Munich

  ‘Good evening – Herr Hartmann, is it?’

  ‘Good evening, Your Excellency. Yes, it is. I have the Führer’s reply to the Prime Minister.’

  ‘Wonderful.’

  The British Ambassador took the envelope, quickly pulled out the three typewritten pages and started reading them where he stood. His eyes flickered rapidly back and forth. His elongated face with its drooping moustache, already melancholy in repose, seemed to grow even longer. He grunted under his breath. When he had finished he sighed, clamped his cigarette holder back between his teeth and gazed at the skylight. His cigarette smoke was fragrant, Turkish.

  Hartmann said, ‘The State Secretary wanted you to take particular note of the last sentence, Sir Nevile. He said to tell you it hadn’t been easy.’

  Henderson looked again at the last page. ‘Not much of a straw to clutch at, but I suppose it’s something.’ He gave the letter to his young aide. ‘Translate it and telegraph it to London immediately, will you, please? No need for cipher.’

  He insisted on showing Hartmann to the door. His manners were as exquisite as his clothes. He was rumoured to be a lover of Prince Paul of Yugoslavia. He had once turned up at the Chancellery wearing a crimson pullover under his pale grey suit: Hitler was said to have gone on about it for days afterwards. What were the British thinking of, Hartmann wondered, sending such a man to deal with the Nazis?

  At the door he shook Hartmann’s hand. ‘Tell Baron von Weizsäcker I appreciate his efforts.’ He stared along Wilhelmstrasse. ‘Extraordinary to think we may be out of here by the end of the week. I can’t say I shall be entirely sorry.’

  He took a final draw of his cigarette, then pinched it delicately between his thumb and forefinger, extracted it from his holder and flicked it away to disintegrate on the pavement in a cascade of orange sparks.

  5

  The Legats lived in a small rented terraced house in North Street, Westminster, that had been found for them by Legat’s then-superior in the Foreign Office Central Department, Ralph Wigram, who lived with his wife and son at the top of the same road. Its advantage was its proximity to the office: Wigram expected his juniors to work hard and Legat could be at his desk within ten minutes of leaving his front door. Its disadvantages were almost too numerous to list and stemmed chiefly from the fact that it was more than two hundred years old. Apart from the installation of electricity little seemed to have been done to it in all that time. The Thames was barely a hundred yards away; the water table was high. Dampness rose from the ground to meet the rain that trickled from the roof. Furniture had to be artfully arranged to hide the patches of blackish-green mould. The kitchen was pre-war. And yet Pamela loved it. Lady Colefax lived in the same street and in the summer held candlelit dinner parties on the pavement to which the Legats were invited. It was absurd: he only earned £300 a year. Although they had been obliged to sublet the basement to help pay the rent, they still maintained a precarious access to the tiny garden by means of a rickety set of steps from the drawing-room window; Legat had improvised a makeshift lift using a rope and laundry basket to lower the children to play.

  It was to this once-romantic but now essentially impracticable domestic arrangement – symbolic, Legat had come to think, of the general state of his marriage – that he found himself hurrying less than an hour after the Prime Minister had finished his broadcast, in order to pack an overnight bag.

  His path took him, as it always did, past the Wigrams’ house at the top of the street. Most of the flat-fronted houses were blackened by soot, their facades brightened by the occasional window box full of geraniums. Number 4, however, looked blind and abandoned. Behind the small Georgian windowpanes, the white-panelled shutters had been closed for months. He wished suddenly, with a longing that was almost palpable, that Wigram might still be inside. For it was Wigram, more than anyone, who had predicted this crisis – obsessively predicted it, if the truth were told, so that even Legat, who had loved him, had thought him half-mad on the subject of Hitler. He could call him to mind in an instant – the urgent blue eyes, the fair moustache, the thin taut mouth. But even more than the visual memory, he could hear him, limping along the corridor towards the Third Secretaries’ room – first one heavy footstep and then the sound of his left leg being dragged along behind it, his stick tapping out a warning of his approach – and always the same subject on his lips: Hitler, Hitler, Hitler. When the Germans had reoccupied the Rhineland in 1936, Wigram had asked to see the Prime Minister, Stanley Baldwin, and had warned him that in his opinion this was the Allies’ last chance to stop the Nazis. The PM had replied that if there was only one chance in a hundred that an ultimatum might lead to war, he could not risk it: the country would not stand for another conflict so soon after the last one. Wigram had come home to North Street in despair and had broken down in front of his wife: ‘Wait now for bombs on this little house.’ Nine months later, he had been found dead in his bathroom aged forty-six – whether by his own hand or by some complication of the polio that had crippled him for the past decade, nobody seemed to know.

