The Doomsday Key (21 page)

It had to be her.

But she was supposed to be dead, a victim of the Mali massacre. There had been no survivors.

Antonio continued to stare toward the stairwell. What was she doing here, alive and unharmed? And why was she keeping herself hidden, her features under wraps?

Antonio’s eyes narrowed as a slow realization warmed through him. Something was up, something no one was supposed to know about, something tied to Viatus. For years, he’d been seeking some dirt on Ivar, a way to rein the bastard to his will.

At long last, here might be his chance.

But how to best turn it to his advantage?

Antonio swung away, already plotting his game. He knew which card to play first. A man who’d lost a son during that massacre. Senator Gorman. What would the U.S. senator think if he learned there had been a survivor of the attack, someone Ivar was keeping secret?

With a grim smile, he headed off.

The day had suddenly gotten much brighter.

3:15 P.M.

Painter headed under the brick archway that passed through the fortress wall of Akershus. Even though it was only a little after three in the afternoon,
the sun was already low in the sky at this near-Arctic latitude. Beyond the archway, the fjord’s harbor opened. Snow still frosted the verdigris-stained cannons that lined the walkway and pointed out to sea, ready to protect the town against warships. Though at the moment, there was only a Cunard cruise ship parked dockside.

As seagulls swooped and screamed through the diesel-fouled air, Painter continued along the cruise ship’s towering bulk and aimed for the city proper. Over the past hour, he’d kept tabs on Ivar Karlsen, eavesdropping on his conversations. With the bug, he’d had a good chance to discover more details about the CEO, insights that might prove invaluable for tomorrow’s interview.

The conversations had mostly been of mundane matters, but still, it was clear the man was deeply committed to facing issues of hunger and overpopulation. Karlsen was all about real-world solutions and practicality. It was plainly the man’s mission in life.

Painter also caught an intriguing bit of conversation about the drought-resistant corn strains being developed by Viatus, a version of which had been tested at the Mali research farm. As of last week, mass seed shipments were already under way to places around the world, triggering a spike in stock prices for Viatus. And still Ivar was not satisfied. He promised that his company’s Crop Biogenics division was continuing to craft new strains with desirable features: insect-resistant wheat, frost-tolerant citrus, weed-killing soybeans. The list went on and on, including a rape-seed strain that could produce oil essential to the manufacture of biodegradable plastic.

But the conversation had ended on a darker note. Karlsen had brought up a quote from Henry Kissinger. It had been in response to a question about his company’s shift in focus from petrochemicals to engineered seeds. He had said, paraphrasing Kissinger, “Control oil and you control nations, but control
food
and you control all the people of the world.”

Did Karlsen truly believe that?

A few minutes after that, the man had climbed into a corporate limo and left for his research complex outside of Oslo. The hidden microtransceiver had a limited range, so Painter had to abandon his spying for now.
And just as well. Karlsen’s talk about the Crops Biogenics division had lit a fire under Painter. He barely felt the cold as he crossed into the shadow of the towering cruise ship and navigated through the passengers hovering at the gangplank.

He had to prepare for another facet of the investigation, one that would require a bit more stealth this evening.

As he moved through the passengers, a burly figure in a parka bumped against him. Spotting the impact a fraction of a second before, Painter instinctively moved to sidestep him. A fiery lance of pain stabbed into his side.

He spun away from it, catching a flash of silver off a knife held low in the man’s grip. If he hadn’t dodged at the last moment, the blade would’ve struck him square in the stomach. He couldn’t count twice on such a lucky break. The man came at him again.

So far, no one else had noted the attack.

Painter snatched a camera from around one of the oblivious tourists’ necks. Gripping the shoulder strap, he swung the heavy Nikon SLR and struck the attacker square in the ear. As the man fell to the side, Painter leaped in closer, snagged the leather strap around the man’s wrist, and used the grip to wrench his struggling form over his hip and hard to the pavement.

The man’s face struck the cement. A bone snapped in his trapped arm. The knife tumbled across the ground.

As yells erupted all around, Painter vaulted over the prone body, going after the loose weapon. Before he could reach it, the knife suddenly jolted, emitting a sharp hissing, and skittered like a loose rocket across the icy ground. Painter hesitated, recognizing the lethal weapon.

