[Jack Shepherd 02.0] Killing Plato

by Jake Needham

  “Look,” I said to Parker, “when are you two Brylcreem buckaroos going to tell me what this is all about?”

  “You think you’re a real funny guy, don’t you, sir? With the wisecracks and all that stuff?”

  “People either love it or hate it. I’d say it’s about fifty-fifty. How about you, marshal? What’s your vote?”

  Parker looked at me without expression. I thought he was about to say something, but then he seemed to think better of it. Instead he reached under the table, lifted up a metal case about the size of a cigar box, and unsnapped the top. Nested inside surrounded by a thick lining of white Styrofoam was something that looked like a tie clip.

  “This is the transmitter we’d like you to wear while you’re up at Karsarkis’ place, sir. It has an effective range of about two miles and we think that—”

  “Hang on,” I said holding up one hand. “Is this is some kind of a joke?”

  Parker looked genuinely puzzled. “No, sir. It’s not a joke.”

  “Then what on God’s green earth ever put it in your head that I might be willing to do anything remotely like that?”

  Parker’s eyes shifted back and forth in confusion and his head wobbled slightly on his thick neck.

  “CW said you’d be willing to cooperate. That you’d help us out, you being an American and all.”

  “He did, did he?”

  “Yes, sir. He did.”

  “And what do you think, Parker? Do I seem to you to be a cooperative kind of guy?”

  My question caused a momentary look of panic to slide across Parker’s face. Evidentially thinking wasn’t a big part of his job description.

  Parker had produced the case from beneath the low table between us. While he wrestled with my question, I ran my eyes over the other storage compartments.

  “What else you got down here?” I asked, yanking on the handle nearest my ankles.

  A drawer glided smoothly out on silent rollers and inside in foam-rubber padded mounts were two M-16s with laser sights and built-in noise suppressors. I slid one of them out and worked the action. It was Teflon-coated to reduce noise. Very spiffy.

  “Just imagine,” I said looking at Parker, “I’d always thought US Marshals carried six-shooters.”

  York appeared in the minivan’s open doorway before Parker could say anything. He stood looking at me for a moment and then he reached out and jerked the M-16 out of my hands.

  “Get out,” he said, gesturing with his head toward the ground next to him.

  “My pleasure.”

  I got up from the bench. In a half crouch to keep from hitting my head, I pushed myself out of the minivan.

  “Find anything interesting in the Cherokee?” I asked York as I shouldered past him.

  He turned, following me with his eyes.

  I still couldn’t see York as a marshal. He had an air about him that was entirely different, a sense of knowing something I didn’t know, something that maybe nobody else knew; and knowing whatever it was gave him a pass from the rules that applied to the rest of us. But then that meant York must be . . . what? FBI? Secret Service? Military? CIA? None of those seemed exactly right to me either, but what else was there?

  I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do next. Still, this was York and Parker’s party, so I figured I’d let them tell me.

  “You know what Karsarkis has done,” York said eventually. “Why are you protecting him?”

  “Why are you going to kill him?”

  That wiped the smirk off York’s face, but I didn’t much like the look that replaced it.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do. I also think you killed Mike O’Connell, but I don’t understand why.”

  That made York smile for some reason.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” he said, after he got tired of smiling. Then he turned away, climbed into the minivan, and slammed the sliding door.

  THE REST OF the way up to Karsarkis’ house the road ran through a massive mangrove forest. Tree branches scraped at the sides of the Cherokee as I crunched slowly over the hard-packed gravel.

  Just past Karsarkis’ driveway another gray minivan sat across the road and blocked it entirely to anyone coming from the opposite direction. Two men leaned against the side of the van, arms folded, watching me. I didn’t recognize either of them, but they were both westerners and both wearing the same khaki uniforms and carrying the same sort of sidearms Parker and York had been carrying.

