“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.
She sensed his mood and let go of his hand without protest, although she looked disappointed. “Come close to the fire,” she said. She sat on a sofa and patted the seat beside her. “Seth is much better.”
Micky’s heart sank.
She went on: “He may be with us for years yet.” She could not keep the irritation out of her voice. She was impatient for her husband to take over. “You know he is living here now. You shall visit him when you have had some tea.”
“He must retire soon, surely?” said Micky.
“There is no sign of it, regrettably. Just this morning he forbade another issue of Russian railway stock.” She patted his knee. “Be patient. Your papa shall have his rifles eventually.”
“He can’t wait much longer,” Micky said worriedly. “He has to leave next week.”
“So that’s why you’re looking so tense,” she said. “Poor boy. I wish I could do something to help.
“You don’t know my father,” Micky said, and he could not keep the note of despair out of his voice. “He pretends to be civilized when he sees you, but in reality he’s a barbarian. God knows what he’ll do to me if I let him down.”
There were voices in the hall. “There’s something I must tell you before the others come in,” Augusta said hastily. “I finally met Mr. David Middleton.”
Micky nodded. “What did he say?”
“He was polite, but frank. Said he did not believe that the entire truth about his brother’s death had been told, and asked if I could put him in touch with either Hugh Pilaster or Antonio Silva. I told him they were both abroad, and he was wasting his time.”
“I wish we could solve the problem of old Seth as neatly as we solved that one,” Micky said as the door opened.
Edward came in, then his sister Clementine. Clementine looked like Augusta but did not have the same force of personality, and she had none of her mother’s sexual allure. Augusta poured tea. Micky talked to Edward in a desultory way about their plans for the evening. There were no parties or balls in September: the aristocracy stayed away from London until after Christmas, and only the politicians and their wives were in town. But there was no shortage of middle-class entertainment, and Edward had tickets for a play. Micky pretended to be looking forward to it, but his mind was on Papa.
Hastead brought in hot buttered muffins. Edward ate several but Micky had no appetite. More family members arrived: Joseph’s brother Young William; Joseph’s ugly sister Madeleine; and Madeleine’s husband Major Hartshorn, with the scar on his forehead. They all talked of the financial crisis, but Micky could tell they were not afraid: old Seth had seen it coming and had made sure that Pilasters Bank was not exposed. High-risk securities had lost value — Egyptian, Peruvian and Turkish bonds had crashed — but English government securities and English railway shares had suffered only modest falls.
One by one they all went up to visit Seth; one by one they came down and said how marvelous he was. Micky waited until last. He finally went up at half-past five.
Seth was in what used to be Hugh’s room. A nurse sat outside with the door ajar in case he should call her. Micky went in and closed the door.
Seth was sitting up in bed reading The Economist Micky said: “Good afternoon, Mr. Pilaster. How are you feeling?”
The old man put his journal aside with obvious reluctance. “I’m feeling well, I thank you. How is your father?”
“Impatient to be home.” Micky stared at the frail old man on the white sheets. The skin of his face was translucent, and the curved knife of the Pilaster nose seemed sharper than ever, but there was lively intelligence in the eyes. He looked as if he could live and run the bank for another decade.
Micky seemed to hear his father’s voice in his ear, saying Who is standing in our way?
The old man was weak and helpless, and there was only Micky in the room and the nurse outside.
Micky realized he had to kill Seth.
His father’s voice said Do it now.
He could suffocate the old man with a pillow and leave no evidence. Everyone would think he had died a natural death.
Micky’s heart filled with loathing and he felt ill.
“What’s the matter?” Seth said. “You look sicker than I.”
“Are you quite comfortable, sir?” Micky said. “Let me adjust your pillows.”
“Please don’t trouble, they’re all right,” said Seth, but Micky reached behind him and pulled out a big feather pillow.
Micky looked at the old man and hesitated.
Fear flashed in Seth’s eyes and he opened his mouth to call out.