David Unger - The Mastermind

“The image isn’t very clear. And the camera’s too far away to read the license plate. In fact, I can’t even tell what kind of car it is.”

“The guard thought it might have been a Nissan; a Japanese or Korean car for sure.”

“That’s what Fulgencio said? I don’t know. Too grainy for me to see.”

“Anything else?” Miguel persists. “Anything that surprised you?”

Guillermo sits back in his chair. By now he has had three glasses of Zacapa in addition to the two rums he had at Café Europa, and his head is whirling out of control. Even as he talks, he replays the tape in his head. He has seen a couple of things that don’t make sense. He’s wavering, but finally decides to reveal his doubts to Miguel, whom he is beginning to embrace as a kind of guardian angel or a kindred soul.

“You know that I came down with Ibrahim several times from his office and joined him with Maryam before returning to work at his office in the afternoon. Never in all those occasions did I see Maryam stop the car short and wait for her father to come to her. And certainly Maryam would never roll down the window and speak to her father from the driver’s seat while he stood outside in the sun. He would simply get into the car, and she would drive away.”

“So what does that tell you?”

“I don’t know. It’s a bit crazy, but maybe Maryam wasn’t the person driving.”

Guillermo signals for Miguel to watch the tape with him for a fourth time. When he gets to the part where Ibrahim is about to step into the car, he stops the tape. “Take a look into the car. For an instant you’ll see a dark blob block the sunlight from the back. It’s as if someone in the backseat suddenly sits up for a split second and then lies back down.”

Miguel takes the tape off pause and it begins rolling again. It all happens very quickly. There is little to see, nothing more than a strobe blocking a spot of light. It doesn’t seem significant to him, not enough of a clue to matter. “You are seeing things, Guillermo. Sometimes your mind wants your eyes to see something that’s not really there.”

“It’s there, all right.” Guillermo rubs his face with both hands. “I know what I know.”

“What would a third person in the car mean? And who would that person be?”

“I said I don’t know.”

“Think, man!”

“Her husband Samir,” Guillermo lies. “Maybe he came along to watch them die!”

Miguel pauses, then touches Guillermo’s neck. “My dear man, you’re consumed by grief. I only showed you this tape so you could see the unmarked car. The killing was set up, but not by Samir. I know you were in love with Maryam, and that she wanted to leave her husband to marry you, but you can’t let this passion of yours confuse you.”

Without opening his eyes, Guillermo shakes his head. “How do you know these things about me? We kept our affair an absolute secret.”

“My friend, there was no other way to interpret your comments at the memorial service. Anyone would have guessed you were sad over the death of your client, but grief-stricken over the death of his daughter. If Samir Mounier wanted Ibrahim and Maryam killed, he wouldn’t be lying down in the backseat. He would simply hire someone to murder them and be miles from the scene. Actionable information develops from credible evidence. I’m afraid you are not providing credible evidence. No, I suspect there’s someone else who wanted to have Ibrahim killed, and had the means and the connections to plan it. That’s where we must look to find the murderers. Maryam, as much as you loved her, was collateral damage. She was never the target. Once the assassins planned to kill Ibrahim, the death of his daughter became just one more unfortunate piece of news.”

“But what if Samir wanted them both killed?”

Miguel scratches his chin. “It’s fair to assume Samir may have wanted Maryam killed to prevent her from getting together with you. I know you separated from your own wife and children months ago, and that they’re living in Mexico City with her uncle. Only you know if Maryam would have ever left her husband. It’s also true that with Ibrahim dead, Samir will now inherit the factory and the business, which will make him a very rich man, but I don’t find any of this likely.”

Guillermo drops his head onto the desk. He’s tired. And drunk. Moreover, he’s angry, full of hate, and quite confused. He glances up at Miguel, who has a knowing look on his face.

“You’ve set me up for this. You went to the funeral service hoping I would be there so you could talk to me afterward.”

“Guillermo, I did no such thing.”

“You had this tape ready for me, ready to roll as soon as I walked in.”

“It’s true. I was hoping someone would say something that would make me want to show him this tape, but I didn’t know it would be you. Not today. I was planning to call you at your office in a couple of days and invite you to lunch.”

“You know so much about me.”

“Yes,” Miguel says, putting a tender hand on Guillermo’s shoulder. “But I know much about a lot of things. It’s my business to do so. Here, let me help you get up. I will have my men accompany you. They can drive you and your car home.”

In the weeks that follow there’s a big brouhaha as the president appoints a special independent prosecutor to investigate the deaths of Ibrahim and Maryam Khalil. Since Miguel is the only one in possession of the tape, the query is nothing more than feathers flying in the hen house with no trace of the fox. The prosecutor assembles a team of investigators to study the circumstances of this double homicide and uncover the actual assassins. But since no one ever really wants to know what’s happening or has happened in Guatemala, the investigation resembles a 1920s silent movie in which a dog chases its own tail for forty minutes.

Every week dozens of dead bodies appear in Guatemala City: corpses in alleys, in ravines, on street corners, at bus stops, and even inside of city buses, mostly at night. Of every hundred deaths, the police and detective squads are able to bring one or two culprits to justice. And even in these instances, those found guilty are often merely the hired hands of the true agents of the murder.

All this begins to gnaw on Guillermo, like some undiagnosed bacteria. This, together with the immense loss he feels, is enough to debilitate him. His only remaining purpose in life is to find those responsible for the death of his love.

He becomes obsessed with the idea of impunity, that crimes can be committed and proof presented, but nothing done because the judge is paid off to render any concrete evidence inadmissible or tainted. He begins to see impunity everywhere: in people throwing garbage on the streets and driving off; horns sounding near hospitals; screaming in churches; people blowing smoke in your face on the street; moviegoers cutting in line to get the best seats; people tossing cigarette butts in restaurant glasses. . everything revealing the absence of consequences.

Guillermo actually longs for the days of armed conflict when the guerrillas were the clear enemy, setting fire to Guatemala, The Land of Eternal Spring. Back then Ríos Montt and his lapdog Pérez Molina vowed to establish military order by using a heartless slash-and-burn policy. What were they expected to do? Play footsies with the guerrillas? Turn the country over to bearded thugs and masses of barefoot Indians supporting them?

What is happening now, with no distinct enemy, is more unnerving.

He knows for a fact that Ibrahim and Maryam have been unjustly eliminated and that no one, not even Maryam’s very own husband, cares why or how it happened.