Another shrug. “Just trying to force her down... She did stray off course, after her mission was accomplished. It’s unfortunate...”
“You screwed up.”
Something like regret touched the impassive features. “Actually, Amelia did. She’s not really much of a flier.”
“You knew where she was, when she was radioing for help. You knew she was down in Jap waters.”
He said nothing.
“But you didn’t go in after her, did you?”
Now he put his hands on his knees and leaned forward just a bit, as if lecturing a precocious but difficult child. “Mr. Heller, we believe Japan is building military bases throughout the tiny islands of the Pacific. They are forbidden by treaty to do this, but their islands in the Marshall, Carolines, and Mariana groups are closed to ‘foreigners’ like us. We believe they’re fortifying for war, Mr. Heller, violating their covenant with the League of Nations.”
“And you want to prove that.”
The tiniest shrug. “We at least want to know it. The President has to know, if he’s to carry out his responsibility to provide our country with an adequate defense, should the Philippines or Hawaii be attacked.”
“Sounds pretty far-fetched to me.”
He stood. His voice was firm; though he wasn’t speaking terribly loud, echo touched his words: “Amelia agreed to cooperate. She did this in part as a favor to her friend, President Roosevelt. If you make this public, you will not only go against her wishes, but tarnish her image not just here, but abroad.”
I raised a forefinger. “Plus start the next war. Don’t forget that.”
“Your actions may endanger her — might cause her captors to... destroy the evidence.”
“Execute her, you mean.”
“We believe she’s alive. We prefer to keep her that way.”
“I doubt that. The best thing for you people is for her never to be seen again.”
“We’re not monsters, Mr. Heller. We’re soldiers. But so is Miss Earhart.”
I had to laugh. “She’d slap you for that... Did your people hear what Robert Myers and I heard last night?”
An eyebrow arched. “Frankly, no... But various of our ships in the Far East fleet have intercepted coded messages sent by Japanese vessels and shore installations in their Mandated Islands back home to Japan... messages that indicate Miss Earhart and Mr. Noonan are indeed in Japanese hands.”
“Jesus! Why don’t you negotiate their release, then?”
“We can’t admit we sent Earhart and Noonan,” he said, “and the other side can’t admit they have Earhart and Noonan. That is the reality of world politics on this very shaky stage.”
I looked at him for a long time, his oval face with its lifeless features, the dead eyes, the soft mouth. Then I asked casually, or as casually as a man tied in a chair could ask, “You just shared top-secret information with me, didn’t you, Miller?”
“Classified material, yes.”
“That means if I don’t cooperate, you’re going to kill me.”
The mildest amusement puckered the soft lips. “Oh, Mr. Heller... I would never do that. You’re a citizen of the United States of America, the country I love, the country I serve.”
“You’d have somebody else do it.”
“Precisely.”
I held out my hands, palms up. “These are free because you want me to sign something.”
“Perceptive... Yes. It’s a contract, actually.”
“A contract?”
He withdrew the document, folded lengthwise in thirds, from an inside suitcoat pocket. “A backdated contract. You’ve been working for the government, in the capacity of investigator. As such, you’re subject to a policy of strict confidentiality.”
“Really,” I said, taking the contract, reading it over quickly, finding it surprisingly simple and in keeping with what he’d outlined. One portion remained to be filled in. “What are you paying me?”
“You’ve suffered a lot of inconvenience, Mr. Heller, and had considerable travel expense. What would you say to two thousand dollars?”
“I should throw this in your face.”
“Have I insulted you, suggesting you take payment to walk away from a matter so personal to you?”
“Make it five.”
I agreed to take their money, for two reasons. First, money doesn’t know where it comes from, and this foul sum would spend just like money that smelled better. Second, this would convince Miller and those he represented that I would forget what I’d seen and heard.
“You are going to try to get her back,” I said, as I signed the contract, using my leg as a desk.
“Of course... but it will be delicate. It’s difficult for a country that denies responsibility to arrange the release of prisoners whose captors deny their presence.”
He took the contract from me, then looked sharply into the darkness just over my shoulder and nodded and footsteps came up quickly behind me and a hand reached around in front of me and again a chloroform-soaked cloth masked my face.
I awoke in a private compartment of a train eastbound for Chicago. I found my nine-millimeter in my packed suitcase. Neatly folded in my billfold was a five-thousand-dollar check from the Office of Naval Intelligence. In the inside suitcoat pocket of my blue garbardine, which I wore, was my copy of the contract, with Miller’s signature.
Legal and aboveboard.
On July 19, the Navy abandoned its efforts and declared the search for the Electra over. Though intercepted radio messages (never made public) indicated Amelia Earhart and Fred Noonan had been picked up by the Japanese almost two weeks earlier, the Navy used the continuing search as an excuse for continued, expanded reconnaissance of this strategic area of the Pacific. They were not allowed into Japanese-controlled waters, however, though the Japanese professed to be helping in the search.
Ten ships, sixty-five airplanes, and four thousand men had scoured two hundred and fifty thousand square miles of Pacific Ocean in a four-million-dollar effort. Not a trace of the Electra or its crew or even a life raft turned up. No oil slick, no scrap of floating debris. Nothing.
One month to the day after the search for Amy ended, Paul Mantz married Terry Minor in Hollywood’s fabled wedding chapel, the Wee Kirk o’ the Heather. When the papers covered it, they described Mantz as “technical advisor for Amelia Earhart,” and quoted him as saying, “It’s time to get on with our lives.”
Miller apparently got to everyone I’d talked to, because no one came forward, and I certainly didn’t go to the papers.
I was a good American, after all; and anyway, I had no desire to be the government’s next disappearing act. But as the days and months passed, I would open the paper each morning, looking for the headline announcing her return. Amy’s good pal President Roosevelt wouldn’t let her rot in some Japanese jail, would he? An arrangement would be made; some exchange; something that would allow both countries to achieve their goals and the honorable Japanese tradition of saving face.
But the headline never came. Amelia Earhart had vanished from the pages of the papers as completely as she had somewhere over the Pacific. She had flown out of the news and into the pages of history, where she lay prematurely buried.
Three
Dead-Stick Landing
May 6-June, 1940
Chapter 14
The mural behind the Cine-Gril bar depicted early Hollywood days, Charlie Chaplin, Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks, way back when movies couldn’t talk, a dozen years ago. The soothingly air-conditioned lounge was cozy but large enough for a bandstand and postage-stamp dance floor (Russ Columbo’s radio show was broadcast out of here) and the lighting was subdued, but not so much so that you couldn’t be seen if you wanted to. That ultramodern material, Formica, covered the front of the bar in deep red, with horizontal stripes of chrome and indirect lighting from under the lip of the mahogany countertop. The blue leather and chrome stools were shaped like champagne glasses and I was perched on one of them, sipping a rum and Coke.