Munich

2

Hartmann sat at his desk and pretended to work. In the open file in front of him was a copy of the Führer’s latest telegram to President Roosevelt, dispatched the previous evening. It justified invasion on the grounds that 214,000 Sudeten Germans had so far been forced to flee their homes to escape the outrageous violence and bloody terror inflicted on them by the Czechs. Countless dead, thousands of injured, tens of thousands of detainees and prisoners, desolate villages … How much of this was true? Some of it? None of it? Hartmann had no idea. Truth was like any other material necessary for the making of war: it had to be beaten and bent and cut into the required shape. Nowhere in the telegram was there any hint of compromise.

For the hundredth time he checked his watch. It was three minutes past eleven.

Over by the windows, von Nostitz and von Rantzau were also at their desks. They were staring down into the street as if waiting for something to happen. Neither had uttered more than a dozen words all morning. Nostitz, who worked in the Protocol Department, was a Party member; Rantzau, who had been due to go to the London embassy as Second Secretary until the Sudeten crisis blew up, was not. They weren’t such bad fellows, Hartmann thought. He had mixed with their type all his life: patriotic, conservative, clannish. For them, Hitler was like some crude gamekeeper who had mysteriously contrived to take over the running of their family estates: once installed, he had proved an unexpected success, and they had consented to tolerate his occasional bad manners and lapses into violence in return for a quiet life. Now they had discovered they couldn’t get rid of him and they looked as if they were starting to regret it. Hartmann briefly considered confiding in them but decided it was too risky.

The shrilling of his telephone made all three men jump. He picked up the receiver. ‘Hartmann.’

‘Paul, it’s Kordt. Come to my office immediately.’

The line went dead. Hartmann hung up.

Rantzau couldn’t keep the anxiety out of his voice. ‘Is something going on?’

‘I don’t know. I’m wanted over the road.’

Hartmann closed the Roosevelt file. Beneath it was the envelope he had been given by Frau Winter. He ought to have hidden it somewhere when he went back to his apartment to change but he couldn’t think of any place secure enough. Now he slipped it into an empty folder, unlocked the bottom left-hand drawer of his desk and buried it in a pile of documents. He locked the drawer and stood. It struck him that if things went wrong he might never see his colleagues again. He felt an unexpected rush of affection. Not such bad fellows … He said, ‘If I hear anything more, I’ll let you know.’

He collected his hat and hurried out of the door before his face could betray him or they could ask him more questions.

Although he had been made Foreign Minister in February, Ribbentrop still preferred to operate out of his old headquarters on the opposite side of Wilhelmstrasse, in the massive Prussian Ministry of State building. His staff shared the same floor as the Deputy Führer, Rudolf Hess, and Hartmann was obliged to make his way past half a dozen brown-uniformed Nazi Party officials, huddled in conversation, before he reached Kordt’s office. Kordt himself opened the door, beckoned him inside, and locked it after him. Normally he had a secretary but she wasn’t there. He must have sent her away.

‘Oster just came to see me. He says it’s happening.’ The Rhinelander’s eyes were blinking rapidly behind his thick glasses. He opened his desk drawer and took out a pair of handguns. ‘He gave me these.’

He laid them on the desk carefully. Hartmann took one. It was the latest Walther – small, only about 15 centimetres long, easy to conceal. He weighed it in his hand, clicked the safety catch off and on. ‘Loaded?’

Kordt nodded. Suddenly he started giggling like a schoolboy. ‘I can’t believe this is happening. I’ve never fired a gun in my life. Have you?’

‘I’ve hunted since I was a boy.’ Hartmann took aim at the filing cabinet. His finger tightened around the trigger. ‘Rifles, mostly. Shotguns.’

‘Isn’t it the same thing?’

‘Not exactly. But the principle is the same. So what’s going on?’

‘Oster gave your copy of Hitler’s reply to Chamberlain to General Halder in Army Headquarters this morning.’

‘Who’s Halder?’

‘Beck’s successor as Chief of the General Staff. Halder was appalled, according to Oster. He’s definitely with us – even more opposed to Hitler than Beck.’

‘He’ll order the Army to move?’

Kordt shook his head. ‘He hasn’t the authority. He’s in charge of planning, not operations. He’s going to talk to Brauchitsch – as Commander-in-Chief, Brauchitsch has the power. Would you mind putting that thing down? You’re making me nervous.’

Hartmann lowered the gun. ‘And Brauchitsch is sympathetic?’

‘Apparently.’

‘So what happens now?’

‘You’re to go over to the Chancellery, exactly as we agreed last night.’

