Munich

  Hartmann considered this. It sounded plausible. ‘All right.’ He tried concealing the gun in various pockets. It fitted best inside his double-breasted jacket, on the left, next to his heart. He could draw it with his right hand. When he had fastened the buttons it was hard to tell it was there.

  Kordt was watching him with something like horror. He said, ‘Telephone me the moment you have Ribbentrop’s response. I’ll come over and join you. For God’s sake, remember your job is simply to keep the doors open. Don’t get involved in any shooting. That’s for Heinz and his men.’

  ‘I understand.’ Hartmann tugged his jacket straight. ‘Well, then. I’d better go.’

  Kordt unlocked the door and offered his hand. Hartmann gripped it. His friend’s palm was cold with fear. He could feel the tension spreading to him like an infection. He pulled his hand away and stepped out into the corridor. ‘I’ll call you in a few minutes.’ He said it loudly enough for the Party officials to hear. As he approached, they shifted out of the way to let him pass. He strode to the stairs, descended quickly to the lobby and went out into Wilhelmstrasse.

  The fresh air braced him. He walked past the brutalist modern facade of the Propaganda Ministry, waited for a lorry to go by, then crossed the street towards the Chancellery. The forecourt was crowded with twenty or thirty official cars – long black limousines flying swastika pennants; some had SS number plates. It looked as though half the regime had turned up to witness the historic moment when the ultimatum expired. Hartmann showed his identity card to the policeman on the gate and stated his business. He was an official from the Foreign Ministry. He had an urgent message for Herr von Ribbentrop. The mere act of repeating it gave him confidence: it had the merit of being true, after all. The policeman opened the gate. He strode rapidly around the perimeter path of the courtyard to the main entrance. A pair of SS guards blocked his way, then stood aside even before he had finished his explanation.

  Inside the crowded lobby he counted three more guards with machine guns. The high double doors to the reception rooms were closed. A tall SS adjutant in a white ceremonial jacket stood in front of them. His face was unnaturally hard and angular. He looked like the male model in the cigarette advertisement in Potsdamer Platz, except with blond hair. Hartmann approached him and saluted.

  ‘Heil Hitler!’

  ‘Heil Hitler!’

  ‘I have an urgent message for Foreign Minister von Ribbentrop.’

  ‘Very well. Give it to me and I’ll make sure he gets it.’

  ‘I must deliver it personally.’

  ‘That is not possible. Foreign Minister von Ribbentrop is with the Führer. No one is to be admitted.’

  ‘Those are my orders.’

  ‘And those are my orders.’

  Hartmann used his height and three centuries of Junker ancestry. He stepped up close to the adjutant and lowered his voice. ‘Listen to me very carefully, because this is the most important conversation you will ever have in your life. My mission concerns a personal message from the British Prime Minister to the Führer. You will take me to Herr von Ribbentrop immediately, or I can assure you he will speak to the Reichsführer-SS and you will spend the rest of your career shovelling shit in a cavalry barracks.’

  The adjutant was defiant for a second or two, then something shifted in his clear blue eyes, and broke. ‘Very well.’ He nodded stiffly. ‘Follow me.’

  He opened the door on to a crowded salon. A central group of perhaps a dozen men was standing beneath the immense crystal chandelier, with smaller clusters radiating out from this inner core. A lot of uniforms – brown, black, grey, blue – were sprinkled among the civilian suits. There was an incessant, urgent drone of conversation. Here and there, a famous face. Goebbels leaning against the back of a chair, arms folded, brooding, alone. Göring, in powder blue, like a general in an Italian opera, holding court to an attentive circle. As Hartmann threaded his way between them he was conscious of heads turning to follow his progress. His eyes met eager, curious expressions, hungry for news, and he realised that they must know nothing, that they were all just waiting, even the most powerful figures in the Reich.

