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

by Robert W. McGee

  “Well, Bob, I’m waiting for your answer.”

  Paige had to say something. He didn’t have a choice. He knew what he had to say if he wanted to stay alive.

  “OK, I’m with you, but I think you’re making a mistake. You should be going after bigger fish. Professors and journalists don’t do nearly as much damage as some of the people in Washington. They’re the ones you should be going after.”

  He hoped what he said convinced Wellington he was a loyal member of the team. If Wellington wasn’t convinced, he would still be in danger.

  “That’s a good suggestion. I’ll tell the Boss. However, the people in Washington are too far away. Although we think globally, we have to act locally.”

  Paige hoped he had convinced Wellington of his loyalty. What he said bought him some time, but time was running out for Steinman. He had to figure out a way to prevent Steinman’s killing while keeping himself alive.

  81

  Tom Garrett

  “When you see that in order to produce, you need to obtain permission from men who produce nothing—when you see that money is flowing to those who deal, not in goods, but in favors—when you see that men get richer by graft and by pull than by work, and your laws don't protect you against them, but protect them against you—when you see corruption being rewarded and honesty becoming a self-sacrifice—you may know that your society is doomed.”

  Ayn Rand

  Tom Garrett had represented Florida in the U.S. Senate for more than 20 years, long enough to acquire sufficient seniority to chair several important committees. With seniority comes power, but even Senators without much seniority had a certain amount of power. Sometimes they abused it. Senator Garrett started abusing it during his first term.

  “Frank, I really think you need to get with the program. If you want me to help you, you’re going to have to help me. I don’t think a million dollars in a suitcase is beyond what you’re capable of. After all, you run a goddamn bank.”

  Garrett was speaking to Frank Carbone, the president of one of the ten largest banks in America. They were in Garrett’s Washington office. Carbone’s bank wanted to open dozens of branches in Florida and Georgia. Getting permission would be worth hundreds of millions of dollars. Garrett was using his influence to block the approval process. Carbone was visiting Garrett to try to persuade him to change his mind. It was not his first visit.

  “I’m sorry Senator. I just can’t do that. It would be too risky. I couldn’t just go into the vault and take it. I’d have to get other people involved. I don’t know who I can trust. One of them might blow the whistle. Besides, the auditors might catch it. We have pretty good internal controls.”

  “Well, I’m sorry you can’t do it, Frank. Maybe one of your competitors will be interested in expanding into Florida. It’s a great state, you know.” Garrett took a puff on his cigar, then placed it in his ashtray. It smelled like an expensive brand. Smoking in the office was prohibited everywhere else in America, but not in his office. Senators didn’t have to obey the laws like the rest of us. He got out of his chair and walked Carbone to the front door.

  As he passed by the reception desk on the way back to his office, he said, “Betty, please tell Ken I want to see him.” Ken Tolleson was Senator Garrett’s special assistant. His main task was to make things happen. He was very good at it.

  Ken walked in a few minutes later. “Ken, close the door and have a seat.”

  “Frank Carbone isn’t being cooperative. We need to convince him to change his mind.”

  “I suppose you have an incentive plan you would like me to present to him?”

  “Yes, I do, actually, but not directly to him. He has to go out of the country two or three times a month on bank business. He’s negotiating a big merger in Western Europe. He has to fly back and forth. I want you to see that his passport gets revoked.”

  “Uh, how can I do that without raising a lot of eyebrows at the State Department?”

  “It’s simple. You don’t have to go through the State Department. We snuck in a provision as part of a highway bill that allows the IRS to revoke a passport if someone is involved in a tax dispute. Call our contact at the IRS and have them start a tax dispute with him. Make sure that they revoke his passport as part of the deal. Do it today. I want to get this ball rolling … and tell them not to notify him about any of it. Not the tax dispute. Not the passport revocation. Let’s let him find out about it the next time he goes to the airport. It will be a nice little surprise.”

  Ken smiled. “I’m sure it will.”

  “After it happens, give him a call to make sure he knows who pulled the plug and what he has to do to get it unpulled. You might also point out that we are being kind to him. We could have waited until he was out of the country before revoking his passport. If it’s revoked when he’s out of the country, he wouldn’t be able to get back in. If he takes it to court, it will take years to resolve. The bank will fire him long before that because he won’t be able to do his job. Point that out to him.”

  The Senator sat back in his cushy, black leather chair, took a puff on his cigar and smiled. Ken smiled back. “I’m on it.” As he got out of his chair he gave the Senator a thumbs-up, turned around and left. The fact that the passport law deprived citizens of the right to travel without due process didn’t seem to faze either of them. Nor did the abuse of power. They merely saw the law as a tool to be used to get what they wanted.

  82

  “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”

  Martin Luther King

  “Teach your kids about taxes. Eat 30% of their ice cream.”

  Unknown

  “I’m sorry Mr. Carbone. Your passport has been revoked. I have been instructed not to return it to you.”

  It was the supervisor at the American Airlines desk at the Miami International Airport who gave Carbone the bad news. When Frank Carbone attempted to check in for his flight to Brussels, the computer kicked up a message that his passport had been revoked by the Internal Revenue Service and that it was to be confiscated.

