Justifiable Homicide: A Political Thriller (Robert Paige Thrillers Book 1) (16 page)

“Of course. You know that’s all I do.”

“How about if we meet at Bayfront Park, by the Anton Cermak plaque?” Less than a mile from Wellington’s Commerce Department office on SW 1
^st
Avenue. A convenient walk for Wellington. He didn’t care if it was convenient for Sergei.

“The Anton Cermak plaque? Are you trying to tell me something?”

Anton Cermak, former mayor of Chicago, got assassinated in 1933 at the site of the plaque while riding with the newly elected president, FDR. Giuseppe Zangara, an Italian immigrant, took aim at Roosevelt but missed. Historians speculate about what the United States might be like today if Zangara had been a better shot.

“Maybe. I’ll let you speculate about it. It will give you something to think about besides shiksas.”

“You’re a funny goy … I mean guy. I’ll see you at five.” Sergei hung up, took another taste of his coffee and enjoyed the heat of the Miami sun on his face. But he felt a little worried. He had a feeling that whatever Wellington had planned would complicate his life.

Wellington arrived first. Turetsky arrived a few minutes later. Tall, just under six feet, slender and athletic looking, with short black hair, in his early thirties, he had a five o’clock shadow, which seemed appropriate because it was five o’clock. Wellington could hear the sound of traffic in the distance and smell the hot dogs and sausages being cooked by a vendor fifty feet away.

“Hi, Sergei.” Wellington extended his hand.

“Hi, John. What’s so urgent? Is something about to happen?”

Wellington looked serious. Turetsky sensed that he didn’t want to hear what was about to come out of his mouth.

“I don’t know quite when it will happen, but yes, something is about to happen. Do you know who Saul Steinman is?”

Turetsky’s face lit up. “Of course. He’s on television practically every week. Do you have something unfortunate planned for him?”

“Actually, we do. He’s going to meet an untimely demise. We thought we should let you know, out of courtesy. It’s not something that is negotiable.” Wellington looked into Turetsky’s eyes, checking his response.

“What did he do? Why are you targeting him?” He looked concerned, like they were about to kill a friend.

“The Company thinks he’s a national security risk. That’s all I can say.”

Turetsky became animated. “A national security risk? He’s a fucking professor!”

“Yeah, he’s a professor on the surface, but he’s also a national security risk.”

In their own minds, Wellington and his Boss considered anyone who criticized the government’s war on terror to be a national security risk. The fact that Steinman also tried to provide housing for the families the Israelis had made homeless as a result of their collective punishment policy merely bumped Steinman to the top of the list.

“You know my people won’t like this. He’s an outspoken supporter of Israel, although he’s also a little quirky at times. We don’t like our supporters getting silenced, especially by the American government.” Actually, Turetsky had mixed feelings about Steinman. He was aware of his humanitarian work with the Palestinians, and while he didn’t exactly approve of that work, he wasn’t too strongly against it either.

“Yes, I know. It’s unfortunate, but it’s in Israel’s best interest too. I’m not at liberty to tell you anything more.”

“If it’s in Israel’s best interest, too, you had
better
give me more details. You know my superiors are going to ask. What am I supposed to tell them? They won’t just let this slide.”

After hearing that comment, Wellington regretted making the courtesy call. If they had just killed him without telling Mossad, they would hear the news at the same time as everyone else, be sad for a day or two, then move on to more pressing matters. They would never suspect the CIA, since the CIA doesn’t kill Americans, or at least it didn’t until recently. Recent laws and executive branch decisions now allowed the assassination of Americans on American soil without a trial or any kind of due process. It was one of the things Steinman ranted and raved about, because it pulled America further down the path toward totalitarianism.

“You’ll have to trust me on this, Sergei. I’m really not at liberty to say anything else. If it makes it any easier, you can just forget we had this conversation. Your superiors don’t have to know.”

Unknown to Wellington, Turetsky was wearing a wire. The whole conversation had been recorded in a van a few hundred feet away. Sergei began to regret he told Mossad about their meeting.

