Роберт Харрис - Munich

He returned his attention to the draft. His pen made short, neat movements, deleting some words, inserting others. When he had finished, he handed it to Legat. ‘Have it typed. Two copies: one for him and one for me. I have arranged to see the Chancellor at eleven. Make sure a car is available.’

‘Yes, Prime Minister. This will be to go to the Führerbau, presumably?’

‘No. I suggested we should have a private talk, man to man, no officials — I particularly didn’t want Ribbentrop anywhere near it — therefore he has invited me to his apartment.’

‘No officials?’ repeated Wilson, shocked. ‘Not even me?’

‘Not even you, Horace.’

‘But you can’t go and see Hitler entirely alone!’

‘In that case, I’ll just take Alec. He has no official standing.’

‘Exactly.’ Dunglass gave one of his lipless smiles. ‘I’m a nobody.’

After Hartmann had finished writing the press digest it had been typed up by the pretty young redhead on the Führer’s special large-print machine. Four pages in all — a unanimous exclamation from around the world of relief that war had been averted, of hope that peace could now be made permanent, and of praise for Neville Chamberlain. In the latter regard, The Times of London was, as usual, the most effusive: Considering that, if the negotiations had failed and war had broken out, Great Britain and Germany would inevitably have been the protagonists on opposite sides, the cheering and the ‘heils’ to the man whose action throughout the crisis has been single-mindedly and unchallengeably pacific must have seemed to have a clear intention.

Checking through the pages, Hartmann was forced to concede that there was some truth in this. In the heart of the Third Reich — in the very cradle of National Socialism — a British Prime Minister had managed to engineer what was, in effect, a day-long demonstration for peace. That was quite an achievement. For the first time, Hartmann was almost prepared to allow himself a flicker of hope. Perhaps the Führer would be denied his war of conquest after all? He refolded the summary and wondered what he was supposed to do with it. He was too tired to go in search of someone who might know. The secretary had gone back to her flirtation with the two SS adjutants. Their inconsequential babble about movie stars and sportsmen was soothing. He felt his eyelids begin to droop. Soon he was asleep in the armchair.

He was woken by a hand roughly shaking his shoulder. Schmidt was bending over him. The Ministry’s chief translator was red-faced, in his usual state of nervous agitation. ‘My God, Hartmann, what do you think you’re doing? Where’s the press digest?’

‘It’s here. It’s finished.’

‘That’s something! Heavens, look at the state you’re in! Well, it can’t be helped. We need to get a move on.’

Hartmann hauled himself to his feet. Schmidt was already heading towards the door. He followed him out on to the first-floor landing and down the marble staircase. The building was empty and echoing, like a mausoleum. He wanted to ask where they were going but Schmidt was in too much of a hurry. Outside, soldiers were rolling up the red carpet. The French tricolour had already been taken down. A workman atop a ladder was just releasing the last corner of the Union Jack. It fell behind them softly like a shroud.

He climbed into the back of the limousine next to Schmidt who had opened a black leather folder and was leafing through his notes. He said, ‘Weizsäcker and Kordt have flown back to Berlin, so it’s all down to you and me now. It seems like there may be trouble in Wilhelmstrasse, did you hear?’

A prickle of alarm. ‘No. What?’

‘Weizsäcker’s assistant, Frau Winter — do you know who I mean? Apparently she was picked up by the Gestapo last night.’

The car swept around Karolinenplatz. Hartmann sat numb. It wasn’t until they were passing the long pillared facade of the House of German Art at the bottom of Prinzregentenstrasse that the appalling realisation came to him of where he was being taken.

Carrying out the Prime Minister’s instructions kept Legat busy for more than an hour.

He gave the draft declaration to Miss Anderson to type. He rescheduled their flight back to London from late morning to early afternoon. He spoke to the protocol department of the German Foreign Ministry to arrange transport to the Führer’s apartment and afterwards to the airport. He called Oscar Cleverly in Number 10 to inform him what was happening. The Principal Private Secretary was in a great good humour. ‘The atmosphere here could not be more positive. The press is in ecstasies. What time will you be back?’

‘Late afternoon, I should think. The PM is going to have a further private talk with Hitler this morning.’

‘A further talk? Does Halifax know?’

‘I think Strang is briefing Cadogan now. The point is, he’s not taking any officials with him.’

‘What? Good grief! What are they going to talk about?’

Legat, as ever conscious that the line was probably tapped, said guardedly, ‘Anglo — German relations, sir. I shall have to leave it there.’

He hung up and briefly closed his eyes. He rubbed his hand across his bristled chin. It was almost thirty hours since he had shaved. The office was quiet. Strang and Malkin were speaking to London on the telephones in their rooms. Joan had gone off with Wilson who had some letters he wished to dictate. Miss Anderson had taken the typed drafts for approval by the Prime Minister.

He walked along the corridor to his room. According to the alarm clock it was a little after 10.30 a.m. The maid had already been in. The curtains were open. The bed had been smoothed. He went into the bathroom, undressed, and ran the shower. He turned his face to the jet of hot water and let it massage him for half a minute, and then his scalp and his shoulders. He soaped himself and rinsed away the suds and by the time he stepped out of the cubicle he felt restored. He wiped a porthole in the mirror and shaved, quickly rather than carefully, skirting around a place where he had cut himself the previous morning.

It was only after he had turned off the taps and was drying himself that he heard a noise from the bedroom. It was indistinct — he couldn’t tell whether it came from a floorboard or a piece of furniture. He stopped and listened. He wrapped a towel around his waist and went into the other room just in time to see the door being closed, very carefully and quietly.

He threw himself across the room and flung it open. A man was walking away at speed along the corridor. Legat called after him — ‘Hey!’ — but he carried on walking and turned the corner. Legat tried to run after him but it was hard to move quickly with both hands holding on to the towel. By the time he reached the corner the man was vanishing towards the rear staircase. Halfway along the corridor he gave up the chase. He cursed himself. A terrible thought came to his mind. He walked back quickly towards his room. Malkin was just emerging from the office. He drew back in surprise.

‘Good Lord, Legat!’

‘Sorry, sir.’

Legat sidestepped him, went into his room and closed the door.

The wardrobe was open. His suitcase was upended on the bed. The desk drawer had been pulled out completely and the book of tourist information was face down, open. For a few seconds he stared at it stupidly. The cover showed the hotel lit up at night. Willkommen in München! He picked it up, flicked through it, turned it upside down and shook it. Nothing. He felt a terrible hollowing panic fill in his stomach.

He had been unforgivably careless. Fatally careless.

The towel dropped to the floor. Naked he went over to the bedside table and picked up the telephone. How could he find Hartmann? He tried to think. Hadn’t he said something about preparing a foreign press summary for Hitler?