Bonereapers (11 page)

“Diversity is overrated. When bellies are empty, it’s quantity and reliability that count.” He took a last puff on his cigarette and pitched it out the window. “That’s where back-to-Eden purists like Eftevang lose the high ground.”

“But you make gene modification sound altruistic, when what you’re really doing is converting other people’s seeds into patented Tillcorp products to sell back to them at a profit.”

“It’s called intellectual property. If our scientists design a seed, we should be compensated for our invention like any other inventor.”

“Year after year?”

Mahler must have heard it all before. He gave no sign that he’d taken offense. “Seventy-five percent of the earth’s plant varieties have gone extinct in the last hundred years and today, sixty percent of the human diet comes from four foods—corn, rice, wheat, and potatoes, all of them susceptible to disease. We don’t want to stamp out diversity or cram our products down the throats of people who don’t want them. But incredible scientific advances are on the horizon—fruits that can produce vaccines against infectious diseases, fish that mature faster, cows that are resistant to mad cow disease. It’s our obligation as leaders in the field of biotechnology and genetic engineering to devise new solutions, to take the knowledge embodied in disease-prone seeds and transform them into disease-resistant seeds. Already, our creations are an insurance against hunger in many parts of the world, improving both the yield and quality of the harvest.”

She said, “It’s convenient that the agreement between local gene banks and the Svalbard vault allow you to glom onto any seeds you like for experimentation.”

“So what? The vast majority of the seeds aren’t cultivated today. The Svalbard Vault is like a museum. Same with the local banks. If a seed can’t grow a crop that will sustain a hungry population, what good is it? My company re-engineers the duds and makes them useful.”

The senators and Valerie spilled out of the vault and into the blue-green light like Martians emerging from the mother ship. They walked toward the cars, slipping and sliding on the slick walkway.

Dinah said, “I don’t know what’s the right way to think about gene modification. I don’t know why my talking to Brander Aagaard or Erika Sheridan worries Valerie. It seems to me that if anything poses a danger to your company’s objectives in Norway, it’s the murder of Fritjoe Eftevang.”

“Did Aagaard tell you Eftevang was peddling a rumor that Tillcorp profited from the famine in Myzandia?” The timbre of menace in his voice was unmistakable.

She hesitated.

“Well, did he?”

“As a matter of fact, he did.”

“Well, it’s a crock. Eftevang had an ax to grind. He listened to the wrong people and cherry-picked his facts to support his opinions. Now Aagaard is angling to do the same.”

“If the rumor is false, why are you so uptight about it?”

“Myzandia.” The word came out in a hiss of disgust. “Every kind of scam and swindle under the sun spews out of that stinking pesthole.” He opened the car door and the overhead light flashed on his face. It was congested with anger. He stood outside waiting for Valerie and Halverson, but after a few seconds he poked his head back inside. “You want to know why I’m uptight? I’ll tell you why. Because even smart people will buy into a fairy tale if it pits the poor against rich SOBs like me.” He smiled a sly, malign smile. “Ask Whit Keyes, why don’t you? He can tell you what it’s like doing business down there.”

Chapter Fourteen

Mahler relinquished the driver’s seat to Halverson and insisted, with notably diminished cordiality, that Dinah remain up front. He sat behind Halverson and Valerie sat behind Dinah. She could feel their hostility percolating through her headrest.

Valerie announced that the airport runways would be plowed and the tower opened by the next morning. Herr Dybdahl had reassured the senators that the Eftevang business wouldn’t cause them any further inconvenience and they could leave tomorrow.

“What about Ramberg?” asked Mahler.

“His hands are tied. Dybdahl has the governor’s ear. The governor of Svalbard is the de facto chief of police.”

Halverson drove at a saner pace on the return and even tried to make chitchat. “At the turn of the last century, there were five hundred and seventy-eight varieties of beans in your country alone.”

