Munich

  Perhaps she had not stolen the documents from von Weizsäcker’s safe after all. Perhaps she had merely been given them to pass on to him.

  The moment he thought of it, he knew it must be true.

  He stubbed out his cigarette and went into the bedroom. On top of the wardrobe was a small suitcase embossed with his initials which he had been given when he was first sent away to school. He flicked open the catches.

  Inside were letters, mostly – from his parents and his brothers and sisters, from friends and girlfriends. The Oxford letters were tied together and still in their envelopes: he had liked the English stamps, and to see his name and address written in Hugh’s small neat hand. At one period he had written to him once or twice a week. There were photographs, too, including the last photograph of them together, taken in Munich, the date written on the back: 2 July 1932. They were in walking gear – boots, sports jackets, open-necked white shirts – a glimpse of a courtyard in the background. Leyna stood between them, her hands gripping their upper arms. She was so much shorter than he was; it was comical. All three smiling. He remembered she had asked the owner of the inn to take it before they set out for the day. Clipped to it was the cutting from the Daily Express he had come across in the summer: Among the Foreign Office’s brightest young stars, now assisting the PM … Judging by the photograph he had hardly changed. But the fashionable woman beside him – his wife, this ‘Pamela’ – she was not at all the sort of girl he had imagined that Hugh would end up with. It occurred to him that if something went wrong and his apartment was searched by the Gestapo, these souvenirs would be incriminating.

  He took the Oxford letters over to the fireplace and burned them, one by one, setting fire to the bottom right-hand corner of each with his lighter and dropping it into the grate. He burned the newspaper cutting. He hesitated over the photograph but finally he burned that too, watching it scorch and curl until it was indistinguishable from the other ashes.

  It was dark by the time Hartmann arrived at the Anhalter Bahnhof. Outside the pillared entrance to the main concourse police were patrolling with dogs. In his suitcase he had the envelope, in his inside pocket the Walther. He felt his legs begin to weaken.

  He braced his shoulders and passed through the grand doors into the smoke and gloom of the glass-roofed station, as high as a Gothic cathedral. Swastika banners, three or four storeys high, descended over every platform. The annunciator board displayed the evening’s departures: Leipzig, Frankfurt-am-Main, Dresden, Vienna … It was 8.37 p.m. There was no mention of Munich, or a special train. An official of the Reichsbahn, in dark blue uniform and peaked cap, his toothbrush moustache doubtless grown in homage to the Führer, noticed his uncertainty. When Hartmann explained his mission he insisted on escorting him personally: ‘It will be my honour.’

  Hartmann spotted the gate before they reached it. Somehow people must have guessed that the Führer would be passing through and a small, respectful crowd of about a hundred had gathered, women mostly. The SS were keeping them at a distance. At the gate itself, two more police dog-handlers and SS guards with machine guns were checking passengers. A man who was queuing to board was being ordered to open his suitcase and Hartmann thought, if they frisk me, I’m finished. He thought of turning back and dumping the gun in the toilets. But the Reichsbahn official was ushering him forward and a moment later he found himself face to face with one of the sentries.

  ‘Heil Hitler!’

  ‘Heil Hitler.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Hartmann.’

  The sentry ran his finger down the list of names, flipped one page, then another.

  ‘There’s no Hartmann here.’

  ‘There.’ Hartmann pointed to the last page. Unlike the others, which were typed, his name had been added in ink. It looked suspicious.

  ‘Papers?’

  He handed over his identity card.

  The other sentry said, ‘Open your suitcase, please.’

  He balanced it on his knee. His hands were shaking; he was sure his guilt must be obvious. He fumbled with the catches, lifted the lid. The sentry shouldered his machine gun and rummaged through the contents – two shirts, underwear, shaving kit in a leather case. He picked up the envelope, shook it and put it back. He nodded. With his gun barrel he gestured towards the train.

  The first sentry returned his ID. ‘You are in the rear carriage, Herr von Hartmann.’

  They started to check the man behind. Hartmann walked through on to the platform.

