Hyde nodded. "OK." He felt a tremor in his hands, and pressed them between his thighs, thrusting them out of sight. "How long could it take?"
"Depends. On how much he had stored and whether he's been adding to it over the past few years. Minutes, perhaps."
"All displayed on the screen or coming out of the printer?"
"Yes."
"I might have to be alone for—"
"Ten minutes. You don't know how to go to Teardrop direct — only through all the other dirt he stored away."
"A real Chance card — go directly to jail, do not pass Go," Hyde murmured.
"It's the safest way."
"I think," Hyde began, looking up at Godwin, "that bastard Petrunin might have the last laugh — don't you? He could kill me yet. And the bugger's been dead for days already!"
Godwin said nothing except: "Let's do a test run on accessing the computer, shall we? I've set it up for that."
Hyde looked down at the keyboard of the small computer. Godwin had patiently stuck small pieces of address label on each of the letter and function keys. On each, the letters of the Cyrillic alphabet had been inscribed. Russian words now indicated the functions of the computer. He had made Hyde practice over and over, before their meal and while he noisily prepared it, in order to become familiar with the Cyrillic keyboard he would meet in the Hradcany. Now, Hyde stared at it in profound mistrust as Godwin cancelled his graphic and reinstated the Menu on the screen. Thanks to Godwin, he could cope with the jargon, with the tasks he would be set to access the information he sought. But he did not think he could cope with the situation, its danger and isolation.
He would be too alone, too exposed for too long… passing time was a series of tripwires. It was going to take too long, too long—"Ready?" Godwin asked. "Then begin."
The moment she saw him, still seated at his desk, the telephone now replaced on its rest, Margaret quailed at the prospect of deceiving Babbington. The room was warm against her cheeks, flushing them with the colour of confession and guilt. The guards still held her arms, and the dog scrabbled on the wooden floor of the corridor behind her. Restrained by its choke-chain, its breathing was loud and threatening. Babbington was smiling broadly.
Her lies were pale and unsubstantial now. Babbington knew everything and would not be persuaded of her innocence.
"Margaret — my dear Margaret!" he said, rising. One of his hands signalled her release. Her arms fell numbly to her sides. Was there hope—? No. The tone was mocking, confident. Babbington came towards her, hands held out. Her body flinched from his embrace. "Margaret—?" His eyes hardened as he studied her face. Then he turned from her and said, "You've caused me a lot of concern, Margaret — a great deal of pointless worry." The mockery of a stern parent's voice.
"Andrew—!" she blurted, her body trembling as if the hot room was cold.
He turned on his heel. "Yes?"
He made another gesture with his right hand, and she heard the door close behind her. Even through the wood, she could hear the reluctant slither of the dog's heavy paws as it was tugged away down the corridor. It barked once as if to remind her of her danger.
"I—" she began. Then: "Where's Paul — Paul's alive, isn't he? You've got Paul here, haven't you?"
Babbington looked grave. He gestured her to a seat and she, moved nearer the fire to avoid his touch. The armchair invited;! insisted. Her legs seemed without strength. Babbington sat I opposite her.
"I'm afraid—" he began.
"No—!" she wailed immediately, then thrust the knuckles of her right hand into her mouth. Her eyes misted. Babbington's gaze glinted. "Oh, no…" she breathed. "No, no, no…"
"I'm sorry—"
"He didn't know anything — he couldn't have been any harm to you!" she protested, finding the deception she had planned now available as something to fend off reality. "We didn't know anything! We didn't, I swear we didn't, I swear we didn't know anything, we didn't know…" Her voice subsided into sobbing.
It was as if she wrenched at the hands of a great clock. Heaving time backwards. If she went on protesting, on and on, Paul would be alive. "We didn't… nothing… nothing…"
It was difficult to see Babbington's expression when she looked up. She wiped her eyes, and saw that his face was moved only to a clever smile of satisfaction.
"I'm sorry, Margaret — it won't do." He sighed. "I toyed with the idea. I didn't believe you couldn't know. I hoped it, at first. Believe me. Then I hoped I might delude myself into such a belief… but, all to no avail. I can't escape the truth — you know everything. About Aubrey. About myself."
She wanted to protest, to stop him. He'd gone too far, too swiftly. There were moves to be made, gambits to deploy. Not this, this nakedness, beyond which Paul's death was utterly real.
"No," was all she said, dropping the hand she had extended to try to silence him.
"I'm afraid it has to be, Margaret." His voice was soft, almost a caress. She saw his bulk move from the chair towards her. Slowly, she looked up. Again, it was difficult to see his expression clearly. He cupped her chin in one large hand. "Paul's alive, my dear. Wounded, but alive—"
"What—?"
He struck her, then. Her head twisted, her jaw was shot through with pain, her neck burned with the jolt from his closed fist. She heard him walk away, heard the fire grumble and spit like an old man. She touched her jaw, tasted blood in her mouth; spat.
"He's alive, and will stay alive if you tell me why you're here. Tell me where you've been, what you know, who's with you — and he lives. Understand me?" He turned to her and shouted: "Do you understand me?"
"Yes, yes—!" She caught the blood that spilled from her open mouth in the palm of her hand. Blood and saliva. She stared at it, horrified, then returned her gaze to his face. He did not seem to regret the violence, or shrink from it.
"Good. Where's Hyde?"
"Who?"
He moved swiftly towards her, and she flinched. "Hyde!" he barked. "Where is Hyde?"
"I don't know."
He hit her again. The gobbet of blood in her palm flew into the grate and sizzled on the logs. She cried out with renewed pain.
"Where is he?"
"Czech — Czechoslovakia…" she sobbed.
"Why?"
"I don't know!" she screamed at-him. "He didn't tell me anything — just in case this happened!"
Babbington lowered his clenched fist. He seemed satisfied. "What did he instruct you to do in his absence?" he asked in a thick voice. "What?"
Margaret watched him. She must not tell Babbington anything more—! She had already told him too much, far too much while the blows and the shouting were in control of her. She glanced guiltily at her handbag, at her hands, her feet. She hunched into herself, retreating from Babbington. He would kill Paul and her once he knew everything—
"What did he instruct you to do? Follow me? Watch me?"
She was prepared for the questions to continue, yet they still acted with the naked shock of icy water, so that she flinched, appeared guilty, seemed to choke off confession by putting her shaking hand to her lips.