Munich

10

Hartmann was certain from the moment he left the hotel that he was being followed. He had an animal’s sixth sense – a kind of prickling along his spine – of being stalked by a predator. But there were too many people around for him to be able to recognise his pursuer. The small park opposite the Regina Palast was spilling over with the Oktoberfest crowd. The night was warm enough for the women still to be wearing dresses with bare arms. A lot of the men were drunk. In Karolinenplatz, an impromptu folk choir had formed beneath the obelisk and a red-faced man with a chamois plume in his hat was waving his hands wildly in an attempt to conduct them.

He walked quickly. The fools, he thought. They imagined they were celebrating peace. They had no idea what their beloved Führer had planned for them. When a couple of young women on Brienner Strasse suddenly blocked his path and invited him to join them he pushed his way past them without a word. They jeered at his back. He put his head down. Fools. And the greatest fool of all was Chamberlain. He stopped beneath a bare tree to light a cigarette and discreetly checked the road behind him. He allowed himself a certain bitter satisfaction – when all was said and done, he had at least got in to deliver his warning to the British Prime Minister. That was something! He could still see the affronted expression on that narrow provincial face when he had refused to take back the memorandum. Poor Hugh, standing next to him, had looked stricken. Perhaps he had ruined his career? Too bad. It could not be helped. But still he felt a pang of guilt.

He glanced over his shoulder again. A figure was approaching. Despite the heat he was wearing a belted brown raincoat. As he passed, Hartmann had a glimpse of a badly pockmarked cheek. Gestapo, he thought. They had their own smell. And they were like rats: if there was one, there would be more. He waited until the man had reached the edge of Königsplatz and had passed out of sight beyond one of the Temples of Honour, then he threw away his cigarette and set off in the direction of the Führerbau.

The crowd here was much larger – several thousand at least – but more sober, as befitted their proximity to the spiritual heart of the Reich. Hartmann climbed the red-carpeted steps and went into the foyer. As it had been in the morning, it was packed with Nazi worthies. The din of braying voices echoed off the marble. He searched the porcine faces of the old comrades, and the smoother educated countenances of those who had joined the Party since 1933, until he thought he saw the pockmarks of his pursuer. But when he moved towards him, the Gestapo man vanished into the cloakroom. The sheer clumsiness of it infuriated him as much as anything else. He went to the foot of the staircase and waited. Sure enough, after a couple of minutes, the black-uniformed figure of Sauer came through the door. Hartmann moved to block his path.

‘Good evening, Herr Sturmbannführer.’

Sauer nodded warily. ‘Hartmann.’

‘I have missed you for most of the day.’

‘Indeed?’

‘You know, I have the strangest feeling? Perhaps you can set my mind at rest? I have a sense that you’ve been following me.’

For a moment Sauer looked taken aback. Then outrage flashed across his face. ‘You have some nerve, Hartmann!’

‘Well? Have you?’

‘Yes, since you raise the matter – I have been investigating your activities.’

‘That is not a very comradely thing to do.’

‘I have every justification. As a result, I now know all about you and your English friend.’

‘I presume you mean Herr Legat?’

‘Legat – yes. Legat!’

Hartmann said calmly, ‘We were at Oxford together.’

‘I know that. From 1930 until 1932. I have spoken to the personnel department of the Foreign Ministry. I have also contacted our embassy in London, who were able to establish that Legat and you were actually in the same college.’

‘If you’d asked me I could have saved you the trouble. It amounts to nothing.’

‘If that was all there was, I might agree. But I have also discovered that Herr Legat was not on the original list of British delegates that was telegraphed to Berlin last night. His name was only added this morning. A colleague of his, a Herr Syers, was supposed to be coming.’

Hartmann tried not to show his alarm. ‘I fail to see the significance.’

‘Your behaviour at the station in Kufstein – telephoning Berlin to discover who would be coming from London: it struck me at the time as suspicious. Why would you be so concerned? Why were you even on board the Führer’s train in the first place? I now believe it was because you had requested that Legat should come to Munich, and you wanted to make sure that he was on Chamberlain’s plane.’

‘You overestimate my influence, Herr Sturmbannführer.’

‘I am not suggesting you arranged it personally – some member of your group would have made the request on your behalf. Oh yes, don’t look surprised – we are aware of what is going on. We are not the fools you take us for.’

‘I should hope not.’

‘And now you have been observed leaving the Führerbau by a back entrance in order to walk to the hotel of the British delegation, where I saw you in the lobby with my own eyes, in conversation with Herr Legat, before disappearing together upstairs. The whole thing stinks of treachery.’

‘Two old friends happen to meet after a long interval. They take advantage of a lull in official business to renew their acquaintance. Where is the evidence of treachery? You are embarrassing yourself, Herr Sturmbannführer.’

‘The English are inherently hostile to the Reich. Unauthorised contacts between officials are highly suspicious.’

‘I have been doing nothing more than the Führer has been doing with Herr Chamberlain all afternoon – finding areas of common ground.’

For a moment it occurred to Hartmann that Sauer was about to hit him. ‘We’ll see whether you’re so sure of yourself after I have brought the matter to the attention of the Foreign Minister.’

‘Hartmann!’

The shout carried clearly over the hubbub in the foyer. Both men looked around to see where it was coming from.

‘Hartmann!’

He glanced up. Schmidt was leaning over the balustrade, gesturing for him to join him.

‘Excuse me, Sturmbannführer. I’ll wait to hear from you and the Minister.’

