Bonereapers (10 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Halverson parked behind Herr Dybdahl’s car. They donned their coats and gloves and plodded through deep snow to get to a partially shoveled concrete walkway that climbed toward the entrance.

Dinah didn’t think she’d need the balaclava just walking between the car and the door, but the wind ripped off her hood and blasted her face. Her hair lashed around her eyes and she covered her ears with her hands. Mahler pulled the hood back onto her head.

“Thanks,” she said through chattering teeth.

They were greeted at the entrance by an armed member of some branch or other of the Norwegian military. Herr Dybdahl, the videographer, and the senators, looking cold and crabby, were clearly tired of waiting. Only Tipton appeared bouncy and chipper.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” said Sheridan.

The guard unlocked the gate and motioned them through.

“Follow me.” Dybdahl led the way. “This first section isn’t completely sealed off from outside air and you must mind your step. As the permafrost walls thaw and refreeze, water drips onto the floor and it becomes slippery.”

“The permafrost acts as a natural insulation,” added Halverson.

Dybdahl rattled off facts and figures like a docent. “There are four steel-reinforced, air-locked doors in the tunnel before you reach the actual vaults. The walls are three meters thick and there is twenty-four hour video surveillance operated from Sweden. It is, how do you say in English…?”

“Impregnable,” said Valerie, her breath escaping in a long white plume.

“Yes,” said Dybdahl. “It is designed to function without any human intervention.”

Valerie’s boots skidded on the icy concrete and Mahler caught her before she went down.

Dybdahl unlocked the second door and they proceeded into a long metal tube. Dinah’s face tautened from the cold. Her nostrils hurt and she fought down a nascent feeling of claustrophobia.

“How many seeds do you have at present?” asked Mahler.

“Approximately twenty million varieties. We have fifteen hundred varieties of Peruvian potatoes, alone.” Dybdahl obviously knew the contents of his vault down to the last pip.

Some twenty yards ahead, a folding table had been set up with a photographer’s screen behind it.

Dybdahl said, “We have chosen this place for the video. Peder Halverson will log in the seeds as you present them and Rolf will videotape each presentation.”

“I’ll help Rolf set things up,” said Tipton. He removed the packets of American seeds from the briefcases and lined them up on the table.

Rolf adjusted his light meter and shouldered his camcorder. “Ready when you are.”

“Go ahead and log in the Hawaiian stuff, Peder,” said Valerie. “No need to film that.”

“If it’s not on film,” said Keyes, “Norris will think we dumped his blue state’s contribution on the side of the road.” He looked back and saw Dinah. “Come on, Dinah. Say a few words into the camera about what it is you’re depositing.”

Dinah felt trapped, in more ways than one. She stepped forward, took the packet of seeds from Tipton, and looked into the camera. She would have delivered a caveat to the world’s gardeners if she thought it would ever be seen or heard. But it wouldn’t and, anyway, Norris was counting on her to act in a responsible way on his behalf. She said, “These are offshoots of the hapai banana donated by the Hawaiian Seed Savers Exchange. The hapai produces a sweet, ball-shaped banana. It was known as the “pregnant” banana because it grows inside the trunk of the tree and is ripe when the trunk becomes swollen. The hapai was one of the few varieties that women were allowed to eat during the period of Hawaiian history when kapu laws put many foods off limits to women. These offshoots should be stored in your cryopreservation chamber and kept extra cold.” She handed the packet to Halverson and stood aside.

He transferred the packet into a thick silver envelope and labeled it with the name and provenance of the seed and the date of deposit. He then logged the entry into a laptop computer.

“I’ll go next,” said Keyes. “Mind if I place the seeds into the envelope, myself, Peder? American viewers like to see the do-it-yourself spirit at work.”

“Brilliant,” enthused Tipton.

