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At first, General Pedro Ramirez led the junta. But he looked ever more towards emissaries from Washington, which did not suit both Vice President Farrell and Perón himself. These two figures united on January 26, 1944, and called for a break in relations with Japan and Germany. Thus, enlisting the support of the Americans themselves, they toppled Ramirezin short order, replacing him with Farrell.
Perón became vice president while still handling social issues. He secured the support of most trade unions. Under his guidance, they restructured in the image and likeness of Mussolini's syndicates. And when in October 1945, on the balcony of the presidential palace, the weak-willed Farrell, who was nothing but a political figure, kissed Perón and officially handed over power to him, the popular masses strongly supported it.
The military realized they were, as the saying goes, caught with their pants down. Yet, it was too late to do anything with the newly made president. The ‘descamisados’ saw him as the only people's leader. When the army tried to detain Perón or arrest him, the crowd simply took him away from the soldiers.
Perón himself called his ideology ‘Justicialism’. He was building a system based on an alliance of trade union associations. In it, everyone registered with the state administration. Mass nationalization began: railways, heavy and light industry, energy, infrastructure, medicine, and education became state-owned.
Half-destroyed Europe desperately needed Argentinian produce: meat, grain, and steel. This formed a favorable external economic environment. The profits from trade that entered the country did not become frozen in stabilization funds and did not settle in the pockets of those in power. Instead, the government invested it in various industries and the social sphere. When these injections were not enough for some of Perón's projects, the funds came from the large owners. The country flourished as never before.
At the end of the forties, Argentina was seriously considering joining the ‘nuclear club’ of powers. It was then that the United States remembered the weak ‘firing’ compartment of one of the German submarines interned from Argentina. And they strained in earnest. The White House's plans did not include expanding the elite ‘atomic get-together’ to one more member – especially not the unpredictable and pro-fascist Argentina. Under the leadership of Perón, not controlled from Capitol Hill, she could complicate the life of the states in Latin America, where Uncle Sam's bankers and entrepreneurs got accustomed long ago to behaving like it was their backyard. The White House could not let that happen…
Walsh blinked as yet another unexpected maneuver from the absent-minded pilots shook him from his reverie. Redrick’s stomach was somewhere in his throat as the plane banked to the right without warning and descended to the ground along some unthinkable trajectory.
Out of the corner of his eye, Walsh noted Rosenblum and Bohnenkamp were not exactly masculine specimens from a brochure. The first covered his mouth with a checkered handkerchief and tried his best not to empty his stomach into his own hands. The German simply bent his head to his knees and clasped the back of his head, freezing in the fetal position.
He noted the surprised look of the American and explained with a pale smile:
“The instructor at the base taught us this way. He said that in the event of a plane crash, this position gives the maximum chances of surviving the impact.”
Walsh shrugged his shoulders, got up, and walked towards the cockpit. The floor tilted thirty degrees to the left. He had to rest against the wall and grab the straps on the ceiling. Pulling open the corrugated door of the cockpit, he stuck his head in and almost staggered back. Through the windshield, heavy thunderclouds appeared to be rushing straight towards him.
The co-pilot, in his canned glasses and flight helmet, turned to him.
“Something wrong?” he asked in an ordinary voice, raised over the noise of the engines and the elements outside.
“Why is our descent so steep?”
“A simple precaution,” the pilot explained without a trace of concern in his voice. “In Argentina, the government does not particularly like us Yankees. So, we won’t land at a standard airfield, but at a private one owned by a local cattle breeder. He has a couple of his own planes, and he sometimes provides, not for free, of course, services to local smugglers. To us too, from time to time.”
At that moment, the plane broke through the lower layer of cloud, and pampa floated below them, overgrown in places with rare, but tough and dense bushes. And in front of them lay the endless expanse of the Atlantic.
“To the left, at eleven o'clock,” said the commander. The plane banked and now Walsh saw the landing strip. It was highlighted by bonfires on the sides with a ‘T’ sign laid out in white panels at the start of the strip. Only a couple of hundred yards separated the shore from the end of the strip.
Redrick closed the cockpit door, staggering back to his seat. His companions gave him exhausted, questioning looks.
“Let's sit down,” Walsh said and set an example for everyone, gripping the brace on the wall near the window. He might have imagined it, but he could swear he heard his colleagues let out a barely restrained sigh of relief.
