Текст книги "The Doomsday Key"

Автор книги: James Rollins

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

And Monk was not about to break Norwegian law.

"Ready?" he yelled, lifting an arm toward Creed.

His partner revved his engine as answer.

Donning his helmet, Monk twisted his ignition key. The beast roared to life beneath him. Throttling up, Monk edged his snowmobile toward the snowy valley beyond the lot. His machine's rear track bit into the ice with a sure grip. The pair of skis glided smoothly as he dipped over the edge and sped down into powder.

Creed followed in his tracks.

Ahead rose the mountain of Plataberget, home to the Doomsday Vault. Its jagged peak scratched into a lowering sky. Behind it, the world was nothing but dark clouds.

Definitely an ominous place.

Especially as Monk recalled the final warning printed in that tourist brochure. It pretty much summarized this harsh land.

Shoot to kill.

11:48 A.M.

Painter parked his vehicle in the designated slot. They had to pass through two barricades manned by Norwegian military guardsmen on the only road up the mountainside. Other trucks and a large bus already occupied the small parking lot, likely the transportation used by the World Food Summit contingent.

As Painter climbed out of the heated SUV into the icy cold, he also noted a minibus-sized snow vehicle resting on massive treads like a tank. It was a Hagglunds, the official vehicle for exploring Antarctica, painted with the Norwegian flag and army insignia. A couple of soldiers stood near the vehicle, smoking. There was also a smaller two-man Sno-Cat, similarly marked, patrolling the perimeter. Though at the moment, judging by the way it careened and wheeled around out there, someone was doing a little joyriding with it.

Senator Gorman, bundled in a parka, joined Painter and they headed toward the entrance to the seed vault. The only section of the installation that was aboveground was a concrete bunker. It stuck out of the snow at an angle, like the prow of a ship encased in ice. And maybe in some ways it was. Buried below was the Noah's Ark for seeds.

The entrance towered thirty feet, a flat concrete surface decorated at the top with a windowlike plate of mirrors and prisms lit by turquoise fiber optics. It glowed in the darkening day. Already the storm clouds were rolling over the mountain, pressing the sky down on them. A gust of wind kicked up a whirlwind of ice crystals and stinging snow.

Hunched against the cold and wind, they hurried toward the entrance.

Crossing a small bridge, they reached the outer blast doors that sealed the facility. Another pair of armed guards checked the senator's pass and logged in their identification.

"You are very late," one of the guards said in halting English.

"Trouble with our flight," Gorman answered. He grinned good-naturedly at the young guard and shivered against the cold. "Even way up here, airlines still somehow lose your bags. And the cold...brr...I don't know how you can stand it out here. You're made of heartier stuff than me."

The soldier matched Gorman's big grin, as did his partner, who probably didn't even speak English. The senator just had that way about him. Painter had to hand it to him-the guy had charisma. He could turn it on or off like a flashlight. It was no wonder he was so successful in Washington.

The door was hauled open for them. Painter knew that three massive locks secured the vault. As an additional safeguard against malicious attacks, no single person on the planet had all three keys.

Once they were through the doors, the winds cut off, which was welcome, but the air inside was no warmer. Kept at a near constant zero degrees Fahrenheit, it was like stepping into a walk-in freezer.

Down a short ramp, a long circular tunnel stretched, large enough to accommodate a subway train. Underfoot lay cement slabs; overhead ran rows of fluorescent lights and an open lattice of pipes and utility conduits. The walls-steel-reinforced concrete blown with fiberglass-were roughly textured, giving the place a cavelike appearance.

Painter had studied the schematics for the facility. The layout was simple. The tunnel descended five hundred feet and ended at three massive seed vaults, each sealed by its own air lock. The only other feature was a set of office rooms down by the vaults.

Voices echoed up to them. Brighter lights glowed far ahead.

As they walked down the tunnel, Senator Gorman spoke softly and waved an arm at the walls. "Ivar was one of the major financiers for the vault here. He firmly believed in preserving the natural biodiversity of the world and judged all other such seed banks to be inadequate or half-assed."

"I get that about him. Man likes to be in control."

"But in this case, he's probably right. There are over a thousand seed vaults scattered around the world, but a majority of them are threatened. The national seed bank in Iraq was looted and destroyed. In Afghanistan, it was the same. The Taliban broke into their storehouse, not for the seeds, but to steal the plastic containers. And other seed banks are just as fragile. Poor management, suffering economies, failing equipment, all threaten these depositories. But most of all it was a lack of vision."