Keyes took the packet Tipton handed him and smiled into the camera. “Everybody knows that the first Thanksgiving was celebrated in Plymouth, Massachusetts, in sixteen-twenty-one. Those early American pilgrims didn’t have the opportunity to enjoy pumpkin pie at their first meal, but they soon learned that the land in which they had settled grows the finest pumpkins in the world. On behalf of the Great State of Massachusetts, I hereby donate these seeds so that future generations will never be deprived of this wonderful food.” He inserted the seed packet into the vault’s heavy-duty, silver envelope and folded over the self-sealing flap. In a seemingly heartfelt coda, he said, “Senator Sheridan and I would have preferred to store these American seeds in an American seed bank in Alaska, or there are some pretty cold places in Senator Sheridan’s home state of Montana. But given the enormity of our national debt, that isn’t feasible unless and until we embark on a domestic policy that makes use of America’s God-given natural resources.” He smiled like a Kennedy. “Until that time, Norway is our friend and ally and the Svalbard facility is a superb alternative. We support it wholeheartedly.”

“Oh, that was beautiful,” said Tipton.

Keyes passed the envelope to Halverson and clapped Sheridan on the back. “All right, Colt. You’re on.”

Sheridan picked up his seed packet and faced the camera. “Montana wheat is the plumpest, cleanest, highest…highest quality grain that…grain that…” he faltered and rubbed his forehead.

“Are you all right?” Keyes asked in a worried voice. “We can’t bring a teleprompter in here. Did you memorize the speech Val gave you?”

“It doesn’t have to be verbatim,” said Valerie, giving Sheridan’s arm an encouraging shake. “The object is to sound natural, Colt. If you make a mistake, you can do it again. Right, Tip?”

“Oh, right. It’ll be edited and ultra-professional. We’ll be using a clip on your website and in your campaign video. Whitney and I are assembling a collage of your most compelling TV moments.”

“Take two,” said Rolf.

Sheridan moved heavily, as if he weren’t quite awake. “Montana wheat is the highest quality, most nutritional grain in the world. It is the pride…we take great pride in…”

“Our soil ecology and nutrient replacement programs,” prompted Valerie.

“…our soil ecology and nutrient replacement programs and abundant harvests that permit us to export…we export…”

There was a long pause.

“Eighty percent,” cued Tipton.

Valerie took charge like a protective stage mother. “He has a thousand things on his mind. Let’s start all over again, Colt. Shall we? Let’s take it from the top?”

“Thanks, Val.” He smiled. “Montana wheat is the plumpest, highest quality, most nutritional…”

“Take three,” said Rolf.

Dinah didn’t know what was screwing up Sheridan’s concentration, but she felt the walls of the tube closing in on her. It wasn’t that the space was too small or the ceiling too low. It was the thickness of the walls surrounding this tube, the ice that formed on the hinges of the airlocked doors, the feeling of containment. Her heart was pounding. Sheridan’s words seemed to come from far away. She hugged her arms around her body. All she could think about was the cold and the fear of being buried alive in this cave for ten thousand years, like a living seed sealed up in an airtight, moisture-proof plastic envelope.

She couldn’t stand another take, not another minute. She had to get out from under the weight of this mountain. She turned and bolted headlong down the corridor, skidding, catching herself, not stopping until she ran up against the door.

“Let me out! I can’t breathe!”

Behind her, Sheridan exploded. “Christ! Does that mean I have to start all over again?”

“Somebody shut her up.” Valerie’s voice reverberated behind her. “Jake, get her out, will you? It’s all right, Colt. Once more. You’ve got it down pat, now.”

“Help! Please open the door.”

After what felt like ten thousand years, the door opened and Dinah rushed into the first section. Another locked door lay ahead of her. The sterile, permafrost walls increased her panic. She bent double and took several deep breaths.

Mahler took hold of her arm. “Take it easy. I’ll get you out.”

She wasn’t sure what he did, but the guard opened the first door and she stumbled out into the open and drew in a lung full of burning, icy air that made her wheeze.

“Are you okay?” Mahler sounded genuinely concerned.

“I will be.” She pulled herself together. “I can usually control myself better. Sorry if I messed up the filming.”

“They’ll get it done. Come on. Let’s go back to the car.”

She hunched her shoulders against the wind and made a dash for it. Mahler was surprisingly fast for a stocky man. He beat her to the car and held open the front passenger door for her. She slid in and he ran around and jumped into the driver’s seat.

Halverson had left the keys in the car and Mahler started the engine and turned up the heater. “Brrr. People who live in this godforsaken place have got to have antifreeze in their veins.”

She said, “I feel as if my blood’s congealed.”

“It’s hell for a man like me with no hair on his head.” He laughed. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Go ahead.”

