Justifiable Homicide: A Political Thriller (Robert Paige Thrillers Book 1) (9 page)

“The truth is that men are tired of liberty.”

Benito Mussolini

“There ought to be limits to freedom.”

George W. Bush

James Young returned to work the day after Santos Hernandez had broken his ribs at the airport. It hurt to move, so he tried to stay seated at his desk as much as possible. His ribs felt slightly better today than they had yesterday, but they would take a few months to heal properly.

As he sat down, some Department of Homeland Security thugs pulled up to the building in two large, black vans shortly after two o’clock in the afternoon. They burst out of the vehicles simultaneously, guns drawn, scaring the hell out of the people on the sidewalk.

They crashed through the front door of the first floor office where James Young worked. “Where is James Young’s office?”

The terrified young woman closest to the door pointed to the far side of the room, her hand trembling.

All eyes focused on the intruders, their black uniforms, Kevlar vests, and weapons. They were experiencing up close and personal the shock and awe that former Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld had been so proud of, except that Rumsfeld had intended the technique to be used against America’s enemies, not its own citizens.

James heard the commotion and rose from his chair as quickly as the pain in his ribs would allow when he heard someone call his name.

The jackbooted DHS leader and two underlings marched into his office. “Step out of the room, Mr. Young.”

He stood in front of them, slightly hunched over, speechless.

“I said get out!”

He didn’t move fast enough to please the DHS agent. The man punched him hard in the solar plexus, then grabbed his right arm and twisted it, causing his broken ribs to separate, jabbing into his flesh. He let out a scream. His knees buckled from the pain and he dropped to the floor.

The leader motioned to his two accomplices. “Take the computer and files. Leave everything else.”

They obeyed like robots. One of them stuffed the contents of his desk into a cloth bag. The other unplugged and dismantled his computer. Once Young’s office was secured, the leader stepped back into the outer office.

As James struggled to get up, he could see one of them strut over to his secretary’s desk. The clutter blocked access to the wires on the computer. The agent solved that problem by placing his left forearm on the desk and sweeping off everything on the desktop. Yanira Flores watched as the picture frame containing a photo of her family crashed to the floor, breaking the glass. James gritted his teeth. That’s all he could do. He felt powerless to stop it. His ribs hurt so much he could barely stand.

Yanira stepped forward into the agent’s personal space to confront him. “What are you doing!?”

He responded with an elbow smash to her face, causing her 110-pound, 46-year-old body to fly back against the file cabinet. The tip of his boot flew into her crotch as Tom Campbell, the company president, walked through the front door. James looked at Campbell, then the agent, then Yanira, who lay unconscious on the floor, blood all over her nose, mouth and chin.

Campbell strode toward the agents. “What’s going on here!?”

The leader sauntered over to him. He looked drunk with power and placed his fists on his hips before speaking. It reminded James of photos he had seen of Mussolini, the Italian fascist dictator. “We’re confiscating your computers and files.”

The president’s jaw dropped. His eyes narrowed. “Do you have a warrant?”

“We don’t need a warrant. James Young has been classified as a terrorist for assaulting a government official. The Constitution doesn’t apply to terrorists.”

“Since when does assaulting a government official constitute terrorism?”

“Ever since I said so. The Department of Homeland Security has the authority to classify anyone as a terrorist, for any reason we think is appropriate.”

James heard the words as they emanated from the leader’s mouth. As he looked to his left and right he could see the other agents filling boxes with files and unplugging the other computers. His colleagues stared at him in disbelief, as if to say it was all his fault that this was happening. He felt terrible. He looked around the office. It was trashed. The government agents had not been neat about it. Papers and other objects that had been on his colleagues’ desks had been strewn across the floor. Everyone was looking at him.

“Un-American activity cannot be prevented or routed out by employing un-American methods; to preserve freedom we must use the tools that freedom provides.”

Dwight D. Eisenhower

“Private property was the original source of freedom. It still is its main bulwark.”

