The Methuselah Project (11 page)

“You mean everything Blomberg knew and accomplished here just got blasted to kingdom come?”

Kossler took another puff on his cigarette. “Correct. We were within one hair’s breadth of achieving our goal. But now it’s gone. Wiped out. We who remain don’t possess one shred of evidence that the Methuselah Project would have been successful.”

“Tough break, Doc. Looks like you need a new job. So where does that leave me?” Even though Blomberg had perished, whatever government bureaucracy oversaw this experiment wouldn’t merely ship him to a POW camp as if nothing had happened.

Kossler looked him in the eye. “That depends entirely on—” The German halted mid-sentence and studied the American’s face. Next he stepped backward and inspected Roger from head to foot. “How do you feel, Captain?”

Roger took a last drag on the cigarette and tossed away the glowing butt. “How do I feel? Angry beyond words. How do you want me to feel, when six buddies just got snuffed out through no fault of their own?”

Excitement grew in Kossler’s eyes and voice. “No, no. I mean, how do you feel physically after your trauma? Are you in pain? Sore? Stiff?”

“No. I feel fine. Why?”

Kossler placed an index finger on Roger’s right cheek. “When my men pulled you from the rubble, your cheek was bleeding. I gave you a handkerchief. Now the wound is gone. Not even a scratch remains. In little more than two hours, your body has regenerated new cells and completely healed the injury. Remarkable!”

Roger explored the spot with his fingertips. Kossler was right. Not only had the blood disappeared, but instead of feeling a throbbing gash, his fingers encountered only smooth, normal skin, as if the injury had never occurred. “How can that be?”

His head held high and proud, Kossler seized Roger’s hand and pumped it in uncharacteristic glee. “Evidence! We now have tangible, indisputable proof that the Methuselah Project is a success. Congratulations, Captain Greene. You are the Third Reich’s first Methuselah man!”

T
UESDAY
, J
ANUARY
13, 2015

T
HE
M
UELLER HOME
, D
RUID
H
ILLS DISTRICT
, A
TLANTA

K
atherine raised a hand to knock on the ornately carved ebony doors. She paused. Through those heavy double portals wafted the muffled notes of
The Ring of the Nibelung,
Wagner’s famous opera and Uncle Kurt’s all-time favorite. The music, however, wasn’t what stayed her hand.

This is idiotic. I should’ve outgrown this feeling when I gave away my dolls.

But she hadn’t outgrown it. She could never explain to herself why the image of those foreboding doors evoked trepidation. Perhaps she’d describe the emotion more like … awe? Apprehension? No. What was wrong with her? The English language formed her editor’s toolbox. Why should a description for this eerie feeling prove so hidden?

Hidden.
Her brain parked on the word. Inexplicably that simple adjective struck closer to the bull’s-eye. Katherine considered various synonyms for the word
hidden
—concealed, veiled, clandestine, unknown, unseen, buried …

No, no, no. Maybe the etymology? Occult. A shivery tingle danced up Katherine’s spine.
Occult?
Why should that word affect her in this spot?

“Oh, don’t be silly.” She refused to let wooden doors intimidate her. She stepped forward and knocked. When no response came, she rapped louder.

“Come in, Katarina.”

She slid open the twin doors, glad to be shoving them into their recesses in both walls, and strode into her uncle’s den.

Uncle Kurt—whom she’d expected to find sitting behind the massive baroque table he used as a desk—rose from the black leather davenport where he’d been reclining and lifted the tone arm of the record player. Wagner’s masterpiece evaporated in mid-note. “I hope the music didn’t disturb you. I closed the doors. But Wagner is so invigorating. I can rarely resist the temptation to turn up the volume.”

“No, you didn’t disturb me. I couldn’t even hear the music up in my room. I just have some questions about the HO.”

“Ah, questions!” He rubbed his hands as a hungry man might do at the mention of roast beef. He crossed to the leather seat behind his desk. “Please, sit down, and ask all the questions you wish.”

Katherine perched on the edge of Uncle Kurt’s wooden chair, feet flat on the floor. “Well, I’ve been reading this pamphlet you gave me.”

“And?”

Katherine tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and then smoothed the pamphlet on her lap. “It raises more questions than it answers. I was wondering if you could help me understand it better. For instance, the objectives of the organization. The pamphlet includes lots of rosy talk about ‘improving the world’ and ‘choreographing improvements in society from behind the scenes,’ and ‘leaving behind a richer heritage.’ Yet it’s all so vague. Why doesn’t the organization say straight out exactly how it benefits society?”

Kurt Mueller placed both palms on his desk. Contrary to what she feared, he didn’t evidence any offense. “An excellent question, Katarina. To be truthful, I’ve been waiting for you to ask. Think of it like this. A selfish man does not act for the sake of others. He won’t do anything philanthropic unless he can receive some credit, a little glory at the very least.”

“I suppose.”

“In the Heritage Organization, that’s not our way. We swim against the stream, race against the odds. We discipline the inner self to reject self-centered glory-seeking and unite with our fellow HO members to function in concert with one another in quest of positive goals that will serve us as an association and society as a whole.” Uncle Kurt was donning the impassioned voice he used to sermonize on topics close to his heart. The HO topped that list.

Katherine studied the gold-and-burgundy patterns in the imported Middle Eastern rug hanging behind Uncle Kurt. “That still doesn’t explain exactly what the HO accomplishes.”

