The Other Side of Midnight (31 page)

Noelle stared at him a moment and then replied, “I would like to believe that you are a better critic than you are a pilot, but I doubt very much that you have either the intelligence or the taste.” And she walked away.

Larry stood rooted there, feeling as though he had been struck. The goddamned cunt! For an instant he was tempted to follow her and tell her what he thought
of her, but he knew it would be playing into her hands. No. From now on he would simply do his job and keep as far away from her as possible.

During the next few weeks Noelle was his passenger on several flights. Larry did not speak to her at all, and he tried desperately hard to arrange it so that she did not see him. He kept out of the cabin and had Metaxas handle any necessary communications with the passengers. There were no further comments from Noelle Page, and Larry congratulated himself on having solved the problem.

As it turned out, he congratulated himself too soon.

One morning Demiris sent for Larry at the villa. “Miss Page is flying to Paris for me on some confidential business. I want you to stay at her side.”

“Yes, Mr. Demiris.”

Demiris studied him for a moment, started to add something else, then changed his mind. “That’s all.”

Noelle was the only passenger on the flight to Paris and Larry decided to fly the Piper. He arranged for Paul Metaxas to make Noelle comfortable and stayed in the cockpit, out of sight during the entire flight. When they landed, Larry walked back to her seat and said, “Excuse me, Miss Page. Mr. Demiris asked me to stay with you while you’re in Paris.”

She looked up at him with contempt and said, “Very well. Just don’t let me know that you’re around.”

He nodded in icy silence.

They rode into the city from Orly in a private limousine. Larry sat up front with the driver and Noelle Page sat in back. She did not speak to him during the journey into the city. Their first stop was Paribas, the Banque de Paris et des Bas. Larry went into the lobby with Noelle and waited while she was ushered into the office of the president and then down to the basement where the safe-deposit boxes were kept. Noelle was gone about thirty minutes, and when she returned, she swept straight past Larry without a word. He stared after her a moment, then turned and followed her.

Their next stop was the rue du Faubourg-St.-Honoré. Noelle dismissed the car. Larry followed her into a department store and stood nearby while she selected the items she wanted, then handed him the packages to carry. She shopped in half a dozen stores: Hermes for some purses and belts, Guerlain for perfume, Celine for shoes, until Larry was burdened down with packages. If she was aware of his discomfiture, Noelle gave no sign. Larry might have been some pet animal that she was leading around.

As they walked out of Celine’s, it began to rain. Pedestrians were scurrying to take shelter. “Wait here for me,” Noelle commanded.

Larry stood there and watched her disappear into a restaurant across the street. He waited in the driving rain for two hours, his arms full of packages, cursing her and cursing himself for putting up with her behavior. He was trapped and he did not know how to get out of it.

And he had a terrible foreboding that it was going to get worse.

The first time Catherine met Constantin Demiris was at his villa. Larry had gone there to deliver a package he had flown in from Copenhagen, and Catherine had gone to the house with him. She was standing in the huge reception hall admiring a painting, when a door opened and Demiris came out. He watched her a moment, then said “Do you like Manet, Mrs. Douglas?”

Catherine swung around and found herself face to face with the legend she had heard so much about. She had two immediate impressions: Constantin Demiris was taller than she had imagined, and there was an overpowering energy in him that was almost frightening. Catherine was amazed that he knew her name and who she was. He seemed to go out of his way to put her at ease. He asked Catherine how she liked Greece, whether her apartment was comfortable, and to let him know if he could do anything to help make her stay
pleasant. He even knew—though God alone knew how!—that she collected miniature birds. “I saw a lovely one,” he told her. “I will send it to you.”

Larry appeared, and he and Catherine left.

“How did you like Demiris?” Larry asked.

“He’s a charmer,” she said. “No wonder you enjoy working for him.”

“And I’m going to keep working for him.” There was a grimness in his voice that Catherine did not understand.

The following day a beautiful porcelain bird was delivered to Catherine.

Catherine saw Constantin Demiris twice after that, once when she went to the races with Larry and once at a Christmas party Demiris gave at his villa. Each time he went out of his way to be charming to her. All in all, Catherine thought, Constantin Demiris was quite a remarkable person.

In August the Athens Festival began. For two months the city presented plays, ballets, operas, concerts—all given in the Herodes Atticus, the ancient open-air theater at the foot of the Acropolis. Catherine saw several of the plays with Larry, and when he was away she went with Count Pappas. It was fascinating to watch ancient plays staged in their original settings by the race that had created them.

One night after Catherine and Count Pappas had gone to see a production of
Medea
, they were talking about Larry.

