can you do?” the wife laughed. “Live, dear, live on. Let's go to the kitchen. I'll make your favorite pancakes.”
June 14, 1950
17:55
Two kilometers northeast of the village of Nakhabino
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 101st School’, and was nestled under the canopy of an enormous stand of pine trees. Even with aerial photography using the most modern equipment, it would be problematic to determine what was hidden under the continuous green carpet of the Khlebnikovsky Park forest.
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 we’ve come to a compromise, haven't we?”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Sudoplatov shook his head. Kotov glanced at him but said nothing. Svetlov raised his eyebrows in surprise:
“What’s 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 that’s 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:
“Don’t be angry, Major General, but I cannot use any of the guys you proposed: it’s not quite what we’re 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 we’ll see who’s 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. It’s 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 we’re 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. I’ll 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 I’ll 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.
“Let’s
