Grk Undercover (7 page)

The waiter led Tim and Natascha to the table. They sat down. Grk crawled under the table and lay at their feet. The waiter unfurled two thick white napkins, placed one on each of their laps and went to fetch some menus.

When the waiter had gone, Tim stared at Natascha and whispered, “What are we going to do now?”

“Have lunch,” said Natascha. “I’m hungry. Aren’t you?”

“Yes. But …”

“But what?”

“This is the poshest restaurant I’ve ever been in.”

“Me too,” said Natascha. She looked around the restaurant and smiled confidently as if she ate in places like this every day of the week. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”

“But …”

Natascha fixed Tim with a strong stare. “Can you stop saying ‘but’ like that? It’s really quite annoying.”

“Sorry. But …”

“You’re doing it again. Just don’t.”

“Sorry.”

“Look, Tim, it’s very simple. Colonel Zinfandel is here. Max isn’t. Not yet, anyway. He will be soon. And I want to be here when he arrives. So can you just relax and enjoy having lunch in one of the best restaurants in Paris?”

“I suppose so,” said Tim.

He couldn’t say anything else because the waiter had returned with three leather-bound menus. He handed one menu to each of the children, then offered the third to Tim. “Will you have the wine list,
monsieur
?”

“No, thanks,” said Tim. “I don’t drink wine.”

The waiter looked at Natascha. “For you,
mademoiselle
? A glass of wine? Or some champagne?”

“Not today, thank you,” said Natascha. “I’d like an orange juice.”

“Me too,” said Tim.

“Deux jus d’orange,”
said the waiter with a thin-lipped smile. He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Tim and Natascha to read their menus.

“Scallops,” “medallion,” “truffle,” “langoustine,” “turbot.”

Tim stared at these words, wondering what they meant.

He supposed they must be food. Otherwise they wouldn’t be on a menu in a restaurant. But what type of food? Which one should he pick for lunch? And when it arrived, would he actually want to eat it?

He glanced at Natascha, hoping she would be looking as confused as he felt, but she was reading her menu with obvious pleasure, imagining all the different delicious dishes that she could choose to eat.

Tim sighed and started reading again from the top.

The menus were written in both French and English, so Tim could understand the actual words that were written on them, but that didn’t really help him. What was a langoustine? And what were you supposed to do with a medallion?

Tim sighed again. He looked at Natascha and said, “What are you going to have?”

“I haven’t quite decided,” said Natascha. “But I’ll probably have the scallops followed by the turbot. What about you?”

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” said Tim. He shut his menu and looked around the restaurant.

It was built into the structure of the Eiffel Tower. Through the windows, Tim could see the tower’s steel struts. Beyond them, the whole city was spread out like a map. He could see tiny cars and buses driving through the streets and miniature boats sailing along the river.

He wondered how far up they were. He tried to imagine what would happen if someone fell out of the window. They would topple through the air, turning over and over and over, then land on the ground with a loud splat.

The waiter returned with two tall glasses of orange juice. He placed them on the table and said. “Are you ready to order?”

“Yes, we are,” said Natascha. “I would like to start with the scallops. And then I’ll have the turbot.”

The waiter nodded politely, then turned to Tim. “And for you, sir?”

“I’ll have the same as her,” said Tim.

“A very good choice, sir.” The waiter scrawled their order in a small pad. He had decided to pretend that Tim and Natascha were just ordinary customers and their age was nothing unusual. He would treat them as graciously as he would anyone else.

When the waiter had gone, Tim sipped his orange juice. It was delicious. He said, “What are scallops?”

“A type of shellfish,” said Natascha. “Like oysters or mussels.”

“Oh,” said Tim. He didn’t think he liked oysters or mussels, so he was fairly sure he wouldn’t like scallops either. “And what’s turbot?”

“It’s a fish too.”

“Okay,” said Tim. He had suddenly remembered the waiter recommending the restaurant on the tower’s lower level. “You will be able to buy yourself a burger and some chips,” the waiter had said. Mmmm, thought Tim. Burger and chips. That sounded good.

