Argentine Archive №1. Магомет Тимов

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      Stalin shook his head:

      “We didn't give him time, Lavrenty; they just had some kind of delay. But now they have both money and time…”

      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 who’s 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 don’t 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. “It’s neither better nor worse than any other I’ve heard. Quite a viable idea. I remember in 1945, several suspicious German submarines were sighted off the coast of Argentina. It’s 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, it’s 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 train’s leaving the station.”

      Stalin hid his smile in his mustache:

      “It has never been different in this country, Lavrenty. Well, it probably won’t 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.