by Jake Needham
So drawing on the sum total of the wisdom I had gleaned from well over forty years of living, what was I going to do now? Was I going to wail and beat my breast? Was I going to fling myself off Karsarkis’ cliff and into the sea? Was I going to demand Karsarkis get me a bottle of something and get stinking drunk?
And what would be the point of any of that? I asked myself. What would be the fucking point?
I cleared my throat and shifted in my chair until I was facing Karsarkis again.
“Can we get back to business?” I asked him.
“Yes,” he said, keeping his expression neutral. “If you like.”
Karsarkis watched me carefully, but he didn’t say anything else.
“What is it you know that makes so many people want to kill you?” I asked him after a moment or two.
Karsarkis smiled at that, although I didn’t immediately see anything amusing about my question.
“It’s not so many,” he said. “Not really.”
“Then exactly who is on the list?”
“I would have to guess.”
“Go ahead,” I said. “Guess.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Did you know US marshals have you under surveillance?”
“Of course,” Karsarkis said and he shook his head and chuckled slightly. “I’veuo;I amp;rsq known about the kidnapping plan for a long time. That’s not going to happen.”
“They’re out there right now.” I gestured vaguely toward where I thought the road was. “They’ve got you cut off in both directions.”
“Good Lord, Jack, if I really wanted to go anywhere, you don’t really think a few glorified rent-a-cops driving a couple of panel vans could stop me, do you?”
I thought about Marcus York’s dead black eyes and about the silenced M-16s with laser sights, and I started to tell Karsarkis he probably ought to reconsider that, but I didn’t.
“What would you say if I told you it might have been the marshals who killed Mike O’Connell?”
Karsarkis studied my face, although I could read nothing in his eyes as he did. “Why would you think that?”
“I’ve got friends in Thai intelligence. They gave me a copy of what the NIA claims are intercepts of email between the marshals and somebody in Washington. None of it actually says they have orders to kill you, not in so many words, but that’s what it says nevertheless. I’m not even sure the stuff is genuine, but maybe it is. If it is, if the marshals are willing to kill you because of something you know, then maybe O’Connell also knew and…”
I stopped talking and spread my hands, my conclusion having become self-evident.
Karsarkis made little clicking noises with his tongue, thinking sounds, but he remained expressionless.
“Do you really believe the government of the United States goes around killing its own citizens, Jack?”
“Not very often,” I said. “But, yes, sometimes.”
Karsarkis was watching me carefully. He could see I was thinking about something, but he had to guess what it was.
“You do remember the fee I offered you,” he said, keeping his eyes on mine to see if that was it.
He was wrong. That wasn’t what I was thinking about. But I kept my face still and he didn’t know that.
“Yes, I remember.”
Indeed I did. A million dollars just for taking on the case. Four million more if the president ultimately pardoned Karsarkis. It made me think of a crusty old Jesuit priest who had taught me criminal law at Georgetown and of something he never tired of telling us, something he always called the lawyer’s prayer. ‘Oh, Lord God,’ the catechism went, ‘I pray for only one reward in this life. Send to me one day a very, very rich man, who is in very, very deep shit.’
In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.
“Why would the White House even consider pardoning you?” I asked Karsarkis.
Karsarkis offered a mirthless laugh. “Gerald Ford pardoned Richard Nixon. Bill Clinton pardoned Marc Rich. How much worse am I?”
“There’s always somebody worse,” I said. “Maybe this time it’s you.”
Karsarkis pulled the box of cigars toward him and flipped up the lid. He studied them for a moment, selected one, and then turned the box and gave it a little push in my direction. I shook my head.
“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 me. “Plato needs…he’s been a little depressed. Having someone he respects to talk to for a while was probably a great blessing for him.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant and I said nothing.
“Can you help him?” Mia asked, turning away from the window and examining me, her lips compressed to mask any expression.
“Help him?”
“With a pardon. He says the White House listens to you, that if you will represent him they might grant it.”
“If that what he says, Mrs. Karsarkis, I’m afraid your husband has far too high an opinion of me.”
Mia nodded absently, letting me off the hook without a fuss, for which I was grateful.
The highway was almost empty and we made good time. The silver Jag’s tires sang a steady, high-pitched whine over the asphalt as we passed little houses here and there, mostly simple structures of concrete blocks with a carport occasionally tacked onto one side like an afterthought. For most of the way there was little sign of habitation. The highway ran through thick groves of banana trees, ferns, and elephant ears, their leaves shiny with moisture from the air and flattening slightly in a feeble breeze.
