The Cigar Seed

Terese Rodriguez balled the tissue up in her fist and wished she had never read the last diary of Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara.
If I had only kept my mouth shut, nobody would be any the wiser.
She hadn’t, and now it was too late. Soon she would set out on the most dangerous journey of her young life.
Her lover’s words sliced through her when she recalled them.
If you don’t get the stuff, that’s it, Terese. You and I will never see each other again.
He wasn’t joking. Nowadays, he never joked. A rising darkness within him had emasculated his sense of humour.
She pushed open the door to the local office of the regional newspaper, El Correo, and looked at the smiling face behind the counter.
‘Are you all right, Terese?’ the receptionist asked her. ‘You look a little peaky.’
‘I think I’m starting with flu, Frantziska.’
‘Poor you. Maybe you should have the day off and have Fréderic cover for you.’
‘No, I’ll be OK. Anything interesting in the papers today?’
The receptionist picked up a copy of El Mundo and handed it to her. ‘This might raise a few eyebrows.’
Splashed across the front page was the headline

ETA NO LONGER A THREAT
DAYS OF TERROR ARE OVER SAYS SENIOR POLICE OFFICER

Shit. Peru would hit the roof when he read that.
‘I’m going out for a couple of hours, Frantziska. If anyone calls, take their details and say I’ll get back to them.’
‘OK.’

