The Bookmaker

by Chris Fraser

  “‘Through a screening process of our prisoners, we find the subject with the most susceptible mind for controlling; usually it is the most simple that fit this bill, so we start there.’

  “The brainwashing continued. The stark grey room stayed the same, but the doctor’s clothes and items on the table changed, indicating the passage of time. ‘The process usually takes a month of eight hour days to get them where they need to be,’ Hamshari said.

  “‘What’s happening here? Where’s this all going?’ Matador asked.

  “‘Please, show some patience, it will all make perfect sense in a moment.’

  “The film went on, the doctor was now obviously in control of the subject, who still had the same blank stare but was now doing odd things throughout the room until the doctor handed him a gun and the subject pointed it at a guard who was previously out of the scene. He pulled the trigger. The gun was filled with blanks, and the guard, apparently aware of this, hardly flinched; then the subject put the gun to his own head and pulled the trigger, dropped the gun, and waited for his next order.

  “‘See that, the control we can achieve?’ Hamshari shouted, breaking the dead silence and startling us.

  “‘I see,’ I said. ‘But where are you going with this?’

  “He had Aquib stop the film and put another in. ‘So impatient, you Americans can be, now watch this.’

  “The next film started with the same grainy stock, same countdown. This time the scene was in front of a run-down apartment building.

  “Hamshari started. ‘Inside the building, in a second-floor apartment, is one of our men who sold secrets to the Israelis. This traitor exposed the identity of two of our men who had infiltrated Mossad in Tel Aviv. With his information, our men were executed by firing squad. Now Allah has his revenge,’ he said with a bitter tone as if this had happened yesterday.

  “The subject from the first film walked into view of the camera and headed straight into the dilapidated building.

  “Hamshari went on. ‘We have our man strapped with twenty pounds of our homemade explosives.’

  “The building sat quiet for a moment. Then from the second floor, an explosion ripped through the walls and sent debris of brick and glass falling to the sidewalk below. The image was peculiar in its silence. The explosion didn’t pack the same punch without the sound—it had a false urgency, movie back-lot fakeness. But the body torn in two halves filling the sidewalk with black liquid pulled you back to reality.

  “‘Now Allah will judge,’ Hamshari said, stopping the tape.

  “Matador and I gave each other a disgusted glance, but who were we to judge?

  “Before we could give our opinions, Hamshari put on another film. ‘Now, this one…this one was a pleasure to carry out. This man here—I say man, but he is far from it. This man from England, working for British Petroleum in the oil fields of Kuwait, committed the darkest of crimes. To put it discreetly, he had his way with a ten-year-old girl. When the girl’s father found out, he disowned her for shaming the family, now she is an orphan. The British washed their hands of him, and the Kuwaitis offered him up to us.’

  “The scene started the same as the first one: the doctor working his hypnosis on a white man who looked to be in his thirties or forties. Aside from the shoddy clothes, the disheveled, dirty hair, and blank stare, he could have been one of us.

  “‘This man was not as easy as some of the others to control, but the doctor took it as a challenge and eventually had him,’ Hamshari said, looking at the subject with hatred.

  “Again, the room changing indicated the time it took to train the man, you could see the progress even in the grainy silence. ‘This one took two months, but he was well worth the effort. Talib, the next one,’ he barked.

  “The film opened up in a sun-drenched seaside setting. The camera panned the boardwalk. It could have been Miami Beach, I thought. Hamshari set me straight. ‘Haifa last summer, an Israeli tourist destination.’

  “The British man entered the scene, this time dressed in a bulky but nice black business suit. The man walked straight ahead into a busy restaurant, past the outdoor tables, and into the restaurant, out of the picture. Now that we knew what was going to happen, the wait was excruciating. Finally, with a blast far bigger than the apartment building explosion, the entire restaurant was blown from the inside out, body parts mixing with the rubble. Matador and I looked away.

  “Hamshari noticed, and shut the projector off. ‘A little squeamish for men with your track records, aren’t we?’

  “‘Those were innocent civilians,’ I said.