Tim suddenly realized he was really quite hungry. He started to dream about a squishy burger covered in ketchup and surrounded by chips. He was just imagining exactly how the chips would taste when a voice broke his concentration.

The voice belonged to Natascha. She whispered in an urgent tone: “Look!”

Tim lifted his head and looked at her. “Hmmm?”

“I said look!”

“What am I supposed to be looking at?”

Natascha didn’t move. Her face was rigid. She whispered, “That.”

Tim turned his head to see what she was staring at.

On the other side of the restaurant, a boy was walking across the dining room, heading straight toward Colonel Zinfandel. It was Max.

Tim whispered, “What’s he going to do?”

Natascha didn’t answer. She couldn’t speak. She was desperately trying to decide what to do. Should she run forward and stop Max? Or should she let him come into the restaurant and kill the man who had murdered their parents? Indecision rooted her to the spot.

With each moment that she hesitated, Max took another step into the room. And each step brought him closer to Colonel Zinfandel.

Tim didn’t know what to do either. He was Max’s friend. And Natascha’s too. He knew how much they hated Colonel Zinfandel, and he understood why. But should he simply sit still and watch a man get murdered?

He didn’t know whether to run or shout or throw himself forward or simply sit still and keep quiet and let Max do what he wanted.

Under the table, Grk was standing up. His ears were upright. His mouth was open. His tongue was hanging out. He had seen Max.

Grk was confused. Max was here. And Colonel Zinfandel too. What was going on?

He looked up at Tim and Natascha, wondering why they hadn’t moved. Why weren’t they running across the restaurant to say hello? That was what Grk wanted to do. But he knew he shouldn’t. Not if Tim and Natascha weren’t. So he stood there, his tail wagging and his mouth open, waiting to see what they did.

When Max reached Colonel Zinfandel, he stopped. And looked around. He was searching for a weapon.

On a nearby table, he saw a knife.

Max grabbed it.

He gripped the wooden handle in his right hand. The sharp blade gleamed in the bright lights. He said, “Zinfandel.”

Colonel Zinfandel didn’t turn round. He was immersed in his conversation and didn’t want to be disturbed.

Max spoke again, louder this time. His voice was strong and clear. He said, “Zinfandel.”

This time, Colonel Zinfandel turned round to see who had interrupted him. His brows were furrowed and his mouth was open. He stared at Max and said, “Yes? Who are you?”

“You don’t know me?”

“I’ve never seen you before,” said Colonel Zinfandel. “How should I know you?”

“You have seen me before. My name is Max Raffifi.”

“Raffifi? I once knew a man named Raffifi. His name was Gabriel Raffifi.”

“That was my father.”

Colonel Zinfandel smiled. “So, you’re the son of Gabriel Raffifi. And what do you want with me?”

“To kill you,” said Max. “Just like you killed my father.”

“Your father was a fool,” said Colonel Zinfandel. “And I can see that you are too.”

That was enough for Max. He didn’t need to say another word. He knew what he had to do. In a single, swift, sudden movement, he pointed the knife at Colonel Zinfandel’s heart and hurled himself forward.

A loud shriek pierced the air.

“No!”

Max recognized his sister’s voice.

He paused. Only for a moment. But that was enough.

Colonel Zinfandel jabbed with his right fist and knocked the knife from Max’s hand. The blade spun through the air and clattered to the floor.

There was a moment of stillness.

No one moved and no one spoke.

And then everyone moved at once. Colonel Zinfandel’s bodyguards reached for their weapons. Some diners screamed. Others shouted. And Max ran.

Max was brave, but he wasn’t a fool. He knew he wasn’t any match for Colonel Zinfandel and his bodyguards. He sprinted toward his sister, grabbed her by the shoulder and, pulling her after him, charged toward the door.

Tim sprang out of his chair and went after them.

Grk ran too. He didn’t know what was happening, but if Tim and Natascha and Max were running, he wanted to run with them.

A waiter was standing in the middle of the restaurant, carrying two plates on a silver tray. There was a baked fish on one plate and a hot steak on the other.

Tim darted one way round the waiter.

Natascha went the other.

