Midnight in Berlin (24 page)

A secretary handed him a cup of coffee while he waited in a corridor. The coffee was thin and bitter, but Macrae reflected that anything he drank at that moment would probably have tasted the same.

He waited twenty minutes before his name was called and he was ushered into the Cabinet Room, where seventeen ministers were sitting around the long oval table. The room seemed too warm to be comfortable but no one had taken off his jacket. Macrae was introduced by the prime minister, who asked him to make an opening statement.

The ministers looked curiously at the colonel standing at the head of the table. They had mostly been called from holidays on the salmon rivers or grouse moors of Scotland or in country houses in the fashionable counties of Gloucestershire, Oxfordshire, Somerset and Devon. None resented their recall, because the crisis in European affairs was obvious to all. But they were surprised that they were to be given a briefing by a military attaché from the Berlin embassy. The ambassador had already made his views known and had supplied sufficient information to justify the retention of the current policy.

Macrae cleared his throat and looked at his text. He knew fears of another war ran deep among these decent, intelligent and utterly complacent men. He knew most had served in the last conflict, in which many had lost friends or relatives.
He knew too that clubby, consensual cabinet discussions among men who had been to similar schools and universities, married similar women and wined and dined in similar clubs rarely strayed from the path carefully laid down by the prime minister and his immediate advisers.

Neville Chamberlain proudly called his policy towards the Third German Reich one of appeasement, and he defied anyone to explain how else one was supposed to deal with a man who was merely behaving as a patriotic nationalist, a man who did not want war with Britain and expressed nothing but admiration for her history and empire.

“Let me tell you exactly what is happening on the ground in Germany – at this very moment,” Macrae said. “All military leave has been cancelled, the army has bolstered fuel reserves through large purchases on the international market, labour has been conscripted to improve the fortifications facing France, airspace along the left bank of the Rhine has been closed and several armoured divisions are on the move at key points on the border with Czechoslovakia.”

He waited while the cabinet mulled over this new and unwelcome news.

“Furthermore, the planning staff of the High Command in Berlin has been instructed by the Führer in person to update plans for the invasion of Russia.”

Silence descended on the cabinet. Ministers frowned and looked hard at their blotters.

“I thought we were talking about Czechoslovakia,” said the foreign secretary.

“We are,” said Macrae, “but I wish to alert you to the extent of Nazi ambitions in the east. Hitler will not stop at Prague or Warsaw; he is intent on domination of everything up to the Urals. His aim is a race war, to drive the Slav peoples back into the far reaches of the Eurasian continent.”

The ensuing shocked silence was finally broken by Duff Cooper, first lord of the admiralty, whom Macrae knew to be the only opponent of the appeasement policy in the government.

“What do you suggest we do about it?”

“There is strong evidence, of which your colleague the secretary of state for war is aware” – Macrae turned to the prime minister, who was sitting with a face as hard and grey as granite – “and of which I have just informed the prime minister, namely that significant numbers of senior officers within the German High Command are conspiring to remove Herr Hitler from power.”

“Unsubstantiated rumours,” said Chamberlain.

“Let him finish,” said Hore-Belisha.

“And let the conspirators finish Hitler – good luck to them,” said another voice.

Macrae looked down the table and recognised Duff Cooper again.

“They will only move if Britain issues an unambiguous warning that any German attack on Czechoslovakia will be met with force. That is the precondition for the coup.”

The prime minister rose.

“Forgive the interruption, Colonel. Colleagues, I think I should share with you this cable from our ambassador in Berlin, which has just been decoded.”

Macrae stepped back from the table. He had wondered when the long oar of the ambassador would be poked into his meetings in London.

“‘I am aware that cabinet is discussing a response to the increasingly provocative nature of German statements and actions in relation to Czechoslovakia,'” the prime minister read. “‘Ministers should be aware that last night I was given an audience by a senior member of the government, a minister close to the Führer, who affirmed that the door to
negotiation remained wide open but who warned me that any bellicose statements from London would precipitate the very action we seek to avoid.'”

