Itani looked to Borger with a confused expression.
“You’re welcome to,” Borger said. “I have a guest suite with four bedrooms.” He said to Elena, “You’ll be staying, hon?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You’ll have plenty of time to chat with Iskander later in the evening.”
Itani’s eyes were trained on Elena’s shapely rear end as she sashayed away in the direction of a knot of people.
“She’s a sweetheart,” Borger said to Itani. “A really nice girl.” He smiled. “And pretty, too, huh?”
“Yes, very pretty, very pretty.”
Borger pointed across the large room to where a man stood talking with Peter Puhlman. “I told you that there would be someone here who might be interested in backing you as a boxer, Iskander. He has plenty of money and has supported many young fighters.”
“What is his name?” Itani asked.
“Jake Gibbons.”
“I do not know that name.”
“He works mostly on the East Coast. Come, I’ll introduce you.”
Gibbons looked like an ex-fighter, which he was. He’d also been a collector for one of the city’s leading loan sharks and had had run-ins with the police on several occasions. His nose was broad and flattened, and there was scar tissue along the ridges of his prominent eyebrows.
But those days were in his past. He was now on Borger’s payroll (by extension the CIA’s payroll) as the psychiatrist’s bodyguard, who could be called upon in the event muscle was needed. Unlike Puhlman, Gibbons knew little about what Borger did and where his money came from aside from the occasional celebrity patient whom Borger treated.
Puhlman had arranged for Gibbons to be there that evening and had filled him in on Itani’s boxing career and aspirations.
After they’d been introduced, Gibbons said, “You look like, what, a welterweight?”
“I was a super lightweight,” Itani replied, “but I have gotten heavier. I can fight as a welterweight.”
“I like it when a fighter moves up in class,” Gibbons said, “puts on some added muscle. I hear that you haven’t fought in a while.”
“A year,” said Itani, “but I am ready to fight again.”
“You have management?”
“No. The—”
“I might be interested in taking you on,” said Gibbons. “Of course, I’d want to see you in the ring. Maybe I can stop by the gym and watch you go a few rounds.”
Itani’s response was to shut his eyes against a sudden stabbing pain over his eyes. Borger noticed it and said, “Iskander has been suffering headaches lately. One of the reasons he’s here tonight is to see how I can help him.”
Gibbons said, “If anyone can get rid of your headaches, kid, it’s the doc here. He’s the best.”
“You’ll feel better after tonight,” Borger assured Itani as he led him away from Gibbons and Puhlman. “I have a suggestion. It’s hard for me to break away from my guests, but when the party is over we can spend a few hours together working on your headaches.”
“That would be good,” said Itani.
“I have a better suggestion. Is there any reason why you can’t spend the night here? I always have a spare set of pajamas and a robe for my overnight guests. It would give me more time with you. We can work on those headaches tonight and again in the morning.”
Itani thought of Elena, who’d said that she would also be staying.
“Okay?” Borger said.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Good. I see that you’ve finished your drink. Go have another while I mingle with my guests. Make yourself at home, Iskander. It’s a pleasure having you here.”
While Borger chatted with other guests, he kept an eye on Itani from across the room. The young man had gotten a second drink from the bar and stood alone, surveying the room. Puhlman came to him.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. This is a very nice house.”
“The doctor has good tastes, Iskander, and the money to indulge them. Will you be spending the night here so that you and he can work on those headaches of yours?”
“Yes.”
“A smart decision.” He indicated Itani’s empty glass. “You need a refill on that drink. Don’t be bashful.”
Puhlman motioned for Elena to spend time with Itani. She stood with him at the bar as he waited for his third drink and suggested that he take it outside to the expansive wraparound terrace that provided a glittering view of the city. As they stood at a low stone wall that rimmed the terrace, Elena leaned easily against his side. “It’s beautiful, huh?”
Itani didn’t answer. She glanced at him. He seemed to have slipped into a trance, vacant, not there, eyes focused on the horizon, breathing deeply.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
It took him a moment to return to the here and now. “Yes, I am fine. I was … thinking.”
She smiled and said, “You seem like a very intelligent person, I mean for a boxer.”
He turned and faced her. “Why do you think that?”
“Think that? I—”
“I am intelligent,” he said into the air.
“I know. That’s what I said.”
He turned from her and retreated into his own world again.
Elena had become apprehensive. She’d had her share of weirdoes in the years that she’d been selling her body and wasn’t eager to end up with another. She relaxed when he again turned to her and smiled. “I am sorry,” he said. “I have these headaches that Dr. Borger will cure and they sometimes make me—” His smile turned into a laugh. “Make me a little crazy.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy,” she said, rubbing her hand on his back. “I like you.”
“I like you, too,” he said and sucked the rest of his Tom Collins through the straw.
“You need another drink,” she said.
“Yes, I do.”
She accompanied him back inside, where the bartender obliged.
“I’ll see you later,” she said. “You’re staying over, too. We’ll have plenty of time to talk and get to know each other better.”
