The Methuselah Project (13 page)

“In addition, the Wehrmacht has been plundering every museum and estate from the English Channel to the Balkans. They have, shall we say, appropriated choice works of art to be found in France, Belgium, the Netherlands, and all other occupied countries. We in the SS have found it expedient to siphon off and reroute untold treasures. We are stockpiling them in hidden underground vaults scattered around Europe. In due season, they can be sold to private collectors to further expand the Consortium’s coffers.”

Kossler nodded. “I see. If that is the case, you must have access to enough money to fund the Methuselah Project for several years.”

For the first time, Wolf threw his head back and chortled in unrestrained humor. “If only you knew your gift for understatement, Doctor. In gold and silver alone, the Consortium already commands enough wealth to purchase a small nation. On top of that are mountains of international currencies. We will continue to squirrel away jewels and precious metals right up to the end. Yes, we can afford to finance Methuselah—plus many other worldwide activities that I won’t discuss. Of course, no postwar authorities will be able to trace these funds. We have concealed our tracks with utmost care.”

Kossler turned toward the hearth, where wedges of split oak popped and crackled, radiating warmth. The Kossler family home featured steam radiators, of course, but he enjoyed the smoky smell of a fireplace and had lit it today in anticipation of Wolf’s arrival. Should he voice his final nagging question? He turned away from the flames. “Colonel, I’m extremely grateful. But tell me: if Germany is going to lose the war, why is the Führer going to such lengths? Surely he must realize he will never benefit from the research? He can no longer hope to become the thousand-year Führer of a thousand-year Reich. With his well-known face, he can’t hope to hide—”

“Hitler will not profit. The Allies will hang him or shoot him—if our side doesn’t kill him first. The Führer knows nothing of our plan. We can’t save him, so we excluded him. Our Consortium can’t afford the risk of him ruining Methuselah through some sort of eleventh-hour madness.”

Again, Kossler peered into those eerily pale eyes. Despite the compliments, this SS officer unnerved him. With his cutthroat SS tactics, he might be capable of anything. Kossler wouldn’t want the man for an enemy. “Thank you, Colonel Wolf. I’m honored.”

“One more thing. When the Allies arrive, hang white sheets from your front gate and windows. Better yet, hang out homemade American and British flags. Be receptive. Be friendly. Welcome the swine as liberators. Even permit their soldiers to sleep here if they wish. You can halt your research for a time. Simply do whatever is necessary to protect the Methuselah Project.” Colonel Wolf didn’t wait for a reply. He flicked the butt of his cigarette into the fireplace. “We’ll be in touch.” With that, he pivoted and strode out the door, the heels of his glossy boots clacking noisily across the hardwood floor.

Kossler sank onto the divan and reviewed the entire conversation. When defeat for Germany arrived, should he inform the American? No. From a psychological standpoint, that would be counterproductive. Let the captain believe the war was still raging. Otherwise he might become combative—or worse, suicidal—in prolonged postwar confinement. Better if he didn’t know.

S
UNDAY
, F
EBRUARY
8, 2015

C
LEARWATER
, F
LORIDA

S
eated at the banquet table, Katherine Mueller glanced left and right before feeling for the edge of the burgundy tablecloth that hung to her lap. Beneath the protective cover of the table, she wiped both palms on the dry linen. Why was she so nervous? It was just an award and promotion ceremony. No big deal.

Her eyes swept the rented hall again. Of the three hundred or so members of the organization finishing their chicken cordon bleu, at least twenty or thirty men looked young enough to be potential candidates for romance. Surely some of them were bachelors. Several weren’t bad looking at all. Of course that wasn’t her main reason for being here, but why not check out the territory? It wasn’t every day the HO held a regional promotion ceremony.

She stole another glance at the two athletic specimens seated four tables away. The men were so similar in appearance that they were obviously twins. Katherine loved their untamed, tousled blond curls. Sure, they were older than her by six or seven years, but she liked older men. Guys in their early twenties could be so immature.

“Nervous, Katarina?”

Katherine broke off guy-watching. Uncle Kurt observed her with a half-proud, half-amused expression.

Her voice dropped to an undertone. “A little bit. I dread the part on stage.”

Uncle Kurt’s smile wilted. He leaned to her ear. “Is it the salute? Is that what’s bothering you? As I explained, it’s not the same salute the Nazis used. In the organization—”

Katherine shook her head. “It’s not that. I just don’t like being the center of attention, even among friends. I’m more of a behind-the-scenes kind of person.”

Uncle Kurt’s good humor rekindled. He massaged her back just below the neck, the way he’d always done to soothe her. “I understand. Don’t worry. Your role in the ceremony will be brief. Besides,” he added with a wink, “being a ‘behind-the-scenes kind of person’ isn’t a bad trait. Very often, people behind the scenes accomplish far more than those who revel in the limelight.”

Katherine let his statement slide by unexplained. Just another “Uncle Kurt-ism” that she no longer dwelt on for long. She simply smiled, feigned understanding, and nodded, which usually put him at ease. Uncle Kurt radiated approval, and for her, that was enough. Right now his glowing pride for her trumped any personal wish to snare the interest of suitors.

A middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair mounted the steps to the stage and approached the podium.

Here we go. The after-dinner festivities.
Katherine risked yet another peek at the twin Adonises whom she’d been ogling. She couldn’t be sure but, as far as she could tell, neither had looked her way, not even once.

Might they already be married?
Maybe I’m not pretty enough for them. Or maybe they’re like Uncle Kurt—too involved with business and the organization to get serious about romance.

