The Methuselah Project (12 page)

Roger resisted the urge to spit at the man. “I’m touched to the core.” He jerked a thumb toward the unvarnished pine door beyond his bed. “What’s in there?”

“One water closet and one sink. I’m afraid you’ll have to bathe from the sink. Oh, and you’ll find a mirror of polished metal. I’ll obtain a safety razor so you can shave your whiskers.”

Once more, Roger’s eyes roamed the new cage. Bolted to one wall was a scratched and dented hunk of tin: a yellow square with a black numeral 7 stenciled onto it. From his cell at the House of Horrors. A silent tribute to Dr. von Blomberg.

Roger stepped over to the armchair and dropped into it. He kicked off his bulky flight boots and crossed his ankles on the bed, using it as a footstool.

“You know, Doc, when I was walking down those steps, I had a bad feeling. Like maybe I was going to be executed and buried underground.”

“I assure you, Captain Greene, we have no such intentions.”

“Nice to know.” Roger reflected on the washroom. “No tub or shower, huh? What about these clothes I’m wearing? They already smell pretty ripe.”

“We took measurements while you slept. We’ll provide civilian clothing so you may wash these and hang them to dry.” Kossler looked at the fleece flight boots. “Just to prove we aren’t the monsters you believe, we’ll even provide civilian shoes.”

“So you really think you can recreate whatever hocus-pocus old Blomberg pulled off? How long will it take?”

“Respectively my replies are ‘Perhaps’ and ‘I don’t know.’ Dr. von Blomberg was a genius. He had much more formal education than I, and he possessed uncanny intuition regarding multiple fields of science, some of which don’t yet have names. We have no guarantee that I, or anyone else, can duplicate his results. I, however, am the only scientist who read any portion of his records before they were destroyed. How much time will it take? That’s anyone’s guess. Months? Years? Never? Who knows?”

“And you’re going to tackle this all by your lonesome self?”

Kossler strolled to a mantel clock sitting on a shelf behind one of the two desks. He picked up a key and began winding it. “No, not alone. I’ve requested an assistant to help me.”

“Say, make it a female assistant. Somebody who looks like Rita Hayworth. Or maybe Betty Grable. Sure would be nice to have a face prettier than yours to admire.”

Kossler laughed lightly and swung shut the glass plate of the clock. “You Americans. The fountain of your humor never runs dry. Unfortunately for your fantasies, the chosen assistant is male. Werner Neumann is his name. They tell me he is bright and insightful. Equally important, he is fully dedicated to the party.”

Roger reached for his jacket, unsnapped one of the front pockets, and retrieved his green aviator sunglasses. “Another heel-clicking Hitler fanatic? I can hardly stand the suspense.”

Kossler’s face clouded. “A little humor can be admirable, Captain. Misguided jesting becomes insolence. I warn you, although we want you alive, I can still punish impertinence.”

“Yeah? Well, mairzy doats and dozy doats.”

Kossler’s eyebrows lowered. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Maybe I expressed my opinion in secret code, developed by the U.S. Army Signal Corps to protect top-secret information. Don’t expect me to translate.” He held up the sunglasses, then straightened a bend in one of the temples.

Kossler sniffed. “You may keep your precious code. I guarantee your U.S. Army won’t receive any messages from this bunker.”

Through the bars, Roger observed Kossler’s crossed arms with satisfaction. His words had struck the target of opportunity. “Thanks for the warning, Doc. Now if you don’t mind, I think I’ll get a little shuteye. You know how moving to a new prison cell always wears me out.” He slipped on the sunglasses and settled into the armchair, which felt cozier than he wanted to admit. Would Kossler feel indignant that it was he, the prisoner, rather than himself, who had signaled the end of their conversation? Who cared? Let the mad scientist feel snubbed. For now, fatigue was tugging Roger’s brain toward dreamland.

