Jake Needham - Killing Plato

Karsarkis might have been technically right, I knew, but I didn’t really feel like getting into a debate with him on the finer points of constitutional law. Instead I stuck to the obvious practical problem.

“You know there’s no way that would ever happen,” I said. “No way in hell.”

“Oh, I think there may really be a pretty good chance,” he smiled, looking like a man who knew something I didn’t. “All I need is the right person to explain some facts to the White House. Those facts are very much in my favor.”

“What facts?”

“That’s not the point right now,” Karsarkis said.

“Then what is the point?”

“You, Jack. You’re the point right now. You have both access and credibility at the White House. You can reach people there and they will listen to you. That’s why you’re the guy I need.”

Okay, so I knew someone at the White House. To tell the truth, I knew someone there pretty well; and it wasn’t just someone, it was really someone . William Henry Harrison Redwine and I had been roommates for two years when we went to law school together at Georgetown, and ever since this president had moved into the West Wing, Billy had been White House counsel. No one outside of the innermost circles of the White House ever knew for sure how the power was distributed or who really had the president’s ear, but whenever commentators speculated as to who the most powerful people in Washington were, whenever lists of the influential were made up and torn apart, inevitably Billy Redwine’s name was right at the top. In Washington, that was the ultimate definition of someone .

Karsarkis said nothing else, but he watched me closely. He was clearly less nervous now that everything was on the table and his careful examination of my reaction seemed composed of equal parts curiosity and expectation. Still, I tried to give him very little reaction to examine.

“In compensation for your efforts on my behalf,” Karsarkis went on when I said nothing, “I am prepared to pay you a fee of one million dollars.”

I tried to remain expressionless, but I’m sure I gaped at that regardless. Karsarkis was back on familiar ground, not asking for help, but controlling a proposition by drowning it in money. His face once again displayed the self-assured look of a man in control.

“Let me make this very clear, Jack. If you will agree to represent me in seeking a pardon from the President of the United States, I will pay you a fee of one million dollars right now, tonight. I will arrange for it to be wired in full to any bank account you designate anywhere in the world within the hour. That money is yours to keep whether you succeed or fail.”

Karsarkis smiled slightly, but he didn’t seem to mean anything in particular by it. I waited. He waited. I waited longer.

“If you do succeed, however, I will pay you a further fee of four million dollars.”

Tommy leaned forward, his knees banging into the low table so hard he sloshed some of the vodka out of his glass.

“That’s five million-”

“I can add, Tommy,” I cut him off. amp;ldq hi"1euo;So for Christ’s sake shut up.”

Tommy opened and closed his mouth, but then he leaned back on the sofa again and said nothing else.

Ever since I began practicing law, I had dealt with vast, mostly unreal sums of money — ten million here, a hundred million there — so the mention of five million dollars hardly caused me to fall out of my chair. Still, all those enormous sums were just numbers on pieces of paper, nothing like real money, and certainly nothing like my real money. This was altogether different.

“So what do you say, Jack? Are you with me here or not?”

I stared at Karsarkis in complete silence for a good thirty seconds. He just sat there and stared back.

“You’ve got the wrong guy,” I finally said. “You really have.”

“Do I?” Karsarkis looked annoyed. “Don’t shit me, Jack. You have a private line straight into the White House and we both know it. You are well respected and well connected and you have significant credibility with someone who has the ear of the President of the United States.”

“Look, Mr. Karsarkis, I-”

“So will you do it, Jack? Will you go to the White House and put my case for me?”

After that everyone, including me, sank into silence. I assumed they were waiting for me to say something, but I had absolutely no idea what to say.

Eventually Karsarkis leaned forward and fixed me with the kind of sincere gaze I figured they probably taught you at the Dale Carnegie School. “Can you do it?” he asked in a near whisper.

“Sure,” I said. “I can also eat a box of rat poison and stick my finger in a wall socket, but on the whole, I’d rather not.”

Karsarkis didn’t even smile at that. Instead, he just looked at me, then leaned back and waited some more.

“I really don’t know what to tell you,” I said after a long time had passed in silence.

“Just think about it. Mike will call you tomorrow. If you accept my proposal, he will wire your money immediately.”

I nodded slowly, not trusting myself to do much of anything else right then.

“Oh, yes. I almost forgot, Jack,” Karsarkis added, “there is one other thing.”

Karsarkis put a hand on the back of his neck and left it there as if he was trying to recall all the details about whatever it might be.

“It has come to my attention you may be in some danger.”

“Danger from whom?”

“There are several possibilities. Our association is rather well-known already and people who are associated with me attract a certain amount of attention.”

“We’re not associated.”

“I suppose it depends on how you look at it.”

Karsarkis let his eyes linger on me.

“You’re sitting here in my apartment right now, drinking my liquor, aren’t you? I just made you a business proposition, and no matter what you might say, we both know you’re considering it.”

I didn’t respond for a bit, which Karsarkis plainly expected because he just sat there and smiled at me.

Eventuallyfy" di I cleared my throat. “What kind of danger?”

“I’ve got a lot of enemies, Jack. Powerful enemies. People who want to do me harm. I really don’t understand why that is.”

Because you’re a lowlife scum-sucking bastard who sold out his country and then had a woman killed to cover his ass and keep his wallet dry?

“If the perception gets around that you know things about me,” Karsarkis continued, “there are people who would go to considerable lengths to find out what they are.”

“What people?”

“People,” Karsarkis shrugged. “I doubt you want to know anymore than that. I wouldn’t if I were you.”

I started to say something, but then thought better of it.

“There are those who will stop at nothing to get to me.” Karsarkis looked genuinely puzzled as to why that might be. “And my friends and associates occasionally get rather rough treatment.”

“We’re not friends and we’re not associates, so I guess I’m okay.”

“These are serious people,” Karsarkis continued as if I had never spoken. “You need serious people on your side, too, Jack.”

Without moving his head, Karsarkis shifted his eyes to Mike O’Connell who was still sitting silently across the room. O’Connell folded his arms and fixed me with what I take it was his hard-guy stare. I almost laughed out loud.

“We could help out with the problem, Jack,” he said. “If you let us, that is.”

Tommy slurped the last of his vodka and the sound startled me. I’d all but forgotten he was there.

“Listen to him, Jack,” he said. “A man needs his friends.”