I shook my head.
“It’s a piece of work that severely limits the ability of local authorities to arrest or detain diplomats.”
“Diplomatic immunity.”
“You got it.”
“That’s why New York’s left with its head up its ass on a trillion parking tickets each year.” I finished my Coke. “Can’t immunity be waived for criminal offenses?”
“Immunity can only be waived by the sending state, in this case Canada. If Canada refuses to waive immunity, all Guatemala can do is have Specter PNG’ed.”
“PNG’ed?”
“Have him declared persona non grata and expelled.”
“Guatemalan authorities can’t investigate anyone they want to within their own borders?”
“We can investigate up the wazoo, but we have to have permission from the Canadian government to interrogate a Canadian diplomat.”
“Have you made a formal request?”
“It’s in the works. If we show sufficient cause they might allow us to question Specter in the presence of Canadian officials—”
“Ryan.”
“Ryan, possibly others from the diplomatic staff. But here’s the kicker. Specter would have to agree to the interrogation. He would not be under oath, and evidence given could not be used to prejudice his immunity from eventual prosecution.”
“The sending state decides the fate of its own.”
“You bet.”
Ryan was in the second-floor conference room where I’d first met Antonio Diaz, the unfortunately memorable DA. Books, journals, pamphlets, papers, notebooks, and file folders lay separated into stacks on a table in front of him.
Ryan sat with chin on palm, listening to tapes on a Dictaphone identical to the one Nordstern had used in our interview. At least a dozen cassettes lay to its right. Two lay to its left.
On seeing us, Ryan hit stop and slumped back in his chair.
“Jesus Christ, this is rugged.”
We both waited.
“Our once and future Pulitzer winner spoke to a lot of angry folks.”
“At Chupan Ya?” I asked.
“And other villages the army fucked over. There was a regular Gestapo down here.”
“Find anything to explain why Nordstern was capped?” Galiano rested one haunch on the table edge.
“Maybe. But how the hell do I know what it is?”
I picked up a half dozen cassettes. Each had a name. Many were Mayan. Senora Ch’i’ip’s son. An old man from a village to the west of Chupan Ya.
Some tapes contained multiple interviews. Mateo Reyes shared space with Elena Norvillo and Maria Paiz. T. Brennan was paired with E. Sandoval.
“Who’s E. Sandoval?” I asked.
Galiano shrugged.
“Nordstern must have done the interview right after yours.”
Ryan took a deep breath. I turned to him. He looked drained.
“If you’d like help, I can tell Mateo I can’t get away until tomorrow,” I said.
Ryan looked at me like I’d just told him he’d won the lottery.
“Couldn’t hurt. You know more about this stuff than I do.” He jerked a thumb at a suitcase on the floor below the windows. “I’ll let you paw through Nordstern’s motherload of undies.”
“No, thanks. One dirty shorts run was enough for me.”
Galiano rose.
“I’ve got to plan an evening outing with Hernandez.”
Ryan raised his eyebrows.
“Tempe can explain. Off to the war room.”
“What would you like me to do?” I asked.
“Go through the books and papers while I work my way through these interview tapes.”
“What am I looking for?”
“Anything.”
