The Logan File Read online

  The Logan File

  Philip McCutchan

  © Philip McCutchan, 1991

  Philip McCutchan has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1991 by Hodder and Stoughton Limited.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

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  1

  The killing had been very efficiently carried out: the men who had done it were expert, trained by other men who had learned their trade under men who in turn had been apprenticed to the Nazi thugs, the Gestapo, in Hitler’s Germany of so many years ago.

  Two men had been watching Frau Palmer’s house: the visit to her house on the outskirts of Hanover by the Englishman, Detective Chief Superintendent Shard, had been known and since then the watch had been maintained very discreetly. The night of the killing the men had waited for all the lights to go out and after a safe interval had emerged from the cover of thickly-growing shrubs and undergrowth and had moved towards the back door of the house.

  No word had been spoken: they each knew precisely the other’s mind, knew precisely what to do.

  They would not have long once the burglar alarm went off — they knew that; they knew also that the alarm was too sophisticated for any intruder to throw it off the beam. So they moved very fast and they made no attempt to keep down the noise of their entry; the house was in any case well back from the road and standing in large grounds. A window was broken, and they went in like commandos as the alarm went off stridently. The servant was in bed, in a ground-floor room beyond the kitchen quarters. She came fearfully but bravely to the door and was gunned down in a blast from a sub-machine-gun. The body fell without a sound and the men raced for the hall and the staircase. They pounded up the stairs, taking no notice of the continuing urgency of the alarm.

  Trudi Palmer appeared in the doorway of her bedroom.

  Without a word the men opened fire. Frau Palmer fell in a pool of blood like the servant. The men left immediately, moving swiftly down the stairs, out through the back door, through the garden behind the house and along a path through closely-set trees to a car waiting with two more men in it.

  No-one saw them go. Burglar alarms tended to go off for no apparent reason. That alarm had rung also in police HQ in Hanover: Trudi Palmer, born Trudi Strobel, now widowed by the Bader-Meinhoff gang, worked for the German security services. The police, at least, reacted, if too late.

  *

  Hedge, some days before, had given an involuntary shiver as he’d stepped out of the warm sanctity of the Foreign Office. It was a desperately cold night; and he felt furtive. He also looked it as he thrust his hands into the deep pockets of his dark blue greatcoat and settled his neck into the folds of a fawn-coloured muffler, cursing savagely beneath his breath at the telephone call that had come to his house while he had been breakfasting that morning.

  Hedge’s life was largely cloak-and-dagger; but he was not a field man and he much disliked being exposed. Those who ranked at only two removes from the Permanent Undersecretary of State were not for exposure. Such was best left to the underlings.

  But this time there had been, as Hedge had seen it, no option.

  Muttering to himself, feeling aggrieved, Hedge moved on leaden feet towards the gloom of St James’s Park, away from the lights of Horse Guards Parade and the Mall and Birdcage Walk. On such a night there were few people about. There was snow in the air, and a bitter wind that blew odd bits of paper, crisp packets and the like, around his feet. London was appalling these days, filthy with the indiscriminate castings of common people who all had more money than they had any right to. Foreigners as well, all nationalities polluting the capital. Hedge shivered again; it wasn’t right. The shiver was one of intense distaste for the present day and its squalor. Its lack of respect, too.

  Then he became aware that a man was emerging from behind a bush and was falling into step beside him.

  *

  When the call had come, Hedge had in fact been finishing his breakfast, a latish one and not frugal for a man well past middle age, a man with a not inconspicuous overhang to his stomach: porridge to keep the cold at bay, real Scots oatmeal that had simmered all night long on the Aga and had been brought to perfection by his housekeeper Mrs Millington; three rashers of bacon, three pork chipolatas, fried bread, two eggs, mushrooms sent in from the country — not the button variety, which were rubbery and without taste. All this followed by toast and marmalade and three cups of coffee, well sugared, these being accompanied by a hand-made cigarette purchased from an exclusive shop in the Burlington Arcade, lovingly made by the grandson of a man who in his time had made them for the Duke of Windsor when he had been the Prince of Wales.

