The Methuselah Project (5 page)

Blessed relief washed over Katherine. Those older documents didn’t matter. Those gigs were history. But Dr. Goodell’s paper was the next stepping-stone on her precarious journey to financial survival. “Thank you. You’re a miracle worker. I would’ve screamed or cried—or both—if I had to comb through that whole manuscript from the beginning.”

He shot her a smile of brilliant white teeth. “Just be sure to keep your antivirus software updated. And don’t forget to back up your work. Those are the two best ways to protect yourself.” He turned the invoice around and slid it across the counter. “That’s $120.”

She swallowed and handed him the plastic card. That figure represented a sizeable chunk of her monthly car payment. But repairing the laptop was the only way to save herself a week’s worth of work, not to mention her reputation as a go-get-’em copyeditor who delivered completed jobs, not excuses.

When the technician returned her credit card, he said, “May I ask you a question?”

Feeling nearly giddy over her rescued file, she said, “Does it involve editing books?”

“Oh no, nothing like that.” A nervous twitch of a smile confirmed something quite different was ready to surface. “The first time you were here, when you dropped off your notebook, I noticed what a pleasant personality you have. I also noticed you don’t wear a ring on your left hand. So I couldn’t help wondering if perhaps you are interested in seeing men? Socially, that is?”

The ultra-polite phrasing of his invitation struck Katherine as humorous, but with those sincere, dark brown eyes studying hers and waiting for a response, she squelched any impulse to laugh. Besides, compared to some of the crass propositions other men tossed her way, his approach might be considered chivalrous. He certainly seemed more down-to-earth than banker Thaddeus, Uncle Kurt’s most recent offering.

Katherine scrounged for words. “Uh, thank you, Mr.”—she glanced at the stack of business cards in their black plastic holder—“Farzeen, for your interest. I’m flattered you ask. Unfortunately my life is kind of complicated right now.”

His smile shrank from hopeful to perfunctory. “It’s okay. Many American women prefer not to socialize with immigrants. I understa—”

“Oh no, it’s nothing like that. I’m not prejudiced against immigrants. I find people from overseas fascinating. It’s just that …” She sighed. She really didn’t care to launch into a detailed description of Uncle Kurt and the “long and honorable Mueller tradition” of the parents finding suitable spouses for the next generation. She’d endured her uncle’s displeasure over unapproved encounters before. They simply weren’t worth the emotional wringer. Besides, as far as the HO was concerned, she’d sworn not to mention its existence to outsiders.

“Farzeen, my life is too convoluted to explain, but at this stage of the game, I’m basically not seeing any men socially. If things change …”

He nodded. “My invitation remains open. You’re always welcome in my shop, even without a broken computer.” He broke into a good-natured grin that put her at ease.

Katherine scooped up her laptop. “Thanks for being understanding—and sweet.” The moment she pushed open the shop’s glass door, the day’s sweltering heat enveloped her with oven-like intensity. Combined with humidity, the ninety-four-degree temperature felt even higher. It immediately popped beads of sweat onto her brow. She hurried to the protection of her car’s air-conditioning.

Moments later, steering her Volkswagen Passat south on Peachtree Street with the AC blowing full blast, she let loose a rare growl of frustration. “Bless his heart, but sometimes Uncle Kurt makes me want to scream!”

It wasn’t that she was attracted to the foreign technician. She wasn’t. At the moment, though, he embodied all potential candidates for romance. Why did Uncle Kurt insist on controlling a key decision in her life? Couldn’t he simply forget outdated customs and trust her judgment?

As a little girl growing up with her uncle, she hadn’t minded some of his old-fashioned rules. Now that she was an adult, though, she craved freedom. The social straitjacket stifled her worse than today’s temperatures.

