?I?ll have a cheddamelt and fries,? said Powell to the young waiter with the acne problem.
?Excuse me?? said the waiter.
?A cheddamelt steak, well done. And fries.?
The frown had not disappeared from the waiter?s forehead. Every year they were younger.
?You want only chips?? the waiter asked her.
?No, I want only an orange juice. He wants a cheddamelt steak and chips. Americans refer to chips as fries.?
?That?s right. French fries,? said Luke Powell jovially, smiling broadly at the waiter, who was properly confused now, the pen poised over the order book.
?Oh,? said the waiter.
?But they?re not French, they?re American,? said Powell with a measure of pride.
?Oh,? said the waiter.
?I?m just going to have a plate of salad,? said the director.
?Okay,? said the waiter, relieved, and scribbled something down, hovered a moment but as no one said anything more, he left.
?How are y?all?? asked Luke Powell with his smiling mouth.
?Not bad for a developing Third World nation,? said Janina, and opened her handbag, taking out a photograph and handing it to Powell.
?We?ll get right to the point, Mr. Powell,? she said.
?Please,? he said. ?Call me Luke.?
The American took the black-and-white photo. He saw the front door of the American consulate in it, and the unmistakable face of Johnny Kleintjes leaving the building.
Ah,? he said.
Ah, indeed,? said Janina.
Powell removed his gold-rimmed eyeglasses and tapped them on the photo.
?We might have something in common on this one??
?We might,? said the director softly.
An innocent six-year-old boy from Guguletu has become a pawn in the nationwide manhunt for Thobela Mpayipheli, the fugitive motorcyclist being sought by intelligence agencies, the military and police.
?Now you?re cooking,? said the news editor, tramping around nervously behind Allison as the deadline loomed.
Pakamile Nzululwazi was taken from a day-care center for preschoolers late last night by an official from the ?Department of Defence.? He is the son of Mpayipheli?s common-law wife, Miriam Nzululwazi, who also mysteriously disappeared from the Heerengracht branch of Absa, where she is an employee.
?Cooking with gas,? said the news editor, and she wished he would sit down so she could concentrate in peace.
?What happened in Lusaka?? asked Janina Mentz.
Luke Powell looked at her and then he looked at the director and then he replaced the glasses on his face.
?We?re still trying to find out,? said Powell.
?So you got stung??
Luke Powell?s kind face betrayed nothing of the inner battle, of the humiliation of admitting the superpower?s little African expedition had gone wrong. As always, he was the professional spy.
?Yes, we got stung,? he said evenly.
Now they sat in a circle on the grass, chatting, the four soldiers, the pilot and copilot.
Thobela Mpayipheli was relieved because now they were at a safer distance. He could hear their voices but not their words. He could hear laughter bursting out, so he assumed they were telling jokes. He heard the periodic crackle of the radio that would hush them every time until they were certain the message was not for them.
The adrenaline had left his body slowly, discomfort had grown, but at least he could move now, shift his limbs and work away the stones and grass tufts that bothered him.
But he had a new worry now: How long?
They were obviously waiting for a signal or alarm. And he knew he was the object of that alarm. The problem
