Justifiable Homicide: A Political Thriller (Robert Paige Thrillers Book 1)

by Robert W. McGee

  What to do next? He thought about calling the police, but the pair could wake up before the police arrived. Besides, he was carrying a Glock in the door pocket of his car. In most states, including Florida, carrying weapons on campus was illegal, in spite of the Second Amendment’s prohibition on infringing on the right to keep and bear arms. No Florida judge had had enough backbone to declare such restrictions unconstitutional. If the police decided to search his car, they could charge him with a felony.

  He needed to know who they were. He searched them for ID and rifled through their pockets. They weren’t carrying ID, but they did have guns, which he took.

  Next he grabbed their right hands and rolled the barrel of the guns across their fingertips to capture their prints. Then he placed the guns in his briefcase, which he’d dropped.

  He took out his handkerchief and dabbed it on their mouths to collect blood samples and DNA, making sure to use different corners of the handkerchief for each of his assailants. Then he snapped photos of their faces, the van and the license plate with his cell phone. He sent them to his email, just in case he lost his phone. Then he left.

  On the way home he replayed the events of the parking lot in his mind. Sensei Kimura would have been proud of him, although he might have criticized the crispness of his technique, which had faded over the years.

  Was it over? No, he didn’t think so. It was strange that neither of them were Hispanic, since it was mostly the Hispanic community that got incensed over the Cuban embargo. They were just a couple of white guys in gym clothes.

  He decided to start carrying a gun on his person. But it wouldn’t be his Glock 17. Too bulky. He would carry his 9mm Makarov.

  He had grown fond of Makarovs while working as a freelance CIA asset in Armenia, and later Bosnia, where he had been hired mostly to recruit new CIA assets. The Makarov had been a favorite of various Eastern bloc police and military forces ever since World War II. It was compact and easy to handle. The main drawback was that it only held eight rounds, less than half of what his Glock held.

  He would give the photos, DNA samples, and the assailants’ two pistols to Wellington when he met him for lunch. Wellington would know what to do with them. He was more than just a Commerce Department bureaucrat. Much more.

  12

  Paige’s Condo, Sunny Isles Beach

  After the parking lot incident Paige had trouble getting to sleep. He wondered about the next encounter he would have with those men. Maybe there wouldn’t be another encounter. Maybe they would disappear if he dropped his private investigation. Or maybe they would plant a bomb in his car – or Sveta’s. Or perhaps they would just shoot him, like they had done to Raul. There were all kinds of possibilities, and he didn’t care to think about them. There was nothing he could do at any rate except wait for them to contact him again.

  He got up, had breakfast, and graded some quizzes from his Tuesday night class. Then he shaved and showered to get ready to meet Wellington for lunch.

  Paige had recruited him to be a CIA asset when he took Paige’s MBA accounting class a few years ago. It turned out to be one of his most successful recruiting efforts. They had kept in touch over the years, and Wellington sometimes passed along freelance assignments.

  Paige’s involvement with the CIA began while he was working with the Armenian Finance Ministry as part of the USAID Accounting Reform Program to convert the country to International Financial Reporting Standards. His job had been to determine which Finance Ministry employees were friendly toward the United States and which were not, then to recruit the friendly ones.

  The CIA had wanted him to do some recruiting at the Armenian universities as well, both administrators and students, especially the smartest ones. When he returned to the United States, they gave him an assignment to recruit at whatever university he worked for.

  Although Paige was curious to know what assignment Wellington had for him, he was more interested in telling him what happened in the parking lot and turning over the note, the photos, DNA samples, and pistols so that Wellington could have them processed.

  Before leaving to meet with Wellington, Paige typed the guns’ serial numbers into a Word document, took photos of both guns, scanned the note, and saved all of it in his hard drive. Then he attached the documents to an email and sent them to an email address of his that only a few people knew existed. He also copied them into a thumb drive.

  Next he took a scissors to the handkerchief that contained the DNA blood samples, cut out the two bloodstained parts, then cut each of them in two. He placed one sample of each assailant’s blood in an envelope and addressed it to himself at his university address. He placed the other two samples in another envelope to give to Wellington.

  After gathering his things, he started to leave. He noticed something on the floor in front of the door. Another message. It read:

  “You were very impressive, Professor Paige. We underestimated you. However, you cannot outkick a bullet. Raul Rodriguez is dead. Stop asking why.”

  Paige lived in a secure building. There were guards at the front door and residents needed a special key to get into the building. Whoever stuffed the warning under his door must have special skills to circumvent the system. They had to be professionals, not average Cuban patriots. Perhaps not even Cuban at all.

  Panic and relief hit him like two punches from opposite directions. Panic because his life had been threatened, and relief because it appeared he’d continue to breathe if he ended his investigation. He would think about his options and perhaps bounce a few ideas off Wellington.

  Back at his computer, he scanned the second letter, saved it in his hard drive and thumb drive, and sent it as an attachment to his other email account. Then he placed it in the same manila folder as the first message and left. On his way to the car, he mailed the letter containing the DNA to himself.

