Munich

  The three men went out into the corridor and walked towards Hitler’s study. The door had already closed again. Hartmann said, ‘Let us hope some progress is being made.’ He stopped. ‘I shall look forward to seeing you later. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen?’ He inclined his head graciously, turned to his left and began to descend the service stairs.

  Legat continued on his way with Ashton-Gwatkin for a few more paces, then he, too, halted. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve just remembered there’s something I need to tell Strang.’ The ploy seemed so obvious it embarrassed him, but Ashton-Gwatkin merely raised his hand in farewell – ‘Later, dear boy’ – and carried on walking. Legat retraced his steps. Without a backward glance he followed Hartmann down the stairs.

  He couldn’t see him but he could hear the soles of his shoes ringing on the steps. He expected him to stop at the ground floor; instead the clatter of leather on stone continued for another two flights until Legat found himself emerging on to a basement passage just in time to catch a gleam of daylight to his right and the noise of a door slamming shut.

  He preferred not to think of the absurdity of the figure he must cut – the Whitehall civil servant in his dark suit and watch chain hurrying along the subterranean service corridor of the Führer’s private palace. If Cleverly could see him he would have a heart attack. ‘I trust I don’t need to emphasise the absolute necessity that you do nothing whatsoever that might imperil the success of this conference …?’ He passed a guardroom – empty, he was relieved to see – opened the heavy steel door and stepped out into daylight and a courtyard full of black Mercedes. At the far end, Hartmann was waiting. He waved and hurried towards him. But Hartmann immediately set off again, turning right and vanishing from view.

  From then on he kept consistently about a hundred yards ahead. He led Legat past the two Temples of Honour with their motionless guards and wavering flames, past another monumental white-stone Nazi building identical to the Führerbau, then out of Königsplatz altogether and into a wide street with big office blocks festooned with swastikas. Legat read their nameplates as he passed: The Office of the Deputy Führer, The Reich Central Office for the Implementation of the Four-Year Plan. He glanced over his shoulder. Nobody seemed to be following him. Ahead was an ugly modern building that looked like the entrance to a railway station but advertised itself as ‘Park-Café’. Hartmann went inside. A minute later, Legat did the same.

  It was the end of the working day. The bar was crowded, mostly with workers from the nearby government offices to judge by the look of them. There were a lot of brown Party uniforms. He peered around for Hartmann through the clouds of cigarette smoke and saw his bald head in the corner. He was sitting at a table with his back to the room but facing a mirror so that he could watch what was happening. Legat slipped into the seat opposite him. Hartmann’s wide mouth split into the familiar vulpine grin. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘here we are again, my friend,’ and Legat remembered that for Paul there was always amusement to be had in any situation, even this one. Then Hartmann added, more seriously, ‘Were you followed?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. I’m not exactly used to this sort of thing.’

  ‘Welcome to the new Germany, my dear Hugh! You’ll find one has to get used to it.’

  The man at the next table was in an SA uniform. He was reading Der Stürmer. A vile caricature of a Jew with the tentacles of an octopus dominated the front page. Legat hoped the noise from the bar was too loud for them to be overheard.

  He said quietly, ‘Is it safe here?’

  ‘No. But safer than staying where we were. We will order two beers. We will pay for them and take them out into the garden. We will continue to speak entirely in German. We are two old friends, meeting after a long interval, with a great deal to catch up on – this much is true. Lies are always best when mostly true.’ He signalled to the waiter. ‘Two beers, please.’

  ‘You haven’t changed much.’

  ‘Ah!’ Hartmann laughed. ‘If only you knew!’ He pulled out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes, offered one, leaned over and lit Legat’s first and then his own. They sat back and smoked in silence for a while. Occasionally Hartmann looked at him and shook his head as if he couldn’t believe it.

  Legat said, ‘Won’t they be wondering where you are?’

  ‘One or two will no doubt be looking for me.’ He shrugged. ‘It can’t be helped.’

