The Methuselah Project (39 page)

“Pull the plug? You mean to kill Roger?” Katherine glanced behind her at the man she’d known as Roger Greene. The image of his stiff body, dumped on a stainless-steel table and adorned with a toe tag, sent a shiver down her spine.

“Please understand, Katarina, that creature is not a normal human being. It is a Frankenstein with faulty wiring. German and American authorities are working jointly to remove this dangerous mistake from society before anyone else gets hurt. They’re doing it quietly, without panicking the population. It’s best for you and me to step out of the way and let them carry out their duty.”

Katherine’s mind was swimming in new information as she allowed Uncle Kurt to pull her along. “This is all so hard to fathom. It’s like reality turned inside-out.”

“I agree. The news has been a nightmare for me ever since I received word of the situation. I was terribly worried about you, Katarina. Just knowing this artificial life form might go berserk at any moment and slay the light of my life …”

They had reached the parking lot. Uncle Kurt switched topics. He began recounting his hunting expedition in Namibia and a step-by-step description of how he’d hurt his arm. Katherine barely listened. She considered everything her uncle had said about Roger and a cloning experiment gone awry. The explanation sounded plausible, even if technologically spooky. She found it difficult to envision the multifaceted science needed to create a whole human being from the frozen cells of a dead pilot, but was that less likely than Roger’s elaborate story of a Methuselah Project?

“Excuse me, Uncle, but can’t I at least say goodbye to Roger? I mean, even if he’s an android, or clone, or whatever, he does have feelings. I’ve seen them. It would only be proper to say goodbye before we drive into the sunset. You did promise to go back.”

Uncle Kurt’s eyes strayed to his Swiss-made Rolex. “We can’t go back, my dear. I had to lie to the clone to move you out of danger. I didn’t want him to become violent. The American authorities have all the details on the clone. The rest is up to them.”

The light pressure of his hand descended onto her back, just between the shoulder blades. Always in the past, this endearing gesture had reassured or comforted Katherine. This time, however, she couldn’t escape the uncomfortable impression Uncle Kurt was simply manipulating her in the direction he wished.

Her emotions clashed. She hated to doubt her only living relative, a man who had reared her from childhood. But something deep inside rebelled.

In rapid succession, Katherine reviewed snippets of scenes she’d lived through: Roger singing “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree.” The gunman who’d attacked her and threatened to hurt her until Roger had shot him first. Their marathon conversation on the interstate in which she’d recounted the twentieth century and Roger had described life in England during the Blitz. His demeanor and vocabulary—including quaint, old-fashioned words like
swell
—seemed consistent with an American who had been locked away for decades. She thought about Roger’s chivalry, his wry grin and gentle sense of humor. She had truly liked him. Certainly more than any of the other men she had befriended or even dated. On the other hand, following her heart and believing in Roger could only make Uncle Kurt a world-class liar.

But Uncle Kurt did lie. Just now he deceived Roger when he promised we would come right back.
Clearly Uncle had never intended to go back, but that deception had rolled off his tongue slicker than peanut oil.

When they reached her uncle’s rented Cadillac, she stepped forward to block his path. “Uncle Kurt, do you know what a stirrup pump is?”

“A stirrup pump? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Do you know the name of the Plainfield High School football team? And how about the name of its coach back in the 1930s?”

He shot her a quizzical smile and held out a hand, inviting her closer. “Whatever are you talking about, Katarina?”

She ignored his hand. “Can you tell me the names of specific Hoosiers who once attended Plainfield High School, or the names of all the pilots in the Fourth Fighter Group in England?” Katherine was on a roll. “How about the Soldiers and Sailors Monument downtown—when was that built, and what was the first name of the German architect who designed it? I grew up in this country, and I didn’t know any of these things until I learned them from Roger. How am I supposed to believe a clone who grew up in some secret laboratory on the other side of the Atlantic—a creature who has never been outside Germany before—can tell me things only a man who grew up in Indianapolis and fought in England would know? Worst of all, why would an undercover law officer shoot an innocent woman and child in a museum?”

Once again, the blond jogger approached. Despite his sunglasses, Katherine’s earlier impression that she’d seen the face somewhere before overwhelmed her. He glanced toward them, and Uncle Kurt gave a barely perceptible nod as the man pounded along the edge of the parking lot. Those cheekbones … How could she possibly recognize someone in Indianapolis? Until this trip, she’d never set foot in Indiana. She saw nothing memorable about his navy sweats, but she noticed he wore the same new style in Reeboks that she did, black with white stripes.

Uncle Kurt’s joviality vanished. “Katarina, you will speak to me with respect. I love you, but you may not challenge my words. If I say a thing is so, the matter is settled.
Punkt.
”

“But Uncle, how can you guarantee any portion of what you told me about Roger is factual? Think with me: maybe everything Roger said about the Methuselah Project is true. If the higher-ups in the organization are so ruthless they would send assassins after him, wouldn’t they be willing to lie to you too? You admitted you weren’t aware of Roger until recently. You know nothing more than what they told you.”

Kurt Mueller set his jaw. His frowning face resembled chiseled marble. Never before had she seen such fury smolder in his eyes.

“Katarina, enough. You and I are washing our hands of this affair. We will trust the American authorities to end it as they see fit. And never again talk so lightly of the organization. They paid for my education. They set me up in my jewelry business. They’ve generously provided for you too. The organization is the guiding force that will someday ease this world through its birth pangs to initiate a new world order. Only by embracing the organization can you guarantee yourself a prize role in that order.”