  He followed the adjutant’s white jacket through a second set of doors – permanently open, he noticed – and into another huge reception room. The atmosphere here was quieter. Diplomats in frock coats and striped trousers were whispering to one another. He recognised Kirchheim from the French desk of the Foreign Ministry. On the left was a closed door with a guard beside it; in an armchair nearby was SS-Sturmbannführer Sauer. He jumped to his feet as soon as he noticed Hartmann. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I have a message for the Foreign Minister.’

  ‘He’s in with the Führer and the French Ambassador. What is it?’

  ‘Kordt says Chamberlain has written the Führer a letter. The British Ambassador wants to deliver it in person as soon as possible.’

  Sauer absorbed this, nodded. ‘All right. Wait here.’

  The adjutant said, ‘Shall I leave Herr Hartmann with you, Herr Sturmbannführer?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  The adjutant clicked his heels and moved away. Sauer tapped lightly on the door, opened it and disappeared inside. Hartmann looked around the salon. Once again he found himself calculating. One guard here, plus those he had already seen. How many did that make? Six? But Oster surely hadn’t anticipated such a congregation of senior Party figures inside the Chancellery. What if they had all brought bodyguards of their own? Göring, as head of the Air Force, would certainly have several.

  Sauer reappeared. ‘Tell Kordt that the Führer will receive Ambassador Henderson at twelve-thirty.’

  ‘Of course, Herr Sturmbannführer.’

  As Hartmann set off back towards the lobby he looked at his watch. It was just after eleven-thirty. What were Heinz and the others doing? If they didn’t strike soon, half the Berlin diplomatic corps might be caught in the crossfire.

  He opened one of the doors to the lobby and left it ajar. The adjutant was nearby. Hartmann went over to him. ‘I need to make an urgent call to the Foreign Ministry.’

  ‘Yes, Herr Hartmann.’ He was like some handsome stallion: now that he had been broken, he was entirely pliant. He led Hartmann over to the big desk facing the entrance and gestured to the telephone. ‘You will be automatically connected to the operator.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Hartmann waited until he had moved away, then picked up the receiver.

  A male voice said, ‘Can I help you?’

  Hartmann gave the number of Kordt’s direct line and waited for the connection. Through the open door of the entrance he could see the back of one of the SS guards and beyond him a couple of limousines drawn up in the courtyard. Two chauffeurs in SS uniform were leaning against one of the cars, smoking. He guessed they must be armed.

  There was a click, half a ringtone, and the phone was answered: ‘Kordt.’

  ‘Erich? It’s Paul. A message from the Chancellery: the Führer will see Henderson at twelve-thirty.’

  ‘Understood. I’ll inform the British Embassy.’ Kordt’s voice was staccato.

  ‘It’s busy here – much busier than I expected.’ He hoped Kordt would detect his warning emphasis.

  ‘I understand. Just stay where you are. I’m coming over.’

  Kordt rang off. Hartmann kept the receiver pressed to his ear and pretended he was still listening. The door to the salon remained slightly open. It occurred to him that when the attack began, his best tactic would probably be to shoot the adjutant to prevent him closing it. The thought of the blood seeping through that immaculate white jacket gave him a moment of pleasure. The operator said, ‘Do you wish to make another call?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  He replaced the receiver.

  Suddenly he was aware of a commotion outside. A man was on the steps demanding loudly to be admitted. The adjutant hurried towards the entrance and Hartmann’s hand slipped immediately beneath the fabric of his suit to his ins
ide left pocket. He could feel the gun. There was an exchange on the steps and then a stooped, bespectacled, red-faced figure in a bowler hat pushed his way into the lobby. He was out of breath and elderly. He looked as if he might be about to have a heart attack. Hartmann withdrew his hand at once. He recognised him from the diplomatic circuit: the Italian Ambassador, Attolico. His eye fell on Hartmann. He squinted at him in dim recognition.

  ‘You are from the Foreign Ministry, yes?’ His German accent was atrocious.

  ‘Yes, Your Excellency.’

  ‘Will you please then tell this fellow I need to see the Führer at once?’

  ‘Of course.’ To the adjutant Hartmann said, ‘Leave this with me.’ He guided Attolico towards the grand salon. The adjutant made no attempt to stop him.