Walter Lippmann

“I tell you, freedom and human rights in America are doomed. The U.S. government will lead the American people in — and the West in general — into an unbearable hell and a choking life.” — Osama bin Laden

Paige and Sveta had just sat down to dinner in her kitchen when a television report caught their attention.

“The Department of Homeland Security raided the office where James Young works this afternoon. As you may recall from yesterday’s news report, Mr. Young was arrested for assaulting a TSA agent at the Miami International Airport. He is being accused of domestic terrorism and is out on bail. The agents confiscated computers and files to determine whether Young might be connected to a domestic terrorist network.”

“One of the employees who was in the office at the time of the raid recorded the following clip on his cell phone.”

The DHS leader’s image appeared on the screen, his fists on his hips. “We don’t need a warrant to search property or to seize it. The War on Terror demands action.”

The newscaster’s voice broke in as the clip focused on Yanira Flores’s bloodied face. “The Department of Homeland Security said that this employee, who has not yet been identified, assaulted one of their agents when he attempted to unplug her computer.”

“Robert, can they do that? Can they just take property without any kind of warrant?”

“Apparently they can.” The words stuck in his throat as he said it.

She clutched his forearm. “Why doesn’t anybody do something?”

“My grandfather told me about the time he was walking down the street in Moscow. He saw some Soviet police beating a man. The man begged them to stop. One of the police took out his pistol and shot him. He was a neighbor of ours. Nobody did anything about it. Everybody was standing around watching, but nobody did anything.”

“We do not argue with those who disagree with us, we destroy them.”

Benito Mussolini

Martin Kaplan emerged from his evening sociology class at Florida Atlantic University and started walking toward his car. It was a warm evening, like many in Boca Raton, but the ocean breeze helped a bit. Some kind of tropical bird made squawking noises in one of the palm trees.

As he entered the dark parking area, he vaguely noticed two men walking in the same direction, but didn’t pay them any mind. He had been too busy thinking about the lecture he had just given to question their presence, or the fact that they didn’t look like students. No books. No backpacks. Dressed more like delivery people than students. Older than most students.

“Professor Kaplan?”

The sound of the voice coming from his right side just a few feet away snapped him out of his hypnotic trance. As he turned he saw two men just a few feet away, one on the left and one on the right. They wore dark clothes. He couldn’t make out their features clearly, but noticed they wore latex gloves. They came toward him at a quick pace and enveloped him, one on each side.

“Please, professor, don’t panic. We just want to talk to you.” The taller one grabbed his left arm firmly and led him to his car.

“Get in.”

Kaplan wasn’t accustomed to being treated like that. He wasn’t used to people telling him what to do or touching him, especially in such a rough, forceful way. He looked around to see if anyone else was in the parking lot. There wasn’t.

As he took out his keys and pushed the button on his keychain to open the door, he looked toward the Arts & Sciences building to see if there was anyone around but the two men blocked his view. They were so close he could smell their stale breath.

The taller one held the door open with his left hand.

“Get in.” He continued to hold the door open so that Kaplan couldn’t slam it and escape.

He sat down behind the wheel and looked up. “Should I fasten my seatbelt?”

“That won’t be necessary.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tubular object a little less than a foot long. He stuck it into Kaplan’s ribs and pushed a small, red button, sending 1.5 million volts into Kaplan’s side. He held it for two seconds, then pulled back.

Kaplan was paralyzed, but fully conscious. He could hear and see, but he couldn’t move.

“You probably wondered why we paid you this little visit. It’s because you’re a traitor, you filthy piece of shit. Your investigation is weakening America and is giving aid and comfort to the enemy.”

He stepped away from the car. Kaplan watched helplessly as the shorter guy stuck his head into the car and placed an envelope on the dashboard. He saw him reach into his left pocket and pull out a straight razor. He placed the palm of his right hand on Kaplan’s forehead and pushed his head back.

