The Methuselah Project (27 page)

“You mean the one on Main Street, over in College Park?”

Relieved, Roger feigned knowledge of the place. “Yes. Take me there, please.”

“No sweat, amigo. Five minutes away.” The cabbie started his meter, and they were off. Along the way, the driver bobbed his head to noises blaring from the radio. The endlessly repeated beat and nonsense rhymes grated Roger’s nerves, but he bit his tongue. For now he wanted to soak up American scenery. His first culture shock came at the library, when the cabbie announced the fare.

“Six dollars and fifty cents? I just wanted to ride in a taxi, not make a down payment on one.”

“That’s the fare, amigo.”

Roger peeled off seven of the dollars he’d received in exchange for his Euros in the airport. He’d supposed five hundred dollars would last maybe a year. Gross miscalculation.

Behind the desk sat a woman with silver hair. In the manner of helpful librarians everywhere, she offered a polite smile. “May I help you?”

“Could you point me toward the history section? Specifically, military history. Anything about the war between America and Nazi Germany.”

Oblivious to time, Roger pored over volume after volume, noting dates, maps, details concerning troop movements, everything leading up to D-Day in Europe and V-J Day in Japan. Particularly interesting were the accounts of a long-range fighter plane that had enabled American bombers to wing all over Germany under protective escort. He admired the photographs.
P-51 Mustangs, huh? That’s one sleek-looking bird.

By contrast, the accounts of an atom bomb that pulverized Nagasaki and Hiroshima in Japan flabbergasted him.

That Kossler … All those years, he was feeding me a pack of lies. And I swallowed it. Wasn’t it bad enough keeping me imprisoned without duping
—

In a flash, the truth illuminated Roger’s understanding.

He was stringing me along for my own sake. He knew I’d go insane if I had no hope. He spun those tales as a life preserver.

The unexpected insight gave Roger a new appreciation for Kossler he’d never had while the scientist was alive. Compared to Hans, Kossler was practically a humanitarian.

Someone cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, but we’re closing now,” interrupted the woman from the checkout desk. “Actually you were so engrossed in your research we let you stay a little longer. Did you find everything you needed?”

Roger closed the volume. “Not everything. Enough for today, though. I have a special interest in the air war over Europe back in the 1940s.”

“Have you checked the Eighth Air Force Museum in Pooler? I understand they offer both displays and extensive archival material.”

“Pooler?”

She smiled. “Judging by your accent, you’re not from around here. Pooler is just outside Savannah.”

“You’re right, I haven’t been in Georgia very long. Thanks for the tip.”

When Roger stepped outside, nighttime was descending. The temperature had dropped to somewhere in the thirties, he guessed, and the wind sliced through his shirt and ruffled his hair. Into his mind sprang two lines from a depressing French poem by Paul Verlaine he had translated back in the 1980s:
It rains in my heart, Like it rains on the town….

So much for his first day back in the States. Of course he hadn’t expected a brass band or a welcoming committee, but he’d expected something—anything—more exhilarating than a jaunt to the library and frigid wind. Sophie had been his one link with reality. Without her, he was an aircraft with a busted rudder and no airfield to land on.

“Now what do I do? Saturday night with no date and no place to go.”

The wind gusted again, harder this time. It felt like an icy blade knifing through the cotton shirt and khaki trousers Sophie had bought him.
Georgia might be on the verge of springtime, but winter isn’t quite whipped.

The flight jacket lay folded inside the briefcase. Should he put it on? He didn’t want to attract attention, but it was his only protection from the cold. Organization or no, he’d look like an idiot standing outside in just shirtsleeves. He opened the briefcase and extracted the flight jacket. When he did, he again spotted the Bible tucked beneath it. The sight caused him to glance heavenward, where the first stars already glittered against the blackening dome. He stood and stared at their delicate twinkling. Truly the heavens declared the handiwork of God. How had he never realized that before his capture?

Lord, I have no idea where I’m headed or what to do. I’d appreciate it if You would guide my steps.

