Killing Plato js-2

by Jake Needham

  “Then why don’t they send somebody down here and arrest you?”

  “This is Thailand, Professor. The United States government has no jurisdiction to arrest anyone here.”

  That was true, of course, but Thai authorities could certainly arrest Karsarkis if the American Embassy requested it. I wasn’t an expert on such things, but I was pretty certain there was an extradition treaty in effect between the United States and Thailand. I knew I’d heard of people being extradited in drug cases to face American courts, at least a few, and if the embassy requested Karsarkis’ arrest and extradition, I couldn’t imagine why he wouldn’t get the same treatment.

  Again, Karsarkis seemed to sense the question that was in my mind before I asked it.

  “The Thais’ view of my presence here is rather different from the American view,” he said. “Nothing I have been charged with is a crime under Thai law, my lawyers tell me, so happily I am not subject to the terms of the extradition treaty. The Thais are pleased to have me in their country.”

  I’ll bet, I thought to myself. And I wonder exactly how much that is costing him.

  “Please excuse my husband, Mr. Karsarkis.” Anita tossed a hard look in my direction. “He’s a terrible bore sometimes.”

  “Please, Anita. It’s Plato.”

  Anita fidgeted. She shot me another hard look and I thought I saw unease in her eyes.

  “Fine. Plato then.”

  “I don’t mind the professor here saying whatever he wants to, Anita. He’s a smart guy. Smart guys think a lot.”

  Karsarkis shifted his eyes back to mine and reached out and tapped me on the forearm with one finger.

  “But don’t believe everything you’ve heard about me, Professor. You just keep asking questions and listening to the answers and maybe you’ll learn some things that will surprise you.”

  After that Karsarkis led us around and introduced us to the rest of his guests as if we’d just had a brief conversation no more awkward than a chat about the weather. The man had self-confidence out the butt, I’d give him that.

  The distinguished Thai in the dark suit turned out to be a former prime minister, a man named Sakda who had resigned suddenly a few years back under somewhat cloudy circumstances. He was now married to a blonde Australian at least six inches taller than he was, a woman who looked to me like she must have played the trombone in her high school band. I wondered if she was part of the punishment meted out to Sakda for whatever he was supposed to have done. Regardless, I figured him SI f if for the dark Mercedes.

  Next there was a short, middle-aged Englishman with bad teeth and a bad complexion who was accompanied by an attractive Thai woman with good everything. She didn’t appear to like him all that much, it seemed to me, but perhaps that was just my imagination. I made the Englishman for the four-wheel drive.

  And then there was a bland, pear-shaped man who I thought looked generically European. He was wearing a rumpled suit without a tie and had a Russian-sounding nickname. Karsarkis called him Yuri, which seemed about right when I looked at him closely, but he also had an American accent, which didn’t. Like the Englishman he was accompanied by an Asian woman, although after a brief inspection I decided Yuri’s companion was probably Chinese rather than Thai. That left them as the white Suzuki.

  “And this is my wife,” Karsarkis finally said, leading us over to a tall woman with long, dark hair. She had her back to us and was talking animatedly with Mike O’Connell, the man Karsarkis had sent into the Boathouse the night before to invite us to dinner.

  “Baby,” he said putting his hand on her shoulder. “I’d like you to meet Jack and Anita Shepherd.”

  The woman turned with a smile that startled me with its unexpected warmth. While she may not have been a blonde, other than that I had nailed her cold. I tried to catch Anita’s eye, but she wouldn’t look at me.

  “I’m Mia,” Karsarkis’ wife said, shaking hands with Anita first, and then me. “We’re so glad you could come. It’s nice to see some other Americans for a change.”

  “Actually, I’m not American.” Anita said.

  “You’re not?” Mia looked a little puzzled.

  “No, I’m Italian.”

  “You don’t look Italian,” Karsarkis observed, although I wasn’t absolutely sure what he meant by that. Maybe he thought if Anita was really Italian that she ought to be wearing a long black dress with a white apron over it, black stockings, and a pair of little black shoes.

