Munich

  He stooped to pass through the low door.

  Inside the cabin were fourteen seats, seven on either side, with an aisle between them and a door at the far end to the cockpit. The nose of the plane was tilted five or six feet higher than the tail; there was a noticeable slope. It felt small and oddly intimate. The Prime Minister was already in his place at the front, on the left, with Wilson to his right. Legat hoisted the red boxes into the wire luggage rack, removed his coat and hat and stowed them alongside. He took the right-hand seat at the back so that he could see the Prime Minister in case he was needed.

  A man in a pilot’s uniform was the last to board. He locked the door after him and walked to the front of the plane.

  ‘Prime Minister, gentlemen: welcome. My name is Commander Robinson. I am your pilot. This is a Lockheed Electra, operated by British Airways. We shall be flying at an altitude of seven thousand feet, at a maximum speed of two hundred and fifty miles an hour. Our flying time to Munich is approximately three hours. Would you please fasten your safety belts? It may get a little bumpy, so I suggest you keep them fastened unless you need to move around the cabin.’

  He went into the cockpit and took the seat next to the co-pilot. Through the open door Legat could see his hand reaching across the instrument panel, flicking switches. One of the engines stuttered into life, then the other. The noise increased. The cabin began to shake. The note seemed to climb a musical scale from bass to treble until it was subsumed into a single deafening sawing noise and the plane lurched forwards on to the grass airfield. They bumped their way over the rough ground for a minute or two, raindrops scudding across the windows, then turned and stopped.

  Legat fastened his seat belt. He looked across at the terminal building. Beyond it were white factory chimneys. Columns of smoke rose almost vertically. There was not much wind. That must be good. He felt quite calm. I know that I shall meet my fate / Somewhere among the clouds above … Perhaps Yeats would have been a more appropriate poet for the Prime Minister to quote than Shakespeare.

  The engines became much louder and suddenly the Lockheed began to accelerate across the grass. Legat gripped the armrests as the plane raced past the terminal. Yet still they remained firmly earthbound. Then, just as he thought they were bound to crash into the fence at the edge of the airfield, the bottom of his stomach seemed to fall away and the cabin tilted upwards even more sharply, pressing him back in his seat. The propellers clawed at the air, hauling them into the sky. Slowly they banked and the landscape slid past the window – green fields, red roofs, slick grey streets. He looked down at the Great West Road a couple of hundred feet below, at the semi-detached houses and the cars still drawn up with their drivers beside them, and he saw that in almost every garden people had come out and were craning their heads to the sky and waving – hundreds of them, waving with both arms crossed above their heads in frantic farewell – and then they juddered up into the base of the low cloud and the scene flickered out of sight.

  After a few minutes of climbing steeply through thick grey mist they broke free into a burst of sunshine and blueness more beautiful than anything Legat had imagined. A crystal-white vista of peaks and ravines and waterfalls carved out of cloud stretched into the distance. It reminded him of the Bavarian Alps, but purer and unsullied by humanity. The plane levelled off. He unfastened his seat belt and made his way unsteadily towards the front.

  ‘Excuse me, Prime Minister. I just wanted to let you know I have your boxes whenever you need them.’

  Chamberlain was staring out of the window. He looked at Legat. His earlier good spirits seemed to have left him. Or perhaps, thought Legat, they had only ever been a show for the crowds and the cameras. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I suppose we had better make a start.’

  Wilson said, ‘Why don’t you have some breakfast first, PM? Hugh, would you mind asking the pilot?’

  Legat put his head into the cockpit. ‘Sorry to bother you, but where might I find some food?’

  ‘There’s a locker at the back, sir.’

  Legat lingered for a moment, briefly mesmerised once more by the sight of the clouds through the windscreen, then turned back to the cabin. Strang, Malkin, Ashton-Gwatkin, even Dunglass – now they all looked pensive. In the rear of the plane he found the locker. Two wicker hampers stencilled with the name of the Savoy Hotel were crammed full of neatly wrapped and labelled packages: grouse and smoked salmon sandwiches, pâté and caviar, bottles of claret and beer and cider, flasks of tea and coffee. It seemed an inappropriate feast, a picnic for a day at the races. He carried the hampers to the empty seats in the middle of the plane. Dunglass got up to help him distribute it all. The Prime Minister took a cup of tea and refused everything else. He sat very upright, holding his saucer in his left hand, his little finger crooked primly as he sipped. Legat retreated to his seat with coffee and a smoked salmon sandwich.

