Munich

  ‘Good. Neither have I.’ The Prime Minister took off his spectacles, folded the paper and handed it back to Legat. ‘I want you to take this to Strang and ask him to turn Herr Hitler’s speech into a statement of intent. Two or three paragraphs should be sufficient.’

  Legat’s brain was normally sharp; not now. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I don’t quite follow …’

  ‘On Monday night,’ said Chamberlain patiently, ‘in Berlin, Herr Hitler made a public declaration of his desire for a permanent peace between Germany and Great Britain once the Sudeten issue was settled. I would like his undertaking redrafted in the form of a joint statement on future Anglo–German relations to which we can both put our names this morning. Off you go.’

  Legat closed the door quietly behind him. A joint statement? He had never heard of such a thing. Strang’s room, if he remembered rightly, was three along from the Prime Minister’s. He knocked but there was no reply. He tried again, more loudly. After a while he heard someone coughing and Strang opened the door. He was wearing a vest and long cotton underpants. Without his owlish spectacles his face was ten years younger. ‘Good heavens, Hugh. Is everything all right?’

  ‘I have a message from the Prime Minister. He wants you to draft a statement.’

  ‘A statement? About what?’ Strang yawned and put his hand to his mouth. ‘Excuse me. It took me a while to get off to sleep. You’d better come in.’

  The room was in darkness. Strang padded across to the window and pulled back the curtains. His sitting room was much smaller than the Prime Minister’s. Through the connecting door Legat could see his unmade bed. Strang collected his spectacles from the nightstand and carefully put them on. He came back into the sitting room.

  ‘Tell me this again.’

  ‘The Prime Minister is going to have another meeting with Hitler this morning.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Apparently, he asked him last night, and Hitler agreed.’

  ‘Does anyone else know about this? The Foreign Secretary? The Cabinet?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘He wants to get Hitler to sign some kind of joint statement based on the speech he made in Berlin on Monday night.’ He gave Strang the newspaper.

  ‘Is this his underlining?’

  ‘No, it’s mine.’

  Strang was so disconcerted he seemed until that moment to have entirely forgotten he was only wearing his underwear. He glanced down at his bare feet in surprise. ‘I suppose I ought to get dressed. Could you see if you could get us some coffee? And you’d better fetch Malkin.’

  ‘What about Sir Horace Wilson?’

  Strang hesitated. ‘Yes, I think so, don’t you? Especially if he doesn’t know anything about it, either.’ He suddenly put his hands on either side of his head and stared at Legat, his neat diplomatist’s mind plainly appalled at this departure from orthodoxy. ‘What is he playing at? He seems to regard the foreign policy of the British Empire as his personal fiefdom. What an extraordinary business!’

  Hartmann parked the Mercedes at the back of the Führerbau and left the key in the ignition. He moved stiffly. His night of driving had left him dangerously exhausted. And this, he knew, was a day, above all others, when he would need to keep his wits about him. But he was glad to have done it. He might never get another chance to see her.

  The rear entrance was unlocked and unguarded. Wearily he climbed the service stairs to the first floor. A team of cleaners in army uniforms was sweeping the marble floors, emptying the ashtrays into paper sacks, collecting the dirty champagne flutes and beer bottles. He made his way to the conference office. Two young SS adjutants were sprawled in armchairs, smoking, boots on the coffee table, flirting with a red-headed secretary who was on one of the sofas, her elegant legs tucked under her.

  Hartmann saluted. ‘Heil Hitler! I am Hartmann from the Foreign Ministry. I have to prepare the English-language press summary for the Führer.’

  At the mention of the Führer, the two adjutants quickly stubbed out their cigarettes, stood and returned his salute. One of them pointed to the desk in the corner. ‘The material is there waiting for you, Herr Hartmann. The New York Times has just been telegraphed from Berlin.’

  The sheaf of telegrams, as thick as his thumb, was in a wire basket. ‘Is there any chance of some coffee?’

  ‘Of course, Herr Hartmann.’

  He sat and pulled the basket towards him. The New York Times was on the top.