W
EDNESDAY
, O
CTOBER
11, 1944

T
HE
K
OSSLER ESTATE
, G
ERMANY

S
tanding in the salon of his home, Dr. Otto Kossler stared into the ice-blue eyes of SS Colonel Heinrich Wolf. Kossler struggled to absorb the information the colonel had just told him.

“Surely you cannot be serious? The government—”

“Dr. Kossler, I’m not a man endowed with an overly active sense of humor.” Judging from Wolf’s inhumanly frigid gaze, the colonel was also not a man blessed with a soul, if such a thing existed. “The Third Reich’s future can now be numbered in months, if not weeks. Germany is dying, shriveling on the vine, and the military can do little to prevent it. You would have foreseen the same truth had you not been so preoccupied with your test tubes and microscopes.”

“But the news reports. What about the secret weapons being developed? The Führer has promised—”

“Propaganda for the masses. Those weapons are too little, too late. Even if we had more time for research and development—which we don’t—the Allies have obliterated most of our means of manufacturing them. Like a steamroller, they are crushing the life out of Germany.”

Kossler’s eyes dropped to the polished Black Forest oak floor of his study. “So it has come to this.” He sighed with resignation. “What am I to do concerning the project? Destroy the evidence?”

“The project is why I’m here. Methuselah must continue at all costs. But no information concerning this research must fall into Allied hands. Do you hear me? None of it! From this point onward, even high-ranking party members are not to be trusted without authorization.”

“Methuselah is to continue? But how? If the Allies overrun us, then all is lost.”

“First, we will send you several faithful engineers who are skilled in construction and camouflage techniques. This house and your estate will remain, but the entrance to the underground bunker will be disguised. Do not speak to the engineers about Captain Greene or the nature of your work. Do not name the Methuselah Project. Permit them to conceal the entrance to the bunker, and then dismiss them.”

A wave of confusion crashed over Kossler’s brain. “How will the research be financed if the Allies are victorious? After all, the end of Germany means the liquidation of the very government that sponsors the project.”

Heinrich Wolf squinted at him. Almost as a chess player sizing up his opponent, he stared until Kossler decided to study the rug instead of looking into those eyes. Wolf removed a leather-bound notebook from an inner pocket and flipped it open. He ran a finger down a column, turned the page, and continued halfway down another column before he found what he was looking for. He grunted.

“Dr. Kossler, I see here that your allegiance to the party is deemed impeccable. You have the leadership’s utmost confidence. Your security clearance is higher than Blomberg’s was, nearly as high as my own. How can it be that a man of your standing knows so little of the Consortium and of the plans being laid for the postwar struggle?”

Kossler waved his hands, palms up. “My experiments. The project. Over and over, Berlin has stressed to me how vital Methuselah is to our cause. I leave military and political matters to more experienced hands in order to concentrate on my own assignment.”

“I see,” Colonel Wolf said, as if pondering some unspoken matter. “Your eye truly has focused on the microscopic rather than on the wider screen of human affairs unfolding around us.” Wolf drummed his fingers on Kossler’s desktop. “All right. I will bring you up to date. This is information you need. Mark my words: the Reich will soon die. But the Nazi faithful, certain key men with the wits to survive, will live on. If we maintain allegiance to each other—and if we refuse the option of defeat—then like puppet masters, we shall exist behind the scenes and manipulate the strings of world events in our own ways. But at least temporarily we must play the role of silent chameleons. We will soon doff our insignia, our uniforms, and our salutes. We will assume new identities and the role of innocent German citizens swept along by the tide of a war we never wanted. Do you understand?”

Kossler nodded, even though the scenario Wolf painted left a multitude of squirming, unanswered questions. “Yes, I understand. The principle, but not the practice. If everything you say is true, then the clock works against us. Little time remains for covert preparations.”

“Much groundwork has already been laid, although I won’t take time to explain it in detail. Do you know General Reinhard Gehlen?”

“Not personally.”