The waiter swerved, trying to avoid them. His arm dipped. The tray tipped over. Plates went flying. The steak soared through the air. The fish flipped and flapped as if it was still alive. And then with a

SQUELCH!

and a

SPLAT!

the steak landed on the floor, swiftly followed by the fish.

Grk whirled round and stared at the thick, juicy steak. Then he turned his head and stared at Tim, Natascha and Max. They had reached the door and were just about to leave the restaurant.

Grk wavered. He didn’t know what to do.

There was nothing that he liked more than steak. The scent filled his nostrils. It would only take a moment to nip back into the restaurant and grab it in his mouth and sink his teeth into that warm delicious meat and …

“Grk!”

Natascha yelled at him from the doorway.

Grk tore his eyes away from the steak and galloped to join the others.

Before anyone had a chance to grab them or stop them or trip them up or even realize what was really happening, they reached the door and ran out of the restaurant.

The door swung shut behind them.

If you spend a large sum of money when you visit a restaurant, you are entitled to expect certain things. Superb food, of course. And fine wine. And discreet, attentive service.

But you would not expect to see a boy attacking a man with a knife.

None of the diners in the restaurant knew what to do. Nothing like this had ever happened to them before. Were they watching a show? Or a scene from a movie? They sat in their chairs, blinking and staring, wondering what was going on.

The waiters were just as shocked as the diners. They stood still, their mouths open and their brains whirring, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

Only one person reacted quickly. That was Colonel Zinfandel. He turned to his bodyguards and snarled at them in a low, angry voice. “What are you doing?”

The bodyguards stared stupidly at him as if they couldn’t understand what he was saying.

“What are you waiting for?” said Colonel Zinfandel.

Still none of them answered. None of them dared speak.

“Are you just going to stand there like idiots?” said Colonel Zinfandel. “Or are you going to stop them?”

His six bodyguards didn’t even attempt to answer any of these questions. When you are a bodyguard, you know that actions speak louder than words. They pushed back their chairs and sprinted toward the door, chasing after the three children and the dog.

Colonel Zinfandel turned to his fellow diners. He was a handsome man. When he smiled, his white teeth gleamed under the bright lights. “I am very sorry,” he said in a calm voice. “I appear to have been the victim of an assassination attempt. I hope it hasn’t spoiled your lunch.”

Colonel Zinfandel was cruel and vicious and brutal, but he could also be very charming when he chose to be.

“We’re absolutely fine,” said one of the other men at the table.

“Of course we’re fine,” said another. “No one tried to kill us.”

“But what about you?” said a third. “Are you hurt? Do you need to see a doctor? Shouldn’t we call an ambulance?”

“No, no, there’s no need,” said Colonel Zinfandel, shrugging his shoulders. “I’m used to events like this. I come from a complicated country, you see. Stanislavia is not like France or England or the United States of America. In my country, people don’t settle their arguments
with words. They use fists and guns. So I know how to defend myself.” He smiled again. His white teeth seemed to gleam even more brightly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go and see whether my men have caught those assassins. I would very much like to know who they are.”

Some of his fellow diners wondered whether they should call the police. Others offered to accompany him.

“Thank you so much,” said Colonel Zinfandel. “But there’s no need for you to interrupt your meal. My men are sure to have everything under control. I will be back in a moment. While I’m gone, please just enjoy the food and the wine and the view.”

With another dazzling smile, Colonel Zinfandel turned his back on the table and marched toward the door.

As soon as his back was turned, his smile vanished.

It was replaced by an expression of intense anger.

Colonel Zinfandel was boiling with rage.

He had been made to look like a fool.

Before his limousine even arrived at the Eiffel Tower, his bodyguards had surrounded the Jules Verne restaurant. His men had been watching every entrance and exit. They had been given strict orders
about exactly what to do. No one should have been allowed inside without proper authorization.

The restaurant should have been the safest place in the whole of Paris. But a child had slipped past the bodyguards and got inside.

Three children, in fact. And a dog.

And not just any children. The son and daughter of Gabriel Raffifi. And that English boy, the one called Tim, who had helped them escape from prison.