Beria chuckled.
So what? We know almost everything about their Los Alamos operation. The whole Manhattan project was an open book to us.
Stalin turned sharply to him.
And whos talking about the Americans, Lavrenty? Or did you forget we know they removed all the German nuclear personnel and equipment from Austria at that time?
Beria threw up his hands:
Then I dont understand the essence of the problem!
The fact of the matter is that no one understands its essence. Let me try to explain. Tell me, Lavrenty, do you think 'ODESSA' simply provides legal services to former Nazis or is it something more significant?
Beria was silent. He knew Stalin well: Koba did not need opponents at such moments to keep the conversation going. He has learned something and is just practicing his rhetoric on the country's former head of intelligence and counterintelligence.
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. Its neither better nor worse than any other Ive heard. Quite a viable idea. I remember in 1945, several suspicious German submarines were sighted off the coast of Argentina. Its 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, its 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 trains leaving the station.
Stalin hid his smile in his mustache:
It has never been different in this country, Lavrenty. Well, it probably wont 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.
Its 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, theres an opinion that youll have to do your favorite thing on a grand scale.
Which one, if you dont mind me asking? Sudoplatov replied simply, glancing sideways at his superior. Ive recently been, you know, managing several pans on the cooker at once. Who I have to cook for, you wont 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 mans 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 youve just thought about. Dont shrug it off, wolfhound. You had it written all over your face. There will be no return to that, dont 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. Bureau 2 will deal with our former comrades-in-arms from the countries of the 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.
Thats another conversation. Well not conduct it here. Right now the most important thing is this: do you agree to organize the new departments? Ill 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 dont 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? Dont 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 years 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.