"If it's any consolation to you," Fraser said sympathetically, "there are millions of women all over the world going through what you're going through now. It's really very simple, Catherine. You're married to a stranger."
Catherine looked at him, saying nothing.
Fraser stopped to fill his pipe and light it. "You can't really expect to pick up where you left off when Larry went away four years ago, can you? That place in time doesn't exist any more. You've moved past it, and so has Larry. Part of what makes a marriage work is that a husband and wife have common experiences. They grow together and their marriage grows. You're going to have to find a common meeting ground again."
"I feel disloyal even discussing it, Bill."
Fraser smiled. "I knew you first," he reminded her. "Remember?"
"I remember."
"I'm sure that Larry's feeling his way, too," Fraser continued. "He's been living with a thousand men for four years and now he has to get used to living with a girl."
She smiled. "You're right about everything you said. I suppose I just had to hear someone say it."
"Everyone's full of helpful advice about how to handle the wounded," Fraser remarked, "but there are some wounds that don't show. Sometimes they go deep." He saw the look on Catherine's face. "I don't mean anything serious," he added quickly. "I'm just talking about the horrors that any combat soldier sees. Unless a man is a complete fool, it's bound to have an enormous effect on his outlook. You see what I mean?"
Catherine nodded. "Yes." The question was: What effect had it had?
When Catherine finally went back to work, the men at the agency were overjoyed to see her. For the first three days she did almost nothing but go over campaigns and layouts for new accounts and catch up on old accounts. She worked from early in the morning until late in the evening, trying to make up for the time she had lost, badgering copywriters and sketch artists and reassuring nervous clients. She was very good at her job and she loved it.
Larry would be waiting for Catherine when she returned to the apartment at night. In the beginning she had asked what he did while she was gone, but his answers were always vague and she finally stopped asking him. He had put up a wall, and she did not know how to breach it. He took offense at almost everything Catherine said, and there were constant quarrels over nothing. Occasionally they would dine with Fraser and she went out of her way to make those evenings pleasant and gay so that Fraser would not think there was anything wrong.
But Catherine had to face the fact that something was very wrong. She felt that it was partly her failure. She still loved Larry. She loved the look of him and the feel of him and the memory of him, but she knew that if he went on this way, it would destroy them both.
She was having lunch with William Fraser.
"How's Larry?" he asked.
The automatic Pavlovian response of "fine" started to come to her lips and she stopped. "He needs a job," Catherine said bluntly.
Fraser leaned back and nodded. "Is he getting restless about not working?"
She hesitated, not wanting to lie. "He doesn't want to do just anything," she said carefully. "It would have to be the right thing."
Fraser studied her, trying to assess the meaning that lay behind her words.
"How would he like to be a pilot?"
"He doesn't want to go back into the Service again."
"I was thinking about one of the airlines. I have a friend who runs Pan Am. They'd be lucky to get someone with Larry's experience."
Catherine sat there thinking about it, trying to put herself in Larry's mind. He loved flying more than anything in the world. It would be a good job, doing what he loved to do. "It--it sounds wonderful," she said cautiously. "Do you really think you could get it for him, Bill?"
"I'll give it a try," he said. "Why don't you sound Larry out first and see how he feels about it?"
"I will." Catherine took his hand in hers gratefully. "Thanks so much."
"For what?" Fraser asked lightly.
"For always being there when I need you."
He put his hand over hers. "It goes with the territory."
When Catherine told Larry about Bill Fraser's suggestion that night, he said, "That's the best idea I've heard since I came home," and two days later, he had an appointment to see Carl Eastman at Pan Am headquarters in Manhattan. Catherine pressed Larry's suit for him, selected a shirt and tie and shined his shoes until she could see her image in them. "I'll call you as soon as I can and let you know how it went." He kissed her, smiled that quick boyish grin of his and left.
In many ways Larry was like a small boy, Catherine thought. He could be petulant and quick-tempered and surly, but he was also loving and generous.