“You know I can’t do that, John. I have to report it. Maybe they’ll just accept it, although I doubt it. How did you find out he’s a national security risk?”

“We have a mole planted in his little discussion circle.” Actually, the mole was Paige, and Paige didn’t become a part of Steinman’s circle until earlier that day. At this point he hadn’t attended a single meeting. The Boss had decided that Steinman needed to be eliminated based solely on his television appearances, writing, and fund-raising for Palestinian refugees.

Sergei sighed. “OK.” He pretended to accept the bad news. “Thank you for letting us know.”

But he didn’t just accept the news. As he walked away, he started thinking about how to make the plan fail. The problem was that he didn’t know when or where it would happen. He decided to plant a mole of his own, although he didn’t know if it might already be too late.

“Aaron, it’s Sergei. I’ve got to talk to you.” Sergei called Aaron Gelman, his boss at Mossad. Gelman’s family came to New York from Belgium after World War II. They moved to Miami in the 1950s. Aaron was the product of a mixed marriage. His mother was an Orthodox Jew. His father was a Reform Jew.

“So talk, already.”

“It has to be in person.”

“Can’t it wait?” Aaron looked at his watch. He wanted to go home.

“I suppose it can wait until Monday, but it will only take five minutes, maybe three. Are you in the office?”

“Yes, but I’m getting ready to leave.”

“I can be there in ten minutes.”

“OK, but hurry. Shona is expecting me home for dinner.”

“OK. I’ll be right there.”

Sergei got in the van and instructed the driver to take him to Gelman’s office, one of the tall, glass buildings in the Brickell section.

He arrived fourteen minutes later, took a seat, and related the details of the planned Steinman hit. Gelman fidgeted while Sergei spoke. His mind was on getting home to Shona before the sun went down. It would be Shabbos in a few hours. Sergei’s story was complicating his life.

At the conclusion of the presentation, Gelman sat silently, clasping his hands together, his two index fingers together placed under his nose with his thumbs under his chin. “OK. We have three options. One, we can do nothing, in which case Steinman is dead. Two, we can kill the CIA guys who are planning this hit, in which case the shit will hit the fan. First of all, we don’t know when it’s going to happen or who’s going to do it, so that option is out. Besides, if something goes wrong, my boss’s boss will personally cut my balls off, and yours too. Three, we can do something else, but I don’t know what.”

Sergei shifted in his chair. “I like the third option.”

“Me too. We don’t know how much time we have, so we have to get started. Wellington said they have a mole. We need to have a mole of our own to track Steinman’s activities, especially those meetings. Maybe we can use this opportunity to learn something about his funneling money to the Palestinian terrorists.”

“How about Rachel Karshenboym? She’s a sociology professor at Miami Dade College. She would fit right in with his group. I’ve worked with her before. Her family came from Saint Petersburg, with stops in Tel Aviv and New York. She received some weapons training while in the Israeli army.”

“But she’s a woman. Does he have any women in his group?”

“I have no idea.”

“We have to try. Steinman likes women. I don’t think he would be able to say no.”

“Yeah, probably not. I’ll contact her and brief her.”

“OK. Keep me informed.”

“Of course.”

As they descended together on the elevator, Sergei had second thoughts about his choice of Rachel Karshenboym as a mole. She couldn’t be controlled the way he liked to control his people. She had a mind of her own. He began to think he had made a mistake.

James Young arrived at the Dade County Fairgrounds at 10 a.m. The gun show had just started. Floridians liked gun shows. They treated them like a family event.

Two representatives from
Oathkeepers.org
had set up shop close to the entrance and distributed their literature. James walked over to have a look.

“Hello, sir. How ya doin’ this fine morning?” He extended his hand to James and looked him in the eyes as he said it. He looked intimidating. Short. Shaved head. Tattoos. Scrawny. Wearing a T-shirt with a bunch of writing on it. The other guy wore a spiffy police uniform. Tall. Tanned. Muscular. They presented a stark visual contrast.

James shook his hand. He was afraid not to.

“Here. Please take our brochure. It will give you some information about our organization.

