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

by Robert W. McGee

  “Sure. I’m giving a guest lecture at the University of Miami tomorrow afternoon. Perhaps we can meet before my lecture.”

  “Sure. Can you recommend any restaurants in the area?”

  “Yeah. One of my favorites is La Palma. Sometimes I go there either before or after I give a guest lecture. It’s on Alhambra Circle in Coral Gables. Do you know it?”

  “No, but I’ll find it on the internet. Shall we say twelvish?”

  “OK. If it’s sunny, I’ll be outside. If it’s raining, I’ll be inside.” The outside section especially appealed to Paige. The white table cloths and the architectural design had a southern European caste, but one couldn’t tell which country. Although Italian in cuisine, all the waiters spoke Spanish. Whenever Paige would go there, he could almost be certain that he wouldn’t hear a single word of Italian, which detracted slightly from the place’s authenticity.

  ***

  Paige arrived a few minutes early. He decided to leave home in plenty of time because of the traffic. He usually had trouble finding La Palma because the streets in that section of Coral Gables weren’t set up in a strict grid pattern. Some of the streets ran one way and they didn’t all have proper street signs. The street names painted on stones at ground level were impossible to read after dark, and difficult to read during the day.

  Wellington walked into the courtyard at 12:20. His preppy appearance fit right in with the upscale nature of the restaurant.

  “Hi. Sorry I’m late. I couldn’t find the place and my GPS didn’t help much. It told me to turn left instead of right.”

  Paige laughed as he shook Wellington’s hand. It was a fairly firm handshake. He knew exactly what Wellington meant. Whoever designed the streets and street signs in Coral Gables should be shot. The waiter took their drink order and they began to chat.

  “Anything new with Steinman?”

  “No. He told me he would let me know when the next meeting was scheduled but he hasn’t contacted me yet.”

  “Bob, the reason I wanted to chat with you is to let you know I have informed Mossad of our plans to infiltrate Steinman’s little group.”

  Paige looked surprised and a little concerned. “Why did you do that?” He remembered something his mother had told him as a kid – too many cooks spoil the broth. He thought the fewer people who knew about the plan, the fewer complications they would encounter. But on second thought, maybe spreading the word would be a good thing. He wanted the plan to fail, especially if Wellington planned to kill Steinman, and the more people who knew about it, the higher the probability of failure.

  “As a courtesy. Steinman has been a strong supporter of Israel, and I thought it would be the right thing to do, especially since he’s funneling funds to the Palestinians.”

  “How did they react? Did they support the idea?”

  “Yeah, pretty much. They don’t like the fact that he’s funneling money to the Palestinians, and they would like to know if he’s up to anything else.”

  Although Wellington had assured him that Steinman wouldn’t be killed, Paige didn’t believe him. Paige wondered if the real reason Wellington met with Mossad was to inform them of the planned hit, and whether Mossad would just look the other way or try to prevent it. Wellington thought the same thing, although he didn’t say it.

  52

  “What do you think about what Tomás said the other day? Do you think he’s become a problem?” Santos Hernandez and Jim Bennett were sitting in Bennett’s car, staking out a potential future target. Bennett raised the issue. His stare always made Santos feel uncomfortable. Santos looked straight ahead at the building they were staking out to avoid eye contact.

  “Yeah, I think maybe he has, but I don’t want to think about it.”

  Bennett kept his eyes focused on the apartment building. “Me either. It seems like he’s not one of us anymore.”

  Santos glanced at him briefly. “Maybe he never was one of us. Maybe we just assumed he was.”

  “Yeah. I’m beginning to believe that, too. What do you think we should do about it?”

  Santos hesitated before responding. “I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it.”

  “I don’t, either. Let’s wait and see what happens.”

  “You don’t think he’ll blow the whistle on us, do you?” Santos sounded worried.

  “No. He’s in too deep. He’d be cutting his own throat if he did that.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s wait and see what happens.”

  53

  Rachel Karshenboym had made an appointment to meet Saul Steinman in his office. As she took the elevator to the fourth floor of his building at FIU she battled in her head what she would say. She had to be on her best behavior and not show her true feelings for him. She detested his weak views on U.S. foreign policy.

  As she walked into his office he was seated at his desk.

  “Hello, Professor Steinman? I’m Rachel Karshenboym.”

  He rose from his chair to shake hands.

  He motioned to the chair in front of his desk. “Please, sit down. And call me Saul.”

  Her nostrils drew in the scent of old books. It reminded her of the many hours she spent in the libraries in Russia and Israel … and also her uncle’s parlor in Odessa, where she visited a few summers as a child.

  She wore a low-cut, black and white blouse that revealed enough of her breasts to make people notice from 20 feet away. She made sure she bent forward as she placed her purse on the floor. He noticed, and she noticed that he noticed.

  “What can I do for you, Professor Karshenboym?” She noticed his eyes were bouncing back between her eyes and breasts.

  “Please, call me Rachel. I just wanted to meet you. I’ve seen you on television and enjoyed some of your articles. I thought that since we live in the same city, I should meet you.”

  “You have an interesting accent. Russian, I presume?”

  Yes, is it that obvious?”