  The train was drawn up about twenty metres along the track, on the right-hand side. It was long: he counted seven carriages, all a gleaming, spotless dark green as if freshly painted for the occasion, with a Nazi eagle, wings spread wide, picked out on the bodywork in gold. Every door was guarded by an SS sentry. At the front, a black locomotive gently vented steam; it too was guarded. Hartmann walked slowly towards the rear carriage, took a last look up at the floodlit spars of the roof, the fluttering pigeons, the black sky beyond, then clambered aboard.

  It was a sleeper car, the compartments on the left. An SS adjutant, a clipboard in one hand, marched along the corridor, halted and thrust out his arm in the Hitler salute. Hartmann recognised him as the same white-jacketed flunky he had threatened that morning at the Chancellery. He returned the salute with what he hoped was a convincing snap of fanaticism.

  ‘Good evening, Herr von Hartmann. Follow me, please.’

  They walked to the end of the carriage. The adjutant checked his clipboard and slid open the door of the final compartment. ‘This is your berth. Refreshments will be served in the dining car once we have left Berlin. You will then be informed of the operations of the Führer-train.’ He saluted again.

  Hartmann stepped into the compartment and closed the door behind him. It was done out in the art deco style favoured by the Führer. Two bunks, upper and lower. Dim yellowish lighting. A smell of wood polish, dusty upholstery, stale air. He threw his suitcase on to the bottom mattress and sat down next to it. The compartment was claustrophobic, like a cell. He wondered whether Oster had managed to make contact with the British. If not, he would have to devise some fall-back plan but his nerves were too on edge to think of one at the moment.

  Presently he heard shouting in the distance and some cheering. Through the window he saw a man trotting backwards very quickly, holding a camera. A few seconds later a flash lit up the platform and the Führer’s party came into view, marching quickly. At the centre was Hitler, wearing a belted brown overcoat, flanked and followed by men in SS black. He passed within three metres of Hartmann, staring straight ahead, his expression one of intense irritation, and disappeared out of sight. His entourage trailed after him – dozens of them, or so it seemed, and then Hartmann heard the compartment door opening. He swung round and there was Sturmbannführer Sauer on the threshold with the SS adjutant. For an instant he thought they had come to arrest him but then Sauer said in a baffled voice, ‘Hartmann? What are you doing here?’

  He stood. ‘I have been assigned to help Dr Schmidt with translation.’

  ‘Translation will only be required in Munich.’ Sauer turned to the adjutant. ‘It’s not necessary for this man to be on the Führer’s train. Who authorised it?’

  The adjutant looked helplessly at his clipboard. ‘His name was added to the list—’

  Suddenly the train lurched forwards and stopped abruptly. All three had to grab on to something to maintain their balance. Then very slowly the platform began to slide past the window – empty luggage trolleys, a sign reading Berlin-Anhalter.Bhf, the line of saluting officials – a procession of images that gradually increased in velocity until the train emerged from the shadows of the station into the wide expanse of the marshalling yard, as vast as a steel prairie in the moonless September night.

  5

  Cleverly called a meeting of the junior Private Secretaries in his office at 9 p.m. sharp. They trooped in together – Legat, Syers, Miss Watson – and stood in a line while he perched
on the edge of his desk. They were braced for what Syers liked to call his ‘staff-officer-visits-the-trenches speech’.

  ‘Thank you all for your efforts today. I know how hectic it’s been. Even so I need to ask everyone to be on parade again tomorrow morning by seven-thirty. I want to be sure we’re all here to give the PM a rousing send-off. He’ll leave Number Ten for the drive to Heston Aerodrome at seven-forty-five. Two aircraft will be making the trip to Munich.’ He picked up a sheaf of papers. ‘It’s been decided that on the first plane will be the PM, Sir Horace Wilson, Lord Dunglass and three officials from the Foreign Office – William Strang, Frank Ashton-Gwatkin and Sir William Malkin. We’ve also been instructed to send someone from the Private Office.’ He turned to Syers. ‘Cecil, I’d like it to be you.’

  Syers’s head rocked back slightly in surprise. ‘Really, sir?’ He looked at Legat who promptly stared at his shoes: he felt nothing but relief.

  ‘I suggest you pack on the assumption you’ll be staying for up to three nights – the Germans are arranging hotel rooms. On the second plane will be two detectives for the PM’s protection, the PM’s doctor, and two girls from the Garden Room. Each plane has space for fourteen passengers, so if one of them develops any mechanical problem, everyone can transfer to the other.’

