Argentine Archive №1. Магомет Тимов

socialist camp. It's no secret that the same Croats made a lot of money, leading former SS men on their 'rat trails'. Of course, not only Croats were involved. The same socialist Bulgaria of today, as well as our fraternal Czechoslovakia, fought with Hitler on one side of the front. So there is more raking to do. And you have to start with Argentina.”

      Sudoplatov raised his eyebrows in surprise:

      “And why so far away?”

      Beria frowned.

      “That’s another conversation. We’ll not conduct it here. Right now the most important thing is this: do you agree to organize the new departments? I’ll warn you right away: this is an unusual operation,” he said as he jabbed his finger at the ceiling of the cabin, as if someone almighty was hiding above him, “and they gave us carte blanche.”

      “So, it's that serious?” Sudoplatov asked quietly. Beria chuckled.

      “Not the right word, Pasha, not quite the right word.”

      “I agree, Lavrenty Pavlovich, but you know me. I like it hotter, and there you are…”

      “I know, Comrade Sudoplatov.” The tone of the deputy chairman became dry, and the saboteur pulled himself up. “While the trial is over, there are organizational issues. Start selecting your personnel for the new apparatus. Remember, the first goal is in Argentina. You were once in charge of the Spanish department in the NKVD? You have the cards in hand, comrade leader. Go forth, and with a song, as they say.”

      Sudoplatov leaned back on the seat cushions and glanced out the dark window. The March storm continued to swallow a dark Moscow. And so far, the future of the famous intelligence officer, too, appeared only in dark tones. But he also knew that any darkness leaves at dawn. He knew better than anyone how to wait.

      Part 1. Archive Number One

      In an era of popular upsurge, prophets are leaders;

      in times of decline – the leaders become prophets.

Grigory Landau

      Chapter 1. Bureaucrats

      There is no better way to be successful in collecting and evaluating

      intelligence information than the intellectual

      fellowship of scientists and intelligence practitioners.

Ray Kline

      May 4, 1950, morning

      Moscow

      Metrostroyevskaya street

      Ivan Sarmatov, a final-year student of the translation department of Moscow State Pedagogical Institute, paced the square close to the institute's main building and pondered his immediate future. And on this sunny day in May 1950, it did not seem at all as cloudless as the dazzling blue spring sky.

      The night before, after the last couple of classes, Lenochka, the secretary from the dean's office, jumped up to him, holding him by the button of his new suede jacket, which his father had brought to the prodigal son from the last symposium of anthropologists in Vienna, and chirped rapidly:

      “Yakov Naumovich is expecting you tomorrow by 11 o'clock. Please don’t be late!”

      And the dragonfly was about to flutter away, but Ivan grabbed her sharp elbow and held it.

      “Wait a minute Lenochka, my little dear! Where are you going so soon? Don’t leave the most faithful admirer of your charm in the dark. Take pity! Tell me, why did our respected dean need me? I won't sleep now, dear!”

      Helena hid coyly behind her fist. Why, perhaps the most eligible bachelor of the faculty, the son of the professor and academician Sarmatov himself, had just attested his admiration to her! But then, unable to contain the fresh news, she let it slip.

      “Yakov Naumovich, the day before, asked for your personal file with the entire year’s ratings and your attendance history. He studied it the whole evening! So, Comrade Sarmatov, prepare to have your head washed.”

      And she flew away, constantly looking back and smiling slyly.

      Ivan winced. He knew perfectly well how many passes he had accumulated this year. Even the numerous donor certificates which he had received from the nearest blood transfusion station did not help. He had already been driven away from there at the end of a broom. The nurses angrily declared that as much blood as he donated simply does not physically fit in one person. They also claimed such a practice is not only harmful to his youthful body but also essentially vicious, since it allows the future teacher or translator, as will be the case, to skip out of class.

      He remembered how his friend, Lyoshka Astafiev from Angren, had left the university in disgrace last year for much lesser transgressions. True, he did not have an academic dad, and they kept him last year solely for his merits on the sports path. He was an indispensable point guard in the institute's volleyball team. Yet, the time had come, and there was nothing to cover the many 'nb' marks in the register. Now, the time has come for Sarmatov to be held responsible for his walks with Tanyusha through the gardens and parks of the capital during classes and attending movie shows in the club on Pechatnikov at inopportune hours.

      And now Ivan paced the square's path and concentrated on building a 'line of defense' before meeting with the dean, who was irreconcilable to truants. So far, everything came out weak. Somehow, nothing sounded convincing to his ears.

      He turned up the sleeve of his suede jacket and, glancing at his watch, Sarmatov saw the time for reflection had passed. It was time to be put on Yakov Naumovich's carpet. Smirking, Ivan shrugged his shoulders against the chill and moved to the yellow section of the main building.

      Ivan crossed the creaky parquet of the corridors, filled with the light of the May sun, and went up to the second floor. He stopped in front of a door with the inscription 'Dean of the Faculty of Translation'. He looked around. The corridors were empty, everyone was in some class somewhere. There were still ten minutes left until the end of the second pair of classes. All his acquaintances were in lectures or seminars, so there was no one to even ask for support. Exhaling sharply, Ivan pulled up his jacket and pushed open the door, which had darkened with time. He remembered, for no reason, that the former owner of this building, Moscow governor Pyotr Yeropkin, had arranged balls here, which even little Pushkin visited.

      In the waiting room, Lenochka gave him a sympathetic glance. Contrary to her habit of chatting with other visitors, she jumped up from her table and disappeared behind the oak door of the dean's sanctuary. She jumped back out in a couple of seconds and, leaving the door ajar, squeaked:

      “Yakov Naumovich is waiting for you, Comrade Sarmatov. Come in.”

      Ivan shook his head in surprise and stepped into the bowels of the familiar study. His wait for an audience with the dean had never been so short. Helena whispered after him: “Give ‘em hell, Vanya!” The door slammed shut behind him like the lid of a coffin.

      The dean was sitting at the table, fingering the papers laid out in front of him. At the sound of the slamming door, he raised his head, took off his glasses, and glanced at the newcomer with a little squint.

      “Sarmatov?” He glanced at the characteristic student's folder lying on top of the other papers, opened the first page, then slammed it again. “Why are you standing? Come in, sit down.”

      “Hello, Yakov Naumovich,” the young man said as he plodded across the worn carpet, traversed by thousands of students, and sat down on a high-backed chair facing the all-powerful dean.

      For some time, he looked at him in expectation, perhaps even with some kind of regret. Then, remembering someone, shook his massive head, grunted, and got up, calling to someone over his shoulder.

      “He's yours, comrade. I pass him on to you, as they say, safe and sound.”

      And the dean, grinning at some of his thoughts, exited. He left. His own. Office!

      Dumbfounded, Ivan glanced in the direction where the dean nodded. Only now he noticed a stranger sitting to the side in a deep guest chair.