Jake Needham - Killing Plato

“That’s a little difficult to imagine,” I muttered, stalling for time while I tried to figure out where this was going.

“Why?” the woman asked.

“Well, for one thing, almost every government minister and the permanent secretary of every department is a man.”

“That is because government counts for very little in Thailand, Mr. Shepherd, at least when it comes to the exercise of real power. We will continue to let the old dinosaurs preen their egos, line their pockets, and run after schoolgirls for so long as they do nothing else. But then you no doubt already know that is all politicians do here anyway. I’m sure you are just too polite to say it.”

I kept my mouth shut. That was something I didn’t do very often, but this seemed to me to be a good time to test out the concept.

“Look, old boy,” Mr. Smith cut in. “This is all absolutely fascinating, I’m sure, but could we get back to the important point here?”

All at once the penny dropped. I placed both of them.

These two had been at Plato Karsarkis’ dinner party in Phuket. And they had been there together. Oh my, oh my . British intelligence and the Director General of the NIA keeping company? The mind boggled as to whom exactly was fucking whom.

“I just realized where we met before,” I said.

“That doesn’t matter,” Smith said. He shook his head and looked away.

“It matters to me.”

“I’m not really concerned with what may or may not matter to you,” Smith continued. “I will say only that the British government does have a certain interest in your friend Plato-”

“Karsarkis isn’t my friend,” I interrupted.

“Whatever you say,” Smith shrugged. “Still, we have an interest in keeping Mr. Karsarkis both alive and reasonably happy, and I’m not so sure your own government shares that interest.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“That’s not for me to say,” Smith shrugged again, a gesture he seemed to have practiced a lot. “I’m just along for the ride. This is Kathleeya’s show.”

It was the first time I could recall hearing the woman’s name. Certainly, she hadn’t introduced herself today and I couldn’t remember how she had been introduced to me at Karsarkis’ dinner party either. I wondered if that was her real name. Regardless, Kathleeya-or whatever her name actually was-spoke up before I could ask.

“How much do you really know about Plato Karsarkis?” she asked me.

“Not much. Mostly what they tell me on CNN.”

“You should watch the BBC,” Smith put in. “CNN is nothing but a load of self-conscious twaddle. Americans trying to pretend they’re citizens of the world instead of just Americans. Bloody joke, if you ask me.”

I glanced at him to see if he was smiling. He wasn’t. Nevertheless, when I looked back at Kathleeya she was, and I thought that was nicer anyway.

“You told Tommy you would be willing to help us if we gave you Plato Karsarkis’ files,” she said to me.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Then, Mr. Shepherd, before we go any further perhaps you had better tell me exactly what you did say to Tommy.”

“Karsarkis asked me to try to get him a presidential pardon, and Tommy said the Thai government wanted me to help Karsarkis. I told Tommy I needed to look at whatever the NIA had on Karsarkis before I decided what I was going to do.”

“Yes, I see.”

“By the way, is there any particular direction in which you’d like me to speak so you can get a clear recording of this conversation?”

“Not really. You’re pretty well covered from every direction.”

“Yes, well, your own car is one thing, but bugging my apartment seems to me to extend your coverage area a bit beyond what I would view as fair.”

Kathleeya and the Englishman exchanged a look.

“What makes you think your apartment has been bugged?” she asked.

I realized immediately that I should never have said anything about the bug in my apartment. Men always talk too much in front of beautiful women. It’s an incurable male disease, frequently fatal.

I had jumped too quickly to the conclusion that NIA had something to do with placing the bug, but it looked like I was probably wrong about that. I had given up something that could be important and gotten absolutely nothing in return and, to keep myself from sounding like a paranoid lunatic, I would to have to bring up Jello’s name; but I had absolutely no intention of doing that so I tried a modest finesse.

“Look, I know about the break-in attempt on my laptop and I found your cute little bug in my study. I know there are probably more bugs, too, of course, so some friends at the American Embassy are sweeping my apartment regularly now.”

A clumsy piece of embroidery maybe, but close enough for government work.

“The NIA has nothing to do with whatever you may have found in your apartment, Mr. Shepherd.”

“Of course you don’t.”

Kathleeya turned her head and leaned slightly toward me. She remained silent until I was looking directly into her eyes, which I was more than willing to do.

“It is important that you believe me. I did not know your apartment was under surveillance or your computer had been compromised. I would never have authorized such a thing.”

“My computer wasn’t compromised. I said someone tried to break in. They didn’t succeed. And I think I got the bugs almost immediately after they went in, so I doubt they produced anything of value for anyone either.”

“Well there you are then. If it had been our operation, it would have succeeded.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that so I pushed away the curtain and looked out the car window while I thought about it. The driver had taken Rama IV to the expressway and was heading north. The airport was just off to the east and I followed a departing United 747 with my eyes until it disappeared behind a bank of clouds.

This was probably all just bullshit, I told myself. Of course it was the NIA who had fiddled with my computer and planted the bugs. Who the hell else could it be? Whatever Jello said, I had a little difficulty buying into the idea that all kinds of foreign intelligence services were running amuck in Thailand bugging apartments and breaents andking into computers.

Still, this woman had looked me right in the eye and denied the NIA had anything to do with it and I wanted to believe her. Would I have tried nearly as hard to believe her if she’d been short, fat, old, and ugly? I knew what the answer to that was, regardless of how embarrassing it might be to admit it.

“What about Karsarkis’ files?” I asked when I turned back from the window. “Do I get them or not?”

The woman opened her dark green leather purse and took out a clear plastic case containing a DVD.

“This is everything we have that is relevant.”

“I asked for the raw files, not what you chose to edit for me,” I said.

“Regardless of what you asked for, this is what you’re getting.”

She held the case toward me. She seemed to assume I would accept it without raising any further objections. She was right, of course.

“I think you’ll find enough there to keep you interested,” she said. “By the way, you should know that when you open the file on the disk, a clock will start.”

“A clock?”

“Exactly one hour from the time you open the file, everything on the disk will be scrambled in such a way as to make it entirely unrecoverable. The same thing will happen immediately if you attempt to print, email, or copy any part of the file. Do I make myself clear?”

“You do indeed. But why all the melodrama?”

“I wouldn’t be very happy to find copies of NIA documents in the New York Times next week.”