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

  Paige gave him the details as Wellington listened intently. From his expression and body language, it appeared that this news was a surprise to him.

  “If you are being tailed – and that may not be the case – my guess is that it’s Mossad. Since they care enough about what we’re doing to plant a mole in the Steinman meetings, they might be interested enough to gather information and look into what you’re doing, too. Have you been banging anyone’s wife? Maybe it’s a jealous husband or a private investigator hired by a jealous husband.”

  “Very funny. Why couldn’t it be a PI hired by the lesbian lover of the woman I’m banging? Ok, maybe I’m projecting with that one.”

  They both chuckled. “Sorry, Bob, I should’ve been more all-inclusive.” They chuckled again.

  Wellington stood up and looked out the window. Not much of a view from his downtown office, but better than nothing. Mostly other buildings, with a thin slice of the Atlantic Ocean a few blocks away.

  He stroked his chin, deep in thought. “OK, let’s do this. I’ll get a couple of my men to follow you from a distance the next time you go out. I’ll give them a description of the guy you mentioned. If he turns up again, they’ll take him aside and have a little chat with him. How about that?”

  “That sounds like a good plan. It might be nothing. Maybe I’m just being paranoid. But I think he was following me.”

  “OK. We’ll see soon enough. How about going to the Aventura Mall tomorrow afternoon? Go to a movie. They have a 24-plex there. There’s a large open area in front of the ticket booth and a few private offices inside the theater. I know the manager there. I’ll tell him we might want to use one of their offices for a few minutes. Just let me know what time you plan to leave your place.”

  “What makes you think I’m free tomorrow afternoon? I have to work for a living, you know.”

  “No you don’t. You’re a professor. You only work nine hours a week, with summers off.”

  “Very funny, John. You know I have to spend my spare time doing research.”

  “Yeah, right. Debits have been on the left since at least the fourteenth century. Unless the feds change the rule, they’ll still be on the left tomorrow and the next day.” They both smiled.

  As Paige left, he started to think about what might take place at the movie theater. Maybe the guy would follow him there, maybe not. Maybe Mossad had a tag team that would take turns following him, which would make it more difficult to detect whether someone was tagging along because he didn’t know what the second guy would look like. Or maybe the second person would be a woman, although that’s not likely. A woman would be easier to spot, since men tend to focus on them, especially if they’re attractive. Men generally don’t pay attention to other men.

  Would John’s agents do their job? Would they be professional or would they act like thugs? How would the Mossad guy react? Would one of them start an altercation or would they proceed quietly to one of the rooms Wellington had mentioned?

  If Mossad had assigned someone to tail him, what was their plan? What did they have in mind? Would they try to interfere with Wellington and his crew, and if so, how? Would they be willing to resort to violence? That would be a mistake, but Mossad had made mistakes in the past. One couldn’t be content thinking logically when it came to Mossad or any other spy agency. Whenever people are involved, there’s always the possibility of irrational behavior, especially if someone feels physically threatened. Paige was sure Wellington wouldn’t send two of his smallest guys. They would probably be ex-military and probably on the large side.

  As Paige drove back to Sunny Isles Beach he began to get a little worried. Would he be in any danger? Would Sveta? Should he start carrying a gun, just to be on the safe side? He was going to do it after the university parking lot incident, but changed his mind.

  His Glock 17 was too big to put in his pocket. Perhaps his 9mm Makarov would be a better choice, unless he wanted to wear a holster, in which case the Glock would be better because it held 18 rounds, compared to 8 for the Makarov. He decided not to think about it anymore. Tomorrow would be another day. It could be a day that changed the course of his life.

  62

  As Paige approached the door to his condo, he noticed a small circular object mounted above his neighbor’s door across the hall. It pointed at his front door. It looked like a camera. He didn’t notice it the day before. Perhaps it was installed recently. Small, about a half inch in diameter, hardly noticeable, not the kind the building’s board of directors would install. The fifty or so cameras they installed as part of their security system were much larger and noticeable and they were installed in public areas, not above people’s doors.