  13

  12:32 p.m.

  The Rusty Pelican

  The Rusty Pelican. One of the nicer places to eat in Miami, although a bit pricy. Good food. Adequate parking. Spectacular views of Biscayne Bay and the Miami skyline.

  An attractive hostess greeted him as he walked through the front door. That was one of the nice things about the Rusty Pelican; they always managed to hire hostesses and waitresses that aided digestion. This one was medium height, with long black hair and brown skin that highlighted the loveliness of her eyes.

  “Good afternoon. Table for one?” She picked up a menu and motioned for him to enter the restaurant’s dining area over the loud dining room chatter.

  “No, I’m meeting someone.” He spotted John sitting at a table near a window overlooking the bay. Paige motioned to John’s table. “He’s over there.”

  As he approached the table, John rose to meet him, shook his hand, and invited Paige to sit down. He looked like an Indiana prep school alumnus – six feet tall, mid-to-late-thirties, wavy dark blonde hair – expensive cut – and, of course, steel-framed glasses with round rims.

  “You picked a good table, John.”

  “Yeah, I like to select the best whenever I entertain a taxpayer.”

  Actually, John didn’t give a shit about taxpayers. He was a typical federal bureaucrat in many ways, although he was more energetic than most, which accounted for his rapid rise within the Commerce Department.

  A waitress walked up to the table. “Would you like something to drink?”

  Wellington replied first. “I’ll have a scotch on the rocks.”

  Paige checked her out before responding. “Ice tea.”

  As the waitress turned around to leave, Paige leaned toward Wellington, a slight smirk on his face. “Don’t you feel guilty having taxpayers pay for your booze bill?”

  “Not really. The more booze they reimburse me for, the less money the government has to fund research on how cow farts deplete the ozone layer.”

  They both chuckled. Paige added, “You know, as a general rule I don’t think federal employees should be reimbursed for more tha
n the cost of a peanut butter sandwich, but you may have a point.”

  “Yeah, and all these sumptuous meals I’ve been buying you all these years lets you partially recoup some of the excess taxes you have to pay.”

  The waitress returned with the drinks and took their order. The restaurant was so noisy she had to repeat what they wanted, just to make sure she got it all. The table of twelve next to them had started to make a lot of racket. As she left, Wellington’s mood grew serious.

  “Bob, I’ve got an assignment for you, but the restaurant’s a little crowded. We can talk about it in the parking lot after lunch.”

  “Is it a Commerce Department assignment?”

  “No, it’s a Company job, and it’s right up your alley.”

  “Hmmm. Sounds interesting. Actually, I have something to discuss with you too. It’s about a recent incident. I need your advice, and I’d like to tap into some of your resources.”

  “I didn’t think accounting professors had incidents, but we can talk, after lunch.”

  ***

  After lunch, Wellington paid the bill, in cash, and they walked out toward the parking lot.

  Wellington tilted his head toward the dock area. “Let’s go over here. It has a much better view than the parking lot.”

  “Yes, I agree.” As they walked toward Biscayne Bay, Paige went over in his mind what he would say. “Before we start discussing my new assignment, I’d like to tell you about what happened to me last night in the university parking lot.”

  He looked at Paige and smirked. “What? Did you get caught in the back seat with a co-ed?”

  “Not quite.” Paige related the details of the dead-end interviews with Raul’s ex-wife and the others, and then concluded with the FBI involvement, the threatening notes, photos, and parking lot incident.

  “I photographed their faces and the license plate on their van. I also took their guns and DNA samples. I have the stuff in the car. I’d like to give them to you. Maybe your people could get some fingerprints off their guns or the notes and find out who they were.”

  “I’ll see what I can do, but I really think you should abandon the Rodriguez investigation. They sound serious.”

  “Yeah, I probably should let it go, but I can’t seem to do it.”

  “But if you don’t drop it, you might get hurt, even killed. And what about Sveta?”

  Paige shrugged. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll have to think about my options.”

  “It seems like you don’t have any options. All your interviews were dead-ends, and you have nothing to gain and a lot to lose by continuing with it.”

  “John, I hear you but I owe it to Raul to find out who’s responsible. He was a friend.”

  “I can understand your loyalty, but Raul’s gone. You need to move on.”

  Paige didn’t respond. Instead, he looked out over Biscayne Bay. It was peaceful, with a few boats that seemed to be going nowhere in particular. Raul wouldn’t be able to see that view any more. He was dead.

  Wellington wanted to change the subject. “I’d like to talk to you about your assignment.”

  14

  “The tyrant will always find a pretext for his tyranny.”

  Aesop’s Fables

  “… The people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked, and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to greater danger.”

  Herman Goering at the Nuremberg trials

  “In a time of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act.”

  George Orwell

  Wellington turned toward Paige. “Before I get into the details of your assignment, I’d like to give you some background.