"And Karlsen stepped in?"

"The vault was the brainchild of the Global Crop Diversity Trust. But when Ivar heard about the project, he added his full support-both financially and vocally." The senator rubbed his temples with his gloved fingertips. "I still can't balance that man with the monster he seems to be. It makes no sense."

They continued in silence. Painter had heard the trace of doubt in Gorman's voice. After the initial shock of betrayal, skepticism had begun to creep back. It was human nature. No one wanted to believe the worst of their best friend or to face their own gullibility and blindness.

Ahead, a group of people massed near the end of the tunnel. The gathering rang with a party atmosphere. Along one wall stood a row of ice sculptures, lit from below to a stunning brilliance: a polar bear, a walrus, a model of the mountain, even the symbol for Viatus. On the other side stood a cold buffet and a steaming coffee bar.

Gorman plucked a champagne flute from a passing hostess. She was dressed in mukluks and a heavy coat. At this event, the parka was the equivalent of a black tie. Two dozen bundled guests crowded the tunnel, but from the number of servers and piles of untouched food, attendance was lower than expected.

Painter knew that the attack at the Grand Hotel-blamed on terrorists-had scared away several of the attendees.

Still, for a party just a hop, skip, and jump from the North Pole, it was a smashing success. At a microphone, a familiar figure was in midspeech. Reynard Boutha, copresident of the Club of Rome, spoke at length about the importance of preserving biodiversity.

"We are in the midst of a genetic Chernobyl. A hundred years ago, the number of varieties of apples cultivated in the United States stood at over seven thousand. Today, it's down to three hundred. Beans numbered almost seven hundred. Now it's down to thirty. Seventy-five percent of the world's biodiversity has vanished in just one century. And every day another species goes extinct. We must act now to preserve what we can before it's lost forever. That's why the Svalbard Global Seed Vault is so important, why we must continue to raise money and awareness..."

As Boutha continued, Painter spotted Karlsen across the crowd. He was flanked by two women. One was svelte and tall with long blond hair, her face mostly hidden within the hood of her parka. The other woman was older and bent Karlsen's ear as Boutha spoke.

"Who's that?" Painter asked, indicating the woman speaking to Karlsen.

"She's the former president of Rockefeller's Population Council and another member of Ivar's inner circle. They've been friends for years."

Painter knew about the Population Council. They were major advocates for population control through family planning and birth control, and if you believed some of the wilder rumors and rhetoric, some of their methods bordered on eugenics.

No wonder Karlsen was such good friends with her.

Gorman pointed out a few other figures in the crowd who were members of the inner cabal. "That large fellow with the beer gut over there represents a major German chemical and pharmaceutical company. Viatus has been researching how to incorporate one of their insecticides into a new generation of GM crops. If he's successful, it would severely lessen the pesticide load needed in fields, making crops cheaper to grow and increasing yields."

Painter nodded as Gorman listed others. It seemed Karlsen's circle consisted of those who were either seeking ways to address the overpopulation crisis or researching ways to increase food supplies. The senator was right. The man did seem to have the world's welfare at heart.

So how did that balance with a man who ordered the massacre of a village and who pushed forward the wholesale release of a genetic threat that could contaminate and corrupt the biosphere?

The senator's earlier assessment was right.

It didn't make sense.

Painter drew his attention back to Karlsen. Before he confronted the man, he wanted to know all the key players. "What about that other woman," he asked, "the blonde practically hanging off Karlsen's arm?"

Gorman squinted. "I don't know. She looks vaguely familiar, but she's not a member of his inner circle. Maybe just a friend."

Satisfied, Painter nudged Gorman and headed through the crowd. In such a gathering, it was doubtful Karlsen would do anything directly to threaten them. Where could he run?

Shifting through the partygoers, Painter soon stood before Karlsen. The man was momentarily alone, having finished his conversation with the Population Council president. Even the woman hanging on his arm had wandered off toward the buffet table.

Karlsen failed to recognize Painter. His gaze skipped over and fixed on Senator Gorman instead. The Norwegian's face immediately brightened with delight as he thrust out an arm.

Reflexively, Gorman shook it.

