Munich

  6

  The Regina Palast was an immense, monumental grey stone cube of a hotel, built in 1908, with Versailles-style reception rooms, a Turkish bath in the basement and three hundred bedrooms arranged over seven floors, of which the British delegation had been allotted twenty. These ran along the front of the hotel on the third floor with views across the trees of Maximiliansplatz to the distant twin Gothic spires of the Frauenkirche.

  After the Prime Minister and his team had left for the start of the conference, Legat spent the next ten minutes walking up and down the dimly lit carpeted corridor in the company of the hotel’s assistant manager. He found it hard to hide his frustration. I might as well have been a bloody hotelier, he thought. His first task, given to him by Horace Wilson, was to allocate a room to each member of the British party and then to make sure the porters delivered the correct luggage to the right room.

  ‘I’m sorry to be a bore,’ Wilson had said, ‘but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to stay in the hotel for the duration of the conference.’

  ‘The entire duration?’

  ‘Yes. It seems they’re giving us a corridor of rooms to use as our headquarters. Someone needs to get an office set up and running, establish an open line to London, make sure it’s permanently manned. You’re the obvious choice.’ The dismay must have shown in Legat’s face because he went on smoothly: ‘I understand it’s a disappointment for you not to be at the main show – just as it must have been for poor old Syers to be left behind in London, after his name was in the papers as one of the Prime Minister’s party – but it simply can’t be helped. So sorry.’

  For a moment Legat had considered confiding in him why he was in Munich in the first place. But instinct warned him it might only make Wilson even more determined to keep him away from the German delegation. Indeed, there was something about Wilson’s manner – a vague hard shape lurking beneath the oily surface – which suggested to him that the Prime Minister’s Chief Adviser already had a shrewd idea of what he had come to do.

  So all he said was, ‘Of course, sir. I’ll make a start right away.’

  The suite designated for the Prime Minister included a bedroom with a four-poster bed and a Louis XVI drawing room with gilt chairs and French windows that opened on to a balcony. ‘It is the finest room in the hotel,’ the under-manager assured him. The next-best rooms Legat awarded to Wilson, Strang, Malkin, Ashton-Gwatkin and the two diplomats from the Berlin embassy, Henderson and Kirkpatrick. In a spirit of self-sacrifice, his own room and Dunglass’s were the smaller ones, on the opposite side of the corridor, and had views of the interior courtyard, as did those of the two detectives, the PM’s doctor, Sir Joseph Horner – who had gone immediately to the bar – and the two Garden Room secretaries, Miss Anderson and Miss Sackville. (So that was her name, he thought: Joan Sackville.)

  The large double-aspect room in the south-east corner had been set aside as the delegation’s office. A tray of open sandwiches and some bottles of mineral water had been provided for lunch. It was here that the two women set up their typewriters – two Imperials and a Remington portable – and unpacked their stationery. Legat put the PM’s red boxes on the desk. An old-fashioned telephone was the only means of communication. He asked the hotel operator to book an international call to the switchboard of Number 10, then hung up and paced around the room. After a while, Joan suggested he ought to sit down.

  ‘Sorry. I’m a bit on edge.’ He sat and poured himself a glass of mineral water. It was warm and tasted vaguely of sulphur. Almost immediately the phone rang. He jumped up to answer it: ‘Yes?’ Over the voice of the hotel operator informing him that he was connected to London he could just make out the exasperated tone of the telephonist in Downing Street repeatedly asking what extension he required. He had to shout to make himself heard. It was another minute before the Principal Private Secretary came on the line.

  ‘Cleverly.’

  ‘Sir, it’s Legat. We’re in Munich.’

  ‘Yes, I know. It’s running on the news wires.’ His voice was very faint and hollow. There was a series of faint clicks on the line. That would be the Germans listening, thought Legat. Cleverly said, ‘It sounds as though you—’ The robot-voice was lost in a crackle of static.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. Could you repeat that?’

  ‘I said, it sounds as though you had quite a reception!’

  ‘We certainly did, sir.’

  ‘Where’s the PM?’