  Legat continued to look around the bar. The unfamiliar tobacco was strong. It burned the back of his throat. He felt horribly exposed. ‘Let’s hope they don’t finish the talks before we get back.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s likely, do you? Even if there’s an agreement, they’re sure to be some while yet, settling all the details. And if there isn’t an agreement, then it’s war …’ Hartmann flourished his cigarette. ‘And then you and I and our little meeting will be entirely irrelevant.’ He regarded Legat through the smoke. His large eyes were more hooded than Legat remembered. ‘I read that you had married.’

  ‘Yes. And you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What happened to Leyna?’ He had promised himself he wouldn’t ask. Hartmann’s gaze flicked away. His mood changed.

  ‘I’m afraid we no longer speak.’

  The waiter arrived with their beers. He set them down and moved off to serve another customer. Legat realised he had no German money. Hartmann put a handful of coins on the table. ‘Have this on me – “my round”, as we used to say.’ He closed his eyes briefly. ‘The Cock and Camel. The Crown and Thistle. The Pheasant in St Giles … How are they all? How is everyone? How is Isaiah?’

  ‘It’s all still there. Oxford is still there.’

  ‘Not for me, alas.’ He looked maudlin. ‘Well, I suppose we should transact our business.’

  The Brownshirt at the next table had paid his bill and was rising to go, leaving his newspaper on the table. Hartmann said, ‘Excuse me, comrade, but if you’ve finished with your Stürmer, might I take it?’

  ‘My pleasure.’ The man handed it over, nodded to them affably, and left.

  ‘You see?’ said Hartmann. ‘They’re quite charming when you get to know them. Bring your beer. We’ll go outside.’ He stubbed out his cigarette.

  There were metal tables on a gravel surface beneath bare trees. The sun had gone. It would soon be dusk. The beer garden was as busy as the bar – men in lederhosen, women in dirndls. Hartmann led him over to a small table beside a bed of lavender. Beyond it was a botanical park. The neat paths and flower beds, the specimens of trees, seemed familiar. Legat said, ‘Haven’t we been here before?’

  ‘Yes, we sat over there and had an argument. You accused me of being a Nazi at heart.’

  ‘Did I? I’m sorry. Sometimes, to an outsider, German nationalism didn’t sound that much different to Nazism.’

  Hartmann flicked his hand. ‘Let’s not get into all that. There isn’t time.’ He pulled out a chair. The steel legs scraped on the gravel. They sat. Legat refused another cigarette. Hartmann lit one for himself. ‘So. Let me go straight to the point of it. I would like you to arrange for me to meet with Chamberlain.’

  Legat sighed. ‘They told me in London that was what you wanted. I’m sorry, Paul, it’s just not possible.’

  ‘But you are his secretary. Secretaries arrange meetings.’

  ‘I’m the most junior of his secretaries. I fetch and carry. He’d no more listen to me than he would to that waiter over there. And besides, isn’t it rather too late for meetings?’

  Hartmann shook his head. ‘Right now, at this very moment, it is still not too late. It will only be too late after your Prime Minister has signed this agreement.’

  Legat cupped the beer glass in his hands and bowed his head. He remembered this absurd stubbornness, this refusal to abandon a chain of reasoning even when demonstrably it had started from a false premise. They might have been arguing in the taproom of the Eagle and Child. ‘Paul, I promise you, there’s nothing you can say to him that he hasn
’t considered already. If you’re going to warn him that Hitler’s a bad man – save your breath. He knows it.’

  ‘Then why is he making this deal with him?’

  ‘For all the reasons of which you’re aware. Because on this issue Germany has a strong case, and the fact that it’s being put by Hitler doesn’t make it any weaker.’ He remembered now why he had accused Hartmann of being a Nazi: his main objection to Hitler always seemed to be snobbish – that he was a vulgar Austrian corporal – rather than ideological. ‘I must say you’ve changed your tune! Weren’t you always going on about the injustices of the Versailles Treaty? Appeasement is simply an attempt to redress those same wrongs.’

  ‘Yes, and I stand by every word!’ Hartmann leaned across the table and continued in an urgent whisper. ‘And there is a part of me – yes, my dear Hugh, I admit it – that rejoices that you and the French have finally had to come crawling on your hands and knees to put it right. The trouble is, you’ve left it too late! Overturning Versailles – that’s nothing to Hitler any more. That’s just the prelude for what is to come.’

  ‘And this is what you want to tell the Prime Minister?’

  ‘Yes, and not just tell him – I want to show him proof. I have it here.’ He patted his chest. ‘You look amused?’

  ‘No, not amused – I just think you’re naive. If only things were that simple!’

  ‘They are simple. If Chamberlain refuses tonight to continue to negotiate under duress, then Hitler will invade Czechoslovakia tomorrow. And the moment he issues that order, everything will change, and we in the opposition, in the Army and elsewhere, will take care of Hitler.’

  Legat folded his arms and shook his head. ‘It is at this point that I’m afraid you lose me. You want my country to go to war to prevent three million Germans joining Germany, on the off chance that you and your friends can then get rid of Hitler? Well, I have to say, from what I’ve seen today, he looks pretty well entrenched to me.’

  He stopped himself from going on, although there was plenty more he could have said. He could have asked whether it was true that Hartmann and his friends – as their emissaries in London had made clear over the summer – intended to hang on to Austria and the Sudetenland even if Hitler was deposed, and if it was also true that their aim was to restore the Kaiser, in which case what should he whisper to his father the next time he visited him, lying in an ocean of white stone crosses in a war cemetery in Flanders? He felt a spasm of irritation. Let’s just sign the bloody agreement, get back on the plane, fly out of here and leave them to get on with it.

  The electric lamps were coming on – strings of pretty yellow Chinese lanterns suspended between ornate wrought-iron poles. They glowed in the gathering dusk.

  Hartmann said, ‘So you will not help me?’

  ‘If you’re asking me to arrange a private meeting with the Prime Minister, then I have to say no – it is impossible. On the other hand, if there’s some proof of Hitler’s ambitions that we ought to be aware of, then yes, if you give it to me now, I’ll undertake to make sure he sees it.’

  ‘Before he signs any agreement in Munich?’

  Legat hesitated. ‘If there’s an opportunity, yes.’

  ‘Will you give me your word that you’ll try?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Hartmann stared at Legat for several seconds. Finally, he picked up Der Stürmer from the table. It was a tabloid, easy to hold in one hand. He shielded himself with it. With the other hand he began unfastening the buttons of his shirt. Legat twisted on the hard metal chair and looked around the beer garden. Everyone seemed preoccupied with their own amusement. But in the undergrowth around them any number of eyes could be watching. Hartmann folded the paper and slid it back across the table to Legat.

  He said, ‘I should go now. You stay and finish your beer. It would be best from now on if we did not acknowledge one another.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Hartmann stood. It was suddenly important to Legat that things were not left like this. He stood as well. ‘I do appreciate – we all appreciate – the risks that you and your colleagues are taking. If things become dangerous and you need to leave Germany, I can promise you that you will be well looked after.’

  ‘I am not a traitor. I will never leave Germany.’

  ‘I know. But the offer is there.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘Finish your drink, Hugh.’

  Hartmann turned and walked across the gravel towards the café, his tall figure moving awkwardly between the tables and chairs. There was a brief glow from the interior as he opened the door, then it closed and he was gone.

  8

  Legat sat motionless, watching the moths dancing around the garden lights. The smell of lavender was strong in the warm night air. After a while, cautiously, with the tip of his thumb and forefinger, he opened the newspaper. Inside, next to a story about Aryan maidens being raped by Jews, lay a plain manila envelope. Judging by its weight it contained perhaps two dozen sheets of paper. He refolded Der Stürmer, waited another five minutes, then rose to his feet.

  He wove between the tables of beer-drinkers, through the smoky bar, out of the door on its opposite side and into the street. In the big office blocks of the Deputy Führer and the Four-Year Plan the windows gleamed. He had an impression of activity, of urgent purposeful preparation. He pressed on towards Königsplatz. As he approached the building that housed the administration of the Nazi Party, a group of uniformed officials came out on to the pavement. After he had skirted them he heard one say, ‘Das kann nur ein Engländer sein!’ ‘That can only be an Englishman!’ There was laughter. On the granite parade ground, a pair of swastika banners, six storeys high, was lit by spotlights. He could see the Führerbau directly ahead. He wondered if he should return to the conference. Given what he was carrying it was surely too risky. He turned right between the Temples of Honour. A few minutes later he was pushing through the revolving door into the Regina Palast. In the lobby a string quartet played Tales from the Vienna Woods.

  On the first-floor corridor he ran into Ashton-Gwatkin. He stopped beneath one of the dim candelabra. ‘Hello, Hugh. What have you been up to?’

  ‘Just running errands.’

  ‘I know! Isn’t it awful? Nothing works. The phones are hopeless.’ The Walrus’s heavy features were more than usually lugubrious. ‘I’ve just been in with the Czechos.’

  ‘How are they taking it?’

  ‘As one would expect. They think the whole business stinks. I’m sure we would too, in their place. But what can one do? The situation isn’t improved by the fact that the Germans still won’t let them leave their room.’

  ‘Are you heading back to the conference?’

  ‘Apparently I’m wanted. I have a car downstairs.’ He moved on, stopped, turned. ‘Incidentally, that fellow Hartmann we met earlier – wasn’t he a Rhodes scholar? At our college?’

  Legat saw no point in denying it. ‘That’s right, yes.’

  ‘I thought the name was familiar. What year did they start it up again after the war? Twenty-eight?’

  ‘Twenty-nine.’

  ‘So he must have been there in your day. Surely you knew him?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘But you pretended not to?’

  ‘Obviously he doesn’t want to shout about it, so I thought it wiser not to let on.’

  The Walrus nodded. ‘Quite right. This whole place is absolutely crawling with Gestapo.’

  He continued onwards in his stately fashion. Legat went into the corner office. Joan and Miss Anderson were sitting at the table, playing cards. He said, ‘Have London been on?’

  Joan played a card. ‘Quite often, actually.’

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘That you were away from the office having to deal with the Czechs.’

  ‘You’re an angel.’

  ‘I know. What on earth are you reading?’

  ‘Sorry.’ He transferred the newspaper to his other hand.
‘It’s some ghastly anti-Jew rag. I’m looking for a place to chuck it.’

  ‘Give it to me. I’ll get rid of it for you.’

  ‘It’s all right, thanks.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Let me take it.’ She held out her hand.

  ‘Actually, I wouldn’t want you to see it.’

  He could feel himself turning red. What a hopeless spy he was! She was looking at him as if he was very odd.

  He went back out into the corridor. At the far end of the passage the two Gestapo men had found a pair of chairs and were sitting outside the Czech delegation’s room. He turned left, searched his pockets for his key and opened the door to his own room. It was in darkness. Through the large window he could see lights in the rooms on the opposite side of the courtyard. Inside, several people were moving around, preparing to go out for dinner; in one a man seemed to be staring directly at him. He drew the curtains and turned on the bedside lamp. His suitcase had been brought up by a porter and placed on the small table. He threw the newspaper on to the bed, went into the bathroom, ran the cold tap and splashed his face. He felt shaky. He couldn’t get the image of Hartmann out of his mind, especially his expression at the end. His eyes had seemed to stare out at him from across some vast gulf that had widened the longer they talked. He dried himself and returned to the bedroom. He locked the door. He took off his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair, picked up the newspaper, sat at the desk and turned on the green-shaded reading lamp. Finally, he opened the envelope and pulled out the pages.

  The document was typed in the same large letters as the one he had received in London. The German was a hybrid of the Hitlerian and the bureaucratic, not easy to translate at first, but after a while he started to get the hang of it.

  TOP SECRET

  Memorandum

  Berlin, 10 November 1937

  Minutes of a Conference in the Reich Chancellery, Berlin, 5 November 1937 from 4.15 to 8.30 p.m.

  Present:

  The Führer and Chancellor

  Field Marshal von Blomberg, War Minister