As idiosyncratic as he might be, he was compelling when seeking investors for his inventions. J. P. Morgan put $250,000, a fortune by the standards of the day, into a scheme by which Tesla would use the ionosphere and the earth’s electromagnetic field as a giant transformer to power all forms of transportation worldwide. When he returned to the noted financier seeking additional money for the project, he made the mistake of telling the famously conservative banker how his invention would make the nations of the world one. Morgan was horrified and additional funding was not forthcoming.
Several of Tesla’s inventions had a decided dark side. The electromechanical oscillator so enjoyed by Mark Twin could, according to its inventor, destroy the Brooklyn Bridge in a matter of minutes. Given several days, it could “split the earth in two like halves of an apple.” When skeptics pointed out a number of flaws in his claim, Tesla replied he could at least “peel the surface of the earth away, which would serve to destroy mankind just as completely.”
Another was his so-called “Death Ray,” the stuff of which comic-book supervillains are made. In 1937, he described it thus to a New York Times reporter: “It will send a concentrated beam of particles: through the free air of such tremendous energy that they will bring down a fleet of 10,000 airplanes at a distance of 250 miles from the defending nation and will cause enemy millions to drop dead in their tracks.”
Since light trends to diffuse over distance and the concentrated beam of the laser was still in the future, the “ray” was to consist of tiny particles of mercury charged with more than one million volts of electricity sprayed into the air from towers by means of a special nozzle that resealed itself to maintain the vacuum necessary to eject the mercury particles. This device was never patented, if indeed it ever existed, so we do not know how the nozzle both sprayed particulate matter and maintained a vacuum. We do know that both the U.S. military and Great Britain declined to purchase the device. The Soviet Union paid Tesla $25,000 for the plans. Had the Soviets succeeded in manufacturing the machine, World War II would have come to an earlier conclusion.
The author made considerable effort to find existing evidence of the “Death Ray,” if it existed, including reviewing the microfiche documents in the Tesla Museum in Belgrade, Serbia, some 155,000 in all, including almost 70,000 bits of correspondence both personal and business and more than 45,000 papers of scientific content. The Nikola Tesla Museum of Science in Colorado Springs, Colorado, contains re-creations of a number of the man’s inventions, including the oscillator. It also has copies of his journals, which are infuriatingly incomplete. No mention of the “Death Ray” was found.
22
Natalia had been right: It seemed to Jason the train stopped almost before it got going from the last stop. From what he could see, it stopped at groupings of a few wooden houses or in empty country. He rarely saw passengers get on or off, but he did note livestock — sheep, horses, goats — seemed to grow more numerous as the train progressed ever upward. He was certain the animals’ interest in the train increased in direct proportion to the steepness of the grade. It was as if they were curious as to whether the engine would make it to the top of the next hill.
At first, he noticed snow in patches, most in the shade of groves of trees. Then there was more white than the brown winter grass. Within minutes, they were crossing a white mountain meadow, the bottom of a bowl created by the snowcapped Dinaric Alps. Jason wondered if he could capture the subtle shades of white on a canvas. The tones varied only from the gray shadow of passing clouds to a blinding white that gave back the glare of the sun. Far different from the seascapes of Isola d’Ischia and the Channel Islands that had occupied his brush for the last few years. Probably wouldn’t work, he decided. The acrylics with which he painted gave depth to colors of the sea and land, the greens, the blues. A nearly monochromatic scene such as that outside the window would suggest a medium such as watercolor.
Natalia pressed a gloved finger against the window, pointing. “You have heard of Medvednica?”
Jason admitted he had not.
“Very famous ski resort, one of the best in the world. It is on the other side of that mountain range there.”
Jason doubted Med… Med-whatever… He doubted it was either famous or competed easily with Saint-Moritz or Garmisch-Partenkirchen or Kitzbühel or, for that matter, Aspen. He also knew better than to question a matter of national pride.
She took his silence as assent. “Do you ski?”
The question brought of a picture of Laurin sluicing between moguls, her laughter echoing through the snow-burdened trees along Jackson Hole’s black diamond slopes. Snow like he was looking at frequently recalled the memory. “Not in a long time.”
She seemed to consider this for a moment. “The family you are looking for, what is their name?”
He almost blurted it out before, “Name?”
He was stalling, trying to think of a common Balkan name. He had known a number of them during the 1992–1995 Operation Deliberate Force in which U.S. military joined the United Nations in ending ethnic warfare. He certainly wasn’t going to tell a near stranger where he was going. That was a mistake few people in this business had the chance to repeat.
“Name, you know, how is your relative called?”
“Dragan Horuat.”
It was the name of a Serb Jason’s Delta Force unit had captured and interrogated. The man was suspected of setting fire to Moslem homes with the occupants still inside. Jason recalled the man had both the face and the soul of a rat.
“Dragan Horuat,” Natalia repeated as though tasting the sound. “I do not know the name.”
“Should you?”
She shrugged. “In Croatia, as in many parts of what was Yugoslavia, the intermarriage of few families has led to many common names. I…”
She was interrupted by the conductor, a silver-haired man in a navy blue uniform with brilliantly polished brass buttons and that round pillbox with a brim, the cap peculiar to railroad conductors. After each stop, he had walked the aisle checking and punching tickets. Every time, he had carefully inspected Jason and Natalia’s as if the destinations printed on them might have changed. This had to be the fourth or fifth time he had been by. But, as Jason well knew, whether in the United States, Croatia, or Outer Mongolia, nothing is more important to a functionary than his function.
Jason turned to watch the man walk the length of the car, now empty of other passengers. Inside his pocket, his iPhone vibrated.
He stood. “Excuse me…”
She gave him a bewildered look.
He shrugged “Too much coffee, waiting for the train, I guess.”
She smiled indulgently. “The ručak dama, lunch lady, should be passing through. Should I get you something if you’re not here to choose for yourself?”
Jason hadn’t thought of food. He hadn’t eaten since a quick, cold croissant washed down with bitter coffee at Charles de Gaulle. He was suddenly ravenous.
“Sure. What do they have, sandwiches and stuff?”
“Lunch is the main Croatian meal, so she should also be selling something more substantial, too, sarma, cabbage rolls stuffed with meat, mlinci, baked noodles, pizza, stuff like that.”
He was edging toward the end of the car. “Whatever looks good.”