  “My mother was Italian,” Anita said. “My father was English, but mi considero Italiano.”

  “Most people who marry Americans seem to want to become American citizens,” Mia said.

  She was replying to Anita, but I noticed she was looking at me when she spoke, almost as if it was somehow my fault Anita was still Italian.

  “Not me,” Anita said cheerfully. “Sono fiero di essere Italiano!”

  “E bello essere fiere di cio che si e,” Karsarkis responded.

  Anita inclined her head appreciatively at his apparent fluency in the language.

  “E meglio di essere Francese,” she said.

  “Could we get back to a language I speak?” I asked.

  “Why?” Anita asked. “Is there someone here you haven’t insulted yet?”

  Karsarkis laughed loudly, but Mia sensed something unpleasant might be happening and quickly changed the subject.

  Turning toward me and conjuring up a pleasantly inconsequential tone of voice, she asked, “Are all those things I’ve been hearing about you true, Mr. Shepherd?”

  “I wouldn’ SwouAre t doubt it a bit,” I replied, looking straight at Anita.

  I knew it was an ungracious response to a woman who was only trying to keep the conversation light, but I was still smarting from Anita’s dig and Karsarkis’ appreciative response to it so to hell with them all.

  Showing the reflexes of a battle-hardened hostess, Mia realized she needed to do something to defuse whatever that burning smell in the air might be.

  “Now that everyone is here,” she asked the room at large, “shall we go in to dinner?” She phrased it as a question, but her tone said it wasn’t a question at all.

  Then, just to make sure than no one had missed her point, Mia started walking toward the dining room without bothering to wait for anyone to answer her.

  SEVEN

  The dining room was high ceilinged and windowless except for the wall that faced the courtyard, which was all glass. A thick clump of banana trees and several pieces of modern sculpture were set in a rock garden just outside the glass and the deep blue light from the swimming pool was a glowing presence in the room. At the center was a long, narrow table with a black marble top. It was covered in candles and set for ten.

  Mia took a seat at one end of the table and directed the former prime minister to sit on one side of her and me on the other. Karsarkis sat at the opposite end between Anita and the prime minister’s Australian wife.

  Everyone stuck largely to murmuring about the weather and such while a small army of servants came and went, pouring wine and serving food. The first course was a local dish I didn’t recognize, but no one else asked what it was and I didn’t want to make an ass of myself so I didn’t ask either. The second course put me onto safer ground. I knew it was a mango salad of some kind, and it was pretty good.

  The Englishman prattled on and on while the rest of us ate, but I hardly registered anything he said, tuning him out in favor of studying the other guests more closely.

  Yuri didn’t appear to have much to say for himself, which disappointed me since I was hugely curious about him and was hoping he would drop a hint or two as to who he really was and what his connection with Karsarkis might be. Neither Yuri’s companion nor the Englishman’s companion said anything at all. I thought the Chinese-looking girl with Yuri seemed genuinely puzzled as to who all these people were and what they were talking about. She appeared so uncomfortably out of place I felt a little sorry for her.

  The
Thai woman who was with the Englishman, however, was quite another matter. A tortoiseshell band pinned back her long black hair, there was just a touch of a suntan on her face, and whatever make-up she wore was imperceptible. If the woman had been English, I would have described her as horsy, but as she was manifestly Thai the term just didn’t seem to sit right on her. Still, it was hard to come up with a better one. She had a high forehead and a bit of rosy flush that looked healthy and seemed to speak of outdoor living and riding mannishly. The only things about her that didn’t fit were the obviously very fine and very expensive diamond ear clips she wore.

  The conversation drifted around to the usual cannon fodder of such dinner parties: money and sex. Money in the form of speculation over the reasons for the recent wild swings in the world’s stock markets; sex in the form of conjecture as to the orientation of the newly appointed American Secretary of State. The man had an extremely attractive Vy i wife, at least for an American Secretary of State he did, and I had never heard before that there was any doubt at all as to his sexual persuasion. From the conversation around me, however, I judged there were a goodly number of such things I had never heard before.