“He’s an interesting man,” Count Pappas said.
“Polymechanos.”

“What does that mean?”

“It is difficult to translate.” The Count thought for a moment. “It means ‘fertile in devices.’”

“You mean ‘resourceful’?”

“Yes, but more than that. Someone who is always very ready with a new idea, a new plan.”

“Polymechanos,”
Catherine said. “That’s my boy.”

Above them there was a beautiful, waxing gibbous moon. The night was balmy and warm. They walked through the Plaka toward Omonia Square. As they started to cross the street, a car raced around the corner, headed straight toward them and the Count pulled Catherine to safety.

“Idiot!” he yelled after the disappearing driver.

“Everyone here seems to drive like that,” Catherine said.

Count Pappas smiled ruefully. “Do you know the reason? The Greeks haven’t made the transition to automobiles. In their hearts they’re still driving donkeys.”

“You’re joking.”

“Unfortunately no. If you want insight into the Greeks, Catherine, don’t read the guidebooks; read the old Greek tragedies. The truth is, we still belong to other centuries. Emotionally we’re very primitive. We’re filled with grand passions, deep joys and great sorrows, and we haven’t learned how to cover them up with a civilized veneer.”

“I’m not sure that’s a bad thing,” Catherine replied.

“Perhaps not. But it distorts reality. When outsiders look at us, they are not seeing what they think they see. It is like looking at a distant star. You are not really seeing the star, you are looking at a reflection of the past.”

They had reached the square. They passed a row of little stores with signs in the windows that said “Fortune-Telling.”

“There are a lot of fortune-tellers here, aren’t there?” Catherine asked.

“We are a very superstitious people.”

Catherine shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t believe in it.”

They had reached a small taverna. A hand-lettered sign in the window read: “MADAME PIRIS, FORTUNE-TELLING.”

“Do you believe in witches?” Count Pappas asked.

Catherine looked at him to see if he was teasing. His
face was serious. “Only on Halloween.”

“By a witch I do not mean broomsticks and black cats and boiling kettles.”

“What do you mean?”

He nodded toward the sign. “Madame Piris is a witch. She can read the past and the future.”

He saw the skepticism on Catherine’s face. “I will tell you a story,” Count Pappas said. “Many years ago, the Chief of Police in Athens was a man named Sophocles Vasilly. He was a friend of mine and I used my influence to help him get into office. Vasilly was a very honest man. There were people who wished to corrupt him and since he would not be corrupted, they decided that he would have to be eliminated.” He took Catherine’s arm and they crossed the street toward the park.

“One day, Vasilly came to tell me of a threat that had been made on his life. He was a brave man, but this threat disturbed him because it came from a powerful and ruthless racketeer. Detectives were assigned to watch the racketeer and to protect Vasilly, but still he had an uneasy feeling that he did not have long to live. That was when he came to me.”

Catherine was listening, fascinated. “What did you do?” she asked.

“I advised him to get a reading from Madame Piris.” He was silent, his thoughts prowling restlessly in some dark arena of the past.

“Did he go?” Catherine finally asked.

“What? Oh, yes. She told Vasilly that death was going to come to him unexpectedly and quickly and warned him to beware of a lion at noon. There are no lions in Greece, except for a few old mangy ones at the zoo and the stone ones you have seen on Delos.”

Catherine could feel the tension in Pappas’ voice as he continued.

“Vasilly went to the zoo personally to check the cages to make sure that the animals were secure, and he made inquiries as to any wild animals that might
have recently been brought into Athens. There were none.

“A week went by and nothing happened, and Vasilly decided that the old witch had been wrong and that he had been a superstitious fool for paying any attention to her. On a Saturday morning I dropped by the police station to pick him up. It was his son’s fourth birthday, and we were going to take a boat trip to Kyron to celebrate.

“I drove up in front of the station just as the clock in the Town Hall was striking twelve. As I reached the entrance, there was a tremendous explosion from inside the building. I hurried inside to Vasilly’s office.” His voice sounded stiff and awkward. “There was nothing left of the office—or of Vasilly.”

“How horrible,” Catherine murmured.

They walked on for a moment in silence. “But the witch was wrong, wasn’t she?” Catherine asked. “He wasn’t killed by a lion.”

“Ah, but he was, you see. The police reconstructed what had happened. As I told you, it was the boy’s birthday. Vasilly’s desk was piled with gifts that he was going to bring to his son. Someone had brought in a birthday gift, a toy, and laid it on Vasilly’s desk.”

Catherine felt the blood leaving her face. “A toy lion.”

Count Pappas nodded. “Yes. ‘Beware of a lion at noon.’”

