Justifiable Homicide: A Political Thriller (Robert Paige Thrillers Book 1) (43 page)

He could contact the CIA or the FBI and tell them that some of their people were about to start a murder spree, but who would he contact? He didn’t know how far up the chain of command it went. There was a strong possibility that, at some point, either Wellington’s boss or Jim Bennett’s boss would find out about it, and at least one of them might be part of the conspiracy. Paige would be dead.

Which brought him to the last option – executing every member of the team himself. One problem with that option was that he didn’t know if he could do it. He would have to kill them in cold blood, although he could rationalize that it wasn’t really cold blood, but more like a preemptive strike.

Another problem with that option was that he wasn’t sure it would be the right thing to do. He remembered the phrase from Ecclesiastes – a time to kill and a time to heal. But the Bible also said “Thou shalt not kill.” Those passages were both from the Old Testament. The New Testament said to turn the other cheek. The nuns had taught him that where the Old Testament conflicted with the New Testament, the proper choice would be to follow the New Testament rule. But he didn’t want to turn the other cheek. He had to do something.

Retrieving those Biblical passages from his memory banks reminded him of the discussion the nuns had with the class on those points in grade school. One minute they would assert that the Bible was written by God and that it was the only perfect book because it contained no inconsistencies. Then, when one of the students pointed out an inconsistency like the one about the justification for killing, they would reply that where the Old Testament conflicted with the New Testament, we should always choose the New Testament rule, which led to the question, “Why does the New Testament conflict with the Old Testament?”

Their response was that when God looked down on the earth and saw that we were having difficulty keeping the rules He laid out for us in the Old Testament, He decided to lighten up on the rules a little bit and give us a set of rules that were easier to follow. That’s why He wrote the New Testament, which led one of the students to ask, “If God is perfect, how could He make such a mistake by giving us a set of rules that were too difficult to follow?” The nuns’ reply was, “To question is to blaspheme.”

Then there was the question of punishment. Would God punish Paige for killing them? One view, which he learned from taking philosophy courses at Gannon University in Erie, Pennsylvania, is that God really doesn’t give a shit. If He did, there wouldn’t have been World War I or II, or Vietnam or disease and starvation. He would have intervened to prevent all those things if He really loved His children. The nuns had dismissed that argument by saying that “God works in mysterious ways,” which Paige had concluded long ago was not an adequate response. You cannot just assume that the Christian position is the correct one, then try to find a justification for it. You must question everything, even the existence of God, according to Thomas Jefferson.

What if God really does give a shit, in spite of the fact that He doesn’t intervene in human affairs? What if He really does punish people for killing other people? Paige couldn’t answer that one. He figured it’s fair to assume that God wouldn’t punish someone for killing in self-defense. Could killing them be considered an act of self defense, or even an act of love, since executing them would prevent further murders of innocent people?

Applying the utilitarian ethical arguments he learned at Gannon University, Paige rationalized that executing them would be the right thing to do if it could prevent more deaths. Antiabortionists have used that argument to justify killing doctors who performed abortions. If killing one doctor who performs abortions could save the lives of hundreds of unborn babies, then it should be – must be – done. Of course, that assumes that abortion is murder. What if abortion isn’t murder?

What if liquidating people who espouse socialist claptrap like Steinman results in a net benefit to society? Socialism leads to suffering, poverty, a lower rate of economic growth and the stifling of human flourishing. It prevents individuals from reaching their full potential. The best must be held back so that the self-esteem of the weak and lazy can be salved. If the world would be a better place without socialism, does exterminating socialists constitute a justifiable act? An act of self-defense? If that is the case, then he must not kill the killers. He must allow them to assassinate Steinman because society would benefit as a result. Does it matter that they plan to execute him for the wrong reason – because he opposed U.S. foreign and domestic policy rather than because he is a socialist?

