Ribblestrop (4 page)

“Millie,” said Ruskin.

“What?”

“I think this Plan C of yours has gone incredibly well. My only thought now is getting to Ribblestrop. You
are
intending to go to Ribblestrop, aren't you?”

“Yes.”

“You see, I don't think we'd be very welcome at the station. And to be honest, I'm not sure where we'd get a bus.”

“Could we hitchhike?” said Sam. “I did that with my father once when we ran out of gas.”

“That's not a bad plan,” said Millie. “If we take a taxi to the motorway, we can join up with the M5. Sam's got that brochure thing, there's a map in there. Give me one hour.” She sailed off up an escalator.

*

The boys found a burger bar and Ruskin dipped into his cash once again. Sam discovered that his pound—the one his father had pressed onto him for a sandwich—had been in the pocket of the lost shorts. Perhaps some rodent would discover it. Ruskin sighed and decided he owed his new friend rather more than money. They drank fizzy drinks and tried out two different burgers, each with salads, French fries, dips of one sort and another. By the time Millie joined them, laden with shopping, Sam felt triumphant and fat. They strode out of the shopping mall together: but of course, Millie hadn't eaten.

“There's a place my father uses . . . How much cash have you got, Ruski?”

“Pardon? Money? Um, oooh. From my original hundred I now have . . .” He paused to count his banknotes. “Seventy-four.”

“That should be enough. Keep your eye on the meter: if it goes over that, jump out of the car.”

She was hailing another taxi and, again, the surprise of seeing three school children flagging him down meant another queue was jumped and another driver was soon skimming out of the shopping center.

“It's a wine bar for the rich and famous. It's called Benders.”

“Benders?” said Sam. He laughed, for the first time that day.

“Benders?” said the taxi driver. “That's in Frimleigh.”

“Look, Millie—” said Ruskin.

“Exactly right: the Frimleigh Benders. It's the only wine bar with a helipad; my father let me order cocktails, so it's all a bit of a blurred memory.”

“It'll cost you,” said the taxi driver. “It's twenty miles away.”

Millie relaxed in her seat. “Nothing is free,” she said. “And if it was, I wouldn't want it.”

It was nice, she thought, to see Ruskin going paler than Sam. Sam was sitting back, smiling happily.

Emilio Esteverre Sanchez was not a nervous man: he took such precautions so that he didn't need to be. Inspecting the crops on his mountain ranch in Colombia, he was never without a circle of bodyguards. In any one of his apartments—from London to Bogotá, Bangkok to Istanbul—armed men kept a twenty-four-hour vigil. Even in a restaurant—
especially
in a restaurant—a triangle of marksmen stood around him.

“You need two things in this life,” he would say to his son. “Money—which I have. And peace of mind, which I also have.”

Mr. Sanchez actually needed a lot of other things as well, as his son was beginning to realize. For example, at this precise moment, he needed a chocolate-and-fudge cheesecake in brandy cream: the millionaire was spooning it in, unaware of the effect it was having on his thick mustache. Twelve-year-old Andreas Sanchez, in a tailored Ribblestrop uniform, had finished his meal and sat with his hands folded in his lap. He was a slim boy with olive skin and thick dark hair, parted and gelled every morning by the maid who traveled with him; it was cut weekly to keep it off the collar and above the ears. His black-and-gold tie was neatly pressed and bisected a monogrammed, handmade gray shirt. Black-and-gold cufflinks matched the black and gold of his eyes: his father was now looking hard into them, with a love so deep the boy too felt like weeping. His father said softly: “You ready to go, Andreas?”

“Of course, Father.”

“You feel okay? Everything is good for you?”

“I'm sorry to be leaving my family, Father. Apart from this, I'm happy. I think it's a good school.”

“Ha!” A spray of brandy cream flew across the table. “Is a good place—a very good place, with a good man in charge. And an English education is the best for you. For me, not so easy!”

He looked around the table and laughed. There were three other men, all in suits, and they laughed politely. Mr. Sanchez's hands were a mulch of scar tissue. The left had only three fingers; the right looked as if it had been deep-fried. “The English school is the best, that is why I send him there, so he mixes with the best. Who's the little boy? Lord Somebody, uh?”

“Lord Caspar, but I don't know if he'll be coming back.”

