Ivar Karlsen watched the storm building across the fjord. He loved hard weather and welcomed autumn’s rough descent into winter. Icy rain and snow flurries were already sweeping the colder nights. Frost greeted most mornings. Even now, he felt the chill on his cheeks as he leaned his knuckles on the ancient stones and stared out the arched window.
He kept guard at the top of Munk Tower. It was the highest point of Akershus Fortress, one of Oslo’s most prominent landmarks. The imposing stone structure was first built on the eastern harborside by King Haakon V during the thirteenth century to defend the city. Over time it had been reinforced with additional moats, ramparts, and battlements. Munk Tower, where he stood now, had been constructed in the middle of the sixteenth century, when cannons had been added to the defense of the fortress and castle.
Ivar straightened and rested a hand on one of the ancient cannons. The cold iron reminded him of his duty, of his responsibility to defend not only this country, but the world. It was why he had picked the ancient fortress to host this year’s UNESCO World Food Summit. It was a fitting bastion against the troubling times that were upon them all. One billion people were facing food shortages worldwide, and he knew that was only the beginning. The summit was critical for the world and for his company, Viatus International.
He would not let anything thwart his goals—not what had happened in Africa, not even what was going on in Washington, D.C. His objectives were vital to world security, not to mention his own family legacy.
Back in 1802, when Oslo was still called Christiania, the brothers Knut and Artur Karlsen combined a logging company with a gunpowder mill to found an empire. Their wealth became legendary, elevating them to true barons of industry. But even back then, the pair tempered their good fortune with good deeds. They founded schools, built hospitals, improved the national infrastructure, and, most important, sponsored innovation in the rapidly growing country. It was why they had named their company Viatus, from the Latin via, which meant “path,” and vita, which meant “life.” To the Karlsen brothers, Viatus was the Path of Life. It epitomized their belief that the ultimate goal of industry was to improve the world, that wealth should be tempered by responsibility.
And Ivar intended to carry on that legacy, one that stretched to the founding of Norway itself. Stories circulated that the Karlsen family tree had its beginnings as far back as the first Viking settlers, that its roots were even tangled with those of Yggdrasil, the world tree of Norse mythology. But Ivar knew such claims were just colorful tales told by his old bestefar and bestemor, stories passed from one generation to another.
Either way, Ivar remained proud of his family’s history and of Norway’s rich Viking lore. He welcomed the comparison. It had been the Vikings who truly forged the northern world, sweeping in their dragon-prowed longships across Europe and Russia, even to America.
So why shouldn’t Ivar Karlsen be proud?
From his vantage high atop Munk Tower, he watched the storm clouds stack across the skies. It would be pouring rain by midmorning, freezing sleet by the afternoon, possibly the first true snowfall by evening. Snow had come early this year, another sign of the shifting weather patterns as nature roiled against the damage done by man, lashing back against the choking toxins and rising carbon levels. Let others question mankind’s hand in this global meltdown. Ivar lived in a land of glaciers. He knew the truth. Snowpack and permafrost were melting at record paces. In 2006 Norwegian glaciers had retreated faster than ever recorded.
The world was changing, melting before his eyes. Someone had to take a stand to protect mankind.
Even if it had to be a bloody Viking, he thought with a grim smile.
He shook his head at such foolishness. Especially at his age. It was strange how history weighed more heavily upon one’s heart as one grew older. Ivar was fast approaching his sixty-fifth birthday. And though his red hair had long since gone snowy, he wore it shaggy to his shoulders. He also kept fit with a vigorous exercise routine, laboring both in steam lodges and out in freezing temperatures, as in his long cold climb this morning to reach this high perch. Over the years, the routine had left his body hard, his face weathered to a ruddy leather.
He checked his watch. Though the UNESCO summit was not due to start until tomorrow officially, he had several organizational meetings still to attend.
As the storm rolled up the fjord, Ivar headed back down the tower. He caught glimpses of the preparations below in the courtyard. Despite the threat of rain, booths and tables were being set up. Luckily, most of the talks and lectures would occur in the grand upper rooms and banquet halls of Akershus Castle. Even the medieval fortress church would host a series of evening concerts, encompassing choral groups from around the world. In addition, the military museums associated with the fortress—the Norwegian Resistance Museum and the Armed Forces Museum—were being readied for the visiting groups, as were the lower sections of the castle itself, where guides would lead tours into the ancient dungeons and dark passages, sharing the stories of ghosts and witches that had always haunted the gloomy fortress.