  “Well, the name also gives it away. If it were German, it would be Karshenbaum.”

  “It’s the Yiddish version. It means cherry tree.”

  “Ah, our families come from the same part of the world, although mine was a little West of yours, in Berlin.”

  As Steinman jabbered away, Rachel glanced at the photo of him posing with the Palestinians. She tried not to cringe.

  Her mind snapped back to the conversation. She replied, “Actually, the most recent generation of my family came from Saint Petersburg, but I think their roots were in Germany.”

  “Saul, I was thinking. I know a number of professors in the Miami area who are concerned about the direction the country is moving in. I wonder if we might assemble some of them into a study group to discuss the issues. It would be a good opportunity to meet with like-minded people and it could be fun.”

  “That’s a good idea. Actually, I’ve already formed such a group. Would you like to join?”

  “Sure. I’d love to.” She feigned surprise, but the whole purpose of the meeting was to get him to ask. She didn’t have a Plan B in the event he didn’t ask.

  Saul sat back in his chair. Although he didn’t respond immediately to her quick acceptance, the look on his face betrayed what he was thinking. His expression and body language were saying, I wish I hadn’t invited her to join my study group. His expression reminded Rachel of what her Mossad handlers had said, that his group was an all-boys club, and he probably wanted to keep it that way. Maybe he was having second thoughts, but it was too late for him to back out. He had offered and she had accepted.

  He leaned forward. “Great. I’ll let you know when the next meeting’s going to be.”

  “Thanks, Saul. I’d better be going now. I know you’re a busy man. Here’s my card. It has my contact information.”

  “Not a bother. Glad to meet you.”

  She bent forward to pick up her purse as she got up from the chair, giving him another opportunity to look at her breasts, which he took. She wore a tight skirt that
caused her to waddle a little as she walked out. She could feel his eyes on her ass. She felt her visit had been a success.

  54

  Think Globally, Act Locally

  Wellington had just ended a meeting at his Commerce Department office by the airport when his cell phone rang. It was the Boss. “John? Hi. We need to meet. It will only take five minutes. When can you get to the Starbucks on West Flagler?”

  “I’m not at the downtown office today. I’ll have to come after work.”

  “That will be fine. How’s 5:30?”

  “I can be there. What’s so urgent?”

  “It’s not urgent. It’s just that I’ll be busy for the next few days and late this afternoon would be convenient for me.”

  “OK. I’ll see you then.”

  Wellington was curious but not overly concerned. The Boss told him it wasn’t urgent, so he put it out of mind and went back to work.

  ***

  Wellington always got annoyed when he had to sit in Miami’s rush hour traffic. What a hassle. But the Boss wanted a five-minute conversation. Hopefully the Boss wouldn’t increase his workload. His Commerce Department job kept him busy. He had enough work already.

  He arrived at 5:26. Probably the worst time to be in that part of downtown Miami. The rush-hour traffic produced exhaust fumes faster than the ocean breeze could blow them away.

  The Boss was already sitting at a table, sipping coffee. The smells emanating within the Starbucks coffee emporium cleansed Wellington’s nostrils of the exhaust fumes.

  “Hi John. Let’s take a walk outside and talk. It’s too noisy in here.”

  They walked out the front door and turned right.

  “John, I’ll be brief. After we neutralize Steinman we have to continue getting rid of traitors. We can’t have our own citizens criticizing the government. It gives aid and comfort to the people who want to destroy us. I want to give you and your crew a little homework assignment. Have each member of the team identify two more trouble makers in the Miami area— professors, journalists or others — who deserve to be eliminated. We’ll start a list. As we eliminate them, we’ll add others to it. Let’s arrange to meet in a few weeks, probably on a Saturday. I’ll reserve a private room at the Versailles and let you know the day and time.”

  “Should I invite Paige to join the group?”

  “No. I don’t trust him. Let’s keep this close to the vest.”

  “Your wish is my command.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Wellington looked left and right to see if anyone was within earshot. “There’s something else I’d like to discuss. Tomás has expressed reservations about executing professors and journalists.”

  “Reservations? What the fuck does that mean?” Wellington knew the Boss didn’t like having his orders challenged, but he had to let him know what was going on within the group.

  “You know. He doesn’t think we should be killing professors and journalists just for exercising their right of free speech and press.”

  “Oh, he doesn’t, huh? Maybe you need to remind him who’s in charge.”

  “He knows who’s in charge.” Wellington lowered his voice. “His hesitancy to kill professors and journalists might become a problem.”

  “If he hesitates to carry out my orders, he’s the one who’ll have a problem.” The Boss became agitated. He took a step toward Wellington.

  Wellington continued. “What should we do if he refuses to snuff someone on the list?”

  “Do you think that’s a real possibility?”

  “It might be. I got the feeling that he’s really against the idea of assassinating journalists and professors.”

  “Well, I suppose we’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it. But I’ll tell you this. We can’t have people picking and choosing who they’re going to kill or which orders they’re going to obey.”

  “Yeah, I know. But what should we do if he refuses to kill one of the people on our list?”

  “If he disobeyed a direct order in the military, he’d be court-martialed, or maybe shot on the spot, depending on the circumstances.”

