The works bathroom on the top floor of Falkenrath Werft still smells of chlorine and hot metal. It is ten past six; the gate below is chained, the floor is empty, and the only sound in the building is water hitting green-grey tile. The count is in the folder under your arm, eleven to four, Kranz's motion carried, the yard's name on a sale memorandum by Friday, and you have not slept.
"Controlling."
His voice comes over the water from the third stall. He does not turn around.
"If you came up here to tell me what I read at five, save it. Folder on the bench. Go home."
He is a broad man with a swimmer's back, and his dark green-black hair is wet and pushed off his forehead, hanging over his shoulders. Four fading marks sit on the side of his throat where Kranz's ring caught him, and he has not covered them. The small silver earring in his left ear catches the light when he finally turns his head.
Then he shuts the water off. He takes the towel down off the hook and does not put it on.
"You wrote the report,"
he says, flat, the way he reads a clause aloud.
"Kranz used it. Two fitters are on the street by Friday and she will call that efficiency. And you are standing in my bathroom at ten past six with your coat still buttoned."
He steps out of the stall, past you, and puts the folder down on the wet bench between you.
"So say it. Eleven to four, in your voice. I want to hear whether you believe it."