Dinah was abstracted, trying to work out whether Mahler was a devil or a misunderstood idealist. Whether Fritjoe Eftevang was a purveyor of dreck or an idealist murdered for the crimes he was about to expose.

“Guess.” Halverson directed this imperative to Dinah. “Guess how many there are today.”

“Beans? I don’t know. Two hundred? Two-fifty?”

“We have just thirty varieties in the vault.”

“Really?” She didn’t like beans. Thirty sounded like plenty.

“Beans supply more protein and nutriments at a lower price than any other food plant.”

“Who knew?”

“Thiamin, folate, niacin. Beans are a miracle food. And East Africa has the highest consumption of beans in the world.”

“Good for them.” She didn’t like to think of herself as anti-science. Mahler’s spiel was persuasive. The world was evolving. Animals and plants evolved to meet a changing environment. Maybe it wasn’t so bad if science hurried evolution along and businessmen rewarded themselves for driving the process. There would always be those who resisted progress, but it was inexorable and, apart from the A-bomb, it generally improved people’s lives and longevity.

Halverson lectured on. “Africa is always the worst case. Drought is a constant problem and beans are vulnerable to extremes of climate. Germination depends upon…”

Mahler inclined his head over the front seat. “Tell Dinah what Tillcorp did about the bean blight in Myzandia, Peder.”

“There was root rot in the late nineties and it was hard to reach the small growers to inform them about newly developed, rot-resistant seeds. Tillcorp paid the people who sell soft drinks and snacks to disseminate the information at their kiosks. They also paid the workers at health clinics to spread the word.”

Dinah frowned. How did Halverson know what Tillcorp had done in Myzandia? Had he worked for the company?

“Tell her what else we did,” urged Mahler.

“Tillcorp distributed free bags of seeds. Famine was averted.”

Mahler sat back, apparently feeling vindicated.

Dinah rolled over in her mind what he had said about Whitney Keyes and Myzandia. Ask Whit Keyes. Did his foundation have health clinics in Myzandia? Had Tillcorp’s free, non-reproducing seeds been distributed by Keyes’ clinics? Were they also the targets of false rumors and scams? Whatever happened in Africa, she thought how ironic it was that here—six hundred miles from the North Pole—the continent with the hottest recorded temperatures on earth should be so much on everyone’s mind.

***

Back at the hotel, Dinah went straight to her room and turned up the thermostat. She brewed herself a cup of hot tea and phoned Norris Frye’s room. Either he wasn’t there or he wasn’t answering. She left him a message that the hapai banana shoots had been duly delivered, cataloged, and locked away in the Svalbard Vault for the next ten thousand years, or until such time as they might be wanted to re-vegetate a tropical island or to supply a corporate breeder with genetic material for experimentation.

She placed a call to Eleanor without knowing exactly where to begin the conversation. Local seed banks acquired the seeds from growers and collectors and, in turn, they consigned samples of the seeds to the Svalbard Vault. The samples on deposit in Svalbard couldn’t be touched except upon request of the donor. But the contracting donor was the local seed bank, not the individual grower, and there was no guarantee that the local seed bank wouldn’t allow the seeds to be removed and re-engineered into a miracle food or a Frankenstein by Tillcorp or anyone else who asked.

Eleanor didn’t answer her phone. Dinah hung up and worked out the time difference. Longyearbyen was twelve hours ahead of Hilo, which would make it two o’clock in the morning Eleanor’s time. Lucky thing Eleanor hadn’t picked up. Dinah was already imagining a very edgy conversation.

The person she most wanted to talk to was Thor. She needed to warn him that Dybdahl had short-circuited his investigation and his American
mistenkeligs
would slip the net tomorrow. But Thor didn’t answer either. It was a trifecta of frustration. She wouldn’t be surprised if Dybdahl had sent Thor on a wild goose chase until the senators had made their getaway. She might never see him or talk with him again, although she wasn’t sure what she would say to him. She had no idea if anything she’d learned from Mahler or Peder Halverson bore on Eftevang’s murder. So far, Africa seemed to be the only connection between the dead man and the Americans.

