KILLING PLATO (A Jack Shepherd crime thriller)

by Jake Needham

  KILLING PLATO

  A novel

  by

  Jake Needham

  Kindle edition published by

  Half Penny Ltd.

  Hong Kong

  Contents

  BEGIN READING

  Bonus Preview of A WORLD OF TROUBLE

  The Jake Needham Library

  Meet Jake Needham

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  WHAT THE PRESS SAYS ABOUT JAKE NEEDHAM

  “In between the lines of his plot, Needham’s provocative views about Asian culture jump at you from almost every page. The gritty and taut KILLING PLATO is 100 per cent unadulterated attitude.” – The Straits Times (Singapore)

  “KILLING PLATO Is a fast-paced and intellectually stimulating trip through Thailand’s spook culture. Needham has forged a powerfully sardonic portrayal of an business professor whose marriage is on the rocks and who is suddenly faced with an impossible series of choices.” – Thai Oasis

  “Jake Needham has a knack for bringing intricate plots to life. His stories blur the line between fact and fiction and have a ripped from the headlines feel.” -- CNNgo

  In his raw power to bring the street-level flavor of contemporary Asian cities to life, Needham is Michael Connelly with steamed rice.” -- The Bangkok Post

  “What you will not get is pseudo-intellectual new-wave Asian literature, sappy relationship writing, or Bangkok bargirl sensationalism. This is top class fiction that happens to be set in an Asian context. As you turn the pages and follow Jack Shepherd in his quest for the truth, you can smell the roadside food stalls and hear the long tail boats roar up and down the Chao Praya River.” -- Singapore Airline SilverKris Magazine

  For

  William Clifford Needham

  Who probably would have insisted

  that every word of this is true.

  I miss you, Dad.

  THE BEGINNINGis

  Phuket

  “The only player who wins

  is the one who owns the game.”

  —Meyer Lansky,

  mobster

  ONE

  IT STARTED THE way a spy story should start.

  On a misty night in Phuket.

  In a little bar.

  I recognized him the moment I walked in. He was standing by himself holding a tiny stainless steel telephone to his ear. His body was turned slightly away from me, his elbows resting on the polished teakwood of the bar top, and he was gazing out toward the ocean, nodding his head occasionally, listening more than he was talking.

  Plato Karsarkis could not be here of all places, casually leaning on a bar in Phuket, a resort island off the eastern coast of Thailand. There was plainly no way in the world that could be.

  Yet, just as plainly, there he was.

  Anita and I had spent the day exploring. A warm drizzle began to fall late in the afternoon and we decided to call it a day and have an early dinner at a place called the Boathouse that is right on the sand at Kata Beach. I parked the jeep and Anita stopped at the ladies room while I went in to get us a table. The girl at the hostess stand said she would have one free in fifteen or twenty minutes, so I left my name and went into the bar to wait.

  The bar was laid out in the shape of a large C. Plato Karsarkis was leaning on the side nearest the ocean and so I took a stool on the opposite side that offered both a striking panorama of the Andaman Sea and the opportunity to stare at Karsarkis without being too obvious about it. I ordered a Heineken and wondered what Anita’s face would look like when she came out of the ladies’ room and saw him.

  Anita had designated this trip to Phuket as our official honeymoon and she had been obsessive about making every detail of it perfect. We were both well into our forties—I somewhat more so than she—and we had been living together for almost two years before we got married so I really couldn’t understand why she was making such a big deal out of having a honeymoon now. Still, Anita had her own ways, and I had absolutely no intention of risking a quarrel by volunteering my thoughts on the subject.

  Anita was an artist, a painter whom European art circles had clasped to their bosom as a harbinger of what the critics were calling a new wave of post-feminist revisionism, whatever that meant. Even when her behavior didn’t make complete sense to me, I always tried to remember Anita had an ability to see the world in ways that I could not, ways that were continually surprising and frequently illuminating.

  I shifted my weight on the stool to cover the turn of my body and glanced back toward Karsarkis.

  He seemed taller in person than he had on television, although I had always heard it was supposed to be the other way around. His forehead was quite high, his nose rounded in that way that some people call Roman, and his curly gray hair trimmed closely against his skull. He wore a tight black T-shirt tucked into black chinos cinched with a narrow belt, also black, and although he must have been in his fifties, maybe even older, he looked pretty able-bodied. The whole effect was something like a cross between Giorgio Armani and Richard Nixon.

  What he did not look like, leaning nonchalantly there on the bar and talking into his shiny Eulittle telephone, was the world’s most famous fugitive. Which was funny, because that was exactly what he was.

  “That was a Heineken,” the bartender said, breaking into my reverie. “Right?”

  I pulled my eyes away from Karsarkis. “Right,” I said.

  The bartender placed a tall glass still frosty from the cooler on a blue and white striped square of cotton and poured my beer from the familiar green bottle. When he was done, he rapped the empty bottle smartly on the bar top, nodded, and walked away.

  As soon as he did, my eyes flicked right back to Plato Karsarkis.