  Then, out of nowhere, the Englishman leaned down the table and put a question to Karsarkis in a loud voice, one that stopped all the idle conversation cold.

  “Plato, does all this talk about American politics make you miss the United States?”

  I cut my eyes at Mia while waiting to hear what Karsarkis had to say to that and I was pretty sure I saw her wince slightly.

  Karsarkis seemed to think for a moment, although I figured that was mostly stagecraft on his part, and then he exhaled slowly. “I love Thailand and I may well live here for the rest of my life. Nevertheless I would like to visit America from time to time…so yes, I guess that must mean I do miss it, in a way.”

  “You’re up to something, Plato,” the Englishman blundered on, apparently heedless of the consternation he had caused at the table. “I know it. I can feel it.”

  “I’m not sure what will happen from here,” Karsarkis responded very slowly. “I’d like to work things out, but I don’t really feel very sure of anything anymore.”

  Suddenly Yuri spoke up, back from the dead.

  “There must be something that can be done, Plato,” he said. “I have many friends. All you must do is say the word.”

  I wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean, but I didn’t much like the sound of it.

  “Well…” Karsarkis seemed to think, but again the gesture struck me as affected, although to impress whom I had no idea. “There are one or two people standing in my way.”

  Everyone laughed merrily at that while a few obvious solutions to the problem danced through my mind, such as Karsarkis having all those people’s throats slashed exactly like Cynthia Kim’s had been. Not to appear disagreeable, I kept my thoughts on the subject to myself and mimed a chuckle or two of my own.

  The former prime minister, who had been almost completely silent throughout the entire meal thus far, rumbled to life. His voice was smooth and cultured, and the sound of it suggested the man’s formative years had probably been spent at an expensive English boarding school, certainly not in Thailand.

  “The Kingdom of Thailand is proud to have Plato here,” he said. “And we hope he will stay with us for many years to come.”

  “Thank you, Prime Minister.” Karsarkis bobbed his head in acknowledgment of the man’s endorsement and tried-without any success, I thought-to look modest and self-effacing at the same time. “You are too kind.”

  “Not at all, Plato. Not at all. You are one of the giants. It is our honor to have you in our country.”

  Sakda looked as if he had more to say-and Karsarkis looked as if he hoped he didn’t-but the old man started talking again before Karsarkis could head him off.

  “You are a true friend of the Thai people, Plato, and the Thai people are your friends. Your work on our behalf has guaranteed a supply of competitively-priced petroleum far into the future and given us a secure basis for rapid industrial expansion.”

  With that, the old m [at,to than went back to his lobster.

  Ah ha, I thought. So that’s it.

  Translation: Plato Karsarkis was selling Thailand some of the embargoed Iraqi oil he was accused of smuggling, naturally at cut-rate prices.

  Most Asian countries lacked any domestic sources of oil at all and were almost wholly dependent on a steady stream coming in from the Middle East to keep their cars going and their electrical generators turning. High oil prices and tight supply meant economic stagnation, or a good deal worse. Low oil prices and loose supply meant prosperity, particularly for the people who controlled the oil and took a cut as it flowed by.

  And that was no doubt the second part of the equation here.

  Karsarkis’ supplies of Iraqi oil were obviously being delivered through Sakda and his cronies, which explained where Karsarkis’ protection was coming from. That was a vastly more effective arrangement for Karsarkis than straight bribery. When you bought a politician, your problem was the same in any country-to make sure he stayed bought. If the buying was done through a continuing drip feed of Iraqi oil at below-market prices, then you had the problem pretty well licked. Shrewd of Karsarkis, I had to admit to myself. Very shrewd indeed.

