“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 did 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 some-one 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.