Argentine Archive №1. Магомет Тимов

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