Argentine Archive №1

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 Tesla

June 15, 1950

Bolshaya Dmitrovka