My super spy plays his role as a communist in his waking state, aggressively, consistently, fearlessly. But his PB is a loyal American, and PB has all the memories of PA. As a loyal American, he will not hesitate to divulge those memories.
Borger eagerly signed on with Landow and the CIA-funded project. Money wasn’t a motivating factor. The deaths of his mother and father had left him with millions, so he didn’t need income from his practice, with which he’d become bored anyway.
Participating in clandestine research was a heady experience, and he was devoted almost full time to the agency’s mushrooming project. Funding was no object; he needed only to request money and it was there, delivered surreptitiously through myriad front groups. He eventually became the project’s leader, traveling the country and the globe to confer with other physicians and to recruit those with the training and temperament necessary to fit in with the team. Unlike him, most of the doctors he recruited were enticed by the money being paid for their efforts. Psychiatry has never been as lucrative as orthopedic surgery or performing triple heart bypasses.
After a few years of working out of his Washington condo, he convinced his overseers at the CIA that it would be more secure to shift the center of research away from the capital and the continuing threat of congressional oversight. He lobbied for a front organization to be established in California, to which his superiors agreed. The plan made sense from the CIA’s perspective. It also fit into Borger’s personal agenda. Lately he’d been spending more time than he wanted to in Washington and yearned to get back to his beloved Nob Hill mansion and the California lifestyle that he much preferred to the cold, bureaucratic atmosphere of the nation’s capital.
* * *
He’d spent the morning of the day after his introduction to Iskander Itani at the office he maintained at the Lightpath Psychiatric Clinic in Berkeley, across the bay from San Francisco. The one-story gray building on the northern end of Shattuck Avenue had once housed a small import firm that had gone belly-up. Using CIA funds, Borger had purchased the building and established the clinic in which he and a small handpicked group of psychiatrists and psychologists carried out the agency’s mind-control experimentation.
On this particular morning, two of Borger’s colleagues worked with a young man to regress him back to infancy using hypnosis. Borger observed through a one-way mirror that had been installed to allow visual access to the clinic’s “session rooms.” It wasn’t going well. Previous attempts to bring about regression with other subjects had been successful, in one instance allowing a woman to regress to the suckling stage of her infancy. Other experiments in which hypnosis was used to anesthetize pain had been equally successful. But this particular young man surprisingly fought the trance state, which frustrated the two physicians working with him. They abruptly ended the session and escorted him from the room.
The subjects for these experiments had been chosen from a patient population provided by psychiatrists and psychologists on the CIA’s clandestine payroll. Because only those with an extremely high capacity for entering into trance (4–5 on the HIP scale) were selected, the number of potential subjects was small. Most came from the San Francisco–Oakland area. But when a psychiatrist from another part of the country reported having a patient whose HIP score was a 5, travel arrangements were made to bring them to the clinic under the guise of participating in “clinical trials” that would provide advanced techniques to treat their problems, whether behavioral, addictions, or pain management. They were treated therapeutically, as promised. At the same time they were subjected to experimentation outside the therapeutic realm, their responses to myriad suggestions carefully evaluated and recorded.
After observing the failed session, Borger went to his office in the basement of the building, where Colin Landow, who’d flown in from Washington the previous day, sat with Peter Puhlman.
Puhlman, a clinical psychologist by training, had suffered a series of failures as a private practitioner. An inveterate gambler with a particular love of blackjack, and with two ex-wives, he was deeply in debt when he was approached by Borger to join the Lightpath Clinic project. CIA money funneled to him through Borger had bailed Puhlman out and provided him with a steady paycheck. He’d been fascinated with hypnosis early in his career and enthusiastically accepted the chance to work with a master who was willing to share his knowledge. He also enjoyed being close to Borger’s lavish lifestyle and his friendship with celebrities.
Puhlman was a pragmatist, a man of few principles, which suited Borger, who’d learned from his involvement with the CIA that the only trustworthy motive for someone offering to spy against his country was money—not idealism, not anger, not misguided patriotism. As long as the money flowed, Borger knew that he could trust Puhlman. Should the funds stop … well, he would deal with that should the situation arise.
Landow was reviewing a file containing news reports of Dr. Mark Sedgwick’s death when Borger arrived.
“Hello, Sheldon,” Landow said, looking up from where he sat at a small round table.
Puhlman stood. “I’ll be back in a few hours,” he said.
“Good flight?” Borger asked as he joined Landow at the table.
“Is there such a thing anymore?” Landow replied through a small smile. He was a gaunt man with sandy hair that was longer than one might expect for a CIA employee. He wore half-glasses perched low on an aquiline patrician nose and was fond of Harris tweed sport jackets and solid-colored turtlenecks. On this day his shirt was navy.
“You flew coach?” Borger said.
“No, of course not. I’m referring to the poor souls in the back of the plane. I don’t think I’d ever take a flight again if I was subjected to that nonsensical harassment that occurs at airports these days. I often think that I would like to be alone in a room with that moron, Reid, who tried to blow up the plane by lighting his sneaker. Because of him, millions of shoes are taken off every day around the world.”