Catherine shuddered. “That gives me the creeps.”

He looked down at her sympathetically. “Madame Piris is not a ‘fun’ fortune-teller to go to.”

They had crossed through the park and reached Piraios Street. An empty taxi was passing by. The Count hailed it, and ten minutes later Catherine was back at her apartment.

As she prepared for bed, she told Larry the story, and as she told it, her flesh began to crawl again. Larry held her tightly and made love to her, but it was a long time before Catherine was able to fall asleep.

If it had not been for Noelle Page, Larry Douglas would have had no worries. He was where he wanted to be, doing what he wanted to do. He enjoyed his job, the people he met, and the man for whom he worked. On the ground his life was equally satisfactory. When he was not flying, he spent a good part of his time with Catherine; but because Larry’s job was so mobile, Catherine was not always aware of where he was, and Larry found innumerable opportunities to go out on his own. He went to parties with Count Pappas and Paul Metaxas, his copilot, and a satisfying number of them turned into orgies. Greek women were filled with passion and fire. He had found a new one, Helena, a stewardess who worked for Demiris, and when they had a stopover away from Athens, she and Larry shared a hotel room. Helena was a beautiful, slim, dark-eyed girl, and insatiable. Yes, everything considered, Larry Douglas decided that his life was perfect.

Except for Demiris’ blond bitch mistress.

Larry had not the slightest clue as to what made Noelle Page despise him, but whatever it was, it was endangering his way of life. Larry had tried being polite, aloof, friendly, and each time Noelle Page succeeded in making him look like a fool. Larry knew that he could go to Demiris, but he had no illusions about what would happen if it came to a choice between him and Noelle. Twice, he had arranged for Paul Metaxas to take over Noelle’s flight but shortly before each flight Demiris’ secretary had telephoned to tell him that Mr.
Demiris would like to have Larry pilot her himself.

On an early morning in late November Larry received a call that he was to fly Noelle Page to Amsterdam that afternoon. Larry checked with the airport and received a negative report on the weather in Amsterdam. A fog was beginning to roll in and by afternoon they expected zero visibility. Larry phoned Demiris’ secretary to tell her that it would be impossible to fly to Amsterdam that day. The secretary said she would get back to him. Fifteen minutes later she phoned to say that Miss Page would be at the airport at two o’clock, ready to take off. Larry checked with the airport again, thinking that perhaps there had been a break in the weather, but the report was the same.

“Jesus Christ,” Paul Metaxas exclaimed. “She must be in one hell of a hurry to get to Amsterdam.”

But Larry had the feeling that Amsterdam was not the issue. This was a contest of wills between the two of them. For all he cared Noelle Page could crash into a mountain peak and good riddance, but Larry was damned if he was going to risk his own neck for the stupid bitch. He tried to phone Demiris to discuss it with him, but he was in a meeting and unavailable. Larry slammed down the phone, seething. He had no choice now but to go to the airport and try to talk his passenger out of making the flight. He arrived at the airport at 1:30. By three o’clock Noelle Page had not appeared. “She probably changed her mind,” Metaxas said.

But Larry knew better. As the time wore on, he became more and more furious, until he realized that that was her intention. She was trying to drive him into a rash action that would cost him his job. Larry was in the terminal building talking to the airport manager when Demiris’ familiar gray Rolls drove up and Noelle Page emerged. Larry walked outside to meet her.

“I’m afraid the flight’s off, Miss Page,” he said, making his voice flat. “The airport at Amsterdam is fogged in.”

Noelle looked past Larry as though he did not exist and said to Paul Metaxas, “The plane carries automatic landing equipment, does it not?”

“Yes, it does,” Metaxas said, awkwardly.

“I’m really surprised,” she replied, “that Mr. Demiris would hire a pilot who’s a coward. I’ll speak to him about it.”

Noelle turned and walked toward the plane. Metaxas looked after her and said, “Jesus Christ! I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She never used to act like this. I’m sorry, Larry.”

Larry watched Noelle walk across the field, her blond hair blowing in the wind. He had never hated anyone so much in his life.

Metaxas was watching him. “Are we going?” he asked.

“We’re going.”

The copilot gave a deep, expressive sigh, and the two men slowly walked toward the plane.

Noelle Page was sitting in the cabin, leisurely thumbing through a fashion magazine when they entered the plane. Larry stared at her a moment, so filled with anger that he was afraid to speak. He went up into the cockpit and began his preflight check.

Ten minutes later he had received clearance from the tower and they were airborne for Amsterdam.

