Justifiable Homicide: A Political Thriller (Robert Paige Thrillers Book 1) (18 page)

He got at the end of the line, and waited for his turn at the podium. The line was short. It would be his turn soon. He looked over at the search area as best he could. His view was partially obscured by the machines and the people ahead of him. He could see the woman who had pushed him aside and wheeled his mother into the private screening room. He couldn’t see Santos Hernandez.

He spotted two TSA agents with side arms, both off to the left just beyond the electronic scanners. There could be more. A few wore Kevlar vests.

They’d started wearing the vests and carrying firearms shortly after one of them got shot by a disgruntled patriot at the Los Angeles airport. There had been a few other shootings since then, and the frequency was starting to increase, but not to epidemic proportions. Most Americans still didn’t protest the warrantless searches and the verbal and physical abuse. Most still preferred to give up a little liberty in exchange for temporary security. But the TSA had started to get blowback from the small segment of the population that had had enough.

He didn’t know much about shooting people, but he did know that shooting someone in their Kevlar vest was a waste of time. Those people had to be shot in the head. He would shoot the ones carrying firearms first.

The woman ahead of him had just had her ticket and ID checked. He was next.

“Ticket, sir?” The TSA agent at the podium held out her hand to take his ticket. She looked Hispanic. Dark eyes. Black hair. In her early thirties. TSA uniform neatly pressed.

He reached into the bag, pulled out the pistol, and pumped a round into her chest. – BAM! — splattering her blood and flesh on the people behind her.

Everyone screamed. Panic. Scattering like cockroaches.

James ran through the scanner, setting it off, then turned to the left. The two armed agents stood there, in a panic, trying to draw their guns.

He aimed at the head of the closer one and squeezed the trigger. BLAM! He missed. He corrected his aim and squeezed off another round. This one hit him just below the left eye. His head exploded into red mist. James shifted his aim to the other agent. The shot caught him in the throat, just above his Kevlar protection.

The immediate threat was over, but it wouldn’t be long before other agents with guns would appear. He had to act fast.

Some travelers were still screaming.

“Don’t worry, folks. I’m only killing TSA agents today.”

The screaming stopped, but the looks of terror on their faces remained.

He looked around, trying to spot Santos Hernandez.

He turned to one of the male agents, pointing the gun at his face. The gun was getting heavy. He held it with both hands. In a slow, deliberate voice, he asked, “Where is Santos Hernandez?”

“He’s not here today. I don’t know where he is.”

Damn. I was really looking forward to killing that bastard. After all he did to me and my family. Well, I came here to kill as many TSA agents as I can. They’re all the same anyway. Just like cockroaches. It doesn’t matter where you start. Kill the closest one first.

With that, he took aim at the agent standing in front of him and squeezed the trigger. The agent’s brains splattered all over the agents next to him. Then he turned to the female agent who had pushed him aside three weeks earlier to grab his mother. He aimed the gun at her head. He focused on the spot between her eyebrows, just below her bangs. “Remember me?”

She looked puzzled by the question. She didn’t remember accosting him or his mother. She had assaulted so many people over the years that she no longer realized she was violating their rights.

“Three weeks ago you assaulted me and my mother. I came back to celebrate our anniversary.”

He squeezed the trigger again, but as he squeezed, she moved to the right. He missed her. The bullet caught the agent standing behind her in the shoulder, causing her to scream and fall to the floor. He turned toward her again, took aim, and fired two rounds into her chest.

He still had more than twenty rounds left in the first clip and another thirty rounds in the clip in his pocket. There were six agents remaining in his immediate area. He took them out one at a time with shots to the torso, going from right to left. Then he walked up to each of them, aimed at their head, and squeezed the trigger again.

