The Doomsday Key

"Aye. Not well, but I do. And I'm sorry to hear he's still in a coma. We met at a symposium years ago and began an ongoing correspondence. Your uncle was very proud of you-a carabiniere in charge of antiquities theft. He sent photos, and at my age, I don't forget a pretty young face like yours."

Rachel shared a glance with Gray, looking apologetic. She hadn't known of this personal connection.

Wallace continued. "I don't understand the reason for this bit of subterfuge, but before we go any further, I want some explanation."

Before anyone could speak, the professor's terrier began a low growl at the back of its throat. The dog climbed to its legs beside the fire and stared toward the entryway of the hotel. As the door swung open, the growl deepened.

A figure stepped into the hotel, knocking snow from her boots.

It was only Seichan.

Chapter 13

October 12, 1:36 P.M.

Oslo, Norway

The luncheon ended with a warning.

"Mankind can no longer wait to respond to this crisis," Ivar Karlsen said, standing at a podium at the far end of the dining hall. "A global collapse faces this generation or the next."

Painter shared the table at the back of the hall with Monk and John Creed. They had arrived in Oslo only an hour ago and barely made it to the opening luncheon of the World Food Summit.

The dining room of Akershus Castle was straight out of a medieval storybook. Hand-hewn wooden beams held up the ceiling, while underfoot, an oak floor was laid out in a herringbone pattern. Overhead, chandeliers sparkled down upon long tables draped in linens.

The meal had included five courses, an irony for a summit that had gathered to discuss world hunger. The lunch had been a study in Norwegian cuisine, including medallions of reindeer in a mushroom sauce and a pungent dish of lutefisk, a Norwegian whitefish specialty. Monk was still dragging his spoon around his dessert bowl, chasing the last cloudberry out of the whipped cream. Creed merely cradled a cup of coffee in his hands and listened to the keynote speaker attentively.

With the speaker's podium at the far end of the hall, Painter had a hard time getting much of a read on Ivar Karlsen, but even across the distance, the man's passion and earnestness were plain.

"World governments will be too slow to respond," Ivar continued. "Only the private sector has the fluidity to act with the necessary speed and innovation to turn aside this crisis."

Painter had to admit that the scenario presented by Karlsen was frightening. All the models he presented ended the same way. When unchecked population growth hit the point of stagnating food supply, the resulting chaos would kill over 90 percent of the world population. There seemed only one solution, a final solution not unlike Hitler's.

"Population control must be started immediately. The time to act is now, or even better, yesterday. The only way to avoid this catastrophe is to slow the rate of population growth, to apply the brakes before we hit the wall. Yet do not be fooled. We will hit the wall. It is inevitable. The only question is do we kill all the passengers or do we walk away with only a few scratches. For the sake of humanity, for the sake of our future, we must act now."

With those final words, Karlsen lifted a hand to a smattering of applause. It was far from enthusiastic. For the opening to the summit, it certainly cast a pall of gloom.

One of the men seated at the front table stood and took the microphone next. Painter recognized the dour-faced South African economist. Dr. Reynard Boutha, copresident of the Club of Rome. Though Boutha nodded to Karlsen as he assumed the podium, Painter read the tension and irritation in the copresident's expression. He was not happy with the tone of the keynote.

Painter barely heard Boutha's words. They were mostly conciliatory, more optimistic, an acknowledgment of the great strides already made in feeding the world's hungry. Painter kept his focus on Karlsen. The man's face was passive, but he gripped his water glass tightly, and deliberately kept his eyes away from Boutha, refusing to acknowledge the other's message of hope.

Monk came up with the same evaluation. "Guy looks like he's ready to punch his fist through something."

The concluding farewell by Boutha ended the luncheon. Painter immediately shot to his feet. He turned to Monk and Creed. "Head back to the hotel. I'm going to have a few words with Karlsen, then meet you there."

John Creed stood. "I thought our appointment wasn't until tomorrow morning."

"It's not," Painter said. "But it never hurts to say hello."

He pushed against the tide of people leaving the luncheon. A small clutch of admirers surrounded Karlsen, congratulating, questioning, shaking his hand. Painter edged nearer. Off to the side, he overheard Boutha speaking to a hawk-nosed man in a poorly fitting suit.

"Antonio, I thought you warned Mr. Karlsen against such an inflammatory speech."

"I did," the other answered, his face red and blotchy. "Does he ever listen? But at least he toned down the worst of it. His original keynote called for mandatory birth control in third world countries. Can you imagine how that would've been received?"

Boutha sighed and headed away with the other man. "At least he'll be away from the conference starting tomorrow."

"Small blessing there. He'll be in Svalbard with some of our biggest donors and sponsors. I can only imagine what he'll say when he has them alone. Perhaps if I went along, too..."

"You know the scheduled flights are full, Antonio. Besides, I'll be along on that trip to put out any fires."

They passed Painter without a glance, leaving the way open to Karlsen. Painter stepped forward and took the CEO's arm in a double-handed shake, one hand on his palm, the other on his wrist.

"Mr. Karlsen, I thought I should take a moment to introduce myself. I'm Captain Neal Wright from the U.S Office of the Inspector General."

The man extracted his hand, but his warm smile never faltered. "Ah, the investigator from the Department of Defense. Let me assure you that you'll have my full cooperation concerning the tragedy in Mali."

"Of course. And I know our interview isn't scheduled until tomorrow. But I just wanted to say I found your talk fascinating." Painter played off what he had just heard. "Though I wonder if you were perhaps pulling your punches."

"How so?" The casual interest in his face sharpened.

"It seems drastic methods will be necessary to curb population growth. I had hoped you would have gone into more specific details rather than mere generalities."

"You may be right, but it's a controversial subject, one best handled delicately. Too often, people blur the line between population control and eugenics."

"As in who are allowed to breed children and who are not?"

"Precisely. It's not a subject for those bound by political expediency or popular opinion. That's why governments of the world will never solve this problem. It's a matter of will and timing." Karlsen checked his watch. "And speaking of the latter, I'm unfortunately running late for another appointment. But I'd be happy to chat more about this when we meet tomorrow at my office."

"Very good. And thank you again for the illuminating talk."

The man nodded as he stepped away, his mind already shifting to the next task at hand.

Painter watched him leave. As Karlsen neared the hall entrance, Painter palmed the cell phone in his pocket and pressed the button on its side. A narrow radio frequency burst from the phone and activated the polysynthetic receiver implanted inside his ear.