Turetsky continued. “Steinman’s a mixed bag. Although some of his present activities don’t help the cause, we mustn’t forget that he’s a strong supporter of Israel, and that he’s vocal about it in the media. I think his support counterbalances his other activities.”
Gelman chimed in, “This whole thing would never have happened if the TSA had adopted the techniques we use to screen passengers. Rather than strip search nine year-old boys and grandmothers with colostomy bags, they should focus their attention on the real threat, which is Muslims.”
“Yeah, but the Americans are overly sensitive about profiling people. They’d rather strip search a thousand grandmothers than offend a single Muslim.” The Americans’ lack of logic on this point baffled Turetsky. He had difficulty understanding the American view that all people should be treated equally.
Gelman interrupted. “We could talk all day about the way Americans do things but that wouldn’t get us any closer to resolving this problem.” Although everyone in the room was an American citizen, they were also Israeli citizens. From the tone of their conversation, it was clear that their ultimate loyalty was with Israel rather than the United States.
Gelman continued. “What are our other options? Let’s make a list. Let’s think of everything we can possibly do, even if it doesn’t sound realistic at first. We can always cross those options off the list later.” He looked at his watch. It was approaching 10 pm.
“Make sure that assisting them to execute Steinman is one of the options on the list.”
“Yes, Rachel, we’ll include that on the list for now.” Turetsky said it, but he had already crossed that option off the list in his mind, both because he thought Steinman needed to be saved and because the CIA didn’t need any help killing a professor. If they needed help with such a low level target, he thought there was no hope for western civilization.
Rachel turned toward Turetsky. “We should also consider liquidating all of them, since they are all a bunch of little Steinmans. We could let them kill Steinman or we could execute all of them ourselves. I can do it at the next meeting.” Rachel’s energy level had increased, in sharp contrast to the other people in the room, who were sitting and trying to have a rational discussion of the options.
Gelman had to say something. Rachel was getting out of control. “I don’t think that’s a realistic option. We shouldn’t be in the business of snuffing every person who advocates doing something that’s not in Israel’s best interest. All options involving killing Steinman are off the table.”
Rachel became visibly upset, but she hadn’t given up on the idea.
Turetsky felt compelled to end his silence. “One option would be to warn Steinman. If he knew he was a target he could do things to protect himself. He could take some defensive actions.” He was talking off the top of his head. This option had just popped into his head. He hadn’t had time to think out the details.
Gelman turned toward Turetsky. “What defensive actions could he take? He doesn’t know when or where it would happen. He doesn’t know who would do it. The only realistic thing he could do would be to get out of town, and I don’t think he’d consider doing that.” Gelman was thinking logically. Although he had never met Steinman, he put himself in Steinman’s shoes, thinking about what Steinman would do in the situation.
“What’s more likely is that he’d hold a press conference to broadcast the fact that he is being targeted, and use that as an opportunity to push his agenda.” Turetsky had studied Steinman enough to be able to predict his most likely reaction. “On second thought, I don’t think telling Steinman he’s being targeted would be a good idea. He couldn’t really do anything to protect himself, but he could complicate things for us. My contact at the CIA expects us to keep this information to ourselves. He told us in confidence, as a courtesy. If Steinman held a press conference, they could guess where he got the information.”
“Another option would be to liquidate the CIA people who are trying to snuff Steinman. If we kill the killers, Steinman and his band of little shits could continue to live.” Rachel was half joking. It was a way for her to vent her frustration.
Gelman responded quickly. “Rachel, that’s not a realistic option. Targeting CIA people would be counterproductive. Besides, we don’t know which CIA people to target, and even if we did manage to kill the right people, they’d be replaced by people we probably don’t know.”
“Not to mention the fact that the CIA wouldn’t let us get away with wasting their people… and they’d do much more than merely file a protest, if you know what I mean.”
“You have a point, Sergei. That option is off the table. One thing we could do is protest to the CIA one or two levels up the chain of command. Maybe we could have a meeting with some of them and try to persuade them not to do it.”
“That’s an option. However, I don’t think it would be effective. From the discussion I had with my CIA contact, I got the feeling that there was no room for negotiation or conciliation on this hit. They merely informed us as a courtesy.”
“You’re probably right. So it looks like our plan for now is to do nothing, but to keep our eyes and ears open. Maybe we can come up with something. If not, Steinman’s small potatoes. We can’t allow this incident to interfere with the fairly good relations we’ve built up with the local CIA office.” Gelman spoke like a leader, seeing things from the broader perspective, much like Meyer Lansky did in The Godfather when the Corleones told him about their plans to terminate two of his low-level soldiers.
Gelman continued. “Let’s put a tail on Paige. See what he’s up to and who he’s spending time with. I think we have some time. Let’s see what we can find out.”
“OK. I have someone in mind. I’ll get right on it tomorrow morning.”
Gelman looked at his watch. “It’s getting late. I think we’ve made some progress. Let’s go home.”
They got up and left. Turetsky turned off the lights on his way out. Rachel was extremely upset. All the options she favored had been crossed off the list. She thought she might have to take matters into her own hands.
