The Doomsday Key (13 page)

Of course, the reality of Akershus was just as gruesome. During WWII, the fortress had been occupied by the Germans. Many Norwegian citizens were tortured and murdered within these walls. And afterward, war trials were conducted and executions performed, including those of the famous traitor and Nazi collaborator Vidkun Quisling.

Reaching the bottom of the tower, Ivar passed into the courtyard. With one foot in the present and the other in the past, he failed to note the
round-bellied man blocking his way until he was almost atop him. Ivar recognized Antonio Gravel immediately. The current secretary-general for the Club of Rome did not look pleased.

And Ivar knew why. He had hoped to put the man off for another few hours, but clearly it could not wait. The two men had been butting heads ever since Ivar joined the ranks of his organization.

The Club of Rome was an international think tank comprised of industrialists, scientists, world leaders, and even royalty. Since its inception in 1968, it had grown into an organization encompassing thirty countries across five continents. The main goal of the organization was to raise awareness of critical global crises that threatened the future. Ivar’s father had been one of the founding members.

After his father died, Ivar assumed his position and discovered the Club of Rome suited both his personality and his needs. Over the passing years, he thrived in the organization, rising to take a leadership position. As a result, Antonio Gravel felt threatened and had spent the past months growing into an ever larger thorn in Ivar’s side.

Still, Ivar kept his expression warm and inviting. “Ah, Antonio, I don’t have much time. So why don’t you walk with me?”

Antonio followed him as he set off across the courtyard. “You’ll have to find the time, Ivar. I allowed this year’s conference to be hosted here in Oslo. The least you can do is to properly address my concerns.”

Ivar kept his face passive. Gravel had
allowed
nothing, but fought Ivar every step of the way. The man had wanted this year’s summit to take place in Zurich, home of the club’s new international secretariat. But Ivar had outmanipulated the secretary-general, coaxing the summit to Oslo, mostly because of a special excursion Ivar had arranged, scheduled for the last day of the conference, a trip limited to the top tier involved in the summit organization.

“As secretary-general of the Club of Rome,” Antonio pressed, “I think it’s only fitting that I accompany the VIPs who are heading to Spitsbergen.”

“I understand, but I’m afraid that’s not possible, Antonio. You understand
the sensitive nature of where we’re headed. If it were just me, I’d of course welcome your company, but it was the Norwegian government that limited the number of visitors to Svalbard.”

“But …” As Antonio struggled to find a suitable argument, the raw desire shone from his face.

Ivar let him stew. It had cost Viatus a mint to arrange a fleet of corporate jets to fly the elite of the conference to the remote Norwegian island of Spitsbergen in the Arctic Ocean. The goal of the trip was a private tour of the Svalbard Global Seed Vault. The vast underground seed bank had been established to store and preserve the seeds of the world, specifically crop seeds. It had been buried in that perpetually frozen and inhospitable place in case of a global disaster—natural or otherwise. If such an event should ever transpire, the frozen and buried seeds would be preserved for a future world.

It was why Svalbard had earned the nickname the Doomsday Vault.

“But … I think on such a trip,” Antonio continued, “the executive board of the Club of Rome should show a united front. Food security is so vital today.”

Ivar forced his eyes not to roll. He knew that Antonio Gravel’s desire had nothing to do with food security, but everything to do with his aspiration to rub elbows with the next generation’s world leaders.

“You’re right about food security,” Ivar conceded. “In fact, that very topic will be the focus of my keynote speech.”

Ivar intended to use his keynote to swing the Club of Rome’s resources in a new direction. It was a time for true action. Still, he read Antonio’s darkening expression. Anger had replaced the man’s coddling tones.

“Speaking of your speech,” Antonio said bitterly, “I obtained an early draft and read it.”

Ivar stopped and turned to the man. “You read my speech?” No one was supposed to know its content. “Where did you get it?”

Antonio dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you can’t give such a speech and still expect to represent the Club of Rome. I’ve brought the matter up with Copresident
Boutha. And he concurs. Now is not the time to broadcast warnings of imminent world collapse. It’s … it’s irresponsible.”