  “‘You are wrong!’ Hamshari snapped violently. ‘The Israelis established long before that civilians were not off limits, we are playing by their rules now! What you just saw was a reaction to the children bombed in Gaza during the Six Day War, as they call it.’

  “‘Okay, okay, we aren’t judging. All’s fair in love and war, right?’ I said, trying to break the tension.

  “Hamshari smiled. ‘I’ve never heard that before. I like that, and truer it could not be.’

  “Matador, in an attempt to dissolve the growing hostility in the room, tried some complimenting. ‘What you’ve just shown us is very impressive. I didn’t think it could be done.’

  “‘Yes, we are very proud of our team,’ Hamshari said.

  “‘However, a bomb might not be the best way to take out our objective,’ Matador said.

  “‘I agree,’ he said. ‘Subtlety is an issue. That’s why you must see the last film I would like to show you.’

  “The film was the same quality as the others. ‘You see the subject, he’s your man,’ Hamshari said, pointing at the screen. He looked like the other malnourished Middle Easterner who blew up the apartment building.

  “‘That’s our guy? We’re gonna need someone in America to do this job,’ I said.

  “‘That’s just it. This man is American, just like you. One of our operatives recruited him in California, believing he’d be an ideal fit for this program, and he was right. This is a dream subject. Not too bright, an Arab Palestinian, staunchly anti-Zionist, easily manipulated and hypnotized, and he has dual citizenship, Israeli and U.S. We flew him out about a month ago and planned on using him for a job in Jerusalem, until you called.’

  “He had my attention. ‘Can he be coerced into shooting one person? It’s quite different from tripping a bomb,’ I said, looking back at Hamshari.

  “He was quick with an answer. ‘Aha,’ he said with a quick laugh, ‘watch.’

  “The scene was a prison. A dark, dank place I wouldn’t want to spend a minute in. It made American prisons look like our suite. The camera man walked backwards, filming the entourage of two guards, Dr. Bryant the hypnotist and the man known as Sirhan Sirhan. They all walked with purpose and direction, except Sirhan, who was in a daze. They marched down a tight corridor with cells on either side. The dead eyes of long-forgotten prisoners peeked behind rust-stained iron bars.

  “They reached their destination. One of the guards opened the cell door with a key. As the door swung open, it revealed an emaciated prisoner dressed in rags. He shuffled forward in his chained bare feet. His sallow face couldn’t hide a pathetic smile revealing his excitement in having someone open his cell door, no matter the reason. The doctor whispered something into Sirhan’s ear, and without hesitation he pulled out a pistol and shot the man in the chest. The prisoner went down, but he wasn’t dead. He held his arms up in a defensive pose. Unaffected, Sirhan emptied the chamber into him. Then he took the empty gun, put it up to his temple, and pulled the trigger over and over again until the film stopped.

  “Hamshari motioned for Talib to turn on the light, and with a smug look on his face, said, ‘You see, that is how it will be done. Sirhan did that with only two weeks training. He is more advanced now and can carry out far more complicated orders.’

  “I had to ask, as I still saw his haunting eyes, ‘Who was the prisoner?’

  “‘What does i
t matter?’ Hamshari said. ‘He’s dead now, that is all you need to know.’

  “‘I’m just curious. What were his crimes?’

  “‘This is not your war, it is ours, but for the sake of an amicable working relationship, I will tell you. He was an Israeli soldier, he committed no crime; his crime was being Jewish.’

  “Matador gave me a look indicating that what he saw, although unsettling, was exactly what we needed, and unfortunately, we had to work with these people.

  “Then he spoke. ‘Now, if you can do all this, why do you need us?’

  “‘Excellent question my friend, and one we were anticipating,’ Hamshari said. ‘We have taken the art of hypnosis very far, but it is still unproven in the field. You will be there to make sure the job is done correctly. My benefactor will leave nothing to chance. He has spared no expense, and he must have Bobby Kennedy dead, his existence shames him.’

