Магомет Тимов
Argentine Archive №1
“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.
