by Jake Needham
A pebbled concrete walkway circled the small lake in the middle of the park and we jogged slowly through the first circuit without conversation. Jello was a man of few words, which to my way of thinking made him the perfect companion for a run, maybe the perfect companion for every occasion. On the other hand our sporadic runs together were also a good time to talk about things that needed talking about. Sometimes he had questions for me. Sometimes I had questions for him. The lifeblood of Thailand was favors done and debits accumulated. Jello and I had kept our personal accounts pretty much in balance, but this afternoon it was my turn to apply for a little withdrawal.
We picked up our pace on the second circuit and were moving pretty well before I finally broke the silence.
“Want to play word association?” I asked.
Jello turned his head slowly and looked at me, but he didn’t say anything.
“It works this way—”
“I know how it works,” he said.
“Okay, good. Then I’ll say a word, and you tell me the first word that comes into your mind.”
Another slow back and forth swivel of Jello’s head. Another silence.
“Here we go,” I said, undaunted.
A nanny in a white uniform was pushing a baby carriage down the middle of the walkway and I dodged around her, glancing quickly at Jello to see if he had noticed my phenomenally graceful sidestep. If he had, he was concealing it nicely.
“Ready?” I asked.
“Stop asking if I’m ready.”
“Okay, then, here’s the word,” I said. “Plato Karsarkis.”
“That’s two words.”
“Think of it as one and you’ll be okay.”
“Still two words.”
“Don’t be a fucking pedant, Jello. Just tell me the first thing that comes into you mind when you hear the words Plato Karsarkis.”
We ran on for several minutes after that without either of us saying anything else, which was pretty much exactly what I thought would happen. Flocks of pigeons had taken up residence on the walkway ahead of us and as we bore down on them they rose into the air and dispersed like puffs of brown-gray smoke, their cooing and flapping barely audible in the rumble of the city around us.
“So,” Jello eventually said, “I gather you’ve heard.”
“You’re supposed to give me the one word that comes into your mind, man. That’s five words.”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s two—”
“Just lay it out,” Jello interrupted. “You’ve got something to tell me about the guy or you wouldn’t have brought him up.”
A heavy woman with an appalling blonde dye job walked straight into us swinging her elbows so wildly she nearly pushed us off the pavement. I gathered she was a tourist since she was wearing a conical-shaped straw hat she had apparently bought in some street market along with a red hill-tribe vest. No local would ever wear a get-up like that.
“I hear Karsarkis is in Phuket,” I said.
“Bullshit, Professor. You’re fishing.”
“That’s what I heard.”
“From who.”
“From Plato Karsarkis,” I said, keeping my voice as empty as I could. “When Anita and I went to his house for dinner.”
Jello ran on after that as if I hadn’t said anything worth commenting on. I used two slowly moving girls in high school uniforms to screen off a group of boys who were kicking a soccer ball and then slipped back into stride alongside him again.
“You don’t believe me,” I said.
“How’d you work that out?”
“I’ve got finely honed instincts for subtle human responses.”
“Uh-huh,” he said. “You do.”
We passed the fountain and started around the lake again.
“So,” I said, “know what’s going to happen next?”
“Nope.”
“I do. I’ve got finely honed instincts for predicting the future, too.”
“Is that right?”
“It is. We’re going to do one more mile after this one, then we’re going to walk across the street to the Bull’s Head. When we get there, you’re going to buy me a large Carlsberg draft, and when I’ve had about half of it you’re going to turn to me and you’re going to say, ‘So, Professor, what the fuck you talking about?’“
“That’s what’s going to happen next?”
“That’s it.”
“Huh,” Jello said. “Imagine that.”
THE BULL’S HEAD was unusually quiet when we got there and Jello and I took a table in the back where there was no one else within earshot. After we had each drunk about half of our Carlsberg drafts in silence, Jello wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned toward me.
“So, Professor” he said, “what the fuck you talking about?”
I took my time about it, but I told Jello more or less everything about my encounter with Plato Karsarkis in Phuket, including the dinner at his house. I even told Jello about the dangle from Karsarkis to do some work for one of his companies.
“Did you know Plato Karsarkis was in Phuket?” I asked when I had finished.
“I think I heard something like that.”
“So what are you guys going to do?”
“Do?” Jello sipped at his beer. “About what?”
“About Karsarkis.”
“Why should we do anything?”
“You’re not going to arrest him?” I asked.
“What for?”
“What for? To turn him over to the Americans, of course.”
“They haven’t asked us to do that.”
“Oh, come on. Karsarkis has got to be on the Interpol watch list.”
“Yeah, he is. There’s a red notice out.”
An Interpol red notice was a request to any country that found Karsarkis to detain him.
“Thailand isn’t going to pay any attention to it?”
Jello looked at me over the rim of his glass for a long moment, but he didn’t say anything.
“Oh, it’s like that,” I said.
Jello gave a little shrug with his eyebrows, but he stayed silent.
“What if the American Embassy files a formal request for Karsarkis’ arrest?”
