Justifiable Homicide: A Political Thriller (Robert Paige Thrillers Book 1) (26 page)

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.

Jerry took out a long stick with a ball of cotton attached at the end. “One more little request. We’d like to take a little swab of saliva. Open your mouth, please.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then we’ll have to cram it up your nose, but we might push it too far. If it goes into your brain, it could kill you … accidentally, of course.”

His words sent a chill across the table. He knew they were serious.

He opened his mouth without saying anything and let them take the swab.

Jerry placed the cotton end of the swab into a small electronic machine and sent the results to Wellington.

“Would you like to put on some latex gloves and give me a prostate exam, too? Or maybe, a colonoscopy?” He said it in a sarcastic manner. He was no longer amused by the welcoming committee.

“Not this time. But if we catch you following Professor Paige again, we’ll reconsider.”

“Message received, loud and clear.” His voice cracked slightly as he said the words. Simcha got the impression that Tom might actually enjoy giving such an examination. He could see in his eyes that he was capable of inflicting torture, or even death, without thinking twice about it. Some of his co-workers at Mossad were made of the same material.

“We don’t like it when people follow our people around. Not that he’s one of our people, you understand.”

“Of course, I would never think of following him around, even though he’s not one of your people.”

Jerry got a text message from Wellington. HE’S MOSSAD. LET HIM GO. TELL HIM TO GIVE OUR REGARDS TO SERGEI.

He showed it to Tom, who nodded, then turned to Simcha.

“OK, you can go. Give our regards to Sergei.”

“Yes, I will do that. Have a pleasant afternoon, gentlemen.”

He got up and left.

After the door closed behind him, Tom turned to Paige. “Well, I don’t know what we just learned, other than the fact that you’re being followed by Mossad, which we could have guessed before this meeting.”

Jerry turned toward Paige. “I think it’s more like communicating a message than a learning opportunity. We want to tell Mossad to stop following Professor Paige around.”

Tom turned toward Paige, who was getting ready to leave. “So, Professor Paige, can you tell us what’s going on? Mr. Wellington didn’t tell us anything, other than to pick this guy up, find out who he is, and ask him why he’s following you.”

“Sorry boys, you know how it is. Need to know basis. Besides, I don’t know much more than you do. Thanks for your help.”

They seemed a little disappointed at Paige’s response, although they understood the protocol. If Wellington had wanted them to know more, he would have told them.

Paige walked around the mall for a few minutes before returning to his car. He didn’t want to run into Simcha in the parking lot. Although relieved that the matter was apparently resolved, he still wondered what Mossad had up its sleeve. They’d probably back off after this encounter, but if they didn’t, then what? It would mean they weren’t going to let it go. That could only mean trouble … and maybe danger. Maybe they suspected Saul Steinman had been marked for extermination and wanted to prevent it. If so, they probably thought Paige was part of the plan to make it happen, when in fact Paige also wanted to prevent anything from happening to Steinman. He concluded that he would have to wait to see how events played out.

“Sergei? Hi, this is John Wellington.”

“I thought you might be calling.”

“Yeah, there’s something we need to talk about.”

“We got your message.”

“Yes, I know, but I think we should meet anyway. My Boss insists. You know how bosses are.”

“Yes, I understand. Same place?”

“Yes, that would be fine. Same time?”

“OK, five o’clock. See you then.”

They had arranged to meet at Bayfront Park, by the Anton Cermak plaque. Wellington enjoyed the short walk from his downtown office. It was another warm afternoon in Miami. He enjoyed the feel of the sun on his face, a pleasure he didn’t get by staying in his air conditioned office.

Sergei arrived a few minutes early. This time he didn’t inform his boss and he didn’t carry a wire. He figured he would give Gelman a briefing later. Wellington showed up right on time.

“Hi Sergei.”

Sergei shook his hand and they proceeded to walk together. It was a pleasant afternoon, not too hot with a slight breeze. They passed by some Hispanic children kicking a soccer ball. A young mother, presumably belonging to one of the boys, pushed a baby carriage a few feet behind them.

“Sergei, we’re a little concerned that you were following Professor Paige. We informed you of our intentions out of courtesy. Do you plan on doing anything that would complicate both of our lives?”

“We’re sorry about that. Aaron was just curious. He wanted to learn a little bit about Professor Paige, so he had him tailed.”

“So, you’ve decided to drop it?”

“Yes.”

Actually, Sergei didn’t know what his boss intended to do about the proposed Steinman hit, but one thing he knew for sure was that no decision had yet been made about what to do, if anything. Mossad had limited options. From a utilitarian perspective, it appeared the cost of doing something exceeded the benefits.

