made headlines in many of your papers.”
I replied, “I skimmed through them,” and let him talk.
“Then you’ve missed important details,” Diemer scolded. He held up a clipping from the St. Louis Post-Dispatch that ran January 1946, then adjusted his glasses so he could quote directly: “‘Hunters from the Seminole Indian Tribe of Florida have reported finding an isolated camp and bootprints deep in the swamp. Along with the remains of a campfire, and many bones from animals that have been eaten, this tells us our boys might still be alive.’” His eyes continued to scan as he said, “I wonder if this is possible.”
I said, “A grieving mother would believe anything if it meant her son was still alive.”
“You’re convinced there were no survivors. Es fascinating. Newspaper reporters from that time obviously disagree.”
“It could have happened, but there’s not enough information to go on,” I answered, aware that his attention had shifted to a photo of the parachute harness.
The Brazilian leafed through more papers, then said, “The telegram to the missing aviator’s brother is a new one on me. Bizarre, huh? The newspapers published three, four articles about it, but not until”—the man squinted at the small type—“it was several weeks later that these stories appeared. To them, at least, the telegram appeared to be genuine.”
I said, “The information put together by my pilot friend, yes, it’s accurate. The book by Quasar is the best on the subject. The other stuff, though—the newspaper stories especially—I don’t think it’s credible.” I looked at my watch to communicate impatience, then offered the man another chance. “How’d fly fishing go today? I saw the rod cases when you left this morning.”
Diemer had yet to ask about the photos of Avenger wreckage stacked on the desk, so he ducked my question by saying, “Quite good—but back to these planes. Almost seventy years later, they still haven’t been found.” He made a tsk-tsk sound. “Mysteries, the few left that are real and important, they deserve to be solved—incredible they haven’t. I become obsessive about such things.” Finally, he reached for the stack of Avenger photos, adding, “It’s something else we have in common, Dr. Ford,” and held up a photo of the buried tail section.
I finished my Gatorade and replied, “Two peas in a pod . . . Alberto.”
The slang amused him but didn’t budge him. “You probably know that, by profession, I’m a jet jockey—an airline pilot. I’ve visited Germany too many times to count—finest military libraries in the world, trust me. But even the Germans can’t locate several submarines that went missing during the war. And your government with all its money! How can they not account for five torpedo bombers? Or a ship the size of a B-25? I dislike sloppiness”—Diemer’s eyes moved around the lab, which I keep tidy but was now robotic in appearance thanks to Cressa—“particularly sloppy work. Once again, we are similar. So, to me, it’s no surprise that someone like you has found the missing planes.” He slipped the photo into the stack and held up another, the parachute harness, and mused, “No survivors—how strange that you are so certain.”
I told him, “I’m working with two friends and we have an agreement. A few pieces of wreckage, that’s all we’ve found so far. Unlikely it’s from Flight 19, but we’re not sure. That’s about all I can tell you.”
The man nodded in a way that said he understood, but I knew he wasn’t done, so I pressed, “It’s getting late. You can take the book, but I need to keep the folder.” I slid They Flew Into Oblivion toward him and began to collect papers and photos. Then tried again to switch subjects, asking, “You caught fish today?”
“I had a very good guide,” the Brazilian said, getting to his feet, then gathering his pistol. “You know her?”
No searching look, no trickiness in his tone, so I answered, “Hannah Smith. A nice girl. Did she put you on redfish? Not twenty yards from here, I saw a big school this morning. Only in a couple feet of water.”
“I read about Captain Smith in Florida Sportsman,” Diemer explained. “From her photograph, I didn’t expect her to be so attractive.” He smiled. “I think you agree.”
I said, “She’s a fishing guide. It’s her business and . . . I don’t mix business and pleasure.”
Diemer nodded. “Few would understand your meaning, but I do. Maintain personal discipline when traveling—tourists and amateurs have no concept of the importance. For example, I seldom