  The first thought that came to his mind was Mossad. Now he was sure that the nebbish at the Olive Garden had been following him. The camera had confirmed it. Or maybe Wellington’s crew had put it there, although he doubted it. It had to be Mossad. It couldn’t be anyone else. He decided to play along and pretend he hadn’t seen it.

  He turned on his computer as soon as he walked through the door. After it warmed up, he checked to see if any changes had been made to any of his files or if any of them had been downloaded. They hadn’t. He didn’t keep any incriminating evidence on his computer anyway, but he was curious to see if someone had taken a look. He typed in a three-character message and sent it to Wellington’s personal email account – 1 p.m.

  Wellington would know what it meant. He would leave the condo for the Aventura Mall at 1 p.m. the following day. He decided to take his 9mm Makarov with him, although he didn’t expect to use it. It had been the standard military firearm in the Soviet Union for about 40 years before its collapse. He had taken a liking to the Makarov when he worked as a consultant for USAID in the Ukraine. It was the same caliber as the Glock 17 but lighter to carry.

  ***

  The next day Paige left his condo a few minutes before 1 p.m. and went to his car in the parking garage. Would the nebbish be waiting for him somewhere down the street, or would the nebbish be replaced by someone he didn’t recognize?

  If the nebbish were lurking in the shadows, he probably wouldn’t be parked on 174th Street. That would be too obvious. The most likely place would be in the parking lot at the intersection of North Bay Road and 174th Street. The local police often parked there to lie in wait for people who didn’t make a full stop at the stop sign. It was a good choice to observe the passing traffic.

  Many of the locals resented the Sunny Isles Beach police because they harassed motorists. They set up speed traps as part of their daily routine to catch the 80-year-old residents going a few miles over the speed limit, yet they didn’t hesitate to zip in and out of lanes without giving a signal, and crashed red lights on a regular basis. They thought the laws didn’t apply to them.

  Paige turned his head to the right as he passed through the intersection at North Bay Road. He always did that to check whether a police car was waiting to pounce on someone who failed to come to a full stop at the stop sign. What he saw was a late model white car pull out of the parking lot. There was nothing extraordinary about it. White was the most popular color for cars in Miami, probably because white reflected heat, whereas black and the other dark colors absorbed it. Paige couldn’t tell if the nebbish was behind the wheel. The car was too far away.

  He decided to conduct a little test to see whether the car was following him. After turning north onto Collins Avenue and going a few blocks, he suddenly turned left into one of the shopping centers, pulled up to the drive-in window of the local McDonald’s and ordered a small diet Coke. The white car also turned into the parking area but stayed back about 100 feet. Paige didn’t want to seem obvious, so he didn’t look at the white car again until after he got his Coke and continued north on Collins Avenue, toward the Aventura Mall.

  He could see the white car pull onto Collins Avenue. It stayed five or six car lengths behind him. As he approached NE 192nd Street he got into the left lane to go to the mainland. L
ooking through the rear view mirror he could see the white car moving into the left lane. He picked up his cell phone and called Wellington.

  “I’ve got a visitor. He’s in a white car. He’s staying about a hundred feet back. I’m on Route 856. I’ll be at the mall in a few minutes.”

  “OK. Gotcha buddy. I’ll tell the boys to expect you.”

  63

  The mall had a lot of empty spaces at that time of day, which made it easy to find a parking place. Paige parked a couple hundred feet from the entrance closest to the 24-plex. As he got out of the car, he checked his right front pocket to see if the pistol was there. He knew it was, but he checked anyway.

  He looked for the white car but didn’t want to be obvious, so he took out his cell phone and pretended to make a call. As he put the phone to his ear he saw the car pull up, staying far enough back to be inconspicuous. The driver pulled into a space but didn’t make any attempt to get out, which made it impossible for Paige to get a good look at him. He decided to keep walking toward the mall entrance. Paige could feel the warmth of the sun beating on his forehead.