  “I thought of pursuing who his benefactor might be, but I had a pretty good idea, and I knew Hamshari wouldn’t divulge the information, so I left it alone. Matador and I had seen enough and wanted out of the suite as soon as possible. We agreed to work with them. A venue was not decided upon yet, but the Presidential campaign would provide many opportunities, so we made plans to contact each other the next week and take it from there. As we left the hotel, we couldn’t help but feel dirty, but we knew we had to dance with the devil on this one. We took a long shower and left Paris the next day.”

  * * * * *

  Preston stopped there, we were so engrossed in his story we hadn’t realized that we needed fresh drinks and a fresh joint if we were to continue.

  He tried to rise, but could barely move. “Before you hook me up with another scotch, do me a favor and help me get up and move around a little, my muscles need to move, they’re starting to tighten up.”

  “Yeah, no problem.”

  He was heavy and didn’t offer much help, basically dead weight now. I didn’t let him know this. Once I got him up and he leaned on my shoulder so we could walk a bit, he was more manageable. The mosquitoes were out in full force tonight—the non-stop exoskeleton armada hell-bent on their vampiric mission. I was trying to brush them away while holding Preston up; he seemed unaffected by them.

  “How come the mosquitoes don’t get you, what’s your secret?” I asked.

  “They know better,” he said with no hint of humor.

  “So you were dealing with some pretty shady motherfuckers with this one, huh?”

  Preston stopped walking. “Why don’t you put me down in that chair right there, get me another scotch, roll us another joint, and I’ll try and finish this thing.”

  I did as he asked.

  * * * * *

  “I was struggling with the idea of working with these terrorists, and more than once, I convinced myself I couldn’t do it, we’d find another way to get Bobby. Whenever I tried to explain this to Matador, he more or less agreed that he wasn’t happy with our new affiliation either, but Matador was the more practical one between the two of us. He wasn’t my conscience, but he was the voice of reason, and he could think of no better way to carry out the hit while keeping our noses clean. Matador, as always, made too much sense. I pushed aside my apprehension and revulsion and went with him on this one, after all, he’d never steered me wrong before.

  “June 5, 1968, had a special significance to Hamshari’s Fatah. It was the one year anniversary of the Six-Day War; they wanted to do it then. Bobby would be at The Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles during the Democratic primaries, which would take place June 4. But with the results coming in later that night, the event would carry on well into the next morning. Hamshari considered it a gift from Allah that Kennedy would be in a public place on that date, so it had to be then—we had a month to prepare. This wasn’t our ideal venue—far more public and crowded than we would have liked, but Hamshari insisted it had to be that day. It had to be June 5. The thought of being bossed around by these sub-humans didn’t sit well with me, but it wasn’t our call, they were holding all the cards—they had the scapegoat. Matador convinced me to carry on with the plan, for now. We could show up prepared to carry out the assassination, and if things looked or felt wrong, we’d just walk away, no harm no foul. Except for dealing with Hamshari afterward, I reminded him.

  “Just like in Dallas five years earlier, we moved into a hotel a week before to prepare. This time, we got a little bold and stayed in the Ambassador Hotel itself. Maybe not the smartest move, but we figured actually living in the setting of the act was a great way to get a feel for the place and scout out every inch of the ballroom and the other rooms that were to be used for the event. We had fake names and rock-solid fake IDs, our identity was safe. Our faces were not, so we went as incognito as possible: I grew a beard, we used hats, glasses, fake facial hair, and even wigs throughout the week during our reconnaissance.

  “It was from a pay phone on Sunset Strip that I made the international call to Hamshari. He informed me in his usual arrogant and confident tone that everything was on schedule. Sirhan had been in town for over a week and was being overseen by handlers, including the hypnotist, Dr. Bryant. On the night of the primary, Sirhan would enter the lobby at 11:00pm. I was told to wait for him to show up there, and as soon as I saw him, everything was a go; if I didn’t spot him, abort the mission.

  “Matador, of course, would be there, but he wouldn’t be getting blood on his hands this time— this was a one man, one shot job. The plan was simple: I’d trail Sirhan close and as soon as he opened fire, I’d swoop in with a head shot. Matador would be my eyes and ears, my look out, and help me slip out once the job was done.

