A Hired Killer

A Hired Killer 

Ah, hired killers. Hit men. Assassins. Unsavory characters? Cynical men without conscience or hearts? 

Very few women are in this line of "work". They don't have to. They rob and kill lonely and gullible men the legal way: go straight for the men's hearts with their smiles and then sweet talks and clothes disrobed. After that, the poor bastards are helpless and open their hearts and wallets at the same time.

Please allow me to introduce my friend, Omar Sabat. Omar is his real name, he confided in me, but on the job he goes by a certain alias, depending on the circumstances. Yes, he was the same guy I mentioned in an earlier "story" of mine. He was the one who said to me, "Roberto, everybody dies. It is just a matter of when. In the overall scheme of things, in the way things are, whether you die or somebody dies now or 20 or 30 years from now, it makes no difference. We all die. Life is brief, anyway, although for some it may be unbearably long. You may as well be the one who gets paid, instead of some quack doctor, for somebody's death. If you want, I'll show you the ropes." I respectfully declined his "kind" offer because I don't have the street smarts, the cynicism, the predatory predisposition, the self-discipline, the athleticism, and the courage Omar possesses.

I don't have his looks either. Omar, 38, 6'2", devilishly good-looking and athletic, single, is a salad bowl of various genetic traits and backgrounds. Son of a Sunni Lebanese merchant father and Irish-German journalist mother. He attended American University in Beirut, graduated with double degrees in English and Electrical Engineering, fluent in Arabic, English, French and German, worked for IBM in Beirut and then in Chicago before leaving everything behind and became a member of Delta Force. He was sent to Iraq in 2003. The romance and excitement of war quickly dissipated for him. He became disenchanted with the corruption, the ineptitude of leadership, and the senseless deaths and bloodshed on both sides. He couldn't wait to find a way out. It came when he was wounded. He faked suicidal talks when he was convalescing. After a few sessions with an Army shrink, he was given a dishonorable discharge with reduced benefits which embittered him. He was employed as a math teacher in Dallas when a former Army buddy of his contacted him and talked him into working for a renegade former Delta Force colonel who was running a business of dealing with "Special Situations". 

The terms hired killers, hit men, and assassins are interchangeable to the laymen, but in the business parlance, "hired killers" are at the bottom of the totem pole. They can be anybody, willing to kill for as little as $100 or some drugs. They are losers, young, addicted to drugs, starving, and often get caught. "Hit men" have a criminal, "the Mob" connotation while "assassins" refer to men in political, big business, military, spy operations. Assassins are highly professional, well paid and well respected. They are often recruited from the malcontent veterans of special branches of the armed forces. Omar is an assassin, but he is also a freelancer, willing to take on any job as long as it requires meticulous planning, daring, and hefty compensation. Omar is not only an assassin, he is also into the arts and a poker aficionado. And if his business takes him to Las Vegas, which is fairly often, he would try to squeeze poker into his schedule.

I became acquainted with Omar during one of those absurd exciting, loose, noisy poker sessions at Aria poker room in late December 2010. It was Friday night. Well-heeled tourists and amateur poker players were in town. Omar and I were at a $2-$5 no limit hold'em table. A group of four lawyers buddies from London were downing shots of Vodka diluted with water melon juice and ringed with salt, like they were going out of style. The cocktail waitress was in high heavens because the lawyers tipped well. She kept supplying them with fresh drinks. She had a big grin on her face. The lawyers were having a good time. They were loose players, especially when they were playing against one another. They talked shop, then of course, sports, politics, and then the war in Iraq. I was tuning them out and busy trying to get their money. Omar was on my right. He was a decent player, but was losing quite big to the Brits who were incredibly lucky in drawing to almost impossible odds. They high-fived and laughed hysterically when one of them won, meanwhile they kept saying "bloody" this and "bloody" that. It was annoying to Omar, evidently, because he kept breathing hard. Remarkably, he kept a stony face and said nothing while he kept going to his wallet for a rebuy of playing chips. I watched him as I watched everybody else at the table while taking in all the body language clues and verbal utterances. Several times, I tried to draw him into a conversation but got nowhere apart from the "information" that he had a Lebanese father and Irish-German mother which accounted for his unusual chiseled looks. 