Chamberlain turned to Macrae with a slight smile.

“I do not wish to embarrass you, Colonel, by reading further, but I think it right to let colleagues in this room know that the ambassador goes on to dismiss reports of a military coup against Hitler as, and I quote, ‘not based on a realistic assessment of the opinions and operation capabilities of disaffected members of the German High Command'. I know you do not share these views, but I think it is right that the cabinet should hear the latest report from our ambassador.”

“This is outrageous.” Duff Cooper had risen from his chair and was leaning on his fists on the table. “Colonel Macrae has not even finished his report to cabinet, and you have interrupted with a contradictory report from Berlin. Frankly, Prime Minister, I am shocked.”

Hore-Belisha had also risen.

“May I echo those sentiments and express my disappointment. Our ambassador in Berlin is known to be more enthusiastic about the policy of appeasing Hitler than most of us in this room, and thus it is only natural he would dismiss reports of military disaffection. Personally, I think we should do all we can to encourage such treachery.”

The rest of the cabinet shifted uneasily in their seats, uncertain how to respond to these remarks, looking to their prime minister for guidance. Chamberlain rose, gripping the lapels of his jacket.

“May I remind you that Herr Hitler is both the legal head of government and head of state, thus occupying a position analogous to that of our own king and myself as prime minister. There will be no talk of regicide in this room. Thank you, gentlemen.”

He turned to Macrae.

“Now, Colonel Macrae, we all thank you, but if you will forgive us, we will move to the next item on the agenda. On behalf of us all, I bid you a safe journey back to Berlin.”

Macrae just had time for a large gin and tonic before his plane left Croydon airport late that afternoon. The weather was fine and as the plane cleared the South Downs, the pilot announced that seat belts could be unfastened, which was the signal for stewardesses to start serving drinks.

Macrae ordered another large gin. His rage had subsided. He had been treated with contempt by the prime minister and betrayed by his own ambassador. Hore-Belisha had said nothing after the cabinet meeting but merely bade him farewell with a limp handshake. Macrae drank deeply of his gin and looked through the large porthole windows of the aircraft at the green fields and woods below. Romans had carved roads through the soft chalk down there, planted vineyards, built elegant villas, tended livestock and raised families. The conquerors had pushed their empire north to the borders of his own country, Scotland, then less a nation and more a collection of warring clans. There the Romans had stopped and built a wall that survived to this day. But Hitler would not stop, nor would his conquest bring light and learning to the land below, as the Romans had done. A Nazi conquest would unleash terror and mass murder on the country basking in the summer heat beneath him, ignorant of the tyranny that threatened them only a few hundred miles across the Channel.

England lay asleep like an old hunting dog by the fire, dreaming of past triumphs and occasionally twitching as it remembered the excitement of a famous chase and a fallen prey.

He was Scottish, but the Scots were just as much prisoners of their romantic past as the English, in fact more so. The Celtic delight in myth, magic and illusion cast an even greater spell over Caledonia than its martial history did over England. But what did it matter whether English, Irish, Scottish or Welsh, rich man, poor man, beggar man or thief? Where was the will to throw down the gauntlet to a regime of unimaginable evil? Who down there, in Shakespeare's sceptred isle, was going to fight Hitler?

He replayed that morning's conversation. It was very easy to dismiss the planned coup as mere rumours – how could plans for such treachery be proved to the satisfaction of a British cabinet? It was easy to understand the fear that gripped the government and its people, fear that another war would bring devastating civilian casualties as bombers flattened major cities, fear that a terrified population, traumatised by air raids, would force their political leaders to surrender and accept ignominious defeat. Those were real fears, fears that had been allowed to loom so large that they now conditioned every act of British foreign policy.

