Jake Needham - Killing Plato

The conversation drifted around to the usual cannon fodder of such dinner parties: money and sex. Money in the form of speculation over the reasons for the recent wild swings in the world’s stock markets; sex in the form of conjecture as to the orientation of the newly appointed American Secretary of State. The man had an extremely attractive Vy i wife, at least for an American Secretary of State he did, and I had never heard before that there was any doubt at all as to his sexual persuasion. From the conversation around me, however, I judged there were a goodly number of such things I had never heard before.

Then, out of nowhere, the Englishman leaned down the table and put a question to Karsarkis in a loud voice, one that stopped all the idle conversation cold.

“Plato, does all this talk about American politics make you miss the United States?”

I cut my eyes at Mia while waiting to hear what Karsarkis had to say to that and I was pretty sure I saw her wince slightly.

Karsarkis seemed to think for a moment, although I figured that was mostly stagecraft on his part, and then he exhaled slowly. “I love Thailand and I may well live here for the rest of my life. Nevertheless I would like to visit America from time to time…so yes, I guess that must mean I do miss it, in a way.”

“You’re up to something, Plato,” the Englishman blundered on, apparently heedless of the consternation he had caused at the table. “I know it. I can feel it.”

“I’m not sure what will happen from here,” Karsarkis responded very slowly. “I’d like to work things out, but I don’t really feel very sure of anything anymore.”

Suddenly Yuri spoke up, back from the dead.

“There must be something that can be done, Plato,” he said. “I have many friends. All you must do is say the word.”

I wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean, but I didn’t much like the sound of it.

“Well…” Karsarkis seemed to think, but again the gesture struck me as affected, although to impress whom I had no idea. “There are one or two people standing in my way.”

Everyone laughed merrily at that while a few obvious solutions to the problem danced through my mind, such as Karsarkis having all those people’s throats slashed exactly like Cynthia Kim’s had been. Not to appear disagreeable, I kept my thoughts on the subject to myself and mimed a chuckle or two of my own.

The former prime minister, who had been almost completely silent throughout the entire meal thus far, rumbled to life. His voice was smooth and cultured, and the sound of it suggested the man’s formative years had probably been spent at an expensive English boarding school, certainly not in Thailand.

“The Kingdom of Thailand is proud to have Plato here,” he said. “And we hope he will stay with us for many years to come.”

“Thank you, Prime Minister.” Karsarkis bobbed his head in acknowledgment of the man’s endorsement and tried-without any success, I thought-to look modest and self-effacing at the same time. “You are too kind.”

“Not at all, Plato. Not at all. You are one of the giants. It is our honor to have you in our country.”

Sakda looked as if he had more to say-and Karsarkis looked as if he hoped he didn’t-but the old man started talking again before Karsarkis could head him off.

“You are a true friend of the Thai people, Plato, and the Thai people are your friends. Your work on our behalf has guaranteed a supply of competitively-priced petroleum far into the future and given us a secure basis for rapid industrial expansion.”

With that, the old m [at,to than went back to his lobster.

Ah ha , I thought. So that’s it.

Translation: Plato Karsarkis was selling Thailand some of the embargoed Iraqi oil he was accused of smuggling, naturally at cut-rate prices.

Most Asian countries lacked any domestic sources of oil at all and were almost wholly dependent on a steady stream coming in from the Middle East to keep their cars going and their electrical generators turning. High oil prices and tight supply meant economic stagnation, or a good deal worse. Low oil prices and loose supply meant prosperity, particularly for the people who controlled the oil and took a cut as it flowed by.

And that was no doubt the second part of the equation here.

Karsarkis’ supplies of Iraqi oil were obviously being delivered through Sakda and his cronies, which explained where Karsarkis’ protection was coming from. That was a vastly more effective arrangement for Karsarkis than straight bribery. When you bought a politician, your problem was the same in any country-to make sure he stayed bought. If the buying was done through a continuing drip feed of Iraqi oil at below-market prices, then you had the problem pretty well licked. Shrewd of Karsarkis, I had to admit to myself. Very shrewd indeed.

The former prime minister’s sudden wakefulness seemed to energize his Australian wife as well. All of a sudden the woman pitched forward in her seat banging the base of her wine glass against her plate. The noise caused me to glance over at her and I noticed for the first time she had a bracelet tattooed around her right wrist. It was purple and appeared to be a likeness of intertwined grape leaves and barbed wire. What would ever possess a woman to do that, I wondered as I looked at her? Why would any woman get up one morning and say to herself , I think today I will have a bracelet of grape leaves and barbed wire tattooed in purple around my right wrist because no doubt it will make me look indescribably beautiful and eerily desirable. I had to admit that there were some things about life that just eluded me entirely.

“This is boring,” the Australian woman announced in a voice that invited no discussion of the point. “Let’s talk about something real sexy instead.”

“Oh, good,” I spoke up. “I like to talk about me.”

“Behave yourself, counselor,” Anita murmured from the other end of the table as several people tittered.

“Here’s something I’ve always wanted to know,” the woman went on without cracking a smile. “What is it with you men and Asian women? I mean, what the hell is it?”

I stole a quick glance at the two women around the table who were obviously Asian. The Thai was regarding the prime minister’s wife as she might eye a muddy sheepdog that was about to walk right across her new snow-white living room carpet, but the Chinese-looking woman who was with Yuri had the look of a startled raccoon suddenly caught in the headlights of a car.

Karsarkis seemed to appreciate the diversion, or maybe he just felt a bit of blood sport coming on, but regardless of which it was, he pushed the door wide open.

“I don’t understand, Karla,” he said, although it was obvious that he understood very well. “What are you talking about?”

“Ah, you know, Plato.”

I wondered if the woman had had too much to drink because she seemed to have difficulty speaking and was slurring her words. On the other hand, maybe [r hhe woma it was just her Australian accent. It was difficult to tell for sure.

“You men go all gaga over these little girls here and I got a theory about that. I think men who run after Asian women are really all bloody pedophiles at heart. That’s what I think.”

“Yes, it’s very possible you’re right,” Anita joined in, and I nearly choked.

She smiled warmly at both of the Asian women sitting around the table, but went on quickly.

“My own observation is that western men who come to Asia are generally unsuccessful with western women and they are looking for harmless playthings who will feed their egos and make no demands. Essentially, they’re looking for children.”

Anita smiled again at the two Asian women sitting at the table as if to say that of course she didn’t consider either of them to be any such thing.