Магомет Тимов
Argentine Archive №1
“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: 101st 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 101st 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.
Leonid Shebarshin
July 27, 1950
Not far from Valparaiso
Chile
Redrick Walsh sat high on the ocean shore and watched the whitish crests of the waves lick the cold sand of the beach. Gray wisps of clouds hung over the leaden surface of the waters, ready to burst into the fine, disgusting rain so common at this time of year. Fierce storms have always accompanied the middle of winter here in the Southern Hemisphere, on the deserted Chilean coast, has always been accompanied by fierce storms, sometimes throwing fragile fishing boats onto the coastal cliffs.
Walsh didn't like Chile. In either Cuba or Colombia, conditions were the same: a mild, almost resort climate, cheap drinks, affordable girls. And a minimum of work, a paradise for a field agent of any intelligence agency in the world! But here…
Redrick spat from the high rocky shore down towards the even gray view of the cold beach. An impoverished country whose only importance to American democracy lay in its copper deposits and its ability to control a young part of the Pacific Ocean. The ports were in disgusting condition, and there were practically no roads. Half-starved people grabbed any job they could get their hands on. Here, in such a nutritious broth, American corporations felt like fish in water.
The center-left government gladly admitted northern ‘investors’ into the country, who dished out bribes in abundance left and right. American bankers and businessmen have already subjugated the leading industries. They also monopolized trade, leaving the local elites the opportunity to ‘rule’ at their pleasure, but only in the interests of foreign monopolies.
Ordinary people survived as best they could. Most of the dissatisfied went to the East, where a relatively calm Argentina prospered beyond the Andes range.
Walsh himself secretly dreamed of at least crossing the Andes, if not to return to the States. At almost forty, he was already thinking about retiring from the intelligence service and settling in some small house on the sunny California coast. San Francisco would be fine. He only had to complete the case here, and he could write an appropriate report on the incident.
Redrick Walsh had been in charge of the so-called ‘station’ of the US Central Intelligence Agency in Chile for two years. Coming from naval intelligence, he entered World War II with the rank of lieutenant commander at the naval base in Pearl Harbor and witnessed the first defeat of the American intelligence service, which missed the concentration and subsequent attack on the harbor by a Japanese aircraft carrier formation.
Stunned by the explosions of the bombs. Stunned by the sight of the Arizona ripped apart and carrying away to the bottom of the bay in a few minutes the lives of thousands of American sailors. Crushed to the ground by bursts from the machine guns of Japanese Zeros. Walsh realized at once that naval intelligence was not his strong point. He was not a coward. In fact, during that very attack on Pearl Harbor, he organized the calculation of some half-broken anti-aircraft battery and resisted the second wave of bombers, now targeting the city itself. And they even shot down one and knocked out a second Japanese fighter-bomber. Redrick earned the Silver Star for this.
The heroism of the lieutenant commander was deservedly appreciated not only by the fleet but also by the direct leadership. After the theater of operations moved somewhat away from Hawaii, and life in Honolulu returned somewhat to normal, they transferred Walsh to the intelligence office. He engaged there in strategic planning for his service in the Philippines and Malaysia until the end of the war.
He had to work for some time in the apparatus of the occupation forces in Okinawa after the war. There he helped deploy an intelligence network, now against his recent ally in the Far East – the Soviet Union. Here he was successful enough and was about to end his career in intelligence, but another restructuring occurred. In America, they systematized the work of the many intelligence services, bringing everything under one umbrella.
In 1947, US President Harry Truman passed the National Security Act, because of which the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) relinquished some of its powers in information gathering. It shifted this onto the shoulders of the newly created entity – the CIA or the US Central Intelligence Agency. The basis of the CIA was the Office of Strategic Services, but the structure also included representatives of army and navy intelligence. So, Walsh got into the ‘office’.
The new leadership appreciated his organizational and other talents and, after certain retraining at the ‘Farm’ near Williamsburg, he went to conquer the expanses of Chile.
The work of a ‘station chief’ in Chile could well be considered a sinecure. On the one hand, the local government was quite loyal to the United States, being fed from the generous palm of Uncle Sam. On the other hand, there is an incredibly boring existence in an area that no one showed any genuine interest in. A minimum of industry, a pocket army, an equally impotent fleet. What geopolitical interests could there be? The picture was, however, different as far as American industrial corporations were concerned.
