Jake Needham - Killing Plato

That would probably have been more than enough to mesmerize the public right there, but of course there was more.

During the time Miss Kim was supposedly spying on Karsarkis for the White House, it was widely and enthusiastically speculated-without the slightest supporting evidence, as far as I was aware- that she had been delivering her reports directly to the president. Perhaps, some claimed, she had even been giving the president something along with her deliveries that the FedEx man seldom if ever offers.

No one would ever know for sure.

Three days before Karsarkis’ trial was to have begun, Cynthia Kim’s body had been found in a suite at the Hay Adams, a terrifyingly expensive hotel a stone’s throw from the White House. She had been stabbed to death, first reports said, but when the full text of the medical examiner’s report inevitably leaked out, the whole truth turned out to be considerably more sordid.

The District of Columbia Medical Examiner reported that Cynthia Kim had been killed with a wide-bladed knife that was serrated along about an eighth of its length, one that was probably about the size and weight of a US military-issue K-bar knife. Miss Kim had been killed by a single slash that had severed her neck from ear to ear. So deep was the cut that her head had been nearly hacked off her body. The medical examiner also concluded that Miss Kim had been on her knees when the fatal wound was inflicted. Speculation as to exactly what she had been doing on her knees ran rampant, although not in family newspapers.

Cynthia Kim’s brutal murder naturally enough sent the press baying in search of Plato Karsarkis, and that was when everything really hit the fan.

Because Plato Karsarkis was nowhere to be found. He had vanished, utterly and completely, as absolutely as any human being could disappear from the earth.

The spinners of conspiracy theories went berserk. Had Karsarkis been killed as well? Or was he Miss Kim’s killer and now on the run? Was Karsarkis the mastermind behind some great crime? Or was someone methodically silencing the witnesses to an even greater crime?

Since the day he vanished, Plato Karsarkis sightings had been reported almost daily. Companies controlled by his financial empire operated dozens of businesses in half a hundred countries. None of them showed any signs of curtailing their usual activities, so there was plenty of potential for the dedicated Karsarkis-spotter to exploit.

The whole thing inevitably became, as they say, a carnival. It was Jimmy Hoffa, Robert Maxwell, and O. J. Simpson all rolled up in one. It was Lord Lucan and the dead nanny. It was Robert Blake and what’s-her-name. It was even more than that. Somehow the mysterious disappearance of Plato Karsarkis became nothing less than the Kennedy assassination of the twenty-first century.

“I’m not going to argue with you any more, Anita. Plato Karsarkis thinks he is a law all to himself. He doesn’t care how he makes money as long as he makes it. And as for what happened to Cynthia Kim, I bet you she was really going to send him down instead of Cwn sn amp;r backing up that bullshit story about him working for American intelligence. And he probably had her killed, too. You can take that to the goddamned bank.”

“And this you know exactly how , counselor?”

I hated Anita calling me that, and of course she knew it, which was exactly why she did it.

The red Suzuki jeep we had rented at the airport was parked about halfway around the hotel’s circular driveway, sitting by itself under a clump of spindly coconut palms. The night was steamy, but I didn’t feel any rain in the air and since the Suzuki’s top was already down I left it that way. We got in and I put the key into the ignition and twisted it, hard.

“Okay, Jack, you’ve made your point. Now calm down and don’t go all batty on me here. I think most of the people you know are criminals of one kind or another. What’s one more to you?”

“If you really think there’s any comparison between the other people I know and a man like Plato Karsarkis, Anita, then I haven’t made my point at all. Karsarkis is a fugitive from the United States,” I said. “He jumped bail and fled the country.”

“Like you fled the country, Jack?”

“That is a ridiculous thing to say.”

“Is it?”

Without waiting for Anita to say anything else, I started the Suzuki and put it in gear, then I drove out through the hotel’s gates and turned right toward the main road.

Several minutes passed before anyone spoke again.

“Is all that out of your system now, Jack?” Anita eventually asked in a quiet voice.

“Yes, I think it is, Anita. Thank you for asking.”

I shot a quick glance across at her, but she was looking straight ahead and I couldn’t see her face clearly enough to read anything in it. There was a period in my life when I’d understood women-I must have been about six or seven at the time-but since then, almost everything about them has been a complete mystery to me.

The road to Phuket Town was lined with street vendors, their metal cooking carts strung with fluorescent tubes and their charcoal fires painting the air with a streaky haze. A barefoot boy in dark shorts and a T-shirt who looked to be not much more than ten sat on a rock near the edge of the road eating some kind of meat off a wooden stick and following our jeep with his eyes. When he saw me looking at him he broke into a grin and waved. I waved back and glanced over at Anita, but she seemed not to have noticed.

We followed the highway through the edge of Phuket Town and then turned north toward the airport. As the road rose over the spine of the island, hills punctured the lush jungle here and there, black clouds drifting over their faces like puffs of smoke. Off to the left two streamers of cloud twirled in circles around the crest of a steep, forest-covered rise, and at its peak a forest of microwave towers threw spidery silhouettes onto the darkening sky.

Anita and I continued to ride in silence. At first I thought of it as a companionable silence, but the longer it went on the less certain of that I became.

“What are you thinking?” I finally asked Anita.

The moment I spoke I was sorry I had, partly because the question sounded so desperate and adolescent and partly because I wasn’t absolutely certain I actually wanted to know what Anita was t Ct Artly hinking.

“That he must have liked you.”

“Who?”

“Plato Karsarkis. If he invited you to dinner, he must have liked you.”

“Maybe. Why does it matter?”

“It probably doesn’t,” she said. And then after a moment added, “What do you think his wife is like?”

“How do you know he has a wife?”

“Well. . if he did have a wife, what do you think she would be like?”

“Probably a blonde with big hooters.”

We came to a tiny village. Doll-sized houses built mostly of concrete stood open to the night. Wide porches sheltered motorbikes propped against front walls, but there were no driveways and no cars. Occasionally the blue-white glow of a television flickered from a window, and you could feel rather than see people moving in the darkness.

I turned my head as we passed and saw one house that had been converted into a barbershop. A television set played soundlessly, and a pink sheet covered a little boy sitting in an ancient chair. A couple of dozen people, mostly other kids, sat silently in the darkness of the front porch, watching the little boy and the television set through the open windows.

I found the big grove of rubber trees about three miles past the village, right where the map said it was. White-splotched trunks in hundreds of perfectly parallel rows marched into the distance until they were lost in the darkness. Another two miles to the west I spotted the dirt track I was looking for. It led off to the left, running toward the coast through a thick grove of palms.