"My funding," Wallace said in a tone that made it sound as if it should be obvious. "Like I said. In this business, you get money where you can."

"And how do extremophiles fit in with all that?"

Gray was well aware of the term. Extremophiles were organisms that lived under extreme conditions, ones that were considered too harsh to support life. They were mostly bacteria, found living in toxic environments like boiling deep-sea rifts or volcanic craters. Such unique organisms offered potential new compounds to the world.

And the world's industries had certainly taken note, generating a new business called bioprospecting. But instead of prospecting for gold, they were after something just as valuable: new patents. And it turned out to be a booming business. Already extremophiles were being used to patent new industrial-strength detergents, cleansers, medicines, even an enzyme used widely by crime labs for DNA fingerprinting.

But what did all that have to do with bog mummies in England?

Wallace tried to explain. "It goes back to my initial hypothesis, one I pitched to my potential sponsors. A hypothesis about the Doomsday Book."

Gray noted that he called it Doomsday, rather than Domesday, this time. He imagined that the professor, with his usual flair for the dramatic, had sought funding using the book's more colorful name.

"As I mentioned, those few places in the book marked in Latin as 'wasted,' seemed to have been wiped off the map-literally and figuratively. What would make those old census takers do that unless something dangerous had struck these towns?"

"Like a disease or plague," Gray said.

Wallace nodded. "And potentially it was something never seen before. These were isolated places. Who knew what might have risen out of the bogs? Peat bogs are soups of strange organisms. Bacteria, fungi, slime molds."

"So they hired you as both an archaeologist and a bioprospector."

Wallace shrugged. "I'm not the only one. Major industries are turning to field archaeologists. We're delving into ancient places, sites long closed up. Just this past year, a major U.S. chemical company discovered an extremophile in a newly opened Egyptian tomb. It's all the rage, you see."

"And for this dig, the University of Oslo funded you."

"No. Oslo is just as strapped as any university. Nowadays most grants are generated from corporate sponsors."

"And which corporation hired you?"

"A biotech company, one working with genetically modified organisms. Crops and whatnot."

Gray gripped the table's edge. Of course. Biotechnology companies were major players in the hunt for extremophiles. Bioprospecting was their life's blood. They cast feelers out in all directions, across all fields of study. Including, it seemed, archaeology.

Gray had no doubt who sponsored Wallace's research.

He spoke that name aloud. "Viatus."

Wallace's eyes grew larger. "How did you know?"

11:44 P.M.

Seichan stood outside her cabin. She held a cigarette in her hand, unlit and forgotten. The stars were as crisp as cut glass in the night sky. Streams of icy fog crept through the trees. She inhaled a deep breath, smelling the peat smoke, both from their camp stoves and from the smoldering fires underground.

The ring of stones, rimed in ice, looked like chunks of silver.

She pictured the two bodies buried in the center. For some reason, she thought back to the curator she had slain in Venice-or rather, to his wife and child. She pictured the two of them buried here instead. Knowing it was born out of guilt, she shook her head against such foolish sentimentality. She had a mission to complete.

But tonight her guilt had sharpened to an uncomfortable edge.

She stared down at her other hand. She held a steel thermos. It had kept her tea warm. The warmth also kept her biotoxin incubated. The group had talked at length about extremophiles after the revelation about the source of Dr. Boyle's funding. The source of the toxin supplied to her was a bacteria discovered in a volcanic vent in Chile. Frost sensitive, it had to be kept warm.

No one noticed that only Rachel drank the tea.

Seichan only pretended to sip at it.

Pocketing her cigarette, she crossed to a windblown bank of snow and set about filling the thermos with handfuls of snow. The cold would sterilize the thermos, killing any remaining bacteria. Once it was packed full, she screwed the top back on. Her fingers trembled. She wanted to blame it on the cold. She threaded the top on wrong, and it jammed. She fought it for a breath as anger flared hotly through her. Frustrated, she yanked her arm back and hurled the thermos into the forest.