  After a while, Strang went past him to the toilet cubicle. He stopped on his way back, buttoning his flies.

  ‘Everything all right?’ The Head of the Central Department was another official who had gone through the war and had retained the habit of talking to his subordinates as if he were inspecting their trench.

  ‘Yes, thank you, sir.’

  ‘“The condemned men ate a hearty breakfast …?”’ He folded his tall frame into the seat beside Legat’s. He was in his mid-forties but looked sixty. His suit exuded a faint aroma of pipe tobacco. ‘Do you realise you’re the only man on this plane who speaks German?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that, sir.’

  Strang gazed out of the window. ‘Let’s hope this landing’s better than the last one. There was a rainstorm over Munich. The pilot couldn’t see a thing. We ended up being thrown around all over the place. The only person who didn’t seem to mind was the PM.’

  ‘He’s quite a cool customer.’

  ‘Isn’t he? One never really knows what’s going through his mind.’ He leaned across the aisle and spoke more quietly. ‘I just wanted to give you a gentle warning, Hugh. You haven’t been through this before. There’s a chance this whole thing could turn out to be a fiasco. We have no agreed agenda. No preliminary work has been done. There are no official papers. If it breaks down and Hitler grabs the chance to invade Czechoslovakia after all, we could be in the ludicrous position of having the leaders of Britain and France both stranded in Germany on the outbreak of war.’

  ‘Surely that’s not likely?’

  ‘I was with the PM in Bad Godesberg. We thought we had an agreement then, until Hitler suddenly came up with a new set of demands. It’s not like dealing with a normal head of government. He’s more like some barbarian chieftain out of a Germanic legend – Ermanaric, Theodoric – with his housecarls gathered around him. They leap up when he comes in and he freezes them with a look, asserts his authority, and then he settles down at a long table to feast with them, and to laugh and boast. Who’d want to be in the PM’s shoes, trying to negotiate with such a creature?’

  The pilot appeared in the doorway of the cockpit. ‘Gentlemen, just to let you know – we have crossed the English Channel.’

  The Prime Minister glanced down the plane and gestured to Legat. ‘I think we’d better start work on those boxes now.’

  3

  The Führer’s train was slowing. After more than twelve hours of relentless forward motion Hartmann could detect a slight but definite swaying back and forth as the driver gently applied the brakes.

  They were in the hilly country an hour south of Munich, not far from where he had gone walking with Hugh and Leyna in the summer of ’32. Beyond the windows the woodland had begun to thin, a river glinted silver through the trees, and then an ancient town curved into view on the opposite bank. Gaily painted houses – pale blue, lime green, canary yellow – fronted on to the water. Behind them, a grey stone medieval castle sprawled across a wooded hill. In the distance rose the Alps. Framed by the window, it looked exactly like the Reichsbahn poster for a Tyrolean holiday that ha
d lured them south six years before. Even the half-timbered station they were pulling into was picturesque. The train slowed to walking pace and then, with a slight jolt and a squeak of metal, stopped. It let out an exhausted exhalation of steam.

  A sign beside the waiting room announced Kufstein.

  Austria, then, thought Hartmann – or rather, what had once been Austria until the Führer got to work on the map.

  The platform was deserted. He checked his watch. It was a good watch, a Rolex, given to him by his mother on his twenty-first birthday. With beautiful efficiency they had arrived at 9.30 a.m. precisely. He wondered if the British delegation had taken off yet.

  He rose from his table in the communications wagon, walked to the door and lowered the window.

  All along the length of the train men were disembarking to stretch their legs. The station itself appeared ghostly in its emptiness. Hartmann guessed it must have been sealed off by the security services. But then something caught his eye: a man’s white face staring through a grimy window. He was wearing a Reichsbahn cap. When he realised he had been spotted, he ducked out of sight.