  The war for which Europe had been feverishly preparing was averted early this morning when the leading statesmen of Britain, France, Germany and Italy, meeting in Munich, reached an agreement to allow Reich troops to occupy predominantly German portions of Czechoslovakia’s Sudetenland progressively over a ten-day period beginning tomorrow. Most of Chancellor Hitler’s demands were met. Prime Minister Chamberlain, whose peace efforts were finally crowned with success, received the loudest applause of Munich’s crowds.

  Beneath it was another story: CHAMBERLAIN HERO OF MUNICH CROWDS:

  There were real cheers, like the kind one hears in an American football stadium, whenever the slim, black-coated Chamberlain, with a smile and a careful walk, came out.

  Hartmann thought it was exactly the sort of detail that would make Hitler furious. He took out his pen. He would put it first.

  Strang, shaved and fully dressed, was seated at the desk in his hotel sitting room, writing in his small neat hand on a sheet of Regina Palast notepaper. A litter of discarded drafts surrounded his feet. Malkin, a pad of paper on his knee, had pulled up a chair and was looking over his shoulder. Wilson sat on the end of the bed studying the text of Hitler’s speech in The Times. Legat was pouring coffee.

  It was obvious by his initial, startled reaction that Wilson had not known what was in the Prime Minister’s mind either. But by now he had recovered his usual equilibrium, and was attempting to make it sound as if the whole thing had been his idea.

  Wilson tapped his finger on the newsprint. ‘This is the crucial passage, surely, where Hitler talks about the Anglo–German Naval Agreement: “I voluntarily renounced ever again entering upon a naval armaments competition in order to give the British Empire a feeling of security … Such an agreement is only morally justified if both nations promise one another solemnly never again to want to wage war against one another. Germany has this will.”’

  Strang grimaced. Legat knew what he was thinking. In the Foreign Office they had come to the view that the 1935 Anglo–German Naval Agreement – in which Germany undertook never to build a fleet greater in size than 35 per cent of the Royal Navy – had been a mistake. Strang said, ‘Don’t let’s revisit the Anglo–German Naval Agreement, Sir Horace, whatever else we do.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s pretty clear Hitler took it as a nod and a wink that in return for his letting us have a Navy three times the size of Germany’s, we would let him have a free hand in Eastern Europe. That was when the rot started.’ He jotted down a sentence. ‘I suggest we leave that out and just take the second part of his statement and tie it specifically to the deal over the Sudetenland. So it would read: “We regard the agreement signed last night as symbolic of the desire of our two peoples never to go to war with one another again.”’

  Malkin, the Foreign Office lawyer, sucked his breath through his teeth. ‘I do hope the Prime Minister realises this has no legal force whatsoever. It’s a declaration of goodwill, nothing more.’

  Wilson said sharply, ‘Of course he’ll be aware of that. He’s not a fool.’

  Strang resumed writing. After a couple of minutes, he held up a sheet of paper. ‘All right, I’ve done my best. Why don’t you take it to him, Hugh, and see what he thinks?’

  Legat went out into the corridor. Apart from the detective outside Chamberlain’s suite the only other person was a stout middle-aged chambermaid wheeling her trolley full of cleaning equipment and fresh toiletries. He nodded to her as he passed an
d knocked on the Prime Minister’s door.

  ‘Come!’

  A table for two had been laid in the centre of the drawing room. Chamberlain was having breakfast. He was dressed in his usual suit and high-winged collar. Opposite him was Lord Dunglass. The Prime Minister was buttering a piece of toast.

  ‘Excuse me, sir. Mr Strang has written a draft.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  Chamberlain put down his toast, donned his spectacles and studied the document. Legat risked a glance at Dunglass who widened his eyes slightly. Legat couldn’t read what he was signalling – amusement, concern, a warning; perhaps it was all three. Chamberlain frowned. ‘Would you go and fetch Strang, please?’

  Legat returned to Strang’s room. ‘He wants to see you.’

  ‘Is something the matter?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  Malkin said, ‘Perhaps we all ought to go.’ They were as nervous as schoolboys summoned to see the headmaster. ‘Would you care to come with us, Sir Horace?’