  Karsarkis had put away his mobile phone and now he was just leaning against the bar on his forearms, doing nothing in particular. Oddly, it almost seemed as if he was looking at me. So unlikely was that it took several seconds for me to register that he really was looking at me. Worse, when Karsarkis saw the realization of it in my eyes, he raised his right index finger and shook it at me in an exaggerated gesture of mock irritation.

  I flashed a hasty and very self-conscious smile and, thoroughly embarrassed, looked down at the bar. I was reaching for my glass again just to have something to do when Karsarkis called out to me.

  “Are you Jack Shepherd?”

  My first thought of course was that I had misunderstood him. Plato Karsarkis could not have been speaking to me or have the slightest idea who I was. So I kept my eyes forward and said nothing.

  “Pardon me,” Karsarkis called out again. “You’re Jack Shepherd, aren’t you?”

  Christ, I had heard him right. Karsarkis was speaking to me, and he did know who I was. With what I’m certain was a look of utter bafflement, I lifted my eyes back to Karsarkis. He shook his finger at me again, and then he stood up and started around the bar.

  Holy shit.

  The world’s most famous fugitive was not only alive and well and having a drink at the Boathouse in Phuket, he was walking straight toward me, his hand thrust out to shake mine.

  TWO

  I TOOK KARSARKIS’ hand. What else was I going to do? We shook.

  “I’m Plato Karsarkis.”

  “I know.”

  Karsarkis nodded quickly and lowered his eyes. The man’s brief acknowledgement of his notoriety seemed to me to contain an element of genuine embarrassment and, for a moment, I almost felt sorry for him.

  “May I?” Karsarkis pointed to the stool to my right, the one at the end of the bar right up against the wall.

  “Of course.”

  He pulled the sto
ol out and sat down, pushing himself around until his back was to the wall and his face turned toward mine. The bartender had returned when he saw Karsarkis reach for the stool and stood waiting quietly.

  “Campari and soda,” Karsarkis said without looking at him. “And Mr. Shepherd will have another…”

  His eyebrows lifted into a question.

  “No thanks,” I said. “I’m fine.”

  Karsarkis nodded slightly at that, but made no comment. After a moment his eyes slid off mine and we sat there together in what was i>something.

  “It’s so beautiful here,” Karsarkis said very softly. “I could stay in this place forever.”

  I didn’t know exactly what I had been expecting Karsarkis to say, but it certainly wasn’t that.

  Turning my head, I looked where his eyes were pointing.

  The Boathouse was at the edge of the beach in the back of a deep cove on Phuket’s west coast. Just on the other side of floor-to-ceiling shutters propped open to the ocean breeze, a wide swath of nearly white sand lay nestled in a U-shaped fringe of spindly palm trees. It was almost dark, but not quite, and a haze of pewter streaked with shards of mango yellow filtered tentatively over the beach like a feeble fog. A lone woman with a black sarong wrapped around her bathing suit—foreign, I thought, but at this distance I couldn’t quite tell—ambled along the surf line, kicking her bare feet through the shallow water.

  I glanced back at Karsarkis. He didn’t seem inclined to say anything else. I should have waited him out, I know, but I didn’t.

  “Look,” I said, taking a deep breath and plunging in, “I’m sure I would remember if we’d met, and I don’t think—”

  “We’ve never met. I just recognize you.”

  “Recognized me?”

  “Modesty bores me, and false modesty bores the shit out of me. You’re well known and I’m sure you realize that. I’ve even seen pictures of you in magazines and newspapers. That’s why I recognized you.”

  While it was true I had once been associated in various ways with some big players in international finance, I certainly didn’t think of myself as well known. I might be recognized here and there by a few people who moved in similar circles, but I really didn’t think those circles included the sort of people who breathed the rarified air where Plato Karsarkis flew.

  “There aren’t many other Americans living out here,” Karsarkis went on before I could figure out what to say. “So I just thought I ought to introduce myself.”

  “There are a lot of foreigners living in Thailand,” I said.

  I realized how petulant that sounded as soon as the words were out of my mouth, but I couldn’t call them back.

  Karsarkis didn’t seem to notice or, if he did, to care.

  “Yeah, but it’s mostly Europeans and a few Australians,” he said. “Not that many Americans in Thailand. Why do you think that is?”

  “I gather most Americans must like it well enough back home.”

  “Then you still think of the States as your home?”

  It was starting to sound like we were going to have one of those expatriate conversations I’d had a thousand times since I’d been living in Thailand. Modesty might be what bored Karsarkis. Expat conversations were what bored me.

  “Look,” I said, “I live in Thailand now and as far as I know I’m going to keep living here. I really don’t know what else to tell you.”

  “There’s something I’ve always wondered about,” Karrt ,&rdquosarkis continued as if I had not spoken. “When Europeans or Australians live in a country that isn’t their own, nobody thinks a thing about it. But when Americans chose to live in another country, people keep asking us why.”

  “A lot of people seem to think that Americans who live overseas are on the run from something.”

  As soon as I said it I went silent and looked away in embarrassment. Karsarkis chuckled at my discomfort.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “You didn’t offend me. We Americans need to stick together.”