A WASP injector knife.

The dagger’s handle held a bulb of compressed gas, making the blade doubly dangerous. Once stabbed into a victim, the press of a button blasted a basketball-sized volume of cold air through the impaled blade and into the victim’s gut, snap-freezing and pulverizing all internal organs. It could kill a brown bear with one jab.

Propelled by the blast of gas, the knife rocketed into the tangle of
boots and legs. The waterfront had erupted in chaos. Some people fled from the fight; others crowded closer. Someone shouted, “That guy stole my camera!”

A slew of ship security personnel pounded down the gangway. More forced their way through the crowd.

Painter clutched a hand to his side and dove into the chaos of the churning crowd. The heavy coat and last-minute dodge had saved his life. Still, hot blood welled through his fingers. Fire flamed his side. He could not get caught. Still, it wasn’t only security he had to worry about. As he ran, he kept watch on the crowd around him.

Had the attacker come alone?

Not likely.

As Painter stumbled through the passengers and tourists, he searched faces around him and watched hands. How many others were disguised like the first one, planted in the crowd and guarding this exit out of Akershus?

He knew one thing for certain. This had been no random mugging. Not with the attacker wielding a WASP injector. Somehow his cover had been blown. A net had been set up around the fortress grounds.

He had to get clear of the docks, put some distance between himself and the ambush. The crowds grew less tight around him as he hopped into the parklands that bordered the dock. Icy snow covered the ground and crunched under his boots. Bright red drops splattered into the snow. He was leaving an easy trail to follow.

Fifty yards away, another man in a parka hopped the border fence and came tromping toward him. So much for the subtle approach now. Not knowing if the man had a gun, Painter turned and fled for the patch of pine trees that filled the back half of the park. He had to get under cover.

The assassin followed the fresh trail of prints in the snow. He ran in a low crouch, his blade clutched in his left hand. He hit the tree line and kept one eye on the trail and the other on his surroundings. Under the trees the
way became shadowy but not so dim that he lost sight of the trail. No one had been through here since the last snowfall. Only one set of prints marred the virgin snow.

Along with a dribbling track of blood.

The path zigzagged through the trees. Clearly the target feared a gun and took up a defensive pattern. It was a waste of effort. The assassin cut a straight path through the forest, paralleling the crooked flight.

Ahead, the glade opened. The trail of prints fled straight across. His prey had abandoned caution and was trying to reach the city streets beyond the park. Tightening his grip on the knife, he raced to close the distance.

As he reached the glade’s edge, a low branch of a neighboring pine whipped around. It struck him across the shins with the force of a battering ram. His legs were knocked from under him. He flipped face-forward into the snow. Before he could move, a heavy weight landed on his back and crushed the remaining air out of him.

He realized his mistake. The man had backtracked, hidden behind the pine, and ambushed him, hauling back the branch that had cracked across his shins.

It was his last mistake.

A hand shot down and gripped his chin. The other pinned his neck to the ground. A sharp yank. His neck snapped. Pain flared as if the top of his skull had blown away—then darkness.

5:34 P.M.

“Hold still,” Monk scolded. “I only have one more suture.”

Painter sat on the edge of the tub in his boxers. He felt the needle pierce his flesh. The spray anesthetic only dulled the sharpest edge of the pain. At least Monk worked swiftly. He’d already debrided and cleaned the wound, shot him full of prophylactic antibiotics, and with a final deft twist of his needle forceps, he closed the four-inch laceration under the left side of Painter’s rib cage.

Monk dropped everything into a sterile Surgipack on the bathroom floor, picked up a roll of gauze and adhesive tape, and set about wrapping Painter’s chest.

“What now?” Monk asked. “Do we stick to our schedule?”

After the attack, Painter had fled into the city, taking an extra few minutes to make sure he wasn’t followed. Then he’d called Monk. As a precaution, he ordered them to change hotels and rebook under another alias. Painter joined them there.

“I see no reason to change,” Painter said.

Monk nodded toward the wound. “I see about four inches of reason.”