  Attolico nodded to a few of the men he recognised – to Goebbels and to Göring – but he did not break his step, even as the conversations paused all around them. They went on into the second reception room. Sauer scrambled to his feet in surprise. Hartmann said, ‘His Excellency needs to speak with the Führer.’

  Attolico said, ‘Tell him I have an urgent message from the Duce.’

  ‘Of course, Your Excellency.’

  After Sauer had vanished into the other room, Attolico remained where he was, staring straight ahead. He was trembling slightly.

  Hartmann said, ‘Would you care to sit, Your Excellency?’

  Attolico briefly shook his head.

  There was the sound of a door opening. Hartmann turned to look. Sauer emerged first, followed by the Foreign Office interpreter, Paul Schmidt, and then – frowning, his arms crossed over his chest, plainly both mystified and wary of what this sudden arrival might portend – Adolf Hitler.

  3

  Legat was in the Garden Room of Number 10, once again standing behind Joan as she finished typing the Prime Minister’s speech. It was just after one o’clock. The PM was due to leave for the House of Commons at two.

  Unlike his broadcast of the night before, this one was a monster: as long as a Budget statement – forty-two typed pages, more than eight thousand words. No wonder it had taken until the early hours of the morning to complete. Legat reckoned the old man would need the best part of an hour and a half simply to deliver it, even if there were no interruptions.

  Today we are faced with a situation which has had no parallel since 1914 …

  It was so long not by choice but of necessity. Parliament had been in recess for the past two months, and when the House had risen for the summer there had been no Czech crisis, no imminent war, no gas masks or slit trenches. Families had gone on holiday; England had beaten Australia in the Fifth Test at the Oval by an innings and 579 runs; it had been another world. The Prime Minister had a duty to bring the country’s elected representatives up to date on all that had happened since July. The telegrams and minutes on which the speech was based, which Legat had compiled for the PM the night before, were at that moment being printed by His Majesty’s Stationery Office as a White Paper (‘The Czechoslovakian Crisis, Notes of Informal Meetings of Ministers’); it would be released to peers and MPs at the same time as the Prime Minister was speaking. Not every document was to be made public. The Foreign Office and the Cabinet Office had weeded out the more sensitive documents. In particular, the agreement between Chamberlain and the French Prime Minister, Daladier – that even if a war was fought and won, Czechoslovakia in its present form would cease to exist – was to remain classified. As Syers observed, it would be bloody hard to convince people the sacrifice was worth making if that became known.

  Joan finished typing the final page and pulled it from her machine. Four copies. One top sheet for the Prime Minister plus three flimsy carbons – for the Foreign Office, the Cabinet Office and Number 10. She clipped each of them together and handed them to Legat.

  ‘Thank you, Joan.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  He lingered for a moment beside her desk. ‘Joan what, might I ask?’

  ‘Just plain Joan will be sufficient, thank you.’

  He smiled and went upstairs to his office. To his surprise he found the room was occupied. Cleverly was seated at his desk. He couldn’t swear to it but it seemed to him that the older man had been going through his drawers.

  ‘Ah, Legat. I was looking for you. Is the PM’s speech ready?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s just been typed up.’ He showed him the copies.

  ‘In that case, there is something else I need you to do, if you wouldn’t mind coming with me.’

  Legat followed him along the corridor into the Principal Private Secretary’s office. He wondered what was coming next. Cleverly pointed to his desk where the telephone receiver lay on the blotter beside its cradle. ‘We’re keeping the line open to the embassy in Berlin. We can’t risk losing the connection. I want you to listen out for news at the other end. All right?’

  ‘Of course, sir. What exactly is it I’m listening out for?’

  ‘Hitler has agreed to give Sir Nevile Henderson an audience. He should be back from the Chancellery at any minute, with Hitler’s response to the Prime Minister’s letter.’

  Legat drew in his breath. ‘My goodness, things are getting tight.’

  ‘They most certainly are. I’ll be with the PM,’ added Cleverly. ‘The moment you hear anything, let us know.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cleverly’s office, like Wilson’s, had a communicating door with the Cabinet Room. He stepped through it and closed it after him.