If Valerie had her way, she might never have the chance to talk with Erika again either. Sheridan would probably keep her locked up in his suite on the return flight. Dinah felt stymied. And then she thought of Brander Aagaard. Valerie couldn’t keep her from talking to him. She would be very interested to hear his rejoinder to Mahler’s side of the story about Myzandia. She didn’t know where he was staying, but it would have to be a place where smoking was tolerated.

A drop of sweat dribbled out of her hair and she realized that the room was sweltering. Fire or ice, there was no in-between in this town. She lowered the thermostat, washed her face and, on the spur of the moment, decided to return to the Kaffe & Kantine. With luck, Aagaard would be there drinking
kaffe
and Akevitt and, if he wasn’t, she would stick around for a late lunch. Maybe on her walk there or back, she would spot Thor riding around in his patrol car and flag him down. When her body temperature had returned to normal, she re-dressed for the opposite extreme.

The lobby was filling up with rosy-cheeked tourists who’d apparently returned from their outings. They milled about in front of the big fireplace with drinks in their hands, telling stories of dogsled rides and snøscooter safaris, asking each other when the aurora borealis might again become visible, and gossiping about the murder. A flame-haired woman with a Texas accent introduced herself as a psychic and held forth on the disposition to murder by birth sign. “I have a strong feeling that the murderer is a Cancer,” she said. “But don’t take my word for it. FBI statistics show that Cancer is the most dangerous sign of the zodiac.”

Dinah finished lacing up her boots, pulled on her balaclava and Erika’s parka, and headed out into the darkness. There were more people on the street this afternoon, almost all of them wearing ski masks and more than a few toting rifles. In most places, the citizens would freak out at the sight of so many armed and masked individuals. In Longyearbyen, nobody batted an eye.

In spite of the ski mask, the cold paralyzed her face. She quickened her steps, but by the time she reached the Kaffe & Kantine, she was half-frozen again. Erika was right. Too much warmth made the cold feel all the colder.

When she stepped inside the Kantine, her face felt too stiff to speak.

“
God dag,
” said the man behind the counter. He was the same man who’d brought Aagaard his Akevitt. Lars, Aagaard had called him. He had a lean and wiry frame, but the skin on his face sagged like the dewlaps on a bloodhound.

She peeled off her balaclava and looked around. Except for Lars, the place was deserted.

“
Komme
in.
Komme
in.” He walked around the counter with a bottle of clear liquid. “
Sider? Glögg
?”

“No, thanks. I was hoping I’d find the gentleman I met here yesterday morning. Herr Aagaard?”

He shook his head, which caused the skin around his mouth to jiggle.

Aagaard had spoken to him in English. She tried again. “Wild hair, high-pitched voice. He smoked and drank a good deal of Akevitt.”

“
Ja, ja
. He was in for
frokost
.”

“Do you think he’ll come back later?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did he say where he was going when he left?”

“
Ja
. It was
merkelig
.”

“Is that a business in town? If you could give me the address…”

“
Merkelig
? No.
Merkelig
is odd. What he said was odd.”

“Odd in what way?”

“He is not someone I would expect to go to the
kirke
.”

“What is that, sir?”

“The house of
Gud
.”

Dinah’s astonishment must have showed.

He expounded. “Where you go to pray. Red steeple. You can see it from here.”

She couldn’t picture Aagaard in a church. Had he gone to meet someone?
Frokost
was hours ago. He’d be long gone by now. “Do you serve lunch?

“
Nei
.”

“Well, thanks anyway.
Takk
.” She turned to go, then turned back. “How late are you open?”

“Midnight. Maybe your friend will come back.”

“Maybe.” She replaced her balaclava. “Well, good-bye.”

“
Adjø
.”

“Right.”