"My luck," sighed Catherine. "I have to be the only perfect person in the whole universe."
She had a busy schedule ahead of her, but she was unable to think of anything but Larry and his meeting. It was more than just a job. She had a feeling that her whole marriage hinged on what was going to happen.
It was going to be the longest day of her life.
Pan American headquarters was in a modern building at Fifth Avenue and Fifty-third Street. Carl Eastman's office was large and comfortably furnished, and he obviously held a position of importance.
"Come in and sit down," he greeted Larry as Larry entered the office.
Eastman was about thirty-five, a trim, lantern-jawed man with piercing hazel eyes that missed nothing. He motioned Larry to a couch, then sat on a chair across from him.
"Coffee?"
"No thanks," Larry said.
"I understand you'd like to work for us."
"If there's an opening."
"There's an opening," Eastman said, "only a thousand stick jockeys have applied for it." He shook his head ruefully. "It's incredible. The Air Corps trains thousands of bright young men to fly the most complicated pieces of machinery ever made. Then when they do their job and do it damn well, the Air Corps tells 'em to get lost. They have nothing for them." He sighed. "You wouldn't believe the people who come in here all day long. Top pilots, aces like yourself. There's only one job open for every thousand applicants--and all the other airlines are in exactly the same position."
A feeling of disappointment swept over Larry. "Why did you see me?" he asked stiffly.
"Two reasons. Number One, because the man upstairs told me to."
Larry felt an anger rising in him.
"I don't need--"
Eastman leaned forward. "Number Two, you have a damn good flying record."
"Thanks," Larry said, tightly.
Eastman studied him. "You'd have to go through a training program here, you know. It would be like going back to school."
Larry hesitated, not certain where the conversation was leading.
"That sounds all right," he said, cautiously.
"You'll have to take your training in New York out of LaGuardia."
Larry nodded, waiting.
"There are four weeks of ground school and then a month of flight training."
"You flying DC-Fours?" asked Larry.
"Right. When you finish your training, we'll put you on as a navigator. Your training base pay will be three fifty a month."
He had the job! The son-of-a-bitch had needled him about all the thousands of pilots who were after it. But he had the job! What had he been worried about? No one in the whole damned Air Corps had a better record than he did.
Larry grinned. "I don't mind starting as a navigator, Eastman, but I'm a pilot. When does that happen?"
Eastman sighed. "The airlines are unionized. The only way anyone moves up is through seniority. There are a lot of men ahead of you. Do you want to give it a try?"
Larry nodded. "What have I got to lose?"
"Right," Eastman said. "I'll arrange all the formalities. You'll have to take a physical, of course. Any problems there?"
Larry grinned. "The Japanese didn't find anything wrong with me."
"How soon can you
go to work?"
"Is this afternoon too early?"
"Let's make it Monday." Eastman scribbled a name on a card and handed it to Larry. "Here. They'll be expecting you at nine o'clock Monday morning."
When Larry phoned Catherine to tell her the news, there was an excitement in his voice that Catherine had not heard for a long time. She knew then that everything was going to be all right.
NOELLE
Athens: 1946
12
Constantin Demiris owned a fleet of airplanes for his personal use, but his pride was a converted Hawker Siddeley that transported sixteen passengers in luxurious comfort, had a speed of three hundred miles per hour and carried a crew of four. It was a flying palace. The interior had been decorated by Frederick Sawrin and Chagall had done the murals on the walls. Instead of airplane seats, easy chairs and comfortable couches were sprinkled throughout the cabin. The aft compartment had been converted into a luxurious bedroom. Forward behind the cockpit was a modern kitchen. Whenever Demiris or Noelle flew on the plane, there was a chef aboard.
