Voices echoed up to them. Brighter lights glowed far ahead.
As they walked down the tunnel, Senator Gorman spoke softly and waved an arm at the walls. "Ivar was one of the major financiers for the vault here. He firmly believed in preserving the natural biodiversity of the world and judged all other such seed banks to be inadequate or half-assed."
"I get that about him. Man likes to be in control."
"But in this case, he's probably right. There are over a thousand seed vaults scattered around the world, but a majority of them are threatened. The national seed bank in Iraq was looted and destroyed. In Afghanistan, it was the same. The Taliban broke into their storehouse, not for the seeds, but to steal the plastic containers. And other seed banks are just as fragile. Poor management, suffering economies, failing equipment, all threaten these depositories. But most of all it was a lack of vision."
"And Karlsen stepped in?"
"The vault was the brainchild of the Global Crop Diversity Trust. But when Ivar heard about the project, he added his full support-both financially and vocally." The senator rubbed his temples with his gloved fingertips. "I still can't balance that man with the monster he seems to be. It makes no sense."
They continued in silence. Painter had heard the trace of doubt in Gorman's voice. After the initial shock of betrayal, skepticism had begun to creep back. It was human nature. No one wanted to believe the worst of their best friend or to face their own gullibility and blindness.
Ahead, a group of people massed near the end of the tunnel. The gathering rang with a party atmosphere. Along one wall stood a row of ice sculptures, lit from below to a stunning brilliance: a polar bear, a walrus, a model of the mountain, even the symbol for Viatus. On the other side stood a cold buffet and a steaming coffee bar.
Gorman plucked a champagne flute from a passing hostess. She was dressed in mukluks and a heavy coat. At this event, the parka was the equivalent of a black tie. Two dozen bundled guests crowded the tunnel, but from the number of servers and piles of untouched food, attendance was lower than expected.
Painter knew that the attack at the Grand Hotel-blamed on terrorists-had scared away several of the attendees.
Still, for a party just a hop, skip, and jump from the North Pole, it was a smashing success. At a microphone, a familiar figure was in midspeech. Reynard Boutha, copresident of the Club of Rome, spoke at length about the importance of preserving biodiversity.
"We are in the midst of a genetic Chernobyl. A hundred years ago, the number of varieties of apples cultivated in the United States stood at over seven thousand. Today, it's down to three hundred. Beans numbered almost seven hundred. Now it's down to thirty. Seventy-five percent of the world's biodiversity has vanished in just one century. And every day another species goes extinct. We must act now to preserve what we can before it's lost forever. That's why the Svalbard Global Seed Vault is so important, why we must continue to raise money and awareness..."
As Boutha continued, Painter spotted Karlsen across the crowd. He was flanked by two women. One was svelte and tall with long blond hair, her face mostly hidden within the hood of her parka. The other woman was older and bent Karlsen's ear as Boutha spoke.
"Who's that?" Painter asked, indicating the woman speaking to Karlsen.
"She's the former president of Rockefeller's Population Council and another member of Ivar's inner circle. They've been friends for years."
Painter knew about the Population Council. They were major advocates for population control through family planning and birth control, and if you believed some of the wilder rumors and rhetoric, some of their methods bordered on eugenics.
No wonder Karlsen was such good friends with her.
Gorman pointed out a few other figures in the crowd who were members of the inner cabal. "That large fellow with the beer gut over there represents a major German chemical and pharmaceutical company. Viatus has been researching how to incorporate one of their insecticides into a new generation of GM crops. If he's successful, it would severely lessen the pesticide load needed in fields, making crops cheaper to grow and increasing yields."
Painter nodded as Gorman listed others. It seemed Karlsen's circle consisted of those who were either seeking ways to address the overpopulation crisis or researching ways to increase food supplies. The senator was right. The man did seem to have the world's welfare at heart.
So how did that balance with a man who ordered the massacre of a village and who pushed forward the wholesale release of a genetic threat that could contaminate and corrupt the biosphere?
The senator's earlier assessment was right.
It didn't make sense.
Painter drew his attention back to Karlsen. Before he confronted the man, he wanted to know all the key players. "What about that other woman," he asked, "the blonde practically hanging off Karlsen's arm?"
Gorman squinted. "I don't know. She looks vaguely familiar, but she's not a member of his inner circle. Maybe just a friend."
Satisfied, Painter nudged Gorman and headed through the crowd. In such a gathering, it was doubtful Karlsen would do anything directly to threaten them. Where could he run?
Shifting through the partygoers, Painter soon stood before Karlsen. The man was momentarily alone, having finished his conversation with the Population Council president. Even the woman hanging on his arm had wandered off toward the buffet table.
Karlsen failed to recognize Painter. His gaze skipped over and fixed on Senator Gorman instead. The Norwegian's face immediately brightened with delight as he thrust out an arm.
Reflexively, Gorman shook it.
"Dear God, Sebastian," Karlsen said. "When did you get here? How did you get here? I tried calling your hotel when you didn't show up at the airport. With all the commotion after that attack last night, I couldn't get through. I thought maybe you'd flown home."
"No. Security just moved me to a new hotel," Gorman explained smoothly. "I couldn't make it to the airport in time, and I didn't want to hold everyone up. So I booked my own flight."
"You didn't have to do that. I insist that Viatus cover your expenses."
Painter watched the two interact. Though the senator put on a good show, he was plainly out of sorts, clearly on edge and unsettled.
Karlsen, on the other hand, looked genuinely pleased to see the senator. His expression was sincere. Painter could read no evidence that the man standing here had ordered the senator's assassination the night before. Either Karlsen truly wasn't involved or he was one frighteningly cool customer.
Gorman glanced over at Painter. The senator's expression radiated growing doubt. He stammered for a moment, then lifted a hand toward Painter. "I think you've already met the investigator from the office of the Inspector General."
The Norwegian's weighty gaze dropped on Painter. A moment of confusion settled back to recognition. "Of course, I'm sorry. We spoke briefly yesterday. You'll have to forgive me. It's been an insane twenty-four hours."
Tell me about it, Painter thought.
As he shook Karlsen's hand, he continued to study the man's face, looking for cracks in his demeanor. If the man knew Painter was more than just a DCIS agent, he wasn't showing it.
"The senator was kind enough to allow me to join him," Painter said. "I had hoped we might still conduct our interview. I only have a few questions, to tie up some loose ends. I promise it won't take long. Maybe there's a private place we could chat."
Karlsen looked put out, but he glanced over at Gorman. Maybe for just an instant, Painter spotted a flicker of guilt. It had been the senator's son who had been killed in the massacre in Africa. How could he say no in front of a grieving father?
Karlsen checked his watch, then nodded toward a doorway off to the right. "There are some offices back there. Catering has taken up the front half, but there's a small conference room that should be unoccupied."