Blood burned the chill from Ivar’s face. “Then when
is
that time?” he asked, working his tight jaw. “When the world has slid into chaos and ninety percent of its population is dead?”

Antonio shook his head. “That’s what I’m talking about. You’ll make the club look like madmen and doomsayers. We won’t tolerate it.”

“Tolerate it? The core of my speech comes from the Club of Rome’s own published report.”

“Yes, I know.
The Limits to Growth.
You cite it often enough in your speech. That was written back in 1972.”

“And it’s even more timely today. The report outlines in great detail the collapse that the world is currently barreling straight for.”

Ivar had studied
The Limits to Growth
in great detail, mapping out its charts and data. The report modeled the future of the world, where population continued to grow exponentially while food production only grew arithmetically. Eventually the population would outstrip its ability to produce food to sustain itself. It would hit such a point like a locomotive and overshoot it. Once that happened, chaos, starvation, and war would ensue, with the end result being the annihilation of mankind. Even the most conservative models showed that 90 percent of the world population would die as a result. The studies had been repeated elsewhere with the same dire results.

Antonio shrugged, dismissing the entire matter. Ivar balled a fist and came close to breaking the man’s nose.

“That speech,” Antonio said, oblivious to the danger. “What you’re advocating is radical population control. It will never be stomached.”

“It must be,” Ivar argued. “There’s no way we can dodge what’s coming. The world has gone from four billion to six billion in only two decades. And it shows no signs of slowing. We’ll be at nine billion in another twenty years. And even now, the world is running out of arable farmland, global warming is wreaking havoc, and our oceans are dying. We will hit that overshoot point sooner than anyone is expecting.”

Ivar grabbed Antonio’s arm, letting his passion show. “But we can mitigate its impact by planning now. There is only
one
way to avoid complete worldwide collapse—and that’s to slowly and steadily lower the human biomass of this planet
before
we hit that overshoot point. The future of mankind depends on it.”

“We’ll manage just fine,” Antonio said. “Or don’t you have faith in your own research? Aren’t the GM foods your corporation is patenting supposed to open new lands, produce greater yields?”

“But even that will only buy us a small window of time.”

Antonio glanced at his watch. “Speaking of time, I must be going. I’ve delivered Boutha’s message. You’ll have to adjust your speech accordingly if you wish to deliver the keynote.”

Ivar watched the man stride off toward the drawbridge that spanned the Kirkegata entrance.

Standing in the courtyard, Ivar remained as rain began to drizzle out of the sky, the first portent of a greater deluge. He let the icy drops cool the pounding of his heart. He would address these matters with the copresident of the club later. Perhaps he should temper his rhetoric. Maybe it was better to use a more gentle hand on the rudder that steered the world’s fate.

Calmed again and resolute, he headed across the courtyard toward the bulk of Akershus Church with its large rosette window. He was already late for the meeting. Within the Club of Rome, Ivar had gathered like-minded men and women, those willing to make hard choices, to stand by their convictions. While Antonio and the two copresidents might be the figureheads of the Club of Rome, Ivar Karlsen and his inner cabal kept their own pact, a club within the club—a heart of iron, beating with the hope of the planet.

Crossing into the church, Ivar saw that the others had already gathered within the small brick-walled nave. Chairs had been pushed to one side, and a choral stage had been set up to the left of the altar. Arched windows let in murky light, while a brightly lit gilt chandelier sought to add a meager bit of cheer.

Faces turned as Ivar entered. Twelve in all.

They were the true powers behind the club: leaders of industry, Nobel Prize—winning scientists, government representatives from major nations, even a Hollywood celebrity whose high-profile advocacy had drawn both attention and money to their group’s causes.

Each served a specific purpose.

Even the man who approached Ivar now. He was dressed in a black suit and wore a haunted expression.

“Good morning, Ivar,” the man said and offered his hand.

“Senator Gorman, please accept my condolences for your loss. What has happened in Mali … I should have spent more to secure the camp.”