The man at the microphone extended his right arm, holding it parallel with the floor but cocking his hand upward from the wrist. He packed his greeting into one word: “Heritage!”

“Heritage!” Many in the crowd returned the salute from their seats.

The man at the mic, whom Katherine knew only as some sort of business tycoon introduced earlier as Mr. Schneider, launched into a speech praising family, cultural heritage, and lineage. In no hurry whatsoever, he waxed on about the higher calling for individuals from well-bred backgrounds to become guiding forces in a misguided world.

Katherine had heard such lectures before and had practically memorized pamphlets on the subject provided by Uncle Kurt. Evidently such propaganda formed a vital foundation for indoctrination into the Heritage Organization. Even though the speaker and those who nodded during his talk obviously harbored strong sentiments on the subject, Katherine allowed much of the discourse to flow past without paying attention. Even now, she stifled a yawn for fear of hurting Uncle Kurt’s feelings.

Would I even be here if my father and mother hadn’t been HO supporters?
She didn’t normally pose such blunt questions to herself, but as soon as she had, she knew the answer. No. In fact, some aspects of the HO struck her as bordering on cultish, even though they shunned all connections to religion.

Fragments of childhood memories rushed back: Mom filling her tiny palms with bread crumbs to feed pigeons in the park, swinging her legs on a counter stool beside Daddy in a restaurant, a family trip to the zoo with Uncle Kurt … This last memory was clearest, since her nightstand still bore a framed photograph of Uncle Kurt holding her beside her parents with giraffes towering behind them. For each precious memory, Uncle Kurt had regaled her with stories of her scientist parents and how much they had wanted to see her join the HO and continue their legacy.

Mom and Dad loved me. That much I remember. I can’t thank them for loving me, but I can fulfill their one wish for my life. When I rise higher in the ranks, I’ll get a better appreciation of how the HO improves the world.

Katherine thought about the homeless women she often passed while driving the taxi, shuffling down the street with stringy hair and sad eyes.
I certainly would love to help them.

“And now,” continued Mr. Schneider, “it gives me great pleasure to preside over this year’s regional promotions. We shall begin with those advancing from Kadett to the rank of
Leutnant.
When I call your name, please step forward and join me onstage.”

Nervousness fluttered inside Katherine’s stomach.

“Katherine Mueller,” read Mr. Schneider from his list.

Katherine swallowed. With a surname beginning with “M,” she hadn’t expected to hear hers first.

A hand touched her shoulder. Uncle Kurt spoke into her ear. “Highest score goes first. Well done!”

She scooted her chair back, then walked forward, accompanied by the loud staccato of applause.

As prescribed by organization protocol, Katherine mounted the steps, took a position behind the speaker, pulled her heels together, and raised her right arm parallel to the floor, the hand cocked to an upward angle as the speaker had done earlier. She glued her eyes to the back wall. Even without peeking at Uncle Kurt, she knew he brimmed with joy for his niece. Imagining how she must look from his vantage point was simple, since she’d modeled her appearance from an old black-and-white photograph of her mother: a smart-looking black beret, a matching black skirt, plus a white button-down silk blouse. Even though she was reared in Georgia, Katherine liked how the outfit emphasized her Germanic lineage. It had certainly elicited compliments from senior Heritage members all evening.

Maybe now those two blond studs will notice me.

At the microphone, Mr. Schneider continued reading names, summoning forward eleven other young men and women. In her peripheral vision, Katherine saw each one in turn climb the steps and take a stance in a line abreast of her. Their bodies stood at stiff attention, their right arms held rigidly in the organization salute. An unnamed brunette woman—some sort of organization functionary—proceeded down the line and pinned a pewter star with sunrise emblem onto their shirts. The twin symbols of a “new day dawning” and the stellar future awaiting them.

When the last new Leutnant had received the insignia, Mr. Schneider stepped aside and addressed Katherine and the others. “Leutnants of the organization, do you vow faithfulness to our heritage?”

“We vow,” Katherine chorused with the others.

“Do you recognize your higher calling?”

“We recognize the calling.”

“What will halt you from this lifelong duty?”

“Only death!”

On cue, everyone in the banquet room rose and returned the salute. “Only death,” they echoed.

Even though it broke protocol, Katherine flicked her eyes to her own table. Uncle Kurt stood like a ramrod, his arm extended in the prescribed posture, his eyes sparkling with emotion.

Schneider initiated applause, and the assembly joined in. Katherine led the others from the stage, and they returned to their tables.

Mr. Schneider folded over the top sheet to continue with page two. “Now for the higher promotions. Rising from the rank of Leutnant to Defenders …”

Relieved that her portion of the ceremony was over, Katherine rejoined Uncle Kurt. Never before today had she seen tears in the man’s eyes, and never before had she seen him struggle so hard just to choke out a few words.

“So proud. I am so proud of you, my Katarina.”

Internally Katherine struggled too, but with self-accusations of hypocrisy. Perhaps devout members of the Masons, the Elks, and Veterans of Foreign Wars nurtured affectionate bonds for their societies. For her, the ritual was nothing but an outward formality, fulfilling an expectation of Mueller clan history embodied in her sole surviving relative, Uncle Kurt.

“Family and tradition are paramount,”
she chastised herself, parroting a line from one of Uncle’s pamphlets.
I might chafe under some of his demands, but this is the best way I can honor my parents. I won’t let them down. No matter what, I’ll stick with the organization.