  ‘If you like.’ Wilson looked dubious. ‘Although I’d caution you against trying to change his mind. Once he’s set on a course, he’ll never change it.’

  Legat followed the three men into the Prime Minister’s suite. Chamberlain said coldly, ‘Mr Strang, you’ve left out the Anglo–German Naval Agreement. Why?’

  ‘I’m not sure it’s a thing to be proud of.’

  ‘On the contrary, it’s exactly the type of agreement we should now try to reach with Germany.’ Chamberlain took out his pen and amended the draft. ‘Also, I see you’ve put my name before his. That will never do. It should be the other way round: “We, the German Führer and Chancellor and the British Prime Minister, have had a further meeting today …”’ He circled the titles and drew an arrow. ‘I want him to sign it first, so that the onus appears to be slightly more on him.’

  Wilson cleared his throat. ‘What if he refuses, Prime Minister?’

  ‘Why should he? These are his own public undertakings. If he declines to put his name to them he will only demonstrate that they were hollow all along.’

  Malkin said, ‘Even if he signs, it doesn’t mean he’s obliged to stick by any of them.’

  ‘The significance is intended to be symbolic, not legally binding.’ Chamberlain pushed back his chair and glanced around at the officials. He was clearly irritated by their failure to share his vision. ‘Gentlemen, we have to rise to the level of events. Last night’s agreement settles one local area of dispute only. We may be sure there will be others. I want him to commit himself now to peace and a process of consultation.’

  There was a silence.

  Strang tried again. ‘But shouldn’t we at least tell the French that you’re planning to seek this direct agreement with Hitler? After all, Daladier’s still in Munich – his hotel is nearby.’

  ‘I see no reason at all for saying anything whatsoever to the French. This is entirely between Hitler and me.’

  He returned his attention to the draft. His pen made short, neat movements, deleting some words, inserting others. When he had finished, he handed it to Legat. ‘Have it typed. Two copies: one for him and one for me. I have arranged to see the Chancellor at eleven. Make sure a car is available.’

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister. This will be to go to the Führerbau, presumably?’

  ‘No. I suggested we should have a private talk, man to man, no officials – I particularly didn’t want Ribbentrop anywhere near it – therefore he has invited me to his apartment.’

  ‘No officials?’ repeated Wilson, shocked. ‘Not even me?’

  ‘Not even you, Horace.’

  ‘But you can’t go and see Hitler entirely alone!’

  ‘In that case, I’ll just take Alec. He has no official standing.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Dunglass gave one of his lipless smiles. ‘I’m a nobody.’

  After Hartmann had finished writing the press digest it had been typed up by the pretty young redhead on the Führer’s special large-print machine. Four pages in all – a unanimous exclamation from around the world of relief that war had been averted, of hope that peace could now be made permanent, and of praise for Neville Chamberlain. In the latter regard, The Times of London was, as usual, the most effusive: Considering that, if the negotiations had failed and war had broken out, Great Britain and Germany would inevitably have been the protagonists on opposite sides, the cheering and the ‘heils’ to the man whose action throughout the crisis has been single-mindedly and unchallengeably pacific must have seemed to have a clear intention.

  Checking through the pages, Hartmann was forced to concede that there was some truth in this. In the heart of the Third Reich – in the very cradle of National Socialism – a British Prime Minister had managed to engineer what was, in effect, a day-long demonstration for peace. That was quite an achievement. For the first time, Hartmann was almost prepared to allow himself a flicker of hope. Perhaps the Führer would be denied his war of conquest after all? He refolded the summary and wondered what he was supposed to do with it. He was too tired to go in search of someone who might know. The secretary had gone back to her flirtation with the two SS adjutants. Their inconsequential babble about movie stars and sportsmen was soothing. He felt his eyelids begin to droop. Soon he was asleep in the armchair.

  He was woken by a hand roughly shaking his shoulder. Schmidt was bending over him. The Ministry’s chief translator was red-faced, in his usual state of nervous agitation. ‘My God, Hartmann, what do you think you’re doing? Where’s the press digest?’

  ‘It’s here. It’s finished.’

  ‘That’s something! Heavens, look at the state you’re in! Well, it can’t be helped. We need to get a move on.’

