Jake Needham - Killing Plato

I slowed down and turned off the highway.

“Pai Nai, Kraap?”

The man at the gate had a voice that was flat, neither rude nor polite. He sounded young although I couldn’t see his face very well. As he approached the driver’s side of our rented Suzuki jeep there was only enough light to tell that he was a Thai with short-cropped hair wearing a uniform that looked military: camouflage fatigues, boots, and a webbed belt with a holster on one side and a flashlight on the other. In his left hand was a small walkie-talkie, and his right rested on the flap covering his side arm.

“We were invited for dinner. By Mr. Karsarkis.”

When the man gave no sign he understood English, I tried it in Thai.

“ Tan kao yen, kraap.” We are here for dinner.

“Kor chue duay, kraap?” the guard asked. What is your name?

“Mr. and Mrs. Shepherd.”

The man considered my reply for a moment, as if comparing it in his mind with a list of correct answers. Then he exchanged the walkie-talkie for his flashlight, snapped it on, and stepped back, playing the beam over our Suzuki.

“Rod jeep kong khun rue plan, kraap?” Is this your jeep?

“Mai chai, kraap, kong Mister Avis.” No, it belongs to Mr. Avis.

“Krai Khun Avis, kraap?” Who is Mr. Avis?

“Mai pen rai.” It’s not important.

The man nodded thoughtfully and made his way methodically ar Ft Art pen rai.ound the jeep, inspecting it with his flashlight. Except for the jerking beam, the darkness was nearly complete. We sat still and said nothing.

When the man reached Anita’s side of the jeep, he leaned over and played the beam into the tiny back seat and over the floor behind the front seats. When he was done, he lifted it up and scanned forward inside the jeep, the beam of light bouncing through the rear-view mirror and into my eyes.

At last, apparently satisfied, he clicked off the flashlight and walked to the front of the Suzuki. He waved to someone who must have been standing just out of sight somewhere in the darkness. The gate squeaked loudly on its tracks as it was pushed open from the inside.

The first man stepped back, came to attention, and snapped us a salute, which I took to mean we could pass. I turned my headlights back on and, when I did, I could see the second man was almost a twin to the man standing next to our jeep, right down to the camouflage fatigues and the sidearm on his belt. I put the jeep in gear and we rolled forward. I felt the gate’s track bump past underneath us.

When we were inside, I looked across at Anita. “Well, that was interesting.”

“Yes, it was,” she murmured in a low voice. “I suppose.”

The driveway beyond the gate was asphalt and it climbed steeply into a dense, very green rain forest with scatterings of cashew and rubber trees among the otherwise impenetrable stands of mangroves and coconut palms. What seemed to be about a mile on, it twisted suddenly to the right and the forest disappeared. Directly in front of us, although still a good distance away, was a small rise and at the top of it we saw the house. Taking my foot off the gas, I let the jeep coast to a stop.

Bathed in floodlights and so white and colorless it hurt my eyes to stare directly at it, Karsarkis’ house looked like a cross between a movie set and a flying saucer crash. It was composed basically of four towers connected into a rectangle with long glass corridors. From the tops of each of the towers, glass pyramids rose some twenty feet further, each of them emitting a yellow glow suggestive of imminent levitation. At the foot of the rise there was a grass and stone surfaced courtyard with a low rectangular fountain in its center from which three nozzles burped rings of water into the night air. Just past the fountain, wide pebbled-concrete steps led from the courtyard up to a pair of glass doors flanked on both sides by a garden of what looked like lava rocks.

“You may park up there, sir.”

The sound of the voice from the shadows startled me, but not nearly as much as did the submachine gun I saw in the blond man’s hands when he stepped into the glow cast by our headlights. Although his voice was firm and commanding, the soft Irish lilt in his tones was impossible to miss.

“Up there with the others now, sir, please.”

Never much inclined to engage in dialogue with a man holding a submachine gun, I stepped on the gas and rolled on into the courtyard.

There was another Suzuki parked next to the fountain, a white one with the top up, and a dark Mercedes sedan just past it. There was also a big four-wheel drive of some kind, although I couldn’t immediately identify the make.

When we pulled to a stop behind the other Suzuki, I saw two drivers in gray safari suits sitting on the edge of the fountain, waiting and smoking cigarettes, silently watching. I assumed one went with the Mercedes and the other with four-wheel. It was pretty hard to imagine anyone being driven around in the backseat K th wi of a Suzuki.

When we got to the top of the steps that led up to the front doors, I stopped and turned around. The elevation of the rise gave onto a view out over the dense mangrove forests and across most of the sleeping island. The moon had risen and it cast a dim glow over the landscape. I could see a highway far away and for a moment I tracked a single pair of distant headlights creeping along its length. I thought I could almost see a pale glimmer of moonlight on the sea out on the eastern horizon, but probably it was just my imagination.

“Not bad,” I said to Anita.

I glanced over and saw her looking at me strangely.

“No, really. It’s not bad at all. Sort of like living in Big Sur, I guess. That is if you can imagine living in Big Sur with the Thai army guarding your outer perimeter and IRA patrols roaming around inside your fence line.”

Then I lifted my right arm over my head and waved it back and forth a couple of times.

“Who are you waving to?” Anita asked.

“I just wanted to be sure we haven’t missed anyone,” I told her.

Anita was silent for a moment.

“Are you ready now, Jack?”

“Yes,” I said, “I think I am.”

I said I was ready, but I wasn’t. And not being able to find the goddamned doorbell didn’t do much to help either.

The pair of glass doors at the top of the short flight of steps was positioned in a glass wall. I had to admit the effect was spectacular, but if it was an intelligence test to see who could figure out where the freaking doorbell was, I flunked.

So what did Karsarkis expect us to do? Knock on the glass like a couple of ninnies?

I could see right through the doors, across the corridor, and out the other side, straight into an interior courtyard where there was a huge rectangular swimming pool with water so Tidy-Bowl blue it looked like it had been dyed. Arranged in groupings around the pool were a dozen or more teak lounge chairs with white canvas cushions, most of them shaded by large beach umbrellas. Several groves of strategically placed palm trees set off the whole tableau.

“Wouldn’t you think he could afford a doorbell?”

I addressed the question to Anita. I didn’t really expect her to answer, and of course she didn’t.

I was just giving consideration to reaching for a rock when a maid in an ankle-length black skirt and white blouse silently materialized and swung open both doors. She stepped back as we entered, inclining her head and bringing her palms together in front of her face, the tips of her fingers reaching just to the bridge of her nose.

It was a traditional gesture Thais call a wai and I have always thought it a uniquely warm and elegant form of greeting that makes the western handshake seem hopelessly gawky by comparison. Of course, the wai is also a profoundly nuanced signal of relative social standing, and the way Thais wield it frequently leaves me a little bewildered. The inferior wais the superior, and the younger wais the older. That much I understand, but I still screw up my response most of the time because I am never entirely certain how to deal with the subtleties inherent in that equation. For instance, how to respond to a wai from a waiter who is really old? What carries the greater weight, the age or the station?