The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [355]
The señor looked up quickly. “Then you do not know what has become of my wife and daughter?”
“If I knew, sir, I should hardly be likely to tell you. But you have my word that I do not.” Which was true:
Señora Linares had left New York over the weekend but hadn’t made her final destination known to Miss Howard before going. She planned to write when she was resettled and all was well.
Taking the Doctor’s statement, it seemed to me, more lightly than a man in his position might’ve been expected to, Señor Linares rested himself against his stick and said, “I see. So. It seems that I have wasted my time coming here.” Then he glanced up at Mr. Moore, almost like he was annoyed that he hadn’t been given another brandy yet.
Pouring it for him, Mr. Moore couldn’t help but get into the action: “Was it just because she was a girl? They don’t count for much in your part of the world, do they—female offspring?”
The señor shook his head. “You Americans—such provincial moralists. Do you imagine I would conduct myself as I have without compelling reasons?”
“What reasons,” Miss Howard asked, quietly but what you might call disdainfully, “could possibly be ‘compelling’ enough to make you abandon Ana?”
Glancing around the room at each of our faces, Señor Linares downed his second brandy, then began to nod his head slowly. “I suppose my motives must seem horrifying, to your rather naïve way of thinking.”
“We’re not sure what your motives are” Marcus offered.
“We’ve been trying to determine that since the beginning,” Lucius added. “Without success.”
Still nodding as Mr. Moore poured him yet another shot of brandy, Señor Linares said, “I can understand the difficulty. You, like the rest of your countrymen, believe what is in your newspapers. The Spanish Empire is a decadent collection of arrogant militarists, who would like nothing better than to prove their virility against whatever nation offends them. Well…” He took a smaller sip of brandy. “You are right, in part—but only in part.” Indicating the Doctor’s silver cigarette box, the señor said, “May I?” to which the Doctor, now very interested in what the man was saying, nodded. The señor lit up one of the number inside the box, drew on it, and let the smoke out with a look of satisfaction. “Very fine,” he said. “Russian?”
The Doctor nodded again. “Georgian. Blended with Virginia.”
The señor took another drag. “Yes. Very fine indeed…. Tell me, Doctor. Have you ever heard of a cousin of mine—General Arsenio Linares?” The Doctor shook his head. “He commands at Santiago de Cuba. Or of Admiral Pascual Cervera y Topete, commander of our naval squadron at Cádiz?” Again the Doctor came up blank. “I did not think so. But you know—you all know—of the ‘butcher’ General Weyler, and of the belligerent clique of monarchists and military officers that surround the queen regent…. They are the men who are quoted in your newspapers. Your Mr. Hearst and Mr. Pulitzer—they will not sell their product by printing voices of reason.”
“Reason?” the Doctor asked, looking puzzled.
The señor gave him a tough, straight look. “You don’t really suppose, Doctor, that we are all so blind as to be unable to recognize the reality which surrounds us? Yes, there are many Spaniards in Cuba, and in Spain, and even in my boyhood home of the Philippines, who believe that your country has meddled in our affairs and insulted our leaders past the point of toleration. And they are right. But they wish to resolve the matter through war—they wish it almost as much as do many Americans. There are those in our country, however, who know what the inevitable result of such a war would be. The men I have mentioned, for example, know. And I know.”
“Would you mind telling us?” Mr. Moore said.
Señor Linares looked over at him and chuckled. “This country… it is like a youth who has suddenly grown into manhood,