Jake Needham - Killing Plato

“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 an?i uniford 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 Jaguar 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.

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.