He also knew to whom he owed his life and respected that debt.

Painter meant to take full advantage of that cooperation.

The small jet lurched in the unstable air, thickening the tension in the cabin. They were headed to London. Neither Painter nor Kat had heard from Gray's team. He wanted to be on the ground in England as the search continued in the Lake District. Depending on what was found, they would refuel and continue to Washington.

But during this five-hour flight, Painter needed to wring this man dry of all he knew. Kat was investigating the sites of the seed-production fields that had been harvested throughout the Midwest. The news was grim: she'd already found multiple cases of unexplained deaths near fifteen test farms. A postmortem on one body had revealed an unknown fungal agent. And there were sixty-three more test fields still to check.

Karlsen spoke, sensing Painter's attention. "I only wanted to save the world."

Senator Gorman stirred, his eyes sparking with anger, but Painter gave the senator a hard glance. This was his interview.

Staring out the window, Karlsen failed to note the silent communication. "People talk about the population bomb, but they won't admit it's already gone off. The world population is racing toward a critical mass, where population outstrips food supplies. We are only a heartbeat away from global famine, war, and chaos. The food riots in Haiti, Indonesia, Africa, they're just the beginning."

Karlsen turned from the window to face Painter. "But that doesn't mean it's too late. If enough like-minded and determined people coordinated their efforts, something could be done."

"And you found those people in the Club of Rome," Painter said.

Karlsen's eyes widened ever so slightly. "That's right. The club keeps raising the alarm, but it falls on deaf ears. More trendy crises consume media attention. Global warming, oil supplies, the rain forests. The list grows. But the root of all of the problems is the same: too many people packed into too little space. Yet no one addresses that problem directly. What do you Americans call it? Politically incorrect, yes? It's untouchable, tangled in religion, politics, race, and economics. Be fruitful and multiply, says the Bible. No one dares speak otherwise. To address it is political suicide. Offer solutions and they accuse you of eugenics. Someone has to take a stand, to make the hard choices-and not just with words but with concrete actions."

"And that would be you," Painter said, to keep him talking.

"Don't take that tone. I know where this all ended. But that's not where it started. I only sought to put the brakes on population growth, to gradually decrease the human biomass on this planet, to make sure we didn't hit that crisis point at full speed. In the Club of Rome, I found the global resources I needed. A vast reservoir of innovation, cutting-edge technologies, and political power. So I began steering certain projects toward my goals, gathering like-minded people."

Karlsen looked at the senator, then away again.

Despite Painter's warning, Gorman spoke up. "You used me to spread your diseased seed."

Karlsen glanced down to his hands folded in his lap, but when he glanced up, he remained unabashed. "That came later. A mistake. I know that now. But I sought you out because of your advocacy for biofuels, for turning crops like corn and sugarcane into fuel. It was simple enough to support such a seemingly good cause, a renewable energy source that freed us from oil dependency. But it also served my goal."

"Which was what?"

"To strangle the world's food supply." Karlsen stared at Painter with no apology. "Control food, you control people."

Painter remembered overhearing Karlsen paraphrase a line from Henry Kissinger. Control oil and you control nations, but control food and you control all the people of the world.

So that was Karlsen's goal. Strangle the food to strangle the growth of the human population. If done skillfully enough, it might even work.

"How did supporting biofuels help you control the world's food supply?" Painter could guess the answer, but he wanted to hear it from this man.

"The world's best croplands are overworked, forcing farmers to turn to marginal lands. They make more money growing crops for biofuels than for food. More and more good farmland is being diverted to grow fuel, not food. And it's horribly inefficient. The amount of corn needed to produce enough ethanol to fill one SUV tank could feed a starving person for a year. So of course, I supported biofuels."

"Not for energy independence..."

Karlsen nodded. "But as one means of strangling the food supply."

Senator Gorman looked aghast, knowing the role he had played.

But Painter noted the odd bit of emphasis. "What do you mean by one means?"

"That was just one project. I had others."

5:31 A.M.

Monk had been following the conversation with growing alarm.

"Let me guess," he said. "Something to do with bees."

He pictured the giant hives hidden under the research facility.

Karlsen glanced over at Monk. "Yes. Viatus researched Colony Collapse Disorder. It's a global crisis that I'm sure you're aware of. In Europe and the United States, over one-third of all honeybees have vanished, abandoning colonies and never returning. Some areas have lost over eighty percent of their bees."

"And bees pollinate fruit trees," Monk said, beginning to understand.

"Not just fruit trees," Creed interjected, next to him on the sofa. "Nuts, avocados, cucumbers, soybeans, squash. In fact, one-third of all food grown in the United States requires pollination. Lose the bees, you lose much more than just fruit."

Monk understood Karlsen's interest in Colony Collapse Disorder. Control the bees, and you control another large segment of the food supply.

"Are you saying you caused the bees to die off?"

"No. But I know what did, and that's what Viatus wanted to exploit."

"Wait a second." Monk scooted closer. "You say you know what killed the bees?"

"It's no great mystery, Mr. Kokkalis. The media sensationalize the theories-mites, global warming, air pollution, even aliens. But it's much simpler-and proved. Only the media chooses to ignore it in favor of sensation."

"So what caused it?"

"An insecticide called imidacloprid, or IMD."

Monk remembered the codes stamped on the giant hives. They'd all had those same three letters: IMD.

"Many studies have already incriminated the chemical as the cause, along with an analog called fipronil. In 2005 France banned both chemicals, and over the course of the next years, their bees returned while the rest of the world's hives continued to collapse." Karlsen glanced around the cabin. "But did any of you hear about that?"

No one had.

"It's not newsworthy enough," Karlsen explained. "Imidacloprid, fipronil. Not as colorful as aliens. The media still hasn't reported on the success in France. Which is fine by me. IMD has its uses."

Monk frowned. "Less bees, less food."

"Eventually even the media will wise up, so Viatus continued its own research into the compounds-to incorporate IMD into our corn."

"Just like Monsanto engineered its herbicide Roundup into its GM seeds," Creed added.

"If IMD is ever banned," Monk realized, "you'll still be able to control the bee populations."

Karlsen nodded. "And in turn, the food supply."