“Lords and the ladies, eh? The ruling class of England! You make friends, Andreas. Listen to the teachers and study hard.”

“I will study hard.”

“Which school have you chosen, Mr. Sanchez?” said one of the dinner guests, politely. “My own sons went through Pangbourne.”

“I choose my own place, okay? I choose a place nobody knows.”

There was an awkward silence that Mr. Sanchez didn't notice. He leaned toward his son and took him gently by the ear. “No nightmares, uh?” he whispered.

“No, Father, not for a long time.”

“I know, I know . . . the soccer is important. I also wanted to play for my country. But—you play in goal, is still possible.”

“I can play, Father. It's just the running that's hard. I am learning, though.”

“Andreas . . . If your mother was alive . . . eh?” The man was overcome. “From Heaven she sees, yes? She is looking down, now. Here. Everywhere. And I say to her, never again! Whatever the business in my life, my son does not suffer. Okay, gentlemen?”

The guests were nodding dutifully.

“Let's go. The helicopter's ready, yes? Make sure you keep your eyes like this.” Mr. Sanchez stretched his own wide and darted them from side to side. “I send people fast if you need, okay? And
you have the special number in your head, yes? You don't forget, and you still have what I give you last time? Yes? Bullets, also? Good . . .”

Mr. Sanchez paused because he'd been distracted. One of his wide eyes had lifted from his son's and had noticed movement on the far side of the room. The restaurant was rarely full this early in the week and the head waiter always faxed a reservation list to Mr. Sanchez's PA just before his arrival. Even so, a restaurant was a public place and his own table was not as well screened as he would have liked. They'd put his party by the terrace with a sumptuous view over the lawns, and he was by no means invisible. His son had been snatched in a place not dissimilar.

There seemed to be some kind of quarrel taking place at the main door and he could hear a child's voice cutting through the subdued tones of the staff. “Oh come on! We could have
that
table!”

“Madam, it's reserved, I'm afraid.”

“Every table's reserved, is it? You think we can't pay?”

“Madam, reservations have to be made in advance, that's our policy. Sir, excuse me, sir! Come back!”

Ruskin had moved away and the waiters were powerless. He didn't want to eat and Millie's outburst was embarrassing. He didn't want to spend any more money, either, having forked out another fifty-five pounds for the taxi. He struck out for the toilets ahead, wondering vaguely how much a cup of water would cost in a place like this. That's when he saw—reflected in the mirrorwork and glass—a boy he
thought
he recognized. Now Ruskin wasn't wearing his glasses again; he was resting his eyes. The vision in the glass was therefore a blur, so it was quite logical that he should stop, blink, and reach for his spectacles.

In the background Millie was warming up: “Do you know how much money my father has spent here?” she cried. “More than you make in a year. He brings
me
here, his
friends
here—”

“Madam, please! Sir!”

“My goodness, that's Sanchez,” whispered Ruskin. He could see
the black and gold of his blazer. “Andreas! I don't believe it!”

“Sir—that is a private dining area!”

Unfortunately for Ruskin, he didn't hear the warning. A friendly boy, he was keen only to greet the one good friend he'd made last term at Ribblestrop: he had no idea of the danger he was in, nor the impression he gave as he moved quickly forward, his right hand reaching into his blazer.

From Mr. Sanchez's point of view, it was all a matter of instinct and action. He didn't have to think: years of survival on the streets of Bogotá made some movements purely reflex.

The bodyguards, too, leaped into action. They saw the figure moving rapidly, having broken through the head waiter's guard. Its eyes were fixed on the boy Sanchez and the hand was gripping something, emerging slowly.

Everyone moved at once. Mr. Sanchez upended the restaurant table in an avalanche of glass and crockery, rolling it as he did in front of his son. The first bodyguard dived like a swimmer and forward-rolled into a kneeling position beside Sanchez, masking him with his upper body and firing into the air. The second bodyguard was behind Ruskin but ten meters away: his training was in karate and he knew from bitter experience that assassins are better living than dead. He cartwheeled dramatically over the one table that was in his path before landing heavily on Ruskin, feet first. As he fell he pinched the schoolboy's neck and shoulders between his legs, locking his feet in the famous “Kiss of the Scissors.” The third bodyguard unloaded his machine gun, raking the doors and windows just above the heads of Millie, Sam, and the head waiter. The explosions of glass had just the desired effect: everyone dived to the ground and lay still, hands over their heads.