  Bliss; and not, so far as Hedge had been aware until now, to be followed by a busy day in Whitehall. Diplomatically, or at any rate security-wise, it had appeared, the last day or so, to have been the slack season, for which Hedge had been grateful. There had been a good deal of to-ing and fro-ing ever since Comrade Gorbachev had begun back in ’89 to stir things up; the dismantling of the Berlin Wall, of the whole Iron Curtain, and the helter-skelter way in which the satellite countries had discarded communism — all that had led to immense difficulties one way and another while new alliances were sought and the whole business of frontiers and so on was sorted out and the thorny question of German reunification was raised time and again. Such would take time to bring about even if it was desirable: there were still the opposing interests of NATO and the Warsaw Pact; the two Germanies were still in opposing military camps. But these last few days … the season of goodwill and all that: Christmas was not far off, and the Head of Security, Hedge’s immediate boss, had already gone to the country with his wife. When H of S was off the scene, Hedge took things a little more easily, though his staff didn’t seem to think so. He made them, rather than himself, work a little harder, with longer hours. During this forthcoming afternoon, he would visit a massage establishment in Soho where he would find both relaxation and stimulation.

  And then that wretched telephone call.

  He heard the ring. Mrs Millington came in. He regarded her sourly; she had piano legs, cook’s legs — not perhaps surprisingly since she was a cook. The caller, she said, was a lady.

  “A Mrs Reilly-Jacobs, sir.”

  “Oh, yes. Thank you, Mrs Millington. I’ll take the call in here.”

  Mrs Millington, all severe dress and sniff, for she suffered perennially from a nasty cold and catarrh, left the room and Hedge answered on an extension. “Yes, Mrs Reilly-Jacobs?” Mae-Li Reilly-Jacobs was the wife of an assistant under-secretary in one of the Whitehall ministries, a man with whom Hedge had played the occasional round of golf. “What can I do for you, dear lady?”

  When his caller answered, Hedge felt sudden shock. “You’re not Mrs Reilly-Jacobs!”

  “No.” The voice was not English; further than that, Hedge was unable to place it. “But I think you must listen, Mr Hedge. It is important.” There was a pause. “You are listening, yes?”

  “Oh, very well, yes,” Hedge said, full of apprehension.

  “I shall not speak on the phone,” the unknown woman said. “You will come to meet me. This evening at six-thirty in St James’s Park. At the eastern end of the pond with the ducks — you know? You will come alone. If you do not come alone there will be no contact, but the result will
be unpleasant for you. You understand, yes? And in the meantime, Mr Hedge, you will say nothing to anyone at all.”

  “But —”

  There was the sound of a cut-off. Hedge jiggled at the handset uselessly, and shook it, his face wobbling like a jelly. The voice had been an unpleasant one, and the acquired English accent had been common, not that of anyone whom Hedge would be likely to know socially. But she knew his name, knew his ex-directory telephone number — probably knew where he lived. There must have been a massive leak of security somewhere along the line. Hedge was supposed to be anonymous — he was, in fact, a hedge, a screen between H of S and ordinary people, a kind of buffer to protect the higher brass of the Establishment. It could be most serious if his cover was blown. And what, for heaven’s sake, did the woman mean by the use of the phrase unpleasant for him? Hedge mopped at his face, which had begun to sweat. He lit another cigarette.

  He drove to the Foreign Office. He enquired if Mr Shard was in. Detective Sergeant Kenwood, FO Special Branch, answered. “He’s in, sir. Do you wish to speak to him?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Hedge said, and rang off. He bit his nails. He sat at his desk in agitation, a prey to his nerves. Should he, or should he not, confide in Simon Shard? Shard, detective chief superintendent ex the Yard and now Hedge’s right-hand man, knew all the tricks of cloak-and-dagger. But the woman had known his telephone number and his name … she might get to know of other things, she might even have her spies inside the Foreign Office itself. No-one was safe these days, you couldn’t trust anybody.

