coincidence, all of them were involved in the exotic science of anthropology.
Later, the future academician tempered his passion, as they hinted to him that this way the scientific world would be left without the best of its scientists. At the same time, others produced a similar work of elegant literature, but now exposing him, Pyotr Alekseevich Sarmatov, as an English spy and morally corrupt. It was the end of ’39, just when Beria had taken the post of the People’s Commissar of Internal Affairs and replaced Yezhov. He sharply reduced repression and emphasized developing relations between the internal organs of scientific intellectuals. This saved an unworthy sexist from a long sentence because of those accusations of transgressions against the Soviet state. The General wondered if the son was aware of his father’s artifice, or blissfully ignorant. Judging by the way they are constantly at odds with each other, people close to his family might have been talking about him.
The intercom jingled, the voice of the attendant reported:
“Comrade Major General, Lieutenant General Sudoplatov has just arrived.”
Svetlov got up, pulled on his jacket, and pressed the feedback button on the intercom panel.
“Show him in. And invite Major Kotov, too. He should be at the shooting range now.”
“Yes,” the intercom clicked and fell silent. The general went to the window, pulled the curtains open. He loved to work like this, in the twilight, when nothing affects his train of thought, not even the joyous light of a warm June afternoon. He strained his ears, but he never heard the trampling of boots on the corridor carpet. The famous saboteur, whose exploits during the Great Patriotic War became the talk of the town among intelligence specialists, and his operations, dissected and laid out by analysts of Western special services on the shelves, formed the basic preparation of sabotage units in many countries, at the same United States, for example, came, as always, quietly. Svetlov grinned with the edges of his lips and turned to the door.
“Good afternoon, Pavel Anatolyevich. What are the fates this time?”
Sudoplatov saluted according to the charter, although he was a senior in rank. Nevertheless, he was on Svetlov’s turf and a guest. What is the chain of command between them? Taking off his cap, he wiped the sweat from his forehead and entered the office. The friends shook hands and settled down at the tea table in the far corner of the vast office.
“Still the same fate, Yuri Borisovich, and the same concerns.”
Svetlov smiled knowingly:
“You wouldn’t believe it, Pasha. I’ve just been going about the business of those two you sent me…”
“Are you talking about Sarmatov and Fomenko now?” asked Sudoplatov, just in case.
“The very same. The Cat’s already renamed them Skiff and Tom.”
“Tom?” For a moment, Sudoplatov thought. “Wait, wait. Well, Skiff, that's understandable. Sarmatov, Sarmatians, Scythians, Skiff. It’s a logical chain. But why 'Tom’?”
“Yeah, well, our friend from Mechanical knows how to play with a knife. Yes, this name fits him well. He says he used to do it in Moscow’s alleyways, but I think the guy also has talent, plus a boxing background. An interesting character, let me tell you, this Fomenko: the smartest guy, a mathematician from God, a physicist. But by looking alone, I’d swear he was a simple punk! Come on! Sarmatov’s a piece of work too. A professor’s son, but strong and wiry, as if all his life wasn’t spent between the pages of books, but he at least worked as a mule in the port of Odessa.”
“Yeah,” Sudoplatov grunted. “Kotov knows how to select personnel. You can't deny him that.”
“By the way, aren’t you overreacting by appointing him the leader of this group?”
“And what's the problem with that? Sergey Vladimirovich is an experienced specialist. He has more than one successful operation under his belt.”
“Yes, that’s it. He’s the most experienced. How old is he now? Remind me. It’s our Major fifty this year? Yeah, and by the way, why is he still on the shelf as a major?”
Sudoplatov chewed his lips, shook his head.
“Well, he went on this business trip to Casablanca, remember?” Svetlov nodded. “The trouble was, he had to pull out one idiot who got involved in some pretty nasty stuff. From the ambassadors. And he had to take him out by sea, underwater, with a respirator. Our submarine was waiting for them in neutral waters. No, everything went by the book, without loss, as they say. Only the ambassador had shit his pants, in the most literal sense. When the submariners dragged him aboard, he smelled like your village toilet.”
Svetlov burst out laughing:
“I understand. Comrade, from being overwhelmed by the situation, no doubt. And what happened next?”
“Well, to the reasonable question of one of our sailors, 'What’s that smell?’ Kotov, without hesitation, replied: ‘International politics, comrade!’”
Svetlov slapped his knees with his palms.
“Oh, that Cat! To the point, however. So?”
“So, the ambassador turned out to be the son of a high-ranking Soviet comrade, as, incidentally, it usually happens with them.”
“What, you don't like ambassadors? You like confronting diplomats?”
“I respect diplomats, but I don’t like ambassadors,” agreed Sudoplatov. “Especially ones like that. Thieves. This son did a number on the major, they say, he is apolitical, publicly violated the foreign policy of the Soviet state and more in the same vein. Our Major, of course, tried to clear it up as best he could, but the Abakumov Cat was frozen in rank. Although they were awarded him a medal for that operation. It was painfully beautiful, the way everything turned out. So why doesn't Kotov's age suit you?”
“Judge for yourself, Pavel Anatolyevich. Our hero still ran with elements from the tsarist secret police and smashed the Basmachis near Kokand into pieces. But this is such an extraordinary task that requires giving nothing but the best. Yes, even these two young guys tagging along. Will this be sufficient?”
At that moment, Major Kotov entered the office, then froze at the threshold and asked:
“Comrade Lieutenant General, permission to address Comrade Major General?”
“Granted,” Sudoplatov nodded. Kotov turned to Svetlov:
“Comrade Major General, group leader major Kotov, reporting as ordered!”
“Come in, have a seat.”
Kotov walked over to the table and sat down on a bench, standing a little to one side.
“Here comrade, the Major General has some doubts. Will your age be a hindrance in carrying out this task? You know full well under whose control this operation falls. Failure is not an option.”
Kotov's face gave nothing away. He just narrowed his eyes slightly.
“Not at all, Comrade Lieutenant General. Age is no obstacle to this mission. On the contrary, what is needed here is experience, and as you know, it only comes with the years.”
“I agree,” Svetlov nodded. “Consider me almost convinced. In the meantime, tell me your wards.”
Kotov
