The Methuselah Project (26 page)

A tantalizing aroma wafted his way. Then he saw it—an eatery named simply “China Restaurant.” He wasn’t positive what Chinese food tasted like, but German cuisine was all he’d received in the bunker. The delectable smells of Oriental dishes beckoned him closer. He swallowed, then glanced at his wristwatch. Why not? Plenty of time before their flight. Sophie couldn’t be here yet.

He retrieved the envelope of cash in his pocket. Instead of the Reichmarks he’d expected, the envelope contained bills the taxi driver had called Euros. It was another question for Sophie. He crossed to the restaurant and placed an order for “their most delicious chicken dinner.” Soon Roger entered gastronomic paradise, savoring the smell and spicy flavor of a dish he’d never encountered. With his back to a wall and an eye on the people churning by, he devoured his meal quickly.

Sophie could easily have walked right by without him spotting her. He’d not seen so many people in one place in his life, even before his capture. He continued on to his gate, following sign after sign, until at last he found the proper waiting area and took a seat among the crowd.

Where are you?
Still no Sophie. You’re making me nervous. Ditch that car and grab a cab over here.

As the minutes crawled past, Roger watched other passengers. The sight of children especially delighted him. During his captivity he’d seen adults, even if in limited numbers. But youngsters provided a welcome sight. A lot of living had been happening while he languished underground. More people with piercings all over their faces, bare midrifts, unnatural hair colors, bold tattoos—it appeared that nothing was
verboten
anymore. He hardly knew where it was safe to look. Women didn’t cover themselves as they used to. In some cases, it was hard to know if he was looking at a man or a woman. He had to force himself not to stare.

From the ceiling of the waiting area hung a device that fascinated him. Like a miniature movie theater, it apparently showed colorful newsreel after newsreel about global events. He glanced around, searching for the projector. He saw none. Apparently this device was similar to Hans’s computer, with the pictures and sound originating inside.

Roger divided his attention between keeping an eye out for Sophie, watching for hostile pursuers, and trying to absorb the torrent of news flowing from the curious machine. Strange craters appearing in Siberia, some sort of military conflict in the Ukraine, incomprehensible political and religious strife in the Middle East, the final moments of a golfing competition … For ages Roger had longed to hear about events in the outside world. Now that he could, the flood gushed too quickly for his sleep-starved brain. His head began to ache.

A woman’s voice sounded over the public address system: “Ladies and gentlemen, we will now begin boarding Flight 444 to Atlanta.” Most of the throng stood and shuffled toward a woman accepting boarding passes.

Come on, Sophie! What on earth is taking so long?

Then the news device launched into “a dramatic piece of news,” as the announcer called it: “In a dramatic clash, members of rival organized crime syndicates evidently engaged in a violent cat-and-mouse automobile race through the suburbs of Frankfurt this morning. The chase ended in disaster for at least one of the participants …”

In horror, Roger watched as the picture flashed to the demolished guardrail of a bridge. Below, half-submerged in water, was a crumpled orange automobile with no rear windshield.

“Witnesses to the crash agree no one emerged from the vehicle after it broke through the guardrail. Even if any occupants survived the reported gunfire from a pursuing automobile, it’s difficult to conceive of anyone surviving the plunge off the bridge. Many questions in the case remain unanswered. One policeman who asked to remain anonymous suggested competing crime bosses may have staged an old-fashioned execution …”

Roger fought to keep down his Chinese meal.
Sophie’s dead? That organization killed her? And now they’re blaming a gang of criminals?

The news flowed on to economic growth in India, but Roger stopped listening. In shock, he pictured Sophie’s face, the flowery scent of her perfume—then imagined the terrible, painful death she must have suffered when the mysterious organization attacked her. This time, her copilot hadn’t been aboard to shoot back. Sophie had died alone.

Guilt washed over him.
I shouldn’t have left her. I should’ve stayed no matter what.

“Final boarding call for Flight 444 to Atlanta.”

He stood up. Part of him wanted to walk away from the airport, to stay in Germany and personally beat the tar out of the people responsible for Sophie’s death. He could already picture himself ringing Hans’s scrawny neck. Then saner thoughts prevailed. He had nowhere to live, no idea how to get back to where he started that morning, and he stood on German territory. Here, the enemy held the best cards. Besides, Sophie had risked everything to get him to the United States. The least he could do was finish the trip and give her sacrifice some meaning.

For her sake, he must go. Roger stoically picked up his briefcase and joined the last few passengers at the gate. Imitating those ahead of him with a confidence he didn’t feel, he strode down the carpeted walkway to the waiting airliner.

S
ATURDAY
, M
ARCH
7, 2015

T
HE SKIES OVER
W
ESTERN
E
UROPE

R
oger had yearned for nothing more than to be in the air again, to soar above the clouds and admire the earth from lofty heights. Now that it was happening, the horizons outside his miniature window had lost their appeal. Escaping and being airborne couldn’t ease the pain of Sophie’s death. He shouldn’t have left her. With him, she might have stood a fighting chance.

“Are you feeling ill?” a voice asked in German.

Roger turned. Although the seat beside him—Sophie’s—was empty, on the other side of it a gray-haired, grandmotherly type peered through thick glasses. She eyed him with concern, then placed her plump hand atop his.