  Hedge passed a wretched day, full of indecision and trepidation.

  *

  “Hedge,” the man said. “As expected. And alone.” Hedge felt the muzzle of an automatic nudge his side through two layers of clothing. “If you turn out to have company lurking, it’ll be just too bad.”

  “What precisely do you mean?” Hedge quaked.

  There was a harsh laugh. “One guess.”

  Hedge didn’t press the point: really, the query had been unnecessary. The automatic had spoken for itself loud and clear. Hedge said, “I was expecting a woman. Who are you?”

  “Never mind who I am. The woman … she doesn’t matter either. Walk along with me.”

  “Where to?”

  “Never mind where. Just keep with me.”

  “Oh, very well.”

  They moved on, down the side of the lake furthest from Birdcage Walk. Still there were few people about. Hedge looked longingly towards his left, at the guardroom of Wellington Barracks, with good, solid guardsmen on sentry duty, part of England’s glory, men who represented safety and sanity in a threatening world. Why, oh why, had he not confided in Shard? But if he had, then he might well have been dead by now. Shard, like the policeman he was basically, would have insisted on providing cover, and, however distant, that cover might have registered with the man with the gun.

  Hedge asked, “What do you want of me?”

  “Assistance.”

  “I see. Er — can you be more precise?”

  “I can. And soon, Hedge, I shall be.”

  They moved on towards Buckingham Palace. Light snow began to fall, gently powdering the trees and bushes, gently powdering Hedge’s greatcoat and muffler. The only sounds were those of traffic moving along the Mall and past the palace, to and from Victoria or the Admiralty Arch. Soon the snow would muffle them.

  Hedge and his escort emerged from the park. “Watch it,” the man said. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t like.” There was a short wait; then a big black car, a Volvo, slowed and pulled in towards the pavement. “Get in,” the man said as another man beside the car’s driver leaned back and pushed the rear near-side door open. “Be quick about it.”

  Hedge got in and was given a violent shove from behind, a shove that sent him head first into the well in rear of the driver’s seat. The car moved back into the traffic; Hedge remained where he was, face down, held there by the foot of the man who had joined him in the park.

  *

  During the day there had been contact between Hedge and Shard, contact over matters far removed from the female who had disturbed Hedge’s breakfast. Minor departmental matters in the main, a few ends to be cleared up before the advent of Christmas. Hedge had been tempted to discuss his call and in resisting this temptation had become distrait and dithery, a prey to his nerves and his indecision. Later, Shard had cogitated: what was up with Hedge? There were no clues. But at one point, on entering Hedge’s sanctum, he had heard Hedge on the telephone, speaking to Mrs Reilly-Jacobs, a name known to Shard. Hedge had cut short the conversation rather obviously, and had looked flushed. Some clandestine affair in progress? Hedge was, and this Shard knew, a frustrated womaniser and Mrs Reilly-Jacobs was an attractive woman. Shard had seen photographs of her in society magazines, and in newspapers when she’d been at functions to do with her husband’s ministry. Anyway, it was no business of Shard’s, who believed in live and let live. But he found it hard to believe that anyone as attractive as Mae-Li Reilly-Jacobs would welcome the attentions of an elderly philanderer like Hedge, not exactly a sex symbol.

  That night, Shard worked late. After Hedge had left his office, something had come in from Germany, from the British Embassy in Bonn. It had been urgent, and had needed Hedge’s personal attention. When Shard had used the security line to his house, Mrs Millington had said Mr Hedge had not returned. Not returned at all since leaving for the FO that morning. The time was now nine-thirty-four by Shard’s watch. Mrs Millington, when asked, said that yes, it was unusual for Mr Hedge not to give her due warning that he wouldn’t be in, or at least to telephone to say he’d been delayed unexpectedly. She’d had his dinner all ready for him and it was spoiling. Normally, he dined at eight-thirty sharp, a man of punctilious routine.