  Hartmann hauled himself to his feet. Schmidt was already heading towards the door. He followed him out on to the first-floor landing and down the marble staircase. The building was empty and echoing, like a mausoleum. He wanted to ask where they were going but Schmidt was in too much of a hurry. Outside, soldiers were rolling up the red carpet. The French tricolour had already been taken down. A workman atop a ladder was just releasing the last corner of the Union Jack. It fell behind them softly like a shroud.

  He climbed into the back of the limousine next to Schmidt who had opened a black leather folder and was leafing through his notes. He said, ‘Weizsäcker and Kordt have flown back to Berlin, so it’s all down to you and me now. It seems like there may be trouble in Wilhelmstrasse, did you hear?’

  A prickle of alarm. ‘No. What?’

  ‘Weizsäcker’s assistant, Frau Winter – do you know who I mean? Apparently she was picked up by the Gestapo last night.’

  The car swept around Karolinenplatz. Hartmann sat numb. It wasn’t until they were passing the long pillared facade of the House of German Art at the bottom of Prinzregentenstrasse that the appalling realisation came to him of where he was being taken.

  Carrying out the Prime Minister’s instructions kept Legat busy for more than an hour.

  He gave the draft declaration to Miss Anderson to type. He rescheduled their flight back to London from late morning to early afternoon. He spoke to the protocol department of the German Foreign Ministry to arrange transport to the Führer’s apartment and afterwards to the airport. He called Oscar Cleverly in Number 10 to inform him what was happening. The Principal Private Secretary was in a great good humour. ‘The atmosphere here could not be more positive. The press is in ecstasies. What time will you be back?’

  ‘Late afternoon, I should think. The PM is going to have a further private talk with Hitler this morning.’

  ‘A further talk? Does Halifax know?’

  ‘I think Strang is briefing Cadogan now. The point is, he’s not taking any officials with him.’

  ‘What? Good grief! What are they going to talk about?’

  Legat, as ever conscious that the line was probably tapped, said guardedly, ‘Anglo–German relations, sir. I shall have to leave it there.’

  He hung up and briefly clo
sed his eyes. He rubbed his hand across his bristled chin. It was almost thirty hours since he had shaved. The office was quiet. Strang and Malkin were speaking to London on the telephones in their rooms. Joan had gone off with Wilson who had some letters he wished to dictate. Miss Anderson had taken the typed drafts for approval by the Prime Minister.

  He walked along the corridor to his room. According to the alarm clock it was a little after 10.30 a.m. The maid had already been in. The curtains were open. The bed had been smoothed. He went into the bathroom, undressed, and ran the shower. He turned his face to the jet of hot water and let it massage him for half a minute, and then his scalp and his shoulders. He soaped himself and rinsed away the suds and by the time he stepped out of the cubicle he felt restored. He wiped a porthole in the mirror and shaved, quickly rather than carefully, skirting around a place where he had cut himself the previous morning.

  It was only after he had turned off the taps and was drying himself that he heard a noise from the bedroom. It was indistinct – he couldn’t tell whether it came from a floorboard or a piece of furniture. He stopped and listened. He wrapped a towel around his waist and went into the other room just in time to see the door being closed, very carefully and quietly.

  He threw himself across the room and flung it open. A man was walking away at speed along the corridor. Legat called after him – ‘Hey!’ – but he carried on walking and turned the corner. Legat tried to run after him but it was hard to move quickly with both hands holding on to the towel. By the time he reached the corner the man was vanishing towards the rear staircase. Halfway along the corridor he gave up the chase. He cursed himself. A terrible thought came to his mind. He walked back quickly towards his room. Malkin was just emerging from the office. He drew back in surprise.

  ‘Good Lord, Legat!’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  Legat sidestepped him, went into his room and closed the door.

  The wardrobe was open. His suitcase was upended on the bed. The desk drawer had been pulled out completely and the book of tourist information was face down, open. For a few seconds he stared at it stupidly. The cover showed the hotel lit up at night. Willkommen in München! He picked it up, flicked through it, turned it upside down and shook it. Nothing. He felt a terrible hollowing panic fill in his stomach.