No reason to dispel that attitude.

"Just play it cool," Monk said into the radio.

"If I was any cooler, I'd be shitting ice cubes."

Monk glanced over at him. Was that Creed cracking a joke? Monk lifted his eyebrows. There might be hope for the kid yet.

The side door to the Sno-Cat popped open. Steam wafted out of the heated cab. The soldier didn't even bother to pull up his parka's hood. In fact, he left the coat unzipped. With his blond hair and apple cheeks, he looked like he'd just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren catalog, the Norwegian version.

See the Norwegian in his natural habitat...

Monk took off his helmet, to look less intimidating. Creed did the same. The soldier waved an arm at them and spoke in Norwegian. Monk didn't understand him, but the general gist was plain.

What are you doing here?

Creed answered in turn, stumbling a bit with the language. Monk heard the word American. The kid must be laying out their cover story. Monk supported him by pulling out a book from his parka's pocket, a field guide to birds that he'd picked up at the rental agency. He also lifted the binoculars from around his neck.

Nobody here but us bird-watchers.

The soldier nodded and tried his hand at English. "Storm coming," the Norwegian warned. He waved an arm back in the general direction of Longyearbyen. "Should go."

Monk couldn't exactly argue against that. "We'll be heading back," he promised. "Just stopping to rest."

He rubbed his backside for effect-actually he was sore after trundling all over the glacier-broken landscape.

This earned a grin from the soldier. Over by the Sno-Cat, the other door popped open. The driver hopped out, yelled a warning, then jammed a whistle to his lips and drew his sidearm. As he blew a shrill shriek, he pointed his weapon at them.

What the hell?

Both Creed and the other soldier dropped flat to the snow. Monk hesitated. The soldier fired three times. Monk twisted at the same time and spotted a large lumbering form disappearing around a cluster of boulders off in the distance. The gunman's shots sparked off the stone.

"Polar bear," Creed said needlessly as the blasts echoed away.

He and the soldier regained their feet. Creed had gone pale, but the soldier only smiled and said something in Norwegian that made his companion with the pistol grin.

They seemed not overly concerned. Like scaring away a raccoon from a garbage can. Of course, in this case, Monk and Creed were the garbage cans. The polar bear must have been stalking them since they'd stopped.

The first soldier motioned toward town, warning them off.

Monk nodded.

The two soldiers climbed back into the Sno-Cat, sharing a joke, clearly at the Americans' expense.

Creed returned to his snowmobile. "What do we do now?"

"We keep patrolling. But this time, why don't I watch the seed vault, and you keep an eye out for anything looking to eat us."

Creed nodded and put on his helmet.

Monk lifted his binoculars and focused across the valley. He hoped Painter wouldn't be too much longer. If he and Creed continued to idle around here, suspicions would begin to arise. Especially with the storm about to hit.

Adjusting the focal length on his binoculars, he brought up a clear image of the bunker entrance. He watched the door open and the slim figure of a woman rush out. One of the guards tried to engage her. Who wouldn't? Even from two hundred yards away, it was plain she put the sex back in sexy.

She snubbed the guard with a raised palm and hurried toward the parked vehicles. Apparently she'd had enough of the party-and could not get away fast enough.

12:49 P.M.

The interview quickly went bad.

Painter and Senator Gorman had followed the CEO of Viatus into the set of offices off the main vault tunnel. A staging area for the caterers had been set up in the central room with desks shoved to the walls and replaced by rolling food-tray cabinets, chafing dishes, and storage bins. Dessert was being prepared, which apparently involved a chocolate fountain. The place smelled like a Hershey's factory with an underlying hint of Norwegian cod.

They hurried through the space to a back office. Inside, a pair of computers glowed at either end of a long table. Between them, organized into neat rows, were piles of aluminum packets. Along a neighboring wall were stacked a half-dozen black plastic storage bins. One was open on the floor, full of the silver envelopes.

"Seed shipments arrive daily," Karlsen had explained, playing tour guide. "Unfortunately, now they're backlogged due to the party. But tomorrow these boxes will be sorted, cataloged, registered by country, even..."

That's when things went wrong.

Maybe it was the nonchalant manner of the CEO, or maybe it was clear to all that Karlsen's rambling discourse hid a well of guilt. Either way, as soon as the office door was shut, the senator lunged out and grabbed a fistful of Karlsen's shirt. He slammed him into the stacked bins.

Stunned by the sudden attack, Karlsen did not react for a breath. Then his face collapsed into a muddle of confusion.

"Sebastian, what are you-?"

"You fucking killed my boy!" Gorman yelled at him. "Tried to assassinate me last night!"

"Are you insane?" Karlsen shoved both arms out and broke free. "Why would I try to kill you?"

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!"