  He walked slowly to give his tail a chance to step out of the car and get closer. He went through the entrance door, walked a few feet, stopped and counted to five slowly to give his tail some time to catch up. When he got about half way up the escalator, he pulled out his cell phone again and turned around to see if any of the faces behind him were familiar. Sure enough, it was the nebbish, wearing a dark blue, short-sleeved shirt. The nebbish hadn’t spotted him yet. He was looking to the left and right, but it would only be a matter of time before he saw Paige, since he had about 30 more feet to get on the escalator, and it was moving slowly. He used the opportunity to call Wellington and give him a description of the nebbish, dark blue shirt and all.

  “OK. I’ll relay the message. My guys are waiting for you, sitting at an outside table at Johnny Rocket’s. You know where that is, right?”

  “Yeah, I know.” Johnny Rocket’s was a 1950’s style diner, complete with classic rock music playing on the sound system. The waiters and waitresses wore 1950’s style uniforms. The menu consisted mostly of burgers and hot dogs, with a choice of fries, onion rings, shakes and Coke products. Sveta and he had eaten there several times, either before or after taking in one of the movies at the mall. It was located across from the theaters.

  “Go into Johnny Rocket’s. My guys will intercept him when he gets close enough. After they intercept him, they’ll take him into one of the offices in the mall. There’s a security guard standing by the theaters who’ll give you directions, or you can just tag along with them, if you like. I’ve already talked to the mall manager. They have a room prepared. We won’t have to go into the theater.”

  As Paige walked toward Johnny Rocket’s he saw two beefy guys sitting at one of the outside tables close to the door. They wore sun glasses and were sipping what appeared to be Cokes. They both faced in the direction of the foot traffic, just looking, not engaging in any conversation. The sun glasses made it impossible to see their eyes, which was the main reason they wore them. It enabled them to observe the nebbish or anyone else without drawing attention.

  It wasn’t unusual to see people wearing sunglasses inside a shopping mall, but two beefy guys wearing sun glasses and sitting, both facing out at an outside table in the middle of the afternoon, when there was not too much foot traffic, made them stand out. The one with the shaved head looked intimidating.

  Paige passed right by them as he walked into Johnny Rocket’s. Their table was so close to the door that they could have tripped him if they wanted to. The nebbish appeared, but stayed back until the hostess seated Paige at one of the inside tables. Then the nebbish resumed his approach toward the entrance. As he passed by the beefy guys on his way into the restaurant, they stood up and walked toward him. The bald one took a position directly behind him while the other one walked around to his left, blocking his escape. The one with hair said, “Hi. We’d like to have a little chat with you. Come with us and don’t try anything stupid.”

  The hostess, who was standing directly in front of him and about to greet him, had a shocked expression on her face. She was a small, thin, white teenager, probably just out of high school, with a few pink zits on her face. Each of the beefy guys probably outweighed her by about a hundred pounds. They towered over the nebbish.

  The one with the hair turned toward her. “He won’t be needing a table.” He flashed a badge, probably fake, since CIA operatives don’t carry badges. It had the intended effect. It calmed her down. Since she thought they were police, there wouldn’t be a need to call the police.

  As they turned to exit, the nebbish asked, “Who are you?”

  The bald one replied, “We’ll talk in a few minutes. Just follow us,” at which point the nebbish slid his glasses back to the bridge of his nose with his right index finger.

  As they escorted him out of the diner, Paige got up and followed them.

  The nebbish looked a little nervous, but not as nervous as a civilian would be. His training helped him maintain a calm demeanor. Besides, he was in a shopping mall in a friendly Florida city, being escorted by two guys who didn’t appear to be Arab or Muslim. He knew he wasn’t going to be liquidated or harmed. He figured they were probably with one of the federal government agencies, most likely the CIA, since the case he was working on involved that agency.