‘On what pretext?’

‘The British Embassy just rang. It seems Chamberlain has written another letter to Hitler – God knows what it says – and Henderson wants an appointment to deliver it by hand to the Führer as soon as possible. The request has to be cleared by Ribbentrop, and he’s with the Führer now. I thought you could go over and inform him.’

Hartmann considered this. It sounded plausible. ‘All right.’ He tried concealing the gun in various pockets. It fitted best inside his double-breasted jacket, on the left, next to his heart. He could draw it with his right hand. When he had fastened the buttons it was hard to tell it was there.

Kordt was watching him with something like horror. He said, ‘Telephone me the moment you have Ribbentrop’s response. I’ll come over and join you. For God’s sake, remember your job is simply to keep the doors open. Don’t get involved in any shooting. That’s for Heinz and his men.’

‘I understand.’ Hartmann tugged his jacket straight. ‘Well, then. I’d better go.’

Kordt unlocked the door and offered his hand. Hartmann gripped it. His friend’s palm was cold with fear. He could feel the tension spreading to him like an infection. He pulled his hand away and stepped out into the corridor. ‘I’ll call you in a few minutes.’ He said it loudly enough for the Party officials to hear. As he approached, they shifted out of the way to let him pass. He strode to the stairs, descended quickly to the lobby and went out into Wilhelmstrasse.

The fresh air braced him. He walked past the brutalist modern facade of the Propaganda Ministry, waited for a lorry to go by, then crossed the street towards the Chancellery. The forecourt was crowded with twenty or thirty official cars – long black limousines flying swastika pennants; some had SS number plates. It looked as though half the regime had turned up to witness the historic moment when the ultimatum expired. Hartmann showed his identity card to the policeman on the gate and stated his business. He was an official from the Foreign Ministry. He had an urgent message for Herr von Ribbentrop. The mere act of repeating it gave him confidence: it had the merit of being true, after all. The policeman opened the gate. He strode rapidly around the perimeter path of the courtyard to the main entrance. A pair of SS guards blocked his way, then stood aside even before he had finished his explanation.

Inside the crowded lobby he counted three more guards with machine guns. The high double doors to the reception rooms were closed. A tall SS adjutant in a white ceremonial jacket stood in front of them. His face was unnaturally hard and angular. He looked like the male model in the cigarette advertisement in Potsdamer Platz, except with blond hair. Hartmann approached him and saluted.

‘Heil Hitler!’

‘Heil Hitler!’

‘I have an urgent message for Foreign Minister von Ribbentrop.’

‘Very well. Give it to me and I’ll make sure he gets it.’

‘I must deliver it personally.’

‘That is not possible. Foreign Minister von Ribbentrop is with the Führer. No one is to be admitted.’

‘Those are my orders.’

‘And those are my orders.’

Hartmann used his height and three centuries of Junker ancestry. He stepped up close to the adjutant and lowered his voice. ‘Listen to me very carefully, because this is the most important conversation you will ever have in your life. My mission concerns a personal message from the British Prime Minister to the Führer. You will take me to Herr von Ribbentrop immediately, or I can assure you he will speak to the Reichsführer-SS and you will spend the rest of your career shovelling shit in a cavalry barracks.’

The adjutant was defiant for a second or two, then something shifted in his clear blue eyes, and broke. ‘Very well.’ He nodded stiffly. ‘Follow me.’

He opened the door on to a crowded salon. A central group of perhaps a dozen men was standing beneath the immense crystal chandelier, with smaller clusters radiating out from this inner core. A lot of uniforms – brown, black, grey, blue – were sprinkled among the civilian suits. There was an incessant, urgent drone of conversation. Here and there, a famous face. Goebbels leaning against the back of a chair, arms folded, brooding, alone. Göring, in powder blue, like a general in an Italian opera, holding court to an attentive circle. As Hartmann threaded his way between them he was conscious of heads turning to follow his progress. His eyes met eager, curious expressions, hungry for news, and he realised that they must know nothing, that they were all just waiting, even the most powerful figures in the Reich.

He followed the adjutant’s white jacket through a second set of doors – permanently open, he noticed – and into another huge reception room. The atmosphere here was quieter. Diplomats in frock coats and striped trousers were whispering to one another. He recognised Kirchheim from the French desk of the Foreign Ministry. On the left was a closed door with a guard beside it; in an armchair nearby was SS-Sturmbannführer Sauer. He jumped to his feet as soon as he noticed Hartmann. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I have a message for the Foreign Minister.’

‘He’s in with the Führer and the French Ambassador. What is it?’