The Brits then talked about movies, which piqued my interest. I used to go to movies by myself, way back when I was an adolescent. Even back then, I was aware of my alienation. Movies provided a respite and refuge from it. Even back then, I was drawn to movies with a "message" and "artistic merits". Anyway, I couldn't help myself and joined the conversation. I volunteered my opinion that "Pulp Fiction" was a great, genre-setting movie and I told them why. One of the Brits objected. I held my ground. He then said the movies "Mr and Mrs Smith" was a "great" movie. I sarcastically asked him what made him think that it was "great". He hemmed and hawed and finally said because it made him feel good and he liked "assassins" movies anyway. I snorted. I couldn't help myself. I cogently told him the movie was a romantic action comedy and a far cry from realism and everything about it was fake and an exercise in mindless and cheap entertainment. Then another Brit chimed in a cheap joke, addressing to me: "Be careful, mate. This bloke here, my buddy, is an assassin. Don't make him mad because he may make a history of you." His friends all thought it was a very witty remark and they all laughed their heads off. Omar then uncharacteristically leaned over and whispered "Please say nothing more. " The way he said that startled me. The quiet, controlled, baritone voice was delivered with finality and authority. I took a good look at him and his eyes looked back straight at me and his head nodded slightly. "Yes?" He intoned once more. I nodded my head. Then all of a sudden, he announced: "I'm hungry. Are you? Let's find something to eat. My treat. Let's go, heh?" He then touched my arm. A jolt of electricity went through my body. I sensed something momentous just happened. This was not the first time that happened to me. Twice it had happened before. The first time was when I was about to be blindsided by a dude on motor bike in Saigon in 1970 at an intersection when somehow some unknown force told me to turn my head and that helped me avoid a collision at the last second. The other time happened about a year and a half later. I met an evil woman. My inner voice told me to stay away from her, but I was weak-willed and I was enslaved by my ego (she flattered me, saying I was handsome and sexy, etc.., and she was persistent). The result was that I was almost destroyed by her. It took everything I had to surmount all the obstacles and emotional mines she laid in my path. Ever since I have listened to my inner voice. It has not failed me. The voice keeps my ego in check. It has helped me to survive and resolutely stay away from evil people. 

We went upstairs to a steak house. Omar exuded familiarity with luxury and fine dining. He ordered a bottle of red wine to go with the steaks. We had the whole works. Appetizers, entrées, desserts. It was a long late dinner. He did most of the talking, after posing a series of screening questions to establish that I was straight and was not an actor supreme nor a member of the police force or one of those espionage services. He then added ominously, "I don't know why I like you a lot, old man, but if you ever betray me, you and your loved ones, whoever and wherever they are, will be very sorry." Blood was draining from my face. I looked at him, speechless, and feebly nodded my head. I was normally a garrulous fellow, but at that time I was at a loss for words. I was wondering what the hell I was getting myself into because I was not the kind of guy who could keep a secret for long. As I said, Omar talked and I listened.

"Don't look so scared. I'm sorry. I want you to enjoy your dinner. Come on, I do like you a lot. I am human, like everybody else ( what's this?). And I need to talk to somebody outside of my profession, somebody normal (sic!) and understanding. That person might as well be you. I'm a good judge of character. Something in your mien and countenance, your delivery of words, told me that you are a trustworthy man. Besides, I miss my Dad ever since he died two years ago. You look like my Dad. As you probably guessed, I didn't want to hear you criticize the movie "Mr and Mrs Smith" because I am an assassin (oh my goodness!). I was in Iraq. There I killed people so some corrupt politicians over there and back home and their buddies got rich. I didn't know that at first. I thought I went there to protect my dear country against terrorism, like I was told. But that was not true. People lied to me. My buddies died to protect the rich and the powerful, not to advance democracy nor to defend it. So one day I decided that if I had to kill, that was for my benefit, and not for anybody else's. Besides, I like being the predator, not the prey; the hunter, not the hunted; the master, not the slave. I am an atheist. Atheism makes more sense in the scheme of things. God is a human invention, a figment of Man's imagination. The notion of God does not square with realities that I see with my eyes and hear with my ears. There's too much suffering and injustice for God to exist. The notion is untenable. To argue otherwise is just an exercise in sophistry. 