  Hartmann jumped down on to the platform and headed straight towards him. He pushed open the door and entered what looked to be the stationmaster’s office, stuffy with the burned-out reek of coal and cigarettes. The official was at his desk – lank-haired, forties, pretending to read some papers. As Hartmann approached he scrambled to his feet.

  Hartmann said, ‘Heil Hitler.’

  The man saluted. ‘Heil Hitler!’

  ‘I’m travelling with the Führer. I need to use your telephone.’

  ‘Of course, sir. An honour.’ He pushed it towards Hartmann, who waved his hand imperiously.

  ‘Get me an operator.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  When the man gave him the phone, Hartmann said to the operator, ‘I need to place a call to Berlin. I am with the Führer. It is a matter of the utmost urgency.’

  ‘What number in Berlin, sir?’

  He gave her Kordt’s direct line. She repeated it back to him. ‘Shall I call you when I have a connection?’

  ‘As soon as possible.’

  He hung up and lit a cigarette. Through the window he could see activity further up the platform. The locomotive was being uncoupled and was getting up steam again. A group of SS men had gathered around the door of one of the carriages, facing away from the train with their machine guns clasped across their chests. An adjutant opened the door and Hitler appeared. The railway official standing beside Hartmann gasped. The Führer stepped down on to the platform. He was wearing his peaked cap, his belted brown uniform, highly polished jackboots. Behind him was the Reichsführer-SS, Heinrich Himmler. He stood for a moment flexing his shoulders, staring at the Kufstein castle, then set off down the platform in Hartmann’s direction, accompanied by Himmler and his SS bodyguard. As he walked he swung his arms back and forth in unison, presumably to stimulate his circulation. There was something about the motion that was disturbing, simian.

  The telephone rang. Hartmann picked it up.

  ‘I have your connection, sir.’

  He heard the number ringing. A woman answered: ‘Kordt’s office.’

  He turned away from the window. The line was poor. It was hard to hear. He had to put a finger in one ear and shout over the noise of the locomotive. ‘It’s Hartmann. Is Dr Kordt there?’

  ‘No, Herr Hartmann. Can I help you?’

  ‘Possibly. Do you know if we’ve received notification from London of who will be in Prime Minister Chamberlain’s delegation?’

  ‘Wait, please. I’ll check.’

  The Führer had turned around and was strolling back in the direction he had come. He was talking to Himmler. In the distance Hartmann could hear the whistle of another train approaching from the south.

  ‘Herr Hartmann, I have the list from London.’

  ‘Wait.’ Hartmann clicked his fingers impatiently at the railway official and mimed writing. The man tore his gaze from the window, took a stubby pencil from behind his ear and handed it over. Hartmann sat at the desk and found a scrap of paper. As he wrote each name he recited it back to her to be sure he had heard correctly. ‘Wilson … Strang … Malkin … Ashton-Gwatkin … Dunglass … Legat.’ Legat. He grinned. ‘Excellent. Thank you. Goodbye.’ He hung up and cheerfully threw the pencil back at the railwayman who fumbled and just managed to catch it. ‘The office of the Führer thanks you for your help.’

  He slipped the list of names into his pocket and went outside into the fresh mountain air. A second train was crawling into the station. A large welcoming party had gathered, with Hitler at its centre. The cab of the oncoming locomotive was decorated with the green, white and red tricolour of Italy. It came to a halt just short of the Führer’s train. An SS guard stepped forwards smartly and opened a door.

  Half a minute later, in a pale grey uniform and peaked cap, Mussolini appeared on the top step. His arm shot out in salute. Hitler’s did the same. The Duce descended to the platform. The dictators shook hands – not at all the usual diplomatic formality but a warm and mutual double-clasp. They might almost have been two old lovers, thought Hartmann, the way they were grinning and gazing into one another’s eyes. The flashes of the photographers lit up the reunion and suddenly everyone was beaming: Hitler, Mussolini, Himmler, Keitel, and Ciano – the Italian Foreign Minister and Mussolini’s son-in-law – who had also emerged from the train with the rest of the delegation, all in uniform. Hitler gestured for the Italians to accompany him. Hartmann realised he had better get out of the way.

  He half-turned, just in time to see Sturmbannführer Sauer disappear into the railwayman’s office.