‘You will – you can be sure of it.’

Hartmann began to climb the stairs. His legs felt weak. He ran his hand up the cold marble banister, glad of its support. He had been careless. The former automobile salesman from Essen was proving a dogged adversary, and no fool. There must be so many pieces of circumstantial evidence he had left behind him – unguarded conversations, meetings that might have been observed. And his relationship with Frau Winter – how many people in Wilhelmstrasse had guessed at that? He wondered how robustly he would withstand interrogation. One never knew.

Schmidt was waiting for him on the first floor. He looked crumpled. The effort of interpreting between four different languages, and of simply maintaining order long enough for his translations to be heard, had obviously drained him. He said, testily, ‘I have been looking for you. Where have you been?’

‘The British raised a query about one of the translations. I went to their hotel to sort it out with them directly.’

Another lie that could easily come back to trap him. But for now it seemed to satisfy Schmidt. He nodded. ‘Good. The agreements are still being typed. When the delegations return for the signing, you will have to be on hand to translate.’

‘Of course.’

‘Also, first thing tomorrow morning, you will be needed back here to prepare the English-language press summary for the Führer. The telegrams will be collated in the office. You will need to get some sleep if you can. There is a room for you at the Vier Jahreszeiten.’

Hartmann could not hide his alarm. ‘Now that we’re no longer on the train I thought the summary would be handled by the press department?’

‘Normally, yes. So you should be honoured. The Führer himself has requested that you should do it. You seem to have made an impression. He called you “the young man with the watch”.’

In the lobby of the Regina Palast, the Prime Minister’s party was queuing to file out through the revolving door. Chamberlain was already on the pavement: Legat could hear the crowd in the park cheering him. Strang said, ‘I haven’t seen you for a while. I was starting to think you’d decided to sit this one out.’

‘No, sir. My apologies.’

‘Not that I’d have blamed you. I wouldn’t have minded missing it myself.’

They went out into the tumult of the night – the revving engines of the big Mercedes, car doors slamming along the length of the convoy, shouts, white flashbulbs, red brake lights and yellow headlights. Somewhere in the darkness a whistle blew.

For more than an hour, Legat had been expecting the blow to fall. He had sat in the corner office, dictating to a clerk in the Foreign Office the latest amendments to the agreement, his ears cocked for voices in the corridor, waiting for the summons, the dressing down, the dismissal. Nothing. Now Wilson was settling the Prime Minister into the back of the first car. When he had finished he swung round. He noticed Legat. This must be it, thought Legat, and he braced himself, but Wilson merely grinned. ‘Hello, Hugh. Coming to witness history being made?’

‘Yes, Sir Horace. If that’s all right.’

‘Of course it’s all right.’

Legat watched him move quickly round to the other side of the car. His friendliness was bewildering.

Strang said, ‘Come on, Hugh. Look lively! Why don’t you ride with me?’

They climbed into the third Mercedes. Henderson and Kirkpatrick were in the car in front; Ashton-Gwatkin and Dunglass at the rear. When they pulled away and cornered sharply with a soft squeal of tyres Legat noticed that Strang didn’t sway with the motion of the car but remained stiff and immobile. He was hating every moment. The convoy accelerated along Max-Joseph-Strasse and across Karolinenplatz, the wind hard in their faces. Legat wondered if he would see Hartmann at the Führerbau. He didn’t resent him for embarrassing him in front of the Prime Minister. It had been a futile gesture, of course, but then they were trapped in an era when futile gestures were all that were available. Paul had got it right that night when he had stood on the parapet of Magdalen Bridge: ‘Ours is a mad generation …’ Their destinies had been mapped from the moment they met.

The convoy came into Königsplatz. It looked even more pagan in the darkness, its giant symbols and eternal flames and floodlit white buildings glittering around a vast expanse of black granite like the temple complex of some lost civilisation. By the time their car drew to a halt the Prime Minister was already out of his Mercedes and halfway up the steps to the Führerbau. He was in such a hurry that for once he didn’t stop to acknowledge the large crowd even though they were chanting his name. They carried on cheering after he had disappeared inside. Strang said, ‘What an astonishing reception he gets, wherever he goes in Germany. It was exactly the same in Godesberg. I’m beginning to think that if he could stand for election, he’d give Hitler a run for his money.’ An SS man stepped up and opened the door. Strang shuddered slightly. ‘Well, let’s get it over with.’

The foyer was packed and brilliantly lit. Adjutants in white jackets circulated with trays of drinks. Strang went off to find Malkin. Left to himself, Legat wandered round, holding a glass of mineral water, keeping an eye out for Hartmann. He saw Dunglass making his way towards him.

‘Hello, Alec.’

‘Hugh. Some of our press chaps outside are complaining. Apparently no one from a British paper is to be allowed in to take a picture of the actual signing. I was wondering if you could possibly ask if something might be done about it?’

‘I can try.’

‘Could you? Best to keep them happy.’

He disappeared into the crowd. Legat handed his glass to a waiter and began to climb the stairs. He paused halfway up and gazed around the balustraded gallery, unsure who he should approach. One of the uniformed figures, an officer of the SS, detached himself from the rest and descended to meet him. ‘Good evening. You look lost.’ He spoke in German. There was a strange dead-fish quality about his pale blue eyes. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Good evening. Thank you, yes. I wanted to talk to someone about the press arrangements for the signing of the agreement.’

‘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.