He spent the rest of the party in relative isolation, aside from the two psychiatrist colleagues of Borger’s who made it a point to initiate conversation with him. As they did, they performed their own preliminary evaluation of his ability to enter trance. As the party broke up, they told Borger that it was their collective opinion that he could be a 5 on the HIP scale, a rare hypnotic subject. Of course, they pointed out that further testing would have to be done.
“I’ll be doing that tonight after everyone leaves,” Borger assured them. Neither of his colleagues was aware of the use to which Borger intended to put Itani. It was routine at the clinic to seek out good subjects for experimentation. That it was Borger’s intention to turn Itani into an assassin was not on their need-to-know list.
Puhlman and Elena lingered after the others had left.
“You’ll excuse us,” Borger said. “Iskander and I have some work to do. I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to get better acquainted after we’re done.” He said it to Elena, who smiled provocatively at Itani.
Borger and Itani went to Borger’s study. It was a large, thickly carpeted room dominated by heavy black leather furniture including two recliners that faced each other. The blinds were tightly drawn; the only light came from a lamp situated over one of the recliners.
“Sit there,” Borger instructed, indicating the chair beneath the lamp.
Itani stumbled as he moved to sit. The drinks had affected him; he felt light-headed.
“Comfortable?” Borger asked as he took the opposite chair.
“Yes.”
“Good. I want you to be comfortable, Iskander. Now, I am going to ask you to do a few things for me so that I can determine how best to approach your headaches. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
Borger was concerned with the amount of alcohol that Itani had cons
umed. Despite the common belief that hypnosis puts you to sleep, the fact is that it results in intensely focused concentration on the part of the subject, and alcohol can interfere with that. But with a perfect subject—and Borger was convinced that Itani was exactly that—its effect should be minimal.
He picked up a gold coin from a nearby table and brought it to within inches of Itani’s eyes. “Focus on the coin, Iskander, focus carefully. As you do, allow yourself to relax and to go to a peaceful place where there is no pain. I am going to count backward from ten. When I am finished, you’ll be in that peaceful place and relaxed. Ten … nine … eight…”
Borger had reached only seven when Itani was in a deep trance. Borger smiled. This was going to be easier than he’d thought.
When he’d completed his countdown, he suggested that Itani’s right arm was attached to a helium balloon and would rise into the air. Itani’s arm floated up and remained outstretched.
“Good,” Borger said. “Excellent.” He proceeded to suggest to Itani that his head was covered by a special helmet that was very cold, and that Itani could put on the helmet whenever he felt a headache coming on. Itani’s hand went to his head. “Do you feel the cold, Iskander?”
“Yes. It is very cold.”
“Whenever you use the helmet, your headaches will go away. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Borger next took a pad of paper and a pencil from the table and handed them to Itani. “I want you to start writing down everything that you’re thinking, Iskander. Think of the evil in this world and the evil people who want to hurt you and others like you. Think of those who want to keep you from boxing again, the Jews who control your life.”
Borger waited until Itani started to write. He formed the words on the paper carefully, writing with almost perfect penmanship. “Jews must die,” he wrote. And then he wrote it again. And again. Over and over.
“That’s right, Iskander,” Borger said in his soothing, well-modulated voice. “Keep writing. Think of Israel and what it has done to you and your family, to all the families in your native country.”
Itani continued writing, substituting “Israel” for “Jews” and saying that it must die. Borger waited silently as his subject continued his automatic writing. When Itani reached the bottom of the page, Borger took the notebook and pencil from him and said, “You’re going deeper into trance Iskander. Deeper. Deeper. Deeper.”
Itani’s faced twisted into anger, and he clenched his fists on his lap. A low moan came from deep inside.
“That’s it, Iskander,” Borger continued. “Deeper. Deeper. People who want to help Israel must be stopped.”
Itani’s expression of sheer rage intensified.
“These people must be stopped,” Borger said.
“Yes, yes,” was Itani’s response.
“They must be stopped. They must be killed to save you and your family.”
Itani groaned.
The session continued for another fifteen minutes, with Borger reinforcing his hate messages. It was toward the end that he mentioned presidential candidate George Mortinson.
Itani lunged at Borger with his right fist, causing the doctor to increase the distance between them. “That’s right,” Borger said. “You must be angry at injustice. You must do something about it.”
Borger decided to end Itani’s trance. He gently told him that he would again count backward from ten to one. “When I reach one, you will come fully awake and feel wonderful. You will have no recollection of what has happened here over the past half hour. And when I tell you that it will rain tomorrow, you will go to the window and look out. You will feel that cold helmet on your head and it will feel good. There will be no headaches, but if there ever is, you will put on that cold helmet and the headache will go away. When I say that the forecast was wrong, the helmet will disappear and you will say, ‘It was supposed to rain.’”
Borger slowly counted down to one. When he reached it, he snapped his fingers and said, “How do you feel, Iskander?”
Itani appeared to be startled. He looked around the room as though wondering where he was and why he was there.