  “Yeah, but we can’t court-martial him. He’s not in the military any more, and even if he were, a court-martial would be out of the question in this case. There’s about a one hundred percent chance it would make the press, which is exactly what we don’t need.”

  The Boss took a deep breath and gazed across the street as he thought about the options, exhaled, then turned and looked directly into Wellington’s eyes. “If he refuses to obey a direct order, he becomes a threat to the team. We can’t afford to have threats to the team. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, sir. I do.”

  The Boss was so close that Wellington could feel the Boss’s breath on his face each time he exhaled. The Boss poked Wellington hard in the chest with his right index finger, one poke for each word. “TAKE – CHARGE – OF – THIS – GUY.”

  “Yes sir, I’ll do that.”

  “Good. Keep me posted. Let me know if he gives any further indications of having less than total loyalty.”

  As he finished his sentence the Boss noticed a mother and daughter walk past them wearing burkas. He looked at Wellington and jerked his head in their direction.

  “You see that? They’re all around us. Her husband might be planning an attack on America as we speak.”

  Wellington could only see their backs, since they had already passed by on the sidewalk. He felt the urge to say something positive. “They’re not all bad. Some of them are patriotic Americans. They’re here because they didn’t like what’s going on in their country. They hate militants more than we do. A few of them are free lancing for us to infiltrate the local mosques.”

  “Yeah, I know, but you can’t really trust them. They point toward Mecca five times a day. How many times do they point toward Washington?”

  The Boss looked at them again, then turned toward Wellington. “Did I ever tell you the story about when I was in Tikrit?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Actually, it was a little village outside of Tikrit, about 90 miles northwest of Baghdad. We went into the village to see if we could find any insurgents. All we saw were women and children. No men.”

  “Where were they?”

  “Probably hiding under some rock, waiting to shoot us.” He started to smile, one of those dirty, evil smiles a pervert gets as he is about to do his thing.

  “We gathered up about a dozen women and children and took them into one of the houses, a one-room hut, actually. Then we proceeded to introduce them to some enhanced interrogation.”

  Wellington noticed the evil smile on his face. “What kind of enhanced interrogation techniques did you use? Did you waterboard them?”

  “No, nothing as mundane as that. We wanted to give them a memorable experience. Well, actually I was the one who wanted to give them a memorable experience. The other men in the platoon were against the idea, but I was in charge, so they did what I told them to do.

  Do you know what female circumcision is?”

  “Yeah. It’s disgusting. They cut off the woman’s clitoris, and sometimes the labia. It’s a common practice in Africa. They do it in some Muslim countries, too.”

  “Yeah. The Muslim men don’t want their women to get too much pleasure from sex. They cut off their clit so they don’t get tempted to fuck the other guys in the neighborhood. They usually do it when they’re young, before they reach their fifth birthday. Sometimes they use anaesthesia and sometimes they don’t.”

  “Is that what you did to them?”

  “Please, let me finish. I don’t want to spoil the ending. It’s an interesting story.”

  The Boss looked around to see if anybody was listening before continuing. “We gave them an opportunity to tell us what we wanted to know. I had our interpreter ask them where the men were. First he asked them as a group, but nobody said anything. A couple of the girls started crying. So I had him ask the
m one by one. The mothers and the daughters. Still nothing.

  “I started to get pissed. If I didn’t find out where the men were, we would all be in danger, not just us, but all of our men in the area. I had to get the information. I had a responsibility to my men.

  “So I grabbed one of the girls and dragged her to the bed in the corner. Then I told four of my men to take an arm or a leg to hold her down. I started ripping off her clothes and told one of the men to go into the truck and get a pair of pliers. When he gave them to me, I took out my knife and clamped her clit with the pliers. By then all the women and children were screaming so loud it was hurting my ears. My men were having trouble holding the girl down. She was only about 50 pounds, but she was yelling and twisting like crazy.

  “I told the interpreter to ask them one last time where their men were. Before he could even finish his sentence they all pointed north. They were jabbering away, spilling their guts out. The interpreter said the men were a few kilometers north of town.

  “What did you do then? Did you let her go?”

  “No, I figured that since I already had my knife out I might as well finish what I had started. I sliced off her clit and tossed it on the floor.”

  Wellington gasped. The Boss smiled, reminiscing. “She was bleeding like a stuck pig. We couldn’t stop the bleeding. I wanted to light up a Koran and cram it between her legs to cauterize the wound, but the general told us we shouldn’t burn Korans, so I told one of the men to go to the truck and bring me a newspaper. When he came back, I lit it and stuffed it between her legs. It worked. The bleeding stopped.

  “Then we left and headed north. We found the men from the village, about 20 of them. We ordered an air strike, which got most of them. We took care of the rest of them ourselves.”

  The Boss looked at his watch. “It’s getting late. I’ve got to go. I have a date tonight.”

  With that, the conversation ended. They walked toward the parking garage without saying another word. Wellington wondered what he should do if Tomás refused to obey a direct order. The Boss wasn’t used to that. It was obvious to Wellington that he wouldn’t tolerate his authority being questioned.