When Paige applied utilitarian ethics to the question of killing the killers, he concluded that doing it would be an ethical act. Their trashing of the Constitution in the name of patriotism and national security was leading us down the road to a totalitarian state where there would be no free speech or free press or privacy. There would be no property rights, since the state could confiscate a person’s life savings for any reason, or for no reason. The state was becoming the master while the people were becoming slaves. It is why Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the German theologian and philosopher, participated in the plot to assassinate Hitler, to save humanity. If killing one big Hitler is the right thing to do, then killing a thousand little Hitlers must also be the right thing to do. The fact that Bonhoeffer was executed in the process upon direct orders from Hitler is irrelevant.

Totalitarianism must be stopped, whether it comes from the left or the right. It doesn’t matter whether the jackboot on your throat is a socialist or a fascist jackboot. In either case it must be removed. Paige had made his decision. Now he had to find a way to make it happen.

As Paige approached the house he could see about a dozen cars parked on the lawn and in the driveway. Some of them belonged to the team. Others belonged to civilians. It looked like a typical country barbecue scene.

He pulled in and parked on the lawn, and quickly took photos of the license plates with his cell phone. He could identify the owners later.

He could hear people talking in the back yard and could smell the meat sizzling on the grill – hot dogs, hamburgers, chicken and beef. He brought along some potato salad to add to the collection of food piled up on one of the tables. He didn’t make it himself. He bought it earlier that day at the local Publix in Sunny Isles Beach.

Wellington spotted him as he turned the corner of the house.

“Hi Bob.” He walked up and shook Paige’s hand. Sarah stood at the food table, fumbling and rearranging some of the items. She saw him, smiled and waved. There were a bunch of children running around, playing catch, swinging on the swing set and splashing around in the small pool.

Wellington reached out for the potato salad. “Let me take this.” He grabbed it and walked with Bob to the food table. As they approached the table, he leaned toward Paige’s ear and whispered, “Thanks for bringing this. I really wasn’t looking forward to eating Sarah’s mother’s potato salad.”

“It’s a nice day for a barbecue, don’t you think?” he said as he gave the container to Sarah.

“Yeah. It’s perfect.”

“Bob, I’d like to introduce you to the other members of the team, but be discreet. Don’t talk to them about the job because there are civilians here, too.”

“OK, I’ll be discreet. Can I look at their wives’ cleavage?”

Wellington smiled. “Sure, that will be fine. Just don’t be obvious, and try not to drool. There are a couple of nice pairs here today.” Apparently, he had already checked them out.

John spotted one of the team members standing off to the side, away from the others. He and his wife were having an animated conversation with another couple. John motioned to them.

“You see the guy standing over there with the green bottle of beer, next to the woman with the nice tits? That’s Jim Bennett.”

Paige smiled and looked at Wellington. “Jim Bennett? He doesn’t look like a Jim Bennett,” noting the fact that his features – light brown skin, jet black hair – gave him a Latin look.

“Very observant, you racist pig. Actually, the name on his birth certificate is Jaime Benítez. He anglicized it because he thought it would look better on his resume. His parents are Cuban.”

“Let me give you a little background. Jim works for the FBI in Miami. His main job is to keep us informed of FBI activities, since those bastards usually keep us out of the loop. Sometimes we also use him for assignments involving Latin American drug cartels because of his FBI background and training. He’s familiar with the cartels because the FBI has him assigned to that area.”

They walked over and John started the introductions.

“Hi Jim. I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine. This is Bob Paige. He’s an accounting professor at Saint Frances University.”

“Oh, an accounting professor. I didn’t know you hung out with guys that high on the food chain. Nice to meet you.” He extended his hand, pretending not to know anything about Paige and his background. Actually, Wellington had briefed him thoroughly on Paige a few weeks before.

Paige shook his hand and the introductions continued.

“This is his wife, Ana. They have three kids who are running around here somewhere,” gesturing in the direction of the swings and pool.

Ana was holding a plate of food, consisting of rice, beans and barbecued chicken. She was on the short side, a little chubby with short black hair and light brown skin. She was feeding her face when Wellington introduced her. As she put the fork into her mouth she bent forward slightly so that her face was over the plate, which also presented Wellington and Paige with an opportunity to check out her boobs. They were quite nice, a little on the large side, and glistening with sweat. It was a hot day.

