Painter had to admit that the guy definitely sounded shocked. But he also noted that Karlsen failed to deny the murder of the senator’s son. Painter came between them. Red-faced, Gorman retreated a step. He turned his back, plainly trying to regain his composure.
Inwardly Painter kicked himself. He hadn’t noticed Gorman ramping up like that. He should have reined him in sooner. They weren’t going to get anything out of Karlsen by driving him into a defensive posture. The man would put up walls that they’d never get through.
Painter readjusted his strategy. With Karlsen shaken, and before the man locked down completely, Painter knew he had to strip away any attempt at pretense.
“We know about the mushroom farm, about the bees, about what was covered up in Africa.” Painter hit him with charges one after the other. While Karlsen might have been able to take one blow, the rapid series of punches gave him no chance to recover.
His facade momentarily crumbled, revealing his complicity, his knowledge. He was not a pawn or a blind figurehead. Karlsen knew damned well what was going on.
Still, the man tried to backpedal. The flash of guilt vanished behind a wall of denial. “I don’t know what you’re both talking about.”
No one was fooled.
Least of all a grieving father.
Senator Gorman flew at the man again. Painter didn’t try to stop him. He wanted Karlsen off balance, hit from all sides. Morally, psychologically, physically. Painter would use all the tools he had at hand.
Gorman barreled into Karlsen, ramming a shoulder into his chest and driving the man back into the wall. Lifted off his feet, Karlsen struck the wall hard. The breath gasped out of him. The senator had been a defensive lineman in his college years.
But Karlsen was no doddering old man. He raised his arms and slammed his elbows down hard on the senator’s back. Gorman was knocked to his knees.
On the ground, the senator got an arm behind Karlsen’s left leg. With a roar, Gorman hugged and twisted hard. He threw the murderer of his son facedown on the floor, then piled onto his back and pinned him to the floor.
“You killed Jason!” Gorman growled at the man, his voice trapped between fury and sob. “You killed him.”
Karlsen struggled to free himself, but Gorman held him down. The CEO’s face became beet red. He twisted his neck, trying to get a look at Gorman. His voice spat at his accuser. “I…I did it for you!”
The words momentarily stunned the senator. But Painter wasn’t sure if the shock came from the sudden confession or the strange statement. A part of Gorman must have hoped Painter was wrong. Now there was no illusion.
“Shut the f**k up,” Gorman warned, not wanting to hear anything more.
With the one domino dropped, Painter knew he could get the others to fall. What he had thought might take a full day had been accomplished in minutes. But they were far from finished here. Karlsen could recant. He was still on home turf in Norway, with powerful ties and connections.
Painter knew he had to take advantage, to control the situation. That meant getting Karlsen out of here and keeping him in custody. For that, he would need to call in some help.
“Keep him there,” Painter said.
He crossed to the computers and searched behind them. There had to be a communication trunk feeding into this room. A T1 or T3 line for Internet connectivity, but more important—
Painter’s fingers found the telephone line. He pulled and traced it back to the wall. With no cell service up here, he needed to radio Monk, but buried underground, that was impossible. He would have to tap into an open line using a device known as a SQUID to boost the signal. As his fingers ran along the wire to the wall, he found some gadget already plugged into the telephone outlet. He pulled it out and immediately recognized its function.
Cell signal booster.
It wasn’t that sophisticated, but the technology was above anything he’d seen here. It felt out of place. He examined it closely and recognized a short-range transmitter wired into it.
Why would someone need a short-range transmitter wired to a telephone line?
He could think of only one reason.
The door crashed open behind him.
He swung around as Copresident Boutha stormed into the room. A few other men stood behind him. Boutha frowned in confusion at the scenario he’d burst in upon: Karlsen on the floor, the senator kneeling on his back.
“Caterers reported yelling…,” Boutha began, then shook his head. “What is going on here?”
Using the distraction, Karlsen was able to throw an elbow back and catch Gorman in the ear. Knocked to the side, Gorman couldn’t stop Karlsen from rolling free.
Boutha and the others still blocked the way out. Trapped, Karlsen turned to face Gorman, only to find a fist flying toward his nose. He dodged enough to avoid a broken nose, but he took a hard punch to the eye and stumbled back a few steps.
“Stop!” Painter bellowed, freezing everyone in place with the force of his command.
All eyes turned to him.
Painter pointed an arm at Boutha. “We must evacuate this facility. Now!”
“Why?”
Painter looked down at the foreign device in his hand. He could be wrong, but he saw little reason for a short-range transmitter.
Except one.
“There’s a bomb hidden somewhere down here.”
Shocked reactions and questions tried to follow.
Painter cut through them. “Get everyone out!”
Unfortunately, they were too late.
12:55 P.M.
Monk edged his snowmobile through the valley, making a slow slaloming pass along the bottom. Creed followed in his tracks, watching for polar bears. Monk kept an eye on the concrete bunker that marked the entrance to the seed vault.
Overhead, the storm had rolled a mass of dark clouds over the mountain. The sky pushed lower and dropped the temperature with it. Winds also picked up, scouring through the valley in blinding gusts of ice crystals.
Monk called for a stop. He thought he had heard something, or at least felt something deep in his chest. He cut the engine. The low rumble continued, coming from the cloud layer overhead, like distant thunder to the north. Before he had a chance to question it, the rumble turned into a roar, then into a scream. A pair of jets shot out of the clouds and raced straight down the valley toward Monk and Creed.
No, not toward them.
As the jets passed overhead, they veered sharply back up with a shriek of acceleration. Missiles fired from their underbellies. Hellfire rockets. The missiles struck the snowy ridge where the seed vault was buried. A line of fire exploded across the mountain face. Rocks and flames shot high. The concussions pounded Monk and Creed.