Night Moves (30 page)

The only way to learn the truth was to sign the forms, which I had already done—but had yet to hit the
Send
button. No particular reason why. Even if I’d wanted to keep the retriever—which I didn’t—the man I see in the mirror, although flawed, had yet to sink to something as reprehensible as stealing a family’s dog.

Thinking that reminded me I was supposed to call Vargas Diemer. I did.

“Is this Alberto?” I asked tentatively.

“Alberto Sabino, Rio World Exports,” the Brazilian replied, meaning we would stick with his alias.

“Dan Futch is here,” I said. “I was thinking you two ought to meet.”

“That explains the seaplane tied to your dock,” Diemer replied—an attempt at humor, possibly. Then he offered further instructions, saying, “I hope you’ve told him I have a commercial license. So we can discuss airplanes sensibly?”

“He’ll know it by the time you get here,” I said.

Diemer ended that. “Your dog, I don’t care to have him show me his teeth again. I’ll open a Malbec and have cheese out. Your friend with the long hair, will he be—”

“Tomlinson has other plans,” I interrupted.

“I see. Too drunk last night? Or was it drugs?” A judgmental tone that disapproved.

I responded, “You hear the music outside your door . . . Alberto? It’s called a party. He’s around here somewhere and he’s doing just fine.”

If I’d told the truth, Diemer’s little trap wouldn’t have worked, but I had stepped right into it. “
Really.
On the phone this morning, Cressa told me your friend gave her LSD. She sounded frightened, said he was in bad shape, too.”

“Dan and I will be there in a little bit,” I told him. “Anything else?”

“Ring the bell before coming aboard. And Dr. Ford? After the pilot leaves, I would like ten minutes alone to discuss something.”

Back on a formal basis again. Which is why I tried a preemptive strike. “I had to tell Tomlinson about breaking into the house. I never said I wouldn’t.”

“That’s not what I want to discuss,” the Brazilian said and hung up.

25

WE WERE SITTING ON THE YACHT, CHEESE, WINE, AND
a NA beer for Dan within reach—three wealthy dudes as we might have appeared to any stranger who had stumbled upon the party going on ashore. The fishing guides were done for the day, and some clients had stuck around to watch them cast-net mullet, then gut them for the grill, where hot dogs and oyster were already roasting. Several slips down, on
Tiger Lilly
, JoAnn or Rhonda had hit the outdoor speakers, and Buffett was doing “Havana Day Dreaming,” recorded live, the volume just right so we could talk.

Dan was talking now.

“There’s an old gentleman in Naples I’ve been after for years. He wouldn’t talk to me, though. But this morning—I’d just cleared customs, coming back from Nassau—and, out of the blue, I get a call. It’s from the gentleman’s granddaughter. Get this”—Futch, excited, put down his bottle—“he’d heard about the tail section we found. Suddenly, he wants to meet me. See, these old guys, they have their own network—”

Diemer interrupted, “He was a pilot during the war?”

Futch said, “Doc knows all this, but I should back up. The last ten, twelve years, I’ve been tracking down the Avenger pilots, a lot of them retired to Florida. Good guys, everyone I’ve met. After the war, they did their forty-year hitch at some job, you know, shoveling snow, raising kids, the regular crap, then came back where they trained as young guys. Palm Beach, Lauderdale, Key West—the military built more than fifty air bases in Florida within two years after Pearl Harbor—which makes it easy for me, ’cause I hit all those places on my charters.”

“You have contact information for these men?” Diemer asked. “How many? They must be in their eighties or older.”

From his briefcase Futch had taken out what looked like a scrapbook sheathed in plastic—“All family stuff. Don’t even bother. Here’s what’s interesting”—then produced an envelope of old photos, some of them framed, others still Brownie-sized, with scalloped edges, and began sorting through them, his patient expression telling Diemer
I’m getting to it
.

He and the Swissair pilot had already gotten their sparring out of the way, each proving to the other that he knew airplanes and the esoteric language of aviation. Diemer, the ruling-class Castilian, and Dan, an heir to Florida history, hadn’t exactly warmed to each other, but at least they weren’t throwing punches.