Demiris had chosen as his personal pilots a Greek flyer named Paul Metaxas and an English ex-RAF fighter pilot named Ian Whitestone. Metaxas was a stocky, amiable man with a perpetual smile on his face and a hearty, contagious laugh. He had been a mechanic, had taught himself how to fly and had served with the RAF in the Battle of Britain, where he had met Ian Whitestone. Whitestone was tall, red-haired and painfully thin, with the diffident manner of a schoolmaster on his first day of the term at a second-rate school for incorrigible boys. In the air Whitestone was something else again. He had the rare, natural skill of a born pilot, a feel that can never be taught or learned. Whitestone and Metaxas had flown together for three years against the Luftwaffe and each had a high regard for the other.
Noelle made frequent trips in the large plane, sometimes on business with Demiris, sometimes for pleasure. She had gotten to know the pilots but had paid no particular attention to them.
And then one day she overheard them reminiscing about an experience they had had in the RAF.
From that moment on Noelle either spent some part of each flight in the cockpit talking to the two men or invited one of them to join her back in the cabin. She encouraged them to talk about their war experiences and, without ever asking a direct question, eventually learned that Whitestone had been a liaison officer in Larry Douglas' squadron before Douglas had left the RAF and that Metaxas had joined the squadron too late to meet Larry. Noelle began to concentrate on the English pilot. Encouraged and flattered by the interest of his boss' mistress, Whitestone talked freely about his past life and his future ambitions. He told Noelle he had always been interested in electronics. His brother-in-law in Australia had opened a small electronics firm and wanted Whitestone to go in with him, but Whitestone lacked the capital.
"The way I live," he said to Noelle, grinning, "I'll never make it."
Noelle continued to visit Paris once a month to see Christian Barbet. Barbet had established a liaison with a private detective agency in Washington, and there was a constant stream of reports on Larry Douglas. Cautiously testing Noelle, the little detective had offered to send the reports to her in Athens, but she told him that she preferred picking them up in person. Barbet had nodded his head slyly and said in a conspiratorial tone, "I understand, Miss Page." So she did not want Constantin Demiris to know about her interest in Larry Douglas. The possibilities for blackmail staggered Barbet's mind.
"You have been most helpful, Monsieur Barbet," Noelle said, "and most discreet."
He smiled unctuously. "Thank you, Miss Page. My business depends on discretion."
"Exactly," Noelle replied, "I know you are discreet because Constantin Demiris has never mentioned your name to me. The day he does, I will ask him to destroy you." Her tone was pleasant and conversational, but the effect was like a bombshell.
Monsieur Barbet stared at Noelle for a long, shocked moment, licking his lips. He scratched his crotch nervously and stammered, "I--I assure you, Mademoiselle, that I would n--never..."
"I'm sure you won't," Noelle said and departed.
On the commercial plane taking her back to Greece, Noelle read the confidential report in the sealed manila envelope.
ACME SECURITY AGENCY
1402 "D" Street
Washington, D.C.
Reference: #2-179-210 February 2, 1946
Dear Monsieur Barbet:
One of our operatives spoke to a contact in the personnel office at Pan Am: Subject is regarded as a skilled combat pilot, but they question whether he is disciplined enough to work out satisfactorily within a large, structured organization.
Subject's personal life-style follows the same pattern as in our previous reports. We have followed him to the apartments of various women whom he had picked up, where he remained for periods of from one hour to as long as five hours, and we presume that he is having a series of casual sexual relations with these women. (Names and addresses are on file if you wish them.)
In view of the Subject's new employment, it is possible that this pattern may change. We will follow up on this per your request.
Please find our bill enclosed.
Very truly yours,
R. Ruttenberg,
Managing Supervisor
Noelle returned the report to the folder and leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. She visualized Larry, restless and tormented, married to a woman he did not love, caught in a trap baited with his own weaknesses.
His new job with the airline might slow Noelle's plan down a bit, but she had patience. In time she would bring Larry to her. Meanwhile there were certain steps she could take to move things along.
