Kalinin looked out the window as they drove through downtown Nassau. Unfortunately that was the only possible route from the airport to Atlantis. He didn’t mind the traffic or the streets filled with pedestrians, part of the local color and charm. He just didn’t like to waste time.

But he was soon installed in his condo at the Reef, one of the newest Atlantis complexes. On one end of Atlantis was Harborside, a cluster of time-shares, and on the other end the Reef, tall towers of private residences. In between were hotels and one of the best aquariums in the world, if not the best, for tropical fish.

Kalinin was sure that his banker friend would dance the hypocritical dance of damning the decadence while living it up. Bettini had already mentioned the banker’s nighttime activities. Kalinin bet that the man had also lost a small fortune in the casino.

The Russian barely managed to pass an electric razor over his face and wash a little when the time came to meet Bettini again. The limo had changed drivers. The man’s name was Harry. He was probably well over three hundred pounds and also heavily armed. Freddy rode alongside. Bettini wasn’t taking any chances with their guests.

The hedge fund manager had arranged for a private conference room at the Cove. Andy swept it for bugs before he allowed them all to enter. Della and Andy next stationed themselves just inside the door. Freddy and Harry stood just outside.

Their guests arrived and were frisked.

That was the first time Kalinin met Lydia Karpov. She carried a Glock with ample ammo and a knife. Della also made her enter in her stocking feet. The toes of her boots contained retractable blades. Lydia made Della promise to return everything.

Kalinin’s first impression was that she was striking and as cold as ice. She even gave him chills.

Her eyes fell on Bettini and Kalinin.

“We need some introductions here,” she said simply and in Arabic.

She already figured out that the three possibilities were Arabic, Russian or English. Out of deference to her companion and true boss, she chose Arabic, a slight insult to Kalinin, who arranged the meeting, after all.

Ignoring the insult, Kalinin made the introductions with the perfect diction of a Saudi prince.

Wahib Ben Abdal’hakim was no ordinary banker. Like Karpov, he was secretly a member of al Qaeda. He traveled the world, managing the funds of the terrorist organization.

He was only one of bin Laden’s bankers, though. Al Qaeda was too smart to put all its money in one basket. Ever since 9/11 the West had been trying to get to the movement’s funds. Sometimes they were successful. But now they were so diversified and handled by so many bankers, as well as banks all over the world, the West couldn’t keep track of it all.

Ben Abdal’hakim was a corpulent man, as rotund as Harry, the body guard, and much shorter. His jowls hung down like an English bulldog. His intense eyes peered out upon the world through narrow slits almost overwhelmed by fatty tissue. His exquisitely tailored suit was worth more than Kalinin’s, given that three times the material must have been used in its manufacture. A large diamond ring perched on his right little finger cost more than a hundred grand; the matching Rolex was a rich man’s timepiece. It was an ostentatious display of wealth for a man with his secret connections.

But then again, that was why no one knew he was al Qaeda. At a bankers’ convention, Ben Abdal’hakim would fit in well.

Kalinin tried to make him feel welcome. This was the fool that would make him richer. Al Qaeda would also make millions in the bargain and, through Karpov, they could make the claim that they struck two more blows at the great Satan.

“If you don’t mind, I would like to have my man Fawzi participate in the proceedings. He is in the foyer with your bodyguards, Mr. Kalinin.”

“Please, call me Vladimir. Della, have Mr. Fawzi come in.”

The banker’s bodyguard entered and took a position against the opposite wall from Della and Andy. The banker didn’t catch the wink he gave Kalinin. Now the Russian was sure the Palestinian belonged to al Qaeda. Either he was spying on Hamas or the Palestinian organization was a cover for him.

“Let us get down to business, then,” said Ben Abdal’hakim. “We need to come to agreement on the financial matters. We will finance the stock market shorts for you but expect that much back in return plus a split on the profits.”

“I assume you agree that I’m taking the risk here. Your group will have quite a political win.”

“If you are successful with both plans. Even one will be sweet.”

“All right, then, since I’m providing the service, I should get the lion’s share of the profits.”

The man took out an embroidered handkerchief and wiped his sweaty brow. The room was not hot.

“I admire you, Kalinin. You have no moral underpinning. More importantly, you are a genius.”

They ended agreeing on a 60/40 split. The fat man was quite sweaty by that time. He kept looking nervously at Fawzi. A nod from the latter, imperceptible to Kalinin and the rest, finished the bargaining.

Since Kalinin would plan, organize and take most of the risk, he would take the 60 and al Qaeda the 40. Like the guerrilla in Colombia that took over the drug trade, like the Taliban in Afghanistan that control ninety per cent of the world’s opium production, al Qaeda was now a business. And they had just begun a partnership with the most ruthless man on the planet.