“We don’t have to think about that until they do it.”
“How very Thai of you.”
“Thank you.”
Jello slugged down the last of his beer and waved to one of the waitresses. She came over and gave him a smile that would have melted the McMurdo Ice Shelf.
“One more?” she asked.
“Two more. One for me and…” he poked a thumb in my direction, “one for my dad.”
The girl suppressed a giggle and flashed him another thousand-watt smile before she moved away.
“How come you get the big-eye, goo-goo routine and she ignores me completely?” I asked Jello.
“Women radar stuff. They know when you’re already hooked up and aren’t available.”
“I’m willing to lie.”
“Wouldn’t do you any good,” he said. “They know.”
We sat in silence until the waitress had replaced our empty glasses with freshly drawn drafts, during the course of which I had to endure another round of her flirting with Jello and ignoring me.
When she had gone I cleared my throat and told Jello about meeting Marshal Clovis Ward. Then for good measure I described our night out together in Patong and repeated CW’s appeal for intelligence on Karsarkis’ security.
“You have a funny habit of ending right in the middle of all kinds of shit, don’t you, Professor?”
“It’s a talent.”
“That’s one way to look at it, I guess.”
“So…did you know the US Marshals were in Phuket?” I asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“And it doesn’t bother you they’re there without the embassy having filed an official request to detain Karsarkis?”
“What bothers me isn’t the point,” Jello said.
/> I shoved my beer glass around in a circle on the tabletop and it left a thin trail of water on the heavily lacquered wood. I reached out and traced the water with my forefinger.
“So what are you going to do?” I asked after a while. “Let the marshals kidnap Karsarkis and hustle him out of the country?”
“It’s not going to come to that.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Look, Professor, whenever your guys think the time is right, I’m sure they’ll make a request for extradition to the prime minister.”
“If they do, what will the prime minister say?”
“No idea.”
“Right.”
“Really. I have absolutely no idea.”
I reached out and tapped my forefinger on the table in front of Jello. “You and I both know Karsarkis didn’t get where he is by being stupid,” I said.
Jello glanced at me, but his eyes bounced off without sticking. Still, there had been a flash of embarrassment there and I had caught it full on.
“Karsarkis isn’t just rolling the dice,” I said. “He wouldn’t be here if he weren’t absolutely certain he has the Thai government in his pocket.”
“Doesn’t really matter,” Jello said, without looking at me. “If your guys really want him, you’ll get him.”
“Watch that, would you? It’s the second time you’ve said it. They’re not my guys. I’m not in involved in any of this.”
“Then just keep it that way, Jack. There’s a lot going on here you don’t understand.”
“That’s what you always say.”
“That’s because it’s always true.”
“Maybe I know more than you think.”
“Doesn’t look that way to me.”
Jello was right, of course. I knew damned near nothing about the intrigues that were no doubt churning like a tornado around Plato Karsarkis’ presence in Thailand, which was exactly why I was sitting with Jello right then trying to bait him into telling me something.
“A United States Marshal trying to recruit me as a spy makes me uneasy,” I said. “I don’t want to find myself in the middle of an international incident.”
“Your guys will come to their senses before they do anything stupid.”
“And if they don’t?”
“We’re not going to fight a gun battle with them at the airport, Professor, if that’s what you’re asking me.”
That wasn’t what I had been asking, of course. All the same, it was good to know.
EIGHTEEN
THE SASIN SCHOOL of Business occupies two buildings on the far northern edge of the Chulalongkorn University campus, a hodgepodge of early Thai and late Stalinist architecture right in the heart of central Bangkok. The first building is pretty good looking. It has a sheltered garden at its entrance and students often gather there at tables scattered in the shade of big oak trees to grab a smoke or drink a coffee. The second building is ugly. Its utilitarian bulk sprouts straight out of a barren concrete pan that soaks up heat and roasts the feet of anyone foolish enough to try to cross it. My office is in the second building, on the sixth floor.
I was still there late the next afternoon, working on a Montecristo and trying to think of something brilliant yet witty to say to the following day’s International Securities Regulation class, when Tommy opened the door without knocking.
“Your secretary’s gone home,” he said. “There wasn’t anyone to announce me.”
“So naturally you just barged right in.”
“Naturally. Occupational habit.”
I had known Tommy for several years. His real name was Tommerat something or another, but everyone I knew just called him Tommy. In the face of all provocation he stuck cheerfully to the story that he held some position in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Regardless, if there was anyone in Bangkok who didn’t know that Tommy actually worked for the National Intelligence Agency, I had never met him.
The first time I had introduced Tommy to Anita, she had been terribly amused at the idea of meeting a Thai spy and had tossed out a couple of pretty snappy one-liners on the subject. I tried to explain to her later that there was absolutely nothing amusing about Tommy, and certainly nothing to laugh about, but I don’t think she really believed me.
Tommy settled into one of the guest chairs in front of my desk without being invited.