On the other hand, what if Chamberlain were right? Were Koenig and Colonel Schiller indulging in dangerous fantasies when they talked that night in the hunting lodge? Was Koenig dreaming when he said that Halder and his armoured divisions were ready to move? If that were the case, why had the Gestapo not got wind of such dangerous disaffection? Above all, Macrae forced himself to consider the fear he had buried away at the back of his mind, the suspicion that he was being set up in a counterfeit coup designed to expose him as a diplomat bent on subversion and thus to be expelled in disgrace. Was that possible?

He closed his eyes and thought again of Florian Koenig, handsome, charming, intelligent, a man educated in the wider
world. He would surely never fall for the Nazi mystique, the fake glamour of those torchlight parades, with their swastika banners, polished jackboots, arms raised in salutes, and on a distant floodlit platform, the small figure with his Iron Cross 2nd Class pinned to his uniform, bellowing the web of lies that had ensnared an entire people.

There was something in this demonic man that tapped deep roots within the German psyche, stirring an atavistic urge to relive the savagery of those days when the German tribes rose against Rome to murder and plunder their way into the heart of a stricken empire.

Koenig couldn't have been seduced by this potent brew of twisted psychology and crude racial patriotism, could he? He was surely not the man to fall for the Nazi fantasy of creating an Aryan super-race to rule Europe – and one day the world. Because that was what Hitler was selling, what the German people were buying and what the British government was choosing to ignore. No, that was not Koenig. In any case, if he were playing a double game as an agent of the Gestapo, he would hardly be having an affair with Primrose. The thought consoled him and made him smile. It was strange indeed that he should find reassurance in his wife's infidelity.

The stewardess came round with last drinks as the plane began the descent to Tempelhof airport. Macrae accepted another large gin.

He was going to make a plan. He would arrange to see Koenig as soon as possible. He would ignore the affair and persuade him to provide more information. He would ask Halliday to chase the travel documents for Sara. He doubted Hore-Belisha would do anything. He would take Shirer to lunch and probe the American response to the threat of war in Europe. Roosevelt was deeply engaged in the New Deal
and was said to have little regard for Chamberlain. But then the US president was said to dislike Churchill equally.

The plane bumped down hard at Tempelhof airport and then flung itself back into the air before putting both wheels firmly on the ground and rolling to a stop in front of the terminal.

The afterglow of the gin had lifted his spirits and created a euphoric sense of confidence: an adulterous wife, a deceitful ambassador, pusillanimous politicians – they would all bend to his will, accept the path ahead that he would lay out. He was sure of that because, as he walked across the baking tarmac of the airport, he knew he possessed what they did not, the absolute certainty of what had to be done.

He was glad to be back in Berlin.

The newspapers at the airport kiosks all carried similar headlines. The Führer was to make a major speech to delegates at a party rally in Nuremberg, where he would announce the fate of Czechoslovakia. The rally had been the talk of Berlin's diplomatic circles for weeks, but now a date had been set, 12 September. The editorial comment in the Nazi-controlled press was unanimous. Hitler would use the Nuremberg rally to announce his terms. Either the Czechoslovakian government in Prague would agree to the return of millions of ethnic Germans in Sudetenland to the Fatherland and thus cede the territory to Germany – or there would be war. Macrae had a large black coffee while waiting for his car and driver. It was Friday, 31 August. He had two weeks.

Primrose opened the door and gave him a brief hug. She was wearing a new dark blue dress with a single rope of pearls. Dressed for an evening out, thought Macrae wearily.

“Hallo, darling,” she said. “Have you had a wonderful time? You lucky old thing, being in London. Everyone here has been talking about nothing but bloody Czechoslovakia.” She looked at him. “You're looking tired, dear, would you like a bath before supper?”

He had only been away for a day and a night and yet he felt like an explorer who had spent several years in a remote part of the world. She ran a bath and handed him a gin and tonic as he lay soaking in the steamy warmth.

They had a light supper that she said she had cooked specially, turbot with a creamy lemon sauce, accompanied by a very good wine.

“We're not going out tonight, are we?” he asked.

“Of course not. I just wanted to look nice for you. And you're going straight to bed after supper. You need a good night's sleep.”