take more than a soup spoon to dig my way through that.
With the toe of his boot, Roger folded back a corner of the Persian rug beneath his feet. Steel deck plating likewise shielded the floor against tunneling attempts. He let the rug flop back into place and swore under his breath.
Outside the bars, Kossler watched him like a zookeeper with a new specimen.
Roger ignored him. Instead, he surveyed the rest of this lower level. Against a backdrop of whitewashed concrete walls stood two desks, two lab tables with microscopes, bank after bank of file cabinets, and an assortment of scientific apparatuses Roger couldn’t identify. The solitary exit was a battleship-gray door, heavy-gauge steel. No need to ask why there were no windows. The number of steps he’d descended made it obvious he was deep underground.
Kossler spread his arms wide. “Captain Greene, welcome to your new home. These quarters replace your temporary place of confinement upstairs, in my ancestral home. Now I shall be able to live in familiar surroundings while continuing my scientific work down here, where you will live.”
“Do all Kosslers build dungeons in their basements?”
“You’ve been asking about the construction noises. Now you see the fruit of our labor. We call it the Methuselah bunker.”
Kossler swept his gaze around the underground chamber, obviously pleased. “Fortunately my great-grandfather was a successful businessman and built a large residence. If he hadn’t, your accommodations would be much more humble.”
Roger slipped off the flight jacket he’d been wearing while handcuffed and tossed it on the bed. “Why am I here?”
“Three reasons: speed, safety, and secrecy. When the Führer received my report on the amazing results of the project, he authorized me to continue Dr. von Blomberg’s work at once. Or rather to labor backward, attempting to piece together the countless missing fragments of the puzzle that altered your physiology. I needed a private place to work, an invisible location that could withstand future bombings. Constructing this bunker solved all three needs.”
“But you don’t need me anymore. If you think you can recreate Blomberg’s technique, go ahead. But ship me to a regular POW camp.”
Kossler gripped his sides and laughed as if Roger had just told a hilarious joke. “Impossible. You’re the key to the entire Methuselah Project. By observing you, we can determine with certainty whether the process produces unfortunate side effects. Also, from time to time I will require samples of your blood, urine, epidermis, and hair. So you see, your role is nonnegotiable. You are essential.”
Roger resisted the urge to spit at the man. “I’m touched to the core.” He jerked a thumb toward the unvarnished pine door beyond his bed. “What’s in there?”
“One water closet and one sink. I’m afraid you’ll have to bathe from the sink. Oh, and you’ll find a mirror of polished metal. I’ll obtain a safety razor so you can shave your whiskers.”
Once more, Roger’s eyes roamed the new cage. Bolted to one wall was a scratched and dented hunk of tin: a yellow square with a black numeral 7 stenciled onto it. From his cell at the House of Horrors. A silent tribute to Dr. von Blomberg.
Roger stepped over to the armchair and dropped into it. He kicked off his bulky flight boots and crossed his ankles on the bed, using it as a footstool.
“You know, Doc, when I was walking down those steps, I had a bad feeling. Like maybe I was going to be executed and buried underground.”
“I assure you, Captain Greene, we have no such intentions.”
“Nice to know.” Roger reflected on the washroom. “No tub or shower, huh? What about these clothes I’m wearing? They already smell pretty ripe.”
“We took measurements while you slept. We’ll provide civilian clothing so you may wash these and hang them to dry.” Kossler looked at the fleece flight boots. “Just to prove we aren’t the
With the toe of his boot, Roger folded back a corner of the Persian rug beneath his feet. Steel deck plating likewise shielded the floor against tunneling attempts. He let the rug flop back into place and swore under his breath.
Outside the bars, Kossler watched him like a zookeeper with a new specimen.
Roger ignored him. Instead, he surveyed the rest of this lower level. Against a backdrop of whitewashed concrete walls stood two desks, two lab tables with microscopes, bank after bank of file cabinets, and an assortment of scientific apparatuses Roger couldn’t identify. The solitary exit was a battleship-gray door, heavy-gauge steel. No need to ask why there were no windows. The number of steps he’d descended made it obvious he was deep underground.
Kossler spread his arms wide. “Captain Greene, welcome to your new home. These quarters replace your temporary place of confinement upstairs, in my ancestral home. Now I shall be able to live in familiar surroundings while continuing my scientific work down here, where you will live.”
“Do all Kosslers build dungeons in their basements?”
“You’ve been asking about the construction noises. Now you see the fruit of our labor. We call it the Methuselah bunker.”
Kossler swept his gaze around the underground chamber, obviously pleased. “Fortunately my great-grandfather was a successful businessman and built a large residence. If he hadn’t, your accommodations would be much more humble.”
Roger slipped off the flight jacket he’d been wearing while handcuffed and tossed it on the bed. “Why am I here?”
“Three reasons: speed, safety, and secrecy. When the Führer received my report on the amazing results of the project, he authorized me to continue Dr. von Blomberg’s work at once. Or rather to labor backward, attempting to piece together the countless missing fragments of the puzzle that altered your physiology. I needed a private place to work, an invisible location that could withstand future bombings. Constructing this bunker solved all three needs.”
“But you don’t need me anymore. If you think you can recreate Blomberg’s technique, go ahead. But ship me to a regular POW camp.”
Kossler gripped his sides and laughed as if Roger had just told a hilarious joke. “Impossible. You’re the key to the entire Methuselah Project. By observing you, we can determine with certainty whether the process produces unfortunate side effects. Also, from time to time I will require samples of your blood, urine, epidermis, and hair. So you see, your role is nonnegotiable. You are essential.”
Roger resisted the urge to spit at the man. “I’m touched to the core.” He jerked a thumb toward the unvarnished pine door beyond his bed. “What’s in there?”
“One water closet and one sink. I’m afraid you’ll have to bathe from the sink. Oh, and you’ll find a mirror of polished metal. I’ll obtain a safety razor so you can shave your whiskers.”
Once more, Roger’s eyes roamed the new cage. Bolted to one wall was a scratched and dented hunk of tin: a yellow square with a black numeral 7 stenciled onto it. From his cell at the House of Horrors. A silent tribute to Dr. von Blomberg.
Roger stepped over to the armchair and dropped into it. He kicked off his bulky flight boots and crossed his ankles on the bed, using it as a footstool.
“You know, Doc, when I was walking down those steps, I had a bad feeling. Like maybe I was going to be executed and buried underground.”
“I assure you, Captain Greene, we have no such intentions.”
“Nice to know.” Roger reflected on the washroom. “No tub or shower, huh? What about these clothes I’m wearing? They already smell pretty ripe.”
“We took measurements while you slept. We’ll provide civilian clothing so you may wash these and hang them to dry.” Kossler looked at the fleece flight boots. “Just to prove we aren’t the
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