THREE MINUTES

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Chapter 4

13:45, 7 January 2001

Madrid, Spain

Korshin poked dully at a plate of anchovies. He watched the oily iridescence play across the backs of the tiny fish, and taking his fork, he scooted them back and forth through their baths of congealed fat and spices. He sighed. No one could ruin fish like the Spaniards.

The waitstaff at the tapas bar had found it necessary to bring two glasses of the local cava, a sparkling wine only vaguely reminiscent of champagne. They remained untouched at one corner of the table. The tapas, the presumably endless plates of small food portions, were hesitantly sampled, arriving unbidden one after another. Potato dishes, cheeses, meats, and of course more seafood defiled in a variety of creative ways. The dueling smells of cigarette smoke and saffron hung everywhere, competing further with designer perfumes.

Music -- if it could be called that, mused Korshin -- pumped from speakers which seemed to be mounted in every corner and crevice in the bar's vaulted ceiling. Nothing local, or even in Spanish; Korshin couldn't remember the artist's name, but recalled she was American, popular in Europe, and extraordinarily young and completely without talent.

Korshin remembered the Madrid of his youth as being somehow more authentic. The city now seemed filled with tourists, and populated only by those who made a business of serving them; the sausages and cheese he remembered being made in tiny local shops were now brought in on trucks from throughout western Europe. It was a terrible shame.

Across the bar, Korshin finally saw the "young prince" he had been waiting for enter the dimly lit room. There were endless supplies of them, thought Korshin, young men in service of their God, their nation, their people. This one stood out like a sore thumb, the new generation of Islam, bearded but well coifed, American pants, German shoes. So glad not to be selling bootleg gasoline in the streets, they had unwittingly become indistinguishable from the men and nations they saw as their enemies.

Korshin sighed to himself, smiling lightly. Untrained in the classics of literature, the "young prince" would never see himself as an ironic figure. This lack of vision, Korshin believed, was why radical Islam was so easy for outsiders to control. It was irony, Korshin reflected, and not the West, that would spell the end of tradition and autonomy in the Middle East.

Spying him, the dark young man made his way to Korshin's table, weaving through tables piled high with food and drink. He slid into the chair facing the door, folded his hands in his lap, and smiled, thinly, lighting a French cigarette.

The conversation they would have would be the antithesis of improvisation; intentionally in English, the script they would follow was written over a year ago.

"You don't enjoy the wine?"

When can we take delivery?

"Not particularly," answered Korshin. "They bring it anyhow, with the food."

On schedule, six months from this moment.

"I know another bar, with better drinks."

Do we need to use the alternate transportation?

"I don't have as much to spend as you."

No.

"Are you staying long?"

The money will be transferred today?

"Actually, no. Would you like this table?"

On schedule, this afternoon.

"Thank you very much."

With that, Korshin rose, bowed slightly, and began to leave the bar. Exactly on cue, a second, equally obviously Arab man entered, made eye contact with the other, smiled, waved. The two young men embraced, and as Korshin slipped out, began to speak to one another in Arabic. Loudly. Plainly. Korshin could have spent a few minutes and determined which of the bystanders in the tapas bar were the intelligence agents, and whether they were Israelis, or Americans. But it was wholly extraneous; Korshin knew they were there. That was rather the point.

It was actually an exceptional system, and Korshin had no small amount of pride over his role in creating it. Over the past year he had met with at least a dozen of these young operatives across Europe, in America, and even in Tel Aviv; they were almost never the same men, coming from different countries and cultural backgrounds. Their only common ground tended to be a general darkness of skin and their tendency to overspend.

But they moved around the world using the same names, carrying the same set of passports. The names were so unimportant, as indeed throughout history they had always been, at least in the business of shadowy men, grand plots, and dark corners.

Their travels, those of these unimportant names, were almost certainly summarized in intelligence files from every NATO ally; Korshin imagined with glee the poor analysts trying to make sense of such a confusing set of inconclusive data.

The amazing thing, Korshin now realized, was that the unimportant names on those documents would soon be as famous as those of any celebrities in the world. This was a new era for this organization he found himself partnered with, and indeed in many respects a new era for Korshin as well -- at least from a financial perspective. While his own name would never be attached to this moment, these others would be etched in the minds of historians for generations. Even the West, whose media could never keep straight names of more than two syllables, would carve these names in virtual stone. Alshehhi. Bin al-Shibh. Atta.

As he made his way through the streets, Korshin began to feel as if things might finally be going well. In a few months he would be rid of the weapon, and out of this part of the game. While his biggest payday wouldn't come for months after even that, the smaller one he would see in July could afford him the vacation he felt he deserved, as well as a few private items he had been eying for some time.

An escape plan would also be a wise investment, he thought.

Allowing himself an indulgence, he started to whistle, then changed his mind, and hummed softly to himself as he joined the rest of Spain in heading home for an afternoon rest.

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