“Pardon me for asking, but you look so pale. Is this your first time in an airplane?”

Under other circumstances Roger might have howled with laughter. This matron couldn’t imagine the gutsy stunts Roger had performed in a cockpit. She suspected he was ill merely from sitting on this airborne bus?

“I’m fine. I’ve flown before. It’s just been a long time.”

“There’s an airsickness bag in the seat pocket, if you need one.”

“Thanks.”

He jammed the miniscule airline pillow between his head and the window and closed his eyes. Roger felt in no mood for small talk. He didn’t want to see the other passengers. He cared even less about the screens showing motion pictures to passengers wearing pitifully tiny headphones. The modern world had engulfed him too hard, too fast. He just wanted to block everything out.

The image of Sophie’s smiling face materialized. His one and only friend—murdered for helping him. The fact that they hadn’t loved each other did nothing to lessen the pain. She had cared—and paid the ultimate price.

God, is my life cursed? Or is this some sort of test? What’s the use of staying young and healthy if it brings misery, especially to innocent people like Sophie?

Emotional and physical weariness descended over him. When sleep came, he yielded willingly, welcoming the oblivion.

When Roger awoke, he clicked into full alertness. Something had altered. The cabin full of chattering passengers still surrounded him. They provided living evidence that his escape hadn’t been just another dream. Then he realized what had startled him. It was the old sensation he’d nearly forgotten but could now feel in his gut—the aircraft was descending.

A crackly voice sounded overhead: “Ladies and gentlemen, we are now making our descent into Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. The temperature on the ground is six degrees Celsius, or about forty-four degrees Fahrenheit. The local time is 2:00 p.m. On behalf of the captain and flight crew, let me thank you once again for flying Lufthansa.”

Mixed emotions wrestled for dominance. Although anger, remorse, and guilt concerning Sophie’s death still churned inside him, outside his window for as far as his eye could see was land. His land. The United States of America.

The aircraft descended lower. A shudder and a hum surprised Roger before he realized what it must be: hydraulic landing gear. Through his window, he saw the aircraft was racing over a broad ribbon of concrete runway. Off in the distance fluttered an unexpected bit of color that captured his attention as nothing else could: a red, white, and blue banner snapping and flapping atop a flagpole.

Roger swallowed. Manly or no, tears welled in his eyes.
After all these years, I’m really back. Thank You, God—and Sophie.

But what kind of country had he returned to? For whatever reason, old Kossler had fed him a bunch of malarkey. Sophie had said the war was over, that it had been over for years. How long? Two years? Twenty years? Was any portion of what Kossler shared true?

If he hoped to fit into twenty-first-century America, Roger needed answers. His first priority would be to get a fast overview of the war’s real outcome in order to set his chronological bearings. But quietly. He remembered the object embedded in his arm. Part of his brain wanted to believe Hans had simply been trying to intimidate him into submission with his claim that they could find him anywhere on earth. After all, the thing was so small. It seemed absurd to believe they could actually find him, say, in the Sahara Desert, or Antartica, or on some Pacific island. Yet, here he was, looking like a young man when he should be in an old folks’ home. He’d be foolish not to give grudging respect to their technology. Even if they couldn’t use it to find him literally anywhere, it was still possible they could somehow hone in on him once they got in the area. They would be watching those endless news stories, like at the airport. He would have to lie low until he figured out his options.

One thing he couldn’t do was tell anyone who he really was or how old. They’d lock him up as a lunatic.
And nobody, but nobody, is going to lock me up again. I’m through with cages forever! I’ll die before I step into another one.

In the Atlanta airport, he followed the other passengers shuffling along to the gray-and-pink carpeted Passport Control area. When the uniformed agent accepted Hans’s passport and scrutinized it, Roger suppressed the urge to blurt, “That isn’t me. That’s the passport of a Nazi scientist. I commandeered it to escape back to the States.”

Regardless of how much Roger longed to reassert his own name and nationality, this wasn’t the time or place. Even in the 1940s, only a fool would show up at a border crossing and confess to a stolen passport. Add to that the insane-sounding story of the Methuselah Project, and his own countrymen would toss him into a booby hatch.

Playing the role of a returning tourist, Roger answered the agent’s questions with a smile, as if he’d enjoyed a pleasant holiday in the old country.

“Have a good day,” the agent replied, handing back the passport.

With no baggage except his briefcase, Roger slipped into the first men’s room he saw to shave off the Hans-style goatee and mustache. He had to watch another man in order to coax water from the faucet with no handle. Liquid soap sufficed for shaving cream. Soon he was clean-shaven and feeling refreshed. Enough of imitating Hans. From now on, he would be Roger Greene, playing on his home field.

When he strolled out the airport’s double-glass doors to the curb, he spotted a taxi. Roger walked over to the partially open window. “Hi. Take me into town?”

“Sure,
amigo.
Hop in. Where to?”

Roger climbed into the rear seat. He hoped his request wouldn’t sound too abnormal. “Do you know where the nearest library is?”

“Library?” The cabbie scratched his head.

For half a second, Roger feared that libraries had become outmoded and been bulldozed. Then, in the rearview mirror he saw the cabbie’s eyes brighten.