“Bye-bye, you piece of shit.” He placed the tip of the razor under Kaplan’s right ear and sliced him from ear to ear. Kaplan could see his own blood spurting out onto the windshield and the envelope. Then everything went black.

They closed the door to Kaplan’s car and a black van pulled up. They got in and drove off. The shorter one placed the razor in a plastic bag.

Paige didn’t usually teach on Thursdays, but today was special. He’d been invited to present a guest lecture to a group of international business students about his accounting experiences in the former Soviet Union and Eastern Europe. He was heading in to do some paperwork.

Paige turned on the radio as he pulled out of his parking garage.

“Last night about 10 p.m., Martin Kaplan, a sociology professor at the Boca Raton campus of Florida Atlantic University, was found dead in his car on the university campus, apparently the victim of foul play. Kaplan, an outspoken critic of NSA data gathering, was a consultant to Representative Lois Klein, who is leading a congressional investigation into NSA’s allegedly unconstitutional activities. Professor Kaplan headed up the task force for that investigation. An envelope was left at the scene, but authorities have not yet divulged its contents. Representative Klein could not be reached for comment.”

Paige switched off the radio. His mind turned to the conversation he had with Wellington. He had assigned him to infiltrate Saul Steinman’s study group, which consisted of professors who thought along the same lines as Martin Kaplan and Nathan Shipkovitz, both now dead. And not from natural causes. Murdered in university parking lots. Were the two guys who accosted him in his university’s parking lot sent there to kill him? Was he on the same hit list as Shipkovitz and Kaplan? Was Wellington behind the hits? Did Wellington have plans to kill Steinman, and perhaps the other professors? And maybe him, too?

From his past experience with Wellington he knew he was a dangerous guy. John had lied about the fingerprints on the guns. Maybe he was lying about Steinman too. There were too many unanswered questions. He decided to play along. For now. Maybe things would become clear with the passage of time. The best thing to do would be to keep his eyes and ears open and his mouth shut. Wellington must not suspect that he was starting to connect the dots.

He arrived at the university and booted up his computer. He’d run a license plate check on the van. It was easy enough to do. Companies on the Internet would provide practically any public information for a few dollars.

While the computer booted, he rose from his chair and gazed out the window. Another beautiful Miami day. Co-eds walked to class, laughed, chatted, and talked on their cell phones, oblivious to what went on beneath the surface in their city.

From the faculty lounge down the hall wafted the pungency of the swill that passed for coffee. Maybe he would have a cup later. He didn’t especially like the taste of the coffee that came out of that room, but it could become palatable if he added a little vanilla or caramel flavoring.

He sat at his computer and searched for Web sites that would give him the information needed. He selected the first option, read the instructions, input his credit card information, typed in the license plate, then hit the
search
button.

Up popped a name and address. The van belonged to George Heverly, thirty-four. The screen listed an address on Northwest 17
^th
Avenue. No apartment number. Most likely a house. Single people usually lived in apartments, so he probably was married. Most married guys had kids. Since he was thirty-four, the kids were possibly still living at home.

Perhaps there was a photo of him online. He searched for
George Heverly Miami.
Nothing. Then he searched for
Facebook
and scored several hits. But no
Facebook
pages for George Heverly. However, there was one for Gwen Heverly. He clicked the link.

Up popped the main page. It showcased several family photos.

One of the faces belonged to the smaller of the two men who had assaulted him in the parking lot.

The girl in most of the photos, probably Gwen, appeared to be about thirteen. Some photos also included a younger boy of perhaps nine or ten, likely her brother. They’d be enrolled at an elementary or middle school near their home, unless they were home schooled.

He searched for schools within their zip code, viewed the schools’ Web pages, and made a few phone calls to learn when school let out. The district generally dismissed students between two thirty and three. He checked his watch. Almost eleven. The MBA class didn’t start until six. He had time to go back to his place, grab his camera, have lunch, and drive to northwest 17
^th
Avenue before they got home.