Ian Whitestone was delighted to be invited to lunch with Noelle Page. In the beginning he had flattered himself that she was attracted to him, but all of their encounters had been on a pleasant but formal basis that let him know that he was an employee, and she was an untouchable. He had often puzzled over what Noelle wanted of him, for Whitestone was an intelligent man, and he had the odd feeling that their random conversations meant something more to her than they meant to him.
On this particular day Whitestone and Noelle drove to a small seaside town near Cape Sunion, where they were having lunch. Noelle was dressed in a white summer frock and sandals, with her soft blond hair blowing free, and she had never looked more beautiful. Ian Whitestone was engaged to a model in London and while she was pretty, she could not compare to Noelle. Whitestone had never met anyone who could, and he would have envied Constantin Demiris except that Noelle always seemed more desirable to him in retrospect. When Whitestone was actually with her, he found himself slightly intimidated. Now Noelle had turned the conversation to his plans for the future, and he wondered, not for the first time, whether she was probing on Demiris' orders to find out whether he was loyal to his employer.
"I love my job," the pilot assured Noelle earnestly. "I'd like to keep it until I'm too old to see where I'm flying."
Noelle studied him a moment, aware of his suspicions. "I'm disappointed," she said ruefully. "I was hoping that you had more ambition than that."
Whitestone stared at her. "I don't understand."
"Didn't you tell me that you'd like to have your own electronics company one day?"
He recalled mentioning it to her casually, and it surprised him that she had remembered.
"That was just a pipe dream," he replied. "It would take a lot of money."
"A man with your ability," Noelle said, "shouldn't be stopped by a lack of money."
Whitestone sat there uneasily, not knowing what Noelle Page expected him to say. He did like his job. He was making more money than he had ever made in his life, the hours were good and the work interesting. On the other hand he was at the beck and call of an eccentric billionaire who expected him to be available at any hour of the day or night. It had raised hell with his personal life, and his fiancee was not happy about what he was doing, good salary or no.
"I've been talking to a friend of mine about you," Noelle said. "He likes to invest in new companies."
Her voice had controlled enthusiasm, as though she were excited about what she was saying and yet was being careful not to push him too hard. Whitestone raised his eyes and met hers.
"He's very interested in you," she said.
Whitestone swallowed. "I--I don't know what to say, Miss Page."
"I don't expect you to say anything now," Noelle assured him. "I just want you to think about it."
He sat there a moment, thinking about it. "Does Mr. Demiris know about this?" he asked finally.
Noelle smiled conspiratorially. "I'm afraid Mr. Demiris would never approve. He doesn't like to lose employees, especially good ones. However--" she paused fractionally, "I think someone like you is entitled to get everything out of life that he can. Unless of course," she added, "you want to go on working for someone else the rest of your life."
"I don't," Whitestone said quickly and suddenly realized that he had committed himself. He studied Noelle's face to see if there was any suggestion that this could be some kind of a trap, but all he saw was a sympathetic understanding. "Any man worth his salt would like to have his own business," he said defensively.
"Of course," Noelle agreed. "Give it some thought, and we'll talk about it again." And then she added warningly, "It will be just between us."
"Fair enough," Whitestone said, "and thank you. If it works out, it will really be exciting."
Noelle nodded. "I have a feeling that it's going to work out."
CATHERINE
Washington-Paris: 1946
13
At nine o'clock on Monday morning Larry Douglas reported to the chief pilot, Captain Hal Sakowitz, at the Pan American office at LaGuardia Airport in New York. As Larry walked in the door, Sakowitz picked up the transcript of Larry's service record that he had been studying and shoved it into a desk drawer.
Captain Sakowitz was a compact, rugged-looking man with a seamed, weather-beaten face and the largest hands that Larry had ever seen. Sakowitz was one of the real veterans of aviation. He had started out in the days of traveling air circuses, had flown single-engine airmail planes for the Government and had been an airline pilot for twenty years and Pan American's chief pilot for the past five years.