The Mastermind

by David Unger

Guillermo is shocked by the silence, by the fact that no one—absolutely no one—gets up and speaks a word about Ibrahim or Maryam. Maybe it would have been different if Samir had gotten a Lebanese Maronite priest to lead the service.

  Few of the mourners know of Guillermo’s existence, and he suspects that Samir will be angry if his wife’s lover gets up to speak—even if he were the only one to know of his role in Maryam’s life. But little by little, Guillermo is realizing that, with his love gone, he has nothing to lose. He looks at the statue of Christ at the rear of the altar and shakes his head. He then stands up and walks down the central aisle of the church and up the steps to the lectern. He wants the audience to know that Ibrahim was an honest man and that Maryam was an exceptional human being, a person who was cultured and educated, who read the Economist while many of her girlfriends read Vanidades.

  He glances at Maryam’s urn and gasps. Tears begin to choke him and he is unable to speak. A church beadle approaches him with some tissues, and whispers a few words in his ears, trying to help him regain his composure. Guillermo glances at Samir, who is sitting hunched and silent; he knows that he can’t confess his love for Maryam in front of her supposedly grieving husband and friends, but he does want to say a few words about the woman he has just lost. To some degree it will be an open confession, and he realizes he needs to focus his remarks more on the death of his friend Ibrahim.

  Guillermo grabs the lectern with both hands to steady himself. Finally he begins to speak: “As some of you know, I was Ibrahim Khalil’s private attorney. He had many legal counselors to handle his varied interests: a real estate lawyer, a tax lawyer, and even a corporate lawyer who handled the petty suits that were filed against him each year by aggrieved employees and customers. I had a special distinction: I was his privileged friend and his personal lawyer. I also happened to work with him on issues related to his appointment to the Banurbano advisory board—I will talk about that more, later, but I want to say that I was more than a lawyer: I considered Ibrahim a close friend.

  “I can assure you that in the coming weeks I will provide you with new, uncontroverted evidence supporting the revelation—I won’t call it a theory—that Ibrahim and Maryam were murdered. While I was aware of some rumors regarding Ibrahim’s purchase of textiles and cloth from Germany and England, I believe these were a smoke screen perpetrated by his true assassins. When I have gathered the appropriate evidence, you will hear the truth. I will provide proof that he was on the verge of exposing dozens of questionable if not illegal transactions at Banurbano involving elected officials at the highest level of government—perhaps going as high as the president himself.”

  Guillermo glances down at the mourners who are staring blankly back at him, almost as if he were lecturing to them in Chinese. At the same time, he realizes he is saying too much. There are individuals in attendance who may have vested interest in his accusations, like the four men sitting in the back.

  “But this is not what I meant to say at this memorial service. Some of you may know that through my friendship with Ibrahim, I had the privilege of meeting his daughter Maryam.” Guillermo nods his head to Samir, who now sits straight up in the first row of the pews, immutable as a Mayan stela, without an expression on his face.

  “Because of the legal advice I provided Ibrahim, I was able to lunch with him and Maryam many times. She was a beautiful woman, gracious and intelligent, with a fierce commitment to the care of her father and, if I may add, her husband. As Samir Mounier has stated, she was Ibrahim’s sole support after his own wife died from cancer. She was selflessly dedicated to ensuring both his health and his happiness. She was a lovely human being with a heart of gold.”

  Guillermo begins wiping away tears. His heart aches so much that he is afraid he will actually confess his love for Maryam to the mourners. He has to find a way to finish.

  “In closing, I only want to ask all of you to remember the goodness of Ibrahim’s and Maryam’s souls. Let’s not forget their dedication, not only to one another, but to all the friends and acquaintances gathered here today. It was our privilege to know them. They were among those few Guatemalans dedicated to justice, law, and truthfulness. In contrast, our leaders are dedicated to amassing personal wealth at the expense of people like Ibrahim who would dare to clean up the filth of their government.”

  Guillermo knows he should stop now, but he can’t—rage has gotten control of him. “To honor Maryam and Ibrahim, I want to ask each and every one of you to combat the lethargy that has delivered our once wonderful country into the hands of drug dealers, thieves, and murderers. I know I am risking my life by saying this, but my friends were killed like dogs because they were standing in the way of those who want to continue laundering ill-gotten money—”

  With tears blinding his eyes, Guillermo cannot speak anymore—and he shouldn’t. He makes his way back down the steps of the altar. Hands are clapping loudly, and there’s a palpable stirring of emotion in the church for the first time. Guillermo has struck a nerve and everyone is feeling it.

  The priest returns to the lectern and delivers a few closing comments about devoting one’s life to Jesus Christ. Religion has never seemed so hollow to Guillermo as now. As if useless prayers can erase the loss that he and many in the audience feel.

