The Doomsday Key

Only eight men left.

She held the phone to her ear, waiting for instructions. She had dialed the number he had left. It rang and rang. Finally, the line was picked up.

"I've been briefed," the man said.

"Yes, sir." Krista struggled to hear any indication of the man's mood, but his words were calm and precise, unhurried.

"With the turn of events, we're radically altering our objectives for this mission. With Karlsen now in Sigma's hands, the decision is to abort all operations in Norway."

"And what about in the UK?"

"We took a chance on co-opting those outside resources to assist us in finding the key. After the current turn of events, we no longer have that luxury. We must gather our chips and leave the table for now."

"Sir?"

"The article stolen by Father Giovanni. Secure it."

"And the others?"

"Kill them all."

"But what about our-?"

"All have been deemed a liability, Ms. Magnussen. Make sure the same isn't said about you."

Krista's throat tightened into a hard knot.

"You have your orders."

FOURTH

THE DARK MADONNA

Chapter 27

October 14, 5:18 A.M.

Airborne over the Norwegian Sea

Painter watched the Svalbard Archipelago vanish behind them as the private jet sailed south over the Arctic Sea. They'd lost half a day evacuating the group trapped in the seed vault. Afterward, it took some fancy footwork by Kat in Washington to get them off the island before the media storm struck.

The dramatic bombing had drawn the world's eye. Already a flurry of international news crews and NATO investigators were converging on the tiny archipelago. The remoteness of the place and the fierce storm had allowed Painter just enough time to slip away.

But he didn't come alone.

Monk and Creed were sprawled over the cabin's couch. Senator Gorman sat dead-eyed in one of the chairs. Their final passenger sat across from Painter.

Ivar Karlsen accompanied them voluntarily. He could have made it difficult, if not impossible, to extract him from Norwegian territory. But the man had an odd sense of honor. Even now he sat straight in the chair, staring out the window as the islands disappeared. It was clear that he most likely had been the primary target of the bombing at Svalbard, that his former ally had turned into his enemy.

He also knew to whom he owed his life and respected that debt.

Painter meant to take full advantage of that cooperation.

The small jet lurched in the unstable air, thickening the tension in the cabin. They were headed to London. Neither Painter nor Kat had heard from Gray's team. He wanted to be on the ground in England as the search continued in the Lake District. Depending on what was found, they would refuel and continue to Washington.

But during this five-hour flight, Painter needed to wring this man dry of all he knew. Kat was investigating the sites of the seed-production fields that had been harvested throughout the Midwest. The news was grim: she'd already found multiple cases of unexplained deaths near fifteen test farms. A postmortem on one body had revealed an unknown fungal agent. And there were sixty-three more test fields still to check.

Karlsen spoke, sensing Painter's attention. "I only wanted to save the world."

Senator Gorman stirred, his eyes sparking with anger, but Painter gave the senator a hard glance. This was his interview.

Staring out the window, Karlsen failed to note the silent communication. "People talk about the population bomb, but they won't admit it's already gone off. The world population is racing toward a critical mass, where population outstrips food supplies. We are only a heartbeat away from global famine, war, and chaos. The food riots in Haiti, Indonesia, Africa, they're just the beginning."

Karlsen turned from the window to face Painter. "But that doesn't mean it's too late. If enough like-minded and determined people coordinated their efforts, something could be done."

"And you found those people in the Club of Rome," Painter said.

Karlsen's eyes widened ever so slightly. "That's right. The club keeps raising the alarm, but it falls on deaf ears. More trendy crises consume media attention. Global warming, oil supplies, the rain forests. The list grows. But the root of all of the problems is the same: too many people packed into too little space. Yet no one addresses that problem directly. What do you Americans call it? Politically incorrect, yes? It's untouchable, tangled in religion, politics, race, and economics. Be fruitful and multiply, says the Bible. No one dares speak otherwise. To address it is political suicide. Offer solutions and they accuse you of eugenics. Someone has to take a stand, to make the hard choices-and not just with words but with concrete actions."

"And that would be you," Painter said, to keep him talking.

"Don't take that tone. I know where this all ended. But that's not where it started. I only sought to put the brakes on population growth, to gradually decrease the human biomass on this planet, to make sure we didn't hit that crisis point at full speed. In the Club of Rome, I found the global resources I needed. A vast reservoir of innovation, cutting-edge technologies, and political power. So I began steering certain projects toward my goals, gathering like-minded people."

Karlsen looked at the senator, then away again.

Despite Painter's warning, Gorman spoke up. "You used me to spread your diseased seed."

Karlsen glanced down to his hands folded in his lap, but when he glanced up, he remained unabashed. "That came later. A mistake. I know that now. But I sought you out because of your advocacy for biofuels, for turning crops like corn and sugarcane into fuel. It was simple enough to support such a seemingly good cause, a renewable energy source that freed us from oil dependency. But it also served my goal."

"Which was what?"

"To strangle the world's food supply." Karlsen stared at Painter with no apology. "Control food, you control people."

Painter remembered overhearing Karlsen paraphrase a line from Henry Kissinger. Control oil and you control nations, but control food and you control all the people of the world.

So that was Karlsen's goal. Strangle the food to strangle the growth of the human population. If done skillfully enough, it might even work.

"How did supporting biofuels help you control the world's food supply?" Painter could guess the answer, but he wanted to hear it from this man.

"The world's best croplands are overworked, forcing farmers to turn to marginal lands. They make more money growing crops for biofuels than for food. More and more good farmland is being diverted to grow fuel, not food. And it's horribly inefficient. The amount of corn needed to produce enough ethanol to fill one SUV tank could feed a starving person for a year. So of course, I supported biofuels."

"Not for energy independence..."

Karlsen nodded. "But as one means of strangling the food supply."