  Oh, Ralph, thought Legat, poor dear cracked Ralph, you saw it all.

  He let himself into his house and turned on the light. Out of habit he called a greeting and waited for a reply. But he could see that they had all gone, and in a hurry by the look of it. The silk jacket Pamela had worn at lunch was draped over the finial at the foot of the banisters. John’s tricycle lay on its side and blocked the passageway. He righted it. The stairs cracked and creaked beneath his feet. The wood was rotting. The neighbours complained about the moisture coming through the party wall. And yet Pamela somehow had contrived to make the place chic – a profusion of Persian rugs and crimson damask curtains, peacock and ostrich feathers, beads and antique lace. She had an eye, no doubt about it: Lady Colefax herself had said so. One night she had filled the house with scented candles and made it into a fairyland. But the next morning the smell of damp was back.

  He went into their bedroom. Even though the lamp was broken, there was just sufficient light from the landing for him to see what he was doing. Her discarded clothes were heaped up on the bed and strewn across the floor. He had to step over her underwear to reach the bathroom. He packed his razor, shaving brush, soap, toothbrush and tooth powder into his sponge bag and returned to the bedroom in search of a shirt. A car was driving slowly down North Street. He could tell by the whine of its engine that it was in a low gear. The glow of its headlights lit up the ceiling, projecting an outline of the window frame across the opposite wall; the dark lines swung like the shadow on a sundial. Legat paused with his shirt in his hand and listened. The car seemed to have stopped outside with its engine running. He moved over to the window.

  It was a small car – two doors, the passenger’s open. He heard a clatter downstairs. A moment later a figure in a hat and a dark coat moved smartly away from the house, folded itself back into the car and pulled the door shut.

  Legat was across the bedroom in two strides. He took the stairs three or four at a time, collided with the tricycle and almost fell full-length. By the time he opened the front door, the car was just rounding the corner into Great Peter Street. For a second or two he gazed after it, recovering his breath, then stooped to retrieve the envelope from the doormat. The stationery was heavy, official-looking: legal perhaps? His name was misspelt: Leggatt. He carried it into the sitting room and sat down on the sofa. He worked his finger under the flap and carefully tore it open. He didn’t pull the document out immediately. Instead he parted the envelope with two fingers and peered inside. It was his way of preparing himself for bad financial news. He could just make out the typed heading:

  Berlin Mai. 30. 1938

  OKW No. 42/38. g. Kdos. Chefsache (Streng geheim, Militär) L I

  Within ten minutes he was on his way back to the office. Everywhere he looked he detected signs of anxiety – a ruby necklace of tail lights stretching all the way down Marsham Street to the petrol station where motorists were
queuing for fuel; a hymn being sung in the open air within the cobbled precincts of Westminster Abbey as part of a candlelit vigil for peace; the silver flare of the newsreel cameras on the blackened walls of Downing Street silhouetting the dark silent mass of the crowd.

  He was late. He had to squeeze his way through to get to Number 10, his overnight bag lifted high above his head. ‘Excuse me … excuse me …’ But the moment he was inside he saw that his effort had been wasted. The ground floor was deserted. The Ministers had already gone through for the 9.30 p.m. meeting of the Cabinet.

  Cleverly was not in his office. Legat stood for a moment in the corridor and wondered what he should do. He found Syers seated at his desk, smoking a cigarette and staring out of the window. Syers glanced at his reflection in the glass.