  Carbone’s jaw dropped when he heard the news.

  “That can’t be. There must be some kind of mistake. Does the computer say why it was revoked or who revoked it?”

  “All it says is that the Internal Revenue Service revoked it because of a tax dispute. The notice doesn’t say anything about taking you into custody. You are free to go. You should check with the IRS to resolve the problem. I’m sorry, but you will not be able to get on the plane to Brussels today.”

  Carbone was both furious and worried, furious because the IRS was abusing its power and worried about the consequences of not getting on the plane. Not being able to attend the meeting in Brussels could prove to be disastrous for the planned merger. He could send one of his senior vice presidents but it wouldn’t be the same. The bank needed to send its top guy. Sending someone lower on the corporate echelon would send the wrong message and would greatly weaken the bank’s bargaining position.

  If the word got out that the bank president’s passport had been revoked, it would send a chill through Wall Street. The Securities and Exchange Commission and the Federal bank auditors would be fighting it out over which of them would be in charge of the bank audit, which there surely would be. The bank’s stock price would drop. Merger talks could be cancelled. He would be under pressure to resign. He couldn’t let that happen, but he didn’t know what to do.

  He started to sweat, even though the airport air conditioning made the place uncomfortably chilly. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead and wiped his hand on his expensive suit jacket. The main lobby was busy and noisy, but he didn’t hear any of it. He was too busy thinking about what had just happened, and what he could do about it.

  As a stopgap measure, he took the cell phone out of his pocket and called Nick Botten, the senior vice president who was most familiar with the merger negotiations.

  “Nick, this is Frank. Do you have your passport wit
h you?”

  “No, I don’t carry it with me. I keep it at home. Why do you ask?”

  “I’ve run into a problem at the airport. They won’t let me get on the plane. Some kind of administrative glitch. You have to go to the Brussels meeting in my place. Book the next flight out, go home, get your passport and get your ass to the airport. Call me as soon as you get your passport and I’ll brief you on the strategy I planned on using at the meeting.”

  “OK. What should I tell the people in Brussels? They’ll be asking why the president couldn’t make it.”

  “I don’t know what we’ll tell them. We’ll think of something. We can talk about it later.”

  “OK. I’ll book my flight and get my passport.”

  “Have your secretary book your goddamn flight. We don’t have a lot of time to waste. If you don’t get your passport and get on a plane in the next few hours, you’ll have to wait until tomorrow, and that will be too late.”

  “OK. I’ll call as soon as I have my passport.”

  Carbone was worried. He didn’t want to think about the problems his lack of a passport would cause. He didn’t know how to fix the problem. He didn’t even know the IRS was investigating him or that he had a tax problem. Someone in the bank’s tax department always filed his tax return for him as a courtesy. If someone screwed up, there would be hell to pay, but that was the least of his worries at the moment.

  He didn’t know what his next move should be. He knew that contacting the IRS should be high on the list, but calling their direct number would probably put him into an endless loop. He didn’t know who to talk to and whoever would be on the other end of the line probably wouldn’t know, either. He hadn’t had to deal with this low level administrative crap in years. One of the nice things about being the president is that you can delegate such details to underlings. That’s what he decided to do.

  He took out his cell phone and was about to call the vice president who was in charge of tax matters, but before he could push any buttons, his phone rang. He looked at the screen. It was Ken Tolleson.

  “Hello, Mr. Carbone? This is Ken Tolleson, Senator Garrett’s administrative assistant.”

  “I know who you are. What do you want?” Carbone’s voice was more than a little hostile. He wanted to strangle someone but didn’t know who. Maybe Tolleson would be a good first choice, followed by the esteemed Senator. Unfortunately, they were both out of his grasp at the moment.

  “The Senator has heard that you are having a tax problem. He would like to help.”

  Son of a bitch, Carbone thought. The cat was out of the bag. Now he knew who was causing the problem.

  “Oh, he did, did he? That’s very interesting because I didn’t know I had a tax problem until a few minutes ago.”

  “Well, as you know Mr. Carbone, you are one of the Senator’s favorite people and he wants to see that you are taken good care of.”

  “Tell the Senator that I appreciate his concern.”

  “I’ll be sure to convey that message to the Senator. By the way, the Senator has a message for you.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “The Senator suggests that you visit Washington sometime next week, whenever it’s convenient for you. He won’t be able to meet with you because he’s too busy, but he suggested that I meet with you to welcome you to the city.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of him. Will you be picking me up at the airport?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary because you won’t be arriving by plane. The Senator thinks that carrying a suitcase full of paper with photos of Ben Franklin on them might be difficult to explain to the TSA in the event they should decide to search your luggage.” He was referring to hundred dollar bills. “Perhaps Amtrak would be a good alternative. You can catch it from Penn Station in New York. It’s a pleasant ride.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it is.”

  “Good. Then we’re agreed?”

  “Yes.” Carbone didn’t have much of an alternative. If he didn’t comply, his career would be ruined. It was also in the best interest of the bank to go along. He didn’t know how he would get a million dollars in cash but he would find a way. He had to. “I’ll call you after I book my ticket.”

