Ribblestrop Read Online Free PDF

down meant another queue was jumped and another driver was soon skimming out of the shopping center.
    â€œIt’s a wine bar for the rich and famous. It’s called Benders.”
    â€œBenders?” said Sam. He laughed, for the first time that day.
    â€œBenders?” said the taxi driver. “That’s in Frimleigh.”
    â€œLook, Millie—” said Ruskin.
    â€œExactly 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.”
    â€œIt’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.

Chapter Four
    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.
    â€œYou 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?”
    â€œOf course, Father.”
    â€œYou feel okay? Everything is good for you?”
    â€œI’m sorry to be leaving my family, Father. Apart from this, I’m happy. I think it’s a good school.”
    â€œHa!” 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?”
    â€œLord Caspar, but I don’t know if he’ll be coming back.”
    â€œLords and the ladies, eh? The ruling class of England! You make friends, Andreas. Listen to the teachers and study hard.”
    â€œI will study hard.”
    â€œWhich school have you chosen, Mr. Sanchez?” said one of the dinner guests, politely. “My own sons went through Pangbourne.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œNo, Father, not for a long time.”
    â€œI know, I know . . . the soccer is important. I also wanted to play for my country. But—you