Argentine Archive №1
Ivan had his father's blood in his veins: he also could not stand it when someone opposed him.
“And Uncle Misha, your own brother, did he also shoot and torture innocents?”
“What’s Mishka got to do with it?” This took professor aback. “He… He was doing a whole other thing.”
“Yeah, he caught spies on the front line and liquidated the bandit underground in Western Ukraine after the war. I remember very well. That’s where he laid down his head, by the way. And you spent the entire war at the university, sitting in the subway, hiding from the bombing. Do you think I forgot those years?”
“I had a reservation!” the professor jumped up, insulted. “Someone had to prepare for the future, too!”
“Aha.” Now Ivan suffered somewhat, as even his anxious mother put her hand on his. “Anthropologists, of course, are the backbone of modern troops! And a low bow to you for that!”
“What do you know, brat!” The venerable scientist’s voice flew into a soaring falsetto, glaring into the eyes of his son. He then turned and went limp. In Ivan’s eyes was something beyond all reason.
Ivan took his mother's hand from his and, grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair, rushed out of the room, slamming the door.
The professor exhaled and sat down. His wife went up to him, put her hands on his shoulders from behind, and kissed the incipient bald spot on the powerful back of his head.
“Oh, Petyunya, Petyunya. But our boy has grown, and you didn't notice during your lectures and seminars.”
“Yes,” was the only answer Pyotr Alekseevich could find. “And now, what I can do?”
“What can you do?” the wife laughed. “Live, dear, live on. Let's go to the kitchen. I'll make your favorite pancakes.”
June 14, 1950
17:55
Two kilometers northeast of the village of Nakhabino
The first building of the Higher Intelligence School of the USSR Ministry of State Security was a compact two-story affair. In intradepartmental correspondence, it was simply referred to as ‘the 101st School’, and was nestled under the canopy of an enormous stand of pine trees. Even with aerial photography using the most modern equipment, it would be problematic to determine what was hidden under the continuous green carpet of the Khlebnikovsky Park forest.
An entire complex of buildings, several obstacle courses, its shooting range. All this was reliably hidden from prying eyes by a forest that stretched towards Balashikha for many kilometers. Several specially prepared security ‘secrets’ protected this top-secret installation from the overly curious.
Even though it was evening time and the classes had already ended, the meeting in the office of the head of the school, Major General Svetlov, continued. Extracurricular and operational. Besides Yuri Borisovich himself, there were also Lieutenant General Sudoplatov, Svetlov's old colleague and long-time friend, as well as Major Kotov himself.
A mountain of cigarette butts already decorated the crystal ashtray. The angled, small handwriting of the 'father of the scouts', as his cadets called the Major General among themselves, covered the table. Pieces of paper, some diagrams only comprehensible to those present, and several folders of personal files of actual cadets of the school.
Svetlov threw his tunic, decorated with many awards, over the back of a chair. The others also unbuttoned their tunics. Sweat had already appeared on Sudoplatov's forehead from the tense discussion, and judging by the flushed face of the Cat, he was having a hard time holding back his emotions. After rereading what he had written, Yuri Borisovich nodded in satisfaction:
“Well, colleagues, I think we’ve come to a compromise, haven't we?”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Sudoplatov shook his head. Kotov glanced at him but said nothing. Svetlov raised his eyebrows in surprise:
“What’s wrong with you now, my good Pavel Anatolyevich?”
Sudoplatov got up from the table, strode across the office and stopped at a large window overlooking the parade ground, along which a platoon of cadets from the last set was marching at random. They were recently students from purely civilian universities, who still did not understand the science of army marching, even when guided by the elderly sergeant who was decorated with the Order of the Red Banner.
Without looking away from this picture of local everyday life, he said:
“Yura, let's not fool each other. Comrade Beria has set before us an almost impossible task to find a group of people in a foreign and hostile country in the shortest possible time. Thanks to the 'efforts' of Comrade Abakumov, we have lost almost all of our residency there, and it stranded who remained without communication and the opportunity to work effectively. We have to create a new structure from scratch, which will deal with very sensitive matters far beyond the borders of our motherland. And that’s just the start. But…”
He turned and raised his index finger to the ceiling.