  After turning into the driveway the road became much smoother and I followed a thorny hedge until I got to the green metal gate. The Thai guards who had been there on my previous visit were nowhere in sight this time. Instead, a slim, fair-haired man in jeans and a plaid shirt stood smoking and talking to another equally Irish-looking guy who had what appeared to be an AK-47 hanging off his shoulder. They glanced at me as I got out of the Cherokee and the man in the plaid shirt stopped talking. They spread apart slightly as I approached, but neither man seemed particularly concerned.

  “Can I help you?” Plaid Shirt called out when I was still twenty feet away.

  An Irish accent. No doubt about it.

  “I’m here to see Plato Karsarkis,” I answered, stopping about halfway between the Cherokee and the metal gate.

  “And who would you be, mister?”

  “Jack Shepherd.”

  “Are you expected?”

  “Not unless somebody is clairvoyant.”

  Plaid Shirt gave me a look I couldn’t read, but it didn’t appear to contain a great deal of admiration for my sense of humor. Then he said something to the other man too softly for me to catch and the second man unclipped a walkie-talkie from his belt. He lifted it to his lips and turned his back to me.

  “Look,” I said, figuring I probably ought to be playing this one straight. “Tell Karsarkis that Jack Shepherd wants to talk to him. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see me.”

  Plaid Shirt dropped his cigarette onto the crushed rock of the driveway and ground it out with the heel of his boot. Then his hand went behind his back and produced a large-caliber automatic. He held it dangling at his side rather than pointing it at me, but the distinction didn’t seem particularly important under the circumstances.

  “Just stand where you are, mister.”

  The other man turned back around and returned the walkie-talkie to his belt. Slipping the automatic rifle off his shoulder, he racked the cocking lever and walked past me to the Cherokee. He made one circuit of the vehicle peering through the windows from a slight distance, then he got much closer and made another. He opened both the front and rear passenger doors and inspected the Cherokee’s interior carefully, stepping up into the doorframe and leaning over the backseat to get a clear view into the rear cargo area. When he was apparently satisfied, he stepped down again and nodded to Plaid Shirt who looked up over my head toward a tree where I assumed a security camera was located. He lifted one hand, gave a little rolling motion with his index finger, and the metal gate began to slide open.

  “I’ll be riding up with you, mister,” Plaid Shirt said.

  I nodded and got back behind the wheel of the Cherokee while Plaid Shirt climbed into the front passenger seat. He cradled the automatic casually in his hand, but he kept the barrel pointed more or less at my chest all the same.

  Beyond the gate the roadway was asphalt. Neither Plaid Shirt nor I spoke as I drove uphill though a vividly green jungle of mangroves, rubber trees, and coconut palms with bright red lashings of bougainvillea here and there. When I reached the clearing where Karsarkis’ house surveyed the sea from atop a rise, Plaid Shirt pointed with his free hand toward where I thought the swimming pool and tennis court were.

  “Park back there, mister.”

  I drove across the grass and stone courtyard, circled the fountain, and followed the driveway off to the left. When it ended at the small parking area next to the tennis court, I nosed the Cherokee toward the fence next to a silver Ja
guar that was the only other car there and cut the engine.

  “The boss is by the pool. You walk around—”

  “I know where it is,” I interrupted.

  “Oh, do you now?” The man sounded amused, although I couldn’t see at exactly what.

  I got out and closed the door, but Plaid Shirt didn’t move. He stayed in the Cherokee, slouched down in his seat, and leaned against the passenger door as if he was preparing himself for a long wait. He could sit there forever as far as I cared. I jammed my hands in my pockets and walked toward the swimming pool.

  THIRTY EIGHT

  THE SWIMMING POOL in Plato Karsarkis’ courtyard where he and I had sat and smoked cigars after dinner about a hundred years ago was an aquarium compared to the immense, no-nonsense pool halfway between the tennis court and the main house where I found him now. Set in a vast expanse of polished teakwood decking, it offered an unobstructed view west into the cobalt blue distances of the Andaman Sea. Not a lot of people I knew had two swimming pools. Actually, not a lot of people I knew had one.

