All Thomas gave was a simple smile in response to the statement. His actions and results would speak for themselves. He was confident in himself, though that didn’t necessarily extend to arrogance. Though many of the people he worked like to think that he would give them perfection. He does not guarantee success. As if any man could. But Thomas was no trickster; he knew well enough only death would come from that. Thomas would indeed work his hardest for them. Which he hoped would be enough. Might this be his last job? Thomas always knew the risk of that being a possibility…
He let his gaze drift to the window as he watched the buildings pass by, until finally there were few structures out all, going to the outskirts of the capital. The lucky who got to live in the city… and the less lucky who didn’t. But Thomas hoped with helping the president, and the success of Viviro, that all of Yara would see prosperity. Even if it meant a hard road to get there… a bloody one. As if revolutionaries were peaceful. How many soldiers were killed by guerrillas every day? And they pretend they were completely virtuous. There is no one moral in a civil war.
He got out of the vehicle, standing beside, but slightly behind the president as he spoke. There was no smiling now; he looked serious, but calm. He remained perfectly still and silent. He imagined he was simply here to witness the consequences of his actions (more or less). To see the faces of the men that he had decided to sentence the death. Though, at least he had given them a chance to save themselves. He imagined the president would simply have killed them all by firing squad, or worse. But Thomas had given them an opportunity to redeem themselves. And perhaps some indeed might make it out alive.
He listened to every word that the president spoke, but his eyes were on the faces of soldiers, whose fear was clear in the eyes. They knew all too well how badly they had fucked up. And what that meant for them.
What he doesn’t expect is that eventually Antón turned over the speech to him. Being forced to participate in this plan. To symbolically bloody his hands, as it were. “Thank you, El Presidente,” he thanked graciously, as if it was a gift to speak on this occasion. He took only a single glance with a subtle smile over to the president, which was gone so quickly it seemed like a trick of the light. Then, he took a few steps forward, close to the soldiers, his focus solely on them.
“Do you know what breaks my heart more than anything?” He asked, placing his hand over his heart. “Wasted potential. And in all of you, I see strong, brave soldiers whose hearts are full of loyalty and honour for your country and your president.” He came closer, right up to the first soldier in the row. “In your eyes, I know that you were all made for something greater. It is you who were made to begin this revolution.” A pause, as he looked between all of them. “Yes, you heard me correctly! The revolution against these false Yarans who kill your brothers and sisters and poison the minds of the people of your great country against your president.”
He began to walk past all of them, looking each of them in the eyes. Then, he stopped at the last one, putting his hand on the soldier’s shoulder and squeezing it warmly. Like a proud father. “Your president, with all of his wisdom, has chosen all of you for a special mission to destroy Libertad. To make you heroes. Please, thank your president for this grand honour.” And with that, Thomas turned back towards the president and began to clap. And so did the soldier next to him, and by virtue of psychology alone, the rest began to do so as well, until the sound was loud and thunderous. In their they were inspired and emboldened, and grateful for the mercy. Thankful to their president. Thomas looked to Antón, but nothing could be deciphered in the mysterious, sly gaze that he possessed. No more could be seen other than the look of a man waiting for his next order.
Another trial that seemed to be more of an easy game in the afternoon for Cromwell. He didn’t just speak to the soldados, he spoke to their soul. He moved them and they followed him. Away from their fear and into being inspired and eager to prove themselves.
Antón just stood there and gave a slight nod at the applause that was brought to him. He had been applauded thousands of times. And he had had his life threatened equally often. Emotions overflowing like this from other people did not stir anything in the President any more. Only that nod, like a benevolent father.
His gaze only rested on Cromwell in the end for a moment. But he couldn’t read the man, not really. A peculiar situation. Most people were simple, wore their emotions so clearly on their face, gave away all their motivations, dreams and fears with a simple expression. Not Cromwell, though. And Antón liked that circumstance. Maybe this contract would truly hold on for longer than he had expected. Maybe Cromwell could help him secure the power again in a country that was rattled by ghosts of past revolutions.
That Thomas had used this word had not escaped Antón’s attention. He did not like it entirely, but maybe it could be useful to use that definition against Libertad and all those wishing for a new ‘revolution’, disarm them and turn it around… it was a risky move, though.
One that he would keep in the back of his mind.
Raising a hand for half a wave, before Antón turned away. He would only have a few brief orders and then leave it to the teniente to clue the soldiers in on the mission that laid ahead for them.
Only hos own guards – and Mr. Cromwell would be allowed to follow him. He could have left right away again, but the President did not. Instead he walked across the compound as if he wanted to make up for the ‘missed’ opportunity of a tour Cromwell had opted out on. His goal being one of the halls that were filled with stacked wooden crates.
Flipping one of the lids open, Antón smiled.
“Ah. That is what Yara brings into the world...”
The crate was filled with straw to protect the smaller boxes containing tobacco cigars.
Opening the next crate beside that, the view was similar. Only this time the box was filled with bottles of the Marquessa’s rum.
“Enjoyment. Luxury. Opportunities to forget about the harsher days of life. Creating better ones.”
And a third crate was opened – but this time there was neither cigar nor rum in it. The box wasn’t even made of wood, but of metal. And inside were smaller ones. Protecting a much more valuable content: Viviro.
“… and the time needed to be able to enjoy these days.”
Castillo’s tone changed at that and his fingers travelled along the edge of one of the white boxes for a moment. He himself knew what value time had, better than most. Looking to Cromwell, there was a strange mixture of seriousness and amusement on Antón’s face.
“You know what people want to hear. You know what speaks to their hearts. You just proved that you know the value of words. So I can only guess that you also know the value of Viviro. More than what it’s worth monetarily?”
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