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.
Chapter 4. Art of War
Modern espionage is mainly
economic, scientific, technical and financial.
End of August 1950
Moscow region
“I still don't understand. What have we got to do with it?” Ivan threw aside a blade of grass, which until now he had chewed in a state of deep thoughtfulness and sat down, dusting off his shirt. The peaceful, warm August day confidently rolled towards sunset. On the smooth surface of a mirror-like pond, rings diverged from healthy fish playing around.
On a slope overgrown with silky grass, Andrey sat on a couple of steps with a fishing rod and watched the motionless float with pretentious attention. Nearby stood a rumpled bucket of grass he had begged from the sergeant-mechanic in the garage. He intended it for the ‘rich catch’, so often colorfully described by local fishermen on their bikes. In fact, a couple of frozen minnows floated in its warm water.
“Alo, garage!” Ivan looked around, picked up some old root, took aim and threw it, trying to knock the cap off his friend's head. Andrey, without turning around, merely shook his head as the rotten missile flew past. “I'm talking to you!”
“And what do you, rotten intelligentsia, want to hear from an ignorant descendant of male spawn?” asked Fomenko over his shoulder, hiding his grin. “That the Cat was mistaken, and we are pounding pears in vain? The wrong contingent, so to speak? What are you unhappy about?”
Ivan stretched himself until his joints creaked, exposing his face to the last warm rays of the setting sun. He breathed in deeply the scent of the nearby forest.
“Such beauty… Everything suits me just fine. It's just not clear why our valiant intelligence service needs us when there are such a lot of wolfhounds around! Remember yesterday, on the obstacle course, that healthy one from the fourth platoon? Both agility and stamina! How he, after ten kilometers of cross-country running, pinned Mikolaichuk to the mat! Such power! Hooking, grabbing, strangling, everything in a few seconds! And what are we?”
“What are we?” Andrey asked, still calm. His attention was riveted to the float, which suddenly came across the still water in a gambling dance and froze again. “The Cat trains us according to his special program.”
“Yes, the program,” spat Sarmatov. “Dialectology, geography, chemistry and physics. I thought I would at least shoot a bit. There isn’t even a shooting gallery session on the schedule, never mind the actual shooting range. Look, look how those cadets are doing their best! They’re so soaked, you can throw away their t-shirts tonight! And here we sit as if preparing for a school Olympiad, scribbling notes.”
Andrey climbed backward up the slope, bouncing as he went along. At the same time, he pulled the line out of the water. A limp strip of duckweed nestled on the empty hook.
“That’s the last time I believe anyone about fishing spots,” he muttered, winding the line onto the reel and fixing it on the rod. “Here, Vanya, I don’t understand your displeasure. After all, as far as I remember, no one dragged you here by your ears, did they? So why are you getting snotty now? Haven’t changed your mind, have you?”
Ivan