“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!”
“Well, he loved his daughter and despised his son-in-law. Who wouldn’t? He’s a freeloader.”
Guillermo is surprised once again that Miguel knows so many personal details about Ibrahim, Maryam, and Samir, though he has said many times that his work as a facilitator gives him access to information. Guillermo Googled Miguel once but found no useful information about him, as though he never existed. All this makes him feel more lonely and despondent. He needs someone trustworthy in his life to help alleviate his depression. He can’t turn to Araceli or Isabel, both of whom he cut off rather abruptly. This leaves Miguel.
“I’m sure Maryam would never have betrayed Ibrahim to Samir, whom she had begun to detest. But you know all this! Samir was twenty-five years older than Maryam. She married him when she was twenty-four because she was desperate; he claimed to be rich. Besides, the Khalils and the Mouniers were both from the same clan in Sidon, Lebanon. But her allegiance was always to her father, not her husband. Ibrahim didn’t fully trust me and I was his fucking lawyer!”
Guillermo isn’t making much sense and Miguel wants to stay on point. “So you don’t have any of these documents?”
“No, none. None at all.”
“And do you think he would have brought any home?”
“I don’t think so. He lived alone with a maid who came in at nine and left at six. I think he kept everything important in a locked file in his office.”
“Do you know where?” Miguel asks offhandedly.
“In a drawer on the right-hand side of his desk.”
“Not in a safe? Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. As soon as I’d come into his office, he would unlock the drawer and bring out two bulging manila folders. And before we would leave, he would place these same folders in that same drawer and lock it.”
“Well, those folders have vaporized.”
“How do you know?” Guillermo may be despondent and alcoholic, but not asleep.
“You won’t be upset with me?”
He stares at Miguel. When Guillermo reaches this man’s age, he wants to be retired, playing tennis or golf every day, not operating a men’s clothing store as a front for clandestine activities. The facilitator wants to come across as sheepishly innocent. Still, there’s something about him that makes Guillermo suspect he might be a wolf in sheep’s clothing. In Guatemala so many people fit this bill that you simply have to navigate through the layers of deception and trust somebody, even if that somebody might one day betray you.
“Of course not,” says Guillermo, realizing he and Miguel are becoming increasingly frank, almost wedded to one another.
“The night after Ibrahim and Maryam were killed, I sent some men to break into his office to see if we could find the folders. We searched everywhere — in his desk, the closets, behind paintings, even under the rugs — but found nothing.”
Guillermo is full of questions. “But how did you even know those folders existed? Supposedly, we were the only two who had perused them. Did you know each other?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“I can’t believe this! I thought I was the only one who knew.”
Miguel backs off. “We crossed paths a few times at various meetings, but we were not intimate. Let me put it this way: we were professional colleagues. I was given the information that someone had copied some of the Banurbano files. I suspected it was Ibrahim, but honestly, this was pure intuition on my part.”
“So you had to break into his office to see if he was the one duplicating files?” Guillermo is alternately startled and furious at this revelation. He is slowly realizing that Ibrahim had duped him as well, claiming he had no other dancing partner.
“Oh, my dear Guillermo, I’ve built up my network over the last twenty-five years precisely not to be surprised — like you were by the existence of the video. I don’t like surprises. I have planted dozens of sources in Guatemala to keep me informed of things: they are cheap to hire, and when I need information, I get it. As you know, Ibrahim’s factory has continued operating since his death under the supervision of a court-appointed manager. But did you know Samir is already moving ahead to take over ownership of it? You know very little about me. In time you will know more. Suffice it to say that I have been gathering and supplying information to generals and presidents going back twenty-three years — even to Vinicio Cerezo’s administration. You could say that in my role as facilitator I double as a kind of senior ambassador without an office.”
Guillermo is beginning to understand. “So you were a colleague of Ibrahim’s. This is why you were at the memorial service at the San Francisco Church.”
“Anyone can walk into a church. I wanted to pay my respects. But then you gave your speech: I loved it! I knew I had to meet you. Your eulogy revealed to me not only your passion, but your loyalty. Yes, I have known about you for many years, long before you began working with Ibrahim. I have approximately ten thousand dossiers on the most important people in Guatemala. You might say I have admired you from afar, from a distance that has varied with the passing of time.”
“And what about my personal life?”