Of course, the reality of Akershus was just as gruesome. During WWII, the fortress had been occupied by the Germans. Many Norwegian citizens were tortured and murdered within these walls. And afterward, war trials were conducted and executions performed, including those of the famous traitor and Nazi collaborator Vidkun Quisling.
Reaching the bottom of the tower, Ivar passed into the courtyard. With one foot in the present and the other in the past, he failed to note the round-bellied man blocking his way until he was almost atop him. Ivar recognized Antonio Gravel immediately. The current secretary-general for the Club of Rome did not look pleased.
And Ivar knew why. He had hoped to put the man off for another few hours, but clearly it could not wait. The two men had been butting heads ever since Ivar joined the ranks of his organization.
The Club of Rome was an international think tank comprised of industrialists, scientists, world leaders, and even royalty. Since its inception in 1968, it had grown into an organization encompassing thirty countries across five continents. The main goal of the organization was to raise awareness of critical global crises that threatened the future. Ivar’s father had been one of the founding members.
After his father died, Ivar assumed his position and discovered the Club of Rome suited both his personality and his needs. Over the passing years, he thrived in the organization, rising to take a leadership position. As a result, Antonio Gravel felt threatened and had spent the past months growing into an ever larger thorn in Ivar’s side.
Still, Ivar kept his expression warm and inviting. “Ah, Antonio, I don’t have much time. So why don’t you walk with me?”
Antonio followed him as he set off across the courtyard. “You’ll have to find the time, Ivar. I allowed this year’s conference to be hosted here in Oslo. The least you can do is to properly address my concerns.”
Ivar kept his face passive. Gravel had allowed nothing, but fought Ivar every step of the way. The man had wanted this year’s summit to take place in Zurich, home of the club’s new international secretariat. But Ivar had outmanipulated the secretary-general, coaxing the summit to Oslo, mostly because of a special excursion Ivar had arranged, scheduled for the last day of the conference, a trip limited to the top tier involved in the summit organization.
“As secretary-general of the Club of Rome,” Antonio pressed, “I think it’s only fitting that I accompany the VIPs who are heading to Spitsbergen.”
“I understand, but I’m afraid that’s not possible, Antonio. You understand the sensitive nature of where we’re headed. If it were just me, I’d of course welcome your company, but it was the Norwegian government that limited the number of visitors to Svalbard.”
“But …” As Antonio struggled to find a suitable argument, the raw desire shone from his face.
Ivar let him stew. It had cost Viatus a mint to arrange a fleet of corporate jets to fly the elite of the conference to the remote Norwegian island of Spitsbergen in the Arctic Ocean. The goal of the trip was a private tour of the Svalbard Global Seed Vault. The vast underground seed bank had been established to store and preserve the seeds of the world, specifically crop seeds. It had been buried in that perpetually frozen and inhospitable place in case of a global disaster—natural or otherwise. If such an event should ever transpire, the frozen and buried seeds would be preserved for a future world.
It was why Svalbard had earned the nickname the Doomsday Vault.
“But … I think on such a trip,” Antonio continued, “the executive board of the Club of Rome should show a united front. Food security is so vital today.”
Ivar forced his eyes not to roll. He knew that Antonio Gravel’s desire had nothing to do with food security, but everything to do with his aspiration to rub elbows with the next generation’s world leaders.
“You’re right about food security,” Ivar conceded. “In fact, that very topic will be the focus of my keynote speech.”
Ivar intended to use his keynote to swing the Club of Rome’s resources in a new direction. It was a time for true action. Still, he read Antonio’s darkening expression. Anger had replaced the man’s coddling tones.
“Speaking of your speech,” Antonio said bitterly, “I obtained an early draft and read it.”
Ivar stopped and turned to the man. “You read my speech?” No one was supposed to know its content. “Where did you get it?”
Antonio dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you can’t give such a speech and still expect to represent the Club of Rome. I’ve brought the matter up with Copresident Boutha. And he concurs. Now is not the time to broadcast warnings of imminent world collapse. It’s … it’s irresponsible.”
Blood burned the chill from Ivar’s face. “Then when is that time?” he asked, working his tight jaw. “When the world has slid into chaos and ninety percent of its population is dead?”
Antonio shook his head. “That’s what I’m talking about. You’ll make the club look like madmen and doomsayers. We won’t tolerate it.”
“Tolerate it? The core of my speech comes from the Club of Rome’s own published report.”
“Yes, I know. The Limits to Growth. You cite it often enough in your speech. That was written back in 1972.”
“And it’s even more timely today. The report outlines in great detail the collapse that the world is currently barreling straight for.”