  ‘He’s just left for the conference. I’m at the hotel.’

  ‘Good. I want you to stay there and make sure this line stays open.’

  ‘With respect, sir, I think I would be more useful if I was actually in the same building as the PM.’

  ‘No, absolutely not. Do you hear me? I want—’

  Another burst of static, like gunfire. The line went dead. ‘Hello? Hello?’ Legat pressed the lever on the cradle with his finger half a dozen times. ‘Hello? Damn!’ He hung up and regarded the apparatus with hatred.

  For the next two hours Legat made repeated attempts to establish a line to London. It proved impossible. Even the number he had been given for the Führerbau was constantly engaged. He started to suspect the Germans were deliberately isolating them – either that, or the regime was not as efficient as it liked to pretend. Throughout all this, in the garden opposite the hotel, the crowd kept growing. There was a holiday atmosphere, the men in leather shorts, the women in floral dresses. Much beer was being drunk. An oom-pah band arrived and began to play the current English hit.

  ‘Any time you’re Lambeth way,

  Any evening, any day,

  You’ll find us all doin’ the Lambeth walk.’

  At the end of each chorus, the crowd chanted in a Bavarian accent a ragged and slightly inebriated ‘Oy!’

  After a while, Legat covered his ears. ‘This is surreal.’

  Joan said, ‘Oh, I don’t know. I think it’s rather sweet of them to try to make us feel at home.’

  He found a tourist guide to the city in the desk drawer. The hotel appeared to be only about half a mile from the Führerbau – left along Max-Joseph-Strasse and up to Karolinenplatz, over the roundabout … Assuming he could find Paul quickly enough, he could be there and back in half an hour.

  ‘Are you married, Mr Legat?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Any children?’

  ‘Two. What about you?’

  She lit a cigarette and regarded him through the smoke with an expression of amusement. ‘No. No one will have me.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘No one will have me whom I want to be had by, if you know what I mean.’ She started to sing along with the band:

  ‘Everything’s free and easy,

  Do as you darn well pleasey,

  Why don’t you make your way there,

  Go there, stay there …’

  Miss Anderson joined in. They had good voices. Legat knew they would think him a stuffed shirt for not taking part – that was what Pamela always called him. But it ran counter to his nature at the best of times to sing, or to dance for that matter, and he hardly thought this was an occasion for levity.

  From outside, clearly audible even through the closed windows, came a resounding Germanic ‘Oy!’

  At the Führerbau, they waited.

  Each delegation had been allotted its own area. The Germans and the Italians shared the long open gallery that was next to the Führer’s study; the British and the French occupied the two reception rooms at the far end of the corridor that faced it. Hartmann positioned himself in an armchair in the gallery that afforded him a clear view between the pillars across the wide open space to where the allied officials sat in silence, reading and smoking. Both had left their doors wide open in case they were needed. He could see them occasionally moving around, casting hopeful, anxious glances towards the big corner study where the Führer’s door remained firmly shut.

  Still Legat did not come.

/>   One hour passed, and then another. From time to time, a Nazi chieftain – Göring, Himmler, Hess – wandered by with his attendants, occasionally stopping to exchange a few words with the Germans. The boots of the SS adjutants rang on the marble floor. Messages were whispered. The atmosphere was that of a big hushed institution – a museum perhaps, a library. Everyone watched everyone else.

  From time to time, Hartmann reached inside his jacket and touched the metal of the gun, warmed by the heat of his body, then slid his hand down the side of his shirt and felt the outline of the envelope. Somehow he would have to get it into the hands of the British delegation, and sooner rather than later – there was no point in leaving it until a deal was agreed. Legat it seemed was out of the picture: why, he did not know. But if not Legat, who? The only Englishman to whom he had spoken was Strang. He had seemed decent enough, albeit as stiff as an old Latin schoolmaster. How was he to make contact with Strang without being seen by Sauer? Every time he looked around, it seemed the SS man was watching him. He suspected he had also alerted some of his comrades.