  Karsarkis was sitting alone at the end of the pool furthest away from the house. He was at a round glass table shaded by a canvas umbrella and was barefooted, wearing a black T-shirt and white tennis shorts. I walked out, pulled up a chair, and sat down.

  Karsarkis didn’t offer to shake hands, but he inclined his head toward the silver pot on the table.

  “Coffee?” he asked.

  “No thanks.”

  I took in the plate of sliced mango in front of Karsarkis and what appeared to be a half-eaten basket of toast.

  “Breakfast,” Karsarkis said before I was able to make one of my characteristically sly and witty observations. “Got up a little late.”

  “Having a hard time sleeping?” I asked.

  “No.”

  Karsarkis seemed to think about it.

  “No,” he repeated. “I’m not.”

  Karsarkis picked up a knife and fork, cut one of the mango slivers in half, and popped it into his mouth. I noticed he held the knife in his right hand and the fork in his left, eating the mango as a European might rather than like an American.

  “Who killed Mike O’Connell?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you can guess.”

  “Anyone can guess. You can guess.”

  “Actually,” I said, “I can’t.”

  Karsarkis nodded slowly at that and ate another sliver of mango.

  “Are you sure I can’t get you some coffee?” he asked again when he had finished it.

  “Okay, fine,” I said this time. “I’ll have some fucking coffee. Let’s sit here and drink fucking coffee together in the morning sun like a couple of old fucking pals and just see what happens.”

  The mobile phone was so small I hadn’t noticed it until Karsarkis picked it up and pressed a button. When someone answered, he murmured, “Gafair.” Then he pushed another button on the telephone and put it down again.

  “Maybe we could try it another way,” I said. “Why was Mike O’Connell killed?”

  “I expect somebody thought he was me.”

  It seemed to me Karsarkis made the observation rather dispassionately; at least dispassionately for someone saying one of his employees had taken a bullet for him.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “And neither do you.”

  “I don’t?”

  “Nope. O’Connell was twenty years younger than you are, one or two inches taller, and probably twenty pounds lighter. A professional hitter lying in wait with a silenced sniper rifle wouldn’t make a mistake like that.”

  Karsarkis examined the toast basket and selected a piece. He buttered it, took a bite, and chewed reflectively.

  “That part about the twenty pounds lighter…you said that just to hurt me, didn’t you?”

  “And O’Connell being shot through the head? His brains splattering all over the front of your apartment building? That didn’t hurt you?”

  Karsarkis’ mood changed abruptly.

  “You self-righteous little shit,” he snapped. “Who the hell do you think you are? That boy was like a son to me. I’ll miss him every single day for the rest of my life and I’ll blame myself that he’s dead. You can go fuck yourself!”

  A maid came out carrying a silver tray and I watched her walk toward us across the teak decking, her heels clicking on the polished boards. She was young and pretty, and I wondered if Karsarkis cared or had even noticed. She set out two china cups and saucers, a box of cigars, matches, and a cutter, and then she poured coffee from a big pot that matched the tray. She exchanged the pot for the one that had been on the table when I arrived, then walked away. Karsarkis never even glanced at her.

  Karsarkis poured a little milk into his coffee and stirred it absentmindedly. He sipped from the cup, staying silent, waiting me out. I waited longer, and eventually he spoke, his voice tight and controlled again.

  “Why did you come here this morning, Jack?”

  “I want to know what this is all about.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Karsarkis seemed to think about that.

  “No,” he said after a moment. “No, it doesn’t. Not if you’re willing to go to bat for me with your friends in the White House. Not if you’re willing to file a pardon application for me and twist arms until the bastards grant it. Not if that’s true.”

  “It’s not,” I said. “At least, not yet.”

  Karsarkis raised one eyebrow at that.