She left and made her way toward the library. The server should be back up and running by now and she could at least see what rumors and conspiracy theories about Myzandia were circulating in cyberspace.

Snowmobiles scooted up and down the street and there were lots of people out walking and speaking in a medley of languages—German, French, Spanish, English. Tourists or students from the university, she guessed.

Today the library was lit up like a Las Vegas casino. A person with a satchel of books over his shoulder and a white skull face mask over his head was leaving as Dinah entered. She took off her balaclava and looked around for the librarian. A young man sat at a table and pored over a large, oppressive-looking tome. She went and stood beside the information desk.

After a couple of minutes, she cleared her throat. “Excuse me. Is the librarian here?”

The young man looked up from his tome. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. I’m the librarian.” He got up and came around to the desk. “How may I help you?”

“Isn’t there another librarian? An older, heavyset gentleman with a white beard?”

“No. I’m the only one who works here weekdays and the Saturday fill-in is a woman.”

Dinah’s confidence crumbled. When was she going to quit jumping to conclusions? She should have known that librarians don’t wear baseball caps on the job or act shocked when a patron walks in the door. Come to think of it, she had been wearing a mask and Erika’s parka. The fat man had looked startled when he saw her face. He must have been expecting Erika.

“Is there something in particular you were looking for?”

“I came to use your computer yesterday, but the gentleman told me your server was down.”

“The server is up, but our computers have been taken away to be repaired and upgraded.”

“I don’t suppose you’d have a personal computer that I could use for a few minutes?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

Thwarted at every turn. Well, this was God’s way of telling her to go home and leave Longyearbyen’s Sami constable to grapple with Eftevang’s murder and its African ramifications. She thanked the librarian, jerked on her face mask, and shoved off.

The absence of sunlight was taking a toll on her ability to think, constructively or otherwise. She felt despondent, alien, lonely, at loose ends. On an impulse, she decided to go to the church. Not to play sleuth, although she did wonder what had possessed Aagaard to visit a house of worship. But she wondered a lot of things and the way events were shaping up, she would die wondering. She had accomplished her mission for Eleanor and from this point, it hardly mattered what she did with her last few hours in Longyearbyen. Church seemed like a good place to sit for a while and meditate.

A sign at the cross street pointed her up the hill toward the
kirke
. As it happened, she wasn’t the only one going in that direction. A pair of reindeer trotted along just ahead of her, snuffling and snorting. She couldn’t keep up with them, but stayed in their tracks and the walking seemed easier. The widely-spaced street lamps showed the odd human boot track, too. She climbed above the houses and at the top of the hill, her four-legged companions diverged and started downhill again. She read the sign in front of the church, printed in several languages, “Lutheran State Church. Northernmost Church in the World.” The wind had blown the snow off the steeple’s conical roof in places and she saw that it was black atop the red tower. Another sign outside the door read, “No Guns in Sanctuary.” The gun rack held one rifle. Presumably, there was no fear of a polar bear following an unarmed worshiper into the sanctuary.

In the vestibule, Dinah took off her boots and lined them up in a rack next to four other pairs. No inside slippers were provided. A wooden table held a large coffee urn, several plates of cookies, and picture postcards describing the church, which apparently never closed. Brochures in every language were displayed on graduated shelves and a motley collection of souvenirs had been laid out for purchase on the honor system. Pens, mugs, socks, and cutesy stuffed polar bears with button eyes. Dinah’s eye was drawn to a pair of red, fleece-lined mittens with “Longyearbyen” embroidered on the cuffs. She took off her gloves and tried them on. They were a perfect fit and much warmer than what she had. Like everything else in Norway, the mittens cost three times what they would have cost anywhere else. But when the chill factor dipped below zero, any additional warmth seemed a bargain at twice the price. There were also a few chemical hand warmers which she dropped into her bag. She happily overpaid for her merchandise and padded into the sanctuary in her sock feet.