  It would take him less than half a minute to saunter over to the British delegation’s room. Unfortunately, he could only do so in full view of the entire assembly. What possible excuse could he contrive? His mind, tired from two nights of little sleep, circled endlessly around the problem without finding a solution. Nevertheless, he decided he would have to try.

  At three o’clock he stood to stretch his legs. He walked around the corner, past the Führer’s office to the balustrade nearest the British delegation’s room. He rested his hands on the cold marble, leaned casually against it and looked down into the lobby. A group of men was standing together at the foot of the second staircase, talking quietly. He guessed they were the drivers. He risked a surreptitious glance at the British.

  Suddenly there was a noise behind him. The door to Hitler’s study opened and Chamberlain appeared. He looked much grimmer than he had a couple of hours earlier. After him came Wilson, then Daladier and Léger. Daladier, patting his pockets, pulled out a cigarette case. At once, the British and French delegations streamed out from their respective rooms to meet them. As they hurried past him, Hartmann heard Chamberlain call out, ‘Come on, gentlemen, we’re leaving,’ and the two groups walked along the gallery to the far staircase and began to descend. A minute later, Hitler and Mussolini emerged and stalked off in the same direction, with Ciano trailing behind. Hitler’s expression was still one of irritation. He was gesticulating at the Duce, muttering to him angrily, his right hand making sweeping gestures as if he wished to consign the entire business to oblivion. The glorious possibility occurred to Hartmann that perhaps the whole thing had collapsed.

  Legat was at the desk in the Regina Palast office, sorting through the contents of the red boxes and putting aside the documents annotated by the Prime Minister requiring urgent action, when he heard the crowd begin to cheer again. He got to his feet and looked down into Maximiliansplatz. An open Mercedes had drawn up outside the hotel. Chamberlain was climbing out, accompanied by Wilson. Other cars were arriving behind it. The British delegation appeared on the pavement.

  Joan joined him at the window. ‘Were you expecting them back this early?’

  ‘No. There was nothing scheduled.’

  He locked the boxes and went out into the corridor. At the far end the lift-bell rang softly. The doors opened and the Prime Minister emerged with Wilson and one of his Scotland Yard detectives.

  ‘Good afternoon, Prime Minister.’

  ‘Hello, Hugh.’ His voice was tired. In the weak electric light, he looked almost spectral. ‘Where are we based?’

  ‘Your suite is here, sir.’

  As soon as he crossed the threshold the Prime Minister disappeared into the bathroom. Wilson went over to the window and looked down at the crowd. He, too, seemed exhausted.

  ‘How did it go, sir?’

  ‘It was pretty bloody. Will you tell the others to come in here? Everyone needs to be briefed.’

  Legat stationed himself in the corridor and diverted the arriving delegates into the room. Within two minutes it was full: Strang, Malkin, Ashton-Gwatkin and Dunglass, together with Henderson and Kirkpatrick from Berlin. Legat went in last. He closed the door behind him, just as the Prime Minister came out of his bedroom. He had changed his collar and washed his face. The hair behind his ears was still damp. He looked altogether brighter. ‘Gentlemen, please sit down.’ He took the large armchair facing the room and waited while they all found a seat. ‘Horace, why don’t you put everyone in the picture?’

  ‘Thank you, Prime Minister. Well, the whole thing was somewhat of a Mad Hatter’s tea party, as you’ve probably gathered.’ He pulled a small notebook from his inside pocket and flattened it out on his knee. ‘We started with a speech from Hitler, the gist of which was (a) that Czechoslovakia is now a threat to peace in Europe, (b) that a quarter of a million refugees have fled the Sudetenland into Germany in the past few days, and (c) that the whole situation is critical and must be settled by Saturday – either Britain and France and Italy will have to guarantee that the Czechs will start evacuating the disputed territory on that day, or he’ll march in and take it. He kept looking at his watch as if he was checking when the twenty-four-hour pause on mobilisation would expire. Overall, I must say my impression is that he’s not bluffing and we either sort this thing out today or it’s war.’

  He turned a page.