  ‘Hullo, Hugh.’

  ‘Where’s Cleverly?’

  ‘In the Cabinet Room, standing by in case they decide to send Horace’s telegram to the Czechs.’

  ‘Is Cadogan in with them?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him.’ Syers turned round. ‘You sound a bit overwrought. Are you all right?’

  ‘Perfectly.’ Legat hoisted his bag to show him. ‘Just slipped back home to get some things.’

  He left before Syers could ask him anything else. In his office he opened his bag and took out the envelope. It seemed treasonous simply to have brought it into the building, dangerous to be caught in possession of it. He ought to pass it up the chain of command, get it out of his hands as soon as possible.

  By a quarter to ten he was crossing Downing Street, pushing his way more urgently now past the throngs of spectators. He went through the big iron gate on the opposite side of the road and into the vast quadrangle of ministerial buildings. In each the lights were burning: the Colonial Office in the bottom left-hand corner, the Home Office in the top left, the Indian Office top right, and immediately next to him, up a flight of steps, the Foreign Office. The night porter gave him a nod.

  The corridor was grand and lofty in the Victorian imperial style, its extravagance calculated to awe those visitors whose misfortune it was not to be born British. The Permanent Under-Secretary’s room was on the ground-floor corner, overlooking Downing Street on one side and Horse Guards Road on the other. (Proximity being the index of power, it was a matter of pride to the Foreign Office that their PUS could be sitting opposite the Prime Minister in the Cabinet Room within ninety seconds of being summoned.)

  Miss Marchant, the senior secretary on duty, was alone in the outer office. She normally worked upstairs for Cadogan’s short-sighted deputy, Orme Sargent, universally known as ‘Moley’.

  Legat was slightly out of breath. ‘I need to see Sir Alexander. It’s very urgent.’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s too busy to see anyone.’

  ‘Please tell him it is a matter of the gravest national importance.’

  The cliché, like the watch chain and the old-fashioned dark suit, seemed to come naturally to him. He planted his feet apart. Breathless and junior though he was, he would not be shifted. Miss Marchant blinked at him in surprise, hesitated, then rose and tapped softly on the PUS’s door. She put her head into the distant room. He could only just hear her: ‘Mr Legat is asking to see you.’ A pause. ‘He says it’s extremely important.’ Another pause. ‘Yes, I think you should.’ From the interior came a distinct growl.

  She stood aside to let him through. As he passed he gave her a look of such gratitude she blushed.

  The hugeness of the room – the ceiling must have been twenty feet high at least – emphasised the smallness of Sir Alexander. He was seated not at his desk but at the conference table. The surface was almost entirely covered by paper in various colours – white for minutes and telegrams, pale blue for drafts, mauve for dispatches, aquamarine for Cabinet papers, interspersed occasionally by brown foolscap files tied with pink ribbon. The Permanent Under-Secretary wore a pair of round-lensed tortoiseshell glasses, over the top of which he peered at Legat with an expression of some irritation. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Sir Alexander, but I thought you ought to see this at once.’

  ‘Oh, God, now what?’ Cadogan reached out, took the five typewritten pages, glanced at the first line –

  Auf Anordnung des Obersten Befehlshabers der Wehrmacht.

  – frowned, then flicked through to the last –

  gez. ADOLF HITLER

  Für die Richtigkeit der Abschrift:

  ZEITZLER, Oberstleutnant des Generalstabs

  – and Legat had the satisfaction of seeing him sit bolt upright in his chair.

  The document was a directive from Hitler: War on Two Fronts with Main Effort in the South-east, Strategic Concentration ‘Green’.

  ‘Where on earth did you get this?’

  ‘It was put through my letterbox at home about thirty minutes ago.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘I didn’t see them. A man in a car. Two men, actually.’

  ‘And there was no message?’

  ‘None.’

  Cadogan cleared a space on the table, laid the document in front of him and bent his disproportionately large head over it. He read with intense concentration, his fists pressed to his temples. His German was good: he had been in charge of the embassy in Vienna in the summer of 1914 when Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated.

