“I’m sure he does, but Daddy has gone away. He’s in Heaven.”
“Where’s Heaven?”
“It’s where people go when they die.”
“Is mine Daddy dead?”
“Yes.”
“Is he coming back soon?”
“No, sweetheart, people don’t come back from Heaven.”
“What about angels?”
Elizabeth doesn’t know how to answer that question. She can see the complete trust in her son’s eyes, wanting to learn and believe, every day a new adventure. At that moment something damaged inside her finally breaks.
Alistair Bach is standing in the doorway. Mitchell appears behind him, carrying flowers. Elizabeth speaks quietly and calmly.
“Get him out of here. I don’t want to see him. I never want to see him.”
Bach tries to intervene, but Elizabeth stops him. “Stay out of this, Daddy.”
“I’m just saying that, whatever you think has happened, you should remember that Mitchell is family.”
“Don’t try to guilt me,” she says sharply. “North is dead. I know he’s involved.”
Mitchell wants to defend himself but doesn’t know how to begin. The look of contempt on Elizabeth’s face is too much for him. He places the flowers on a chair and leaves without saying a word.
30
Standing beneath the colonnaded arches, Ruiz watches the lift doors open and three men emerge. One of them is the driver of the blue Audi; the others are slightly older, dressed in suits, one with a black umbrella and the other wearing a light overcoat. Staying out of sight, Ruiz lets them pass.
They cross Fenchurch Street and turn into Mark Lane. Once they’re around the corner, Ruiz doesn’t alter his pace. He knows where they’re going.
The restaurant is modern Italian with Polish waitresses, French kitchen staff and an English chef: a microcosm of the New Europe. The private dining room is in a mezzanine area, overlooking the main restaurant. Earlier Ruiz had watched two other men arrive and sweep the room for listening devices.
Luca and Daniela are sitting at a table by the window. Luca hands a camera to a waitress. It’s their anniversary, he says. They pose. Behind them the door opens and the three men enter. The shutter blinks. Take another one just to be sure. It blinks again.
Moments later a cab pulls up outside. A fourth man has arrived, this one more surprising. Yahya Maluk hands his hat and coat to a waitress.
Ruiz enters a few minutes later, not making eye contact with Luca or Daniela.
“I’m with Mr. Sobel’s party,” he tells the maitre d’. “A late addition. Did someone call? No, not to worry.”
Taking the narrow stairs, he arrives at the lone table.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen. Bloody traffic. Grind to a standstill one day.”
Bernard Sobel looks up from the menu. Ruiz takes a chair and shrugs off his coat.
Sobel: “Hey buddy, you’re in the wrong place.”
“This is a private dining room,” echoes Artie Chalcott.
“But you guys know me.” Ruiz opens his arms. Then he motions to the driver. “We’re old friends. How’s your mate? Sorry about his nose. Didn’t know he was a bleeder.”
The driver’s first instinct is to reach inside his jacket. Ruiz fixes him with a stare. “I had you pegged as stupid, but not that stupid. Are we really going to compare weapons in a public place like this? Is yours bigger than mine? Is mine bigger than yours? I don’t like to boast, but I think size does count and now isn’t the time for you to grow a pair.”
Ruiz reaches across the table to Brendan Sobel. “Brendan, nice to finally meet.”
Sobel is so stunned he shakes his hand.
“And you must be Yahya Maluk. We haven’t met,” says Ruiz, “but I know you by reputation.”
The banker looks completely nonplussed. He glances from face to face, waiting for an explanation.
Ruiz turns to Chalcott. “Another American. Welcome to our shores.”
A waitress offers to take Ruiz’s coat.
“Thanks, love, but I’ll hold on to it. Can’t be too careful. Thieves about. Don’t want to put temptation in their way.”
She looks at his shabby coat and frowns.
“I’ll have a Peroni,” he says, giving her a wink.
Chalcott is glaring at Sobel. “Who is this clown?”
“Vincent Ruiz.”
“There you go-you do remember me,” says Ruiz. He pours himself fizzy water from a green bottle. Sips. Then he picks up the menu. “I’m ravenous. Any recommendations?”
Sobel whispers something to the driver, who has gone quiet, touching nervously at his mouth with a napkin.
“Oh, and I’m sorry about your car. That broken window. Just to prove there are no hard feelings, I’ll pay for the damage.”
Ruiz pulls an envelope of cash from his jacket, tossing it on to the table where banknotes spill across the white linen. “You left that on the front seat of my car. It’s all there-count it if you like.”
Yahya Maluk pushes back his chair. “I didn’t come here for this sideshow. Who is this man? What’s he doing here?”
Chalcott tells Sobel to get Maluk out of the restaurant.
“You’re leaving so soon? We’ve hardly had a chance to talk,” says Ruiz. “I was going to ask you about Mohammed Ibrahim. He’s looking very healthy for a man who died a few years ago and then escaped from jail. How was Ramsay’s restaurant in Maida Vale? I’ve heard good reports. The man has a potty mouth, but he can cook up a storm.”
Blood has pooled in Maluk’s cheeks like pink flowers. He wipes a film of perspiration from his top lip, stammering, “How does he know about Ibrahim? You said nobody…”
“Shut the fuck up!” says Chalcott.
The driver leads Maluk down the stairs. Luca and Daniela get another set of pictures as they leave.
The upstairs waitress has come to the table with Ruiz’s beer. She is staring at the money.
“Don’t get too excited,” he tells her. “It’s not your tip. This is what you call a bribe.”
She hesitates and walks back to the kitchen.
Ruiz shakes out his serviette. “You’re probably wondering how I found you, Brendan. You’ll find my mobile phone on the floor of the car that you sent to my daughter’s house. It was tracked to the garage beneath your offices. While on this subject-I’d like the phone back.”
Chalcott is staring at Sobel, who is altering the position of his body, trying to disassociate himself from the conversation or to disappear sideways.
“What do you want, Mr. Ruiz?”
“Call me Vincent, please. And you are…?”
“I don’t think that’s important.”
“No need to be so formal-I know all about Brendan and that office of yours. No listed telephone numbers or company tax returns.”
“We’re a communications company,” says Chalcott.
“Not the CIA then?”
