The Other Side of Midnight

by Sidney Sheldon

  "I don't know why, Bill. Something always seems to go wrong. But he has a job in Greece and he seems to feel that it's going to work out."

  After his first impulsive protest Fraser had been wonderful. He had made everything easy for her and insisted that she keep her interest in the firm. "You're not going to stay away forever," he kept saying.

  Catherine was thinking of his words now as she watched Larry arrange for a porter to carry her luggage to a limousine.

  He spoke to the porter in Greek and Catherine marveled at Larry's facility for language.

  "Wait'll you meet Constantin Demiris," Larry said. "He's like a goddamn king. All the moguls in Europe seem to spend their time figuring out what they can do to please him."

  "I'm glad you like him."

  "And he likes me."

  She had never heard him sound so happy and enthusiastic. It was a good omen.

  On the way to the hotel Larry described his first meeting with Demiris. Larry had been met at the airport by a liveried chauffeur. Larry had asked to take a look at Demiris' fleet of planes, and the chauffeur had driven him to an enormous hangar at the far end of the field. There were three planes, and Larry inspected each one with a critical eye. The Hawker Siddeley was a beauty, and he longed to get behind the wheel and fly it. The next ship was a six-place Piper in topnotch condition. He estimated that it could easily do three hundred miles per hour. The third plane was a two-seater converted L-5, with a Lycoming engine, a wonderful plane for shorter flights. It was an impressive private fleet. When Larry had finished his inspection, he rejoined the watching chauffeur.

  "They'll do," Larry said. "Let's go."

  The chauffeur had driven him to a villa in Varkiza, the exclusive suburb twenty-five kilometers from Athens.

  "You wouldn't believe Demiris' place," Larry told Catherine.

  "What did it look like?" Catherine asked, eagerly.

  "It's impossible to describe. It's about ten acres with electric gates, guards, watchdogs, and the whole bit. The outside of the villa is a palace, and the inside is a museum. It has an indoor swimming pool, a full stage and a projection room. You'll see it one day."

  "Was he nice?" Catherine asked.

  "You bet he was," Larry smiled. "I got the red-carpet treatment. I guess my reputation preceded me."

  In fact Larry had sat in a small anteroom for three hours waiting to see Constantin Demiris. In ordinary circumstances Larry would have been furious at the slight, but he knew how much depended on this meeting and he was too nervous to be angry. He had told Catherine how important this job was to him. But he had not told her how desperately he needed it. His one superb skill was flying and without it he felt lost. It was as though his life had sunk to some unexplored emotional depth and the pressures on him were too great to be borne. Everything depended on this job.

  At the end of three hours a butler had come in and announced that Mr. Demiris was ready to see him. He had led Larry through a large reception hall that looked like it belonged at Versailles. The walls were delicate shades of gold, green and blue, and Beauvais tapestries hung on the walls, framed by panels of rosewood. A magnificent oval Savonnerie rug was on the floor, and above it an enormous chandelier of crystal De Roche and bronze Dore.

  At the entry to the library were a pair of green onyx columns with capitals of gold bronze. The library itself was exquisite, designed by a master artisan, and the walls were carved, paneled fruitwoods. In the center of one wall stood a white marble mantelpiece with gold gilt ornamentations. On it rested two beautiful bronze Chenets of Philippe Caffieri.

  From mantel top to ceiling rose a heavily carved trumeau mirror with a painting by Jean Honore Fragonard. Through an open French window Larry caught a glimpse of an enormous patio overlooking a private park filled with statues and fountains.

  At the far end of the library was a great Bureau Plat desk and behind it a magnificent tall back chair covered in Aubusson tapestry. In front of the desk were two bergeres with Gobelin upholstery.

  Demiris was standing near the desk, studying a large Mercator map on the wall, dotted with dozens of colored pins. He turned as Larry entered and held out his hand.

  "Constantin Demiris," he said, with the faintest trace of an accent. Larry had seen photographs of him in news magazines throughout the years, but nothing had prepared him for the vital force of the man.

  "I know," Larry said, shaking his hand. "I'm Larry Douglas."