  It is essential to create a situation within the first two or three days which demonstrates to enemy states which wish to intervene the hopelessness of the Czech military position …

  The army formations capable of rapid employment must force the frontier fortifications with speed and energy, and must break very boldly into Czechoslovakia in the certainty that the bulk of the mobile army will be brought up with all possible speed …

  The main strength of the Luftwaffe is to be employed for a surprise attack against Czechoslovakia. The frontier is to be crossed by aircraft at the same time as it is crossed by the first units of the Army …

  As he finished each page, Cadogan turned it over and placed it neatly to his right. When he reached the end of the document, he squared the pages. ‘Extraordinary,’ he murmured. ‘I suppose the first question we have to ask ourselves is whether it’s genuine.’

  ‘It certainly seems it to me.’

  ‘I agree.’ The Permanent Under-Secretary inspected the top page again. ‘So this was drawn up on the thirtieth of May.’ He ran his finger under the German, translating: ‘“It is my unalterable decision to smash Czechoslovakia by military action in the near future …”’ That certainly sounds like Hitler. In fact, it’s almost word for word what he said to Horace Wilson this morning.’ He sat back. ‘So if we work on the assumption it’s genuine, which I think we may, the next questions that arise are essentially threefold: who gave it to us, why did they give it to us, and more particularly – why did they give it to you?’

  Once again, Legat experienced a peculiar sensation of guilt, as if, merely by possessing the document, his loyalty had been compromised. He preferred not to think where it might have come from. ‘I’m afraid I can’t answer any of those.’

  ‘As far as the matter of who gave it to us is concerned, we know there certainly is some sort of opposition to Hitler. Several opponents of the regime have been in contact with us over the summer, claiming they would be willing to overthrow the Nazis if we were to guarantee to stand firm over Czechoslovakia. I can’t say they’re a very coherent group – a few disaffected diplomats and some aristocrats who want to restore the monarchy. This is the first time we’ve actually received anything specific from them – not that it tells us much that we don’t already know. Hitler wants to destroy Czechoslovakia, and he wants to do it quickly – hardly news.’ He took off his spectacles and sucked on the stem. He studied Legat with detachment. ‘When were you last in Germany?’

  ‘Six years ago.’

  ‘Have you kept in touch with anyone over there?’

  ‘No.’ It at least had the merit of being true.

&
nbsp; ‘You were in Vienna, as I recall, after your first attachment to the Central Department – is that right?’

  ‘Yes, sir, from thirty-five to thirty-seven.’

  ‘Friends there?’

  ‘Not especially. We had a small child and my wife was pregnant with our second. We tended to keep to ourselves.’

  ‘What about the German Embassy in London – do you know any of the staff here?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Then I don’t understand. How would the Germans even be aware that you work in Number Ten?’

  Legat shrugged. ‘My wife, perhaps? She’s in the gossip columns occasionally. Sometimes my name’s dragged in.’ Only the other week, the Daily Express – he blushed with shame at the memory – had run an item about one of Lady Colefax’s parties, describing him as ‘among the Foreign Office’s brightest young stars, now assisting the PM’.

  ‘The “gossip columns”?’ The Permanent Under-Secretary repeated the term with distaste, as if it were something unspeakable that needed to be handled with a pair of tongs. ‘What on earth might they be?’ Legat couldn’t tell whether or not he was joking. But before he attempted to answer, there was a knock at the door. ‘Come!’

  Miss Marchant was carrying a folder. ‘A telegram from Berlin has just come in.’

  ‘About time!’ Cadogan practically snatched it from her hand. ‘I’ve been waiting for this all evening.’ Once again he laid the document on the table and lowered his large head over it, reading so intently he seemed almost to fall into the page. He muttered under his breath. ‘Bugger … bugger … bugger!’ Since the crisis started he had never left the office before midnight. Legat wondered how he stood the strain. After a while he looked up. ‘This is the latest from Hitler. The PM needs to see it straight away. Are you going back to Number Ten?’