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 Doré.
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 Chénets of Philippe
Caffieri.
From mantel top to ceiling rose a heavily carved trumeau mirror with a painting by
Jean Honoré 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 bergères 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