Killing Plato

“Was it just about the money?” I asked. “Is that why you sold oil for the Iraqis and laundered the income?”

“Yofy'› amp;ldqu’re not thinking big enough, Jack. It wasn’t ever about selling oil for the Iraqis. And, for me, it wasn’t ever about the money.”

“Then what was it?”

“It was about doing the right thing.”

“The right thing?”

“Hasn’t anyone ever asked you to do the right thing? And then you did it just because it was the right thing, even if you harmed yourself by doing it?”

Karsarkis snipped the end of the cigar and lit it with a long wooden match. He drew gently, rotating it in his hand until the tip was glowing evenly. Then he shook out the match and dropped it into a heavy cut-glass ashtray.

“I don’t understand,” I said when he had finished. “I really don’t.”

“No, I don’t imagine you do. Only a handful of people know the whole truth.”

Karsarkis began to snap his index finger rhythmically against his thumbnail. In the silence I could hear the little click-click-click it made.

“Go to your friend in the White House, Jack. Tell them the president must give me a full pardon. If he does not, I will tell what I know. And if I do, it will bring them down. It’s that simple.”

“You want me to threaten the President of the United States for you? Is that what you’re asking me to do here?”

“It is not a threat. You are simply delivering a message. I assure you your friend will understand it very clearly. He will also believe the message because it comes from you.”

I shook my head and looked away. Maybe the US marshals really were trying to kill Karsarkis. Maybe I was even starting to develop a measure of sympathy for their point of view.

“I don’t really understand why you want a pardon,” I said, after a minute or two had passed in silence.

“Why wouldn’t I?’

“If people in the United States important enough to command loyalty from the US marshals want you killed, why would you even think of going back there? Aren’t you safer here?”

“Even if it is the Americans who want to kill me…” Karsarkis stopped talking abruptly and scratched at his ear, then shifted his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “If I cannot convince them that killing me is a bigger risk than trusting me, I am a dead man. Next week, maybe, or a month or two perhaps, but eventually I am a dead man for sure. If they really want me, they will get me. Just like I imagine they got Mike.”

“And even if the president pardons you, how do you know they won’t kill you anyway?” I asked. “You’ll still know whatever this is that makes you such a threat. How can you expect them ever to trust you?”

“You will be the proof I can be trusted, Jack. You yourself will be that proof.”

My hands rose and rubbed at my face and I closed my eyes. I had heard too much for one day and already had asked too many questions about things I did not really want to know about. But I couldn’t stop myself.

“I still don’t understand,” I said. “What proof am I?”

Karsarkis’ voice dropped to a husky, confidential whisper. “The proof that I can be trusted, that I have told no one the truth. Even you don amp;rsquoem› don amp;;t know what really happened.”

FORTY

When I got back to the Cherokee, Plaid Shirt was gone. I put the key in the ignition and then just sat there leaning against the steering wheel trying to think clearly. It took only a few minutes for me to abandon the whole concept of thinking clearly as hopelessly unrealistic, at least right then, so I sat up straighter and turned the key.

Nothing happened.

I pulled the key out and stared stupidly at it. Then I pushed it back into the ignition, very deliberately this time, and tried the starter again.

Still nothing.

A grinding sound without the engine firing; an engine that started, then died; even a useless lurch or two from the starter motor. All of these seemed to be within the realm of the comprehension and would have at least provided some clue as to what the problem might be, but… nothing? What the hell did nothing tell me?

I fumbled under the dashboard. When I found a handle that felt right, I gave it a tug and felt an answering thunk as the hood release popped open. Getting out and walking around to the front of the Cherokee, I lifted the hood. That was when it occurred to me I didn’t have the slightest idea what I was looking for. Once I had confirmed the engine was still there and pretty much in its accustomed place, my skills as an automotive mechanic were exhausted.

“Car trouble?” a woman’s voice asked from behind me.

I turned around and found Karsarkis’ wife Mia smiling at me from a dozen feet or so away. Just behind her were Plaid Shirt and another man I didn’t recognize. I also noticed they were not smiling.

“It won’t start,” I said, demonstrating my flair for the obvious.

“Is it a rental?” Mia asked.

Why was it everybody had such a keen interest in my personal relationship with this vehicle?

“Yes,” I said. “Avis.”

“I could have one of the boys call them for you.”

She half turned toward Plaid Shirt, but then she stopped and looked back at me.

“I’ve got a better idea,” she said. “I’m going to Amanpuri to meet a friend for lunch. They have an Avis office there, don’t they?”

Amanpuri was the most exclusive resort on Phuket, one of those places where tourists from Europe paid thousands of dollars a night to stay in luxurious villas and avoid mingling with the locals. If they didn’t have an Avis office there, it would be the only thing they didn’t have.

“They could give you another car now,” Mia continued, “and then come get this one later.”

Amanpuri was perched on the tip of a heavily forested peninsula on the island’s west coast that separated the beaches at Bang Tao from those at Surin. I hadn’t had any intention of going in that direction, but sitting around Karsarkis’ place for a few hours hoping that a tow truck would eventually turn up was even less appealing.

“Okay, thanks,” I said. “I’ll take you up on that.”

I saw Plaid Shirt and the other man exchange a quick glance, but neither said anything. Plaid Shirt walked over to the silver Jaguar and opened one of the rear passenger doors. Mia got in. Then?Plaid Shirt took the front passenger seat and the other man got behind the wheel. Nobody seemed inclined to hold a door for me so I opened the other rear passenger door by myself and got in next to Mia.

All the way down the driveway I wondered about the marshals who were outside blocking the roads with their gray minivans and whether they would try to prevent Mia from passing, but when we drove out through the gate, the minivans were gone. The road was as still and empty as if they had never been there at all.

“You look as if you’re about to say something, Mr. Shepherd.”

Mia spoke as we passed the place York and Parker had pulled me over on my way in. She was no doubt wondering why I was swiveling my head around like an idiot right then.

“Not really,” I said. Then I added lamely, “It’s been a bad day.”

“Oh, my,” Mia laughed, “and it’s not even lunchtime yet.”

No one spoke again until we had turned onto the main highway and the Jag had settled into a high-speed cruise. The driver seemed skilled and Plaid Shirt sat forward scanning the roadway attentively. Whether these two guys were really IRA I had no earthly idea, but watching them now I had no doubt at all that they were a couple of pros wherever they came from.

“I want to thank you for coming to see Plato today, Mr. Shepherd.” Mia spoke suddenly, without looking at