The first half of the flight was uneventful. Switzerland lay below in a mantle of snow. By the time they were over Germany, it was dusk. Larry radioed ahead to Amsterdam for a weather check. They reported that fog was blowing in from the North Sea and getting thicker. He cursed his bad luck. If the winds had changed and the fog had cleared, his problem would have been solved, but now he had to decide whether to risk an instrument landing at Amsterdam or fly to an alternate airport. He was tempted to go back and discuss it with his passenger, but he could visualize the contemptuous look on her face.

“Special Flight one-oh-nine, would you give us your flight plan, please?” It was the tower at Munich. Larry had to make a decision swiftly. He could still land at Brussels, Cologne or Luxembourg.

Or Amsterdam.

The voice crackled over the speaker again. “Special Flight one-oh-nine, would you give us your flight plan, please?”

Larry snapped down the transmitting key. “Special Flight one-oh-nine to Munich Tower. We’re going to Amsterdam.” He flicked the switch up and was aware of Metaxas watching him.

“Jesus, maybe I should have doubled my life insurance,” Metaxas said. “You really think we’re going to make it?”

“Do you want to know the truth?” Larry said, bitterly. “I don’t give a shit.”

“Fantastic! I’m up in a plane with two fucking maniacs!” Metaxas moaned.

For the next hour Larry was wholly absorbed in flying the aircraft, listening to the frequent weather reports without comment. He was still hoping for a wind change, but thirty minutes out of Amsterdam the report was still the same. Heavy fog. The field was closed to all air traffic except for emergencies. Larry made contact with the control tower at Amsterdam. “Special Flight one-oh-nine to Amsterdam Tower. Approaching airport from 75 miles east of Cologne, ETA nineteen hundred hours.”

Almost instantly a voice on the radio crackled back, “Amsterdam Tower to Special Flight one-oh-nine. Our field is closed down. We suggest you return to Cologne or land at Brussels.”

Larry spoke into the handmike. “Special Flight one-oh-nine to Amsterdam Tower. Negative. We have an emergency.”

Metaxas turned to stare at him in surprise.

A new voice came over the speaker. “Special Flight
one-oh-nine, this is Chief of Operations at Amsterdam Airport. We are completely fogged in here. Visibility zero. Repeat: visibility zero. What is the nature of your emergency?”

“We’re running out of fuel,” Larry said. “I have barely enough to reach you.”

Metaxas’ eyes went to the fuel gauges, which registered half full. “For Christ’s sakes,” Metaxas exploded. “We could fly to China!”

The radio was silent. Suddenly it exploded into life again.

“Amsterdam Tower to Special Flight one-oh-nine. You have an emergency clearance. We’ll bring you in.”

“Roger.” Larry flicked off the switch and turned to Metaxas. “Jettison the fuel,” he ordered.

Metaxas swallowed and said in a choked voice,
“J—jettison the fuel?”

“You heard me, Paul. Leave just enough to bring us in.”

“But, Larry…”

“Damn it, don’t argue. If we roll in there with a tank half full of gas, they’ll jerk our licenses away so fast you won’t know what hit you.”

Metaxas nodded glumly and reached for the fuel-ejection handle. He began to pump, keeping a close eye on the gauge. Five minutes later they were in the fog, wrapped in a soft white cotton that wiped out everything but the dimly lit cockpit they sat in. It was an eerie sensation, cut off from time and space and the rest of the world. The last time Larry had been through this was in the Link Trainer. But that was a game where there were no risks. Here the stakes were life and death. He wondered what it was doing to his passenger. He hoped it gave her a heart attack. The Amsterdam control tower came on again.

“Amsterdam control tower to Special Flight one-oh-nine. I am going to bring you in on A.L.S. You will please follow my instructions exactly. We have you on our radar. Turn three degrees west and maintain
present altitude until further instructions. At your present airspeed, you should be landing in eighteen minutes.”

The voice coming over the radio sounded tense. With good reason, thought Larry grimly. One slight mistake and the plane would plough into the sea. Larry made the correction and shut out everything from his mind but the disembodied voice that was his sole link to survival. He flew the plane as though it were a part of himself, flying it with his heart, his soul and his mind. He was dimly aware of Paul Metaxas sweating beside him, calling out a constant instrument check in a low, strained voice, but if they came out of this alive, it would be Larry Douglas who did it. Larry had never seen fog like this. It was a ghostly enemy, charging at him from every side, blinding him, seducing him, trying to lure him into making one fatal mistake. He was hurtling through the sky at two hundred and fifty miles an hour, unable to see beyond the windshield of the cockpit. Pilots hated fog, and the first rule was: Climb over it or dive under it, but get out of it! Now there was no way, because he was locked into an impossible destination by the whim of a spoiled tart. He was helpless, at the mercy of instruments that could go wrong and men on the ground who could make mistakes. The disembodied voice came over the speaker again, and it seemed to Larry that it had a new, nervous quality.