“But you, as the head of one of the first intelligence schools, do not want to meet me halfway and lend me a few of your classes, where Comrade Kotov and I will prepare the main and backup groups for this assignment. You must understand, Yura, this is only for the summer until we formalize a new department. Then we will have both classes and bases. And people.”
He nodded at the personal files of the intelligence school cadets:
“Don’t be angry, Major General, but I cannot use any of the guys you proposed: it’s not quite what we’re aiming at.”
Svetlov shrugged his shoulders, and in this innocent gesture, Sudoplatov caught the grudge. Minor, but one of those that, left unspoken, can turn into persistent hostility. And then he clarified:
“Don't dance before me like a gypsy, comrade General. Just understand our situation. For example, how long does it take to prepare your eagles, huh?”
“The standard course is three years,” Svetlov replied reluctantly, suggesting further development of the conversation. And he was not mistaken.
“That's it!” Sudoplatov picked up the topic with ostentatious enthusiasm. “Three years, General! Three. And we have at most six months.”
The major general had already raised to his mouth a silver trophy cup holder with a glass of hot tea, which a quick adjutant, a junior captain from the 'promoted' graduates of party schools had just conveyed. He almost spilled this tea on his shirt.
“Dammit! How long?!” Putting down the glass, he spun to the 'king of saboteurs’. Sudoplatov grinned, and Kotov, with difficulty, restrained his smile.
“Six months is the maximum,” the lieutenant general repeated. “The Americans are unlikely to let us have more time. The big game begins anew, and then we’ll see who’s going to roll who.”
“Everything is, as always, on short notice,” the head of the intelligence school grunted, but Sudoplatov just threw up his hands.
“We do not set the deadlines. Life itself determines the pace of the operation. So all we need from you now are training classes and several instructors: shooters, cryptographers, extreme driving specialists. You see, friend Yura, we do not need to train illegals. It’s not your fault we have a completely different task. After all, you prepare illegals for the long haul. There is the fleshing out of their background, impersonation, embarkation, and debarkation. And we’re going to train operatives, specialists, for a single action. They have no time to overload their brains with all of your sciences. Their task is to infiltrate, find, steal, or destroy. And not at all to live for years and decades under someone else's guise.”
Yuri Borisovich shook his head.
“Somehow you can do it all. Some dashing cavalry attack, you know. Checkers and 'charge!'”
“And we rarely work in any other way.” Kotov inserted his two cents and winked at Sudoplatov. He just grunted, “Just so, Major. Just so.”
The major general sighed, carefully picked up the ill-fated glass, sipped the fragrant boiling water, and shook his head.
“Well, I don't know, Pasha.” Sudoplatov noted this 'Pasha' as a good sign. “You are probably right about something. In the end, you know better. I do not have all the information. Of course, I will give you an audience. I’ll only check with the higher authorities. Not a problem.”
Pavel Anatolyevich nodded in relief.
“Further, I will also pick some specialists. Just tell me which ones you need. It's summer now, people are mostly free. Use them, as they say. And I’ll also provide a temporary place to stay on my territory, until the fall, free dormitories aplenty. But the secrecy of this whole thing within the framework of our school, you, pigeon, kindly provide yourself.”
Sudoplatov chuckled. Svetlov had worked in Poland for quite a long time by the end of the war, and now Polish words slipped into his vocabulary from time to time.
“Let’s shake on it.” Pavel Anatolyevich held out his hand to the major general, who shook it.
“There is another snag, my dear friend,” Sudoplatov began. Yuri Borisovich was wary:
“How clever you are, brother rabbit. As our American ‘friends’ say there: The claw is stuck, the whole bird is lost? That’s how you make concessions. Okay, tell me what’s going on.”
Now everyone smiled. They found a common language. And Sudoplatov continued:
“Civilian specialist instructors will have to be given access to the site.”
“And how do you imagine that happening?” This alarmed the head of the intelligence school. Pavel Anatolyevich raised his hand reassuringly.
“Don’t get excited, Yuri Borisovich. These people have all the clearances and then some. At their levels of secrecy, you and your people will need a head start.”
Major General was taken aback:
“Really? How’s that?”
“Our operation is an echo of Los Alamos, Yura. The race begins again.”
The major general collapsed on a chair, pulled back the collar of his shirt, and wiped his sweating chest with a handkerchief he had taken from his breeches pocket.