  “The gun was my father’s gun, the same .38 Special that he used to kill himself. I took it out of the hotel room safe and cleaned it one last time. I found poetic justice in the fact that the gun Joe Sr. used to kill my father would now be used to kill his son. The few hours leading up to the act were always a surreal whirlwind of fear, excitement, and preparation. Matador and I both dressed in dark business suits, hoping to fit in with Bobby’s entourage, who’d have the closest access to him. We paced our rooms until about 9:00pm and then headed downstairs to the ballroom to get a sense of the moment.

  “The scene was a party atmosphere both inside and out. Rather than a Presidential primary, you would have thought you were at a company Christmas party. I loitered around the hotel, mainly in the lobby, looking for a short, slightly built Middle Easterner with a blank stare on his face, no sign yet. By 11:00pm, the party was still building. The polls had closed three hours earlier and the results were starting to solidify into a Kennedy victory. At 11:30pm, I spotted a familiar face—not Sirhan, but Dr. Bryant, the hypnotist, also in a suit. Coming out from behind him, was Sirhan—smaller and less threatening in person, but it was him. He was dressed inconspicuously in a white T-shirt and blue jeans and the only thing that might make people stop and take notice of him was his dead-eyed stare. Once they passed through the lobby and into the ballroom, they settled into a corner where Dr. Bryant began whispering into his ear. It wasn’t overtly strange to see, but if you really focused on the figure of a white business man whispering into a young Middle Easterner’s ear for long periods of time, it would have struck anyone as odd. But the ballroom was crowded and drunk, the only thing on most people’s mind was the opposite sex and where their next drink was coming from. I had them in my sights, and Matador had me in his.

  “My stalking was interrupted when a rolling cheer erupted throughout the place. I stopped a young blonde man and asked him what was happening, I all I got was a slurred, ‘Fuck if I know, there’s free booze, it’s a party.’ He wouldn’t be much help. Then I overheard that the results were in. Kennedy had won California—virtually assuring his spot as the Democratic candidate for President, left vacant by LBJ. Sirhan didn’t move, he stayed in his corner hidden in plain sight among the crowd.

  “A crowd rushed into the Embassy Ballroom, Bobby was coming down to make his victory s
peech. When he stepped up to the podium I glanced at Sirhan, his eyes lit up in Pavlovian recognition. I kept my eyes on him. He kept his on Kennedy, not even blinking. Dr. Bryant whispered to him one last time then got lost in the party. The speech was short and exuberant. I watched his uniquely Kennedyan face reveling in his victory, drinking in the crowd’s adoration, and I hated him. It brought me back to my childhood and the pain their family caused mine. He wouldn’t leave the hotel alive. I had him.

  “The speech ended in triumphant applause, and Kennedy was on the move—so was Sirhan, and so was I. In Bobby’s entourage were two men I recognized: L.A. Ram, Rosey Grier, and Olympian, Rafer Johnson. I hoped I wouldn’t have to get into it with either one of them. Bobby was headed toward the kitchen and Sirhan was moving fast, pushing his way through the throngs of admirers hoping to see their hero, possibly touch him, seeking a transfer of the Kennedy mystique into their own dreary lives. Halfway through the kitchen corridor, he met up with a large group of supporters offering their congratulations, causing Bobby to stop and chat and shake a few hands.

  “Sirhan saw his chance. He squeezed his way through the corridor, pushing people out of his way. I was right behind him—it must have looked like I was chasing him. Once he caught up to Bobby’s entourage, he stopped and then circled around to the front of the group. In all the chaos of the moment, the bodyguards—pinned to the walls of the corridor—couldn’t keep track of who was getting close. I took a position behind Bobby, who backed up slightly at Sirhan‘s affront. I pulled out my father’s gun but kept it low and concealed and waited for Sirhan. All eyes were on Bobby—I watched Sirhan. He pushed closer, right in front of Bobby, only inches away, then, without hesitation, began firing. After the first shot he was mobbed, but kept firing, shot after shot caromed around the tight kitchen corridor, screams of shock, terror, and pain echoed from the walls and from those getting hit by the bullets he was carelessly unloading.