“Do not blame yourself.” The senator gripped Ivar’s shoulder. “Jason knew the dangers. And he was proud to be involved in such an important project.”

Despite the reassurance, the senator was plainly uncomfortable with the topic, still raw from the death of his son. From a distance, the two men could almost be brothers. Sebastian Gorman stood as tall and weathered as Ivar, but he kept his white hair neatly trimmed, his suit pressed to a razor edge.

Ivar was surprised to find the senator here, but perhaps he shouldn’t have been. In the past, Gorman had proven to be unwavering in his determination. The U.S. senator had been instrumental in expanding biofuel research and development throughout the Western world. The summit here was important to his issue. And with an election coming up, the senator would find time to mourn for his son later.

Still, Ivar understood the man’s pain. He’d lost a wife and son in childbirth when he was in his early thirties. The tragedy had come close to destroying him back then. He had never remarried.

“Are we ready to get started?” the senator asked, stepping away.

“Yes. We should begin. We have much ground to cover.”

“Good.”

As the senator gathered everyone toward the bank of waiting chairs,
Ivar stared at his back. He felt no twinge of guilt. Viatus meant the
path of life.
And sometimes that path was hard, requiring sacrifices to be made.

Like the death of Jason Gorman.

Upon Ivar’s orders, the young man had been murdered.

A tragic loss, but he could afford no regrets.

8
October 11, 8:14 A.M.
Rome, Italy

They had less than a minute. The unexpected
guests
that the innkeeper had warned about were headed up. Gray didn’t want to be there when they arrived.

He led everyone in a rush down the hall toward the hotel’s fire escape. It was just around the corner from his room. Reaching the window, he tugged it open and stepped aside for Rachel.

“Head down,” he ordered. “Get out of sight.”

Rachel clambered through the window and onto the iron ladder.

Gray pointed to Kowalski, poking him in the chest. “Stay with her.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” he answered and followed.

Seichan stood two steps away in the hallway, her legs wide, her arms out, her hands cradling a black Sig Sauer pistol. She kept it pointed down the hall.

“Do you have another weapon?” he asked.

“I’ve got it covered. Get moving.”

Muffled voices arose down the hall, along with the creak of wooden floorboards. The assassins had reached their floor and were headed toward their room. The hotel’s convoluted layout had probably saved their lives, bought them just enough time to slip the ambush.

But not much more than that.

Gray backed to the window and ducked through. Seichan came next. Without even turning, she back-stepped cleanly through the open window, never dropping her guard of the hallway.

Rachel and Kowalski were already headed down. They were a floor below when shots suddenly fired up at them. Gray didn’t hear the blasts, but he did recognize the
pings
of ricochets and the puffs of brick dust from the wall.

Kowalski cursed, pulled Rachel behind him, and began a fast retreat back up the fire escape.

Gray spotted the shooter, half-hidden by a Dumpster. The bastards already had the alley exit covered. Seichan fired back. The gunman ducked away, but her pistol had no silencer. The blasts stung Gray’s ears and were surely loud enough to be heard by the assassins inside.

“Make for the roof!” he ordered.

The shooter below took potshots as they fled, but Seichan kept him pinned down, and the iron cage of the fire escape helped shelter them. Luckily, they didn’t have far to go. The hotel was only five stories high.

Reaching the top, Gray herded everyone away from the roof’s edge. He stared across the expanse of pigeon droppings, vent pipes, and graffiti-sprayed heating and cooling equipment. They needed another way down. Even now he heard boots landing hard on the fire escape’s iron railings. The others were headed up after them.

Gray pointed to the far side of the hotel. Another building abutted it. It was one story shorter. They had to get out of sight, or at least out of the direct line of fire.

They sprinted for the low wall that separated the two buildings. Gray reached it first and leaned over. A whitewashed metal ladder was bolted to the side of the hotel and led down to the lower building’s roof.

“Go!”

Rachel rolled over the edge and scrambled down the rungs. Kowalski didn’t bother to wait his turn. He grabbed the edge of the wall, hung by his fingers, and merely dropped. He landed on his backside on the tarpapered roof below.