“Now I understand this high level of secrecy and your haste. In short, I’ll provide you with everything you need. I’ll select the best specialists, and I’ll try to protect your people from excessive communication on the school grounds. When are you ready to start?”
“Immediately,” Sudoplatov said without hesitation. He turned to Kotov:
“How is our first candidate? Ready?”
“Yes, Comrade Lieutenant General, Skiff will take his last state exam tomorrow and shortly afterward arrive at his designated location.”
“And the other one from your team? Any ideas or candidates?”
“Already selected, comrade Sudoplatov. One Fomenko, Andrey Grigorievich, a graduate of the Moscow Mechanical Institute. He is suitable in every way.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Sudoplatov nodded. “I’d like to interview them both. I’ll wait for them the day after tomorrow in the office that I hope dear Yuri Borisovich will provide us. Isn't that right, comrade Major General?”
Svetlov only nodded with restraint. As a career intelligence officer, he sensed at the level of reflexes what exceptional events were now unfolding in this God-forsaken corner of the Moscow region.
And behind the open window, the commands of the front-line sergeant drowned out the chirping of forest birds.
Chapter 2. Physics and Lyrics
Are you familiar with the expression “You can’t go above your head”?
It’s a delusion. A man can do anything.
Nikola TeslaJune 15, 1950
Bolshaya Dmitrovka
Moscow
The pub on the corner of Bolshaya Dmitrovka and Stoleshnikov Lane was overcrowded. The vaulted basement, streaked with dripping plaster and mold, never suffered from a lack of visitors. A convenient location in a very historical place of the capital, practically in its cultural center. Its past, shrouded in urban legends and no less turbulent present, made it a place of pilgrimage for various categories of writers, sculptors, poets and the remaining creative population of the big city.
According to rumors, here, in the company of Mayakovsky, ‘Uncle Gilyai’, the singer of Zamoskvorechye Vladimir Gilyarovsky himself, who forever glorified pre-revolutionary Moscow in his wonderful essays, read his obscene poems here. Supposedly, even Bulgakov himself used to come here to taste local beer with Tver crayfish, but people of sober thought, of course, categorically disagreed with this.
Anyway, but Yama – which was not its official name, but the locals surely called it that – was a beerhouse that served as the hangout for dozens of artists and musicians who already considered themselves the capital’s bohemians. These were not the same bohemians who frequented places like the restaurant Sovietskiy (the former Yar), or the prestigious Metropol. Their wallets were simply too light.
Andrey Fomenko, a graduate of the Moscow Mechanical Institute, sipped his already lukewarm beer and enjoyed the spectacle of Naum. He was a local tourist attraction and a talented landscape artist from Neglinka. Traditionally he was unshaven, with an oily, soiled robe draped over his naked body. This contrasted with an ever-present bright blue chic bow on his long, thin neck. At that moment, he was talking to a visiting farmer. By some miracle, he had become separated from his organized tour, and Naum was trying to convince him to buy one of his works. It was a dull landscape of a dreary, rainy day on the Arbat, disguised as a French watercolor.
The funny side of the situation was that it could have been a perfect fit for either Moscow in the miniature or Montmartre. The visitor to the capital sipped on his third mug of frothy beer, to the fierce envy of the poor artist. He let Naum’s watercolors pass him by.
Swallowing the saliva coming up his throat, Naum was about to drop the price again. He had already dropped it from three rubles, hoping to gain at least a couple of beers. Still, at that moment, his future benefactor set aside a plate with the remains of crayfish. In one rich gulp, he downed half his mug. Belching and plopping a straw hat on his immense bald head, he lifted a thick, overstuffed briefcase. From it, a stick of cervelat sausage he had bought in Yeliseyevsky was defiantly sticking out. He unexpectedly winked at Naum and, with a brotherly slap on the artist’s shoulder, thundered with a commanding manner:
“You don't know how to sell your work for a profit. It would be simpler, dauber, to share bread with your friends over here for the health of Sidor Petrovich from Magnitogorsk. Besides, I have to go. My wife probably already got a caviar mosque on Kazansky…”
With these words, he thrust several crumpled gold pieces into the wet palm of Naum, who still did not believe in his luck. He pushed those present with his elbows, clutching his briefcase under his arm. Like an icebreaker, he gradually made his way to the exit, vaguely looming in the pale spot of tobacco smoke.
