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“Do you realize, Comrade Beria, that you’ll have practically no time to train these boys?” Stalin went to the table, took out a box of 'Herzegovina Flor' from the drawer. He gutted one cigarette and, having spread it on a piece of paper, filled his pipe with the tobacco.
“That's right, Comrade Stalin, I understand. We’ll prepare them based on the 101
school, but according to a separate curriculum. They won’t have contact with the rest of the cadets. I believe they’ll be able to fulfill their tasks in six months.”
Stalin thoughtfully lit his pipe and, blowing a ring of gray smoke towards the half-open window, remarked:
“We still think it's all a big gamble. It’s such a delicate matter, and we’re sending an old wolfhound and a couple of green boys…”
Beria shook his head vigorously.
“I don’t agree, Koba. Judge for yourself: after Abakumov’s capers, we have no active residency left in South America, so, no individual observers. Any newly installed network will immediately come under the scrutiny of the Argentine special services and, consequently, the Americans. According to our intel, Langley is already preparing their group for transfer to Argentina. We’re very limited in our actions, unlike our American friends. Since the end of the war, they feel like they’re in their own backyard in Latin America. But the ambassadors won’t help us – what remains of the network is barely enough to collect pine trees from a forest. These three will be next to impossible to account for because they’ll act like amateurs. We need their impartial observations, along with their fresh eyes.”
“And if they catch them?” Stalin narrowed his eyes slyly. Beria shrugged his shoulders.
“In war, as in war. We will renounce them. Or neutralize them before they land in an Argentine prison or an American safe house.”
“Just like that?”
“Yes, Koba.” Beria sighed and got up. “It seems to me that is the only way to break through all the barriers and find this most mysterious 'Archive’. Then, if necessary, they can connect up with the rest. We cannot risk the last agents on this continent.”
Stalin walked over to the table, sat down heavily in his chair, leaned back.
“In other words, you’ve written out a one-way ticket for this trio, right, Lavrenty?”
Beria awkwardly his feet, then shrugged:
“In the worst-case scenario, Koba. Only in the worst-case scenario. They will have a minimum of information and won’t be a danger to us. The usual insurance. Losing of one or even three 'cogs' in the great machinery of the state won’t be critical.”
Stalin raised his thick gray eyebrows in surprise.
“And I didn’t think you could be so vindictive, Lavrenty. I honestly didn't.”
Beria shrugged his shoulders:
“What’s that got to do with me? The loving people quote your speeches all on their own.”
Stalin chuckled.
“Lenin, however, isn’t quoted in the pubs and at the market, is he, Lavrenty?”
Beria supported the joke:
“He isn’t quoted even in our Politburo, Comrade Stalin.”
“It’s all in vain! You need to know the sources. Here we were once not too lazy. We read. And now, a lot in this world is clear to us. Even if the author wasn’t completely right. By the way, when are you going to send the group?”
Beria did not even look into his unchanged leather folder.
“I’ve already mentioned.”
“You won’t have six months, Lavrenty. This is the catch. They need to be in Buenos Aires no later than Christmas. Catholic, of course. Don’t think this is by our whims. We operate with reports from many services and roughly represent the military and the political situation in the world. In short, preparations should be completed no later than November. Plus another couple of weeks. Make sure it happens.”
Beria put the folder aside, straightened his shoulders:
“Of course, Comrade Stalin. We'll manage.”
“That's great.” The Leader of all the peoples of the Union slowly puffed on his pipe and suddenly smiled. “Come on, lay it out, Comrade Beria. What else do you have up your sleeve? You didn’t come to see me tonight with only this problem.”
Beria grunted and again took up the folder, carefully dropped the fasteners, and finally opened it.
“As always, you are perceptive, Koba. There is, besides Argentina, one more problem we have. And if only that.”
June 21, 1950
14:35
Special installation of the MGB: 101
School
Major General Svetlov looked at the folders in front of him, of which there were two. Personal files of the new cadets. They had just been brought to the location yesterday under the close supervision of Kotov. Yuri Borisovich knew the major for what seemed like a million years, but was constantly surprised by his ability to always find himself amid some odious events or adventurous operations of his home department. How many of his graduates Svetlov had handed over to him was unimaginable, but the General knew for sure that they all returned from their missions intact and relatively unharmed. Kotov’s reputation as a lucky man and wonderful intelligence expert was firmly entrenched.
But these two definitely caused to the head of the 101
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.