  “Let’s just see how it goes,” I said. “I’ll ask you some questions. You’ll give me some answers. We’ll drink some more coffee, and then we’ll figure out where we are.”

  “Okay,” Karsarkis said. “Let’s do that.”

  I watched two pure-white seagulls swoop in on the ocean breeze and glide to a silent stop on the grass just over Karsarkis’ left shoulder. They examined the two of us curiously for a while, their heads swiveling back and forth as they focused on us first with one big yellow eye and then the other. Soon, apparently losing interest and sensing no threat, the two gulls bent slightly toward each other and hoisted their wings. With a few quick beats, they plunged over the cliff, glided across the beach, and skimmed away together just above the ocean waves. It was the kind of sight I needed on that clear early summer’s morning to remind me of what a grand and graceful place the world actually is and how its design, vouchsafed beyond the understandings of man, would no doubt survive even the worst we can do to it.

  “How are your children?” I asked Karsarkis after the seagulls had disappeared.

  He rubbed at his cheek with one hand, then leaned forward and folded his arms on the table. “Frank’s okay. Columbia’s the right place for him as far as I can tell. As for Zoe …well, she’s not good.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  He nodded slowly and ran his index finger around the rim of his coffee cup.

  “And what about your family?” he eventually asked. “Okay?”

  “Yes,” I said, but I had hesitated for just a fraction of a second and I could tell Karsarkis caught it. “Great, thanks.”

  Karsarkis’ eyes caught mine and for a second I saw something so soft and melancholy in them that I had to look away.

  “I know what happened, Jack.”

  I cleared my throat, but I didn’t move or look back at him. “What do you mean?”

  “I know Anita left you, and I know why.”

  I felt sucker-punched. I cleared my throat again and did my best to cover it.

  “How do you know?” I asked, my voice sounding smaller than I would have liked.

  “Back when I first asked you to help me, Mike put some discreet surveillance in place. I’m sorry if that offends you, Jack. Really, I am. I apologize if it does. But my life is on the line here and I needed to be certain what you were doing with the confidences I shared with you. I didn’t know you that well then.
”

  “And you think you do now?”

  “Yes,” he nodded. “I think I do.”

  “Then the bug I found in my apartment was yours?” I asked.

  “There were several. We didn’t leave them in very long, if you care.”

  “Just long enough to find out about Anita.”

  “I’m sorry. I truly am.”

  I started on an inventory of all the things I was feeling right then, trying to decide whether there was any point in getting angry. I had not gotten very far into it before it got too complicated and I just gave up.

  “You said you know why Anita left,” I said. “What do you mean by that?”

  Karsarkis seemed genuinely embarrassed now. He shifted his weight in the chair causing it to scrape slightly against the teak decking. Then he poured more coffee into his cup, although I noticed he didn’t drink any of it.

  “Can I tell you something as a friend, Jack?”

  “You’re not my friend.”

  Karsarkis took a deep breath, then he let it out.

  “There are things you don’t need to know about this life. They take you nowhere you really want to go.”

  I was beginning to feel cold. I folded my arms and leaned back.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You really don’t know?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Then leave it, Jack. Take my advice. Just leave it.”

  “Don’t do this, Karsarkis.”

  Karsarkis looked straight at me for a long time. I just stared at him until he looked away. Finally he exhaled heavily and picked up the mobile phone again.

  He punched a button and waited. Then he spoke quietly to someone in English. “There’s an envelope in the bottom left-hand drawer of my desk. It’s…” Karsarkis paused, listening. “No, not that one. The one on the bottom, in front. Get it and send it out to the pool.”

  After he had hung up, we sat quietly saying nothing for what was probably only a few minutes, but looking back it seems to me to have been hours.

  I did not know the man who walked out from the house and handed Karsarkis a flat letter-sized envelope, manila in color, and I do not remember now what he looked like. All I can recall was watching the envelope he was carrying and being relieved beyond all reason it was so thin as to appear almost empty.