  Syers raised his hand. ‘I appreciate the honour, sir, but wouldn’t Hugh be a better choice? His German is ten times better than mine.’

  ‘I’ve made my decision. Legat will stay here with Miss Watson and deal with correspondence. We have telegrams of congratulation to answer from almost every leader in the world, let alone the thousands of letters from members of the public. If we don’t make a start on it soon we’ll never get on top of it. All right?’ He looked along the line. ‘Good. Thank you all. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  Once they were back in the corridor, Syers beckoned Legat into his office. ‘I’m so sorry about this, Hugh. It’s absolutely bloody ridiculous.’

  ‘Really, don’t give it another thought. You’re senior to me.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re the German expert – for God’s sake, you were in Vienna when I was still in the Dominions Office.’

  ‘Honestly, it’s fine.’ Legat was so touched by his concern he felt he should try to alleviate it. ‘To be perfectly frank, between you and me, I’m relieved not to be going.’

  ‘Why on earth wouldn’t you want to go? Don’t you want to see Hitler in the flesh? Something to tell the grandchildren?’

  ‘Actually, that’s just it: I’ve already seen Hitler in the flesh – in Munich, as a matter of fact, six months before he came to power – and I can assure you, once was quite enough.’

  ‘You’ve never mentioned that before. What happened? Did you go to a Nazi rally?’

  ‘No, I didn’t hear him speak.’ Suddenly Legat wished he’d never brought the subject up, but Syers was so insistent on hearing more he couldn’t really leave it at that. ‘It was only in the street one day – outside his apartment building, to be exact. We ended up being chased off by his Brownshirts.’ He closed his eyes briefly, as he always did whenever he thought of it. ‘I’d only just left Oxford, so I suppose I could at least plead youth as an excuse. Anyway, enjoy Munich – assuming you get a chance to see it.’

  He escaped into the corridor. Syers called after him, ‘Thanks, Hugh – I’ll give your regards to the Führer!’

  Back in his own office, Miss Watson was putting on her coat to go home. Nobody knew where she lived. Legat guessed she must be lonely but she rebuffed all invitations. ‘Oh, there you are,’ she said irritably. ‘I was just about to write you a note. Sir Alexander Cadogan’s secretary called for you. He wants to see you right away.’

  Workmen, lit by floodlights, were laying sandbags outside the entrance to the Foreign Office. Legat found the sight mildly disturbing. Apparently nobody had bothered to tell the Ministry of Works that the Sudeten crisis was supposed to be over.

  Cadogan’s outer office was deserted, the door to his inner sanctum slightly ajar. When Legat knocked, the Permanent Under-Secretary appeared in person, smoking a cigarette. ‘Ah, Legat. Come in.’

  He was not alone. Seated on the leather sofa at the far end of the cavernous room was a man of about fifty – saturnine, elegant, with a thick moustache and deep-set staring dark eyes.

  Cadogan said, ‘This is Colonel Menzies.’ He pronounced the name in the Scottish manner: Ming-ies. ‘I asked him to take a look at the document you brought in last night. You’d better sit down.’

  A colonel wearing a Savile Row suit in Whitehall, thought Legat. That could only mean the Secret Intelligence Service.

  The armchair matched the sofa – hard, brown, scuffed, exquisitely uncomfortable. Cadogan took its twin. He reached up and turned on a tasselled standard lamp. It too looked as if it might have been borrowed from some baronial Scottish castle. A grimy ochre light suffused their corner of the office. ‘Colonel?’

  On the low table in front of Menzies was a thick manila folder. He opened it and took out the document that had been put through Legat’s door. ‘Well, the first thing to say is it’s genuine, as far as we can tell.’ He spoke in a friendly Etonian drawl that immediately put Legat on his guard. ‘It ties in with everything we’ve been hearing from various opposition figures in Germany since the beginning of the summer. But this is the first time they’ve produced actual written evidence. I gather from Alex you have no idea why it should have come to you.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, they are a disparate lot, it must be said. A handful of diplomats, a landowner or two, an industrialist. Half of them don’t appear to be aware of the existence of the other half. The only thing they all seem to agree on is they expect the British Empire to go to war to restore the Kaiser, or at any rate his family – which considering we lost the best part of a million men getting rid of the bugger less than twenty years ago betrays a certain political naivety, to put it mildly. They say they have support within the Army but frankly, apart from a few disaffected Prussians at the top, we’re not convinced. Your chap, on the other hand, sounds as if he might be a bit more interesting.’