I've been very lonely. But I cannot maintain a normal heterosexual, romantic relationship in the line of work I am doing. Do you know that the last word in "Lonesome" is "me"? I stay away from that word. So I decided that you're gonna be my friend in the normal world, my surrogate father. Now and then, I may need your help, but I will pay you for your help. I won't use you. On the other hand, if you ever need my service, just let me know, heh, hombre?

You were saying that you were full of intuition. Yes, intuition is a powerful instructor. You must learn to be attuned to it. You must listen to its instructions. Intuition is nothing but unstructured and unformalized knowledge. 

For the first three years in the business, I saw a shrink. I told him I was a "corporate trouble shooter". I was in therapy because I wasn't comfortable at killing unarmed and unprepared civilians. The bastard was smart. He caught on that I was an assassin, but didn't let on until the third year and only after I baited him. After that I quit seeing him. 

Since then I've done a lot of reading, trying to understand myself and the world I am in. I believe therapy is an adventure and a journey of discovery and self-discovery. Like life itself, in therapy the pleasure and meaning is in the march, not at the terminus of the march. But now I don't need a therapist to undertake the journey. I can do the poking and probing inside my head all myself. All I need is to have a right attitude. Emotional pain is the failure to accept realities and to know who you are. Now, to me, killing people for my personal profit is an adventure, a journey of discovery and a therapy. I convert chaos into order (though the target's loved ones may think that's just the opposite).To do my job properly requires infinite patience and meticulously planning. And then making lightning and decisive moves when the right time comes. No hesitation. No interference from "conscience", if I want to come out okay at the other end. A lot of my peers got killed and destroyed because of moral "weakness". I always adjust to new realities, to updated information, and I do my job with ruthless efficiency. No flair, no flamboyance, no flash, and no panache. Kissinger was right. Power is an aphrodisiac. I invariably feel powerful and sexually potent when I strike.

You've heard of the "butterfly effect", right? Some butterfly in Africa flutters its wings. One thing leads to another. And the next thing we know is that a tornado is about to touch down in the state of Kansas, right here in the middle of good old USA. Everything is connected. Why you chose to play poker? Why was I sitting next to you? Why the stupid Brits made so much noise and ruckus and then why they had to talk about assassins? You see, nothing exists alone, by itself, unconnected. Nothing is accidental. What has happened to us  is preordained, a convergence of gratuitous events. I'm not saying that we have no free will, but our free will exists in a larger framework of gratuitous events. Sounds paradoxical? 

Some people subscribe to a metaphysical principle---and I am getting to be one of those people with each passing day---that propounds that deep down, unconsciously, we choose everything in our life and that what happens to us is also the manifestation of our unconscious wishes, and not merely the result of our conscious desires. Bur once again, as I said earlier, our choices are not taking place in a vacuum and free of interconnection. I hope I'm making myself understood (a bit too heavy for me Omar, and I did read philosophy and psychology for fun. I just take your word for it. Whatever you say. What do you expect me to do? Disagree with you, a cold-blooded killer?) 

Today I violated my own credo. I don't keep things to myself. I don't keep my own counsel. I don't know why I'm telling you all this. Perhaps that old lonely feeling again. I repeat again: you're like my surrogate father, but if you tell the authorities, I would have to kill you. 

I was an engineer, a soldier, a math teacher, now a killer. I never thought that was how my life would turn out. Strange, heh? Maybe I'm telling you all of this, to a stranger, really, because I feel tired. My job involves a lot careful planning and it does tire me out mentally and emotionally from time to time. Today is the time. You asked me if I ever killed a wrong guy. Yes, twice. Wrong info was provided. I felt bad for a week each time and thought of quitting, but after careful "soul" searching, I concluded that shit happened. Like airplane crashes. And tornado touchdowns. 

Time to go is time to die. It doesn't matter when and how. "

Wissai
August 24, 2013