'Catsup?' he asked, a mischievous twinkle in the eyes behind the big gold-rimmed spectacles. 'I believe that's what you call it.'
'No thanks, this looks lovely.'
He shifted the salt and pepper closer and said he had learned not to use salt, doctor's orders from his son, and anyway his capacity to taste wasn't what it used to be. Consequently the omelette might need some more salt.
'The trouble with omelettes is that I can only make one at a time. Go ahead and eat yours while I do mine.'
He went back to the stove again. She picked up her knife and fork, cut through the puffed egg and brought it to her mouth. She was incredibly hungry and the flavour was heavenly.
'But the book is also for our black people,' he said. 'The Afrikaners rose up again, an amazing achievement. Then their power corrupted them. The signs are there that the black government is going the same way. I am afraid they will make the same mistakes. It would be such a pity. We are a country of potential, of wonderful, good people who all want only one thing: a future for our children. Here. Not in Canada.' He put the pan in the oven again. He said he was a cheese fanatic and his son said dairy was not good for him. At seventy-nine he reckoned it didn't matter so much any more and he smiled again, showing those even white false teeth. The toast! He clean forgot... He clicked his tongue and took two slices of bread out of a plastic bag and put them in the toaster.
'This is delicious,' she said, because it was. Already she had eaten half the omelette. 'Can I brew us some good coffee? There is an exceptional beanery in the Bo-Kaap. They do their own roasting, but I grind it myself.'
'That would be wonderful,' She felt like getting up and hugging him. The grief was huge and heavy inside her, held at bay by his enthusiasm and hospitality.
He opened the kitchen cupboard and took out a big silver tin. He said he mustn't forget about his omelette in the oven; that was the trouble with age: the forgetfulness. He really could multi-task in his young days, but now that was all he remembered - his young days. He measured coffee beans into a grinder and pressed the button. The blades made a sharp noise as they chopped up the beans. He murmured something; she could just see his lips moving. He finished the grinding, opened the filter of the coffee machine and poured the coffee into it. He picked up his pot-holders and opened the oven.
'A mixture of cheddar and Gruyere, it always smells better than it tastes. That is one thing about old age. Your sense of smell lasts longer than taste.'
The toaster popped the two slices up. He took a small plate, put the toast on it and brought it to her. 'Some green fig preserve? I have a really good Camembert to go with it, rich and creamy, made by a small cheesery near Stellenbosch.' He opened the fridge and took it out anyway before she could reply.
He was back at the stove, sliding the omelette onto his plate. He brought it to the table, sat down and took a mouthful. 'I often add feta as well, to this particular mixture, but it might be too salty for a young woman ... the coffee!' He jumped up again with surprising energy, to put water in the coffee-maker. He spilled some on the counter and wiped it up with the white dishcloth before turning on the machine and sitting down again.
'West Lafayette. You're a long way from home, my dear.'
Chapter 28
On the sixteenth floor of the apartment block, the man with the trimmed grey beard stood etched against the bright city panorama, his hands behind his back.
In front of him were the six young men. They looked at him, not intimidated, expectant. Three black, three white, united by their youth, leanness and fearlessness.
'Mistakes have been made,' the man said in English, but with a distinctive accent.
'Learn from them. I am taking charge now. This is not a vote of no confidence. See it as an opportunity to learn.'
One or two nodded slightly; they knew he didn't like emotional display.
'Time is our enemy. So I shall keep it short. Our friend in Metro will provide a suitable vehicle, a panel van that has been unclaimed in the pound in Green Point for four months. Go and get it; Oerson is waiting at the gate. Leave the bus in the parkade of the Victoria Junction Hotel.'
He picked up a shiny metal case from the floor and put it on the table in front of him.
He looked at one of the young men. 'The Taurus?'
'Underwater in the harbour.'
'Good.' The greybeard undipped the case and swivelled it around for all to see. 'Four Stechkin APSs, the APB model. The B stands for Bes-shumniy, the Russian word for "quiet", because the barrel is bored out for low velocity and, as you can see, they come with a silencer. These weapons are thirty- five years old, but they are the most reliable automatic pistols on the planet. Nine millimetre, twenty in the magazine; the ammunition is less than six months old. The silencers don't mean that the weapon is completely silent. It makes a sound equal to an unsilenced point-two-two pistol; enough to attract attention, which we do not want. Only use it in an emergency. Is that clear?'
Everyone nodded this time, greedy eyes on the guns.
'Much more stopping power than the Taurus. Remember that. The numbers have been filed off; they cannot be traced to us. Make sure you wear gloves, and get rid of them if necessary.'
He waited another second to make sure there were no questions. 'Very well. This is how we're going to do it.'
Inspector Fransman Dekker was on his way over to where Natasha was sitting when the tall white man intercepted him.
'Are you from the police?'
'I am,' said Dekker. The face seemed familiar.
'I'm Ivan Nell,' he said with an inflection of the powerful voice that said the name meant something.
'Weren't you on that TV show?'
'I was one of the mentors on Superstars ...'
'You sing ...'
'That's right.'
'My wife watched Superstars. Pleased to meet you. You must excuse me - we're a little busy here this morning,' said Dekker and began moving again.
'That's why I'm here,' said Nell. 'Because of Adam.'
Dekker stopped reluctantly. 'Yes?'
'I think I was the last person to see him alive.'
'Last night?' The singer had his full attention now.
Nell nodded. 'We were eating at Bizerca Bistro down near Pier Place until ten o'clock.'
'And then?'
'Then I went home.'
'I see.' Dekker thought for a while. 'And Barnard?'
'I don't know where Adam went. But this morning when I heard on the radio ...' Nell looked around at the people who were sitting too close for his liking, at Natasha who had got up and come closer. 'Is there somewhere we could talk?'
'What about?'
Nell came up close and spoke quietly: 'I think his death has something to do with our conversation last night, I don't know ...'
'What did you talk about, Mr Nell?'
He looked uneasy. 'Can we talk somewhere else?' It was an urgent whisper.
Dekker suppressed the impulse to sigh. 'Can you just give me two minutes, please?'
'Of course. I just don't want you to think, you know ...'
'No, Mr Nell, I don't know,' said Fransman Dekker. He looked at Natasha who was waiting patiently only steps away from them, then back at Nell. 'Just give me a moment.'