“Amsterdam Tower to Special Flight one-oh-nine. You are coming into the first leg of your landing pattern: Lower your flaps and begin your descent. Descend to two thousand feet…fifteen hundred feet…one thousand feet…”

Still no sign of the airport below. They could have been in the middle of nowhere. He could feel the ground rushing up to meet the plane.

“Decrease your airspeed to one hundred twenty…lower your wheels…you’re at six hundred feet…airspeed one hundred…you’re at four hundred feet…” And still no sign of the goddamn airport! The
blanket of smothering cotton seemed thicker now.

Metaxas’ forehead gleamed with perspiration. “Where in the hell is it?” he whispered.

Larry stole a swift glance at the altimeter. The needle was edging down toward three hundred feet. Then it was below three hundred feet. The ground was rushing up to meet them at one hundred miles per hour. The altimeter showed only one hundred fifty feet. Something was wrong. He should have been able to see the airport lights by now. He strained to see ahead of the plane, but there was only the treacherous, blinding fog whipping across the windshield.

Larry heard Metaxas’ voice, tense and hoarse. “We’re down to sixty feet.” And still nothing.

“Forty feet.”

And the ground racing up to meet them in the darkness.

“Twenty feet.”

It was no good. In another two seconds, the margin of safety would be gone and they would crash. He had to make an instant decision.

“I’m going to take it back up,” Larry said. His hand tightened on the wheel and started to pull back and at that instant, a row of electric arrows blazed out on the ground ahead of them, lighting up the runway below. Ten seconds later, they were on the ground, taxiing toward the Schiphol terminal.

When they had come to a stop, Larry switched off the engines with numb fingers and sat motionless for a long time. Finally he pushed himself to his feet and was surprised to find that his knees were trembling. He noticed a strange odor in the air and turned to Metaxas. Metaxas grinned sheepishly.

“Sorry,” he said. “I shat.”

Larry looked down at him and nodded. “For both of us,” he said. He turned and walked back into the cabin. The bitch was in there, calmly thumbing through a magazine. Larry stood there studying her, aching to tell her off, wishing desperately that he could find the
key to what made her tick. Noelle Page must have known how close she had come to death in the past few minutes, and yet she sat there looking serene and undisturbed, not a hair out of place.

“Amsterdam,” Larry announced.

They drove into Amsterdam in a heavy silence, Noelle in the back seat of the Mercedes 300 and Larry in front with the chauffeur. Metaxas had stayed at the airport to have the plane serviced. The fog was still thick and they drove slowly until suddenly, when they reached the Lindenplatz, it began to lift.

They rode through the City Square, crossed the Eider Bridge over the Amstel River and stopped in front of the Amstel Hotel. When they reached the lobby, Noelle said to Larry, “You will pick me up at ten sharp tonight,” then turned away and walked toward the elevator, the manager of the hotel bowing and scraping at her heels. A bellboy led Larry to a small, uncomfortable single room at the back of the hotel on the first floor. The room was next to the kitchen, and through the wall Larry could hear the clatter of dishes and smell the mixed aromas from the steaming kettles.

Larry took one look at the tiny room and snapped, “I wouldn’t put my dog in here.”

“I’m sorry,” the bellboy said apologetically. “Miss Page requested the cheapest room we had for you.”

Okay
, Larry thought,
I’ll find a way to beat her. Constantin Demiris isn’t the only man in the world who uses a private pilot. I’ll start checking tomorrow. I’ve met a lot of his rich friends. There are half a dozen of them who would be damned glad to hire me
. But then, he thought:
Not if Demiris fires me. If that happens, none of them will touch me. I have to hang in there
. The bathroom was down the hall, and Larry unpacked and took out a robe so that he could go take a bath, then thought:
To hell with it, why should I bathe for her? I hope I smell like a pig
. He went to the hotel bar to have a badly needed drink. He was on his third
martini when he looked up at the clock over the bar and saw that it was 10:15.
Ten o’clock sharp
, she had said. Larry was filled with a sudden panic. He hastily slapped some bills on the bar and headed toward the elevator. Noelle was in the Emperor Suite on the fifth floor. He found himself running down the long corridor and cursing himself for letting her do this to him. He knocked at the door to her suite, his mind forming excuses for his tardiness. No one answered his knock and when Larry turned the knob, it was off the latch. He walked into the large, luxuriously furnished living room and stood there a moment, uncertainly, then called out, “Miss Page.” There was no answer. So
that
was her plan.