"Dear God, Sebastian," Karlsen said. "When did you get here? How did you get here? I tried calling your hotel when you didn't show up at the airport. With all the commotion after that attack last night, I couldn't get through. I thought maybe you'd flown home."

"No. Security just moved me to a new hotel," Gorman explained smoothly. "I couldn't make it to the airport in time, and I didn't want to hold everyone up. So I booked my own flight."

"You didn't have to do that. I insist that Viatus cover your expenses."

Painter watched the two interact. Though the senator put on a good show, he was plainly out of sorts, clearly on edge and unsettled.

Karlsen, on the other hand, looked genuinely pleased to see the senator. His expression was sincere. Painter could read no evidence that the man standing here had ordered the senator's assassination the night before. Either Karlsen truly wasn't involved or he was one frighteningly cool customer.

Gorman glanced over at Painter. The senator's expression radiated growing doubt. He stammered for a moment, then lifted a hand toward Painter. "I think you've already met the investigator from the office of the Inspector General."

The Norwegian's weighty gaze dropped on Painter. A moment of confusion settled back to recognition. "Of course, I'm sorry. We spoke briefly yesterday. You'll have to forgive me. It's been an insane twenty-four hours."

Tell me about it, Painter thought.

As he shook Karlsen's hand, he continued to study the man's face, looking for cracks in his demeanor. If the man knew Painter was more than just a DCIS agent, he wasn't showing it.

"The senator was kind enough to allow me to join him," Painter said. "I had hoped we might still conduct our interview. I only have a few questions, to tie up some loose ends. I promise it won't take long. Maybe there's a private place we could chat."

Karlsen looked put out, but he glanced over at Gorman. Maybe for just an instant, Painter spotted a flicker of guilt. It had been the senator's son who had been killed in the massacre in Africa. How could he say no in front of a grieving father?

Karlsen checked his watch, then nodded toward a doorway off to the right. "There are some offices back there. Catering has taken up the front half, but there's a small conference room that should be unoccupied."

"That will do fine."

They headed off together.

From across the crowd, Painter noted the blond woman staring at them. Though her expression was deadpan, it was also colder than the Arctic temperature in the vault. Caught looking, she glanced away.

Abandoned at the party, she did not look happy.

Krista watched the trio enter the vault's administration office. That couldn't be good.

Moments ago, she had almost choked on the olive floating in her vodka tonic, shocked to see the black-haired Sigma operative appear out of nowhere. With Senator Gorman in tow. She had barely gotten out of the way in time.

She stared at the office door as it closed. How could they be here? She thought she'd left them far behind in Oslo.

Suddenly feeling as if eyes were upon her from all directions, she adjusted the hood of her parka so its mink-lined edge better shadowed her face. She was glad she had taken the extra precaution to don a blond wig for the excursion here. She didn't want any more trouble like with Antonio Gravel.

She retreated down the tunnel. It ended at a cross passage that branched into the three seed vaults, each secured by air locks. With everyone still listening to speeches, she had the place to herself for the moment and a chance to regroup.

Leaning her back against one of the seed vault doors, she clutched the phone in her pocket. She had not heard any word from her superior. What was she supposed to do? He had told her that he'd take care of the Sigma operative, but here the man was with the senator. Should she act on her own? Wait for orders? At her level in the organization, she was expected to think on her feet, to improvise as needed.

She took several deep breaths and let a plan crystallize. If she had to act, she would. For now, she'd just see how matters unfolded here. Still, that didn't mean she shouldn't take precautions.

She slipped out her phone. So far underground she had no hope of getting a cell signal. But after arriving here she had excused herself from Ivar's side and found an outside line in the office computer room. She had wired a booster into the line so she could use her phone here.

She dialed one-handed. She had men standing ready at Longyearbyen. It was time to call them in. As the line was picked up, she spoke tersely and ordered them to secure all roads off the mountain. She wanted no surprises.

Once done, she clicked off the line and felt more settled. It was the waiting that had worn on her more than anything. It felt good to act, in even this small way. She adjusted a stray blond hair back in place. She should head to the restroom and recheck her makeup.

But before she could take a step, the phone vibrated in her hand. Her entire body went cold and trembled in sync with her cell. She lifted it to her ear.

"Yes?" she answered.