Ivar had studied The Limits to Growth in great detail, mapping out its charts and data. The report modeled the future of the world, where population continued to grow exponentially while food production only grew arithmetically. Eventually the population would outstrip its ability to produce food to sustain itself. It would hit such a point like a locomotive and overshoot it. Once that happened, chaos, starvation, and war would ensue, with the end result being the annihilation of mankind. Even the most conservative models showed that 90 percent of the world population would die as a result. The studies had been repeated elsewhere with the same dire results.
Antonio shrugged, dismissing the entire matter. Ivar balled a fist and came close to breaking the man’s nose.
“That speech,” Antonio said, oblivious to the danger. “What you’re advocating is radical population control. It will never be stomached.”
“It must be,” Ivar argued. “There’s no way we can dodge what’s coming. The world has gone from four billion to six billion in only two decades. And it shows no signs of slowing. We’ll be at nine billion in another twenty years. And even now, the world is running out of arable farmland, global warming is wreaking havoc, and our oceans are dying. We will hit that overshoot point sooner than anyone is expecting.”
Ivar grabbed Antonio’s arm, letting his passion show. “But we can mitigate its impact by planning now. There is only one way to avoid complete worldwide collapse—and that’s to slowly and steadily lower the human biomass of this planet before we hit that overshoot point. The future of mankind depends on it.”
“We’ll manage just fine,” Antonio said. “Or don’t you have faith in your own research? Aren’t the GM foods your corporation is patenting supposed to open new lands, produce greater yields?”
“But even that will only buy us a small window of time.”
Antonio glanced at his watch. “Speaking of time, I must be going. I’ve delivered Boutha’s message. You’ll have to adjust your speech accordingly if you wish to deliver the keynote.”
Ivar watched the man stride off toward the drawbridge that spanned the Kirkegata entrance.
Standing in the courtyard, Ivar remained as rain began to drizzle out of the sky, the first portent of a greater deluge. He let the icy drops cool the pounding of his heart. He would address these matters with the copresident of the club later. Perhaps he should temper his rhetoric. Maybe it was better to use a more gentle hand on the rudder that steered the world’s fate.
Calmed again and resolute, he headed across the courtyard toward the bulk of Akershus Church with its large rosette window. He was already late for the meeting. Within the Club of Rome, Ivar had gathered like-minded men and women, those willing to make hard choices, to stand by their convictions. While Antonio and the two copresidents might be the figureheads of the Club of Rome, Ivar Karlsen and his inner cabal kept their own pact, a club within the club—a heart of iron, beating with the hope of the planet.
Crossing into the church, Ivar saw that the others had already gathered within the small brick-walled nave. Chairs had been pushed to one side, and a choral stage had been set up to the left of the altar. Arched windows let in murky light, while a brightly lit gilt chandelier sought to add a meager bit of cheer.
Faces turned as Ivar entered. Twelve in all.
They were the true powers behind the club: leaders of industry, Nobel Prize—winning scientists, government representatives from major nations, even a Hollywood celebrity whose high-profile advocacy had drawn both attention and money to their group’s causes.
Each served a specific purpose.
Even the man who approached Ivar now. He was dressed in a black suit and wore a haunted expression.
“Good morning, Ivar,” the man said and offered his hand.
“Senator Gorman, please accept my condolences for your loss. What has happened in Mali … I should have spent more to secure the camp.”
“Do not blame yourself.” The senator gripped Ivar’s shoulder. “Jason knew the dangers. And he was proud to be involved in such an important project.”
Despite the reassurance, the senator was plainly uncomfortable with the topic, still raw from the death of his son. From a distance, the two men could almost be brothers. Sebastian Gorman stood as tall and weathered as Ivar, but he kept his white hair neatly trimmed, his suit pressed to a razor edge.
Ivar was surprised to find the senator here, but perhaps he shouldn’t have been. In the past, Gorman had proven to be unwavering in his determination. The U.S. senator had been instrumental in expanding biofuel research and development throughout the Western world. The summit here was important to his issue. And with an election coming up, the senator would find time to mourn for his son later.
Still, Ivar understood the man’s pain. He’d lost a wife and son in childbirth when he was in his early thirties. The tragedy had come close to destroying him back then. He had never remarried.
“Are we ready to get started?” the senator asked, stepping away.
“Yes. We should begin. We have much ground to cover.”
“Good.”
As the senator gathered everyone toward the bank of waiting chairs, Ivar stared at his back. He felt no twinge of guilt. Viatus meant the path of life. And sometimes that path was hard, requiring sacrifices to be made.
Like the death of Jason Gorman.
Upon Ivar’s orders, the young man had been murdered.
A tragic loss, but he could afford no regrets.