Painter shook his head. “They were sloppy. Whoever set up the attack must have done so hastily. Somehow I was made, but I don’t think we’re more exposed than that.”

“Still, that’s pretty damn exposed.”

“It just means extra precautions will be necessary from here. I’ll have to avoid the summit. Keep out of sight. That means leaning more heavily on you and Creed.”

“So we’re still going to recon that research facility tonight?”

Painter nodded. “I’ll monitor via radio. Nothing fancy. Slip in, tap into the servers, and get the hell out of there.”

It was a simple operation. Courtesy of Kat Bryant’s sources, they had identification cards, electronic keys, and a full schematic of the Viatus facility. They would go in after midnight when the place was mostly deserted.

John Creed hurried into the bathroom. He wore a lab coat with the Viatus logo on the pocket. He must have been trying on his disguise. “Sir, your phone. It’s buzzing.”

Painter held out a hand and took the cell. He read the Caller ID and frowned. It was General Metcalf’s number. Why was he calling? Painter had avoided briefing Washington on what had happened until he knew more. To have the operation closed down before it even started would not sit well with anyone.

Especially Painter.

He flipped the phone open and answered. “General Metcalf?”

“Director Crowe. I suspect you’re still settling in over there, so I’ll be brief. I just received a call from Senator Gorman. He was very agitated.”

Painter struggled to understand. He’d done nothing to provoke the senator.

“Gorman received a cryptic call half an hour ago. Someone claiming to have information on the attack in Africa. The caller said he knew of a survivor to the attack.”

“A survivor?” Painter could not hide his own surprise.

“The caller wants to meet at the bar of the senator’s hotel. To give further details. He’ll only meet with Gorman alone.”

“I don’t think that’s wise.”

“Neither do we. That’s why you’re going to be at that bar. The senator knows that a DoD investigator is already in Oslo. He personally requested you be there. You’re to maintain a low profile, to intervene only if necessary.”

“When’s the meet?” Painter asked.

“Tonight at midnight.”

Of course, it would be.

Painter finished the call and tossed the phone back to Creed.

“What?” Monk asked.

Painter explained, which only deepened Monk’s frown.

Creed spoke a fear they all shared. “It might be a trap. Meant to draw you out into the open again.”

“We should call off the operation at Viatus,” Monk suggested. “Go with you as backup.”

Painter considered that option. Monk had been out of the field for some time, and Creed had barely gotten his feet wet. It would be risky to send them over to the research facility by themselves. Painter studied Monk, weighing the variables.

Monk guessed the intent of his attention. “We can still do this, sir, if that’s what you’re thinking. The kid might be green, but we’ll get it done.”

Painter heard the certainty in the man’s voice. With a sigh, he stopped overanalyzing the situation. He wasn’t at his desk in Washington anymore.
This was fieldwork. He had to trust his gut. And his gut was telling him that events were rapidly escalating out of control.

Delay was not an option.

“We stick to the schedule,” he said forcefully, brooking no argument. “We need access to that server. From today’s attack, it’s clear someone is getting both bolder and more agitated. A bad combination. We can’t let them lock us out. So we’ll just have to split up tonight.”

Creed looked concerned, but not for himself. “Sir, what if you’re attacked again?”

“Don’t worry. They had their one free shot at me.” Painter reached the sink and picked up the WASP dagger that he’d confiscated from the assassin in the park. “Tonight, I’ll be the one doing the hunting.”

6:01 P.M.

Bundled in a fox-fur—lined coat and hood, Krista strode down the central path of Frogner Park in the west-end borough of Oslo. She had an apartment that overlooked the snowy park, but she could not stand to wait indoors any longer. She carried her phone with her.

The sun had set, and the temperature had plummeted.

She had the park to herself.

She continued along the path through the sculpture garden. Her warm breath frosted the air. She needed to keep moving, but tension kept her stiff.

Spread around her were more than two hundred sculptures created by Gustav Vigeland, a Norwegian national treasure. Most of the sculptures involved nude stone figures frozen in various combinations and twisted poses. Presently the sculptures were covered with snow, as if wrapped in tattered white cloaks.