Jake Needham - Killing Plato

“Are you at least going to call somebody and check on him before you go?” Anita asked after she had thought about that for a moment. “Maybe he’s not who he says he is.”

“Oh, I think he is.”

“And this you know exactly how, Sherlock?”

I thought back to the way the man had examined me appraisingly with his flat, cop’s eyes.

“I’ve had a lot of experience with guys like this, Anita. I know a Fed when I see one.”

Anita looked at me and raised her eyebrows.

“You were a corporate lawyer in Washington, Jack. Your idea of life on the streets was walking to the garage to get your Mercedes instead of calling somebody to deliver it to you. Don’t let your romantic fantasies get the better of you.”

That brought on a few minutes of silence, as I su ~ippouasispected Anita intended for it to.

“What do you suppose this man wants with you?” she resumed, ignoring the third-degree burns she had just inflicted.

“I think he just wants to be certain I’m not one of Karsarkis’ lawyers.”

“Why would he care if you were?”

Anita had a very good point there, it seemed to me. Why indeed?

The only role the marshals would have in a matter like this would be to transport Karsarkis back if the State Department could convince the Thai government to agree to his extradition. Who Karsarkis’ lawyers were, or who they weren’t, didn’t offhand seem to me to have much to do with that.

“Maybe he wants you to spy for him,” Anita said.

“Oh, come on,” I snorted. “Now who’s having romantic fantasies?”

“No, Jack, really. Maybe he wants to ask you what the inside of Plato’s house looks like, how many guards he has, things like that.”

“And why would he want to know about any of that?”

“Well. . maybe he’s planning a snatch.”

“A what ?” I shook my head. “Look, Anita, the marshals service doesn’t go around kidnapping people. They’re just a bunch of glorified security guards.”

“I don’t know. You heard what that real estate woman said. What would the Secret Service, the military, the FBI, and the CIA be doing here on Phuket all at the same time if there wasn’t something big planned?”

“Getting a secret hideaway ready for Barack Obama?”

“Be serious, Jack. There’s something going on here, and if this man wants anything from you, he’s part of whatever it is.”

Now I knew I was the poor guy who had been handicapped for life by three years of legal education and Anita was the freethinking artist here, but sometimes it seemed to me she was still the one of us more likely to view the world from deep inside a bunker of suspicion. I was generally the one who took what I saw pretty much at face value unless there was some obvious reason not to. Maybe, I thought to myself, having the soul of an artist wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

“You want my advice?” she asked.

Anita didn’t wait for me to tell her whether I did or not, but I wasn’t about to point that out.

“Stay out of this, Jack.”

“Look, Anita-”

“This isn’t the kind of stuff you’re used to. I know you flushed out a money launderer or two and exposed a couple of banking scams, but don’t start thinking you’re Indiana Jones. These are big guys. Stay out of it, Jack.”

“All the fellow wants to do is talk to me, Anita. I think you’re making way too much out of this.”

“Do you?”

Anita examined the nails of her right hand as if they had just become inordinately interesting.

“You had a taste of something dangerous with that Asia Bank of Commerce thing, didn’t you, Jack? And, as much as I hate to say it, I can see that life won’t ever be the same for you again.”

Off toward the east a thick line of black cloud etched cl I cathe sky along the horizon. Above the line everything was serene. The sky was clear and puffs of white cloud drifted peacefully across it. Below the line, however, it was another story altogether. The sky first went light gray and then purplish-black, and then just at the horizon it turned into a malevolent greenish-black hole that looked like a deep, ugly bruise. It was as if a window into the abyss was slowly opening in front of us and we were driving straight into it. Those puffy little billows didn’t have the slightest idea what was coming at them, I mused, and I knew exactly how they felt.

Anita and I made the rest of the drive back to the hotel in silence. I was thinking about what she had just said to me. I couldn’t even imagine what she was thinking about. We spent the rest of the day on the beach ignoring the subject of my approaching get-together that night in Patong with Marshal Ward. Then we had an early dinner at the hotel and ignored it some more.

Anita’s instincts were usually pretty good, particularly the more dire ones, and her suspicions made me uneasy even if I didn’t want to admit it. The whole time I was driving back to Patong after dinner, Anita’s stern warnings about where this all could lead were bouncing around my head. Just this once, I really did hope she had it wrong.

The Paradise bar is a Phuket landmark, one of the first and probably still the most famous of what are now dozens of rundown bars along Patong beach. I parked at the Holiday Inn, cut through the garden past the darkened swimming pool, then emerged from their back gate into the nighttime hubbub of Beach Road. Turning north, I walked the fifty or so yards to a little shack on the beach.

The Paradise was more of a sunset watering hole than a nighttime hangout. By now, just after nine, most people had moved on to livelier haunts and the place was pretty calm. Those few patrons who remained were drinking quietly, either at a long counter that faced the ocean or further back inside at the scarred wooden bar with a big-screen television above it.

Clovis Ward was on a stool in a far back corner with his Stetson cocked back on his head, which made him a hard man to miss. I noticed he had chosen a seat that had a clear field of vision across the entire bar and all the way out to the street. It could have been just a coincidence, but somehow I doubted it. He didn’t look at me when I walked in. He was leaning on his forearms against the bar, and he appeared to be completely absorbed in a golf tournament on the television set up over his head. Somehow I doubted that, too.

“You play golf?” I asked as I pulled out the stool next to him and sat down.

“You gotta be joking. I don’t get paid enough to afford clubs. It’s you rich people who play golf. Not guys like me.”

“Is that why we’re meeting here in this dump, Marshal? To demonstrate what a working-class guy you are?”

Now he looked at me.

“I like this place,” he said.

“Figures.”

“Besides it’s handy. I’m at the Holiday Inn next door.”

“That figures, too.”

A golfer I didn’t recognize, which was to be expected since I didn’t recognize any golfer who wasn’t Tiger Woods, belted his drive into a lake and Ward chuckled in enjoyment.

“Look, Marshal,” I said after a moment, “I gathe cl Is dr-”

“You can drop that cutesy bullshit,” he interrupted. “People call me CW.”

“Okay, fine. CW it is. But only if you take off that stupid-looking hat.”

CW made a snorting noise. I hoped it was a laugh, but I couldn’t be sure. Whatever it had been, he took off his hat and laid it on the bar.

“Happy now?”

I gave CW a very small smile, but I didn’t say anything.

“Okay, Jack. Now, I’m buying, so what’s your poison?”

“Mekong and soda,” I said to the middle-aged woman waiting behind the bar.

“Mekong?” he asked as she walked away to make my drink. “What’s that?”