The plane once again slid down. Under the window, a flat dirt pad rolled by, then the wheels crashed against the runway. The plane throttled down and rolled along the ground.
Rosenblum looked at his checkered handkerchief, which he had pinched over his mouth just a minute ago, then waved his hand and, pulling off his hat, dabbed his overheated bald spot with the same piece of cloth.
“Does anyone know these pilots?” he asked for no reason.
Walsh just shrugged.
July 29, 1950
American Embassy
Buenos Aires
The embassy’s third secretary, Joseph Barkley, hung up the phone and brooded. At thirty-five, he could be quite content with life. Well, at least for now.
Work in a place that’s warm in every way imaginable, not just the weather. Golf on Saturdays with advisor Wrightley, a beautiful wife, the prospect of transferring somewhere closer to the coveted Capitol… This idyllic situation lasted almost three years, until he received the call from Washington today. They told him that a plane carrying CIA agents crossed the Argentine border. It had landed without incident at the Casa Nuestra ranch, a couple of hundred miles from the Argentine capital. Barkley knew this ranch, which served as a temporary base for the American special services, and therefore, he had the right to expect the collapse of his entire well-established world order soon.
From his experience at the embassy, he knew that the appearance of employees of this secret department in a particular country usually preceded, if not a coup d’état, then at least the profound upheaval of the local state system. That was the last thing Barkley wanted right now. Two years later, when he leaves this very hospitable land, would have been ideal, but not now…
After shifting several papers on his table, Barkley again picked up the phone and barked a short, "Come in!" The office door flew open. Alan Cowan, his twenty-seven-year-old assistant, an ambitious guy who had arrived from Washington as reinforcement, slid in without a sound. Cowan followed the classic path of a junior diplomat. A successful Harvard graduate, a job in the ‘entourage’ of a senator from Louisiana, and a coveted appointment to the diplomatic corps. True, they did not send him to Europe, as Alan had dreamed, but it did not bother this talented young man at all. Alan, with his pale, almost Scandinavian skin, carried out any order Barkley issued and proved himself to be irreplaceable. There was no service the efficient assistant would not be ready to provide. And he always fulfilled his assignments with unstinting zeal.
Looking faithfully at the chief with his whitish eyes, continually brushing his unruly straw bangs from his forehead, Cowen opened his ever-present notebook, ready to take shorthand.
“It’s like this, young man,” said the imposing Barkley as he leaned back in an antique, probably Victorian, armchair of dark rosewood. “We’re being visited by a representative delegation of the ‘knights of the cloak and dagger’. At their head is a certain Redrick Walsh – he was in charge of their station in Chile. Dig up for me everything that you can find in the public domain. Well, and for what you can’t find… There are all kinds of rumors from Washington and the Big Apple. Dig into your connections in the Joint Chiefs, representatives from the military. Well, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you.”
“What am I digging for?”
“Everything. I want to know, before I feel the pain in my gut, if these guys prefer the cloak or the dagger. And what can we expect from them here? Tomorrow afternoon, I will traditionally report on the situation in the country and the city to Ambassador Griffiths. He’s very sensitive about the facts I provide him, so you, my friend, must try your best.”
Cowan clicked his heels like an army cadet and nodded with his blond bangs.
“Of course, Councilor Barkley. As always, Councilor Barkley.”
The secretary chuckled. ‘Councilor’. Before he would reach this status, of course, he still has many mountains to climb. The adulation of the boy. Even so, it's nice, and there's no need to hide it. And the arrival of these ‘spies’. Maybe this is a chance? As Seneca used to say? Chance does not scream about itself. It is always there, quietly waiting for you to notice it.
“That’s it,” he said and nodded to Cowan, who, flickering like a pale shadow, disappeared behind a door that didn’t even slam. Barkley chuckled: the capital school…
He got up and walked over to the large window, behind which sad streams flowed along a cobbled path after a long day’s rain. The winter here was, as always, mild, but neither sunny nor pleasant. The southern hemisphere, the proximity of Antarctica… He could not wait for September. Or better yet, a transfer somewhere in the Caribbean. The diplomat shook his head, fending off his delusion. If the latest news is anything to go by, there will be a lot of work soon. This is a real chance to catch God by the beard.
Barkley returned to his chair and studied the documents that had come from Washington with the last diplomatic pouch.
July 29, 1950
101
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.
