Роберт Харрис: Munich

Once, in a weak moment, Legat had hinted to Syers of his difficulties at home. He had regretted it ever since. ‘Not at all. Things are on an even keel. What happened in Berlin?’

‘Apparently it degenerated into one of Herr Hitler’s tirades.’ Syers pretended to strike the arm of his chair. ‘“ Ich werde die Tschechen zerschlagen! ”

‘Oh, good grief. “ I will smash the Czechs! ”’

A military voice called along the corridor, ‘Ah, Legat, there you are!’

Syers mouthed, ‘Good luck.’ Legat stepped backwards and turned to confront the long, moustached face of Osmund Somers Cleverly, universally known, for reasons unexplained, as Oscar. The Prime Minister’s Principal Private Secretary crooked a finger. Legat followed him into his office.

‘I must say I’m disappointed in you, Legat, and more than a little surprised.’ Cleverly was older than the rest of them, had been a soldier by profession before the war. ‘Lunch at the Ritz in the middle of an international crisis? It may be the way things are done in the Foreign Office; it’s not how we do them here.’

‘I apologise, sir. It won’t happen again.’

‘You have no explanation?’

‘It’s my wedding anniversary. I couldn’t get hold of my wife to cancel the table.’

Cleverly stared at him for a few seconds longer. He did not bother to hide his suspicions of these brilliant young men from the Treasury and the Foreign Office who had never served in uniform. ‘There are times when one’s family has to take a back seat; now is such a time.’ The Principal Private Secretary sat behind his desk and switched on a lamp. This part of the house faced north across the Downing Street garden. The unpruned trees that screened it from Horse Guards Parade cast the ground floor in a perpetual twilight. ‘Has Syers filled you in?’

‘Yes, sir. I gather the talks have broken down.’

‘Hitler has announced his intention to mobilise at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. I’m afraid all hell is about to break loose. Sir Horace should be back to report to the PM by five. The PM will broadcast to the nation at eight. I’d like you to deal with the BBC. They are to set up their apparatus in the Cabinet Room.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘There will have to be a full Cabinet meeting at some stage, probably after the broadcast, therefore the BBC engineers will need to clear out quickly. The PM will also be seeing the Dominion High Commissioners. The Chiefs of Staff are due to arrive any minute — take them in to the PM as soon as they all get here. And I shall need you to take a note of the meeting so that the PM can brief the Cabinet.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Parliament is being recalled, as you know. He intends to make a statement to the House on the crisis tomorrow afternoon. Have all the relevant minutes and telegrams for the past two weeks arranged for him in chronological order.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I am afraid you will probably have to stay overnight.’ The phantom of a smile played beneath Cleverly’s moustache. He reminded Legat of a muscular Christian games master at a minor public school. ‘It’s a pity it’s your anniversary, but it can’t be helped. I’m sure your wife will understand. You can sleep in the duty clerk’s room on the third floor.’

‘Is that all?’

‘That is all — for now.’

Cleverly put on his spectacles and began studying a document. Legat walked back to his office and sat down heavily at his desk. He opened a drawer, took out a pot of ink and dipped in his pen. He was not used to being reprimanded. Damn Cleverly, he thought. His hand shook slightly, rattling his nib against the glass edge of the pot. Miss Watson sighed but did not look up. He reached into the wire basket on the left of his desk and took out a folder of telegrams recently arrived from the Foreign Office. Before he could untie the pink ribbon, Sergeant Wren, the Downing Street messenger, appeared in the doorway. As usual he was out of breath; he had lost a leg in the war.

‘The Chief of the Imperial General Staff is here, sir.’

Legat followed him as he limped down the passage towards the lobby. In the distance under the brass lantern stood Viscount Gort reading a telegram, his polished brown boots planted wide apart. A glamorous figure — an aristocrat, a war hero, a holder of the Victoria Cross — Gort seemed oblivious to the clerks and secretaries and typists who had suddenly discovered pressing reasons to cross the lobby in order to catch a glimpse of him. The front door opened on a cascade of flashes from the photographers’ cameras, out of which stepped Air Marshal Newall, followed seconds later by the towering figure of the First Sea Lord, Admiral Backhouse.

Legat said, ‘If you would kindly come with me, gentlemen...’

As he led them into the interior he heard Gort say, ‘Is Duff coming?’ and Backhouse reply, ‘No, the PM thinks he leaks to Winston.’

‘Would you mind waiting here for a moment...?’

The Cabinet Room was soundproofed by double doors. He opened the outer and knocked gently on the inner.

The Prime Minister was seated with his back to the door. Facing him across the centre of the long table were Halifax, the Foreign Secretary; Simon, the Chancellor of the Exchequer; and the Home Secretary, Hoare. All three looked up to see who had come in. The room was in absolute silence apart from the ticking of the clock.

Legat said, ‘Excuse me, Prime Minister. The Chiefs of Staff are here.’

Chamberlain did not turn. His hands were on the table, spread wide on either side of him, as if he were about to push back his chair. His forefingers slowly tapped the polished surface. Eventually, in his precise, slightly old-maidish voice, he said, ‘Very well. Let us meet again when Horace returns. We’ll hear what more he has to say then.’

The Ministers gathered up their papers — awkwardly in the case of Halifax, whose withered left arm hung uselessly at his side — and rose to their feet without saying a word. They were men in their fifties or sixties, the ‘Big Three’, in the prime of their power — bulked by their dignity beyond their physical size. Legat stood aside to let them pass — ‘like a trio of pall-bearers in search of their coffin’ was how he described them afterwards to Syers. He heard them greet the service chiefs waiting outside — hushed, grim voices. He said quietly, ‘Would you like me to show in the Chiefs of Staff now, Prime Minister?’

Still Chamberlain did not turn to look at him. He was staring at the opposite wall. His corvine profile was hard, stubborn; belligerent even. Eventually he said, distractedly, ‘Yes, of course. Yes, bring them in.’

Legat stationed himself at the far end of the Cabinet table, close to the Doric pillars that supported the ceiling. The bookcases showed the spines of brown leather-bound statutes and silvery blue editions of Hansard. The Chiefs of Staff placed their caps on the side table by the door and took the seats vacated by the Ministers. Gort, as the senior officer, occupied the central position. They opened their briefcases and spread out their papers. All three lit cigarettes.

Legat glanced across at the mantel clock above the fireplace behind the Prime Minister’s head. He dipped his nib into the nearby inkstand. On a foolscap sheet he wrote, PM & CoS. 2:05 p.m.

Chamberlain cleared his throat. ‘Well, gentlemen, I’m afraid the situation has deteriorated. We had hoped for — and the Czech Government had agreed to — the orderly transfer of the Sudeten territory to Germany, subject to a plebiscite. Unfortunately, Herr Hitler announced last night he was not prepared to wait even so much as a week longer, and will invade on Saturday. Sir Horace Wilson saw him this morning and warned him privately but very firmly that if France fulfils her treaty obligations to Czechoslovakia — which we still have every reason to believe she will — then we shall be obliged to support France.’ The Prime Minister put on his spectacles and picked up a telegram. ‘After his customary ranting and raving, Herr Hitler responded, according to our Ambassador in Berlin, in the following terms: “If France and England strike, let them do so. It is a matter of complete indifference to me. I am prepared for every eventuality. I can only take note of the position. It is Tuesday today, and by next Monday we shall all be at war.”’