was serving dessert. She picked up the receiver.
“Hello.”
There was an Englishman’s voice on the other end of the line and it said, “Is Larry
Douglas in, please? Ian Whitestone here.”
“Just a moment.” She held the receiver out to Larry. “It’s for you. Ian Whitestone.”
He frowned, puzzled. “Who?” Then his face cleared. “For Christ’s sake!” He walked
over and took the receiver from Catherine. “Ian?” He gave a short laugh. “My God, it’s
been almost seven years. How the hell did you ever track me down?”
Catherine watched Larry nodding and smiling as he listened. At the end of what
seemed like five minutes, he said, “Well, that sounds interesting, old buddy. Sure I can.
Where?” He listened. “Right. Half an hour. I’ll see you then.” Thoughtfully, he replaced
the receiver.
“Is he a friend of yours?” Catherine asked.
Larry turned to face her. “No, not really. That’s what’s so funny. He’s a guy I flew
with in the RAF. We never really got along all that well. But he says he has a proposition
for me.”
“What kind of proposition?” Catherine asked.
Larry shrugged. “I’ll let you know when I get home.”
It was almost three o’clock in the morning when Larry returned to the apartment.
Catherine was sitting up in bed reading. Larry appeared at the bedroom door.
“Hi.”
Something had happened to him. He radiated an excitement that Catherine had not
seen in him for a long time. He walked over to the bed.
“How did your meeting go?”
“I think it went great,” Larry said, carefully. “In fact it went so great I still can’t
believe it. I think I may have a job.”
“Working for Ian Whitestone?”
“No. Ian’s a pilot—like me. I told you we flew together.”
“Yes.”
“Well—after the war, a Greek buddy of his got him a job as a private pilot for
Demiris.”
“The shipping tycoon?”
“Shipping, oil, gold—Demiris owns half the world. Whitestone had a beautiful setup
over there.”