A familiar voice responded and finally passed on her orders. They were simple and direct.

"If you want to live, get out of there now."

Chapter 19

October 13, 10:13 A.M.

Aberdaron, Wales

Gray rolled their SUV down the long hill toward the church by the sea. They had driven all night, taking turns at the wheel, napping in between. Everyone looked exhausted.

In the rearview mirror, Gray saw Rachel staring out the window. She had not slept at all. Her eyes looked hollow. She often kept a palm pressed to her belly, plainly scared about what was brewing inside her, a biotoxin that could kill her in three days.

On the other side of the vehicle, the woman who had poisoned her seemed unconcerned. Seichan had slept most of the night. She wasn't worried that they might escape. They couldn't even risk calling for help. If Seichan was taken into custody, Rachel was dead.

"Professor," Gray said loudly enough to stir Wallace as he drowsed between the two women. Rufus, roused from the rear compartment, stretched his neck.

"We there?" Wallace asked grumpily.

"Almost."

"About bloody time."

It had been a long night. They had left the Lake District by pony, going by paths known to Dr. Boyle. Well before sunrise, they had ended up in the highland village of Satterthwaite, where they abandoned their ponies in a farmer's field. Gray had hot-wired an old Land Rover for their use.

But before that, during the long horseback ride, Gray had questioned the professor at length about the object they'd been ordered to find: the key to the Doomsday Book. According to Wallace, a myth surrounding the book claimed that hidden in its cryptic Latin text was a map to a great treasure.

"It's all rubbish, I tell you," Wallace had finished dismissively, glaring pointedly at Seichan.

She had shrugged. She had her orders, too.

Needing some lead to follow, Gray had pressed Wallace about the travels of Father Giovanni, specifically where the Vatican archaeologist had gone after visiting the stone ring in the peat bog. Wallace knew few details, as Father Giovanni had become more and more secretive over time. The professor offered only one bread crumb they could follow.

"After what we found in the Lake District, Marco went off to explore another spot marked as 'wasted' in the Domesday Book, the oldest of those entries."

Wallace had gone on to explain how an island in the Irish Sea was the first to be described in the Domesday Book in that strange manner. Bardsey Island lay off the coast of Wales. According to Wallace, Father Giovanni had gone to speak to a priest who knew the history of that island very well.

That's where they were headed now. After leaving the Lake District, they had driven south all night, returning to Liverpool again, then continuing into Wales. Their destination lay at the tip of a Welsh peninsula, a finger of land pointed straight at Ireland.

Bardsey Island lay a couple of miles farther out to sea. Gray spotted its gray-green hump against the darkening sky. It was a small isle, only two miles wide. A flush of rain brushed that hilltop and headed slowly toward shore.

Luckily, at the moment their immediate goal lay much closer. The church of Saint Hywyn sat above the beach, facing wind and waves. It was here that Father Giovanni had started his quest.

Gray pulled into the parking lot.

The church was all gray stones and tile roof. Large gothic windows stared out into a grim-looking cemetery. It overlooked a fishing village of colorful stone houses and crooked streets.

They all piled out of the car, stretching legs and hunching against the cold stiff breeze blowing off the sea. Waves rolled heavily against the beach. The air smelled of seaweed and salt.

"I'll stay by the car," Seichan said. "Don't want someone stealing it again."

Gray didn't even bother to acknowledge her. He buried a flicker of fury-not to avoid provoking her, but because she didn't deserve any response from him.

Glad to be free of her, Gray led them around the side of the church toward the rectory. On the trip down to Wales, he had used Seichan's phone to call ahead to Saint Hywyn's and arrange a meeting with Father Timothy Rye. The priest had been pleased about his interest, until he learned the reason behind the visit.

"Marco's dead?" Father Rye had said. "I can hardly believe it. I just saw him a few months ago."

Gray hoped the priest had information they could use.

Before they even reached the rectory door, it popped open. The priest was older than he sounded on the phone. He was as thin as a stick, with only wisps of white hair atop his head. Bundled in an overlarge wool sweater, he tottered to greet them on a gnarled cane, but he wore a warm, welcoming smile.

"Get yourselves out of the wind before it kicks you in the teeth already." Father Rye waved a bony arm to urge them through his door. "I have a pot on the stove, and Ol' Maggie dropped off a plate of her cranberry scones. Best in all of Wales."

