuclear research became a side issue. Hitler did not believe in creating an atomic bomb until the end of the war on the Eastern Front. The hardest campaigns of the winter of 1941-42 and the defeat of Hitler's troops at Stalingrad showed that the war will be protracted. British secret services also conducted the secret operation called ‘Gunnerside’, during which they put out of action that same heavy water plant in Norway. Norwegian partisans destroyed the remaining stocks of heavy water, or deuterium oxide. German researchers finally switched to ‘broke’ mode: no money, no resources. Meanwhile, the end of the war was near.

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