60
Sveta and Paige were having lunch at the Olive Garden in Aventura. He liked the Olive Garden for several reasons. The food was pretty good, the prices weren’t bad, and if he ate there, he wouldn’t have to cook. Besides, it was close to where Sveta worked, so he wouldn’t have to eat alone. One possible negative - you couldn’t smell the food. The ventilation system sucked up the smells of the food before it could reach your nostrils.
Another negative was that it sometimes took 30-45 minutes to get a table. That wasn’t the case today, though, which was a good thing, because Sveta had to get back to work.
“Robert, you seem a little distant lately. Is there something wrong?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I was just thinking about a project.”
“You’ve been thinking about projects a lot lately. You’ve been especially quiet for the last few weeks.”
Usually, when Paige thought about a project, it was a writing project. He always worked on several articles as well as a book or two at the same time. It was a built-in excuse he always had, although this time he was thinking about the Steinman project, and how he had to find out if Wellington intended to have Steinman killed.
Sveta was right. Ever since he met with Wellington about his new assignment, he had been more contemplative than usual. Sometimes he thought about getting out, resigning his position with the Company. He was only a part-timer, anyway. He wasn’t that valuable an asset to them. He could probably be replaced easily. He might even be able to help find his own replacement. Sveta didn’t know about his part-time job with the CIA. No one did.
“Sorry. I’ll try to be more attentive. I’ll try to think of my projects only when you’re not around.”
“You shouldn’t have to try to be more attentive, Robert. It should come naturally.”
“You’re right. What I meant to say was …”
“Robert
, you should quit while you’re behind.” She smiled as she said it. She caressed his hand as she continued. “You don’t have to try to sweet talk me. It’s not like you’re trying to get into my pants. You’ve already been there, and I may let you in there again if you would say a few nice words now and then.” Her Russian accent made the words sound especially cute.
Actually, he often got to say only a few words now and then. Sveta always did most of the talking. He liked that about her. He enjoyed being with a woman who could carry on a pleasant conversation, even if most of it came from her end.
“What kind of project were you thinking about? Is it something that I can help with?”
Paige had discussed his projects with her before, on many occasions. She could almost always understand the gist of them, and could often offer insights that he hadn’t considered. Although her main subject in school was mathematics, the Russian curriculum also included mandatory courses in philosophy, history, economics and sociology, all from a Marxist perspective. It was part of the indoctrination process the Soviets imposed on their people.
“I’m doing a series of articles on the ethics of tax evasion. I’m looking at some of the arguments that have been used historically to justify tax evasion on moral grounds.”
“Tax evasion is always justified in Russia, but never justified in America. The government here is good. We need to support it. Why do you need to do a series of articles about it? Two or three sentences should be enough.” Sveta was very patriotic and appreciated the opportunities that America had to offer, in spite of her worries about the direction the country was taking.
“It’s a little more complicated than that. What if the government’s engaged in an unjust war? Is there a moral obligation to pay for it just because you live in America?”
“Like the war in Iraq? That was a really stupid war. There weren’t any weapons of mass destruction. Al-qaeda wasn’t in that country until after we got rid of Saddam Hussein. We shouldn’t have gone in there.” Sveta got especially upset about the war in Iraq because she knew someone whose son got killed there.
“Yes, that’s one example. During the Vietnam War years, some people protested and refused to pay taxes to support the war.”
“But how could they do that? Taxes are taken out of their paycheck before they even see the money.”
“That’s right. That’s one reason why their efforts failed. They did it mostly to publicize their opposition to the war.”
He continued. “I have an even better example of when tax evasion can be morally justified. If you’re a Jew living in Nazi Germany and Hitler is the tax collector.”
“Of course. You could even argue that Jews had a moral duty not to pay taxes to Hitler. And non-Jews, too.”
Paige shifted in his chair. “How do you feel about paying Social Security taxes so that the elderly can have pensions?”
“Social Security is a terrible investment. I have to pay and young people have to pay, but the system will be bankrupt before I retire. I won’t get any of my money back and neither will the young people.”
“Would you evade paying for it if you could?”
“Of course, there’s no moral duty to pay such taxes, but it’s not possible to evade them.”
Paige responded, “That’s one of the nice things about philosophy. You can ask theoretical questions without having to come up with solutions.”
“Robert, I think you’ve taken too many philosophy classes. It’s a good thing you also studied accounting or you would be starving.”
Perhaps it was true. In addition to his studies in accounting, taxation and law, Paige had also taken a PhD in philosophy at the University of Bradford in England as part of the self-improvement program he had imposed on himself. It wasn’t as marketable as an accounting PhD, but that didn’t matter. He had never considered being a philosophy professor because of the massive pay cut he would have had to take. He liked philosophy for its own sake. He took a PhD in ethics at Leeds Metropolitan University for the same reason. He was able to do both degrees as an external student.