‘Kordt says Chamberlain has written the Führer a letter. The British Ambassador wants to deliver it in person as soon as possible.’

Sauer absorbed this, nodded. ‘All right. Wait here.’

The adjutant said, ‘Shall I leave Herr Hartmann with you, Herr Sturmbannführer?’

‘Yes, of course.’

The adjutant clicked his heels and moved away. Sauer tapped lightly on the door, opened it and disappeared inside. Hartmann looked around the salon. Once again he found himself calculating. One guard here, plus those he had already seen. How many did that make? Six? But Oster surely hadn’t anticipated such a congregation of senior Party figures inside the Chancellery. What if they had all brought bodyguards of their own? Göring, as head of the Air Force, would certainly have several.

Sauer reappeared. ‘Tell Kordt that the Führer will receive Ambassador Henderson at twelve-thirty.’

‘Of course, Herr Sturmbannführer.’

As Hartmann set off back towards the lobby he looked at his watch. It was just after eleven-thirty. What were Heinz and the others doing? If they didn’t strike soon, half the Berlin diplomatic corps might be caught in the crossfire.

He opened one of the doors to the lobby and left it ajar. The adjutant was nearby. Hartmann went over to him. ‘I need to make an urgent call to the Foreign Ministry.’

‘Yes, Herr Hartmann.’ He was like some handsome stallion: now that he had been broken, he was entirely pliant. He led Hartmann over to the big desk facing the entrance and gestured to the telephone. ‘You will be automatically connected to the operator.’

‘Thank you.’ Hartmann waited until he had moved away, then picked up the receiver.

A male voice said, ‘Can I help you?’

Hartmann gave the number of Kordt’s direct line and waited for the connection. Through the open door of the entrance he could see the back of one of the SS guards and beyond him a couple of limousines drawn up in the courtyard. Two chauffeurs in SS uniform were leaning against one of the cars, smoking. He guessed they must be armed.

There was a click, half a ringtone, and the phone was answered: ‘Kordt.’

‘Erich? It’s Paul. A message from the Chancellery: the Führer will see Henderson at twelve-thirty.’

‘Understood. I’ll inform the British Embassy.’ Kordt’s voice was staccato.

‘It’s busy here – much busier than I expected.’ He hoped Kordt would detect his warning emphasis.

‘I understand. Just stay where you are. I’m coming over.’

Kordt rang off. Hartmann kept the receiver pressed to his ear and pretended he was still listening. The door to the salon remained slightly open. It occurred to him that when the attack began, his best tactic would probably be to shoot the adjutant to prevent him closing it. The thought of the blood seeping through that immaculate white jacket gave him a moment of pleasure. The operator said, ‘Do you wish to make another call?’

‘No, thank you.’

He replaced the receiver.

Suddenly he was aware of a commotion outside. A man was on the steps demanding loudly to be admitted. The adjutant hurried towards the entrance and Hartmann’s hand slipped immediately beneath the fabric of his suit to his inside left pocket. He could feel the gun. There was an exchange on the steps and then a stooped, bespectacled, red-faced figure in a bowler hat pushed his way into the lobby. He was out of breath and elderly. He looked as if he might be about to have a heart attack. Hartmann withdrew his hand at once. He recognised him from the diplomatic circuit: the Italian Ambassador, Attolico. His eye fell on Hartmann. He squinted at him in dim recognition.

‘You are from the Foreign Ministry, yes?’ His German accent was atrocious.

‘Yes, Your Excellency.’

‘Will you please then tell this fellow I need to see the Führer at once?’

‘Of course.’ To the adjutant Hartmann said, ‘Leave this with me.’ He guided Attolico towards the grand salon. The adjutant made no attempt to stop him.

Attolico nodded to a few of the men he recognised – to Goebbels and to Göring – but he did not break his step, even as the conversations paused all around them. They went on into the second reception room. Sauer scrambled to his feet in surprise. Hartmann said, ‘His Excellency needs to speak with the Führer.’

Attolico said, ‘Tell him I have an urgent message from the Duce.’

‘Of course, Your Excellency.’

After Sauer had vanished into the other room, Attolico remained where he was, staring straight ahead. He was trembling slightly.

Hartmann said, ‘Would you care to sit, Your Excellency?’

Attolico briefly shook his head.

There was the sound of a door opening. Hartmann turned to look. Sauer emerged first, followed by the Foreign Office interpreter, Paul Schmidt, and then – frowning, his arms crossed over his chest, plainly both mystified and wary of what this sudden arrival might portend – Adolf Hitler.