Jake Needham - Killing Plato

“I don’t think so,” I said. “And neither do you.”

“I don’t?”

“Nope. O’Connell was twenty years younger than you are, one or two inches taller, and probably twenty pounds lighter. A professional hitter lying in wait with a silenced sniper rifle wouldn’t make a mistake like that.”

Karsarkis examined the toast basket and selected a piece. He buttered it, took a bite, and chewed reflectively.

“That part about the twenty pounds lighter…you said that just to hurt me, didn’t you?”

“And O’Connell being shot through the head? His brains splattering all over the front of your apartment building? That didn’t hurt you?”

Karsarkis’ mood changed abruptly.

“You self-righteous little shit,” he snapped. “Who the hell do you think you are? That boy was like a son to me. I’ll miss him every single day for the rest of my life and I’ll blame myself that he’s dead. You can go fuck yourself!”

A maid came out carrying a silver tray and I watched her walk toward us across the teak decking, her heels clicking on the polished boards. She was young and pretty, and I wondered if Karsarkis cared or had even noticed. She set out two china cups and saucers, a box of cigars, matches, and a cutter, and then she poured coffee from a big pot that matched the tray. She exchanged the pot for the one that had been on the table when I arrived, then walked away. Karsarkis never even glanced at her.

Karsarkis poured a little milk into his coffee and stirred it absentmindedly. He sipped from the cup, staying silent, waiting me out. I waited longer, and eventually he spoke, his voice tight and controlled again.

“Why did you come here this morning, Jack?”

“I want to know what this is all about.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Does it matter?”

Karsarkis seemed to think about that.

“No,” he said after a moment. “No, it doesn’t. Not if you’re willing to go to bat for me with your friends in the White House. Not if you’re willing to file a pardon application for me and twist arms until the bastards grant it. Not if that’s true.”

“It’s not,” I said. “At least, not yet.”

Karsarkis raised one eyebrow at that.

“Let’s just see how it goes,” I said. “I’ll ask you some questions. You’ll give me some answers. We’ll drink some more coffee, and then we’ll figure out whfigure oere we are.”

“Okay,” Karsarkis said. “Let’s do that.”

I watched two pure-white seagulls swoop in on the ocean breeze and glide to a silent stop on the grass just over Karsarkis’ left shoulder. They examined the two of us curiously for a while, their heads swiveling back and forth as they focused on us first with one big yellow eye and then the other. Soon, apparently losing interest and sensing no threat, the two gulls bent slightly toward each other and hoisted their wings. With a few quick beats, they plunged over the cliff, glided across the beach, and skimmed away together just above the ocean waves. It was the kind of sight I needed on that clear early summer’s morning to remind me of what a grand and graceful place the world actually is and how its design, vouchsafed beyond the understandings of man, would no doubt survive even the worst we can do to it.

“How are your children?” I asked Karsarkis after the seagulls had disappeared.

He rubbed at his cheek with one hand, then leaned forward and folded his arms on the table. “Frank’s okay. Columbia’s the right place for him as far as I can tell. As for Zoe …well, she’s not good.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

He nodded slowly and ran his index finger around the rim of his coffee cup.

“And what about your family?” he eventually asked. “Okay?”

“Yes,” I said, but I had hesitated for just a fraction of a second and I could tell Karsarkis caught it. “Great, thanks.”

Karsarkis’ eyes caught mine and for a second I saw something so soft and melancholy in them that I had to look away.

“I know what happened, Jack.”

I cleared my throat, but I didn’t move or look back at him. “What do you mean?”

“I know Anita left you, and I know why.”

I felt sucker-punched. I cleared my throat again and did my best to cover it.

“How do you know?” I asked, my voice sounding smaller than I would have liked.

“Back when I first asked you to help me, Mike put some discreet surveillance in place. I’m sorry if that offends you, Jack. Really, I am. I apologize if it does. But my life is on the line here and I needed to be certain what you were doing with the confidences I shared with you. I didn’t know you that well then.”

“And you think you do now?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “I think I do.”

“Then the bug I found in my apartment was yours?” I asked.

“There were several. We didn’t leave them in very long, if you care.”

“Just long enough to find out about Anita.”

“I’m sorry. I truly am.”

I started on an inventory of all the things I was feeling right then, trying to decide whether there was any point in getting angry. I had not gotten very far into it before it got too complicated and I just gave up.

“You said you know why Anita left,” I said. “What do you mean by that?”

Karsarkis seemed genuinely embarrassed now. He shifted his weight in the chair causing it to scrape slightly against the teak decking. Then he poured more coffee into hisffee int cup, although I noticed he didn’t drink any of it.

“Can I tell you something as a friend, Jack?”

“You’re not my friend.”

Karsarkis took a deep breath, then he let it out.

“There are things you don’t need to know about this life. They take you nowhere you really want to go.”

I was beginning to feel cold. I folded my arms and leaned back.

“What are you talking about?”

“You really don’t know?”

“Apparently not.”

“Then leave it, Jack. Take my advice. Just leave it.”

“Don’t do this, Karsarkis.”

Karsarkis looked straight at me for a long time. I just stared at him until he looked away. Finally he exhaled heavily and picked up the mobile phone again.

He punched a button and waited. Then he spoke quietly to someone in English. “There’s an envelope in the bottom left-hand drawer of my desk. It’s…” Karsarkis paused, listening. “No, not that one. The one on the bottom, in front. Get it and send it out to the pool.”

After he had hung up, we sat quietly saying nothing for what was probably only a few minutes, but looking back it seems to me to have been hours.

I did not know the man who walked out from the house and handed Karsarkis a flat letter-sized envelope, manila in color, and I do not remember now what he looked like. All I can recall was watching the envelope he was carrying and being relieved beyond all reason it was so thin as to appear almost empty.

I had been expecting the worst, but for a moment my hopes soared. It wasn’t transcripts of conversations that had taken place when I was out of the apartment. That was what I had feared at first, but the envelope was too thin for that. But then what was it?

Karsarkis held the envelope in his right hand until the man who had brought it was gone. Then he shifted it to his left hand, absently tapping it against the edge of the table.

“This is not something I want to do, Jack,” he said, watching my eyes as he spoke.

I said nothing. Just held out my hand.

It was whatever it was. Waiting to look at it wasn’t going to change it into something else.

Karsarkis pushed the envelope across the table. I picked it up and opened it.

It contained a single photograph.