  He felt more embarrassed than anything. Getting caught meant he wasn’t doing his job properly. He must have slipped up. Otherwise, no one would have suspected he was tailing Paige. A minor mistake. It wouldn’t result in any injuries or deaths, just embarrassment with his superiors, and perhaps a joke or two aimed in his direction.

  They went down the escalator and turned left. The two beefy guys resumed their positions, one on each side of the nebbish. Paige followed a few feet behind. They didn’t touch him. That would have drawn too much attention. They just kept close enough to make him think twice before trying to run.

  A mall security guard stood by the door of the office they would be using.

  He grabbed the door handle and opened it. “Here you go. Be sure to close the door when you leave. It locks automatically.”

  The guy with hair said “thanks” and they proceeded to select chairs around a large, oval-shaped table.

  The bald guy pointed to the chair at the end of the table. “You sit over there.” Recording equipment had already been set up to record the event, aimed at the place where the nebbish would be sitting.

  The bald guy sat to the right of the nebbish. The bright overhead lights shined off his head. The guy with hair sat on the nebbish’s left. Paige sat next to the guy with hair.

  The nebbish turned toward the bald guy. “I don’t suppose I could have an attorney present, huh?” He said it half jokingly, but looked a bit nervous. It was a little intimidating to be in a closed room with two big guys ordering you around.

  The bald guy looked at him, half smirking. “Nah, no need for that. We just thought you were a cute little fella. We wanted to welcome you to the Aventura Mall.”

  That remark lightened the otherwise tense atmosphere. The bald guy did most of the talking. “My name’s Tom.” He pointed to his partner. “My friend’s name is Jerry. You already know Professor Paige, since you’ve been following him.”

  “Before we begin our little chat, we’d like you to stand up, empty out your pockets and place your hands against the wall.”

  He did what they suggested. He emptied his pockets on the table and assumed the position, as they say. He didn’t have to be instructed to spread his legs as Jerry searched him for weapons and recording devices. He was clean.

  “OK, you can sit down.” Paige watched intently. It was like viewing a television show in 3-D where you could reach out and touch the actors.

  The nebbish sat down, looking a little nervous. “I don’t suppose I can see some ID. I don’t think your real names are Tom and Jerry.”

  “No, you can�
�t see some ID. We’re just here to have a little chat.”

  Jerry chimed in, using an obviously fake New York accent for comic effect. “I feel insulted that you would cast aspersions on our integrity, accusing us of lying like that.”

  Tom continued the conversation as Jerry picked up his wallet and searched for ID.

  “Who do you work for and why are you following Professor Paige?”

  He responded with an exaggerated Yiddish accent and inflection. “What? You’re not going to ask me my name?”

  Tom looked a little embarrassed. He had forgotten to ask.

  Jerry volunteered the answer. He leaned back in his chair and looked at the nebbish’s driver’s license. “His name is Simcha Rosenstein. He has a Florida driver’s license and a Miami Beach address.”

  “So, Simcha, nice to meet you. Who do you work for and why are you following Professor Paige?”

  As Tom asked the questions, Jerry spread out the documents he found in Simcha’s wallet and took photos of them individually with his cell phone. When he finished, he sent them to Wellington. A few miles away, another CIA team removed the camera aimed at Paige’s front door and swept his apartment for bugs. They didn’t find any.

  “What makes you think I’m following the distinguished Professor Paige?”

  “Actually, we think we know who you’re working for. We just want to hear you say it. With a name like Simcha Rosenstein, our guess is that you’re probably not working for Al-Qaeda.”

  “That would be a good guess.”

  Jerry took out a portable scanner and placed it on the table. “Simcha, we’d like to do a scan of your fingerprints…with your permission, of course.”

  “Of course.” He realized that agreeing would be the best choice. Mossad would do the same thing to Tom or Jerry if they were caught in a similar situation. He placed his fingertips on the scanner glass, right hand first, then left. They also scanned his thumbs.