Those few coins, by local standards, might as well have been Flint’s mysterious treasure. Andrey watched with interest as some of the forever cash-strapped local regulars started circling Naum like sharks around a shipwrecked sailor.
Naum quickly put his magical watercolor deeper into a large black folder he always carried around, but more for the show, since he rarely sold anything here. Furtively looking around, he made his way through the crowd and showed up at a table close to Andrey. Andrey swiveled and placed a mug with a foam cap in front of the artist, who was still crazed with his unexpected wealth.
Naum took a royal sip and stood there for a while, blissfully savoring the first sensations. Only then did he turn to the student and ask him:
“Well, Physics, can you do that?”
Andrey laughed:
“You are a lucky man, Naumushka. You’ve made a killing!”
Naum looked offended, which made his already brown eyes completely dark:
“He wanted to buy my ‘Rain on the Arbat’.”
“And yet he didn’t! He just felt sorry for you!”
Naum took another sip of beer and winked at Andrey:
“Well, physicist, I see you seem to be popular.”
“What are you talking about?” Andrey jumped up, looking around the lilac twilight of the hall.
“Oh, yes,” said Naum, pointing his unshaven chin at a dark corner, “Over there. He’s been looking at you for half an hour.”
“Come on!” Andrey stared at the stranger. He was dressed in a simple suit of a worker from the Moscow suburbs. On his head was a cap with a hard visor, breeches of an army cut were tucked into not too new, but neatly polished cowhide boots. A sturdy jacket over a clean, ironed shirt. In appearance about thirty, thirty-five. His face was unfamiliar.
To Andrey's surprise, the stranger intercepted his interested glance, smiled, and winked at him. His smile was kind and open. Andrey involuntarily smiled back. Naum eyed the student warily.
“Be careful with him,” the artist whispered hotly in Andrey's ear. “What if he is one of them?”
Naum vaguely waved his hand in the air, portraying these unknown people. Andrey only grinned condescendingly: the alarmist character of his friend was well known.
From somewhere inside the mess of smoke and beer fumes emerged the figure of a lean peasant with a mint in his mouth and an empty mug in his bony hand. Looking for buddies with dog-like eyes, he bleated:
“Splash a little something in the mug of a venerable participant in the heroic defense of Sevastopol! My throat’s on fire, it’s unbearable!”
Andrei gave by him a scornful look and turned away, and Naum glanced askance at the 'hero' and half-whispered his advice:
“Kindly get lost, Timon. My pal here, his uncle died at the ninth battery. Guys like you, who were rats in the rear, he kills in the alleyways. With his bare hands, no less.”
Timon's eyes widened to the size of a five-dollar coin. Grabbing his mug, he disappeared into the tavern's haze. Naum nudged his comrade with his elbow:
“What are you thinking about, good fellow?”
“I’ll get my diploma tomorrow or the day after. Then what? Distribution? In all likelihood, they’ll find me some hole in Upper Pupinsk, beyond the Urals. In that case, I can kiss all my dreams goodbye…”
“Oh, that.” Naum savored another foamy sip. “What did you expect, brother? That Moscow will greet you with open arms? There are enough engineers here.”
“And then some.” Andrey butted his stubborn head against his mug. “But I still hoped for the best, so to speak, all these five years. Yes, and the last course washed my head, so…”
"And why?” his pal laughed. “From what has accumulated in it over the past four? No, the rumors that you’ve been laying about this winter have been going around even here, in the Pit.”
“So what?” Andrey jumped up, shaking his blond locks. “That diploma is still almost with distinction!”
During the argument, the two did not notice as the stranger picked up his mug and moved closer to their table. Behind a heavy beer and a newspaper with his leftovers a little to the side, he listened with interest to their conversation. At some point, Naum glanced around and spotted him.
'Hey, comrade, we didn't invite you to our table,' he grumbled. The stranger flashed a broad smile:
“So? This spot wasn’t reserved, so I can sit here if I want.”
Andrey grabbed Naum by his sleeve and said:
“Come on, Naum, the comrade is right: in the pub and the bath, everyone is equal.”
“Indeed! I can get you a beer. How about that? We can drink and get to know each other at the same time.”
“Beer is good,” the artist said, as he tempered his anger with forgiveness.
