David Unger - The Mastermind

Miguel orders a black tea and some champurradas for himself while Guillermo orders a Cuba libre — rum and Coke — which is fast becoming his preferred anesthetic.

“So what do you have to say that requires so much privacy?”

“Guillermo, you are a typical lawyer, aren’t you?”

“Why do you say that?”

Miguel waits for the waiter to put down their drinks before continuing: “You don’t like to waste time on niceties or idle chatter, do you? I noticed that in your comments at the church. You cut to the chase!”

“Well, usually I am a busy man,” Guillermo says.

“And suddenly you don’t seem so busy.”

Guillermo doesn’t really want to talk about himself. “And who are you, Mr. Paredes? How do you fit in? I mean, why were you at the church? Ibrahim never mentioned you. I doubt you are a family friend.” He jiggles the glass in his hand, takes a huge gulp, and winces.

Miguel leans back in his chair and breaks off a tip of a cookie and dips it in his tea. “Well, I have held many positions and have done many things in my life. For years I worked as a business consultant providing firms with the necessary information and documentation required for government approval. You could say I was a facilitator who made sure entrepreneurs had the proper business permits to avoid too much government scrutiny — not that there ever was any.”

“I do a lot of that for my clients. I guess we are both facilitators.”

The waiter comes back with a small wire basket of chips and peanuts and sets it in front of them.

Guillermo orders another Cuba libre, grabs his half-empty glass, and clinks it against Miguel’s teacup, saying: “To the truth.”

“To the truth,” Miguel echoes.

Guillermo takes a final slug of his drink and uses his tongue to coax the liquid from the remaining ice cubes. “So from what you tell me, I surmise you were or are the necessary go-between for the Guatemalan way of doing business. The master of the soborno, the mordida. The bribe.”

Miguel laughs. “Not a very elegant way of describing what I have been doing for so many years, Guillermo. As I said earlier, I prefer to think of myself as a facilitator who made things happen.” He blinks his crow eyes several times. “I made sure things worked out smoothly, with minimum expense and delay. I still am a facilitator, only I don’t need a fully staffed, separate office to do that. You could say that I have downsized, and am now working more independently.”

“The grand facilitator has become an elegant independent contractor, it seems to me. And where do you work from now?”

Miguel lowers his eyes till they rest on his gabardine suit. He is wearing an Armani, a lovely blue outfit with the slightest of sheens. “Well, I do own a men’s clothing store in the Fontabella Mall in the Zona Viva. Maybe you have passed by Raoul’s. It’s on the second floor, near the Sophos Bookstore, where I sometimes stop to purchase a book on history and have my tea — a better kind of café than this, I must say.”

Guillermo laughs at the way Miguel tilts his teacup. “I can imagine. I’ve eaten at several of the restaurants on the first floor of Fontabella, but I don’t really have time to read books. . Your store must be lovely. Well beyond my means, I’m sure.” Guillermo’s second drink arrives, and he attacks it more gingerly now that his head has begun to spin.

“I don’t know about that. We have suits for all budgets. And the shirts we sell are custom-made by our own tailors, and much cheaper than those you can order from fancy stores in Miami or New York. If you know where to buy your silk and Egyptian cotton, by the bolt, custom-made shirts need not be so expensive. Well, yes, you can’t compare the price to the store-bought kind. But if you consider the difference between a shirt made by a Guatemalan tailor and one made in a sweatshop in Hunan Province, the price is decent. I must tell you, though, that my store is not my sole source of income. It is more or less a hobby.”

Guillermo is warming up to Miguel. He appreciates his unpretentiousness, which also reminds him of Juancho. He is less impressed, however, by Miguel’s volubility, which renders the simplest declarations circuitous. Without intending to, Guillermo has raised his eyebrows as if the conversation were boring him.

Paredes gets the hint and says, “I am sure you are wondering why I asked you here.”

Guillermo smiles.

“As I said before, I am still a kind of facilitator. I can make things happen. I enjoy playing that role, but not if it involves filling out forms, waiting weeks to have meetings, and getting permissions for others. I prefer to be an independent contractor. It gives me the opportunity to ensure that the right kinds of transactions take place quickly. Speed has become a kind of obsession for me.” He pauses.

“How interesting. You sound like a track star educated at the University of Heidelberg.”

Miguel is smiling. “Thank you, but I was educated at the University of Life.”

Guillermo laughs, but presses on: “So you clearly have a set of favored transactions.”

“Yes, and the best transactions also help me accumulate knowledge.”

“What can knowledge bring you? More money?”

“I knew you would ask me that. Each bit of information is like a piece in a puzzle. When you first look at it, it’s unique but indistinct. Sure, it is colored and shaped, but initially you have no idea how it will fit together with another piece of information. But if you turn it around, looking at it close up and then from a distance, you will know exactly where to put it. In time, all the pieces will fit together, and you will have a very clear picture of things. And that can become extremely profitable.”

“It’s that easy?” Guillermo wants to be cordial, but he isn’t buying Miguel’s metaphor.

“My friend,” Miguel says, taking a sip from his tea, “in my line of business, as in yours, knowledge is a valuable commodity. When that knowledge or information becomes actionable, it gives you lots of power. Let me give you an example. Did you know that there are several video cameras at the front of Ibrahim Khalil’s office and factory?”

“I’ve seen the one at the entrance to the building,” Guillermo says indifferently.

“I am not talking about that one. I mean the ones attached to the guardhouse, which captured the events outside the textile factory on the day of the murders.”

Guillermo is now swirling the ice of his second drink in his mouth. “What could they possibly show? Maryam’s car arriving and waiting? Ibrahim walking through the gate and getting into the car? The Mercedes driving away? The murder took place six blocks away.”

“So many questions, but I venture to say that the tape shows a lot more.” Miguel pauses. “But you have to want it.”

Guillermo runs a hand through his sparse hair. “In that case, I believe the police might be interested in seeing it. Personally, yes, I would like to get hold of it. Maybe I can see Maryam alive for one last time.”

“I already have the tape in my possession.”

“How did you—”

“Guillermo, in my line of business the question is never how or why something is done, but what it shows and how you can use it.”

“So what are you getting at?”

“It is a very interesting tape. Extremely interesting. It is what I would call a piece of actionable information . Would you like to see it?”

“Of course.”

“Then let’s go,” Paredes says, taking a huge bite of the champurrada and standing up.

“Right now?”

“You have your car?”

“Parked at the lot on 13th Street. Near the post office.”

Miguel waves at the waiter to bring him the bill.