The Doomsday Key

And that was the point where everything went wrong. Painter kept his voice neutral. "But your new GM corn wasn't stable."

Karlsen gave a slight shake of his head. "The fungus proved more adept than we imagined. This organism has evolved alongside its host plants over eons. We thought we were only engineering one aspect of the fungus-its effect on digestibility-but it mutated in successive generations and returned to full potency. It regained its ability to kill, to germinate again into its mushroom form. But worst of all, it regained its ability to spread."

"And when did you learn about this?"

"During the project in Africa."

"Yet you had already initiated seed production in the U.S. and abroad?"

Karlsen's expression grew pained. "It was at the insistence and assurance of our project leader and chief geneticist. She said the results of preliminary safety tests were sufficient for us to move forward. I trusted her; I never checked the results myself."

"Who was this woman?" Painter asked.

Senator Gorman guessed, his voice bitter and hard. "Krista Magnussen."

5:52 A.M.

Ivar Karlsen knew he could no longer avoid the senator's fury. But it took him a moment to meet the man's eyes. Instead, he stared down. From a pocket, he had removed a coin and let it rest in his palm. It was the Frederick IV four-mark, minted in 1725 by the traitor Henrik Meyer. His reminder of the cost of betrayal.

Karlsen's fingers clenched the coin, recognizing how far he had fallen, led astray by Krista Magnussen. He finally lifted his eyes and faced Senator Gorman. The man had paid a stiff price in blood. Ivar could not deny him the truth.

"The senator is right. I hired Ms. Magnussen when we started the Crop Biogenics division six years ago. She came with a slew of recommendations from Harvard and Oxford. She was young, brilliant, and motivated. She produced results year after year."

"But she wasn't who she claimed to be," Painter said.

"No," Ivar said. "About a year ago, we began having serious problems at our facilities. Arson in Romania. Embezzlement at another. A rash of thefts. Then Krista revealed that she had access to an organization that could shore up our global security, quietly and efficiently. She described it as a corporate version of a private military contractor."

"Did this organization have a name?"

"She called it the Guild."

Painter failed to react to the name. Not even a twitch. His total lack of response convinced Ivar that the man knew about the Guild, possibly more than even Ivar did.

"It was all staged," Painter said. "The accidents, the arson, the theft...the Guild made those happen. They needed you. So they softened you up to earn your trust. They pulled your butt out of the fire enough times, and you began to relinquish control. You grew dependent on them."

Surely that wasn't possible. But the pattern Painter laid out...it was so clear, like a deadly hand of cards.

"Let me guess," Painter continued, adding to the pattern. "When things really began to go wrong...at the test farm in Africa...who did you turn to?"

"Krista, of course," Ivar admitted, his voice catching. "She reported the mutations, that some of the camp refugees were becoming sick after consuming the corn. Something had to be done. But we'd already planted production fields around the world. She said the situation could still be salvaged, but she and her organization would need a free hand. She warned I must harden my heart. To save the world, what were a few lives? Those were her words. And dear God, I was desperate enough to believe them."

Ivar's breathing grew harder. His heart pounded in his throat. He pictured Krista naked, kissing him, her eyes fierce and bright. He had thought he'd known the game being played.

What a fool I've been...

Painter continued the story, as if he'd been standing beside Ivar these past days. "The Guild razed the village and told you that was necessary to prevent the organism from spreading. They took the bodies of some of the afflicted villagers for study and justified what came next. Let their deaths not be in vain. If more could be learned, others could be saved. And with seed production already begun, time was essential."

Senator Gorman sat with his eyes wide, his fists clenched on his knees. "What about my son?"

Ivar answered that agonized plea. "Krista told me she found Jason copying secure data. She said he planned to sell it to the highest bidder."

Gorman pounded his fist into his thigh. "Jason would never-"

"She showed me his e-mail with the stolen files attached. I privately confirmed that the file was sent to a professor at Princeton."

"Princeton wouldn't engage in corporate espionage."

It pained Ivar to tell the man about his son. "Her organization had proof that the money trail led to a terrorist cell operating out of Pakistan. To expose him would expose us. It would also destroy your career. Krista tried talking to him, to convince him to give up his contacts, to keep silent. She said he refused, tried to run. One of her men panicked and shot him."

Gorman covered his face.

Ivar wanted to do the same, but he had no right. He knew that the boy's blood lay on his hands. He had ordered Jason held and questioned by those brutal mercenaries.

Then Painter tore away the last of Ivar's delusions. "Jason was innocent. It was all lies."

Ivar stared across the table, dumbstruck. He wanted to dismiss what the man was saying.

"Jason was killed because he inadvertently sent the incriminating data to Professor Malloy. It was why they were both murdered. To cover up proof of the crop's instability. The Guild didn't want that exposed."

Painter stared hard at Ivar. "Once the information was leaked, they needed a scapegoat. You were to be thrown to the wolves. After they killed you in Svalbard, the Guild could safely fade away and take all the prizes with them: both a new bioweapon and the means to control what had already been unleashed. The global contamination by your crop would be blamed on the reckless ambition of a dead CEO. And with you eliminated, no one would be the wiser. To the Guild, you were no more than a pawn to be sacrificed."

As Ivar sat perfectly still, cold sweat trickled down his back. He could no longer deny it. Not any of it. And down deep, maybe he had known the truth all along but dared not face it.

"But I have one last question," Painter continued. "One I can't answer."

He slid a sheet of paper across the table. Written on it was a familiar symbol.

A circle and a cross.

Painter tapped the sheet. "I understand why the Guild would kill Jason and Professor Malloy, but why murder the Vatican archaeologist? What does this have to do with the Guild's plan?"