“General Gehlen is one of those already coordinating a network to survive after surrender. Others include Borman, Eichmann, Brunner, Skorzeny, and many other worthy comrades—some whose names you might recognize, some not. But all these men know how to keep their mouths shut even if captured. When the time comes, our top men will be secreted to Geneva, Cairo, Lisbon, Buenos Aires, Sydney, Washington, and other strategic cities. Each man will receive a new identity and become a phantom, a genuine member of an invisible international consortium.
The
Consortium, to those of us in it. Following the war, we will occupy seemingly peaceful positions scattered around the globe. But away from the spotlight of public attention, our purpose will be to manipulate world politics and economies to suit our own purposes. Make no mistake, Dr. Kossler: the ship of the Fatherland is sinking. It will soon founder beneath the waves. But the unseen Consortium—code-named the Heritage Organization—is our life raft. Why go down with the ship, when we can live and choose another day to resurrect our goals?”

Kossler pondered those words as he scrutinized the cuff title adorning Colonel Wolf’s left jacket sleeve. Anyone would recognize the elite SS Viking as a famed combat force. If a ranking officer in such a division foresaw no hope for Germany, then it must be true. It struck Kossler that “Viking” was an apt adjective for this determined warrior who wouldn’t accept defeat. “What of me? Do I rate the status of a ‘key man’ to be smuggled to Buenos Aires too?”

A smile that smacked of tolerance formed on Colonel Wolf’s face. He lowered a hand onto Kossler’s shoulder. “My dear doctor, I would not be rehearsing these details if we did not consider you an essential cog in our machinery. The sooner you unlock whatever secret is at work in the American’s body, the sooner you can duplicate the process for those of us in the Heritage Organization. I don’t need to explain the advantages if each of our members could live for a millennium. The possibilities are absolutely staggering.”

Wolf extracted a silver cigarette case from his tunic pocket and pressed a button. The case popped open. “Care for a Lucky Strike? Courtesy of an American prisoner.”

In recent years, Kossler had come to prefer smoking with a pipe, but in the spirit of camaraderie, he joined Wolf in selecting a cigarette.

A lighter emblazoned with an American-style eagle appeared in the colonel’s hand, and he lit both their cigarettes. After blowing a stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth, Wolf continued. “As I was saying, we are laying escape lines to sneak our most faithful men out of the Reich. In your circumstance, however, such recourse isn’t realistic. You need your equipment, your notes, your files. Most of all, you need this Captain Greene alive, intact, and permanently confined. Attempting to smuggle you, plus him and your entire laboratory, out of the country would be lunacy. Foolishly hazardous. Methuselah is vital to the Consortium. We won’t risk losing you—and it. Therefore, you will receive new identity papers, but you must remain here. Of course, we will protect you and finance your operations. When things cool down politically, perhaps even during the occupation, we will try to recruit additional assistants to work under you.”

Hearing such praise heaped upon his role, Kossler’s back straightened. The Aryan pride of National Socialism swelled inside his chest. “Thank you, Colonel Wolf. I understand, and I will cooperate fully. I’m grateful for your confidence. But if I may be so bold, you never answered my question about how the project will be funded. You remember what happened to the economy after the last war.”

Wolf took another casual draw of his Lucky Strike. “I remember too well. That’s why our organization has already amassed much of the financial backing we shall require—and I’m not referring to
Reichsmarks.
Does the name Martin Weiss mean anything to you?”

Kossler probed his memory. “No, I don’t believe so.”

“I thought not. Weiss is currently acting commandant of the concentration camp at Dachau. Under strict orders of silence, Weiss’s officers have stockpiled an enormous quantity of gold, international currency, and other valuables confiscated from his Jewish population.” Wolf paused to relish yet another leisurely lungful of his cigarette. “These truly are excellent. I’ll have to acquire more of them. But back to financing. In the past, this wealth accumulated at Dachau was shipped to Berlin. Now, however, Weiss agrees with our group that, at this juncture in history, our Consortium has greater need of gold than Berlin.