  ‘My chap?’

  The colonel consulted his folder. ‘I assume the name Paul von Hartmann is not unknown to you?’

  So that was it. It had happened at last. The file looked intimidatingly extensive. Legat could see no point in evasion. ‘Yes, of course. We were at Balliol together. He was a Rhodes scholar. So you think he is the one who delivered the document?’

  ‘Sent it rather than delivered it – he’s in Germany. When did you last see him?’

  Legat pretended to think. ‘Six years ago. The summer of thirty-two.’

  ‘You’ve not been in contact since?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you mind if I ask why not?’

  ‘No specific reason. We simply drifted apart.’

  ‘Whereabouts did you last see him?’

  ‘In Munich.’

  ‘Munich, really? Suddenly all roads seem to lead to Munich.’ The colonel smiled, but his eyes bored into Legat’s. ‘Do you mind if I ask what you were doing there?’

  ‘I was on holiday – a walking holiday in Bavaria, at the end of finals.’

  ‘On holiday with von Hartmann?’

  ‘Among others.’

  ‘And you haven’t communicated since – not even a letter?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, then – forgive me – it doesn’t sound as if you drifted apart so much as had a blazing row.’

  Legat took his time before replying. ‘It’s true we had some political differences. In Oxford they didn’t seem to matter so much. But this was Germany, in July, in the middle of a general election campaign. You couldn’t escape politics at that time – especially in Munich.’

  ‘So your friend was a Nazi?’

  ‘No, if anything he considered himself a socialist. But he was also a German nationalist – that was what led to the arguments.’


  Cadogan cut in: ‘A national socialist, then – but lower case, perhaps, rather than upper? You’re smiling? I’ve said something droll?’

  ‘Forgive me, Sir Alex, but that is what Paul would have called “a classic piece of English sophistry”.’

  For a moment he thought he might have gone too far, but then Cadogan’s mouth twitched down slightly, which was his way of registering amusement. ‘Yes, fair enough, I suppose he would have had a point.’

  The colonel said, ‘Did you know that Hartmann had entered the German diplomatic service?’

  ‘I did hear his name mentioned in that connection, by mutual friends from Oxford. I wasn’t surprised: it was always his intention. His grandfather was an Ambassador under Bismarck.’

  ‘Did you also know he’d joined the Nazi Party?’

  ‘No, but again it makes sense, given his belief in a Greater Germany.’

  ‘We’re sorry to have to ask you all these questions, Legat, but a situation has arisen and we need to understand precisely what sort of relationship you have, or had, with this particular German.’ The colonel put down the folder and it occurred to Legat that most of it probably had nothing to do with him – that it was merely a trick to fool him into thinking they knew more than they did. ‘It seems your former friend Hartmann is now working with the opposition to Hitler. His position inside the Foreign Ministry has given him access to secret material which he is willing to share with us – or more specifically, which he is willing to share with you. How do you feel about that?’

  ‘Surprised.’

  ‘But willing in principle to take matters further?’

  ‘In what sense?’

  Cadogan said, ‘Willing to go to Munich tomorrow and meet with your old friend?’

  ‘Good heavens!’ Legat had not been expecting that. ‘He’s going to be in Munich?’

  ‘Apparently, yes.’

  The colonel said, ‘One member of the German opposition whom I do take seriously has been in touch with us this evening, via a secret channel, to ask if we can arrange for you to travel to Munich as part of the PM’s party. In return they will try to make sure Hartmann is included in the German delegation. It appears Hartmann has another document in his possession, more important than the one you received last night. He has some mad notion of handing it to the Prime Minister personally, which obviously cannot be allowed to happen. However, he will give it to you. We’d very much like to know what it is. Therefore, we think you should go and meet him.’