They were ushered into a wood-floored room with rafters so low Kowalski had to duck. The walls were the same stone as the church, and a hearty fire danced in a small hearth. A long table had been set for a late morning tea.

Gray's stomach growled at the floury smell of freshly baked scones, but he wanted to keep the visit short. Time squeezed his chest. He checked on Rachel. The old priest had already taken a shine to her, practically taking her by the hand to the table.

"You sit here. By me."

Father Rye shuffled a bit. Wallace still hung at the door with Rufus, plainly not sure whether to leave his dog out in the cold.

"What are you waiting there for?" the priest scolded. "Get yourselves out of the cold."

The invitation was for both. Rufus headed inside even before Wallace moved. The terrier made straight for the fire, curled up, and dropped with a sigh.

Once the rest of them settled, Gray started in. "Father Rye, can you tell us why Father Giovanni-"

"Poor boy." The priest cut him off and crossed himself. "May he rest in peace." He turned and patted Rachel on the hand. "And I'll say a prayer for your uncle in Rome, too. I know he was a good friend of Marco's."

"He was and thank you."

The priest turned back to Gray. "Marco...now let me think. He first came here to the church some three years ago."

"That would be just after he first visited my excavation," Wallace added.

"He came quite often after that, traipsing all over Wales. We talked about all manner of sorts, we did. Then last June, he returned quite agitated from Bardsey Island. Like he'd been spooked to the bone. He prayed all night in the church. I heard him, I'm afraid-not that I was eavesdropping, mind you-asking over and over again for forgiveness. When I woke the next morning, he was gone."

Gray returned to that first visit. "Did Father Giovanni say why he first came here?"

"Aye. He was on a holy pilgrimage to Bardsey Island. Like many people before him. To pay homage to the dead."

Gray tried to sort through what he was hearing. Clearly the good father hadn't been totally honest with the elderly priest. But a few words made sense. "What dead are you talking about?"

"The twenty thousand saints buried on Bardsey." The old man pointed an arm toward the small window, which looked out to sea. The island was all but lost to sight as rain poured heavily over it. "Marco wanted to know all about the history of the dead."

Gray did, too. "What did you tell him?"

"What I tell all pilgrims. That Bardsey Island is a sacred place. Its history is a long one, going back to the peoples who first came to these fair lands. The ones who stood the stones on end and built the ancient cairns."

Wallace perked up here. "You're talking about the Neolithic tribe who first inhabited the British Isles."

"Aye. You can still find their hut circles up on Bardsey. It was a sacred place even back then. Home of royalty. Do you know the Celtic tales of the Fomorians?"

Gray shook his head. Wallace's eyes pinched. He plainly understood but wanted to hear what the old priest had to say.

"What are Fomorians?" Rachel asked.

"Not what, but who. According to Irish legends, when the Celts first came to these islands, they found them occupied by an ancient race, quite monstrous. Supposedly they were descendants of Ham, who had been cursed by Noah. The Celts and Fomorians fought over Ireland and its islands for centuries. Though not as skilled with swords, the Fomorians were known to be able to cast plagues upon their invaders."

"Plagues?" Gray asked.

"Aye. To quote one Irish ode, they cast out a 'great withering death' upon their enemies."

Gray glanced at Rachel and Wallace. Could this be the same as what wiped out the highland village?

"Other stories abound over the centuries," Father Rye continued, "of great wars and wary peace between these two peoples. The Irish storytellers do admit it was the Fomorians who passed on knowledge of agriculture to the Celts. But at the end, one last great battle was fought on Tory Island, and it resulted in the death of the Fomorian king."

"But what does all this have to do with Bardsey Island?" Wallace asked.

The priest lifted one brow. "As it is said, Bardsey was home to ancient royalty. According to local stories, it was on Bardsey that the Fomorian queen made her home. She was a great goddess who had the power to heal the sick, even cure the plagues."

Wallace mumbled under his breath, "No wonder Marco kept coming back."

Gray wanted to ask Wallace what he meant, but Father Rye was on a roll.

"And so the Celts took possession of all the lands. But even their priests, the Druids, recognized how sacred this region was. They made their center of learning on nearby Anglesey Island. Students gathered from all over Europe to study there. Can you imagine? But it was Bardsey Island that the Druids considered to be the most holy. Only the most elevated of the Druids were allowed to be buried there. Including the most famous Druid of all time."

