They returned to the visitor center and looked up the woman's name and address. She had made a substantial donation to the center in her husband's name. Austin thanked Miller and headed south beyond the suburbs that ring Washington until the countryside began to look more rural. The address was a big two-story gingerbread Victorian on a back road. A car was parked out front. Austin went up to the front door and rang the bell. An athletically built man in his fifties answered the door.

Kurt introduced himself. “I'm looking for Mrs. Phyllis Martin. Do I have the right house?”

“Yes, this is the Martin house. But I'm afraid you've come a little too late. My mother passed away several weeks ago.”

“I'm very sorry to hear that,” Austin said. “Hope I haven't bothered you.”

“Not at all. I'm her son, Buzz Martin. I'm taking care of some things around the house. Perhaps I can help you.”

“Possibly. I'm with NUMA, the National Underwater and Marine Agency. I'm doing some historical research on flying wings and was hopeful your mother might like to talk about your father.”

“Doesn't NUMA deal with the ocean sciences?”

“That's right, but this might have a connection with NUMA's work.”

Buzz Martin gave Austin a long look. “It's no bother, really. I'd be happy to talk to you. Have a seat on the porch rocker. I've been working in the cellar and could use some fresh air. I just made a pot of ice coffee.”

He went inside and returned a few minutes later with two tumblers that clinked with ice. They sat in a couple of Adirondack chairs. Martin looked out at the oak trees shading the big lawn.

“I grew up here. I haven't been around much with the demands of job and family. I run an air charter service out of Baltimore.” He sipped his drink. “But enough about me. What can I tell you about my father?”

“Anything you can remember that might help clear up a mystery having to do with the flying wing he piloted.”

Martin's face lit up like a streetlight. He smacked his hands together. “Aha! I knew the cover-up would unravel one day.”

“Cover-up?”

“That's right,” Martin said bitterly. “This whole crummy deal with my father and the phony crash.”

Austin sensed that he'd learn more by saying less. “Tell me what you know,” he said.

The suggestion was hardly necessary. Martin had been waiting for years for a friendly ear to listen to his tale.

“Excuse me,” he said with a deep sigh. “This stuff has been building up for a long time.” He stood and paced the length of the porch. His face was contorted by anguish. He took several deep breaths to get his emotions in check. Then he sat on the railing, arms folded, and began to tell his story.

“My father died in 1949. According to my mother, he was testing one of the new flying wings. There were bugs in the design, and they were always tinkering with one thing or another. On one flight the plane supposedly rolled; he couldn't get it under control. He died in the crash. I was seven years old.”