“I NEED TO MAKE A PHONE CALL,” the Dominican said. “Let’s go to the Hotel Panamerican first.”
It was nearby, so Ricardo Bonachea León wheeled a while through the solitary downtown streets before stopping in front of the bar of Guatemala City’s main hotel. Outside, everything was tranquil. The Dominican imagined the uproar that would break out as soon as people heard the news: the phone calls, the gossip, the military patrols that would take to the streets, arresting people left and right. Enrique’s office at the National Palace would be the center of that feverish agitation. Hopefully things would work out for him as he wished: he genuinely appreciated the Guatemalan, though something deep down told him it would be hard for him to make it to the presidency.
Inside, it was almost empty, with just two tables occupied and a single man at the bar, smoking and drinking a beer. A marimba was playing on the radio. The Dominican motioned for the barman to give him a token for the phone and pour him a glass of rum. He closed the door to the booth and dialed. The line was busy. He hung up, waited, and dialed again. It was still busy. He called two more times: always busy. Now not just his hands were sweating, but also his forehead and neck, and on his back he could feel the damp soaking through his shirt. He called a fifth time, thinking, His phone’s broken. Just what I needed. But this time he heard Mike’s voice after the second ring.
“It’s done,” he told him, trying and failing to talk naturally. “I’d like to request that you call Marta as soon as possible. She needs to take a car right away. Gacel should be right outside her door.”
There was a long silence.
“Did everything go well?” Mike finally asked.
“Yes, fine. Make that call, please.”
“You’re sure her escorts are gone?”
“Sure,” the Dominican said, impatient. “In three-quarters of an hour, Enrique will give the order for her arrest. So she needs to leave right now if she doesn’t want to go to jail. Tell her.”
“I talked with her on the phone yesterday, I’ve prepared her,” Mike said. “Don’t worry. And good luck.”
The Dominican stepped out of the booth and stopped at the bar to take a sip from his glass of rum. The barman looked at him, not sure whether to say something to him or keep quiet. Finally he decided:
“Excuse me, sir,” he said. And lowering his voice, he pointed toward the man’s zipper. “Your pants are wet.”
“Ah, yes, you’re right,” Abbes stuttered, looking dismayed at the spot.
He paid and went outside.
“Ready, Ricardito,” he said, getting into the car parked at the door of the Hotel Panamerican. “Put the pedal to the floor and don’t stop till we get to San Salvador.”