“Great! Why don’t you take this,” he pulled Naum’s right hand closer and shoved some money into it, “and get a couple of chervontsy, and a beer for each of us. Oh, and ask old man Theophanes for a crawfish. I’ve heard he keeps a couple of buckets in the back. Tell him to get his shit together.’
“Right, like he’d listen to me,” said Naum with a crooked grin. He loved crawfish but didn’t want to deal with Theophanes. All the Countertops admired him for his cool temper and his enormous fists.
“Just tell him the Cat is begging and begging. I’m sure he won’t refuse,” the stranger said. “But you’ll need to hurry, or they’ll close and we’ll have neither crawfish nor beer!”
Despite glancing over his shoulder every so often, Naum went to the counter to confront the formidable Theophanes. The stranger leaned in closer to the recent student and raised his mug:
“Good evening, so to speak.”
Andrey looked at him gloomily.
“I don't drink with strangers in public places.”
“Oh!” the newcomer laughed. “Well, let's get acquainted. Kotov is my surname, common enough, of course, but I'm so alone, young and handsome. You can call me the Cat. The whole Arbat and Zamoskvorechye call me that.”
Andrey chuckled:
“Experienced, then. You from the thieves?”
The stranger shrugged.
“It depends on what you call a thief… So, in a way.”
Andrey shrugged his shoulders.
“Sounds complicated. For me, it’s easy: I’m Andrey…”
“Fomenko, Andrey Grigorievich, twenty-two years old, worker-peasant from the Chelyabinsk province, graduate of the Moscow Mechanical Engineering.” Noticing the astounded look of the future physicist, he shrugged his shoulders. “Have I got it wrong?”
“On the contrary, and this is disturbing,” Andrey muttered. “Will you surprise me further, or should we immediately part ways?”
“Why run, Andrey, if I’m here for you?” The Cat took a sip of his beer and looked cheerfully at his new acquaintance. “Don’t make your eyes round, boy. I'm not a devil from a snuffbox! Let's get some fresh air, and we’ll talk. I know more about you than just your origins. I can tell you about your mother, born a noblewoman. To her parents attracting the disfavor of the authorities, she married a metalworker and taught physics at a school. This is where you got your thirst for science. Your father, Grigory Kuzmich, perished in the war, buried near Rzhev as a senior sergeant, order-bearer and hero. Just like your uncle, who really died near Sevastopol. And his brothers, who almost reached Berlin. I also know about your three escapes to the front and your successes in that English entertainment, which we call boxing. Easy now!” He raised his hand when he noticed Andrey putting his hand in his pocket. “Piggy don’t bother. First, because I’m here strictly on business. My knowledge of some things should make you uneasy, on the one hand, and on the other, make you wonder where in a Soviet country such an informed comrade might come from. Now, if I’m, shall we say, an enemy spy, then you are right. There is simply nowhere without the lead. But what if it’s quite the contrary, comrade future physicist-engineer?”
Andrey carefully pulled his hand out of his pocket, in which there really was a respectable lead-filled cosh. This cosh was quite the substitute for brass knuckles and, unlike the latter, not illegal to carry. Fomenko did not dare risk it in the Pit without his little ‘helper’. He had a nasty experience before. But how did the Cat know about this? Or was he really one of ‘them’?
“Very well, how are we going to leave, comrade… Cat? Naum is about to return with the crayfish and beer. What will he think?”
“He won’t think anything,” laughed the Cat and there was something in it that Andrey liked. “We'll leave a couple of red ones for him on the countertop, and he'll forget about everything right away.”
With these words, he pulled out a pair of chervonets from a leather shovel purse and pushed them under the plate with the crayfish remains.
“Let's go,” he nodded to Andrey and, without looking back, moved through the haze to the exit. Andrey looked around helplessly, grabbed his crumpled cap from the counter and some pickled fishtails that were nearby, and followed him outside.
Naum arrived at the table only a quarter of an hour later but found only empty mugs and plates, from which the local punks even dared to clean the fish bones. Just a couple of lonely coins under the plate.
Naum put the mugs and crayfish on the marble countertop and looked around, just in case. Andrey and the mysterious stranger were nowhere to be found.
“Oh well,” said the artist to himself. “Looks like I’m lucky today!”
And he knocked away the first mug. Ahead was a wonderful evening, worthy of a genuine servant of the muses.