  Karsarkis’ ethnic brotherhood routine was wearing a little thin. I was pretty sure I’d read once he had been born in London of an Irish mother and a Greek father and had only become an American citizen when his lawyers advised him that it was in his best financial interest. On the other hand, I knew Karsarkis had a pretty compelling reason for not being in the United States right then and I figured it would be indelicate to delve too deeply into the whole issue of nationality and residence so I said nothing.

  Karsarkis smiled. At least I think he did.

  “Can I call you Jack?” he asked.

  “If you like.”

  “Excellent. Then you should call me Plato.”

  That’ll be the day, I thought to myself, but I just nodded.

  Karsarkis took his hand away from the Campari without having drunk a sip and folded his arms across his chest.

  “Everybody says you’re one of the smart guys, Jack. A first-rate legal mind.”

  “I don’t practice law anymore. I just teach.”

  “Yeah, I heard that. At Chulalongkorn University up in Bangkok.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Pretty good place?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “But you don’t teach at the law school, do you?”

  “No. At the Sasin Institute. I teach international business.”

  “You speak Thai that well?”

  “My Thai’s okay, I guess, but the courses at Sasin are all in English so it doesn’t really matter.”

  “You like teaching?”

  “Yes, I like it a lot.”

  What in the world was going on here? Karsarkis sounded like a man interviewing me for a job. I tried to read his eyes, but they had gone flat and in the fading light there at the end of the bar I could see nothing in them at all.

  “You ever miss the action?” he asked.

  “Action?”

  “That stuff you used to do. All the hotshot stuff that made you famous.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I didn’t say anything at all. Karsarkis didn’t look like he really cared. Abruptly he stood up and gave the room a quick scan.

  “I enjoyed talking to you, Jack, but I’ve got to go now.”

  I glanced around to see if something had spooked Karsarkis. There were a few people scattered around the bar, a few others in the dining room, but as far as I could tell there were no SWAT teams storming the place. Maybe Karsarkis just couldn’t think o yquo;t tof anything else to say to someone he barely knew and was tired of keeping the conversation going. I could certainly understand that.

  I stood up, too, and we shook hands again.

  “I’ll stay in touch,” Karsarkis said.

  I had no idea what that meant so I just nodded mutely.

  When Karsarkis turned away and started for the door, a well-built, sandy-haired man of nondescript appearance and indeterminate age stood up from a chair by the wall and fell into step next to him. Almost immediately two other men materialized from somewhere and closed up behind them, covering their backs. I had assumed Karsarkis was alone. Now that I thought about it, I realized how foolish that was of me.

  After Karsarkis had gone, I just sat on my stool looking straight ahead, too stupefied by what had happened to do anything else. Then all at once an incredibly vivid memory swept over me.

  I had been about seven or eight. My father and I were driving somewhere, although I have long forgotten where, in his green and black Buick, a racy two-door model with a line of chromed ports down each side of the long, narrow hood. I sat on the bench seat next to him as straight and proud as my tiny stature would permit.

  We were on a two-lane asphalt highway passing through dense stands of tall pine trees. A short distance ahead, a silver and white Greyhound bus pulled out to pass a tractor-trailer and shifted its whole mass into the lane directly in front of us. My head was half turned toward the road and half turned toward my father and, in the same instant I saw the bus barreling down o
n us, I also saw my father’s face. Although only a child, I somehow sensed that he and I were both sharing the same inexplicable thrill of onrushing menace.

  As the bus drew closer and the leaping white dog on its nose grew to a terrifying size, I experienced without really knowing what I was feeling that eerily heightened state of awareness that comes from proximity to something truly dangerous. For just an instant, my father and I were frozen together, bonded to one another by our common helplessness.

  Then bus cut back into its own lane, whipped past us, and we were spared. The moment ended. I would never feel that close to my father again.

  There at the bar of the Boathouse, looking at the stool where Karsarkis had been sitting and the drink he had abandoned, a feeling came back to me that was just like the one I’d had on that long-ago day: exhilaration intertwined with onrushing ruin. It was a strange reaction, I know, and at the time I dismissed the feeling that flooded over me then as nothing more than a freak misconnection of a few synapses of memory run amuck. It was only later, looking back on everything that happened afterwards, that I could see how wrong I had been.

  The feeling that came over me that day in Phuket had not been a memory at all.

  It was a premonition.

  THREE

  “YOU LOOK AS if you’ve seen a ghost, my darling.” Anita glanced at the Campari and soda on the bar. “Is that for me?”

  “You can have it if you want,” I said. “Plato Karsarkis ordered it, but he didn’t drink any of it.”

  I inclined my head in the direction where Karsarkis and his entourage had just disappeared.

  “He just left,” I added.

  Anita sat down on the stool Karsarkis had vacated and crossed her leano

  “What happened while I was gone, Jack? You’re staring at me like I just turned into Whoopi Goldberg.”

  I was still trying to decide how to explain what had happened in such a way Anita might actually believe it when she unerringly zeroed in on my uncertainty. But then she jumped to the wrong conclusion.