“Mucho gusto,” she said, as she tried to talk with a mouthful of rice.

Paige chimed in. “What were you talking about? It looked like you were having a lively discussion about something.”

“Yes,” Jim replied, “We were talking about the differences between Cubans, Argentineans and Colombians. Ana’s father is from Argentina and her mother is from Colombia.”

Paige remembered a Spanish class he had taken at Seton Hall University years ago. His teacher was from Argentina and she told the class that Argentina was really part of Europe and that Argentinean Spanish was the best. Puerto Ricans, Cubans and Dominicans didn’t speak real Spanish. They got their
r
’s and
l
’s mixed up, when they bothered to pronounce them at all, and often didn’t pronounce the last syllable of a word because it only slowed them down.

Jim continued, “Yeah, whenever an Argentinean speaks it sounds like they’re giving orders. Jesus was so modest and humble that he was born in Bethlehem instead of Argentina.”

Ana felt compelled to defend her heritage and take a shot at Jim’s Cuban family background. “Si, but if you tie a Cuban’s hands behind his back they won’t be able to speak.” She was referring to the fact that Cubans were known for using their hands when they speak. Everyone laughed, because they knew it was true.

Wellington turned toward the other couple. “This is Tom and his wife, Jeannie. They live down the street. They moved here from Detroit a few years ago.” They looked like a typical white, retired couple from Detroit, in their early to mid-sixties.

Tom reached to shake Paige’s hand. “Yeah, we got tired of the snow.”

“Nice to meet you.”

As they walked away, Wellington whispered into Paige’s ear, “He’s a civilian.” He then led Paige to the next member of the team, who was standing between the swings and the pool. He and his wife were watching the kids play. While walking toward them, Wellington gave Paige a briefing.

“Tomás served in the army in Afghanistan and Iraq. He was mostly a computer guy, but for a few months he was also a sniper. You’re sort of responsible for him being on the team, indirectly, since you recruited me and I recruited him. He’s a systems analyst for Carnival Cruise Lines, which gives him access to the ports of Miami and Fort Lauderdale and also to information that we sometimes find useful. He’s also a firearms specialist. He does free lance work for us sometimes.” When they got about five feet away, Wellington started the introductions.

“Hi, Tomás. I’d like you to meet Bob Paige. He’s a friend of mine.”

They exchanged handshakes. Tomás had had a good morning. Before coming to the barbecue he infected a video of an elderly gentleman whose colostomy bag burst during an aggressive TSA frisk at the Dallas airport and a video, really a tirade, of a New York University professor who was criticizing CIA involvement in Latin America.

“This is Tomás Gutierrez and his wife, Teresa.”

“Nice to meet you,” Paige said, as he discreetly checked out Teresa, who was gazing into his eyes and smiling. She was small and thin, with long dark brown hair. Her eyes were especially captivating. Her parents had fled Cuba for the United States two years before she was born.

Wellington pointed in the direction of the pool. “That’s their son, Julio, over there. He’s the one with the red and blue swim trunks,” He looked to be about 6 or 7 years old. They chatted for a few minutes, then moved on.

“The last member of the team is Santos Hernandez.” Wellington motioned toward the food table. “He’s standing over there by the table.” As they walked toward him, Wellington continued with the briefing.

“Santos works for the TSA at Miami International Airport. Sometimes we use him to smuggle sensitive items in and out of the country. He also keeps us apprised of security problems at the airport. He was in the Marines and served two tours in Iraq.”

Paige noticed Santos’s unusual appearance immediately. He didn’t have much of a neck. He looked like a lump of muscle with short brown hair wearing shoes.

“Hi Santos. I’d like you to meet Bob Paige. He’s a friend of mine.”

“Hi. Nice to meet you.” Paige grasped Santos’ hand, which felt like a small ham hock. Upon meeting him, Paige quickly decided that Santos would be the member of the team he would least like to encounter in a dark alley.