  The former prime minister’s sudden wakefulness seemed to energize his Australian wife as well. All of a sudden the woman pitched forward in her seat banging the base of her wine glass against her plate. The noise caused me to glance over at her and I noticed for the first time she had a bracelet tattooed around her right wrist. It was purple and appeared to be a likeness of intertwined grape leaves and barbed wire. What would ever possess a woman to do that, I wondered as I looked at her? Why would any woman get up one morning and say to herself, I think today I will have a bracelet of grape leaves and barbed wire tattooed in purple around my right wrist because no doubt it will make me look indescribably beautiful and eerily desirable. I had to admit that there were some things about life that just eluded me entirely.

  “This is boring,” the Australian woman announced in a voice that invited no discussion of the point. “Let’s talk about something real sexy instead.”

  “Oh, good,” I spoke up. “I like to talk about me.”

  “Behave yourself, counselor,” Anita murmured from the other end of the table as several people tittered.

  “Here’s something I’ve always wanted to know,” the woman went on without cracking a smile. “What is it with you men and Asian women? I mean, what the hell is it?”

  I stole a quick glance at the two women around the table who were obviously Asian. The Thai was regarding the prime minister’s wife as she might eye a muddy sheepdog that was about to walk right across her new snow-white living room carpet, but the Chinese-looking woman who was with Yuri had the look of a startled raccoon suddenly caught in the headlights of a car.

  Karsarkis seemed to appreciate the diversion, or maybe he just felt a bit of blood sport coming on, but regardless of which it was, he pushed the door wide open.

  “I don’t understand, Karla,” he said, although it was obvious that he understood very well. “What are you talking about?”

  “Ah, you know, Plato.”

  I wondered if the woman had had too much to drink because she seemed to have difficulty speaking and was slurring her words. On the other hand, maybe [r hhe woma it was just her Australian accent. It was difficult to tell for sure.

  “You men go all gaga over these little girls here and I got a theory about that. I think men who run after Asian women are really all bloody pedophiles at heart. That’s what I think.”

  “Yes, it’s very possible you’re right,” Anita joined in, and I nearly choked.

  She smiled warmly at both of the Asian women sitting around the table, but went on quickly.

  “My own observation is that western men who come to Asia are generally unsuccessful with western women and they are looking for h
armless playthings who will feed their egos and make no demands. Essentially, they’re looking for children.”

  Anita smiled again at the two Asian women sitting at the table as if to say that of course she didn’t consider either of them to be any such thing.

  “That doesn’t mean that’s what they find,” Anita finished, “but it’s still what they’re looking for.”

  “Have you been into the cooking sherry again, my dear?” I inquired in what I thought was an arch enough tone to make my message unmistakable.

  Too late. The Australian chick was in full flight now. I looked at Karsarkis, who had pushed back in his chair and had an enormous grin spread across his face.

  “Doesn’t it just make you sick?” she was saying to Anita who was bobbing her head in earnest agreement. “Sometimes I think these halfwits go around screwing these tiny girls just because it makes their pathetic little peckers look bigger.”

  Karsarkis was about to bust a gut, but then I noticed that the other men around the table had gone unnaturally quiet, even the Englishman, who before this had looked as if he might never shut up. I glanced at the former prime minister. The old man had his head down diligently examining the texture of his carrot mousse. I got the distinct impression that he had probably heard all this before.

  “You see all these fat, smelly wankers strutting around dragging these poor little girls behind them or riding a motorbike with one propped up on the back. Jesus, they treat those little girls like they were no better than pets who give blow jobs. What’s worse, the silly cows don’t even seem to mind it.”

  The Australian woman tossed her head and pushed her hair back. There was something about her face that made me think of a badly drawn cartoon.

  “Of course, they’re just doing it for the money.” She looked around the table and drained the rest of her wine. “The silly buggers run out of money and they’re out on their dirty arses before they know what hit them.”

  “Serves them right,” Anita nodded, looking straight at me as she did.

  Suddenly a mobile phone started to ring and for a moment nobody said anything.