He noticed the agent he had shot in the shoulder accidentally was still alive. Very much alive. She was propped up against the wall, holding her shoulder and whimpering. Staring at him in terror. He walked over to her and looked her directly in the eyes. She was in her early twenties, skinny, light brown skin, short black hair, a little kinked. Some kind of mixed race. Caucasian and something else. Maybe African. Maybe Haitian. Maybe part Hispanic. She was the new generation of American. She had a soft look about her. Not hardened like the other TSA agents.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to kill you. I’ve done enough killing for today.”

She nodded her head. She looked a little relieved by what he had just said. Just a little.

“You need to quit this job. Don’t work for the federal government.”

She nodded her head vigorously, still staring him in the eyes. “OK. I’ll quit.”

Just after he finished his sentence multiple shots rang out. Something struck his back. James saw his chest explode as the four rounds the TSA agents had fired into his back exited his chest. The force of the rounds propelled him forward. He landed next to the girl. She faded away into darkness, and peace finally came.

Paige and Sveta were having dinner at her place when they heard the news on television. It was the lead story, not only in Miami but nationwide. The reporter provided some background information, but gave an incomplete and biased account.

“Shortly after 11 a.m. this morning, a person identified as James Young entered Terminal D of Miami International Airport and opened fire on several TSA agents, killing 10 and wounding one. Three weeks earlier he had been accused of assaulting an agent in that same terminal. Information is sketchy at the moment. The police said that he had recently been placed on the terrorist list, but have not given any further details. The investigation is ongoing. He is survived by his wife, his mother, two children and three grandchildren.”

“Robert, isn’t that the same man who got beat up by a TSA agent at the airport? The one whose bloodied face was on the front page of the
Miami Herald
?”

“Yeah, I think it’s the same guy.”

“How can they say he assaulted a TSA agent when the photos and film taken at the scene clearly showed that the agent was the one who assaulted him?”

“I don’t know. Maybe some government censor wrote the script for her. Or maybe they’re afraid to give the whole story. If they say anything positive about someone who’s on the terrorist list, they could be accused of aiding and abetting the enemy and arrested for treason.”

“But Nelson Mandela was on the terrorist list until he was ninety, long after he became president of South Africa. People said lots of nice things about him.”

Paige picked up his fork and took a stab at his salad. “That’s different. Nelson Mandela had a following. James Young didn’t. Nobody’s going to get arrested for saying something nice about Nelson Mandela.”

Sveta leaned forward to make a point. “But Nelson Mandela shouldn’t have been on the terrorist list.”

“James Young probably shouldn’t have been on it either. Even if he did assault a TSA agent, that’s no reason to be put on the list. That’s not an act of terrorism. It might be an act of patriotism. Those guys have been abusing people and conducting warrantless searches since 2001. They need to be smacked around from time to time.” Paige picked up his knife and sliced off a piece of steak. “I heard that a lot of people are on the terrorist list who aren’t terrorists. They can’t get on airplanes. Sometimes they can’t get jobs. Some of them are babies or children. One U.S. senator was put on the list by mistake. The government refuses to publish the list for national security reasons.”

Sveta was getting animated. “Robert, I’m upset. This is starting to sound more and more like Soviet Russia. You get accused of something but you can’t confront your accuser because it might compromise national security.”

“Yes, the country does appear to be going in that direction. One reason we have the right to a jury trial is to prevent abuses by government, but if the government merely alleges that the defendant is a terrorist, the right to a jury trial goes out the window.” Paige sat back in his chair. “Somebody needs to do something.”

“Hi, John. What kind of protectionist crap is the Commerce Department pushing these days?” Paige was taking Wellington’s call on his cell phone.

Wellington smiled. He knew it was a well-known joke within the business community that the Commerce Department did more to block trade than facilitate it. He adjusted his glasses.

“Is that any way to speak to a humble public servant?” He knew the criticism was valid. He did what he could to facilitate trade, but he had to comply with the various anti-trade policies the Commerce Department foisted upon its all-too-willing employees.

“Bob, I’d like to chat with you about developments. Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”

“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.

“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.”

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.