  “The NSA, CIA, FBI, and a few other agencies have a pretty sophisticated system for monitoring phone calls and emails. They have computer programs that search for certain words and word patterns. What you might not know is how they assign points. For example, if someone says bomb or kill or president or jihad, it’s worth a certain number of points. If two of the designated words are in the same communication, the program assigns extra points. If they’re in the same sentence or within three to five words of each other, they get bonus points for that.

  “A live agent reviews phone calls and emails that accumulate a certain number of points. It gets a little complicated if the person being monitored uses more than one phone or more than one email account, but if we determine that it’s the same person using multiple accounts, we try to combine them into one file.”

  “Doesn’t that kind of surveillance require a search warrant?”

  “Not really. After 9/11, Congress passed some laws that let us do this kind of thing. Once in a while, if it looks like we’ve crossed the line and someone sues us, we find a judge who can backdate a search warrant for us.

  “The system isn’t perfect. A few months ago, some high school kids in Coral Gables were talking about a video game, and they kept using words like kill and jihad because that’s what the game was about. Some of our guys paid a visit to their high school and grilled the principal about them. It turned out to be a waste of time. One of them contacted the Electronic Frontier Foundation, and they wrote us up in one of their blurbs. That led to some newspaper articles. We had to put out a couple of fires.”

  Wellington looked around to be certain no one was within earshot, then continued. “Some terrorists can get around the system by using throwaway phones or by encrypting their emails. Chuck Sherman and some other senators are trying to pass a law that would make it a felony to use a throwaway phone, but they haven’t been able to get it through Congress because of the privacy issue, and because it discriminates against the poor and minorities.”

  “So, what you’re saying is the only people the government is really monitoring are nonterrorists?”

  “Yeah, that’s about it, nonterrorists and terrorists who are stupid enough not to use throwaway phones and encrypt their emails. The Electronic Frontier Foundation is all over us for that, too.”

  “What is this Electronic Frontier Foundation you keep mentioning?”

  “It’s a group of civil liberties do-gooders who keep whining about our efforts to nip terrorism in the bud. We’ve been able to stop a lot of attacks on the United States with these methods. The EFF doesn’t realize that what we do is in the best interest of America. Whenever they get wind of something we’re doing, they send out an investigative reporter and post a story on their Web site about it. They’re a real pain in the ass. They’re one of the groups we’re monitoring.”

  “What do you mean, we? I thought the CIA was limited to activities outside the United States.”

  “That used to be the case, and we really did follow that jurisdictional boundary, but that was before 9/11. Now we can do pretty much what we want, where we want.”

  “So, who is this joint operation with?”

  Wellington looked out over Biscayne Bay, then observed the boats anchored on the dock. “Look, Bob, I probably shouldn’t be telling you the details. It’s on a need-to-know basis, but since you’re my good buddy, I suppose I can tell you it’s a joint CIA/FBI investigation. There are both foreign and domestic elements to it, so we would probably be able to justify it if anyone looked at it closely.”

  “So, why are you investigating the Electronic Frontier Foundation, actually?”

  “Besides being a pain in the ass, they’re a threat to national security because they publish what we’re doing. The terrorists read that stuff, and they alter their behavior as a result. They’re giving aid and comfort to the enemy, and they’re getting a few members of Congress upset enough to try to cut our budget. We’d like to arrest them for treason, but so far the boss says no. He thinks we wouldn’t be able to get a conviction. They’re too high profile to liquidate or to arrest and send to Guantanamo. We’ve asked the IRS to audit them, but that’s about all we can do, for now.”

  “But aren’t they also t
rying to prevent you from shredding the Constitution?”

  John’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “What kind of talk is that? Don’t you think we need to protect America from terrorists? You’re starting to sound like one of those liberal college professors or left-wing journalists who see a Nazi behind every tree.”

  I don’t like them violating the Constitution on a systematic basis, but I have to keep my mouth shut. I need John to believe I agree with what he’s doing. I think I like the Electronic Frontier Foundation. I’ll check out their Web site when I get home.

  “They’re on a watch list. We have a file on each of their employees and on anyone who writes studies for them.”

  “Don’t you think that’s being paranoid?”

  “Sometimes a little paranoia is good. It prevents attacks against the United States.”

  Paige couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows at that remark. “How does monitoring the Electronic Frontier Foundation prevent attacks against the United States?”

  “You’ve got to see it from the big picture perspective, Bob. They tip off the enemy about what we’re doing. They’re a bunch of treasonous little bastards.”

  “Aren’t they also trying to protect the Constitution?”

  “Quit talking like that. Maybe I’ll have to put you on the watch list.” His voice sounded upset as he said the words. The sweat on his face had caused his glasses to slide part way down his nose. He pushed his right index finger against the bridge of his glasses to adjust them.

  Paige thought, I really need to keep my opinions to myself. I don’t want him monitoring the phone calls and emails I have with Sveta. I’ll just pump him for more information. “Tell me about this watch list. Who’s on it, and how do you determine who gets on it?”

  “Well, I can’t give you all the details because that’s classified, but I can tell you what’s already been reported in the press, more or less.