Роберт Харрис - Munich

He pulled up outside a grand official building — a law court, by the look of it, festooned with swastikas. At the far end of the street Legat could see the twin domed towers of the Frauenkirche. Hartmann said, ‘Farewell, my dear Hugh. All is good between us. Whatever happens we shall have the consolation of knowing that we tried.’

Legat climbed out of the Mercedes. He closed the door behind him and turned to say goodbye but it was too late. Hartmann was already moving off into the early-morning traffic.

He walked back towards his hotel in a trance.

At the busy intersection between the botanical garden and Maximiliansplatz he stepped off the kerb without looking. The blast of a car horn and a scream of brakes shattered his reverie. He jumped back and raised his hands in apology. The driver swore and accelerated away. Legat leaned against a lamp post and lowered his head and wept.

By the time he reached the Regina Palast five minutes later the big hotel was coming awake. He paused just inside the entrance, took out his handkerchief, blew his nose and dabbed at his eyes. Cautiously he scanned the lobby. Guests were making their way down the stairs to the dining room; he could hear the clatter of breakfast being served. At the reception desk a family waited to check out. When he was sure there was no member of the British delegation to be seen he launched himself across the foyer towards the elevators. He summoned a car. His aim was simply to get back to his hotel room without being noticed. But when the doors opened he found himself confronted by the dandyish figure of Sir Nevile Henderson. The Ambassador had his usual carnation buttonhole in place, the inevitable jade cigarette holder between his lips. He was carrying an elegant calf-skin portmanteau. His face registered surprise.

‘Good morning, Legat. I see you’ve been out and about.’

‘Yes, Sir Nevile. I felt the need for some fresh air.’

‘Well, you need to get upstairs, quickly — the Prime Minister’s asking for you. Ashton-Gwatkin’s already on his way to Prague with the Czechs and I’m off to catch a plane with von Weizsäcker to Berlin.’

‘Thank you for the warning, sir. Have a good trip.’

He pressed the button for the third floor. In the elevator mirror he performed a brief inspection: unshaven, crumpled, red-eyed. No wonder Henderson had been taken aback — he looked as if he’d spent the night on the tiles. He took off his hat and coat. The bell pinged, he squared his shoulders and emerged into the corridor. Outside the Prime Minister’s suite, the Scotland Yard detective had resumed his former position. He raised his eyebrows at Legat in a look of amused complicity, knocked on the door and opened it.

‘Found him, sir.’

‘Good. Send him in.’

Chamberlain was wearing a plaid dressing gown. His thin bare feet protruded beneath a pair of striped pyjama bottoms. His unbrushed hair was tufted, like the plumage of a grizzled bird. He was smoking a cigar. In his left hand he clutched a sheaf of papers. He said, ‘Where’s that copy of The Times with Herr Hitler’s speech in it?’

‘I believe it’s in your box, Prime Minister.’

‘Find it for me, would you, there’s a good fellow?’

Legat put down his hat and coat on the nearest chair and took out his keys. The old man seemed full of that same purposeful energy Legat had noticed in the garden of Number 10. Nobody looking at him would dream he had barely slept. He unlocked the box and sorted through the files until he found his copy of Tuesday’s paper, the one he had been reading at the Ritz while he was waiting for Pamela. The Prime Minister took it out of his hands and carried it over to the desk. He spread it out, put on his spectacles, and peered down at it. Without turning round he said, ‘I had a word with Hitler last night, and asked if I might come and see him this morning before flying back to London.’

Legat gaped at the Prime Minister’s back. ‘And did he agree, sir?’

‘I like to think I’ve learned how to handle him. I deliberately put him on the spot. He couldn’t really refuse.’ His head was nodding slowly as he ran his eye up and down the columns of type. ‘I must say, that was a quite remarkably rude young man you brought to see me last night.’

Here it came, thought Legat. He braced himself. ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that, sir. I take full responsibility.’

‘Have you told anyone about it?’

‘No.’

‘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.