Argentine Archive №1. Магомет Тимов
spat from the high rocky shore down towards the even gray view of the cold beach. An impoverished country whose only importance to American democracy lay in its copper deposits and its ability to control a young part of the Pacific Ocean. The ports were in disgusting condition, and there were practically no roads. Half-starved people grabbed any job they could get their hands on. Here, in such a nutritious broth, American corporations felt like fish in water.
The center-left government gladly admitted northern ‘investors’ into the country, who dished out bribes in abundance left and right. American bankers and businessmen have already subjugated the leading industries. They also monopolized trade, leaving the local elites the opportunity to ‘rule’ at their pleasure, but only in the interests of foreign monopolies.
Ordinary people survived as best they could. Most of the dissatisfied went to the East, where a relatively calm Argentina prospered beyond the Andes range.
Walsh himself secretly dreamed of at least crossing the Andes, if not to return to the States. At almost forty, he was already thinking about retiring from the intelligence service and settling in some small house on the sunny California coast. San Francisco would be fine. He only had to complete the case here, and he could write an appropriate report on the incident.
Redrick Walsh had been in charge of the so-called ‘station’ of the US Central Intelligence Agency in Chile for two years. Coming from naval intelligence, he entered World War II with the rank of lieutenant commander at the naval base in Pearl Harbor and witnessed the first defeat of the American intelligence service, which missed the concentration and subsequent attack on the harbor by a Japanese aircraft carrier formation.
Stunned by the explosions of the bombs. Stunned by the sight of the Arizona ripped apart and carrying away to the bottom of the bay in a few minutes the lives of thousands of American sailors. Crushed to the ground by bursts from the machine guns of Japanese Zeros. Walsh realized at once that naval intelligence was not his strong point. He was not a coward. In fact, during that very attack on Pearl Harbor, he organized the calculation of some half-broken anti-aircraft battery and resisted the second wave of bombers, now targeting the city itself. And they even shot down one and knocked out a second Japanese fighter-bomber. Redrick earned the Silver Star for this.
The heroism of the lieutenant commander was deservedly appreciated not only by the fleet but also by the direct leadership. After the theater of operations moved somewhat away from Hawaii, and life in Honolulu returned somewhat to normal, they transferred Walsh to the intelligence office. He engaged there in strategic planning for his service in the Philippines and Malaysia until the end of the war.
He had to work for some time in the apparatus of the occupation forces in Okinawa after the war. There he helped deploy an intelligence network, now against his recent ally in the Far East – the Soviet Union. Here he was successful enough and was about to end his career in intelligence, but another restructuring occurred. In America, they systematized the work of the many intelligence services, bringing everything under one umbrella.
In 1947, US President Harry Truman passed the National Security Act, because of which the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) relinquished some of its powers in information gathering. It shifted this onto the shoulders of the newly created entity – the CIA or the US Central Intelligence Agency. The basis of the CIA was the Office of Strategic Services, but the structure also included representatives of army and navy intelligence. So, Walsh got into the ‘office’.
The new leadership appreciated his organizational and other talents and, after certain retraining at the ‘Farm’ near Williamsburg, he went to conquer the expanses of Chile.
The work of a ‘station chief’ in Chile could well be considered a sinecure. On the one hand, the local government was quite loyal to the United States, being fed from the generous palm of Uncle Sam. On the other hand, there is an incredibly boring existence in an area that no one showed any genuine interest in. A minimum of industry, a pocket army, an equally impotent fleet. What geopolitical interests could there be? The picture was, however, different as far as American industrial corporations were concerned.
True, there was one moment that warmed Walsh's soul. The day before, Colonel Snyder from the European department phoned him on a closed line and said a headquarters representative with certain powers was rushing over to meet him. And it was here, a few miles from Valparaiso, on the disquieting ocean shore. Walsh didn’t quite understand why there were these conditional measures of secrecy in Chile, but something told him that there was going to be a change in his fate. As an experienced scout, Redrick trusted his intuition, and as a rule, it did not deceive him.
Now Commander Walsh pulled back the sleeve of his cloak and glanced at the dial of his army watch: it was three o’clock. The messenger, if he arrived in Santiago, should have shown up by now. The wind blew in from all directions on this part of the shore, and there was nowhere to hide. But when a soft “Hello!” came from behind him, Redrick shuddered and turned around sharply.
A stranger of average height, dressed like himself in an elegant cloak of European cut, smiled at him from under a gray Tyrolean hat. Laughing blue eyes on an inconspicuous face without signs of vegetation looked benevolent from behind round glasses, like those the German minister Goebbels used to wear.
The stranger wore strong alpine boots made of buffalo leather, and soft woolen trousers lay on them in heavy folds. He was holding an ordinary black umbrella cane in his hands.
“Good afternoon, Commander Walsh,” the stranger continued, in a velvety voice more befitting of a porter in a fashionable Monte Carlo hotel than a secret agent. “I hope I didn't startle you with my unexpected appearance?”
After recovering from the first shock, Walsh put on one of his most pleasant smiles and said in an even voice with a touch of hospitality:
“Not at all, sir. I’m here for the sake of meeting you, and not at all for admiring the local inhospitable landscape. To whom do I have the honor of speaking?”
The stranger cast an expressionless glance at the endless lead-steel expanse of the ocean and casually said:
“Alfred Rosenblum. I came from Lausanne. Especially, my good man, for your soul.”
The emissary laughed a pleasant laugh with a hint of subtle superiority Europeans have over representatives of the New World. Walsh swallowed this bitter pill silently, waiting for him to continue. In the end, he is in his field, why not let the guest show all the cards himself.
The guest continued.
“The ‘stable’ decided that you should change your golf course, which this country undoubtedly is, for a baseball court. They see Argentina in this context. In the sense, that baseball is a purely American game, and in the vastness of the local pampas you will have to play it without holding back.”
Redrick chuckled and looked Mr. Rosenblum straight in the eye.
“And by what rules will I have to play in Argentina, sir? I hope you can explain them to me?”
The representative of the European residency smiled:
“My dear Mr. Walsh, of course, I’ll explain. That is why I came here from the other end of the world. You don’t think I left the Lausanian oysters for the sake of the local ceviche? I’m not a fan of spicy dishes, dear friend. We in Europe try to protect our stomachs in the old-fashioned way, not like you young people here, among mountains of spices and peppers. As for the rules, they are, as always, simple: America comes first, and we have to achieve here only a positive result. A victory.”
Walsh nodded in response, and he asked the question that the situation itself had already seemed to suggest for some time:
“And who will we play against this time?”
Mr. Rosenblum suddenly stared at him and said in a low voice:
“Against the Council, son… Against Russian agents here, in the very ass of the world.”
Walsh turned to the ocean, watched for a while as the heavy shafts rolled repeatedly onto the gray sand. Then he said:
“What the devil are these Russians doing in Latin America?”
“That’s