David Unger - The Mastermind

Ibrahim Khalil did nothing to deserve to die like a dog, but even worse was for the assassins to have taken Maryam along with him. The special prosecution concluded that their deaths were either gang related or had something to do with a factory-based vendetta. As Khalil’s lawyer, Guillermo knew much more. For two months they had been meeting twice weekly to determine if there were any illegal shenanigans going on at Banurbano, where Khalil served on the board as the president’s appointed representative. Khalil was tolerated until he began focusing on certain inconsistencies and discrepancies which indicated illegal loans to vested parties.

Guillermo goes on to stress that he has direct knowledge of why Ibrahim and Maryam were killed. As an advisory board member of Banurbano, Ibrahim had discovered fraud and had physical proof to present to the press. But before he could do this — and disrupt the theft of hundreds of millions more quetzales — the puppet president and his henchmen liquidated him.

After saying this, Guillermo pauses. He is suddenly aware that when this tape is viewed he will be addressing millions of Guatemalans. He feels the full thrust of his power and relaxes: his shoulders drop, his voice assumes a more natural tone, and he is able to spin the narrative in a more cogent form. He remains focused, though there’s loud music coming up from the floor — a strange medley of rancheras. The more he talks, the greater his animation and the more distorted his face becomes. His anger is rising and it is important that the audience see this, as if they are reliving with him the cruel events of the last months. He wants them to know that merely stating these facts is making his blood boil. He feels his heart is being compressed, but this they cannot see. Two or three times Guillermo brings a hand from under the table and places it inside his shirt, as if trying to touch a cross or massage his heart. He tries to control his facial gestures now, but every ten or fifteen seconds his mouth tightens, on the verge of spitting out words from his polished teeth.

Soon the music dies down, and Guillermo starts flashing his hands left and right as he refers to the Banurbano managers as ruling over a den of thieves. The bank is where money is laundered, elite businessmen are “loaned” government money for personal use: in sum, it is a wholly corrupt institution. Every single honest banker in the country knows that this bank, set up to serve the poor, is a sham.

Guillermo, pausing in his speech, begins to think of himself as Robin Hood.

The camera runs on. He is speaking again, but has lost his rhythm. He restates the same accusations, confusing things, saucing up his language like an actor improvising on the stage.

He wonders aloud if some viewers might think this is all a plot to besmirch or overthrow the government by a cabal of malcontents, but he has the proof, pointing to a closed brown folder on the desk, that the president is at the head of a rotten administration.

And for simply raising questions about the financial policies of Banurbano, Ibrahim Khalil and his daughter were killed. Like dogs, he repeats.

Guillermo is tired. He wants to stop talking but can’t. He thinks of his family in Mexico and says that there are those who might say that he, like Ibrahim, has a death wish, and should just shut up. He tells the camera that he has two wonderful children who he loves with all his heart and who are living safely in Mexico. He has no desire to die, but he needs to tell the truth, to expose the cancer eating up the body politic of Guatemala. His children won’t be better off with his death, but hopefully the country will, as long as the people rise to the challenge and confront the president and the cycle of corruption he has perpetuated.

And if in fact Guillermo has been killed, then he implores the vice president to take over the reins of power and rid the government of the liars who swept Ibrahim and Maryam’s deaths under the rug.

At this point, Guillermo can’t control himself any longer. He needs something to drink, preferably alcoholic, to steady his nerves. He starts calling the president, his wife, and all his cabinet ministers clowns, drug dealers, malcontents. He goes on to say that he wasn’t born to be a hero, just a decent Guatemalan. And this is why he is making this accusation, to reestablish a sense of decency in a wayward country.

“We need to rescue Guatemala from all these thieves, drug dealers, and murderers. Let no one deny that the murdering president, his thieving wife, and all his henchmen are responsible for the destruction of Guatemala. Don’t let them hide. Ladies and gentlemen, let my death have a first name and a last name. . There’s still time for you to do something to liberate us. This is the time for action.”

When Guillermo finishes talking, he puts his hands on the table and waits. His fingers stop moving. The camera rolls on for another minute, during which he sits perfectly still. He is about to collapse, to vomit really, but he knows he cannot lose his composure. He has to stay still. He knows nothing about the editing of film or video. He hopes that the editor will be able to delete all his repetitions and make him less a fool.

Guillermo grabs the mask from the floor, stands up, and starts walking toward the door where Miguel is sitting. The latter puts a finger to his lips and indicates that Guillermo needs to put the mask back on. But first he gives Guillermo a hug and places a kiss on his cheek. “Your courage overwhelms me,” he whispers. “There’s no point in refilming this. The recording is absolutely perfect.”

Miguel releases the lawyer, puts on his own mask, and taps on the door to let the cameraman in. Then he tells the cameraman, “You have fifteen minutes to finish up here.”

“Yes sir.”

“Remember, put the tape in the trash bin at 13th Street and Ninth Avenue at exactly nine p.m. and simply walk away.”

The cameraman nods.

Miguel and Guillermo leave quickly. When they are halfway down the stairs they take off their masks. Guillermo breaks into tears, convinced there’s no way to stop what’s been put into motion.

“You were amazing. That is all I can say. Simply amazing.”

“You think so?” Guillermo sniffles. He feels he has just hammered the final nail into his own coffin.

“You’re a true patriot, Guillermo. What a brave speech. You’ll be remembered for generations to come, you know that? You will appear in the history books—”

“I just need a drink.”

“Well, let’s get out of here and go to our usual spot.”

“What happens next?”

“A film editor will create a straight recording from the time you sat down at the table to the time you stopped talking. It won’t be edited in the least, should someone later claim that the video has been tampered with. The editor has been instructed to make fifteen copies of the DVD, which will be given to me. I’ll keep them under wraps until the second part of the plot — your death — can be put into motion.”

“ My death?”

“Of course. But it will all be painless, as promised. The country will be plunged into mourning by your death. And at your burial, we will hand the press the copies of the DVD and see how long the president stays in power.”

“It sounds foolproof.” Even as Guillermo says this, he is wondering if there is any way to get out of this. Yet only Miguel can throw him a lifesaver.

“It is, my friend. It is foolproof.”

“And when am I supposed to die?”

“This Sunday morning.”

“What if I change my mind?”

Before they get into Miguel’s car, he hugs Guillermo tight and whispers, “You won’t.”

It’s obviously too late to retreat.

The fuel is there. It just needs a match.