  Immediately, he swivelled back to his original position, and stood frozen, unsure of what to do. It could hardly be a coincidence, which meant that Sauer must have been watching him all along. Now presumably he was going to question the railway official. Hartmann tried to remember if he had said anything incriminating. Thank God Kordt hadn’t been in his office, otherwise he might have been indiscreet.

  Barely thirty metres away, Hitler was insisting that Mussolini board the train ahead of him. Mussolini made a remark but Hartmann was too far away to hear it. There was laughter. The Italian swung his muscular body up into the doorway. Hartmann saw Schmidt, the interpreter, watching from the fringes of the group: Mussolini fancied he spoke German well enough not to need the services of a translator and for once Schmidt, normally at the centre of every meeting, looked slightly lost. Hartmann walked towards him. In a quiet voice he said, ‘Dr Schmidt?’

  Schmidt swung round to see who it was. ‘Yes, Herr Hartmann?’

  ‘I thought you might like to know I’ve managed to get hold of the list of Englishmen accompanying Chamberlain.’ He offered him the scrap of paper with its pencilled scrawl. ‘I thought you might find it useful.’

  Schmidt seemed surprised. For a moment Hartmann thought he might demand to know why on earth he should be interested in such a thing. But then he accepted it and scanned it with increasing interest. ‘Ah, yes. Wilson I know, of course. And Strang and Malkin were both at Godesberg – neither speaks German. The other names are not familiar to me.’

  He glanced over Hartmann’s shoulder. Hartmann turned as well. Sauer was bearing down on them. He wore a look of triumph. He called out even before he reached them, ‘Dr Schmidt, excuse me. Did you authorise Herr Hartmann to call Berlin?’

  ‘No.’ Schmidt looked at Hartmann. ‘What is this?’

  Hartmann said, ‘I’m sorry, Sauer, I wasn’t aware I needed authorisation to make a simple telephone call to the Foreign Ministry.’

  ‘Of course you need authorisation! All outside communications from the Führer’s train must be cleared in advance!’ He said to Schmidt, ‘May I see that paper?’ He took it and ran his finger down the names. He frowned and turned it over. Finally, he returned it. ‘Again and again I find Herr Hartmann’s behaviour suspicious.’

  Schmidt said mildly, ‘I re
ally don’t think there’s much cause for suspicion here, Sturmbannführer Sauer. Surely it’s useful to know who’s coming from London? The fewer of these British officials who speak German, the more translation will be required.’

  Sauer muttered, ‘Even so, it’s a breach of security.’

  From the far end of the platform came the noise of metal clashing against metal. The locomotive that had hauled them from Berlin had been turned around in the marshalling yard and had been backed up to be reconnected to the opposite end of the train.

  Hartmann said, ‘We ought to board or we’ll be left behind.’

  Schmidt patted Sauer’s arm. ‘Well, let us say that I authorise Herr Hartmann’s action retrospectively – is that good enough?’

  Sauer looked at Hartmann. He nodded curtly. ‘It will have to be.’ He turned on his heel and strode away.

  Schmidt said, ‘What a touchy fellow. I take it he’s not a friend of yours?’

  ‘Oh, he’s not so bad.’

  They walked towards the train.

  Sauer is a terrier, thought Hartmann, and I am his rat. The SS man would never give up. On three occasions he had nearly caught him – in Wilhelmstrasse, on the train, and now here. He would not get away with it a fourth time.

  The order of the train was now reversed. The Führer’s saloon car was at the rear; the sleeper carriages for his entourage at the front. In the centre were the communications wagon and the dining compartment, which was where Hartmann sat with Schmidt as they rolled north towards Munich. The Berliner had produced a large pipe and made a great business out of keeping it going – tamping down the tobacco with his box of matches, sucking at it, lighting it again, producing alarming spouts of flame. He was clearly nervous. Every time one of the Führer’s adjutants passed through he looked up expectantly to see if he was needed. But Hitler and Mussolini appeared to be making themselves understood without him. He seemed put out. ‘The Duce’s German is good, although not as good as he thinks it is. Let’s hope they don’t start a war by accident!’ He thought this was such a good joke he whispered some variation of it whenever an adjutant left the dining car. ‘No war yet, eh, Hartmann?’