It was not one of the assassins.
And not even a stranger.
Marco groaned with recognition, which drew the newcomer's attention. The man stiffened in surprise, then hurried over.
"Marco?"
Too weak to gain his feet, all Marco could do was stare, momentarily trapped between hope and suspicion. But as the man rushed toward him, his bearing was plainly full of concern. He was Marco's former teacher, the man who had set up this midnight rendezvous.
"Monsignor Verona...," Marco gasped, setting aside any suspicions, knowing in his heart that this man would never betray him. Marco lifted an arm and raised an empty hand. His other hand clutched the feathered end of the crossbow bolt still imbedded in his belly.
A single flicker of light drew Marco's attention downward. He watched the red diode on the crossbow bolt suddenly blink to green.
No...
The explosion blew Marco across the marble floor. He left a trail of blood, smoke, and a smear of entrails. His belly was left a gutted ruin as he fell to his side at the foot of the altar. His eyes rolled and settled on the towering gilt monument above him.
A name rose hazily to his mind.
Petrus Romanus.
Peter the Roman.
That was the final name on Saint Malachy's prophetic list, the man who would follow the current Holy Father and become the last pope on earth.
With Marco's failure this night, such a doom could not be stopped.
Marco's vision darkened. His ears grew deaf. He had no strength left to speak. Lying on his side, he stared across the apse to the tomb of Pope Urban, to the bronze skeleton climbing out of the pope's crypt. From its bony finger, Marco had hung the tiny satchel that he'd protected for so long. He pictured the ancient mark burned into its leather.
It held the only hope for the world.
He prayed with his last breath that it would be enough.
FIRST
THE SPIRAL AND THE CROSS
VIATUS®
Tuesday, May 9-For immediate release
VIATUS SETS SIGHTS ON WORLDWIDE FOOD SECURITY
OSLO, NORWAY (BUSINESS WIRE)-Viatus International, the world's market-leading petrochemical company, announced today the creation of its new Crop Biogenetics Research and Development Division.
"The mission of the new division is to develop technologies that will boost agricultural productivity to meet the rising global demand for food, feed, and fuel," said Ivar Karlsen, CEO of Viatus International.
"With the establishment of our company's Crop Biogenics division," Karlsen said, "we intend to meet this challenge with all our resources, establishing the equivalent of an agricultural Manhattan Project. Failure is not an option-not for our company, not for the world."
In recent years, the company's patented hybridization and transgenic technologies have increased grain, corn, and rice yields by 35 percent. Karlsen said Viatus anticipates doubling its improved yield rate within the next five years.
Karlsen explained the necessity for such a new division during his keynote speech today at the World Food Summit in Buenos Aires. Citing the World Health Organization, he noted that one-third of the world is facing starvation. "We are in a global food crisis," he said. "Most of those suffering are in the Third World. Food riots are spreading worldwide and further destabilizing dangerous regions around the globe."
Food security, Karlsen said, has surpassed oil and water as one of the new millennium's greatest crises and challenges. "Both from a humanitarian standpoint and from a concern about global security, it is vital to hasten food production through innovation and biotechnology."
Leading the way in agricultural innovation: Viatus International is a Fortune 100 company based in Oslo, Norway. Founded in 1802, Viatus provides products in 180 countries around the globe, enhancing lives and life quality through research and innovation. It is publicly traded on the NYSE under the symbol VI. The name Viatus is based on the Latin via, the way, and vita, life.
Chapter 1
October 9, 4:55 A.M.
Mali, West Africa
Gunfire woke Jason Gorman from a bone-deep sleep. It took him an extra half breath to remember where he was. He'd been dreaming of swimming in the lake at his father's vacation house in upstate New York. But the mosquito netting that cocooned his cot and the predawn chill of the desert jolted him back to the present.
Along with the screams.
His heart hammering, he kicked away the thin sheet and tore through the netting. Inside the Red Cross tent-cabin, it was pitch-dark, but through the tarp walls, a flickering red glow marked a fire somewhere on the east side of the refugee camp. More flames licked into existence, dancing across all four walls of the tent.
Oh, God...
Though panicked, Jason knew what was happening. He'd been briefed about this before heading to Africa. Over the past year, other refugee camps had been attacked by the Tuareg rebel forces and raided for food. With the price of rice and maize trebled across the Republic of Mali, the capital had been besieged by riots. Food was the new gold in the northern districts of the country. Three million people faced starvation.
It was why he had come here.
His father sponsored the experimental farm project that took up sixty acres on the north side of the camp, funded by the Viatus Corporation and overseen by crop biologists and geneticists from Cornell University. They had test fields of genetically modified corn growing out of the parched soils of the region. The first fields had been harvested just last week, grown with only a third of the water normally necessary for irrigation. Word must have spread to the wrong ears.
Jason burst out of his tent in his bare feet. He still wore the khaki shorts and loose shirt he'd had on when he fell into bed last night. In the predawn darkness, firelight was the only source of illumination.
The generators must've been taken down.
Automatic gunfire and screams echoed through the darkness. Shadowy figures dashed and pushed all around, refugees running in a panic. But the flow was turbulent, heading this way and that. With rifle blasts and the staccato of machine-gun fire arising from all sides, no one knew in which direction to flee.
Jason did.
Krista was still at the research facility. Three months ago he had met her back in the States during his stateside briefing. She had begun sharing Jason's mosquito-netted cocoon only last month. But last night she had stayed behind. She had planned to spend the entire night finishing some DNA assays on the newly harvested corn.
He had to reach her.
Pushing against the tide, Jason headed toward the north side of the camp. As he feared, the gunfire and flames were the most intense there. The rebels intended to raid the harvest. As long as no one tried to stop them, no one had to die. Let them have the corn. Once they had it, they would vanish into the night as quickly as they'd come. The corn was going to be destroyed anyway. It wasn't even meant for human consumption until further studies were done.
Turning a corner, Jason fell over the first body, a teenage boy, sprawled in the alley between the ramshackle hovels that passed for homes here. The teenager had been shot and trampled over. Jason crabbed away from his body and gained his feet. He fled away.
After another frantic hundred yards, he reached the northern edge of the camp. Bodies were sprawled everywhere, piled on one another, men, women, children. It was a slaughterhouse. Some bodies had been torn in half by machine-gun fire. Across the killing field, the research camp's Quonset huts stood like dark ships mired in the West African savannah. No lights shone there-only flames.