The Logan File Read online

  “Well — yes, I suppose so.” There was a pause. “Anything further on that suicide? You know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I do. And no there isn’t. But the investigation’s under way.”

  “D’you think there’s a connection, Under-Secretary?”

  “That’s what I’m having investigated. Working back, if you follow — back to Logan. I’d rather not commit myself further than that just now.”

  The call was cut. The Under-Secretary leaned forward, his elbows on his desk, his face in his hands. He was dead tired and also at his wits’ end. He himself believed in the threat. The world held so many weirdos these days, men — and women — capable of virtually anything, any nastiness imaginable. Or even unimaginable, like the rabies. Thankfully, the rabies per se was not the business of the FO; but it seemed as though only the FO could avert the threat. Currently via Shard. And of course Hedge. While the Under-Secretary was savagely cursing his luck at having been landed in such a pickle at Christmas, his security line rang again.

  The Consul-General in West Berlin.

  Shard appeared to be out of communication. No-one knew what had happened or where he was, other than that he had last been reported at BMH Rinteln. Hedge had wanted him back in Berlin.

  And now Hedge had vanished as well, no details known. Except for some ridiculous story about a Father Christmas.

  *

  In West Berlin there was a great to-do over Hedge. He had simply vanished, as it seemed, from the face of the earth. Of Gerda Schmidt there was no sign, nor was there any knowledge in official circles. Even the fact of Logan/Schreuder having had a grand-daughter had never been dug out by those moles whose job it was to probe. Father Christmas, however, was investigated and cleared.

  And nothing came through about Shard. A security man was sent post-haste to the British Military Hospital at Rinteln and Major Bruce was interviewed. Apprised of the urgency Bruce spoke at last of Shard’s interest in rabies and of his mission concerning rats to Wolfgang Brosak’s laboratory in the town. This was immediately visited by the West German security people, backed by police, and was found to be deserted. There had been wholesale smashing of equipment, retorts and test-tubes and Bunsen burners plus a lot of gear that had the look of having been very sophisticated prior to smashing. Major Bruce, who had accompanied the investigation, advised that nothing be touched other than by medics clad in protective clothing. This he would arrange for and would make tests. Until then, no action.

  The assumption was made, correctly, that Shard had been abducted and could be anywhere. Word of this was sent in due course to Bonn and the Berlin Consulate-General, and to the Foreign Office in London. At the same time a warning was given to the brass of NATO. A rather vague warning, since no-one had any idea of what was really going on, much less how to combat it. But the documents mailed a few days later by Logan to the FO were again perused and more attention was paid to his demand that the West should go into military action against the Soviets while they were faced with so many internal problems.

  The Cabinet, which was hastily called together, was in a quandary. Russia was now the good, happy friend of the West. But a minister remarked that the Soviet Union had once been friendly towards Adolf Hitler and his Third Reich. Mates together against Britain until Hitler had turned and attacked them. The inference being that you couldn’t trust the Russians. There was another inference and this was that Logan might have a point. Iron Russia out once and for all and you really would have world peace for a long time to come.

  This inference was not spoken, but its presence in the Cabinet room could be felt. To attack a country when it was in a sense down was a far better prospect than rabies.

  It was noticed that there was a thoughtful frown on the Prime Minister’s face. But the Prime Ministerial utterance was as ever firm and unequivocal, an utterance rooted in total certainty. No-one could ever give in to threats. Great Britain would not be coerced. Neither, of course, would the United States. There was a strong degree of impasse. The threat was still somewhat vague and its implementation was a matter of sheer conjecture. They must wait for further clarification, Mrs Heffer said, and this was greeted with relief. There was no need for anyone to make any decisions yet.

  *

  Hedge was feeling desperately ill.

  His mind was confused as to what had happened to him. He recalled Father Christmas and a small boy, and a sort of shopwalker, an offensive man; he recalled a taxi ride and a young woman with expensive perfume and a fur coat. He recalled a lot of snow and a big bang followed by great pain happily of short duration — he recalled a curious feeling of flying through the air after which the pain had ceased very abruptly. Now it had returned in full measure. There was the stickiness of blood, there was a huge lump on his head which ached and throbbed most abominably, his right side felt as though it had been excavated by a can opener and he believed he had broken his left arm.

  Also, he was rolling about willy-nilly on a moving wooden floor, one that heaved and cast him this way and that. He was very cold; the moving floor had no ceiling and a bitter wind was bringing in flurries of snow. There was the sound of a motor. Wuzzily, Hedge came to the conclusion that he was in a moving vehicle, empty but for himself and going he knew not where nor why.

  He tried to crawl towards what he now realised was a tail-board. No use. The effort was far too great; he collapsed back into a bloodstained heap.

  After a very long time, as it seemed to Hedge, the vehicle stopped, coming to rest beneath the roof of some sort of garage, or perhaps a warehouse. Hedge lay and groaned. He heard men moving outside and after a moment one of them looked over the tail-board. There was an exclamation of astonishment, and some rapid gabble in German.

  Hedge was asked to account for his presence.

  He was in too much of a state to remember his German. He asked in a weak but hoarse voice where he was. He asked in English and this caused consternation. There was an interval during which no-one came to his assistance. He felt his very life’s blood draining away fast. Then another man came, one who spoke English. Hedge asked again where he was.

  “Dresden,” the new man said.

  “Dresden. I am sick. I am very badly hurt. I believe I am going to die. The British Consul-General …”

  “Yes?”

  “In West Berlin …”

  There was puzzlement in the air. “West Berlin? Who are you?”

  Hedge was babbling, feeling immensely ill. “The Consul-General in West Berlin —”

  “Dresden,” the man said, “is in the German Democratic Republic.” He added, “A city that you English schweinhundts obliterated with your bombs during the war.”

