Роберт Харрис - Munich

The rear entrance was unlocked and unguarded. Wearily he climbed the service stairs to the first floor. A team of cleaners in army uniforms was sweeping the marble floors, emptying the ashtrays into paper sacks, collecting the dirty champagne flutes and beer bottles. He made his way to the conference office. Two young SS adjutants were sprawled in armchairs, smoking, boots on the coffee table, flirting with a red-headed secretary who was on one of the sofas, her elegant legs tucked under her.

Hartmann saluted. ‘ Heil Hitler! I am Hartmann from the Foreign Ministry. I have to prepare the English-language press summary for the Führer.’

At the mention of the Führer, the two adjutants quickly stubbed out their cigarettes, stood and returned his salute. One of them pointed to the desk in the corner. ‘The material is there waiting for you, Herr Hartmann. The New York Times has just been telegraphed from Berlin.’

The sheaf of telegrams, as thick as his thumb, was in a wire basket. ‘Is there any chance of some coffee?’

‘Of course, Herr Hartmann.’

He sat and pulled the basket towards him. The New York Times was on the top.

The war for which Europe had been feverishly preparing was averted early this morning when the leading statesmen of Britain, France, Germany and Italy, meeting in Munich, reached an agreement to allow Reich troops to occupy predominantly German portions of Czechoslovakia’s Sudetenland progressively over a ten-day period beginning tomorrow. Most of Chancellor Hitler’s demands were met. Prime Minister Chamberlain, whose peace efforts were finally crowned with success, received the loudest applause of Munich’s crowds.

Beneath it was another story: CHAMBERLAIN HERO OF MUNICH CROWDS:

There were real cheers, like the kind one hears in an American football stadium, whenever the slim, black-coated Chamberlain, with a smile and a careful walk, came out.

Hartmann thought it was exactly the sort of detail that would make Hitler furious. He took out his pen. He would put it first.

Strang, shaved and fully dressed, was seated at the desk in his hotel sitting room, writing in his small neat hand on a sheet of Regina Palast notepaper. A litter of discarded drafts surrounded his feet. Malkin, a pad of paper on his knee, had pulled up a chair and was looking over his shoulder. Wilson sat on the end of the bed studying the text of Hitler’s speech in The Times . Legat was pouring coffee.

It was obvious by his initial, startled reaction that Wilson had not known what was in the Prime Minister’s mind either. But by now he had recovered his usual equilibrium, and was attempting to make it sound as if the whole thing had been his idea.

Wilson tapped his finger on the newsprint. ‘This is the crucial passage, surely, where Hitler talks about the Anglo — German Naval Agreement: “ I voluntarily renounced ever again entering upon a naval armaments competition in order to give the British Empire a feeling of security... Such an agreement is only morally justified if both nations promise one another solemnly never again to want to wage war against one another. Germany has this will. ”’

Strang grimaced. Legat knew what he was thinking. In the Foreign Office they had come to the view that the 1935 Anglo — German Naval Agreement — in which Germany undertook never to build a fleet greater in size than 35 per cent of the Royal Navy — had been a mistake. Strang said, ‘Don’t let’s revisit the Anglo — German Naval Agreement, Sir Horace, whatever else we do.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s pretty clear Hitler took it as a nod and a wink that in return for his letting us have a Navy three times the size of Germany’s, we would let him have a free hand in Eastern Europe. That was when the rot started.’ He jotted down a sentence. ‘I suggest we leave that out and just take the second part of his statement and tie it specifically to the deal over the Sudetenland. So it would read: “ We regard the agreement signed last night as symbolic of the desire of our two peoples never to go to war with one another again. ”’

Malkin, the Foreign Office lawyer, sucked his breath through his teeth. ‘I do hope the Prime Minister realises this has no legal force whatsoever. It’s a declaration of goodwill, nothing more.’

Wilson said sharply, ‘Of course he’ll be aware of that. He’s not a fool.’

Strang resumed writing. After a couple of minutes, he held up a sheet of paper. ‘All right, I’ve done my best. Why don’t you take it to him, Hugh, and see what he thinks?’

Legat went out into the corridor. Apart from the detective outside Chamberlain’s suite the only other person was a stout middle-aged chambermaid wheeling her trolley full of cleaning equipment and fresh toiletries. He nodded to her as he passed and knocked on the Prime Minister’s door.

‘Come!’

A table for two had been laid in the centre of the drawing room. Chamberlain was having breakfast. He was dressed in his usual suit and high-winged collar. Opposite him was Lord Dunglass. The Prime Minister was buttering a piece of toast.

‘Excuse me, sir. Mr Strang has written a draft.’

‘Let me see.’

Chamberlain put down his toast, donned his spectacles and studied the document. Legat risked a glance at Dunglass who widened his eyes slightly. Legat couldn’t read what he was signalling — amusement, concern, a warning; perhaps it was all three. Chamberlain frowned. ‘Would you go and fetch Strang, please?’

Legat returned to Strang’s room. ‘He wants to see you.’

‘Is something the matter?’

‘He didn’t say.’

Malkin said, ‘Perhaps we all ought to go.’ They were as nervous as schoolboys summoned to see the headmaster. ‘Would you care to come with us, Sir Horace?’

‘If you like.’ Wilson looked dubious. ‘Although I’d caution you against trying to change his mind. Once he’s set on a course, he’ll never change it.’

Legat followed the three men into the Prime Minister’s suite. Chamberlain said coldly, ‘Mr Strang, you’ve left out the Anglo — German Naval Agreement. Why?’

‘I’m not sure it’s a thing to be proud of.’

‘On the contrary, it’s exactly the type of agreement we should now try to reach with Germany.’ Chamberlain took out his pen and amended the draft. ‘Also, I see you’ve put my name before his. That will never do. It should be the other way round: “ We, the German Führer and Chancellor and the British Prime Minister, have had a further meeting today... ”’ He circled the titles and drew an arrow. ‘I want him to sign it first, so that the onus appears to be slightly more on him.’

Wilson cleared his throat. ‘What if he refuses, Prime Minister?’

‘Why should he? These are his own public undertakings. If he declines to put his name to them he will only demonstrate that they were hollow all along.’

Malkin said, ‘Even if he signs, it doesn’t mean he’s obliged to stick by any of them.’

‘The significance is intended to be symbolic, not legally binding.’ Chamberlain pushed back his chair and glanced around at the officials. He was clearly irritated by their failure to share his vision. ‘Gentlemen, we have to rise to the level of events. Last night’s agreement settles one local area of dispute only. We may be sure there will be others. I want him to commit himself now to peace and a process of consultation.’

There was a silence.

Strang tried again. ‘But shouldn’t we at least tell the French that you’re planning to seek this direct agreement with Hitler? After all, Daladier’s still in Munich — his hotel is nearby.’

‘I see no reason at all for saying anything whatsoever to the French. This is entirely between Hitler and me.’