The waitress came over to take their order. Their favorite waitress, Michelle, wasn’t on duty that day, but the waitress they had was pretty good, and more than fairly attractive. Graciela was tall for a Puerto Rican, or Boricua, as they call themselves. She had brilliant white teeth, made whiter by her dark brown skin. Her medium length black hair, black eyes and eyebrows gave her a sensual and mysterious look. Her long French manicured nails made her look like a fashion model. She liked waitressing at the Olive Garden because it provided the flexible schedule she needed to attend classes at the Florida International University law school.
The room was chilly. The air conditioning was cranked up too high. Sveta put on a sweater. She usually carried one with her when she went to the Olive Garden because of the air conditioning.
As the waitress walked away, Paige noticed someone looking at him from two tables away. As soon as they made eye contact, this mysterious person looked away, picked up his fork and started fumbling around with the food on his plate. He was sitting alone.
Not the kind of person who stood out in a crowd. In fact, he was hardly noticeable and not at all threatening. He appeared to be in his early forties, with thinning hair and pasty white skin, and a rather large nose that supported rimless glasses. Apparently he had been avoiding the sun all his life. He looked like an accountant, the kind the firm would keep in a back room with a pencil and calculator, away from the clients. Paige’s former Yiddish speaking clients would probably refer to him as a nebbish.
Paige thought there was something familiar about him, like he had seen him before, but he couldn’t remember where. Maybe at a continuing education seminar of the Florida Institute of Certified Public Accountants. He would fit right in.
Paige and Sveta continued their conversation and finished their meals. Paige had some kind of Cajun fish. It was tasty, but also a little on the spicy side. He usually had to blow his nose once or twice whenever he ordered it because of the effect it had on his nostrils. Sveta had ordered a salad with two or three kinds of lunchmeat slices in it. Her clothes had been fitting a little tighter than usual lately, which gave her the signal she needed to lose a few pounds.
Sveta looked at her watch. “Oh, I’d better go. I have to get back to work.” She had an hour for lunch but no one really kept track of how long she was out. She put in more than the required 40 hours a week anyway, so she didn’t feel guilty about taking a long lunch occasionally. One time, shortly after starting at her current employer, her boss mentioned that she came back late from lunch and suggested that she not take more than the allotted sixty minutes, at which point she suggested that maybe she would start going home at precisely five o’clock from that point forward. He got the message and never raised the issue again.
They walked out the door and Paige escorted her to her car. She gave him a little peck on the cheek and caressed his arm. Then she whispered into his ear, “Call me this evening. I won’t be too busy.”
As Paige turned around and started walking to his car, he saw the little nebbish looking at him again. He stood about 50 feet away, just outside the restaurant. As soon as Paige spotted him, he looked away rather guiltily and started walking toward the next line of cars.
Paige wondered if he was being followed and who might have placed the tail on him. His first thought was Wellington. He decided to confront him. He picked up his phone and dialed him up. He was on speed dial.
“John? Hi. It’s Bob Paige. Can I stop by this afternoon? There’s something I’d like to talk to you about. Which office are you at today?” He tried not to sound angry, but couldn’t conceal it completely.
“Bob, you sound upset about something. Anything we can talk about on the phone?”
“No, this is something we should discuss in person. It’s probably nothing, but we shouldn’t discuss it over the phone.”
“I agree. I’m at the downtown office today.”
�
�OK. I’ll be there in about 45 minutes.” It usually took him that long to get to downtown Miami from Aventura, sometimes less, depending on traffic. He had to go to the Commerce Department office on SW 1st Avenue. He really didn’t want to waste two hours of his day going back and forth, but he didn’t see any alternative. He forgot to check which car the nebbish had gotten into. A professional wouldn’t have made that mistake, but he wasn’t a professional.
Since he didn’t know what kind of car to look for, he did the next best thing. As he turned onto Biscayne Boulevard, northbound, he shot into traffic, then turned into the first gas station he could find. He filled up his tank, which was already about three-quarters full. If the nebbish were following him, he would probably be waiting for him in the next mini mall on Biscayne Boulevard. Rather than getting back onto Biscayne, he took a side street, then a few more side streets, meandering toward I-95. After a few minutes, he got on I-95, heading south.
He pulled into the parking garage closest to the Commerce Department’s offices 53 minutes later. As he got into the elevator he thought about how he should open the conversation. Maybe a punch. But he wasn’t sure that Wellington was guilty. Even if he was guilty, he might not admit it. He could be a shifty character when he had to be. A good trait if you work for the CIA.
61
“Hi Bob.” Wellington held out his hand for the customary handshake. “You sounded upset about something. What is it?”
Wellington looked genuinely concerned. Paige was more than just a part-time underling. He was also a friend, not to mention the person who recruited him for the CIA. He motioned for Paige to sit down as he walked toward the door and closed it.
“Someone was observing Sveta and me at the Olive Garden today. Did you send him?”
“No, why would I do that?”
Wellington looked and sounded genuinely surprised, first because Paige was being followed and secondly because Paige had accused him of being the one to put the tail on him. He looked Paige directly in the eyes and leaned forward in his chair, placing both elbows on his desk.
Justifiable Homicide: A Political Thriller (Robert Paige Thrillers Book 1) Page 19