  Demiris saw Larry's eyes go to the map on the wall. "My empire," he said. "Sit down."

  Larry took a chair opposite the desk.

  "I understand that you and Ian Whitestone flew together in the RAF?"

  "Yes."

  Demiris leaned back in his chair and studied Larry. "Ian thinks very highly of you."

  Larry smiled. "I think highly of him. He's a hell of a pilot."

  "That's what he said about you, except he used the word 'great.'"

  Larry felt again that sense of surprise he had had when Whitestone had first spelled out the offer. He had obviously given Demiris a big buildup about him, far out of proportion to the relationship that he and Whitestone had had. "I'm good," Larry said. "That's my business."

  Demiris nodded. "I like men who are good at their business. Did you know that most of the people in the world are not?"

  "I hadn't given it much thought one way or the other," Larry confessed.

  "I have." He gave Larry a wintry smile. "That's my business--people. The great majority of people hate what they're doing, Mr. Douglas. Instead of devising ways to get into something they like, they remain trapped all their lives, like brainless insects. It's rare to find a man who loves his work. Almost invariably when you find such a man, he is a success."

  "I suppose that's true," Larry said modestly.

  "You are not a success."

  Larry looked up at Demiris, suddenly wary. "That depends on what you mean by success, Mr. Demiris," he said carefully.

  "What I mean is," Demiris said bluntly, "you did brilliantly in the war, but you are not doing very well in the peace."

  Larry felt the muscles of his jaw begin to tighten. He felt that he was being baited, and he tried to hold back his anger. His mind raced frantically, trying to figure out what he could say to salvage this job he needed so desperately. Demiris was watching him, his olive black eyes quietly studying him, missing nothing.

  "What happened to your job with Pan American, Mr. Douglas?"

  Larry found a grin he didn't feel like. "I didn't like the idea of sitting around for fifteen years waiting to become a copilot."

  "So you hit the man you worked for."

  Larry showed his surprise. "Who told you that?"

  "Oh, come, Mr. Douglas," Demiris said impatiently, "if you went to work for me, I would be putting my life in your hands every time I flew with you. My life happens to be worth a great deal to me. Did you really think I would hire you without knowing everything about you?"

  "You were fired from two flying jobs after you were fired from Pan Am," Demiris went on. "That's a poor record."

  "It had nothing to do with my ability," Larry retorted, anger beginning to rise in him again. "Business was slow with one company, and the other couldn't get a bank loan and went bankrupt. I'm a damned good pilot."

  Demiris studied him a moment, then smiled. "I know you are," he said. "You don't respond well to discipline, do you?"

  "I don't like being given orders by idiots who know less than I do."

  "I trust I will not fall into that category," Demiris said dryly.

  "Not unless you're planning to tell me how to fly your planes, Mr. Demiris."

  "No, that would be your job. It would also be your job to see that I got where I was going efficiently, comfortably and safely."

  Larry nodded. "I'd do my best, Mr. Demiris."

  "I believe that," Demiris said. "You've been out to look at my planes."

  Larry tried to keep the surprise out of his face. "Yes, sir."

  "How di
d you like them?"

  Larry could not conceal his enthusiasm. "They're beauties."

  Demiris responded to the look on Larry's face. "Have you ever flown a Hawker Siddeley?"

  Larry hesitated a moment, tempted to lie. "No, sir."

  Demiris nodded. "Think you could learn?"

  Larry grinned. "If you've got someone who can spare ten minutes."

  Demiris leaned forward in his chair and pressed his long, slender fingers together. "I could choose a pilot who is familiar with all my planes."

  "But you won't," Larry said, "because you'll keep getting new planes, and you want someone who can adapt to anything you buy."

  Demiris nodded his head. "You are correct," he said. "What I am looking for is a pilot--a pure pilot--a man who is at his happiest when he is flying."

  That was the moment when Larry knew the job was his.

