A Dangerous Fortune(65)

Papa wiped his bowl with a chunk of bread and pushed it aside. “I must explain something to you,” he said.

Micky put down his spoon.

Papa said: “I need rifles to fight the Delabarca family. When I have destroyed them I will take over their nitrate mines. The mines will make our family rich.”

Micky nodded silently. He had heard all this before but he would not dare to say so.

“The nitrate mines are only the beginning, the first step,” Papa went on. “When we have more money, we will buy more rifles. Different family members will become important people in the province.”

Micky’s ears pricked up. This was a new line.

“Your cousin Jorge will be a colonel in the army. Your brother Paulo will become chief of police in Santamaria Province.”

So that he can be a professional bully instead of an amateur, Micky thought.

Papa said: “Then I will become governor of the province.”

Governor! Micky had not realized that Papa’s aspirations were so high.

But he had not finished. “When we control the province, we will look to the nation. We will become fervent supporters of President Garcia. You will be his envoy in London. Your brother will become his minister of justice, perhaps. Your uncles will be generals. Your half-brother Dominic, the priest, will become archbishop of Palma.”

Micky was astonished: he never knew he had a half-brother. But he said nothing, for he did not want to interrupt.

“And then,” Papa said, “when the time is right, we will move the Garcia family aside and we will step in.”

“You mean we will take over the government?” Micky said, wide-eyed. He was bowled over by Papa’s audacity and confidence.

“Yes. In twenty years time, my son, either I will be president of Cordova … or you will.”

Micky tried to take it in. Cordova had a constitution which provided for democratic elections, but none had ever been held. President Garcia had taken power in a coup ten years ago; previously he had been commander-in-chief of the armed forces under President Lopez, who had led the rebellion against the Spanish rule in which Papa and his cowboys had fought.

Papa surprised Micky by the subtlety of his strategy: to become a fervent supporter of the current ruler and then betray him. But what was Micky’s role? He should become the Cordovan Minister in London. He had already taken the first step by elbowing Tonio Silva aside and getting his job. He would have to find a way to do the same to the minister.

And then what? If his father were president, Micky might be foreign minister, and travel the world as the representative of his country. But Papa had said Micky himself might be president—not Paulo, not Uncle Rico, but Micky Was it really possible?

Why not? Micky was clever, ruthless and well connected: what more did he need? The prospect of ruling a whole country was intoxicating. Everyone would bow to him; the most beautiful women in the land would be his to take, whether they wished it or not; he would be as rich as the Pilasters.

“President,” he said dreamily. “I like it.”

Papa reached out casually and slapped his face.

The old man had a powerful arm and a horny hand, and the slap rocked Micky. He cried out, shocked and hurt, and leaped to his feet. He tasted blood in his mouth. The place went quiet and everyone looked.

“Sit down,” Papa said.

Slowly and reluctantly, Micky obeyed.

Papa reached across the table with both hands and grabbed him by the lapels. In a voice full of scorn he said: “This entire plan has been put at risk because you have completely failed in the simple, small task allotted to you!”

Micky was terrified of him in this mood. “Papa, you’ll get your rifles!” he said.

“In one more month it will be spring in Cordova. We have to take the Delabarca mines this season—next year will be too late. I have booked passage on a freighter bound for Panama. The captain has been bribed to put me and the weapons ashore on the Atlantic coast of Santamaria.” Papa stood up, dragging Micky upright, tearing his shirt by the force of his grip. His face was suffused with anger. “The ship sails in five days time,” he said in a voice that filled Micky with fear. “Now get out of here and buy me those guns!”

Augusta Pilaster’s servile butler, Hastead, took Micky’s wet coat and hung it near the fire that blazed in the hall. Micky did not thank him. They disliked each other. Hastead was jealous of anyone Augusta favored, and Micky despised the man for fawning. Besides, Micky never knew which way Hastead’s eyes were looking, and that unnerved him.

Micky went into the drawing room and found Augusta alone. She looked pleased to see him. She held his hand in both of hers and said: “You’re so cold.”

“I walked across the park.”

“Foolish boy, you should have taken a hansom.” Micky could not afford hansom cabs, but Augusta did not know that. She pressed his hand to her bosom and smiled. It was like a sexual invitation, but she acted as if she were innocently warming his cold fingers.

She did this kind of thing a lot when they were alone together, and normally Micky enjoyed it. She would hold his hand and touch his thigh, and he would touch her arm or her shoulder, and look into her eyes, and they would talk in low voices, like lovers, without ever acknowledging that they were flirting. He found it exciting, and so did she. But today he was too desperately worried to dally with her. “How is old Seth?” he asked, hoping to hear of a sudden relapse.