David Unger - The Mastermind

The only one who seems to care is Miguel Paredes, and he is an expert at manipulation. He drops clues like bread crumbs to a starving man. Every time Guillermo’s desire to bring the murderers to justice flags, Miguel is there, ready to share some tasty tidbit to pique his interest. It is uncanny how this happens. Miguel, the master operator, knows exactly what to do and when to do it, and Guillermo obeys like a trained seal.

Very often the two men meet in the late afternoon at the Sophos Bookstore café. They like one table in particular, the one that looks over the patio below. It is in a corner and just steps away from the bathroom. As far as they know, the store is free of cameras.

The bookstore café fills with shoppers and writers, drinking lattes and macchiatos, ordering thin slices of pecan or lemon pie. Mild classical music plays softly from speakers in the background. It is the perfect venue for their conversations, much more so than Café Europa downtown, which is probably bugged. And meeting in such a quiet, sedate place gives their discussions a hint of respectability, as if all their dialogues about sinister plots and hired hands were legitimate possibilities.

In this setting, Guillermo orders a bottle of red wine and reveals everything he knows about the shenanigans of Banurbano. Miguel is more than happy to let his new friend talk as if to a father confessor. Guillermo feels that a load is being lifted from his shoulders and his heart as he’s allowed to speak openly about things he has held hidden. He repeats his theory that there was a third person in the car, but Miguel is not convinced. It doesn’t really matter: Guillermo is no longer the only person who knows what he knows, and this provides relief.

Within two weeks of the church service, Miguel Paredes finally feels confident enough to discuss with Guillermo his master plan: he lets the proverbial cat, which has been mewling and scratching more vigorously than ever, out of the bag.

“We need to consider that the government is behind Ibrahim’s death.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! The question is why .”

“To shut him up.”

“The president wouldn’t sink so low as to commit murder to silence an opponent.”

Miguel touches his friend’s hand. “Oh, but he would. Ibrahim’s investigations into the Banurbano accounts were making a lot of people uncomfortable. I wouldn’t be surprised if the president and his lovely wife were responsible for the murders. Guillermo, did you notice how quickly the special prosecutor disbanded his group of investigators? Ten days of investigation, no postmortem, no subpoenas of the files that you and Ibrahim have accumulated, no inquiry into the dropped calls and threatening messages. Whoever was behind this wanted the investigation to end. And you, my friend, are the only one who cares enough about the truth to change things.”

“Did you ever show anyone in the administration or the police the security tape?”

“Are you joking? Why would I? They would simply confiscate it and force me to provide them with every copy of the tape at the risk of death. I am brave, but not so brave as to smile down the barrel of a gun.”

A sober Guillermo Rosensweig would never have fallen for this ploy, but the absence of Maryam amplifies his sense of hopelessness. To counter his desperation, he takes a weekend trip to spend time with his children, who are now living in Mexico’s fancy Chimalistac district. The first thing he notices is that the teenagers are happy to be out of the butcher shop Guatemala has become, and are even resentful they didn’t move to Mexico earlier. They treat him with a certain coldness. The major issue for them is not the death of his girlfriend, but his own betrayal.

He wants nothing more than for his children to tell him about their lives, to feel close to him, to offer hugs and kisses. When he takes them for a Sunday lunch at the San Ángel Inn, he realizes that his children care more for the macaw repeating words and phrases in the main dining area than about his grief. Truth be told, they find his mourning, his propensity for tears, embarrassing if not morbid.

Guillermo takes the TACA flight back to Guatemala City in a state of utter resignation: he finally understands he is all alone now.

His only recompense is to drink himself to sleep every night. Every single night.

After two weeks, the special prosecutor appointed by the president delivers a report claiming that Ibrahim was either killed by an ex-employee for having been fired or by a contrabandist he had double-crossed in a sketchy textile purchase. Maryam’s death, in either case, is ruled accidental, collateral damage, the result of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“That’s what the government claims,” says Miguel. “It’s always easier to blame the victims, who are unable to defend themselves. Don’t you think?” He and Guillermo are talking in his office, where the privacy is greatest and the liquor most abundant.

“This is a major cover-up,” Guillermo agrees. “The regime fed the prosecutor these findings so he wouldn’t discover the documents Ibrahim and I were prepared to release. Banurbano was making illegal loans to the friends of the president and his wife. It’s a cover-up, a cover-up, a cover-up.”

“Maybe you can share some of that information with the press, Guillermo. You know I have friends at Prensa Libre and El Periódico who would be more than happy to publish any information you have to discredit the president.”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone. Tell them yourself and say I’m a reliable source.”

Miguel shakes his head. “Everyone knows I’ve opposed the president since before his election. For years I have been considered either a malcontent or an unreliable source of information. You, on the other hand, are completely credible and trustworthy. You are a forthright citizen. You might just give them copies of some of the documents. .”

Though Guillermo and Ibrahim had sworn to one another not to discuss their findings with anyone until they were certain their accusations could be corroborated, the older man’s death changes the equation. Guillermo can use Miguel’s connections to reveal what they had uncovered; there’s no point in keeping it hidden. He needs help, lots of it, and Miguel’s press contacts could supply it.

“Well, I know for a fact that Ibrahim warned certain Cobán coffee barons that they needed to return the interest-free loans Banurbano had given them or he would report them to the newspapers. Remember, these funds are supposed to help thousands of entrepeneurs, not a handful of moguls. Ibrahim was enraged. And it didn’t stop there. He discovered some unusual bank transfers to a Canadian nickel-mining company operating out of Alta Verapaz.”

“Where’s the proof?”

Guillermo squirms in his seat. “I don’t have any. Ibrahim would never let me make copies. The documents exist, but they are probably locked in his private office.”

“You mean that even though you were working together and you were his personal lawyer, the old buzzard didn’t trust you enough to give you duplicates?”

“I wouldn’t characterize it as mistrust. Ibrahim was paranoid. He didn’t fully trust anyone, not even Maryam. Let me backtrack — he trusted Maryam with his life, but he did not want to share any information with her. I imagine it was to protect her, in case he revealed things that put his life, and therefore hers, in jeopardy.”

“That’s too bad — I mean the part about not giving you copies.”

“Had he told her, she never would have said a peep, not even to Samir. That much I know!”