church. While his journals wouldn't say exactly what had happened to that village, the man did hint at something horrible, suggesting that doomsday might indeed be a more accurate name for that book. He even marked his diary with a pagan symbol, which is what drew me to the tome to begin with.'
'A pagan symbol?' Rachel's hand strayed toward her coat pocket, where she kept the leather satchel with its macabre contents.
Gray placed his palm over her fingers and squeezed gently, his intent plain. Until he knew more about this man, he didn't want Rachel showing him what she'd found. Rachel swallowed, too aware of the heat of Gray's palm on her skin. She slipped her hand away and placed it on top of the table.
Wallace failed to notice their quiet communication. 'The symbol was definitely pagan. Here, let me show you.' He dipped a finger in his glass of ale and drew on the wooden table, with a few deft strokes, a circle and a cross. A familiar symbol.
'A quartered circle,' Gray said.
Wallace's brows rose, and he stared a bit harder at Gray. 'Exactly. You'll find this symbol carved into many ancient sites. But to find a Christian diary marked with it caught my attention.'
Rachel sensed they were drawing near to the heart of the mystery. 'And this diary helped you to find that lost village up in the mountains?'
'Actually, no.' Wallace smiled. 'What I found was even more exciting.'
'What do you mean?' she asked.
Wallace sat back, folded his arms, and swept his gaze over the lot of them. 'Before I answer that, how about you telling me first what's really going on? Like what you're all doing here?'
'I don't understand,' Gray said, feigning confusion, attempting to maintain their cover story as journalists.
'Don't take me for a fool. If you're reporters, I'm a steamin' bampot.' Wallace's gaze settled fully on Rachel. 'Besides, right off, I recognized you, my young lassie. You're Monsignor Verona's niece.'
Shocked, Rachel stared over at Gray. He looked like he'd been punched in the stomach. Kowalski merely rolled his eyes, picked up his glass, and downed the remaining contents in one gulp.
Rachel saw no reason to continue the subterfuge. She faced the professor. She now understood why the man had been staring at her so oddly. 'You know my uncle?'
'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