Wallace must have known this legend. "Merlin."

Seichan stood on the leeward side of the Land Rover, keeping out of the wind. She opened and closed a folding knife while keeping watch on the rectory door. She didn't fear anyone trying to escape, nor even using the rectory phone. Though to ensure the latter, she had slipped over and cut the telephone wires.

She could have simply gone inside with them, but piecing together bits of history was not her specialty. She looked down at the knife in her hand. She knew where her talents lay. And she didn't need Gray distracted. She felt the fury radiating from him, stoking higher the closer she came. So she stayed away. She needed him focused.

For all their sakes.

She had watched the Audi sedan slip into the nearby town soon after they arrived. They were being watched from afar. Her handler, Magnussen, was keeping her on a short leash, tracking them out of the mountains. The hunters skillfully swapped out vehicles. She counted at least three tails. Unless you knew to look for them, they would have been impossible to pick out.

But not for her.

With a flip of her wrist, she snapped the folding blade closed and slipped it into her pocket. Sensing eyes on her even now, she needed to move. She abandoned the vehicle and strode toward the door to the old church. Its stone face was cold and imposing, as hard as the people who eked out a living off the sea here. The weight of centuries was palpable. Even its door was massive, scarred, and old. She tried the handle and discovered the church had been left open.

It always surprised her to find a door unlocked.

It felt somehow wrong, an unnatural state of being.

Before she thought better of it, she pulled open the door. The wind was kicking up. No telling how long the others would be. She entered the church and passed through the entry to the nave. Expecting a gloomy, somber interior, she was surprised to discover an airy and high-raftered space. The walls had been painted a creamy white that captured and held the meager daylight flowing through the arched windows. Polished wooden pews flanked either side, and a bright blue carpet led down the center aisle.

The church was empty, but she found herself unable to move any deeper into the nave. Suddenly tired, Seichan slipped into the closest pew and sat down. She stared over at the cross. She was not religious, but she recognized the pain in the crucified image of Christ.

She knew that agony.

Her breathing grew heavier as she stared. Her vision suddenly blurred. The tears came suddenly, welling up from somewhere deep inside. She covered her face as if trying to stop them, hide them, deny them.

For a long moment, she remained bent in the pew, unable to move. A pressure built inside her chest. It grew to an excruciating point, something large trying to squeeze out a small hole. She waited for it to pass, prayed for it to end-and eventually it did, leaving her both hollow and strangely disappointed. A shudder shot through her body, just once. She then took a long trembling breath, wiped her eyes, and stood up.

She turned her back on the cross and headed out of the nave and out of the church. The cold wind struck her and slammed the door behind her. It reminded her of an important lesson.

People should keep their doors locked.

Gray tried not to scoff. "You're saying Merlin is buried on Bardsey Island?"

Father Rye smiled and sipped his tea. "Of course, we all like to tell that story around these parts. It's said he's buried in a glass tomb on the island. It's surely fanciful, but it makes for a fine story, don't you think?" He winked at Rachel. "Though many do believe, including a few historians, that the Arthurian legends of Avalon arise from Bardsey."

Kowalski spoke around a mouthful of scone. "What's Avalon?"

Gray nudged him under the table. They didn't need the old priest rambling off the subject. They had to find out more about Father Giovanni.

But he was too late.

"Ah, according to Celtic legend," Father Rye explained, "Avalon was an earthly paradise. It was where King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, was forged. Where the enchantress Morgan Le Fay ruled. It was an island of rare apple trees, granting the place its name, from the Welsh word afal. Avalon was considered a place of great healing and longevity. And at the end of the Arthurian cycle, it was where King Arthur was taken to be healed by Morgan Le Fay after the Battle of Camlann. And of course, like I said, it was where the magician Merlin was buried."

Wallace's face grew more sour with the telling. "Bollocks," he finally burst out. "Everyone thinks Avalon or Camelot is in their own backyard."

Father Rye took no offense at the professor's outburst. "As I said, it's only legend. But like Avalon, Bardsey Island has long been considered a place of great healing. Even a travel book from 1188 attests to this claim. The writer described the people of Bardsey as being uncommonly free of disease and 'scarcely any die except of extreme old age.' And then, of course, we must not forget our magical apples."