Borger laughed. “And if you were alone in that room with him?”
Landow made a pistol out of his hand and pointed it at Borger. “Bam!” he said.
“Sad what happened to Mark,” Borger said, not sounding as though he meant it. “Anything new in the press coverage?”
“According to some articles, and information we’ve received through police channels, Ms. Klaus is still being considered a person of interest in the case.”
“And?”
“Your work with her seems to have been highly successful. From what I’m told, she continues to profess her innocence and has no recollection of having done what they’re accusing her of.”
Borger adjusted himself in his chair and frowned.
“Something bothering you, Sheldon?”
“What? Oh, no, nothing is bothering me. I do wish they’d arranged a better way to dispose of the car. It never should have been found by the police.”
“That’s not posing a problem, Sheldon. It can’t be traced back to her.”
“Still—”
“Mark’s unfortunate death is history,” Landow said. “He was a foolish man. His increasingly negative reaction to the work we’re doing couldn’t be tolerated.”
“But he did bring us Ms. Klaus,” Borger said.
“Yes, he certainly did that. She’s a remarkable subject. Your work with her was nothing short of brilliant.”
“It’s never difficult when you have a patient like that, just a matter of guiding her in the right direction while in trance. I believe I’ve found someone equally gifted. Of course, the stakes are considerably greater than silencing Mark Sedgwick.”
Landow peered at Borger over his half-glasses. “Tell me more,” he said.
“He’s a young Arab American filled with anger, a prizefighter, although I gather he wasn’t very successful. According to Puhlman, he took quite a beating in his last few fights, leaving him with headaches. I’ve offered to treat him. Peter is bringing him to the house tonight.”
“Y
ou say he’s angry. Angry at what?”
“The world. He’s anti-Mortinson because of his liberal policies toward Israel.” Borger laughed. “He even thinks that the Jews control professional boxing and are keeping him out of the ring.”
“You’ve done a full evaluation of his trance capacity?”
“I will tonight, but from what I’ve observed already, he’s an excellent subject.”
Landow nodded and closed the file folder. “How fast can you program him?”
Borger shrugged. “Hard to tell, but I think I can do it fairly quickly.”
“We need more than that,” Landow said. “We’re running out of time where Mortinson is concerned.”
“I’m well aware of it, Colin. But as you know, finding the perfect assassin is never easy. I’ve evaluated every subject who’s been brought here, and while some of them were potential candidates, none fully measured up. I’m hoping that this young man—whose name is Iskander Itani, by the way—will fill the bill.”
“Let’s hope,” said Landow. “Our friends are getting antsy. The polls show that Mortinson will waltz into the White House unless drastic steps are taken. We all know how devastating that would be to our country.”
“Speaking of our friends, Colin, I’m going to need a new infusion of money to pull this off, providing of course that this young man works out.”
“How much?”
“A half million at least.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. I’m flying to Texas tonight to meet with them. I’ll bring up funding.”
“Good. I think I’d better get home and prepare for tonight.”
“Go ahead. The sooner this is done, the better it will be for everyone. The longer it drags out, the greater the likelihood that it can be traced back to the clinic—and even back to Langley, God forbid.”
“I understand,” Borger said, annoyed at being reminded of the obvious.
The project that he was about to undertake was, unlike previous projects, not funded by the CIA. The money behind the assassination of presidential candidate George Mortinson came from a group of wealthy men, mostly from the South and Southwest, who considered themselves patriots of the first order. Through sympathetic rogue CIA employees like Colin Landow who shared their extreme right-wing beliefs, they’d turned to experts in mind control like Sheldon Borger to create the “perfect” assassin. Aside from Landow and a few others who were of like mind, the CIA itself was unaware of this criminal use of its Lightpath Psychiatric Clinic, nor was anyone connected with the agency’s Medical and Psychological Analysis Center in Langley.
For Borger, seeking the perfect hypnotic subject to assassinate a presidential candidate reflected two things about him.
He shared the political views of the men behind the assassination.
But more important, he was enamored of being able to initiate direct action for everything he believed about the power of hypnosis and the use to which it could be put.
In a sense he considered what he was about to do a patriotic act unto itself, not simply because it would result in keeping a man like Mortinson out of power, but because it could be utilized by the government to rid the world of evil dictators and tyrants determined to bring down the United States of America. Too many half-cocked assassination attempts on such leaders as Fidel Castro (poisoning his cigars or putting depilatory powder in his shoes to cause his beard and hair to fall out); China’s Zhou Enlai; the Ayatollah Khomeini; Rafael Trujillo of the Dominican Republic, and others had led him to believe that the government was woefully inept when it came to ridding the world of its despots and antidemocracy terrorists. The Joint Special Operations Command, an executive assassination ring reporting directly to then vice president Dick Cheney, had proved to be the government’s gang that couldn’t shoot straight.