Amazingly, nobody screamed. The shock was so total that apart from the orgy of breaking glass, the whole drama was performed in silence. Andreas Sanchez was the one to break the silence. Luckily for Ruskin, his purple, suffocating face was just in the boy's sightline, and he said simply: “Hey! It's my friend! It's Ruskin!”

*

Emilio Esteverre Sanchez was not a man to feel foolish and a millionaire's sense of humor tends to be contagious. When he started to laugh, the other guests started to laugh. Gunfire was not unknown in Benders—the waiters took it in their stride and a case of champagne hastily distributed round the other tables soon greased the wheels of apology. Like a scene change in a fast-moving play, tables were righted and relaid; brooms swept away debris with lightning efficiency; and Ruskin was soon in a chair, head between his knees.

“
¿Qué pasa?
” said Mr. Sanchez to his son. He switched to Colombian-Spanish when speed was essential.

“
Es un buen amigo, padre
.”

“
El gordito! ¿Un amigo?
”

“
Si! Empezó el trimestre pasado, como yo. No haría daño a una mosca, es un caballero!
”

“
Ai, soy un idiota!
”

Sam and Millie looked at each other, wondering if they really had entered a movie. Guns were replaced in shoulder holsters, and a man was babbling into a walkie-talkie. A pianist appeared and started to play.

Millie said: “What the hell is this?”

“I don't know,” Sam replied. “But I think that's the boy I was hearing about.”

“Ruskin,” said Sanchez. “You never met my father! Come and meet him.”

Jacob Ruskin looked up but couldn't focus on very much. He was helped to his feet. Hands dusted the dirt and glass from his blazer, and a chair was thrust under his backside.

“Mr. Sanchez?” panted Ruskin. “I'm so sorry I disturbed your meal.”

Mr. Sanchez erupted in laughter. “Look at this!” he shouted. “Does anybody believe this, eh? He comes all the way to see my son, to say hello, and what do we do? We nearly shoot him in the head! How many lives you got, my friend?”

“I don't know. One less, I suppose!”

“One less, he says!” There were peals of laughter. “Thank God—imagine! Only, no, let's not even think. Again, you see, God is watching. And friends, more of them. Look, join us here. Everybody, come and eat. Sit!”

Introductions were made. Hands were shaken and cheeks were kissed. The language rippled from English to Spanish and back to English; suddenly there was champagne in everyone's glass, and Ruskin's proper color slowly returned.

“So you mean,” said Mr. Sanchez, “this is a total coincidence, uh? Absolutely no plan, no rendezvous? And you the boy I wanted to meet, you the very good friend of my son, the one who is looking after him?”

The laughter rose up louder still and spread, it seemed, to other diners. The pianist grew hysterical in his playing.

“Listen, all of you,” he said. “Sammy, and . . . whass your name? I forget, I'm sorry . . .” He was looking at Millie.

“Millie,” said Millie.

“Millie also. Jacob—Ruskin. Sammy. Put your glasses in here.”

Sam drained his glass nervously, then realized with delight that for the first time in his life he was drunk. It was instant. A hand snatched the glass. It joined Millie's, Ruskin's, and one each from Mr. Sanchez and his son. Five glasses. The man laid a serviette ceremoniously over the top. He tucked in the edges. From his pocket he produced a handgun.

“My son Andreas has one sister now. And two brothers. Yes?”

“Er . . . yes.”

“We meet today, eat today. Today we become family. I don't know your fathers, your mothers. But today, you have one more father—is me. Yes?”

“Thank you,” said Sam.

Mr. Sanchez brought the butt of the gun down hard on the pile of glasses, once, twice, three times. The crunching of the glass seemed slightly ominous to Sam. He burped, loudly—nobody noticed. His wrists were grabbed and he managed to find his hands in his blazer sleeves. Everyone had linked hands as if for “Auld
Lang Syne,” but Mr. Sanchez continued, whispering intensely: “You look after Andreas and he looks after you. You understand me? Many people in this country, so many bad people—not enough friends. So it's good to make the friend. You hold the friend; you
keep
the friend.”