She cruised past a man and woman strolling hand in hand down the roadside. Their pace was leisurely, and the woman tilted her blonde head into the man’s shoulder despite the ungodly heat. The image struck Katherine as both idyllic and torturous. She hadn’t so much as touched a boy’s hand since Andrei Timoshenko, back at UGA. As expected, Uncle Kurt had objected and urged her to wait for someone in the Heritage Organization if she needed companionship. In the end, Andrei had simply vanished without a word, probably back to his homeland, effectively nixing their brief relationship. She pictured the Ukrainian student’s smiling face. She’d enjoyed Andrei’s keen wit, and he’d always responded enthusiastically during their heart-to-heart talks. Why did he simply drop out of her life without even a goodbye?

She arrived at the intersection of Ponce de Leon Boulevard just as the traffic light switched from red to green. She flipped on her left blinker, waited for oncoming traffic to clear, then rounded the corner.

Why does my life have to be a tightrope?
Lately that metaphor seemed the perfect word picture: she constantly tiptoed a slender line between the wishes of her one living relative—the man who loved her and had reared her from a toddler—and her own desires. Couldn’t she figure out a way to reconcile the two?

Maybe I should just forget about men for a spell. If I focus my energy on freelance gigs and training for the HO, maybe he’ll get worried I’ll become a spinster and loosen up.

But even that strategy would be misery to endure. Who wanted to wait years for romance?

“Argh!” She slapped the steering wheel with her palm.

F
RIDAY
, D
ECEMBER
17, 1943

S
OMEWHERE IN
G
ERMANY

B
umping along in the back of the troop truck, Roger could see nothing of the oncoming countryside. By gazing over the tailgate, he could at least observe the retreating terrain. Not that it made any difference. They were somewhere in Hitler’s Third Reich, but no signs or landmarks helped him to gain his bearings.

The truck slowed as it swung off the main road and continued up a narrower lane. Within a minute it braked to a halt. German voices talked outside. Roger strained his ears to listen even though he didn’t understand the language. Occasionally German words resembled English ones, and if he could pick out a few that might provide answers, he wanted to be alert. But the only utterance he recognized was a
Jawohl
just before the truck shifted back into first gear and lumbered forward.

Tall metal gates came into view. A uniformed soldier of the Wehrmacht was swinging one shut behind them. The two-vehicle convoy had just entered some sort of compound enclosed by a barrier of hefty stone blocks.

Not the way I pictured POW camps.

The truck halted again. This time the motor cut off. A helmeted soldier unfastened the tailgate and allowed it to drop with a metallic clank. He glared at Roger and shouted a command.

“Huh?”

The muzzle of a rifle pressing into Roger’s right kidney provided a translation: jump down.

Once on the ground, he surveyed his surroundings. If his brief glimpse of the gate and wall had suggested this compound was atypical for a prisoner-of-war camp, the unhindered view clinched that impression. Stone walls about fifteen feet high surrounded him. Atop that blockade, triple strands of barbed wire glinted against the pale-blue December sky. No guard towers loomed over the complex, but large spotlights hung at intervals, guaranteeing that anyone skulking out here at night could be seen—and shot—quite easily. A couple of Wehrmacht soldiers paced muddy paths through the snow along the inner perimeter. In the center of the compound stood a two-story building of red brick. Few windows graced its exterior, and wrought-iron gratings enclosed each of those.

Roger sniffed. A peculiar, medicinal odor lingered in the chill air.

Drab and depressing. They didn’t waste any
Reichsmarks
decorating this place.

Could it be a short-term holding area? If so, they’d gone to a lot of trouble for a temporary jail.

Now Gray Hair, as Roger had nicknamed the civilian in the spectacles, fired off instructions to the soldiers and led the way to the building’s front entrance. One of Roger’s captors motioned with his rifle. Roger marched.

Sandwiched among four soldiers, Roger followed Gray Hair over the threshold. As the entourage clumped down the black-tiled corridor, Roger glanced into open doorways on the left and right.

What is this, a prison or a hospital?

