Hyde heard the child washing up in the tiny kitchen. She was singing softly to herself. Unlike her father, she had dressed — even brushed and plaited her hair — before appearing before their visitor. Probably, she was standing on something in order to reach into the sink. He heard cups and a plate rattle in the hot water, and looked at his half-finished glass of black Czech beer. Just one, he had announced to himself. Even so, it had further tired him. The child had glanced at the glass, perhaps hoping he would finish quickly so that it might be washed up with the other things. The clink of a spoon on a metal drying-board—
Hyde was tired. Drunk-tired, bone-tired. Utterly weary. Five-thirty. Four hours, and he was on the wrong side of an enemy border. Perhaps the old man had already taken off for Moscow—?
Langdorf's face was still, complacent. Hyde knew that his weariness was about to become acceptance. In a few minutes, a bed for the rest of the night and most of the day would become irresistible…
Schliemann, he thought, rousing himself, his fuddled mind trying to embrace the trigger-word, just as his training had intended. Schliemann. That was what they called it on those occasions when they trained you to the point of exhaustion and beyond. Some classical scholar's choice of a trigger-word. Schliemann, the discoverer of the ruins of Troy. When you were bone-weary, ready to give up, wanting nothing but sleep, ached for rest… Sleep is the last escape, they said. The last thing you want is to sleep. Be like Schliemann. Dig down into yourself, down through level after level until you find your reserves.
How many levels were there of the ruins of Troy, city piled on city for thousands of years? Seventeen, eighteen, thirty — infinite…
Use the Schliemann principle. Never give up. He didn't. There's something down there you can find and use. Schliemann. Trigger something, anything in yourself — don't go to sleep!
He groaned aloud, and looked up from the nest he had made of his folded arms. Langdorf was watching him through a billow of blue smoke. The clink of something picked up, banged against another utensil in the process of being wiped. Marthe practicing to be the perfect housekeeper—
He had dozed. Almost fallen asleep. Schliemann. Dig. Dig. Wake up, use anything — other people, anger, insults — anything. Bend events to your pattern.
"What are you grooming her for?" Hyde asked, nodding towards the kitchen. "Miss World?"
He leaned on his arms, studying Langdorf. The plumber had taken the pipe from his mouth. His full lips were now twisted with anger. His eyes had narrowed. His pale brow shone below the receding, greying hair.
"What do you say?" he asked, his eyes flickering nervously towards the kitchen door. The room, like the rest of the flat that Hyde had seen, conformed to the grey, weather-stained concrete block which contained it. Tiled fireplace with an inadequate gas fire, thin carpet, poor furniture. Yet, Langdorf was probably the wealthiest man in the tower block. All for the child—
"I said — what's the money for?"
Use anything, they said. Schliemann. Dig for victory.
Hyde felt tense, strained, but alert. The adrenalin, unexpectedly, began to flow. A high. What it would cost him, he did not pause to consider. He needed Langdorf's assistance. He had to cross the border.
Schliemann.
"For her," Langdorf admitted after a silence. The smoke of his pipe was now a screen, masking his expressions.
"What do you want for her?" Hyde pursued.
The child had entered the room. As if aware she was being discussed, she hovered in the doorway. She wore a small pinafore, and rubbed her hands in the material. Langdorf was aware of her. Hyde sensed an advantage. He leaned forward and whispered: "What do you want for her? What's the money for, Langdorf?"
Langdorf hissed, "She goes to the West. Eventually. I have distant relatives there, in the Federal Republic. When she has enough money, she goes. Money, education, cleverness — she goes."
"Is that your weakness, Langdorf? How much does it take? How much do you have? What do you want?' Hyde grinned at the plumber's confusion. His features were mobile, disturbed. Dig for victory. Hyde said, "I want something, you want even more than that. How much? How much?
Langdorf's eyes expressed hatred. Hyde's cynicism had caught him unawares. Neither of them cared much for anything, anything at all. Langdorf had assumed that when he had opened the door to a tired man who was evidently a professional. But, this man cared for nothing—
Hyde saw the almost-fear and said, "Come on, German plumber with dreams above his station. Give me a clue. Tell me how much you want." He glanced at Marthe, whose head still turned as she looked from face to face. "I won't tell you what I've been through, Langdorf. You wouldn't be interested. You're only interested in money. Everyone believes that about you. So, how much money? Not for freedom, or for the future, or for anything except yourself."
Langdorf had no chance. Hyde said, "What will she need in the West, Langdorf? How much will she need? A lot. How will she turn out, Langdorf? You don't want Marthe—" The girl's eyes gleamed at the sound of her name. Her face was twisted in concentration as she tried to follow his rapid English. " — to end up working in a poky office, typing. Do you? How will she turn out? Will she need her teeth fixing? What about her tits, when they arrive? Will she need them fixed, too? Clothes? Clothes cost a packet in the West, Langdorf, even if you shop at Marks and Sparks!" Hyde stood up, leaning on the table, knuckles white, his face glaring down towards the plumber. The unregarded pipe had almost gone out. "She's going to need so much if she's going to have a head-start, Langdorf. Don't you realise that?" He leaned closer. He felt the sweat prickle on his forehead — dig!
He had him. He had Langdorf. One more rung on the ladder to Babbington.
He had him.
"Don't you realise?" he hissed. "She's going to need everything you can give her, and more. More. You want more? Is that what you want? Then take it out of my coat — go on, dip in the inside pocket and pull out your daughter's future!"
Langdorf's dislike, even hatred of Hyde was evident. Yet he looked older, too; once more like a man roused from sleep. Hair ruffled, eyes slow to focus and darkly stained beneath. Stubble, grey skin. Hyde glanced at the man's small, plain daughter, hands buried in the folds of the pinafore. There was a picture on the tiled mantelpiece of a woman who must have been her mother. Thin-faced, her hair blonde and parted in the middle, tied back. Squinting into the sun as she smiled at the camera. Hyde felt he had blundered into a situation; damaging it. Only he was truly cynical here. He shook his head and the moment passed.
He had four hours to get to Babbington before it was too late for the old man—
Old man? It might already be too late.
Langdorf laid down his pipe and stood up. Immediately, Marthe went to his side and took his rough hand, which gripped the child's thin fingers. The dirt beneath his fingernails was highlighted against her white skin. Then he reached for Hyde's coat.
"The gun's in there, too," Hyde remarked, sitting down.
Langdorf appeared not to hear, yet Hyde saw his hand twitch as it brushed against the butt of the pistol. Then the hand withdrew the torn paper packet and a thumb stained from the pipe riffled the edges of the banknotes. Marthe hovered uncertainly.
Langdorf looked at Hyde, then said, "This is someone's emergency money, I think? Not yours."
"He won't be needing it."
"Marthe — put the money away," Langdorf announced, sweeping up the little brick of notes on the table and tucking them into the elastic band around the packet. He handed them to the child and she took the bundle without word or expression and left the room. Langdorf followed her. A light went on across the narrow hall. Surprised by his own curiosity, Hyde got up and went into the hall.