Argentine Archive №1 - Магомет Д. Тимов 4 стр.

Well, Olenka, respect! As usual! You will always find a 'valid argument' in a dispute

The wife humbly lowered her eyes and, sitting down on the sofa next to her son, whispered:

How do you think the wife of an academician should react to such escapades? Just look for another valid argument'.

The professor shook his head, then swept the chalice away with his hand, which was worthy of a port bumpkin, and, with a grunt, knocked it away in one gulp.

This is cognac, Petya. Armenian, as you like it, Olga Arsenovna said reproachfully. The academician looked in bewilderment at the bottom of the empty chalice:

Yes? That's bad luck, and I haven't tasted it in my heart. Well, lets fix that.

He filled the second cup himself, and it soon followed the first. Pyotr Alekseevich froze, savoring 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? Thats 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 dont understand the structure that took you for a zugunder suddenly. Although, how could you? You didnt 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 its 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?

Whats 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. Thats 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 scientists voice flew into a soaring falsetto, glaring into the eyes of his son. He then turned and went limp. In Ivans 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.

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

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 weve come to a compromise, haven't we?

I wouldnt say that. Sudoplatov shook his head. Kotov glanced at him but said nothing. Svetlov raised his eyebrows in surprise:

Whats 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 thats 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:

Dont be angry, Major General, but I cannot use any of the guys you proposed: its not quite what were 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 well see whos going to roll who.

Everything is, as always, on short notice, the head of the intelligence school grunted, but Sudoplatov just threw up his hands.

We do not set the deadlines. Life itself determines the pace of the operation. So all we need from you now are training classes and several instructors: shooters, cryptographers, extreme driving specialists. You see, friend Yura, we do not need to train illegals. Its not your fault we have a completely different task. After all, you prepare illegals for the long haul. There is the fleshing out of their background, impersonation, embarkation, and debarkation. And were going to train operatives, specialists, for a single action. They have no time to overload their brains with all of your sciences. Their task is to infiltrate, find, steal, or destroy. And not at all to live for years and decades under someone else's guise.

Yuri Borisovich shook his head.

Somehow you can do it all. Some dashing cavalry attack, you know. Checkers and 'charge!'

And we rarely work in any other way. Kotov inserted his two cents and winked at Sudoplatov. He just grunted, Just so, Major. Just so.

The major general sighed, carefully picked up the ill-fated glass, sipped the fragrant boiling water, and shook his head.

Well, I don't know, Pasha. Sudoplatov noted this 'Pasha' as a good sign. You are probably right about something. In the end, you know better. I do not have all the information. Of course, I will give you an audience. Ill only check with the higher authorities. Not a problem.

Pavel Anatolyevich nodded in relief.

Further, I will also pick some specialists. Just tell me which ones you need. It's summer now, people are mostly free. Use them, as they say. And Ill also provide a temporary place to stay on my territory, until the fall, free dormitories aplenty. But the secrecy of this whole thing within the framework of our school, you, pigeon, kindly provide yourself.

Sudoplatov chuckled. Svetlov had worked in Poland for quite a long time by the end of the war, and now Polish words slipped into his vocabulary from time to time.

Lets shake on it. Pavel Anatolyevich held out his hand to the major general, who shook it.

There is another snag, my dear friend, Sudoplatov began. Yuri Borisovich was wary:

How clever you are, brother rabbit. As our American friends say there: The claw is stuck, the whole bird is lost? Thats how you make concessions. Okay, tell me whats going on.

Now everyone smiled. They found a common language. And Sudoplatov continued:

Civilian specialist instructors will have to be given access to the site.

And how do you imagine that happening? This alarmed the head of the intelligence school. Pavel Anatolyevich raised his hand reassuringly.

Dont get excited, Yuri Borisovich. These people have all the clearances and then some. At their levels of secrecy, you and your people will need a head start.

Major General was taken aback:

Really? Hows that?