There was blood on his hands, but that didn’t trouble his conscience one iota. Metaphorically speaking, of course, as he was always very careful not to be present when the bombs went off, or the victims of the assassinations had their brains splattered in a red mist. He was completely unaffected by the devastating results of his actions and would do whatever he needed to do, without a second thought. His principles told him theirs was a just cause, one worth dying for if necessary and one for which the indiscriminate doling out of injury and death was unavoidable if they were going to achieve their ultimate goal.
Many didn’t agree with him; but then, they didn’t walk in his shoes.
He was good at not giving much away and hiding his emotions, like a chess grandmaster. By following a strict regime he kept his body taut and as lean as a skinless chicken breast. He tried to give the impression of being mild-mannered, bookish even, someone who wouldn’t hurt a fly. But he delighted to deceive. A narrow white scar marked his forehead from left eyebrow to hairline, made by the tip of a switchblade as it narrowly missed the eyeball at which it was aimed. That marginal error had cost his assailant his life when he had retaliated; drawing on the years of training he had received at the hands of some of the world’s deadliest exponents of unarmed combat.
That incident changed his views on life and death.
He knew they called him Le Fanatic behind his back, and that made him feel proud. When in his company, they called him by the name given him by the priest twenty-eight summers before.
Peru.
As the sun hung motionless in an airless azure sky, he sprawled lazily on the grass under the leafy shade of a twisted oak tree, sucking in deep drafts of Lucky Strike. This was his favourite spot in the whole of the city; a place where his thoughts were set on edge by the harsh mewing of the gulls overhead, then smoothed by the comforting sound of the Adour as it lazily washed by the city of Bayonne, carrying its heavy waters to the Bay of Biscay. Languidly exhaling a stream of greyish smoke, which floated and soaked into the dark green foliage above him, his thoughts turned once again to the brilliant plan he had conceived. It was daring, devastating, and possible. ETA had attempted nothing as ambitious since the bungled assassination of King Juan Carlos in ‘95. A successful outcome would free his beloved Basque Country from its choking imperialist yoke and give him the status he craved.
Firstly, he would have to deal with Salbatore and that wasn’t going to be easy. No one had ever dared to challenge the commando’s leader before. But Peru had the support of the others and that would make it much easier.
By midnight tonight, Salbatore Vasco’s reign would be over.
He stubbed the cigarette out on the sole of his shoe and studied the woman as she approached him. He recognised the way she walked with her long, confident steps, and his eyes scanned the far distance to make sure she had followed the procedure. She had. Fifty metres behind her was another, much shorter figure, wearing a red and white soccer shirt.
She kneeled down on the grass next to him and brought her face close to his.
‘Not here, Terese, you never know who’s watching.’
The kiss froze on her lips.
‘Did you see the headline in El Mundo this morning?’ she asked.
‘How could I miss it? Everyone seems to be reading the bloody paper this morning.’
‘It’s a pretty convincing story.’
‘Listen, if they think they’ve beaten us because of that hotel fiasco, they’ve another think coming. I told Vasco it was a stupid idea, but would he listen to me? Would he fuck.’
Every time he thought of it, a red mist clouded his vision. They had attempted to blow up a hotel in Villajoyosa, but a dozy idiot of a lifeguard had moved the sports bag containing the explosives from the hotel reception to the pool’s storage locker because he couldn’t find its owner. The explosion that failed to damage anything except a small house close by the hotel’s swimming pool. Admittedly, Salbatore couldn’t have foreseen that, but why the hell were they blowing up a hotel in the first place? That gaffe had the governments of both France and Spain laughing at them and the piss-taking press coverage of their incompetence and ineffectiveness had gone on and on, confidently concluding that their organisation was unequivocally a spent force, a shadow of its former self and no longer worth taking seriously. The commando’s embarrassment had been almost insufferable and, not surprisingly, there was a visitation from the bigwigs during which some harsh words were exchanged. After that, they all made a solemn pledge that they would never allow such a mistake to happen again. If it did, they knew there would be severe recriminations and that was unthinkable.
He gripped her arm and looked into her eyes. ‘Are you prepared for tonight?’ He felt her tremble slightly.
‘You don’t really intend to go ahead with it, do you?’
‘Don’t be stupid, of course I do. You saw how the others reacted. They want to be taken seriously after all the crap that’s been thrown at us. I’m not about to tell them I’ve changed my mind and we’ll simply carry on with Vasco leading us God knows where? How do you think they would take that news, eh?’
‘Are you sure they’ll support you?’
‘I can guarantee it. Once tonight is over and done with, then we can press on with the plan.’
‘Do you really think it will work? It’s full of risks.’
She was right. It wouldn’t exactly be a walk in the park. Cuba didn’t conform to any rules they understood. The information he garnered from the internet, published sources and ETA itself said as much. In a place like that, anything could happen.
‘I’ll miss you when you’re in Cuba,’ she said.
He laughed and pointed to his chest. ‘Me? I won’t be the one to go to Cuba, Terese. It will have to be a woman.’
Her eyes almost popped out of their sockets.
‘A woman? Why does it have to be a woman?’
‘Think about it. This man – this Major General Fortunato – from what we little we know of him, he would appear to be abrasive, aggressive and utterly ruthless, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘So can you imagine how he would react if a man tried to blackmail him?’
‘Do you think it will come to that?’
‘Come on, Terese. I don’t think he’s going to gift wrap the stuff and hand it over, do you?’
‘Surely, he wouldn’t be any different toward a woman?’
‘No, he probably wouldn’t, but it just might make a difference. You know, from a trading angle.’
‘A trading angle? What do you mean?’
‘Think about it. You did promise to do anything – anything – for the cause.’
Her silence confirmed she understood his words. He leaned closer to her and smiled.
‘Who best knows the story of the bastard child?’
‘I do,’ she said.
‘And who wouldn’t the authorities suspect of having any connection to ETA?’
‘Me, I suppose.’
‘Listen, Terese. You know the story like the back of your hand and you’ll be able to figure out how best to put the squeeze on the old man.’
‘You’re not suggesting I go to Cuba, are you?’
‘Who better?’
‘Surely Martina would be more suitable? She’s a tough nut. It takes a lot to intimidate her.’
His smile evaporated. ‘You must be joking! Martina? She would get his back up in seconds. It needs somebody with a, shall we say, gentler disposition.’
‘No, I can’t go. I would never be able to go through with it. All I do is the research, that’s what I’m good at. Don’t ask me to go, please.’
He placed a hand on her thigh and felt her flinch.
‘I’m not asking you to go, Terese.’
‘Thank God for that.’
‘I’m ordering you.’

For extracts from:

Through Glass Eyes Uncle Mungo's Strange Request