the meetings, though it was all very…civilized. I don’t think she ever agreed to do what he wanted…or maybe I should say, what the President wanted.”
“What was that?”
She frowned; worry, not anger. “I think he asked her to volunteer to help the government…. What would an ‘intelligence operation’ be exactly?”
“That would be spying, Margot. He must have asked her to use her plane to spy.”
Her eyes widened, in a blend of disbelief and fear. “I can’t believe she’d do that!”
Apparently I had put into words something that she had barely dared think.
Then she released her grip, her eyes hooded now, and the fingers of one hand rose to touch her lips, lightly, and when she spoke, her usual rush of verbiage slowed, as if each word had to work its way around the fingers poised protectively there.
“And, yet,” she said, “it does make sense, with those generals coming around, later. You see, I heard Mr. Baruch say that the military would…what was his language exactly? ‘Assist’ is only part of it, I believe the words were…‘underwrite her enterprise.’ Does that mean…?”
“It means Baruch offered government financial backing to remount the world flight.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I can tell you this, I was the one who handled the accounting on the first try, so I know what kind of money was spent, and on what. This time, the second time around, it was very different—no bills came in at all. Not for aircraft expenses or repairs or hangar storage or even fuel. Nothing.”
I frowned. “Was Amelia aware of this?”
“Yes…. She was really very blue, which was a big contrast from before, when she was flying to Honolulu. She was so enthusiastic, and lighthearted and laughing.”
Amy had always said she flew for the “fun of it.”
I asked, “Did you ever ask her why the military was getting so heavily involved?”
“Yes. Sort of…. I didn’t put it that way exactly, though. I think I was more concerned about the people who’d been close to her who were being driven away, and shut out, her friends, people she trusted.”
“What did she say?”
“She said to me, ‘We can’t always do what we wish.’”
A hell of a statement from a woman who had made a lifelong habit of doing exactly what she wanted.
“Who was getting ‘shut out,’ Margot? Obviously, you kept your job.”
“Oh, there’s a lot of examples. There’s that boy up in Oakland who she took under her wing—Bobby Myers? I know she felt bad about that, but I heard Mr. Putnam tell her he was a ‘snot-nose snoop,’ and to stay away from him.”
“Who is this kid? How old is he?”
“Thirteen, fourteen, maybe? He’s one of the amateur radio buffs that were going to monitor the flight. A man named McMenamy set up a whole network of radio operators, partly to help Mr. Putnam with material for progress- report press releases. He got shut out, too.”
“Who, did? The kid, you mean?”
“Both of them.”
I reached behind me in my hip pocket and pulled out the little notebook I kept tucked next to my wallet; I removed the nubby pencil stuck in the spiral. “What was this guy’s name again?”
“Walter McMenamy. He lives in L.A., some kind of radio expert, works for Mr. Mantz, sometimes.”
I wrote that down. “And the kid’s name?”
“Bobby Myers. I heard Mr. Miller tell Mr. Putnam that he had to ‘pull the plug on those ham radio morons.’ I’ve never heard such cruel things as that man says.”
For hanging out in a house where presidential envoys and generals came constantly calling, this kid led a sheltered life.
She continued: “The list is really long, Nathan, of aides and advisors and volunteers, tossed out with the trash.” A thought flashed through her eyes. “Like Albert Bresniak, the photographer.”
“Spell that name.”
She did, and I wrote it down, and she explained, “Mr. Putnam picked him, personally, to be A. E.’s ‘official photographer.’ Very young, maybe twenty-two, very talented boy. He was supposed to go with her on at least some of the flight.”
That made sense. Putnam had a deal with the Hearst papers—they had been publishing excerpts from Amy’s flight journal that had been cabled and phoned home—and a photographer along on several legs of the flight would mean some nice exclusive photos.
“Was this photographer, Bresniak, scheduled to go on the first attempt?”
“No. Mr. Putnam approached him in April or May, I think. Albert was ready to go along clear up till a few days before A. E. took off. Mr. Miller was furious when he found out about Albert being invited. I heard him really bawling out Mr. Putnam.”
“And then Albert was suddenly part of the legion of the unwanted.”
“Yes…. Nate. There’s something else I need to tell you. It’s quite personal, but I think it’s something you should know.”