  Larry was never aware of how close he had come to not being hired. A great deal of Constantin Demiris' success was due to a highly developed instinct for trouble, and it had served him often enough so that he seldom disregarded it. When Ian Whitestone had come to inform him that he was quitting, a silent alarm went off in Demiris' mind. It was partly because of Whitestone's manner. He was acting unnaturally and seemed uneasy. It wasn't a question of money, he assured Demiris. He had a chance to go into business for himself with his brother-in-law in Sydney and he had to try it. Then he had recommended another pilot.

  "He's an American, but we flew together in the RAF. He's not just good, he's great, Mr. Demiris. I don't know a better flyer."

  Demiris quietly listened as Ian Whitestone went on extolling the virtue of his friend, trying to find the false note that jarred him. He finally recognized it. Whitestone was overselling, but possibly that was because of his embarrassment at quitting his job so abruptly.

  Because Demiris was a man who left not even the smallest detail to chance, he made several phone calls to various countries after Whitestone left. Before the afternoon was over Demiris had ascertained that someone had indeed put up money to finance Whitestone in a small electronics business in Australia, with his brother-in-law. He had spoken to a friend in the British Air Ministry and two hours later had been given a verbal report on Larry Douglas. "He was a bit erratic on the ground," his friend had said, "but he was a superb flyer." Demiris had then made telephone calls to Washington and New York and had been quickly brought up-to-date on Larry Douglas' current status.

  Everything on the surface appeared to be just as it ought to be. And yet Constantin Demiris still felt that vague sense of unease, a presentiment of trouble. He had discussed the matter with Noelle, suggesting that perhaps he might offer Ian Whitestone more money to stay on. Noelle had listened attentively and then said, "No. Let him go, Costa. And if he recommends this American flyer so highly, then I would certainly try him."

  And that finally had decided him.

  From the moment Noelle knew that Larry Douglas was on his way to Athens she was able to think of nothing else. She thought of all the years it had taken, the careful, patient laying of plans, the slow, inexorable tightening of the web, and she was sure that Constantin Demiris would have been proud of her if he had known. It was ironic, Noelle reflected. If she had never met Larry, she could have been happy with Demiris. They complemented each other perfectly. They both loved power and knew how to use it. They were above ordinary people. They were gods, meant to rule. In the end they could never lose, because they had a deep, almost mystic patience. They could wait forever. And now, for Noelle, the waiting was over.

  Noelle spent the day in the garden lying in a hammock, going over her plan; and by the time the sun began to sink toward the western sky, she was satisfied. In a way, she thought, it was a pity that so much of the last six years had been filled with her plans for vengeance. It had motivated almost every waking moment, given her life a vitality and drive and excitement, and now in a few short weeks the quest would have come to an end.

  At that moment, lying under the dying Grecian sun with the late afternoon breezes beginning to cool the quiet green garden, Noelle had no idea that it was just beginning.

  The night before Larry was to arrive, Noelle was unable to sleep. She lay awake all night, remembering Paris and the man who had given her the gift of laughter and taken it away from her again...feeling Larry's baby in her womb, possessing her body as its father had possessed her mind. She remembered that afternoon in the dreary Paris flat and the agony of the pointed metal coat hanger ripping into her flesh deeper and deeper until it tore into the baby with the sweet, unbearable pain driving her into a frenzy of hysteria and the endless river of blood pouring from her. She remembered all these things and relived them again...the pain, the agony and the hatred...

  At five A.M., Noelle was up and dressed, sitting in her room looking out at the huge fireball rising over the Aegean. It reminded her of another morning in Paris when she had arisen early and dressed and waited for Larry--only this time he would be here. Because she had seen to it that he had to be. As Noelle needed him before, so Larry needed her now, even though he was still unaware of it.

  Demiris sent a message up to Noelle's suite that he would like her to have breakfast with him, but she was too excited, and she was afraid that her mood might arouse his curiosity. She had long ago learned that Demiris had the sensitivity of a cat: He missed nothing. Again, Noelle reminded herself that she must be careful. She wanted to take care of Larry herself in her own way. She had thought long and hard about the fact that she was using Constantin Demiris as an unwitting tool. If he ever found out, he would not like it.