The answer to Borger was simple. Only a perfectly chosen and trained assassin, programmed to kill but whose memory of the event was erased through hypnosis, could be trusted to do the job and do it right. And he, Dr. Sheldon Borger, knew how to make that a reality. He hung on to that belief whenever a twinge of guilt intruded. As a physician, he was expected to heal the sick, not create a human weapon of destruction. The oath he’d taken was to make people better, not be an instrument of their deaths. But what good was an oath when everyone around him routinely broke theirs? Politicians broke their oath to the Constitution the minute they lowered their right hand. Newlyweds promised to love and honor till death do they part, yet half of them ended up filing for divorce. Oaths were nothing more than empty words to be discarded for a greater good. His rationalization never failed to mitigate any guilt he might feel at odd moments.
“Keep me informed, Sheldon,” Landow said as Borger got up to leave.
“Of course.”
“And Sheldon.”
“Yes?”
“Should this young man prove to not be the right subject and pose a possible threat to the project, you’ll do what’s necessary?”
Borger nodded and walked from the room.
* * *
“Do what’s necessary” was a polite way of saying “kill him.”
Borger had had to do that only once. The subject was a crusading California journalist whose columns persistently criticized the administration that was ensconced in the White House. The columnist was a known alcoholic subject to prolonged bouts of depression. His live-in girlfriend became concerned when he became suicidal and threatened to use a handgun he possessed to end his life. She’d been introduced to Borger a few months earlier and knew that he was a respected psychiatrist. She called, told Borger the problem, and he urged her to accompany the columnist to his house and to bring the gun with them. The girlfriend left her boyfriend with Borger and returned to the house they shared. Early that evening she received a call from Borger, who informed her that the columnist had agreed to spend the night there.
The next morning another call from Borger asked her to come to the house and take the columnist home. “I think you’ll find him to be in a much more rational state of mind,” Borger said.
He’d worked with the columnist well into the evening after persuading him to turn over the handgun, which Borger placed in a wall safe in his office. But when morning came, he returned the weapon to the columnist before sending him home with his paramour.
Later that afternoon, the columnist blew his brains out in the bathroom.
Naturally, the girlfriend questioned Borger about why he had returned the gun to the columnist.
“I had no legal right to keep it,” was the psychiatrist’s reply. “His depression was far deeper than I’d realized. You have my sincere condolences.”
He was congratulated by Colin Landow for a job well done.
CHAPTER
14
Borger’s household staff was busy preparing for the evening when he returned from the clinic. The menu had been decided in concert with his regular caterer and would include a few Middle Eastern dishes. Borger had made a mental note that Itani’s favored drink was Tom Collins and reminded the caterer to include that drink’s ingredients in the bar setup. He’d invited a dozen guests, including two young psychiatrists with whom he worked at the clinic. Also on the list of invitees was an attractive young prostitute whom Borger had used in previous situations, and her feminine charms had proved useful. His generosity with her (it was, after all, the CIA’s money)—and with others—had been returned to him on occasion in the form of sexual favors. Music would be provided by a pianist-singer who worked the lounges at the city’s better hotels, with regular bookings in Las Vegas. Borger’s fat pocketbook ensured that the pianist would drop other gigs whenever the wealthy psychiatrist on Nob Hill beckoned.
Puhlman was scheduled to deliver Itani to the house at seven. Borger took a leisurely bath at five, carefully chose what he would wear that evening, took a half-hour nap, and was dressed and ready to greet his guests at six thirty.
Itani had dressed for the evening in what Borger assumed was his best
clothing, a brown-and-black checked sport jacket, yellow shirt, tan chino pants, and black sneakers that were worn down at the heels. He’d tamed his unruly pitch-black hair with some sort of gel that smelled of eucalyptus. He followed Puhlman through the front door and was led by Borger to the living room, a huge expanse filled with items from his collection of Chinese art and artifacts. The pianist had already begun playing bouncy show tunes, and two waitresses from the caterer circulated among the guests carrying trays of hors d’oeuvres.
“How are you feeling?” Borger asked the young prizefighter. “Headaches any better?”
“It was not too bad today, but tonight I—”
“I think what you need to do is relax more,” said Borger, nudging Itani in the direction of the bar. A drink or two and some pleasant conversation will do wonders for you. A Tom Collins?”
“Yes … please.”
As the bartender made Itani’s drink, he and Borger were joined by the prostitute, whose name was Elena, a vivacious brunette with dusky skin and wearing a tight white miniskirt and a low-cut teal blouse. Itani’s eyes immediately went to her cleavage but shifted away out of embarrassment.
“Elena, I want you to meet Iskander Itani. Iskander, say hello to Elena Jones.”
She flashed a wide smile and extended her hand, which he took tentatively. “Sheldon has told me about you,” she said. “You’re a fighter? A prizefighter?”
“Yes.”
“How exciting,” she gushed. “My father was a big boxing fan, and he used to take me to the fights when I was a little girl.”
“Oh, I … I think that’s good,” Itani said.
“It must take such courage to get into the ring,” she said.
“No, it … it does not take courage if you are good, better than the other fighter.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she said, touching his arm with long, painted fingertips.
Itani was handed his drink.
“I hope we have a chance to talk later,” Elena said. “Will you be staying all night?”
Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder Page 7