  “That would be great. Talk to you soon.”

  83

  “When injustice becomes law, rebellion becomes duty.”

  Thomas Jefferson

  Jim Bennett had been able to learn Senator Garrett’s schedule. It was an easy task for an FBI agent. Santos Hernandez used his TSA position to get his flight information. All that remained was for Wellington to carry out the assignment. He was looking forward to it because he thought Senator Garrett was scum, although he didn’t know the full extent of his sliminess.

  He was being targeted primarily because of his support for bailouts, which were bankrupting America, and for pushing the Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac agenda, which caused the American mortgage market to collapse, and with it, the loss of millions of American jobs. His enthusiasm for deficit spending was watering down the value of the dollar and causing America to become disrespected internationally, not to mention making more Americans dependent on government handouts. There was no doubt in Wellington’s mind that Garrett was one of the biggest termites gnawing away at the American infrastructure. Killing him wouldn’t solve the termite problem but it would be a step in the right direction.

  He needed a wing man or, more precisely, someone to drive so he could get a better aim at the Senator. He had already decided how to do it. He would wait until the Senator left the airport and follow his car. He would decide when to pop him based on traffic patterns.

  He considered Bennett but decided against it. Bennett might be busy. He never knew in advance when his FBI schedule would have an opening, and ever since Nelson Fuller got whacked, he had a full plate. He was assigned to the team to find the assassin.

  Santos Hernandez worked shifts at the TSA. He usually knew in advance what his schedule would be, and he was scheduled to work the night Senator Garrett was to arrive. He wouldn’t be available, unless the plan to take out the Senator was postponed. Wellington didn’t want to postpone it. He wanted to take care of the Senator as soon as practically possible so he and his team could move down the list and add more names.

  The only one left was Tomás Gutierrez. He was mostly a 9-to-5 guy. His job at Carnival Cruise Lines didn’t require much overtime. He got off at 5pm and the Senator wasn’t scheduled to arrive until shortly after seven. He could check the plane’s arrival on his cell phone. He knew approximately where the Senator would arrive and where he would get in the car that would be waiting for him. He even knew what the car would look like, since Senator Garrett followed a regular pattern. The same car and the same driver were usually assigned to pick him up whenever he flew to Miami.

  The plane was scheduled to arrive at 7:05pm. He probably wouldn’t have any check-in luggage, since he had a home in Miami and he was scheduled to return to Washington in two days. Wellington wanted to make sure he wouldn’t be using his return ticket.

  ***

  Friday night. Wellington looked at his watch - 6:45. Garrett would arrive in 20 minutes if his plane was on time. Gutierrez sat behind the wheel. Wellington waited in the back seat. He had more flexibility there because he could shoot out the left or right side, depending on which was more suitable, given the circumstances.

  The plan was to follow him out of the airport, pull up next to him and shoot him when the time seemed right. His home was in Coral Gables, so he would likely be heading in that direction after leaving the airport. If things went according to plan, he would be picked up by a late model black Lincoln Town Car, one of the cars the taxpayers leased for his Miami office.

  Wellington checked the arrivals on his cell phone. It was scheduled to arrive on time. They waited in a parking area just outside the airport. Ten minutes before the plane was to land, Gutierrez pulled out and drove toward the terminal where the senator’s car would be waiting. There we
re a few empty spaces just before the door where Senator Garrett was expected to exit. Gutierrez pulled over and they waited.

  Wellington was going to use a shotgun to do the job. He hid it under a blanket on the floor of the back seat to hide it from view, in the event that one of the traffic cops at the arrivals terminal wandered by and peeked inside. They were both carrying FBI badges, in case someone in uniform told them they had to move.

  The shotgun he had chosen wasn’t a regular shotgun, and neither were the shells he planned to use. The AA12 was a military grade, 12 gauge shotgun, capable of firing up to 300 rounds per minute. The shells were Frag 12s. They weren’t really shotgun shells at all. They were more like miniature grenades that had a 9 foot burst radius. They exploded on impact. You didn’t have to actually hit the target to be effective. You just had to come close.

  He wasn’t planning on using more than one or two of them. That was all he would need to do the job. The blast would likely take out the driver as well, but he figured that anyone who worked for Garrett probably needed to be exterminated anyway. It wasn’t a problem for him. He just had to pick a place where there wasn’t much traffic, and that wouldn’t be easy to do on a Friday night. He didn’t want to kill any civilians when the car started careening out of control at 60 or 70 miles per hour.

  Wellington and Gutierrez waited just before the gate. The black Lincoln Town Car wasn’t anywhere to be seen. It must not have arrived yet, which was unusual because the Senator didn’t like to be kept waiting. The driver would have to face a flurry of verbal abuse if he didn’t get there before the Senator. The Senator didn’t know how to treat the help. He verbally abused them on a regular basis. His office had a high turnover rate as a result.

  After ten minutes, the town car still had not arrived. Senator Garrett emerged from the gate, carrying nothing but a briefcase, and got into the front seat of a red Toyota waiting for him at the curb.