The organization. With those words, like the tumblers of a lock clicking into place, Katherine recalled where she’d seen the blond jogger’s face. Her promotion to Leutnant in Florida. Not one but two blond males had sat at another table. They’d never reciprocated her glances, so she’d left without meeting them. Then another fact sharpened into crystal clarity:
The first time I noticed the jogger, he wore white running shoes. They matched the white stripe on his sweatpants.
She glanced at the figure now retreating around the bend. His running shoes were definitely black, like hers; only the stripes were white. These were two different men—the twins! They were heading in the direction where Katherine had left Roger.

Her head swiveled from the jogger to her uncle. “The organization—they’re here! You told me the American authorities would handle Roger, but they aren’t police or FBI. They’re organization hit men.”

“Get in the car.”

Instead of obeying, Katherine turned and bolted. Unlike the blond men, however, she didn’t merely jog, and she ignored the sidewalk. Like an arrow, Katherine sprinted across the grass with every ounce of speed she could muster.

“Roger, run! It’s a trap!”

T
HURSDAY
, M
ARCH
12, 2015

W
HITE
R
IVER
S
TATE
P
ARK
, I
NDIANAPOLIS

F
ollowing the sidewalk and rail overlooking the White River, Roger glanced again in the direction Katherine and her uncle had disappeared. What was delaying them? He had promised they would be right back.

He turned and resumed walking. The direction didn’t matter, just so he wasn’t standing still. Without that transmitter, odds were against an unseen sniper trailing him, but in the unlikely chance one was, a moving body would make a trickier target.

An assassin tried to hurt her before. What if they try again? Her uncle didn’t look spry enough to protect her. Besides, I’m the one with the gun.

More than ever, Roger regretted letting Katherine out of eyesight with a man who, at best, might be totally naive concerning the organization. Roger repositioned the uncomfortable pistol in his rear waistband as he trudged in the direction he’d last seen Katherine. When he saw the blond sportsman approaching in the distance, he was glad he hadn’t pulled out the weapon. No reason to alarm the local citizenry.

A faint shout reached his ears: “Roger, run! It’s a trap!”

Both Roger and the blond jogger spotted Katherine at the same time. She was speeding across the grass at a dead run, straight toward Roger. Directly behind her appeared another blond runner, an exact duplicate of the near one. The man trailing Katherine wasn’t jogging; he charged right on her heels and, like her, pounded straight toward him at full throttle.

Two of them?

An eye blink later, the closer man’s right hand slipped inside his sweatshirt and reappeared brandishing a pistol.

Roger dove for cover behind the only object nearby—one of the stone park benches. The moment he did, a bullet whacked into its surface.

Roger peeked over the bench and sighted the Ruger on the nearest attacker. He squeezed off a shot, but the gunman continued closing the distance.

Missed. Keep calm. Aim. Do it right.

The attacker raised his weapon again. Roger saw no smoke and heard no report, but a whine like an angry hornet zinged past his ear.

Roger steadied the gun with both hands, held his breath. In quick succession, he pulled the trigger over and over.

The first several shots were obvious misses, but at last a bullet must have scored—the attacker stopped too abruptly for a planned maneuver and collapsed onto the brown grass. Roger straightened but kept his gun trained on his foe. He didn’t want to kill; he only wanted to survive.

The panting man on the ground lifted himself onto one elbow. He hefted his weapon and swung the muzzle toward Roger.

Again, Roger squeezed the trigger. At this close range, he couldn’t miss. The gunman crumpled.

“Roger!”

He looked up in time to see the second runner alter course and ram Katherine, bowling her over. Not slowing, he charged in Roger’s direction with a weapon in his hand. Behind that man, yet another figure approached, but more slowly—Kurt Mueller.

How many bullets did he have left? Roger didn’t want to run out of ammo in a firefight, but in the excitement of the moment, he couldn’t recall how many rounds the pistol had started with, nor how many he’d just spent.

The second gunman halted and dropped to one knee, taking aim at Roger. Behind the stone slab, Roger aimed back. But now Katherine was on her feet again. Missing his target might kill her.

“Katherine, hit the deck!”

The instant she dove, a bullet whined over his head.

Roger squeezed off round after round toward the man—and missed every time. Grinning in imminent victory, the gunman leaped from his crouching position and ran a zigzag course as he closed in.

Roger adjusted for distance and raised his barrel higher. He aimed ahead of the target, as he would fire at a speeding fighter plane.
God, help.
He pulled the trigger. The blond man staggered back and fell. Both attackers now lay still. Approaching cautiously Roger kicked the pistol of the closer assassin away from the body, then picked it up and tucked it into the rear of his waistband. After retrieving the second man’s matching weapon, he removed its bullets and dumped them into his pocket. Lastly Roger did what he longed to do most of all: he swept Katherine into his arms and kissed her.

“If not for you, I’d be dead.”

Panting, she said, “Uncle Kurt—he knew.”

The mention of her uncle reminded Roger that yet another organization insider lurked nearby. He looked up and saw Kurt Mueller standing not thirty feet away, regarding the couple.

“Katarina, it’s true I haven’t been fully truthful with you, but it’s always been for your own good. A worthy end justifies lethal means. Please come with me. I’ll explain everything. Don’t throw away your future in exchange for this antique from the past.” He reached out a hand toward Katherine.

Tears glistened on Katherine’s cheeks.

Roger stepped in front of her. “Unbutton your overcoat, Herr Mueller. Do it slowly, please. Show me whether you have a gun in there.”

Mueller sneered. “What if I don’t? Will you play Lone Ranger and shoot me in cold blood? Right in front of my niece, whose affection you stole from me?”

Roger raised his handgun. “Thanks to you and your pals, both Katherine and I nearly got killed several times.”