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“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?”