  The service has come to an end, and the public mourning of Ibrahim and Maryam is about to expire.

  * * *

  Guillermo sits alone in the last pew as people file out of the church. He hadn’t seen her in attendance, but Hiba comes over and hugs him with real feeling.

  “You were her guiding star,” she whispers before hurrying out.

  All this time he was sure she hated him. He wants to run after her but realizes how absurd it would look. He stays seated, with the odd dignity reserved for honest people who speak their minds despite the consequences.

  He can’t imagine her sticking with Samir, now that Maryam is gone. Guillermo feels a bit vindicated, though he is suddenly seized by the desperate finality of it all. He walks down the nave toward Samir, who has gotten up from his seat and is talking with the priest. There is an unidentifiable smirk on his face—could he actually be happy? Guillermo wants to grab him by the shoulders and punch him in the face. Repeatedly.

  A well-dressed man steps out of the third row of pews and offers his hand. “I was impressed by what you had to say.” He is a balding man in his early sixties, but in excellent shape, judging by the way he fills out the jacket of his dark blue suit. Guillermo is certain they have never met, but he looks familiar, as though he has seen his face in one of the newspapers, or on television.

  “Miguel Paredes, at your service.”

  “Guillermo Rosensweig.”

  Miguel smiles. “Of course, I know exactly who you are.”

  Guillermo feels embarrassed. “Yes, of course.”

  “You know, you only hinted at it, but I agree there’s something here that makes no sense. You almost get the feeling that Ibrahim and Maryam’s deaths are part of a larger plot. And it’s certainly discouraging that both the husband and the government representatives are more than willing to sweep the Khalils’ remains under the rug, as if they were dust.” Paredes is not a particularly handsome man, but his gift of gab gives him charisma.

  “I only said what my heart and mind told me to say,” Guillermo replies by way of explanation.

  “May I be blunt with you, Mr. Rosensweig?”

  “Of course. And call me Guillermo.”

  “Well, Guillermo, some of us believe that your client and his daughter were definitely assassinated and that the murderers are being protected by the government and the Banurbano board of directors—just as you implied.”

  Guillermo stares at Miguel. He wears turtle-shell glasses and has a large nose that twists to the side. He has sharp, hooded crow eyes, unsentimental and prone to blinking in a kind of nervous twitch, black and hard as obsidian, and unusually mesmerizing. His long arms hang to his sides as he speaks. He is grandfatherl
y, but his bulk suggests that he boxed or lifted weights when he was younger. Guillermo is immediately taken in by him, even seduced. Miguel reminds him of his old friend Juancho—or what he might have looked like had he taken up weights and lived into his sixties. He wants to trust this man.

  “And you base your accusations on?”

  “Some of the same information you have just alluded to. But you know, we should find another place to discuss this,” Miguel says, glancing around the church. “Are you in a rush?”

  “A rush to do what? Clean my apartment?”

  “Why don’t we go over to Café Europa on 11th Street where we can talk a bit more openly. It’s my treat.”

  Guillermo nods. The two urns, weighing approximately two kilos each, will be placed in the wall of the church crypt at the Verbena Cemetery. He doesn’t want to stay to see this, and he can’t imagine going back to his office or apartment. He could call his children but he doubts they would neutralize his gloom. In reality, if it weren’t for this man’s invitation, he would go to some random bar, get stinking drunk, and weep.

  chapter nineteen

  play it again, sam!

  Guillermo imagines that drinks with Miguel Paredes might produce some very interesting information as they walk single file down Sixth Avenue to Café Europa. It’s a short walk, but there are dozens of street vendors blocking both the sidewalks and access into the stores selling the cheapest conceivable merchandise: plastic dishes, generic electronics, shoes made of synthetic materials. Guillermo remembers when Sixth Avenue was the epitome of elegance, when he used to “sextear” with his friends: ogle the legs of the young secretaries as they walked to work in the adjoining buildings. But not anymore. There is talk that Mayor Aroz is considering turning Sixth Avenue into a pedestrian mall, but that may be years away.

  They take a corner table on the second floor of Café Europa overlooking the Rey Sol Restaurant. It is the kind of bar that is perfect for discreet conversation: few customers, tables set apart; the ideal atmosphere for loners who want to drown their sorrows or talk without fear of being overheard. It has no charm: it simply is.

  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.

  “Meet me at my store in twenty minutes. The Fontabella garage entrance is on 12th Street between Third and Fourth avenues.”

  “Can’t I give you a ride?” Guillermo is drunk enough that a little company in the car might help steady his driving.

  Miguel shakes his head. “My chauffeur is downstairs waiting for me.”