Магомет Тимов
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.