He slipped on the jacket and began walking. Now that he was aware of the pricey taxi fares, he didn’t even consider this option. Better to find a motel or something if he didn’t want to sleep on the street.

Clutching the briefcase, Roger wandered the streets for well over an hour. When he spotted a box truck with an open rear pulling away from a curb, he sprinted to catch up, then jumped into the back. Although he relished his newfound freedom to walk, the chilly wind had spoiled his first evening back. Also, his stomach was growling.

Could the sudden time difference explain the fuzzy feeling in his head? Who would’ve imagined flying straight from Frankfurt all the way to Atlanta in only ten hours?

Eventually the truck halted at an intersection. Across the street, Roger spotted an aging motel with a faded green-and-white sign: The Shamrock Paradise Inn. Next door glowed the sign for an equally run-down establishment pegged as Slick’s Bar and Grill.
Shamrock Paradise Inn, eh? Is that a sign my luck is changing?

Roger hopped off the truck and jogged toward the warmth of the motel. Inside, the woman behind the counter surprised him by not looking or sounding Irish at all. Instead, she appeared to hail from India or some other exotic land. She frowned when she learned he carried no identification.

“But I have cash. The sign says $29 a night, right?”

When he spread three crisp, ten-dollar bills on the counter, she brightened. “All right. I’ll get your key.”

In his room, Roger examined his surroundings. The wallpaper sported four-leaf clovers on a yellowing background. Appropriate. By the looks of things, this place just might be older than he.

After enjoying a luxuriously long and hot shower, Roger dressed and stepped back outside, where he walked next door to Slick’s for supper. Despite the late hour, a boisterous crowd populated the bar and grill. Roger settled into the last empty booth in a corner. Even after so many decades overseas, he recognized Slick’s as a greasy spoon. At least it would offer all-American grease.

“What’ll it be, hon?” drawled a jeans-clad waitress with oily brunette hair. “We got a special on the BLT basket. Only five bucks.”

“BLT? You mean you serve bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches?” Just hearing those forgotten initials prompted Roger to salivate.

The waitress laughed and cracked her chewing gum. “Yeah, sure. You want just the sandwich, or the whole basket? Comes with fries and a Coke.”

Roger savored the memory of bubbling, ice-cold Coca-Cola. “Give me the whole show.”

When his meal arrived, Roger lost interest in watching Slick’s other patrons and devoted his full attention to the BLT basket. With eyes closed, he relished the tantalizing American flavors dancing across his taste buds.

Ketchup, pickles, French fries, and Coca-Cola. Could freedom get better than this? With the next thought he answered his own question: It sure could. An airplane of his own to fly whenever he wanted would make the picture perfect.

A female voice interrupted his reverie: “Hey, handsome.”

Roger opened his eyes to find a twenty-something brunette with large, silver circles for earrings standing beside his table. Despite the dropping temperature outside, she wore a low-cut yellow blouse over a scandalously short plaid skirt.

“Mind if I sit down?”

Roger swallowed the bite of sandwich in his mouth and hurried to stand. “Please do.”

A brilliant white row of teeth that looked too large to be real illuminated her face as she slid into the seat across from his. She didn’t bother to close her mouth while chewing her gum. “Ain’t you the gentleman? Ya know, I been watchin’ you from the other side of the room. You’re cute.”

Roger hesitated. What did modern etiquette demand he say after such a statement? Then again, he would’ve been unsure how to respond even in 1943. “Uh, thanks. So are you.”

The woman smiled a mouthful of teeth. “I’m Ginger. Ya know, I’m not the pushy type, but if I’m gonna have fun, I’d rather do it with a good-lookin’ one like you. Know what I mean?”

Words fled from Roger’s mind. Was she suggesting …

Ginger reached for his paper napkin and jotted a series of numbers with an ink pen. “This is my cell number. You can reach me there. Day or night, handsome.”

Roger glanced at the napkin, then back at Ginger’s coy smile. “Let me get this straight. This is your cell number? Your very own cell?”