True, there was one moment that warmed Walsh's soul. The day before, Colonel Snyder from the European department phoned him on a closed line and said a headquarters representative with certain powers was rushing over to meet him. And it was here, a few miles from Valparaiso, on the disquieting ocean shore. Walsh didn’t quite understand why there were these conditional measures of secrecy in Chile, but something told him that there was going to be a change in his fate. As an experienced scout, Redrick trusted his intuition, and as a rule, it did not deceive him.
Now Commander Walsh pulled back the sleeve of his cloak and glanced at the dial of his army watch: it was three o’clock. The messenger, if he arrived in Santiago, should have shown up by now. The wind blew in from all directions on this part of the shore, and there was nowhere to hide. But when a soft “Hello!” came from behind him, Redrick shuddered and turned around sharply.
A stranger of average height, dressed like himself in an elegant cloak of European cut, smiled at him from under a gray Tyrolean hat. Laughing blue eyes on an inconspicuous face without signs of vegetation looked benevolent from behind round glasses, like those the German minister Goebbels used to wear.
The stranger wore strong alpine boots made of buffalo leather, and soft woolen trousers lay on them in heavy folds. He was holding an ordinary black umbrella cane in his hands.
“Good afternoon, Commander Walsh,” the stranger continued, in a velvety voice more befitting of a porter in a fashionable Monte Carlo hotel than a secret agent. “I hope I didn't startle you with my unexpected appearance?”
After recovering from the first shock, Walsh put on one of his most pleasant smiles and said in an even voice with a touch of hospitality:
“Not at all, sir. I’m here for the sake of meeting you, and not at all for admiring the local inhospitable landscape. To whom do I have the honor of speaking?”
The stranger cast an expressionless glance at the endless lead-steel expanse of the ocean and casually said:
“Alfred Rosenblum. I came from Lausanne. Especially, my good man, for your soul.”
The emissary laughed a pleasant laugh with a hint of subtle superiority Europeans have over representatives of the New World. Walsh swallowed this bitter pill silently, waiting for him to continue. In the end, he is in his field, why not let the guest show all the cards himself.
The guest continued.
“The ‘stable’ decided that you should change your golf course, which this country undoubtedly is, for a baseball court. They see Argentina in this context. In the sense, that baseball is a purely American game, and in the vastness of the local pampas you will have to play it without holding back.”
Redrick chuckled and looked Mr. Rosenblum straight in the eye.
“And by what rules will I have to play in Argentina, sir? I hope you can explain them to me?”
The representative of the European residency smiled:
“My dear Mr. Walsh, of course, I’ll explain. That is why I came here from the other end of the world. You don’t think I left the Lausanian oysters for the sake of the local ceviche? I’m not a fan of spicy dishes, dear friend. We in Europe try to protect our stomachs in the old-fashioned way, not like you young people here, among mountains of spices and peppers. As for the rules, they are, as always, simple: America comes first, and we have to achieve here only a positive result. A victory.”
Walsh nodded in response, and he asked the question that the situation itself had already seemed to suggest for some time:
“And who will we play against this time?”
Mr. Rosenblum suddenly stared at him and said in a low voice:
“Against the Council, son… Against Russian agents here, in the very ass of the world.”
Walsh turned to the ocean, watched for a while as the heavy shafts rolled repeatedly onto the gray sand. Then he said:
“What the devil are these Russians doing in Latin America?”
“That’s a topic for a separate conversation, and we will still have a lot of time to chat on the way to Buenos Aires. An airplane is already waiting for us at the airbase near Santiago de Chile. You, my friend, have five hours for everything. Transfer the ‘station’ to your deputy for the time you’ll be away from your post. As far as I know, your successor is already preparing to fly to Chile. We'll talk about the rest in your office and on the plane. This mission is very important for the White House. There hasn't been an event as secret as this since the Manhattan Project. Come on, it's time to go to your office.”
Mr. Rosenblum turned and walked towards the crevasse, where there was a path Walsh had not noticed before. He took one last look at the Pacific plain, the black clouds, then he pulled down his hat and followed the Center’s man to a car, which turned out to be waiting for them a hundred yards away, just around a sharp bend in the trail.