He rolled down the window an inch, lit a Winston with a gold lighter, and leaned his head back on the headrest. “I can’t wait to get back to civilization and that means at least thirty degrees above zero.”

“You’ve been to Longyearbyen before, right?”

“Only once, in the summer. Val’s been here a number of times since the vault opened in oh-eight. She speaks the language like a native. I’ve made our case to the agricultural ministries in most of the capitals of Europe, but Val’s the face of Tillcorp in Norway.”

“She seems more focused on Senator Sheridan’s campaign than Tillcorp’s business.”

“If Colt makes it to the White House, it’ll be a boon for companies like ours. He’s a pragmatist. He doesn’t put his head in the sand about climate change. It’s here and it’s already making a difference in what kinds of crops can be grown and where. Colt understands the potential of genetically modified foods to solve a lot of the world’s problems. He has to tread carefully when he talks about it, but Val can help him make GM products more palatable to the folks in Peoria. Whit Keyes wants to drill off the Atlantic coast and she made that sound palatable even to the Massachusetts liberals.”

“Was she his attorney or his campaign manager?”

“Both. She did a lot of what that Teilhard kid does now. But after a while, Whit was depending on her for everything.”

“And you took her away from him.” Dinah wondered how much Mahler depended on Val. Their communications seemed a bit bumpy. “Will Sheridan take her away from you?”

“Probably.” He laughed. “She’s a great wartime consigliere. She might be more of a loose cannon in peace time.” He took a drag off his cigarette and blew the smoke out the window. “Val seems to think you pose a danger to our, how shall I say? To our aspirations in Norway.”

Dinah’s heart rate had returned to normal and she was beginning to warm up. But there was a suggestion of menace in his voice that chilled her all over again. “I don’t see how I could pose a danger to a multi-national company like Tillcorp.”

“Over the years I’ve learned that big trouble can come in small packages. And Val’s a worrier. She’s noticed that you’re a little too chummy with people who may not have our best interests at heart. Brander Aagaard, Erika Sheridan, and word has it that you were socializing with Inspector Ramberg last night.”

Her neck prickled. Who could have seen her with Aagaard at the Kaffe & Kantine, or with Thor at the Løssluppen? Erika said that Mahler and his guards spied on her. Were they spying on Dinah, too? She tried to sound blasé. “Senator Frye accused Senator Sheridan of being paranoid, but I think Valerie’s the one who’s paranoid.”

“That’s what I told her. You’re smart enough to know what’s what. You can’t believe half the garbage these media types will tell you. They fabricate all kinds of wild stories to keep the lunatic fringe fired up.”

Was he baiting her to find out if she’d heard the cutworm story? Would her knowing about it confirm Valerie’s opinion that she posed a danger? She couldn’t see Mahler’s face in the dark, but she sensed a spring-loaded ferocity under the cordial exterior. She said, “I don’t know anything about your aspirations in Norway. What is it you want from the Norwegians?”

“Not much. Norway is awash in petro dollars and a lot of those dollars are going to buy up farmland in third world countries. Depressed prices and desperate sellers make land a good investment for their Oil Fund. If I can persuade the Norwegians to teach the local peasants to plant our seeds, we can end hunger in the world within five years. We can eliminate those recurring African famines and never have to see another documentary of skin-and-bone children dying of starvation in their mothers’ arms.”

This high-minded speech didn’t jibe with Aagaard’s description of corporate greed and callousness. If Valerie thought she and Mahler were being “played,” it went double for Dinah. But by whom? She said, “You sound as if you really mean that.”

“I do mean it. My great-grandparents lived through the potato famine in Ireland and the Dust Bowl put my maternal grandfather out of the farming business in Kansas. Drought, soil erosion, the loss of a hundred million acres in the American heartland. Winds carried the topsoil from Oklahoma and Kansas and Colorado all the way to the East Coast where it rained into the Atlantic. Black blizzards, they called those winds. It was a preventable tragedy. Those bullheaded European immigrants believed that rain would follow their plows and the government encouraged them. They were wrong. Just like today’s wheat farmers are wrong if they believe that fertilizers and crop rotation will keep them in business.”

“But if all the wheat farmers used your seed, wouldn’t that be bad for diversity?”