Having held a pause worthy of the Moscow Art Theater, Joseph Vissarionovich solemnly said:
“According to our intelligence, many of the German nuclear physicists could hide in Latin America. Presumably in Argentina. Or in Brazil. They left in the spring of 1945 with the direct mediation of the Vatican and Croatian extremists. In Genoa, German submarines picked them up and secretly transported them to the warmer lands. What do you think of this idea?”
“Not much,” Beria responded grumpily. “It’s neither better nor worse than any other I’ve heard. Quite a viable idea. I remember in 1945, several suspicious German submarines were sighted off the coast of Argentina. It’s true, but there were no passengers on them.”
Stalin raised his empty pipe to his mustache, thoughtfully sucking on the mouthpiece. He shook his head.
“From Argentina, our agent reports that the local special services are chasing some person there. They call him 'Archive № 1'. Why shouldn't he be one of those nuclear physicists, eh, Lavrenty?”
And Stalin burst out laughing at his rhetorical question as if at a good joke. Beria smiled politely, supporting the Boss. He had his thoughts on the mental abilities of the head of counterintelligence, but it was not his intention to put a spoke in Abakumov's wheels. He was a vengeful peasant and could shit on people on a large scale.
Stalin suddenly broke off his laughter. His eyes instantly became prickly, his gaze piercing Beria as if trying to pin him to the wall.
“That's just it, Lavrenty Pavlovich. Do what you want, but find us this 'archive'. We desperately need it. It was not enough for the Americans to get ahead of our scientists, the eagles. The matter will be completely rotten. How many nuclear weapons carriers do they have, eh, comrade Beria? And how many do we have? This is while our big-headed experts launch their rocket. Everything hangs in the balance, it’s all a bit unreal. What would you say, eh?”
“Parity,” Beria prompted cautiously; Stalin nodded energetically, becoming like a Chinese dummy. But only for a second.
“We don't trust Abakumov,” he said sharply. “We are not satisfied with how have gone under him. So many agents were killed for less than the smell of tobacco. Was it different while you were in charge?"
Beria winced with his cheek. The Leader was playing a game of his own, that was clear. And why did the Chief Scout bother him, I wonder? But aloud, Beria only said:
“After the Victory, I had no time to engage in intelligence, Koba, I had Los Alamos.”
“But you are in charge of the MGB, right?”
There was an awkward pause.
“That's right, I understood the task. My authority?”
“The widest,” Stalin said, throwing up his hands as if showing the size of these same powers. “People, equipment, money. Everything you need is yours.”
“I understand.” Beria got up, pulled down the hem of his long black coat, and took his hat from the sofa. “Everything is as usual: grab your bags, the train’s leaving the station.”
Stalin hid his smile in his mustache:
“It has never been different in this country, Lavrenty. Well, it probably won’t be. Unless, after us…”
He sauntered around the table and held out a broad palm; Beria shook it. Beria realized he was stepping onto a very slippery path, going against Abakumov. He was a narrow-minded man but vindictive, and Lavrenty Pavlovich didn't want another intradepartmental war now. He couldnot afford one now.
From the security room, Beria dialed a familiar number. Looking sideways at the lieutenant colonel on duty, frozen in a respectful stupor, he murmured into the phone:
“Pavel Anatolyevich, my good man, are you still awake? Good. There is a case, no delay. I'll drive up in about forty minutes to Neglinka. Hop over to our place, meet me there. We need to talk.”
He hung up the receiver and, pushing the door open, stepped into the arms of the playing storm.
Pavel Sudoplatov, a legend of Soviet and foreign intelligence, a master of special operations and currently the head of the DR (saboteur) department of the USSR Ministry of State Security, engaged in sabotage at American military bases and the headquarters of their NATO allies around the world, settled down on the soft seats of the car and shook Beria's outstretched hand.
“I wish you good health, Lavrenty Pavlovich,” he greeted Beria in a non-statutory manner. Beria only nodded. Then he said to the driver: “Drive.”
The car rolled along the night-time streets of Moscow, covered by the March snowstorm. Beria flashed his glasses towards the night visitor:
“What, Pasha, have you been working in the office? Are your horses stagnating too?”
Sudoplatov grinned with only the corners of his lips. He knew the chain of command, and the familiar appeal of one of the state's top officials did not deceive him in the least. He has worked with Beria side by side since 1941. A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since then, but their relationship remained friendly, constructive. Still, Sudoplatov never behaved as if he and the once almighty People's Commissar were on equal footing. He was too bright for that.
“No, comrade deputy chairman, just work in droves. NATO members are actively rising in the East; we try not to give them a breather.”
Beria shook his head, examining the swirling snow outside the window.
“It’s spring, Pasha,” he said over his shoulder. Sudoplatov carefully waited for clarification. “Such is the spring, Fighter. Like everything with us, in one place.”
He glanced at the eminent saboteur. On Sudoplatov's open face, Beria's inquisitive glance could not read anything; he sat with a slight smile and patiently waited for the authorities to stop reflecting and start the main event.
Nodding to some of his thoughts, Beria said:
“Pavel Anatolyevich, there’s an opinion that you’ll have to do your favorite thing on a grand scale.”
“Which one, if you don’t mind me asking?” Sudoplatov replied simply, glancing sideways at his superior. “I’ve recently been, you know, managing several pans on the cooker at once. Who I have to cook for, you won’t believe…”
Beria nodded; he knew that representatives of various departments turned to his favorite for advice. This man had a wealth of work experience and the talent to back it up. No, for the talent that the Devil gave him, he must have been the Devil himself. Even Allen Dulles, the head of the recently created Central Intelligence Agency, taught his specialists from the experience of this man’s operations. Pasha was famous in certain circles. They cannot take this away from him.
“Even so, your talents, Pavel Anatolyevich, will be helpful to us. Particularly the one that allowed you to eliminate, with little fuss, the most diverse functionaries around the world. Only this time, we need to put the matter on an almost scientific basis. To do this, I suggest you think about creating two new structures in the MGB apparatus. Let's call them, for example, the Bureau. Or something else.”
“Bureau № 1 and Bureau № 2,” said the saboteur without hesitation, and Beria nodded.
“We can accept that as a working version.”
“And what activities will these structures engage in?”
Sudoplatov froze almost imperceptibly in his seat. Images of the 1937 terror, the general arrests, odious 'troikas', and overcrowded camps flashed through his mind. Really, again?
Beria seemed to read his thoughts.
“Not what you’ve just thought about. Don’t shrug it off, wolfhound. You had it written all over your face. There will be no return to that, don’t be afraid. You and your guys will carry out all your actions abroad. At the same time, Bureau № 1 will be the first to undertake the search and extermination of fugitive Nazis and their accomplices.