He thought that fate once again smiled on him: just recently he considered it was time to get out of this unfriendly country, and just like that, they told him where to go. Hell, not a terrible option when you think about it. If not for the Russians…
But here, fate itself was powerless.
July 28, 1950
Oval Office of the White House
Washington, D.C.
Harry Truman, the thirty-third President of the United States of America, sat at his desk. He was listening to the quiet man in the guest chair to the left of the countertop. Once again, the president noted to himself that the naval uniform suits him. Rear Admiral Roscoe Henry Hillenkoetter was the third director of US intelligence. He was also the first CIA director since the National Security Act had passed.
Hillenkoetter went the way of a proper admiral. He commanded the battleship Missouri during the Second World War. Afterwards, he led naval reconnaissance in 42–43 in the staff of Admiral Chester Nimitz, the commander of the Pacific Fleet.
In 1947, the Rear Admiral headed the Central Intelligence Group. It grew in a short time, through his efforts, to the size of a department. He was Truman's poster boy and never forgot to whom he owed his position as chief of clandestine services in the States. The rumor was that it was he who coined the secret slogan of this secret organization: ‘By 1948, more than the state’. Those were not empty words. By now, management has moved from the banal collection of information about events in the world to shaping those very events. Thus, the CIA became a government within the US government.
Truman listened to the Rear Admiral's report half-heartedly. He remembered the unofficial breakfast for the signing of the National Security Directive at the White House. His chief of staff, Admiral William Leahy, and the then first director of the CWG, Admiral Sidney Souers, both attended. He had presented them with a black cloak and hat, a wooden dagger, and a false mustache each. Truman had told them then: "You must accept these garments and their attendant accessories as my personal detective and director of the central office of intelligence."
And so the Central Intelligence Group, in a couple of years, proved to him that, in principle, a small intelligence organization cannot exist.
The President showed he had lost the thread of the admiral's report. Rubbing his tall forehead, Truman interrupted Hillenkoetter's monotonous reading with an impatient gesture. He said, staring into his eyes:
“Ros, let's stop here. The situation in Korea, of course, is acute. The commies are breaking into the South with terrible force, but I'm not interested in this now…”
The admiral closed the folder, put it on his knees. He stared at the head of state somewhere around the bridge of his nose. His face was the classic sea wolf of Jack London’s novels, and also impenetrable. Truman suddenly realized the admiral fit in perfectly on the bridge of a warship, like that same Missouri. He was also quite imposing right here, in the Oval Office. Well, wherever a person is, that is their place, but it is a rare quality to seem at home in such different locations.
The Republicans in Congress will not forgive him because intelligence practically clapped its hands to its ears. This allowed the North Korean army to invade the south of the peninsula. Now everyone, from UN officials to the heads of the leading world powers, is forced to puzzle over how to resolve the Korean crisis, which is descending into a full-scale local war. China has already climbed onto the heap, with the implicit support of the Soviet Union. Now the American fleet is heading into the conflict area at full steam. But it’s not even about this conflict. If the latest reports from South America are accurate, geopolitical domination will be decided there. And what will the head of the youngest yet most ambitious power structure in the world say to this?
“Admiral,” the President continued, “naval intelligence reported that not just fascist henchmen, but even some of the world’s leading nuclear experts, have built their nest in one Latin American country. Simply put – runaway German nuclear physicists. What do you know about this?”
Hillenkoetter's cheek twitched. The president would not have noticed if he had not already been staring at his inscrutable face. The admiral answered evenly and calmly:
“We’ve been working on this topic for a long time, ever since the Argentines handed us those fugitive German submarines. Lengthy interrogations of the crews and commanders of the German submarines yielded practically nothing, but specialists of the Office of Strategic Services concluded that these two submarines brought some passengers to the coast of Argentina. The Argentine Coast Guard found nothing suspicious in the coastal zone, but this means nothing. Volksdeutsche Germans inhabit the entire coast near Buenos Aires. They were at one time very loyal to the Hitler regime and could well have sheltered the fugitives.”
Truman got up from his chair and walked to the large window, pulling open the curtains. He turned to the admiral.