The scrawny one pointed to his shirt. “We’re called the Oathkeepers. Our membership includes current and former police, military, and other first responders who’ve taken an oath to uphold and defend the Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic. But unlike the politicians in Washington, we take our oath seriously. We refuse to obey unconstitutional orders, like disarming the American people, conducting warrantless searches, or detaining Americans as enemy combatants in violation of their right to a jury trial.”

James perked up when he heard that. He smiled. “I didn’t know that guys like you existed.”

He smiled. “Yes sir, we do. There are a lot of us, but we could always use a few more. Please consider becoming a member. Our brochure tells you how to join.”

“Thank you.” He took the brochure, then glanced at the guy’s T-shirt. There were so many words on it that they had to be in small print in order to all fit.

He noticed that James was trying to read it. “This is our statement of principles.” He stood up straight and gave James a chance to read it.

1. We will NOT obey orders to disarm the American people.
   
2. We will NOT obey orders to conduct warrantless searches of the American people.
   
3. We will NOT obey orders to detain American citizens as “unlawful enemy combatants” or to subject them to military tribunal.
   
4. We will NOT obey orders to impose martial law or a “state of emergency” on a state.
   
5. We will NOT obey orders to invade and subjugate any state that asserts its sovereignty.
   
6. We will NOT obey any order to blockade American cities, thus turning them into giant concentration camps.
   
7. We will NOT obey any order to force American citizens into any form of detention camps under any pretext.
   
8. We will NOT obey orders to assist or support the use of any foreign troops on U.S. soil against the American people to “keep the peace” or to “maintain control.”
   
9. We will NOT obey any orders to confiscate the property of the American people, including food and other essential supplies.
   
10. We will NOT obey any orders which infringe on the right of the people to free speech, to peaceably assemble, and to petition their government for a redress of grievances.
    

It took him a while to read all 10 of them.

“Well, sir. You have a nice day. Please consider joining.”

“Thank you. I will.”

James walked over to the ticket booth, bought a ticket, and entered the building. He felt empowered. This was still
his
country. The politicians and bureaucrats hadn’t taken it from him. Not yet, anyway.

He looked around to get his bearings. It was one large room, lined with rows of tables. Each table displayed something different. Some had pistols. Others had rifles or shotguns. A large red, white, and blue sign in the corner said AMMUNITION.

The guy at the gun shop told him to stay away from the licensed dealers. Look around for private individuals who were trying to sell guns. That way he wouldn’t have to go through a background check.

They would probably be carrying a bag to conceal the gun, or it would be in a sheath if it were a rifle or shotgun. He wanted a pistol. Something that would be easy to carry and conceal. An automatic, with a large clip.

He saw a few people who fit the description. One of them had just approached a middle-aged man standing at a table that displayed a variety of semi-automatic pistols. He opened his bag and the man took a peek inside, then shook his head. Apparently not interested. The guy with the bag started to walk away.

James followed him. The guy walked fairly fast. Jim stepped up his pace. After a few seconds, he got close enough to make contact.

“Excuse me. Are you selling something?”

The guy turned around when he heard Jim’s voice. He appeared to be in his fifties, slightly overweight with thinning gray hair.

“Yes. Would you like to take a look?” He opened a bag large enough to hold several weapons.

Jim looked inside. Two revolvers and one large semi-automatic pistol.

“How much for the semi-automatic?”

“I can give you a good deal on it. Three hundred and fifty, and I’ll throw in an extra clip.” He took it out of the bag and handed it to Jim. “It’s an MPA 10SST. Holds thirty rounds, plus one in the chamber, .45 ACP.”

Jim didn’t understand half of what the guy just said. It was heavier than what he wanted, but it would fit his purpose.

“OK. I’ll take it.” A seasoned gun buyer would have counter offered. Anybody who sells guns at a gun show is willing to take less than the initial asking price, but Jim didn’t know that. And he didn’t care. He just wanted to buy something and get out of there. He reached into his pocket and took out a wad of cash. It was from the stash Janet had been able to save from her part-time job. She didn’t know he’d taken it. She wouldn’t approve. She didn’t like guns, and they needed the money for food.