  Feeling uneasy, Shard rang through to Beth, his wife, whom he’d called earlier to say he would be late home. It now looked, he said, as though he might stay at the FO all night. He knew Beth didn’t like being alone in the house and he wasn’t surprised when she said she’d ring her mother and see if she could come round. Mrs Micklem lived rather too close for Shard’s liking. He made a wry face into the telephone and said that would be fine.

  He wondered again about Mae-Li Reilly-Jacobs but decided that was too fanciful altogether.

  *

  After a very uncomfortable journey Hedge was decanted into a garage, the door of which was shut behind him before he was permitted to emerge from constriction. There was a light in the ceiling but the garage was totally anonymous. Hedge was taken through a doorway into a big square hall with a number of other doors opening off. There was an atmosphere of money around. The floor was well-polished parquet and bore a number of expensive-looking rugs. When he was pushed into a drawing-room he found a lush carpet and what looked like genuine antiques. He had no idea where he was; in London or out of it? The drive had been a longish one.

  He was told to sit down. He sat in a big armchair. He was watched by the two men from the car and by the man who had picked him up in St James’s Park, who seemed to be the owner of the house. This man had put away his automatic. For the first time Hedge had a proper look at him. He was tall and well-dressed and he seemed to be a gentleman, which term Hedge would not have used for his companions, one of whom wore jeans and a T-shirt advertising a brand of lager. A lager lout? Hedge didn’t like it, didn’t like it at all. The third man was simply squalid, with a beer gut behind a cheap suit, thick lips and a nose that ran. The nose was bulbous with beer and the head was bald. Beneath it, the eyes were small and close-set. By Hedge’s estimation, he was a thug. It was a curious set-up and a frightening one. People could be beaten up, killed. Bodies could be disposed of — there were so many methods. Dissolved in acid, buried in concrete and thrust beneath motorways under construction, thrown into deep water with heavy weights attached to the feet. Bodies were by no means indestructible.

  But why should these people wish to kill him?

  Perhap
s they didn’t.

  Not if he co-operated?

  But in what way? Hedge’s mind, in the absence of any conversation initiated by the other parties, was running ahead of itself. Perhaps they had made a monumental mistake and it was not he they wanted. Hedge was Foreign Office, something very far removed from crime and criminals. Of the ordinary sort anyway.

  The man, the original man, moved across the room and unlocked a tantalus from which he drew a decanter of whisky. He poured himself a generous shot and added water. No drinks were offered to his companions or to Hedge. Glass in hand, the man came back and stood looking down at his captive.

  He was smiling now. Hedge licked at dry lips and asked a question.

  “What is all this about? Surely you realise you’re taking an immense risk in — in abducting anyone of my standing?”

  “I think the risk is slight, Hedge.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes.” The wretched man was smiling still, looking down sardonically at the seated Hedge. “Largely because of your own character, I’d venture to say.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow you.” Hedge’s tone was stiff.

  “No? Then I’ll try to explain, Hedge.” The man took another pull at the whisky and studied Hedge’s face. He said, “You are a vain and pompous man, Hedge. Conceited. You set a lot of store by your position in society. In the Foreign Office. You would not like scandal. And you are vulnerable. Vulnerable in a number of ways, one of them being Mrs Reilly-Jacobs.”

  Hedge stared. “What nonsense! What has she to do with me?”

  There was a shrug. The man went on smiling but didn’t utter. Then Hedge ticked over up to a point. He said, “That telephone call. It was said to be Mrs Reilly-Jacobs on the line. Why?”

  “Simply because we knew you would take the call. From a stranger, you might not have done. But, you see, you know Mrs Reilly-Jacobs.”

  “Yes —”

  “In a biblical sense, Hedge. If you follow.”