We passed the entrance to the Sheraton Grande and a well-manicured golf course appeared on our right. A conga line of middle-aged Japanese in funny clothes was making its way down a gently rolling fairway with a crowd of young Thai women trailing behind them. Some of the women carried the golfers’ heavy bags, while others carried brightly striped umbrellas to shade the Japanese from the sun.
“He misses her more than he would ever admit to you.” Mia spoke to the window rather than to me. “Zoe, I mean. His daughter.”
I said nothing.
“He wants to go home, Mr. Shepherd.” Mia turned from the window and fixed me with a stare so desolate I could not return it. “All he wants to do is to go home.”
There were many things I could ings I chave said, but none of them seemed worth the hurt they would no doubt inflict on this woman. So I tried to come up with something innocuous.
“Your husband has asked me to lodge a pardon application on his behalf, Mrs. Karsarkis, and I am considering it. But please understand I have not yet made any commitment to him.”
That sounded ridiculously tight-assed, and almost as soon as I had spoken I wished I had said nothing at all. Regardless, Mia just nodded as if that was what she had expected me to say, and then she went back to staring out the window.
FORTY ONE
We left the main highway, turned directly into the full glare of the midday sun, and followed a narrow, humpbacked road toward the rocky promontory where Amanpuri perched. I watched a column of smoke from a trash fire rise up in ripples so perfectly formed that they looked as if they had been painted on the blue background of the sky. A few hundred feet above the ground unseen air currents bent the smoke and spread it across the highway in front of us, a beige-colored cloud stuck to the earth on an otherwise cloudless day.
A motorcycle roared by. It was a big bike and noisy, although not knowing one kind of motorcycle from another the model didn’t register on me. All I could remember later was that it had been purple with a lot of chrome and that it had a steeply swept-back windshield with two huge rear-view mirrors sticking out from its sides.
The rider, like most motorcycle riders in Thailand, wore a helmet with an opaque visor that entirely obscured his features. He also wore jeans and a dark, nondescript jacket zipped up in front. It was one of those free jackets that companies gave to motorcycle taxi drivers for the advertising. Later, thinking back, I realized I had seen yellow lettering on the back of the jacket that said The Wall Street Journal Asia.
After passing us the bike pulled into the lane directly in front of the Jag and almost immediately started slowing down. Our driver tapped his brake and I saw Plaid Shirt’s shoulders stiffen as he sat up straighter, his eyes on the motorcycle. I glanced at Mia, but she was still staring out the side window. She was either entirely unaware of the motorcycl
e or perhaps just disinterested in it.
I bent forward and looked through the gap between Plaid Shirt and the driver. The motorcycle slowed down some more and our driver blipped his horn. The cyclist turned his head back toward us pointing to the bike’s engine, and for a moment I saw the leaping chrome Jaguar at the tip of the car’s hood reflected in the black mirror of his visor. Our driver lifted both hands from the steering wheel, wheeling them impatiently, a gesture that struck me for some reason as more Italian than Irish.
The motorcycle coughed and choked, then all of a sudden caught again with a loud growl and the cyclist roared away. Barely fifty yards later, it stalled again and the rider turned sharply as if he were trying to get clear of us and off the road to the shoulder. But when he was squarely in front of us, the big bike came to an abrupt halt.
The rider kicked at the starter as we rolled toward him, his helmeted head rotating back and forth between his bike and our Jaguar. Our driver cursed and braked sharply, and he banged the horn again. I saw Plaid Shirt and the driver exchange a look. I couldn’t see what kind of a look it was, but I could guess.
I leaned further forward, lowering my head and keeping my voice down in order not to alarm Mia.
“Don’t stop,” I said.
“Huh?” The driver glanced back at me.
“They use motorcycles here,” I said.
“Who does?” Plaid Shirt asked.
“Hired gunmen. Hitters. They do business from bikes. They…”
But my words were lost in the roar of another powerful motorcycle closing on the Jaguar from behind.
At the same instant we heard it coming, the motorcyclist in front of us started his bike and in one smooth movement turned it directly toward us. He jerked a weapon from inside his jacket- I think it was a MAC-10, but I couldn’t be sure — and pointed it directly into the windshield. The other bike slid to a stop next to the rear window where Mia sat.