Dan handed a photo to me and another to the Brazilian, saying, “So the guy’s granddaughter calls—her name’s Candice—and Candice tells me her grandfather is Angel J. Sampedro, then asks if it’s true we found the tail off an Avenger. I recognize the name right away, so I know what’s happened. See, that’s what I was telling you, these old Avenger jocks, they have their own network. Tell one of them something it’s, like, ‘Screw the shuffleboard, get me a telephone!’ and the information goes right down the line.”

Futch, getting into it, and pleased with himself, turned to me. “So I called two Avenger pilots I know and told them what we’d found. Not exactly where, of course, but the general area just to see what would happen. Two days later”—he motioned toward the photo I was looking at—“Angel Sampedro suddenly says he wants to talk. A man who’d already turned me down twice, and his granddaughter says never even talks to the family about what he did in the war. Candice lives in Delray Beach, so I made a quick stop, and she loaned me these.”

Photo in hand, I asked, “What’s in the scrapbook?”

“She made me take it, but keep your grubby paws off. Christmas parties and dried flowers that I want to return in one piece. You’re looking at the important stuff.”

I asked Dan, “Which one is Sampedro?” then asked Diemer. “You have the same picture?”

No, but similar. Three aviators, skinny as teenagers and dwarfed by a single-engine Avenger, looked snappy in their flight suits and flotation vests, goggles silver in the Florida sun, which added a
Wings of Eagles
touch.
Dad, Feb. 1944
, in a woman’s hand at the bottom. Sampedro was a head shorter than the others, although they all had a gaunt Tex-Mex look. He was one of those ropy, flyweight dudes you didn’t mess with and you knew it from his cocky, combat-ready smile.

A second lieutenant, Dan told us, Navy, then added, “But all flyers were Army Air Corps back then. Mr. Sampedro finished his training just in time to see action in the South Pacific. Only three months before we dropped the bomb, but he still managed to win a Bronze Star, a Purple Heart, and his first lieutenant bars. That’s why Candice is excited about her granddad talking to me. The man’s ninety-one years old. He’s running out of bypasses and time, and the family would like to know how he got those decorations.”

“Fascinating,” Diemer murmured, his glasses reflecting the faces of three young men who had learned to fly planes and fought a war that only seventy years later was already light-years in the past. “This,” Diemer said, “was the time of
aviators
, not trained monkeys with computers. And autopilots and avoidance sensors and—what is the term?—
redundancy systems
! Hah! To live in the days of the Luftwaffe and Mustangs and those beautiful P-38s, I would”—the man removed his glasses to bring himself back—“well . . . it’s why I find the subject of particular interest.”

Futch and I exchanged looks. The Germanic Brazilian had actually shown emotion—a lapse he now tried to explain as he cleaned his glasses, then strapped them around his ears. “My grandfather was in . . . he was an elite soldier in the European Theater. I envy him. Even though he was killed in that war, I envy him”—Diemer focused on the photo—“all these men. They must have experienced an unusual . . .
clarity
?” He looked at me and shrugged. “English is a deficient language.
Êxtase y clareza
—that’s what I’m describing is . . . it is a state of being that elevates the brain.” Then sniffed to suggest
You wouldn’t understand
.

But Futch did and pushed his NA beer away, nothing more important than getting this straight. “Sure—I know exactly what you’re saying. Just you, alone, an actual damn aviator with cables for arms and feet—part of the plane. Right? Throw the cowling back, you’re
there
—a hundred fifty knots of wind in your face. Or do it in a cloud—you’re soaked, but it’s
real.
And the other guy, whoever you’re fighting, it’s real for him, too. A .50 cal machine gun in both ships—so you’ve got to find the line faster than him, make the right moves, do it all yourself—not like some video game where you can hit
Play Over
. Comes down to who’s the better flyer.”

Diemer’s eyes sparked, but he tried to sound matter-of-fact. “The technical skills, yes. At air shows—fly into a cloud—in fact, I’ve done this. Silly, but it’s something one tries. A Messerschmitt—my god, start the engine, how you say . . .
Seu coração treme—
your heart trembles! The meaning, though, is more masculine in my language.”

Dan was smiling, enjoying himself, but didn’t want to take this bonding bullshit too far. “Um-huh . . . but back to what I was saying—”

Which gave me a chance to hand him the photo and ask, “Is there one that shows the tail section of Mr. Sampedro’s plane? Or maybe you already know if he trained at Lauderdale.”

