Argentine Archive №1. Магомет Тимов

the bouquet of the fine drink, and then, softening, he cast a now interested glance at his son.

      “Now tell us, poor son, why… Why did you have to play this game with the state? For example, do you yearn to be a translator at an embassy? That’s worse than being a desk jockey! Or am I missing something?”

      Finally, after waiting for the opportunity to get a word in, Ivan explained:

      “Father, you have always taught me dignity and patriotism concerning our motherland. As I understand it, they are giving me the opportunity here and now to show my patriotism in full measure.”

      The father took a hard look at his son.

      “I guess you don’t understand the structure that took you for a zugunder suddenly. Although, how could you? You didn’t live in the thirties. A car in the courtyard at midnight, the rumble of boots on the stairs, the dampness of the Lubyanka cells. You do not know what it’s like to live in constant fear, awaiting arrest, camera, a summary execution!”

      Ivan had his father's blood in his veins: he also could not stand it when someone opposed him.

      “And Uncle Misha, your own brother, did he also shoot and torture innocents?”

      “What’s Mishka got to do with it?” This took professor aback. “He… He was doing a whole other thing.”

      “Yeah, he caught spies on the front line and liquidated the bandit underground in Western Ukraine after the war. I remember very well. That’s where he laid down his head, by the way. And you spent the entire war at the university, sitting in the subway, hiding from the bombing. Do you think I forgot those years?”

      “I had a reservation!” the professor jumped up, insulted. “Someone had to prepare for the future, too!”

      “Aha.” Now Ivan suffered somewhat, as even his anxious mother put her hand on his. “Anthropologists, of course, are the backbone of modern troops! And a low bow to you for that!”

      “What do you know, brat!” The venerable scientist’s voice flew into a soaring falsetto, glaring into the eyes of his son. He then turned and went limp. In Ivan’s eyes was something beyond all reason.

      Ivan took his mother's hand from his and, grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair, rushed out of the room, slamming the door.

      The professor exhaled and sat down. His wife went up to him, put her hands on his shoulders from behind, and kissed the incipient bald spot on the powerful back of his head.

      “Oh, Petyunya, Petyunya. But our boy has grown, and you didn't notice during your lectures and seminars.”

      “Yes,” was the only answer Pyotr Alekseevich could find. “And now, what I can do?”

      “What can you do?” the wife laughed. “Live, dear, live on. Let's go to the kitchen. I'll make your favorite pancakes.”

      June 14, 1950

      17:55

      Two kilometers northeast of the village of Nakhabino

      The first building of the Higher Intelligence School of the USSR Ministry of State Security was a compact two-story affair. In intradepartmental correspondence, it was simply referred to as ‘the 101^st School’, and was nestled under the canopy of an enormous stand of pine trees. Even with aerial photography using the most modern equipment, it would be problematic to determine what was hidden under the continuous green carpet of the Khlebnikovsky Park forest.

      An entire complex of buildings, several obstacle courses, its shooting range. All this was reliably hidden from prying eyes by a forest that stretched towards Balashikha for many kilometers. Several specially prepared security ‘secrets’ protected this top-secret installation from the overly curious.

      Even though it was evening time and the classes had already ended, the meeting in the office of the head of the school, Major General Svetlov, continued. Extracurricular and operational. Besides Yuri Borisovich himself, there were also Lieutenant General Sudoplatov, Svetlov's old colleague and long-time friend, as well as Major Kotov himself.

      A mountain of cigarette butts already decorated the crystal ashtray. The angled, small handwriting of the 'father of the scouts', as his cadets called the Major General among themselves, covered the table. Pieces of paper, some diagrams only comprehensible to those present, and several folders of personal files of actual cadets of the school.

      Svetlov threw his tunic, decorated with many awards, over the back of a chair. The others also unbuttoned their tunics. Sweat had already appeared on Sudoplatov's forehead from the tense discussion, and judging by the flushed face of the Cat, he was having a hard time holding back his emotions. After rereading what he had written, Yuri Borisovich nodded in satisfaction:

      “Well, colleagues, I think we’ve come to a compromise, haven't we?”

      “I wouldn’t say that.” Sudoplatov shook his head. Kotov glanced at him but said nothing. Svetlov raised his eyebrows in surprise:

      “What’s wrong with you now, my good Pavel Anatolyevich?”

      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