“None other, sugar.” She stood and ran a forefinger along his cheek. “Don’t spread it around, ’kay? I don’t share my cell with just any man.” She winked and sashayed away.

Incredulous, Roger stared again at the napkin. Undoubtedly Miss Ginger was the most blatant floozy he’d ever encountered, but her brazen invitation threw a negative light on the whole nation.
My word, what has the United States come to? Female convicts out roaming the streets, inviting men to spend the night in their prison cell? How does she do it, buy off the warden?
Judging by the length of the number, the Atlanta prison must be gargantuan. He wadded the napkin in his fist. The whole encounter sickened him. He left his fries unfinished.

Roger paid for his meal and retraced his steps to the Shamrock Paradise Inn. When he unlocked the door to his room, the temperature inside felt surprisingly cool—much chillier than when he’d left. Then he noticed the moss-green curtain fluttering in the breeze. Behind it, the window stood wide open. He glanced left and right for the briefcase—gone.

“Robbed!” Roger wheeled and gave the bed a vicious kick. “What a stinking way to end my first day back in the States. Why didn’t I think of checking the window lock?”

Of course, in his old life Roger would’ve been savvy enough to lock up his belongings, but he was out of practice. He paused to calculate his losses. The briefcase contained Hans’s passport. He hadn’t planned on using it again for traveling, but it would’ve helped to corroborate his story of being held prisoner in Germany. Also gone was the Bible that had buoyed up his spirits through dreary years in the Methuselah bunker. He could buy a replacement, but he hated to lose the one in which he’d underlined so many passages and jotted personal notes in the margins.

About half of his five hundred dollars had been in the briefcase too. If only he hadn’t asked for small denominations of bills, they wouldn’t have formed such a thick wad when he folded them. Then he would have kept all the money on him. He emptied his pockets. “Two hundred thirty-nine bucks left. Nowadays that’s chickenfeed.”

From the pocket of his jacket, he extracted the folded $10 bill he’d received from his wingman Walt Crippen decades earlier. Should he add it to his little stash? “Nope. I’m not spending you. Ten bucks might not be worth much anymore, but you’re one souvenir I’m not giving up.”

After locking the window, Roger consoled himself with another long, hot shower. After decades of sponge-washing from a sink, he’d never take showers for granted again. When at last he’d had his fill of cascading streams of steaming water, he toweled himself dry and then crawled into bed.

What did the future hold? He wished he knew. In the meantime, he wasn’t so sure he was going to like the changes in his homeland. And poor Sophie. He’d planned on exploring America with her.

I never even got to tell her goodbye.

There was no dodging the truth. If not for him, she would be alive today. Resolution stiffened Roger’s heart: no matter who he made friends with, he must not reveal anything that would endanger anyone else.

S
ATURDAY EVENING
, M
ARCH
7, 2015

K
RESCHATIK
S
TREET
, K
IEV
, U
KRAINE

“G
ott im Himmel,
Jaeger!” exclaimed the middle-aged man in the pinstriped navy suit. He stepped from behind his polished mahogany desk and paced toward the bookcases lining the far wall. “What an abominable case of bungling. Do you realize what an unprecedented security breach this whole affair presents? Has the organization inducted a crew of imbeciles to staff our protective services?”

“I agree about a security breach, Herr General,” Jaeger said. “But I object to the accusation of idiots in the security section. You might recall how I opposed keeping Greene alive after his first escape attempt? Every cage has its weak points. It was only a matter of time before a clever mind would exploit a weakness and flee.”

The man in the pinstriped suit whirled and pointed an accusing finger. “This wasn’t a simple escape! Greene had help—from a woman who passed your own fidelity test with no hint of suspicion. Now Greene is gone, and the woman’s bullet-riddled automobile was broadcast on television. Meanwhile, the American boards an airliner and slips out of Germany like a common tourist? I want the men who let him get away punished—in the most permanent manner possible.”