  ‘Then Mussolini produced a draft agreement in Italian which the Germans have since had translated.’ He fished around in his other inside pocket and pulled out a few typewritten pages. ‘Translated into German, that is. As far as we can gather, it’s more or less what was proposed before.’ He threw it on to the coffee table.

  Strang said, ‘Will Hitler accept an international commission to determine which areas are to become German?’

  ‘No, he says there’s no time for that – there should be a plebiscite and each district can decide according to a simple majority.’

  ‘And what happens to the minority?’

  ‘They will have to evacuate by October the tenth. He also wants us to guarantee that the Czechs won’t destroy any of their installations before they leave.’

  The Prime Minister said, ‘It’s the word “guarantee” I don’t like. How on earth can we guarantee anything unless we know the Czechs will agree?’

  ‘Then surely they need to be at the conference?’

  ‘Exactly the point I made. Unfortunately, this led to the usual vulgar tirade against the Czechs. There was a lot of this –’ The Prime Minister smacked his fist into his open palm repeatedly.

  Wilson consulted his notes. ‘To be exact, he said that he had agreed to postpone military action – “but if those who had urged him to do so were not prepared to take responsibility for Czechoslovakia’s compliance, he would have to reconsider”.’

  ‘Good God!’

  Chamberlain said, ‘Nevertheless, I stood my ground. It’s inconceivable that we should guarantee Czech compliance unless the Czechs themselves agree.’

  Henderson said, ‘What was the French position on bringing the Czechs into the talks?’

  ‘To begin with Daladier backed me up, but then after about half an hour he changed his tune. What exactly was it he said, Horace?’

  Wilson read from his notebook. ‘“If the inclusion of a Prague representative would cause difficulties he was ready to forgo this, as it was important that the question should be settled speedily.”’

  ‘To which I countered that I wasn’t insisting that the Czechs should actually take part in the discussions, but at the very least they should be in the next room, so that they could give us the necessary assurances.’

  Wilson said, ‘You were very firm, Prime Minister.’

  ‘Well, yes, I was. I had to be! Daladier is utterly useless. He gives the impression he’s loathing every minute of being here and just wants to sign an agreement and get home to Paris as quickly as possible. Once it be
came clear we weren’t going to get anywhere – in fact, that there was a risk the whole thing might break up in acrimony – I proposed we adjourn for an hour so that we could consult with our respective delegations about Mussolini’s draft.’

  ‘And the Czechs?’

  ‘Let’s wait and see. By the end Hitler had a face like thunder. He’s taken Mussolini and Himmler back to his apartment for lunch – I can’t say I envy Musso that particular social engagement!’ He broke off. He screwed up his face in disgust. ‘What on earth is that?’

  Through the closed windows came the thump of the band outside the hotel.

  Legat said, ‘It’s “The Lambeth Walk”, Prime Minister.’

  In the Führerbau, the German and Italian officials had drifted back towards the room where the buffet lunch had been laid out. The two groups didn’t mingle. The Germans felt themselves superior to the Italians. The Italians thought the Germans vulgar. Over by the window, a circle formed around Weizsäcker and Schmidt. Hartmann collected a plate of food and joined them. Weizsäcker was showing round a document, typed in German. He seemed very pleased with himself. It took a moment for Hartmann to grasp that this was some kind of draft agreement, produced at the leaders’ meeting by Mussolini. So the talks hadn’t broken down after all. He felt his earlier good spirits evaporate. His dismay must have shown on his face, because Sauer said, ‘There’s no need to look quite so miserable about it, Hartmann! At least we have the basis of an agreement.’

  ‘I’m not miserable, Herr Sturmbannführer, merely amazed that Dr Schmidt should have managed to translate it so quickly.’

  Schmidt laughed and rolled his eyes at his naivety. ‘My dear Hartmann, I didn’t have to translate a thing! That draft was written last night in Berlin. Mussolini pretended it was his own work.’

  Weizsäcker said, ‘Do you honestly think we would have left something so important to the Italians?’

  The others joined in the laughter. Across the room, a couple of the Italians turned to look at them. Weizsäcker became serious. He put his finger to his lips. ‘I think we should keep our voices down.’