“It will rain tomorrow,” Borger said.
Itani slowly got up and went directly to the window. He opened the blinds and peered into the darkness. His hands went to his head. “My head is cold,” he said.
“The forecast was wrong,” Borger said.
Itani dropped his hands to his sides. “It was supposed to rain,” he said.
“Yes, it was,” said Borger. “How do you feel?”
“I feel good.”
“No headache?”
“No, no headache.”
“Do you remember what has just happened here in my office?”
Itani looked puzzled. “No,” he said. “We … we talked.”
“Yes, we talked. Do you remember what we talked about?”
Itani shook his head.
“We talked about good things, worthwhile things. I hypnotized you.”
Anger returned to Itani’s face. “No. No you did not.”
Borger had him take his seat again and handed him the notepad. “Do you recognize this?” he asked.
Itani squinted in the dim light as he looked at the page with his writings. “No,” he said.
“You wrote that,” Borger said.
“No, I did not,” Itani said angrily.
Borger smiled and patted his knee, pleased that his subject now exhibited total amnesia of what had transpired. “The important thing, Iskander, is that you feel good and that your headaches are gone,” he said. “But we must have more sessions together to be sure that your headaches will never return. Will you do that?”
“Yes, I will.”
“Good. How about we go back to see Elena? The two of you will be my overnight guests, and I’m sure you have much to discuss.”
Elena was waiting with Puhlman in the living room, which the caterer had cleaned up after the party and departed.
“Have a drink,” Borger told Elena and Itani. “Relax. The night isn’t over yet.”
CHAPTER
15
Iskander Itani looked over at the naked Elena Jones, who slept peacefully, her mane of dark hair swirling about her pretty face. He looked down and realized that he, too, was still naked after their awkward lovemaking. He pulled the sheet up over him and thought back to what had led them there.
They’d had drinks together—one drink too many for him—and his memory of what had transpired was fuzzy. He knew it had happened, but it was as though it had involved someone else. The stripping off of clothes and tumbling into bed seemed to have occurred within seconds—the entire episode was compressed.
There was a slight, albeit constant, throbbing above and behind his eyes. Too many Tom Collinses? He remembered what Dr. Borger had said and the exercise he’d taught. Itani rolled his eyes up as far as he could, slowly lowered his eyelids, and drew deep breaths. He allowed one arm to slowly levitate and continued the rhythm of his breathing until he imagined that an ice-cold helmet had been slipped over his head. A smile came to his face. The pain in his head was gone. He remained that way for a few more minutes before opening his eyes and glancing over again at Elena. A recollection of last night’s sweaty tryst now became evident to him as though barriers to memory had lifted along with his imaginary helmet. He rolled onto his side, the motion waking her.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning,” she replied huskily, pushing her hair from her face. She sat up. Itani reached for a breast, but she pushed away his hand. “You’re too strong for me,” she said sweetly. “You tired me out last night.”
“I am sorry.”
“No, no, no, no need to be sorry. I loved it. Did you?”
“Yes, very much.”
She bounded out of bed, grabbed her clothing from the chair on which she’d tossed it, and disappeared into the bathroom. Itani got up, stretched, and slipped on a pale blue terry cloth robe that
was provided for guests. He went to the window and opened the drapes. It was sunny, with puffy blue clouds racing by. Two Hispanic men tended to flowers that bordered a flagstone patio.
He plopped in a chair and tried to remember everything that had occurred. He remembered the party, of course, the conversation with the man named Jake who said he could help resurrect his boxing career, and other people to whom he’d been introduced. He recalled sitting with Borger in his study after everyone had left, and the doctor’s instructions about the cold helmet whenever he felt a headache coming on. But after that it was a blank—until having a drink with Elena and ending up in bed with her.
All in all, he felt better than he had for weeks, months, even years. How fortunate to have met Peter Puhlman at the gym and to have been introduced to this amazing doctor who did in one session what other doctors had failed to do, and who did it with the caring gentleness of a father. Yes, that was it. Borger was like the father Iskander had never known, a good and decent man who knew so much, who knew everything.
Elena was dressed when she emerged from the bathroom.
“Have to run, love. I hope I see you again.”
Itani stood and stepped toward her.
“Go back to bed, honey,” she said. “Enjoy your stay. Bye.”
He sat back in the chair and rubbed his eyes. American young women were so different from those he knew back in Lebanon, so carefree and full of life. He’d never been comfortable around pretty young women, cautious and afraid of being rebuffed. He laughed. She was the aggressor, and it was he who could have done the rebuffing had he wanted to. But of course he didn’t.
He showered and made use of male toiletries provided in a pouch. He wished he had a change of clothing; the pajamas provided hadn’t been necessary last night or useful in the light of day. He dressed, left the room, and wandered down to the main house where Borger sat in the dining room having breakfast.
“Well, good morning, Iskander,” he said loudly. “Come, join me. What would you like, eggs, waffles? My cook whips up wonderful breakfasts.”
“I, ah … whatever you have,” Itani said.
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