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.
Chapter 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 ping s 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.