  Legat sat at the desk. He picked up the receiver and placed it cautiously to his ear. When he was a boy, his father had given him a shell and told him that if he listened hard enough he would be able to hear the sound of the sea. That was what he heard now. How much of it was the hiss of static on the line and how much the sound of his own blood pulsing through his ear it was impossible to tell. He cleared his throat. ‘Hello? Is anyone there?’ He repeated it a couple of times. ‘Hello …? Hello …?’

  It was a task that could have been entrusted to a junior clerk. Presumably that was the point. It was designed to put him in his place.

  He glanced out of the window at the deserted garden. A blackbird was hopping around the PM’s bird table, pecking at the crumbs. He wedged the heavy Bakelite receiver between his ear and his shoulder, took out his pocket watch, disconnected it from its chain, and placed it open on the desk. He started to go through the Prime Minister’s speech, checking it for errors.

  For His Majesty’s Government there were three alternative courses that we might have adopted. Either we could have threatened to go to war with Germany if she attacked Czechoslovakia, or we could have stood aside and allowed matters to take their course, or, finally, we could attempt to find a peaceful settlement by way of mediation …

  After a while, Legat laid aside the speech and brought the watch up close to his face. The little hand was an elongated diamond shape, the big hand much finer. If one looked closely at it, one could just about see its infinitesimal movement as it worked its way towards the vertical. He imagined the German soldiers in these last few minutes waiting in their barracks for the signal to move out, the troop trains heading towards the Czech border, the Panzers trundling down the narrow country roads of Saxony and Bavaria …

  At 1.42 p.m., a male voice said, ‘Hello, London.’

  Legat’s heart jumped. ‘Hello, this is London.’

  ‘This is the embassy in Berlin. Just checking the line is still open.’

  ‘Yes, it seems to be fine our end. What’s happening over there?’

  ‘We’re still waiting for the Ambassador to return from the Chancellery. Stand by, please.’

  The hiss resumed.

  The blackbird had disappeared. The garden was deserted. It was starting to spot with rain.

  Legat went back to the speech.

  In those circumstances I decided that the time had come to put into operation a plan which I had had in my mind for a considerable period as a last resort …
>
  As Big Ben struck two o’clock the door opened and the top half of Cleverly’s body appeared. ‘Anything?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘The line still working?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘We’ll give it another five minutes and then the PM will have to go.’

  The door closed.

  At seven minutes past two Legat heard the sound of the telephone being picked up in Berlin. A nasal voice said, ‘This is Sir Nevile Henderson.’

  ‘Yes, sir. This is the Prime Minister’s Private Secretary.’ Legat reached for his pen.

  ‘Please tell the Prime Minister that Herr Hitler has received a message from Signor Mussolini, delivered by the Italian Ambassador, assuring him that in the event of conflict Italy will stand by Germany, but asking him to postpone mobilisation for twenty-four hours so that the situation can be re-examined. Please tell the Prime Minister that Herr Hitler has agreed. Have you got all that?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll tell him now.’

  Legat hung up. He finished writing and opened the door to the Cabinet Room. The Prime Minister was sitting next to Wilson. Cleverly was opposite him. As his head swung to face Legat the tendons on his thin neck stood out. He looked like a man about to be hanged, standing on the trapdoor but still hopeful of a reprieve. ‘Well?’

  ‘Mussolini has sent a message to Hitler: Italy will fulfil its obligations to Germany if it comes to war, but he has asked Hitler to postpone mobilisation for twenty-four hours, and Hitler has agreed.’

  ‘Twenty-four hours?’ Chamberlain’s head drooped in disappointment. ‘Is that all?’

  Wilson said, ‘It’s better than nothing, Prime Minister. It shows he’s having to listen to outside opinion at least. This is good news.’

  ‘Is it? I feel as though I’m slithering towards a cliff edge and trying to catch hold of every root and branch to stop myself sliding into the abyss. Twenty-four hours!’