“You got any more of those?” he asked, pointing to the cigar I was smoking.
I waved vaguely at the humidor on my desk. “Help yourself.”
Tommy leaned forward and with his index finger carefully lifted the lid of the Dunhill humidor Anita had given me as a wedding present.
“Just these crappy Montecristos?” he asked, inspecting its contents suspiciously. “No Cohibas?”
“Hey, you don’t like ‘em, don’t smoke ‘em.”
Tommy looked genuinely annoyed with me, but he took one of the Montecristos anyway. “It’s all you got, Jack. What choice do I have?”
My heart wasn’t in it, but we made polite chit-chat while Tommy cut the cigar, lit it, and puffed it into life.
“You don’t look so good, Jack,” he said after he was done. “Everything okay?”
“Fine, Tommy. Never better.”
“Good,” he said. “Good.”
Tommy nodded and drew on his cigar. I nodded back and drew on mine. My office was fast filling up with nods and smoke.
“Why are you here, Tommy?” I asked when it became apparent he wasn’t in any hurry to tell me. “Is there something specific on your mind, or are you just trolling for gossip?”
“Well…look, Jack, you want to go out? Maybe get some dinner or something?”
“No thanks.”
“There’s a new steakhouse at the Marriott that everyone says is great. All imported American beef, not that Australian shit.”
“I’ll take a rain check.”
Tommy fiddled with his cigar and then abruptly stood up.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist, Jack.”
I took the cigar out of my mouth and leaned forward. “I’m sorry?”
“Hey, if I were you I wouldn’t want to come with me either, but there’s somewhere you need to be. I’m here to deliver you.”
“Whoa.” I dumped the remains of my cigar in the ashtray and put both hands flat on my desk. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Tommy looked grave. “You need to see somebody, Jack, and he can’t come here. You’ve got to go to him.”
“Who is it?”
“Just come with me, Jack.”
Tommy pointed to the ceiling with his right forefinger and cupped his left hand around his ear in a listening gesture.
“Trust me a little here,” he added in the most inane stage whisper I had ever heard a grown man use.
I leaned back in my chair and rolled my eyes. “You’re out of your goddamned mind, Tommy. Do you seriously expect me to believe that my office is bugged?”
“Who knows? Anyway, better safe than sorry, I always say.”
I segued from rolling my eyes into shaking my head. My personal experience with guys in the intelligence business was that most of them eventually went around the bend in one way or another. It looked like it might be time to wave bye-bye to Tommy.
“What have you got to lose, Jack?” he went on before I could say anything else. “Are you in such a big a hurry to get home tonight that you can’t spare an old friend an hour?”
Not surprisingly, Anita had resurrected the issue of the house in Phuket and for the past couple of days had been expressing her unhappiness over my rejection of BankThai’s cream-puff deal in quite colorful terms. I shot Tommy a look to see if his reference to my home life was just a coincidence. His expression gave nothing away so I couldn’t tell. Regardless, he had a point. I certainly wasn’t in all that big a hurry to get home tonight.
“Okay, I surrender.” I raised both my hands, palms out. “I’ll go quietly, officer.”
“Good, good,”
Tommy nodded.
I collected some books and papers, mostly at random, and jammed them into my briefcase. Then I shut off my office lights and followed Tommy out into the hall.
“Give me the address and I’ll meet you there,” I said as I locked the door behind us.
“It would be better if you rode with me. I’ll bring you back to get your car when we’re done.”
I gave another shrug and followed Tommy down the hall to the elevator. Why not? After what has already happened in the last week, how many surprises could be left in one man’s lifetime?
Later that night, looking back on what happened next, I made a mental note never to ask myself a question like that again.
NINETEEN
A BLACK MERCEDES was waiting in the circular driveway when we emerged from the building. The driver jumped out and opened the back door for Tommy. While he was getting in, I walked around to the other side of the car and joined him in the back seat. I accomplished that by opening and closing my own door. It really wasn’t all that hard.
“You know, Tommy,” I said as we pulled away, “I’ve never been absolutely clear just what a Thai spy actually does.”
“I’m shocked, Jack. Shocked. I’m not a spy. I’m merely the deputy to the spokesman for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.”
The Mercedes had pearl-gray curtains on its side windows and I pushed the one on my side of the car back and forth on its chrome rails a few times, trying it out. The car’s windows were already so dark I probably could have fired off a flare gun inside without anyone seeing it, so the curtains seemed a bit much. Still, when they were closed I had to admit that the whole effect was very pleasant. The Mercedes became a dim, cool submarine sliding silently through the debris of the Bangkok streets.
“So anyway, Tommy, what does a Thai spy really do?”
Tommy sighed and seemed momentarily absorbed in studying something outside his window; then he sighed again and jerked his curtain closed.
“Thailand is in an unusual position as nations go, Jack. We are small and unimportant in the great scheme of world politics, and yet not entirely a joke. Much of what matters in the world seems to pass through us in one way or another. You should think of Thailand this way: we are like a hallway.”