Our operation is an echo of Los Alamos, Yura. The race begins again.

The major general collapsed on a chair, pulled back the collar of his shirt, and wiped his sweating chest with a handkerchief he had taken from his breeches pocket.

Now I understand this high level of secrecy and your haste. In short, Ill provide you with everything you need. Ill select the best specialists, and Ill try to protect your people from excessive communication on the school grounds. When are you ready to start?

Immediately, Sudoplatov said without hesitation. He turned to Kotov:

How is our first candidate? Ready?

Yes, Comrade Lieutenant General, Skiff will take his last state exam tomorrow and shortly afterward arrive at his designated location.

And the other one from your team? Any ideas or candidates?

Already selected, comrade Sudoplatov. One Fomenko, Andrey Grigorievich, a graduate of the Moscow Mechanical Institute. He is suitable in every way.

I dont doubt it. Sudoplatov nodded. Id like to interview them both. Ill wait for them the day after tomorrow in the office that I hope dear Yuri Borisovich will provide us. Isn't that right, comrade Major General?

Svetlov only nodded with restraint. As a career intelligence officer, he sensed at the level of reflexes what exceptional events were now unfolding in this God-forsaken corner of the Moscow region.

And behind the open window, the commands of the front-line sergeant drowned out the chirping of forest birds.

Chapter 2. Physics and Lyrics

Are you familiar with the expression You cant go above your head?

Its a delusion. A man can do anything.

Nikola Tesla

The pub on the corner of Bolshaya Dmitrovka and Stoleshnikov Lane was overcrowded. The vaulted basement, streaked with dripping plaster and mold, never suffered from a lack of visitors. A convenient location in a very historical place of the capital, practically in its cultural center. Its past, shrouded in urban legends and no less turbulent present, made it a place of pilgrimage for various categories of writers, sculptors, poets and the remaining creative population of the big city.

According to rumors, here, in the company of Mayakovsky, Uncle Gilyai, the singer of Zamoskvorechye Vladimir Gilyarovsky himself, who forever glorified pre-revolutionary Moscow in his wonderful essays, read his obscene poems here. Supposedly, even Bulgakov himself used to come here to taste local beer with Tver crayfish, but people of sober thought, of course, categorically disagreed with this.

Anyway, but Yama which was not its official name, but the locals surely called it that was a beerhouse that served as the hangout for dozens of artists and musicians who already considered themselves the capitals bohemians. These were not the same bohemians who frequented places like the restaurant Sovietskiy (the former Yar), or the prestigious Metropol. Their wallets were simply too light.

Andrey Fomenko, a graduate of the Moscow Mechanical Institute, sipped his already lukewarm beer and enjoyed the spectacle of Naum. He was a local tourist attraction and a talented landscape artist from Neglinka. Traditionally he was unshaven, with an oily, soiled robe draped over his naked body. This contrasted with an ever-present bright blue chic bow on his long, thin neck. At that moment, he was talking to a visiting farmer. By some miracle, he had become separated from his organized tour, and Naum was trying to convince him to buy one of his works. It was a dull landscape of a dreary, rainy day on the Arbat, disguised as a French watercolor.

The funny side of the situation was that it could have been a perfect fit for either Moscow in the miniature or Montmartre. The visitor to the capital sipped on his third mug of frothy beer, to the fierce envy of the poor artist. He let Naums watercolors pass him by.

Swallowing the saliva coming up his throat, Naum was about to drop the price again. He had already dropped it from three rubles, hoping to gain at least a couple of beers. Still, at that moment, his future benefactor set aside a plate with the remains of crayfish. In one rich gulp, he downed half his mug. Belching and plopping a straw hat on his immense bald head, he lifted a thick, overstuffed briefcase. From it, a stick of cervelat sausage he had bought in Yeliseyevsky was defiantly sticking out. He unexpectedly winked at Naum and, with a brotherly slap on the artists shoulder, thundered with a commanding manner: