Munich

  ‘Of course. Come with me, please.’ He gestured for Legat to walk with him up to the first floor. ‘There is an official of the Foreign Ministry who is doing much of the liaison work with our British guests.’ He led him around to the seating area at the front of the building where Hartmann was standing beside one of the pillars. ‘You know Herr Hartmann, perhaps?’

  Legat pretended not to have heard.

  ‘Herr Legat?’ repeated the SS man. His voice was louder, less friendly. ‘I asked you a question: do you know Herr Hartmann?’

  ‘I don’t believe—’

  Hartmann cut in. ‘My dear Hugh, I think that Sturmbannführer Sauer is having a little joke with you. He knows perfectly well that we’re old friends and that I came to see you in your hotel this evening. He knows it because he and his friends in the Gestapo followed me there.’

  Legat managed to smile. ‘Well, there is your answer. We’ve known one another for many years. Why do you ask? Is there a problem?’

  Sauer said, ‘You replaced a colleague on Herr Chamberlain’s plane at the last minute, I believe?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Might I ask why?’

  ‘Because I speak better German than he does.’

  ‘But surely that was known from the start?’

  ‘Everything was a bit last-minute.’

  ‘And there are people from your embassy in Berlin who can act as translators.’

  Hartmann said, ‘Really, Sauer, I don’t think you have the right to cross-examine a man who is a guest in our country.’

  Sauer ignored him. ‘And before today you and Hartmann last met when, may I ask?’

  ‘Six years ago. Not that it’s any of your business.’

  ‘Good.’ Sauer nodded. Suddenly his confidence seemed to be running out. ‘Well, I shall leave you to talk. No doubt Hartmann will tell you everything you want to know.’ He clicked his heels, bowed slightly, and walked away.

  Legat said, ‘That was ominous.’

  ‘Oh, take no notice of him. He is determined to expose me. He will keep digging until he finds something, but he hasn’t got anything yet. Now we must assume we are being watched, so we must play our parts. What is it you want to know?’

  ‘Can the British press send in a photographer to record the signing? Who should I ask?’

  ‘Don’t bother. It has already been decided. The only still camera permitted in the room will belong to the Führer’s personal photographer, Hoffmann, whose assistant, Fräulein Brown, so rumour has it, our not-so-celibate Leader is fucking.’ He put his hand on Legat’s shoulder and said quietly, ‘I apologise if my actions tonight embarrassed you.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. I’m only sorry it wasn’t more fruitful.’ He touched the front of his inside pocket where the memorandum was folded into three. ‘What would you like me to do with—?’

  ‘Keep it. Hide it in your room. Take it back with you to London and make sure it reaches a more responsive audience.’ Hartmann squeezed his shoulder and released it. ‘Now for both our sakes we should stop talking, and move apart. I’m afraid it would be better if we did not speak again.’

  Another hour dragged by.

  Legat waited in the British delegation’s room with the others while the documents were finalised. Nobody spoke much. He kept to himself in the corner. He found to his surprise that he could contemplate the imminent wreckage of his career with equanimity. No doubt this was the anaesthetic of tiredness: he was sure that when he got back to London he would feel differently. But for now he was sanguine. He tried to imagine telling Pamela that her dreams of becoming the chatelaine of the Paris embassy were no longer feasible. Perhaps he would leave the diplomatic service altogether. Her father had once offered to help find him ‘a nice little berth in the City’ – maybe he should take him up on it? It would solve their financial worries, at least until war came.

  It was half-past midnight when Dunglass finally put his head round the door.

  ‘The agreement’s about to be signed. The PM wants everyone to be there.’

  Legat would have preferred not to attend. But there was no escape. He rose wearily from his chair and walked with his colleagues along the corridor towards Hitler’s study. At the door of the big office a crowd of minor players – aides, adjutants, civil servants, Nazi Party officials – had gathered. They parted to let them through. Inside, the heavy green velvet curtains had all been drawn but the windows must have been opened because Legat could hear the movement of the crowd outside quite distinctly, like a gently moving sea, occasionally ruffled by eddies of shouts and singing.

  The room was packed. At the opposite end, standing around the desk, were Hitler, Göring, Himmler, Hess, Ribbentrop, Mussolini and Ciano. They were studying a map – not seriously, it seemed to him, but for the benefit of a photographer using a handheld newsreel camera. He filmed them first from one side and then scampered round to do the same from the front, while Chamberlain and Daladier watched the proceedings from the hearth. All eyes were on Hitler. He was the only one talking. Occasionally he pointed and made sweeping gestures. Finally, he folded his arms and stepped back and the filming ended. There was no sound-recording equipment, Legat noticed. It was like watching the making of some strange silent movie.

  He glanced at Chamberlain. The Prime Minister seemed to have been waiting for this opportunity. He left Wilson and went forward and spoke to Hitler, who listened to the translation, nodded vigorously a couple of times. Legat heard the famous harsh voice: ‘Ja, ja.’ The exchange lasted less than a minute. The Prime Minister returned to the fireplace. He looked pleased with himself. For an instant his gaze rested on Legat, then almost immediately switched away to Mussolini, who had come over to talk to him. Göring waddled around, rubbing his hands. Himmler’s round rimless spectacles flashed in the light of the chandelier like two blind discs.

  After another minute or two, a small procession of officials entered, carrying the various documents that made up the agreement. At the back of the group was Hartmann. Legat noticed how carefully he avoided looking at anyone. The map was rolled up and removed from the desk and the papers were laid out. The photographer, a thickset man of about fifty with wavy grey hair – Hoffmann, presumably – gestured for the leaders to stand together. They grouped themselves awkwardly with their backs to the fireplace: Chamberlain on the left in his pinstriped suit, with his watch chain and high-winged collar like a waxwork in a museum of Victoriana; Daladier next to him, mournful, also pinstriped but smaller and with a protruding stomach; then Hitler, impassive, pasty-faced and dead-eyed, with his hands folded together over his crotch; and at the end, Mussolini, a brooding expression on his large fleshy face. The silence was palpable, as if nobody wished to be there, like guests at an arranged wedding. The moment the photograph was taken the group broke up.

  Ribbentrop indicated the desk. Hitler went over to it. A young SS adjutant handed him a pair of spectacles. They changed his face in an instant, made him look fussy and pedantic. He peered down at the document. The adjutant gave him a pen. He dipped it into the inkstand, examined the nib, frowned, straightened and pointed irritably. The inkstand was empty. There was an uneasy shifting in the room. Göring rubbed his hands together and laughed. One of the officials pulled out his own fountain pen and gave it to Hitler. Again, he bent forwards and studied the paper carefully, then very quickly scribbled his signature. One aide rolled a curved blotter over the wet ink, then a second lifted away the document and a third slid another sheet of paper in front of Hitler. He scribbled again. The same procedure was repeated. It went on for several minutes, twenty times in all – a copy of the main agreement for each of the four powers, along with the various annexes and supplementary declarations – the fruit of some of the most creative legal brains in Europe, which had enabled them to slide over matters of contention, postpone them for later haggling, and reach a settlement in less than twelve hours.

  When Hitler had finished, he tossed the fountain pen casually on to the
desk and turned away. Chamberlain was the next to step up to the desk. He too put on a pair of spectacles – which he was as reluctant as the Führer to be seen wearing in public – took out his pen, and scrutinised what he was about to sign. His jaw worked slightly back and forth and then carefully he wrote out his name. From outside came a burst of cheering, as if the crowd knew what was happening at that moment. Chamberlain was too absorbed to react. But Hitler grimaced and gestured to the window and an adjutant parted the curtains and closed the sash. In the shadows at the back of the study Hartmann watched it all without seeing, his long face blank and ashy with exhaustion – like a ghost, thought Legat, like a man already dead.

  DAY FOUR

  1

  In his bedroom in the Regina Palast Hotel, Hugh Legat was asleep.

  He was splayed out on his back, fully clothed and unconscious, his head lolling to one side, like a drowned man fished out of the sea. The light was still on in the bathroom; the door was slightly ajar; the room was cast in a pale bluish light. At one time there had been voices in the corridor outside – he had recognised Strang, then Ashton-Gwatkin – and footsteps. But the Prime Minister had at last gone to bed and gradually these extraneous sounds had ceased, and now there was only the rhythm of his breathing and his occasional muttered cry. He dreamed that he was flying.

  He was too deeply asleep to hear the noise of his door handle being tried. What woke him was the tapping. It was soft at first, more like a scratching of fingernails on wood, and when he opened his eyes he assumed it was one of the children trying to clamber into their bed after a nightmare. But then he saw the unfamiliar room and he remembered where he was. He squinted at the luminous hands on the hotel’s alarm clock. Half-past three.

  The noise came again.

  He reached out and turned on the bedside lamp. The memorandum lay on the nightstand. He rolled off the bed, opened the drawer of the desk and inserted it into the hotel’s guide to Munich. The floor creaked as he crossed to the door. He touched the handle but at the last moment some instinct warned him not to turn it.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘It’s Paul.’

  The German loomed on the threshold, absurd in his conspicuousness. Legat pulled him into the room and glanced quickly up and down the corridor. Nobody was stirring. The detective must be spending the night in the Prime Minister’s sitting room. He closed the door. Hartmann was going around the bedroom collecting Legat’s overcoat, his hat, his shoes. ‘Put these on.’

  ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘Quickly. I want to show you something.’

  ‘Are you mad? At this hour?’

  ‘It’s the only time we have.’

  Legat was still half asleep. He rubbed his face and shook his head in an effort to fully wake himself. ‘What is it you want me to see?’

  ‘If I tell you that, you won’t come.’ In his determination he seemed almost demented. He held out the shoes. ‘Please.’

  ‘Paul, this is dangerous.’

  Hartmann gave a short bark of laughter. ‘Do you think you have to point that out to me?’ He threw the shoes on to the bed. ‘I shall be at the back of the hotel. I shall wait for you outside. If you’re not there in ten minutes, I shall know you’re not coming.’

  After he had gone, Legat paced up and down his small room for a minute. The situation was so preposterous he could almost believe he had dreamed the whole thing. He sat on the edge of the mattress and picked up his shoes. He had been too tired to take them off properly before he went to sleep. Now he found he couldn’t unpick the laces, even with his teeth. He had to stand and kick his toes into the shoes and lever in his heels with his fingers. He felt angry. He was also – he would admit it to himself – frightened. He put on his hat and draped his coat over his arm. He went out into the corridor and locked the door behind him, turned left and walked quickly around the corner towards the rear staircase. At the bottom he passed the entrance to the Turkish baths. A moist aroma of steam and sweet oils briefly released memories of the gentlemen’s clubs of Pall Mall and then he was out through the glass doors and into the small street at the back of the hotel.

  Hartmann was smoking a cigarette, leaning against the bodywork of one of the open-topped black Mercedes they had been driving around in all day. The engine was ticking over. He grinned when he saw Legat, dropped the cigarette into the gutter and ground it out with the toe of his shoe. He opened the front passenger door, like a chauffeur. A minute later they were driving down a wide boulevard of shops and apartment blocks. The breeze was still warm. A swastika pennant fluttered on the bonnet. Hartmann didn’t speak. He was concentrating on the road. His face in profile, with its high forehead and Roman nose, was imperious. Every few seconds he checked the mirrors. His anxiety transferred itself to Legat. ‘Is there anyone behind us?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Will you look?’

  Legat twisted round in his seat. The road was empty. A gibbous moon had come up and the tarmac was like a canal, flat and silvery. A few of the shop windows were lit. He had no idea of the direction they were travelling. He turned back to the windscreen. The car was slowing for an intersection. A couple of patrolling policemen in their bucket-shaped helmets stood on the corner. Their heads followed the Mercedes as it approached. When they saw the official pennant they saluted. Hartmann looked at Legat and laughed at the absurdity of it, showed his large teeth, and for a second time it struck Legat that he was not entirely sane.

  ‘How did you get hold of the car?’

  ‘I gave the driver a hundred marks to borrow it. I said I needed it to meet a girl.’

  The city centre had dwindled into suburbs and factories. Across the dark fields Legat could see the fires of furnaces and chimneys – scarlet, yellow, white. For a while a railway track ran along the centre of the autobahn. Then the road narrowed and they were in open country. It reminded Legat of the drive from Oxford up to Woodstock, and the pub they used to go to there – what was it? – the Black Prince. After ten minutes, he could no longer keep his alarm to himself. ‘Is it much further? I’ll need to get back to the hotel soon. The PM is an early riser.’

  ‘It’s not that far. Don’t worry. I’ll get you back before morning.’

  They passed through a small Bavarian town, entirely shuttered and asleep, and presently entered the outskirts of a second. This too appeared entirely normal – whitewashed, half-timbered walls, steep red-tiled roofs, a butcher’s shop, an inn, a garage. Then Legat caught sight of a place name – Dachau – and he knew why he had been brought out here. He felt obscurely disappointed. So this was it? Hartmann drove carefully through the empty streets until they were on the edge of the town. He pulled up at the side of the road, turned off the engine and doused the headlights. To the right was woodland. The concentration camp was on the left, clearly visible against the moonlit sky – a high barbed-wire fence stretching as far as Legat could see, with watchtowers, and behind them the low outlines of barracks. The barking of guard dogs carried on the still air. A searchlight mounted on one of the towers prodded ceaselessly across a vast parade ground. It was the immensity of it that was most shocking: a captive town within a town.

  Hartmann was studying him. ‘You know what this is, I take it?’

  ‘Of course. It’s been reported often enough in the press. There have been regular demonstrations against the Nazi repressions in London.’

  ‘You didn’t join them, I suppose?’

  ‘You know very well I couldn’t. I’m a civil servant. We’re politically neutral.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Paul – don’t be so bloody naive!’ It was the obviousness of it that he found most insulting. ‘Stalin has vastly bigger camps, where people are treated even worse. Do you want us to go to war with the Soviet Union as well?’

  ‘I merely point out that some of the people transferred into Germany by the agreement today may well end up in here by the end of the year.’

  ‘Yes, and no doubt
they would have ended up here in any case – assuming they hadn’t been killed in the bombing.’

  ‘Not if Hitler had been deposed.’

  ‘If! It’s always if!’

  Their raised voices had been noticed. Beyond the wire, a guard with an Alsatian dog on a short leash started shouting at them. The probing finger of the searchlight swung across the parade ground, over the fence and on to the road. It advanced towards them. Suddenly the car was filled with brilliant blinding light. Hartmann swore. He switched on the engine and found reverse gear. He looked over his shoulder, one hand on the steering wheel, and they backed away at speed, swerving from side to side down the middle of the road until they reached a side street. He put the Mercedes into first gear, swung the wheel and they made a U-turn, sending up a spurt of dust and smoking rubber. The acceleration as they pulled away threw Legat back in his seat. When he checked behind them the searchlight was still weaving back and forth across the road, blindly searching. He said furiously, ‘That was a bloody stupid thing to do. Can you imagine the row if a British diplomat was arrested out here? I want to go back to Munich – now.’ Hartmann continued to stare ahead and didn’t answer. ‘Did you really drag me all the way out here just to make a point?’

  ‘No. It happened to be on the way.’

  ‘On the way to what?’

  ‘Leyna.’

  So then, at last: Leyna.

  She had wanted to set eyes on Hitler – not to hear him speak: she declared herself a communist; that would have been unthinkable – but just to see him in the flesh, this half-sinister, half-comical brawler and dreamer, whose Party only four years earlier had come ninth in the elections with less than three per cent of the vote, but who now was on the brink of becoming Chancellor. Most nights during the campaign, after addressing one of his huge rallies, he returned to the city. Everybody knew the address of his apartment. Her proposal was that they should go and stand outside it in the hope that they might catch a glimpse of him.