“That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

“Have you decided to go through with the hit, or did you change your mind? Steinman’s small potatoes on the war on terror.”

Wellington smiled. “Well, maybe he’s small potatoes, but as far as I know, nothing has changed.”

“Have you decided when to do it?”

Wellington thought that Sergei was asking too many questions. If Mossad truly had decided not to interfere, perhaps he shouldn’t be asking so many questions.

“No, it’s not an urgent priority. It’s just on our list of things to do.”

Sergei laughed. “I’d love to see that list.”

“I’m sure you would. Well, I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing.” Wellington extended his hand and Sergei shook it firmly. They took off in opposite directions. As Wellington passed by the hot dog and sausage vendor, he took a whiff of the grilled meat and fried onions that were assaulting his nostrils, stopped for a few seconds, turned around and approached the stand.

“Sausage, please. With onions, sauerkraut and mustard.” It had been a few years since he had tasted a vendor sausage. He was usually too busy with work to enjoy these small pleasures. He took a bite. The taste of the sausage, merging with the fried onions, sauerkraut and mustard reminded him of the times his father used to take him to ball games and parks when he was a kid.

As he stood there, consuming his sausage, he started thinking about his encounter. Sergei appeared a little too curious about the CIA’s plans for Steinman. Maybe the time had come to start worrying.

Bob and Sveta decided to take a walk around the neighborhood in spite of the broiling sun. The Winston Towers complex, comprised of seven buildings, sat in a comfortable section of Sunny Isles Beach, filled with young and old, representing an array of ethnic and age groups. On Saturdays, the sidewalks were populated by Hasidic and Orthodox Jews walking to or from services, often pushing a baby cart. They had to live within walking distance of their synagogue because the rules forbade them to drive on Shabbos.

Another area resident, a gorgeous and exotic looking Asian woman from Kazakhstan, strolled by them, pushing a cart with two seats, one for each of her twins. As she passed them, Sveta took notice. “Her babies are adorable, don’t you think?”

They were adorable, with thick black hair, just like their mother. But whenever he would see her with them, he never really focused on the babies. She was stylish and stunning, and looked more suited for Park Avenue in Manhattan. But she actually did fit in, culturally at least. She spoke Russian, as did her Ukrainian husband.

“Yes, they are cute.” Although physically present, his mind drifted far away, bouncing back and forth between the accounting article he started writing that morning and his recent experience at the Aventura Mall. He wondered if Mossad was really done with him, or if they had future plans that included him.

Sveta motioned to the park on the left. It was a small patch of lawn shared by the Winston Towers community. “Let’s go in here and sit for a while.” As they entered the park, she took his hand and dragged him behind her. They found an empty bench and sat down.

She started caressing his fingertips. He liked when she did that. It awakened his senses. He liked to caress her fingertips, too, usually when they were on her couch or when he was on top of her in bed.

Paige was enjoying the silent caress, but decided to break the silence. “You haven’t talked about work lately. Are you working on anything interesting?”

“Not really, it’s pretty much the same old stuff. Robert, I do have one question. It’s about taxes.”

“Sure, what is it? I don’t know if I can give you the right answer off the top of my head, but I can look it up for you.”

“There’s no need to look it up. We pay people to do that. I’m just curious. Do you remember that parcel of land I told you about? We have an option to buy, but we can’t finalize the deal until we get an environmental impact study.”

“Yes, I remember. You told me about it. That was months ago. You haven’t bought it yet?”

“No, it’s been seven months and the government still hasn’t started doing the study. We’re paying $30,000 a month to keep the option open, which means we’ve already spent an extra $210,000 for land we might never purchase.”

“That’s outrageous! What a waste of money.”

“Yes, I agree. And there’s absolutely no need for the study. It’s just a piece of land.”

Paige had heard about the high cost of environmental regulations like this before, but it was the first time it impacted someone close to him.

“My question is this … How should we account for those monthly payments? Should we take them as a deduction on our tax return, or do we have to add them to the cost of the land when we finally exercise our option? And what happens if the government doesn’t let us buy the land? How should we treat all those payments then?”

“Hmmm. I really don’t know the answer to that question. As I said, I could look it up.”

“I know you could look it up, but don’t bother. As I said, we have people who can do that. I was just curious.”

As Paige thought about how stupid and costly the federal government’s environmental regulations were, Sveta added, “We really don’t need any more deductions. All the regulations the government has been slapping on us the last few years have eaten up most of our profits. The owners are really getting fed up with it.”

They needed a break from talking. They took it. Sveta put her head on Paige’s shoulder, let out a sigh and caressed his forearm. They continued to hold hands in silence for a few more minutes.