“Correct, Katarina. But it does explain why we don’t boast of our achievements and why we don’t even mention the organization to outsiders. The Christian religion declares, ‘The meek shall inherit the earth.’ The HO replies, ‘Rubbish.’ The only way the meek can inherit a better world will be if a global confederacy of individuals unites to strive for the common good.”

Katherine straightened. “Confederacy?”

“A poor choice of word, especially considering where we live. Think of it more like an amalgamation of bright, concerned minds. Noble souls who benefit a world that doesn’t know they exist! And if protocol dictates that inexperienced ranks are not made privy to the wonderful string of advances in medicine, science, industry, and business, all I can ask is that you trust us. The more you learn and train, the more valuable you’ll become to yourself and to the world around you.”

This explanation wasn’t the revelation Katherine had hoped to hear. “But you trust me, too, don’t you? Can’t you crack the window just a little so I see what accomplishments you’re talking about?”

He stood and laughed. “You possess a keen, inquisitive mind. That’s admirable. But all in due time. Be patient and faithful to the HO. I promise—you’ll be glad you did. Now, any more questions as you study?”

“I guess not.”

He accompanied her to the doorway. “I guarantee, the longer you are in the HO, the more you will trust and appreciate it.”

“That’s encouraging to hear.”

“I have full confidence in you. You are an intelligent, ambitious girl with a gift for researching and understanding the heart of an issue. May you rise to the highest ranks of the organization, where new vistas will open and all your questions will receive answers.” That said, he slid shut the double doors to his den. Moments later, the majestic strains of “The Ride of the Valkyries” resumed from the beginning.

T
UESDAY
, F
EBRUARY
15, 1944

T
HE
K
OSSLER ESTATE
, G
ERMANY

B
lindfolded, Roger descended the steps, feeling his way with his flight boots. He still hadn’t decided how much he bought into Kossler’s claim that he was a “Methuselah man,” but fast healer or no, he didn’t care to tumble headlong down concrete stairs with his hands cuffed behind his back.

After he reached the bottom, strong fingers clamped onto his elbow and maneuvered him forward. When the guiding force stopped, someone removed the handcuffs.

“Don’t remove the blindfold until you’re told.” It was Kossler’s voice. “No need to get beaten unnecessarily.”

A moment later, Roger heard the all-too-familiar clang of steel on steel.

“You may uncover your eyes.”

Roger jerked off the blindfold and surveyed his new surroundings.

“No holiday resort, but certainly more comfortable than your cell at the Methuselah facility and your temporary cell upstairs.”

Once more, Roger found himself behind bars, but this place was much roomier than his previous cage.

“You may go,” Kossler told the two guards.

To Roger’s surprise, he found not a cot, but a genuine, civilian-style bed, complete with a plush pillow and a thick comforter. To the left of the bed stood a wooden table and an armchair flanked by a floor lamp. Beyond those was a set of bookcases reaching from the floor to the ceiling. The shelves contained hundreds of volumes. Maybe thousands. He stepped closer and saw most of the books were in English, mostly classic literature, but also textbooks. Many books brandished titles in German, which he dismissed as useless. Others appeared to be in Dutch, French, Russian, and various other European languages. To the right of the bed was a wooden door. Most depressing of all was the wall: large steel plates bolted to it created an impenetrable barrier.

It’ll take more than a soup spoon to dig my way through that.

With the toe of his boot, Roger folded back a corner of the Persian rug beneath his feet. Steel deck plating likewise shielded the floor against tunneling attempts. He let the rug flop back into place and swore under his breath.

Outside the bars, Kossler watched him like a zookeeper with a new specimen.

Roger ignored him. Instead, he surveyed the rest of this lower level. Against a backdrop of whitewashed concrete walls stood two desks, two lab tables with microscopes, bank after bank of file cabinets, and an assortment of scientific apparatuses Roger couldn’t identify. The solitary exit was a battleship-gray door, heavy-gauge steel. No need to ask why there were no windows. The number of steps he’d descended made it obvious he was deep underground.

Kossler spread his arms wide. “Captain Greene, welcome to your new home. These quarters replace your temporary place of confinement upstairs, in my ancestral home. Now I shall be able to live in familiar surroundings while continuing my scientific work down here, where you will live.”

“Do all Kosslers build dungeons in their basements?”

“You’ve been asking about the construction noises. Now you see the fruit of our labor. We call it the Methuselah bunker.”

Kossler swept his gaze around the underground chamber, obviously pleased. “Fortunately my great-grandfather was a successful businessman and built a large residence. If he hadn’t, your accommodations would be much more humble.”

Roger slipped off the flight jacket he’d been wearing while handcuffed and tossed it on the bed. “Why am I here?”

“Three reasons: speed, safety, and secrecy. When the Führer received my report on the amazing results of the project, he authorized me to continue Dr. von Blomberg’s work at once. Or rather to labor backward, attempting to piece together the countless missing fragments of the puzzle that altered your physiology. I needed a private place to work, an invisible location that could withstand future bombings. Constructing this bunker solved all three needs.”

“But you don’t need me anymore. If you think you can recreate Blomberg’s technique, go ahead. But ship me to a regular POW camp.”

Kossler gripped his sides and laughed as if Roger had just told a hilarious joke. “Impossible. You’re the key to the entire Methuselah Project. By observing you, we can determine with certainty whether the process produces unfortunate side effects. Also, from time to time I will require samples of your blood, urine, epidermis, and hair. So you see, your role is nonnegotiable. You are essential.”