Magomet Timov - Argentine Archive №1

Sudoplatov shook his head.

“That’s the problem, Yura. In Latin America, our position is very weak. Since the war, our diplomatic relations with Mexico, Uruguay, and Argentina have been pale, to say the least. We don’t even have an ambassador in the latter, just an observation mission that we established in 1946. True, appointing an ambassador is being considered, as far as I know. There are a couple of field agents we can pull in from Chile or Brazil, but this is actually quite unrealistic. Our guys will have to work in isolation, relying only on themselves. By the way, how’s their training going? Moving forward?”

Svetlov chuckled.

“It is coming along at quite a pace. Talented guys… Ugh, let’s not jinx them…”

The head of the intelligence school tapped on the countertop. Sudoplatov laughed:

“Yura, you are a communist, but you still fall into your grandmother's superstitions…”

“You know, Pavel Anatolyevich, as one clever man said: ‘If a black cat crosses your path, spit on the omens. Just turn around and go to the other side of the street."

“Well, it's certainly hard to disagree with that,” said the ‘king of sabotage’ as he made a helpless gesture.

End of August 1950

Moscow region

“I still don't understand. What have we got to do with it?” Ivan threw aside a blade of grass, which until now he had chewed in a state of deep thoughtfulness and sat down, dusting off his shirt. The peaceful, warm August day confidently rolled towards sunset. On the smooth surface of a mirror-like pond, rings diverged from healthy fish playing around.

On a slope overgrown with silky grass, Andrey sat on a couple of steps with a fishing rod and watched the motionless float with pretentious attention. Nearby stood a rumpled bucket of grass he had begged from the sergeant-mechanic in the garage. He intended it for the ‘rich catch’, so often colorfully described by local fishermen on their bikes. In fact, a couple of frozen minnows floated in its warm water.

“Alo, garage!” Ivan looked around, picked up some old root, took aim and threw it, trying to knock the cap off his friend's head. Andrey, without turning around, merely shook his head as the rotten missile flew past. “I'm talking to you!”

“And what do you, rotten intelligentsia, want to hear from an ignorant descendant of male spawn?” asked Fomenko over his shoulder, hiding his grin. “That the Cat was mistaken, and we are pounding pears in vain? The wrong contingent, so to speak? What are you unhappy about?”

Ivan stretched himself until his joints creaked, exposing his face to the last warm rays of the setting sun. He breathed in deeply the scent of the nearby forest.

“Such beauty… Everything suits me just fine. It's just not clear why our valiant intelligence service needs us when there are such a lot of wolfhounds around! Remember yesterday, on the obstacle course, that healthy one from the fourth platoon? Both agility and stamina! How he, after ten kilometers of cross-country running, pinned Mikolaichuk to the mat! Such power! Hooking, grabbing, strangling, everything in a few seconds! And what are we?”

“What are we?” Andrey asked, still calm. His attention was riveted to the float, which suddenly came across the still water in a gambling dance and froze again. “The Cat trains us according to his special program.”

“Yes, the program,” spat Sarmatov. “Dialectology, geography, chemistry and physics. I thought I would at least shoot a bit. There isn’t even a shooting gallery session on the schedule, never mind the actual shooting range. Look, look how those cadets are doing their best! They’re so soaked, you can throw away their t-shirts tonight! And here we sit as if preparing for a school Olympiad, scribbling notes.”

Andrey climbed backward up the slope, bouncing as he went along. At the same time, he pulled the line out of the water. A limp strip of duckweed nestled on the empty hook.

“That’s the last time I believe anyone about fishing spots,” he muttered, winding the line onto the reel and fixing it on the rod. “Here, Vanya, I don’t understand your displeasure. After all, as far as I remember, no one dragged you here by your ears, did they? So why are you getting snotty now? Haven’t changed your mind, have you?”

Ivan also got up, brushed the grassy dirt off his pants, straightened his shirt.

“Not really, my friend Tom. You shouldn’t hold your breath for that. My father can’t lure me back, even with a fattened calf. He’s so convinced what he knows about life is right, his preachy morals will make your head explode.”

“You are too hard on him, Skiff, he only wants the best for you.”

“I wish… Well, it’s my business. And as for our training, I will confront the Cat, so to speak, and let him explain why the country needs two halfwits like us. Tonight, during our free time. Okay, let's go. Our ‘break’ is just about over. Evening formation is coming soon.”

The friends reeled up the rest of the fishing rods, scattered on the grass of the embankment, and headed towards the nearby forest. Behind the dark canvas of trees, it was impossible to see the high concrete wall of Special School № 1.

Immediately after dinner, Ivan found the Cat, as he had promised he would, in the echoing vaulted corridors of the school and blocked his way:

“Allow me to appeal to you, Comrade Major of State Security!”

Kotov grinned into his mustache:

“Proceed, cadet Skiff.”

“Cadet Fomenko and I… Cadet Tom would like to clarify some aspects of our training. Do you have time for a short private conversation?”

Kotov shrugged his shoulders:

“Why not? Do you have any special events scheduled for the evening?”

“No, everything is according to the general schedule: free time until lights out.”

“Fine! So, come to the ‘red corner’ at quarter after eight tonight, and we’ll chat about this and that. Dismissed, cadet Skiff.”

Ivan clicked his heels and, turning around smartly, went in search of Andrey. Kotov looked after him slyly. Well, at least all is well with the statutory appeals of the glorious academician’s son. But how it all began…

A group of newly minted cadets was jogging along the path to the top of a lonely hill on which stood some rare birches. Kotov stood in the shadow of one of them, hiding from the scorching rays of the July sun, and watched the stopwatch in his hand. When the last fighter almost crawled to the top of the hill, the major cut off the control time with a sharp wave of his hand and ordered:

“Group – stop! Five minutes’ rest.”

The cadets, soaked in sweat, fell into shapeless heaps on the grass, not even bothering to throw off the rolls of their greatcoats from their shoulders. Reinforced by the bitter experience of past marches, only their submachine guns did not slip from their trembling hands.

Captain Kasatkin, responsible for the general physical training of the first-year reconnaissance cadets, grinned to himself. A ten-kilometer cross-country run in full gear was a pleasure for an already perfectly trained fighter. He could not say the same for these ‘unfinished ones’, as the captain referred to them with a combination of irony and contempt.

Obviously, this is where the board vetted the candidates by their physical condition. They gave preference to individual sportsmen in the kinds of sports that fit the profile: boxers, wrestlers, shooters, pentathletes, and other athletes. However, in the physical training of the future scout, participation in any sport was only beneficial. Yet even the athletes at first succumbed to the load that fell on them in their first month of training. The instructors did not distinguish between them and those who, in civilian life, only accepted sports in a contemplative form. From the stands of the stadiums, as it were. The reasoning at the school – and not without reason – was that of ‘hard in training – easy in battle’ and was the principle that most regularly guided this Suvorov school. As a rule, this approach was borne out by experience in the real world. In any case, with physical training, the same Captain Kasatkin held the opinion that ‘It’s better to be too naked than to be too small’. The leadership was in full agreement with this and gave this ‘sadist and fanatic’, as most of the cadets considered him, carte blanche in everything.