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THREE MINUTES
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Chapter 7 18:00, 15 March 2001 Kiev, Ukraine
Korshin stood at his hotel room window, looking approvingly out across the city of Kiev. He liked Kiev for its metropolitan spirit, even in the face of its utterly proletarian agricultural roots. The smoke from thousands of wood-burning stoves, as well as the burning of fields far in the distance, sat over the city like a dull morning fog. Brown, brown everywhere. One would think the color alone would have been enough to crush the spirit out of an entire race. Yet somehow the women of Kiev were famous -- and not only in Ukraine -- for their unwillingness to be seen as simple country folk. They were carefully dressed and coiffed, on the town daily in low-backed dresses, high sling back heels, makeup as meticulous as Parisians just for the day's grocery shopping. Korshin watched a young woman -- she couldn't be twenty -- stopped at a street corner with a compact mirror, applying what had to be the tiniest of changes to her made-up face. Vanity? Korshin thought it might be something else, perhaps a manifestation of a very, well, human attempt to be more than you already are. To do better than the hand you're dealt. Like a bluff in a game of poker, hoping to Heaven that the rest of the world won't demand to see your cards. He gently swirled the vodka and ice in his glass, listening to the clinking of the cubes against crystal. His hotel was a western Intourist-built monstrosity, a concrete box in a city of architectural delights both ancient and rebuilt. But it was comfortable, even luxurious by Russian standards. The sheets were uncharacteristically soft for this part of the world, he had his own toilet and bath, and so far the staff had gone out of their way to acquiesce to his stated desire of simply being left alone with his exceptional bottle of vodka. Korshin had taken care of a few critical money issues earlier in the day; funds belonging to a man named Storoz had been electronically moved with a precision that would have satisfied Stalin. The meeting had gone as well as could ever have been hoped, and he found himself continuing to be impressed with the elegance of his daring little plan. Not his plan, exactly. His own designs rode on those of others, carefully woven between other men's desires. He walked a thin line between opposing worlds, bringing together men whose hatred for one another was so great he could reasonably expect to be brutally killed were they to learn of his dealings. It was, in that way, almost like poetry. The vodka was brutally cold against his tongue, a small delight. Allowing himself this evening to make a careful approximation of rest was a serious undertaking of intent, a force of will that reflected his structured personality. Will, he mused. For some, that was all that was needed. His associates in Afghanistan had contrived a plan that was, for its own ends, brilliant in its appreciation of the force of will. It did not rely on technology, or politics, or even economics to succeed. It was merely a matter of will, the one force that cannot be defended against. For that reason alone, he suspected they would have been successful without his help. But in order to build the trust needed to add his own man to their team, his help was critical. It was a difficult world to enter, and he could not (as he had done elsewhere) simply buy his way in. Money was not a problem for these men; they were financed almost beyond belief. The opium trade had made millionaires of some of them, and investment in the equally narcotic crude oil industry had turned many of those into billionaires. An ideological approach had been necessary. Korshin had managed to convince them his views were theirs, his beliefs in line with their own. Of course the man Korshin had selected to infiltrate their operations teams had come from the same background, the same heritage of disaffected youth corrupted by radical clerics; but Korshin's man had a significantly different agenda. For him there were no promises of eternal life, or moral superiority. This was an exchange of the purest capitalism. Korshin would take care of the man's family in a uniquely Western fashion, and more importantly it would be done in a Western country. It was essentially a life insurance policy with a strict timeframe; Korshin's would quite literally hijack their operation. The irony was exquisite. Their aim was to bring about change by instilling fear, and although they didn't know it, Korshin was going to raise the stakes a thousandfold. From their perspective it would be a rousing success, something they could never have hoped for without his intrusions. If all went well, he might even be able to maintain a relationship with them for future endeavors. If all went well. His next stop would be Turkmenistan, to convey the best wishes of the men he had met today. Turkmenistan was not a country favorable to tourists, even those who, like Korshin, brought the promise of a massive change for the better. He expected very little in the way of hospitality from that nation's arguably insane ruler. He expected even less in the way of good liquor. He crossed back to the small dining table in the middle of his room, uncorking the vodka and pouring himself another drink. The ruler of Turkmenistan, he recalled, had named a month in the calendar after himself, and another after his dead mother. Arguably insane. Korshin understood the appeal of absolute power, but he also recognized the limited nature of a sovereign's might. This mad king was wasting his time. Nations no longer came and went in the tides of great wars; rather their borders had become parenthetical. True power lay in commerce. Perhaps it always had, and it was only at this point in history that the thin veneer of statehood was sliding away. The Russians had resisted the screw cap, he knew, because of an old superstition that once opened, a bottle should be finished. He would certainly do his best to uphold that tradition tonight. "When in Rome," he spoke aloud, happily swirling his glass again, looking over his balcony. Down in the streets the fading light illuminated a scurrying mass of pigeons, rambling around the cobblestones pecking for some elusive scrap of dropped food. The street children in Kiev almost, but not quite, outnumbered the pigeons, and both were fundamentally at the same task, eking out their meager existence under that brown, brown fog. In 1986, when a previously obscure power plant in the small town of Chernobyl had succumbed to its own flaws, Kiev had been spared by an extraordinarily unusual northwest wind. This capitol of the former Soviet breadbasket had escaped a horrible fate thanks to a shift in meteorological conditions that were so against the odds, many here felt a divine hand had stepped in. The hubris of farmers, thought Korshin. The time of gods, like czars, had long since passed. There was now only chance, and the actions of men. Exploiting those who thought otherwise had become a global venture, and at this moment, Korshin was convinced he stood at the top of the game.
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