  Noelle had a demitasse of thick Greek coffee and half a freshly baked roll. She had no appetite. Her mind was feverishly dwelling on the meeting that would take place in a few short hours. She had taken unusual care with her makeup and the selection of a dress, and she knew that she looked beautiful.

  Shortly after eleven o'clock, Noelle heard the limousine pull up in front of the house. She took a deep breath to control her nervousness, then slowly walked over to the window. Larry Douglas was getting out of the car. Noelle watched as he moved toward the front door and it was as though the march of years had rolled away, and the two of them were back in Paris. Larry was a little more mature, and the fighting and the living had added new lines to his face, but they only served to make him handsomer than he had been. Looking at him through the window ten yards away Noelle could still feel the animal magnetism, still feel the old desire and it welled up in her, mixing with the hatred until she was filled with a sense of exhilaration that was almost like a climax. She took one last quick look at herself in the mirror and then went downstairs to meet the man she was about to destroy.

  As she walked down the stairs, Noelle wondered what Larry's reaction would be when he saw her. Had he bragged to his friends and perhaps even his wife that Noelle Page had once been in love with him? She wondered, as she had wondered a hundred times before, whether he ever relived the magic of those days and nights they had together in Paris and whether he regretted what he had done to her. How it must have eaten at his soul that Noelle had become internationally famous and that his own life consisted of a series of small failures! Noelle wanted to see some of that in Larry's eyes now when they came face to face for the first time in almost seven years.

  Noelle had reached the reception hall when the front door opened and the butler ushered him in. Larry was staring at the enormous foyer in awe when he turned and saw Noelle. He looked at her for a long moment, his face lighting up in appreciation at the sight of a beautiful woman. "Hello," he said, politely. "I'm Larry Douglas. I have an appointment to see Mr. Demiris."

  And there was no sign of recognition on his face.

  None at all.

  Driving through the streets of Athens toward their hotel, Catherine was dazed by the succession of ruins and monuments that appeared all around them.

  Ahead she saw the breathtaking spectacle of the white-marbled Parthenon rising high atop the Acropol
is. Hotels and office buildings were everywhere, yet in an odd way it seemed to Catherine that the newer buildings appeared temporary and impermanent while the Parthenon loomed immortal and timeless in the chiseled clarity of the air.

  "Impressive, isn't it?" Larry grinned. "The whole city is like that. One big beautiful ruin."

  They passed a large park in the center of the city with dancing fountains in the middle. Hundreds of tables with green and orange poles lined the park, and the air above them was carpeted with blue awnings.

  "That's Constipation Square," Larry said.

  "What?"

  "Its real name is Constitution Square. People sit at those tables all day drinking Greek coffee and watching the world go by."

  On almost every block there were outdoor cafes, and on the corners men were selling freshly caught sponges. Everywhere flowers were sold by vendors, and their booths were a rage of violently colored blossoms.

  "The city is so white," Catherine said. "It's dazzling."

  The hotel suite was large and charming, overlooking Syntagma Square, the large square in the center of the city. In the room were beautiful flowers and an enormous bowl of fresh fruit.

  "I love it, darling," Catherine said, going around the suite.

  The bellboy had put her suitcases down and Larry tipped him. "Parapolee," the boy said.

  "Parakalo," Larry replied.

  The bellboy left, closing the door behind him.

  Larry walked over and put his arms around Catherine. "Welcome to Greece." He kissed her hungrily, and she felt the hardness of his body pressing into the softness of hers and she knew how much he had missed her and she was glad. He led her into the bedroom.

  On the dressing table was a small package. "Open it," Larry told her.

  Her fingers tore the wrapping apart and in a small box inside was a tiny bird carved in jade. As busy as he was, Larry had remembered, and Catherine was touched. Somehow the bird was a talisman, an omen that everything was going to be all right, that the problems of the past were finished.

  As they made love, Catherine said a little prayer of gratitude, thankful to be in the arms of the husband whom she loved so much, in one of the most exciting cities in the world, starting out on a new life. This was the old Larry, and all their problems had only made their marriage stronger.