“That’s the interesting part, if I can find the right one.” Dan resumed going through photos, careful to touch only the borders, a show of respect. “I’ll know more after I talk with him tomorrow—that’s if my Key Largo charter cuts me loose in time. If not, I’ll visit him on Saturday, which means I’ll get to Lostman’s River whenever I get there, but Sunday for sure.”

I asked, “Why not just call the granddaughter, set it up for late Sunday? He’s at a place in Naples you said?”

“A full-care facility.”

I looked at Diemer. “We spend all day Saturday, part of Sunday documenting wreckage, maybe we’d have something interesting to show the man. I’d like to hear what he has to say.”

Dan said, “I’ll call Candice to make sure it’s okay.” Then handed me a print with scalloped borders, asking, “Isn’t that great?”

Just Angel J. Sampedro in the photo now, looking tiny because he was framed by two Avengers, only one of them showing big white numerals on the tail, 113,
and white letters, FT,
behind the starboard wing, which stood for “Lauderdale Torpedo.” Maybe it was great, but I was confused. “You’re not saying Sampedro crashed a plane when he was in training? I don’t get the connection.”

“Maybe there isn’t one,” Dan said. “I don’t know which plane in the picture is his and neither does his granddaughter. That’s the problem. But he spent time in Miami Naval Hospital a month before they shipped his group overseas. The Bronze Star and Purple Heart, the other Avenger pilots told me he was a combat vet, but Candice knew he was injured during training from her grandmother’s old love letters.”

The pilot reached into the briefcase again and brought out an oversized book, then paused, finally getting to what he’d wanted to tell me all along. “The Avenger in that picture
crashed
. On a night training mission. I was going through the book, made the connection about an hour before I landed here. Two planes went down that night somewhere between Cape Sable and Bonita Springs. Torpedo Bombers 113 and 54, neither ever found. And the timing’s right—here, look for yourself.”

Dan stood to give us room. “It took me two months to track down a copy of that book. It didn’t arrive until two days ago, and there aren’t many copies left, guys, so don’t spill anything on it. Geezus.”

Twelve hundred pages thick, cheaply bound:

Army Air Corps Statistics Division

Airplane Accidents, Continental U.S. 1941-1946

“They don’t even list the crew!” Diemer said after a minute. “Not even a mention of the training mission—other crash records, the mission, are cited—I wonder why?” He sounded surprised—odd after what he’d said earlier. “How can an agency, anyone, maintain such sloppy records?”

“February seventh, nineteen forty-four,” Dan said. “See? Even if Mr. Sampedro wasn’t aboard, one of those planes could still be our Avenger. Which of course means we didn’t find Flight 19 wreckage, but . . . what the hell. That’s what we’ll find out. Okay?”

I looked to see how the Brazilian accepted that. Not devastated, but maybe a wince of disappointment—hard to say, his face didn’t show much. Then he dismissed it by opening up discussion, telling us, “Still an interesting project. If it’s on federal land, as you say, we couldn’t file claims on it anyway . . .”

—

W
E
SPENT
ANOTHER
half an hour going through photos and charts, letting it all hang out now in front of Vargas Diemer, who I was finally getting used to calling Alberto. He paid attention, took copious notes that he entered into a pocket notebook. Charts and satellite photos—I printed copies of both, then he pressed Dan and me for details. Was there a protected anchorage nearby? A place to camp since the nearest deepwater anchorage for his yacht was three miles away? Cell phone reception? Did the feds patrol the area by plane or boat? The Bone Field—like Tomlinson, Diemer was fascinated by the name and the ancientness of the place, but was frustrated by Dan’s reluctance to share information.

“I’m not a grave robber. I respect history,” he said. “The age of this shell mound you describe—how old?”

“Long before Spanish contact,” I said. “Two, three thousand years ago. The first archaeologist to visit this coast—this was in the late eighteen nineties—even then the mounds had four distinct sides. The archaeologist made drawings—they were actually pyramids, not just mounds.” Because I’d answered for Futch, I sought his approval by asking, “Frank Hamilton Cushing, right? Sent by the Smithsonian.”

Dan said, “He didn’t visit the place we’re talking about, though. Far as I know, no one’s been there—
that’s
what I want you to respect.”