In one room, his quick eyes noted iron-frame beds, and in another, a glossy black table strewn with microscopes and test tubes. A third room offered a peek of a white-coated man examining a cage filled with white mice.

Mice?

That fleeting sight struck Roger as so incongruous he would’ve stopped in his tracks for a better look, except for the gun-toting defenders of the Reich behind him.

Why in blazes would they need mice?
An unsettling feeling crept into his stomach.

The corridor ended at a metal door, painted blood red. About eye level in the door was a two-inch-square pane of glass. Gray Hair paid no heed to the peephole. He simply unlocked the portal and led the way inside.

When Roger stepped through, he found himself in a brick chamber divided into iron-barred cells, similar to those he’d seen in a host of Western movies. According to Hollywood, every town in the Old West included a sheriff’s office with one or two jail cells to lock up bank robbers, cattle rustlers, and similar vermin. This chamber, however, featured not one but seven barred compartments. Except for the one on the far right, every cell contained a male occupant. The uniforms in the first three cells labeled the men as Royal Air Force. The other three were dressed like himself, in the flight garb of the U.S. Eighth Army Air Force.

“There he is: Number Seven,” called an RAF man with a cockney accent.

“About time you showed up, Yank,” joked another prisoner. “Perhaps now we can get the show on the road—whatever show that is.”

“Hello, boys,” Roger replied. “Looks like we’re going to be roommates.”

Each cell contained a toilet and an olive drab canvas cot. Obviously the place hadn’t been constructed for privacy or comfort. Not a single window adorned the brick chamber. Instead, three naked lightbulbs dangling well out of the prisoners’ reach provided the chamber’s light. Affixed to the door of each cell was a square of tin painted yellow and sporting a black numeral ranging from 1 on the left to 7 on the final, empty cell on the right.

Roger noted the rough but clean concrete floor and the sloppy mortar job between the bricks. Somebody had slapped this building together in a hurry.

Following Gray Hair’s directives, two soldiers prodded Roger toward the empty cell. No sooner had he reached its open doorway than a hard palm shoved him between the shoulder blades. Roger scarcely avoided colliding with the toilet. A clang reverberated behind him, and Roger turned in time to see Gray Hair twisting a key in the lock.

Looking extremely pleased, Gray Hair dismissed his military escort. “Gentlemen,” he said to the first six prisoners, “allow me to introduce you to the last member of our ensemble. This is …” He paused, then turned to Roger. “Excuse me, Number Seven, but I’m afraid I never did ask your name.”

“Captain Roger Greene.”

“Thank you. As I was saying, Captain Greene is the final candidate. If he passes his physical examination as well as the rest of you, tomorrow, we can commence at last with the grand purpose that has united all of us in this exclusive facility.”

“And what might that be, pray tell?” asked the American in the cell beside Roger’s.

“The final stage in proving a theory of mine.”

The more Gray Hair talked, the more animated he became. Roger noticed a peculiar gleam growing in his eyes.

“That is, on paper it’s still called a theory. I, however, am convinced I have unlocked one of the deepest riddles concerning biological regeneration and molecular configuration as they pertain to the cells of the human body. In order to verify or disprove that belief, my request for suitable candidates has risen to the highest levels of authority.”

“Meaning what, exactly?” asked a blond American wearing lieutenant’s insignia in cell 4.

“Meaning that you have the privilege of participating in this event by the personal approval of Adolf Hitler himself!”

Like his comrades in arms, Roger burst into laughter. “Is that so? My impression was that I’m here because a couple of Me 109 pilots scored some lucky shots on my plane. I didn’t realize the high and mighty Führer had summoned me.”

Roger’s remark sparked renewed guffaws from the other prisoners. In contrast, Gray Hair’s countenance sobered.

“I will excuse your insolent remark, which is based on a lack of knowledge.”

“Bloody right we suffer from a lack of knowledge,” piped up the RAF man in the second cell. “We don’t even know who you are or why you’ve brought us here.”