  Men clambered aboard the lorry and Hedge was extracted, none too carefully. The telephones were used and Hedge was transported to hospital, unconscious again by this time. The police turned up soon after and a watch was mounted on the strange Englishman’s sickbed.

  *

  Shard arrived in Magdeburg just after another nightfall; he had lost count of time but believed it now to be Christmas Day. In Magdeburg God was being accorded scant ceremony; the accent was on the temporal rather than the spiritual. There were sad-looking decorations similar to those Shard had seen in the other towns along the route. That was all. Driven through Magdeburg into semi-rural surroundings, the Citroën pulled into a wide gateway to draw up in the carriage sweep of an imposing private house.

  All three men got out. Shard was ordered out as well. The West Germans had their guns handy but concealed beneath heavy great-coats. Shard was pushed towards some stone steps leading up to a massive front door. A bell was rung. They all waited. After some two minutes and another ring, the door was answered. It was answered by a tall man, elderly, a man who seemed to receive a shock at seeing the men, as though he had been expecting someone else.

  “Herr Brosak,” he said. “Why do you risk coming here?”

  “Because other risks are greater,” Brosak said. All the guns were out
now, menacingly. “We have come for Schreuder. We know he is here. And we know you have attempted to double-cross us.”

  The men pushed the tall man aside and went in with Shard. They went across a large hall and into a book-lined study with elegant leather armchairs and thick curtains. A table lamp was burning by a coal fire. The room was warm and comfortable. In one of the chairs by the fire sat an old man, white-haired and frail, and Shard knew he was now in the presence of Logan.

  *

  “Prime Minister’s office.”

  It was the Foreign Secretary himself on the line. “Personal to the PM,” he said. “This is urgent.”

  “One moment, Foreign Secretary.” The voice was smoothly deferential. The Foreign Secretary held. The Prime Minister came to the telephone. “Yes, Roly?”

  “Hedge, Prime Minister.”

  “Hedge?”

  “My man Hedge — you’ll recall —”

  “Oh, yes, yes, I’m with you. He disappeared. Well?”

  “He’s been located. A set of unfortunate happenings, I gather — I haven’t got the full story yet. But he’s in hospital in Dresden.”

  “Dresden?”

  “Yes, Prime Minister. In the GDR.”

  “I see. Well, Roly, he must be got out immediately.”

  The Foreign Secretary gave an embarrassed cough. “He’s under police guard, Prime Minister —”

  “Never mind that,” said Mrs Heffer crisply and energetically along the wire. “I repeat, he must be got out. Through the proper diplomatic channels, of course —”

  “I’m sorry, Prime Minister, but that won’t be possible —”

  “Not possible? Why not?”

  “Because he’s not supposed to be there, Prime Minister. There would be all manner of diplomatic fuss … we can’t possibly own him now.”

  8

  The dog compound in Sutherland had proved a very astonishing false alarm. It was true that the unfortunate policeman had contracted rabies, but it was established that the biting dog, a Rottweiler, had not come from the compound. His owner had come forward; the dog had disappeared from his home in Inverness, making off on a prowl on his own, a hunting trip no doubt. The compound, when closed in upon by the police cordon, with veterinary surgeons and a man from the ministry, had turned out to be harmless. It was owned by an eccentric Scottish peer and his aged mother, a marchioness with a love of dogs, who had set up a reception centre in a remote area of their own estate. All the inmates had been strays rescued from the streets and possible death at the hands of sundry local councils all over the country and their dog wardens. The marchioness and her semi-lunatic son had been scathing about the anti-dog laws perpetrated a few years earlier. A scandal, they had called them, and they were doing their best to set right a wrong. Naturally enough, they had the animal rights people on their side and afterwards a great song and dance was made about the way the government was currently trying to turn people against man’s best friend.

  The extraordinary thing was that absolutely no sign was found, despite the intensity of the police searches everywhere, of any other compound, any assembly of dogs or cats whatsoever, always leaving aside the authorised pounds such as the Battersea Dogs Home and a number of refuges run by spinster ladies, largely in Sussex. These, and the dog and cat hotels scattered around the country for the reception of pets whose owners were on holiday, had all been contacted and cleared.

  The total lack of success was remarked upon by the Home Secretary.

  “I can only suggest a ruse of this man Logan’s, Prime Minister.”

  “How do you mean, a ruse?”

  “A red herring, Prime Minister. He never had any such compounds at all.”

  “Oh? Then how does he expect to spread this rabies?”

  The Home Secretary shrugged. He had no idea, really. But he offered a suggestion. He said, “It may not be dogs or cats at all. Anyway — not dogs. Cats are rather more ubiquitous and Logan may see no need for them to be kept in pounds. But there’s the other aspect, one we’ve perhaps not considered sufficiently deeply, Prime Minister.” He paused weightily. “Bats,” he said.

  “Bats?”

  “Yes. As you know, of course, Prime Minister, bats have been for some years a protected species. As a result they have proliferated. They’re everywhere — in barns and lofts and — and other places where I understand bats congregate. They’re a nuisance to farmers, to householders too in some cases. And there is the question of their — er — habits.” The Home Secretary coughed. “Their urine. I’m told it contains the germs of rabies.”

  “You mean if a bat pees on you, Walter, you might contract the disease?”

  “I don’t think there has to be an actual … I don’t think the person has actually to be urinated on. There may be danger in the simple fact of the urine, the fact that bats do urinate and that the germs can be spread —”

  The Prime Minister interrupted with a loud sigh. “You may be right, I suppose. But I don’t see what we can do about bats. They can’t be controlled.”

  “We could warn the clergy,” the Home Secretary said gloomily, “but —”

  “Why the clergy, for heaven’s sake, Walter?”

  “Belfries, Prime Minister. The bats live in church belfries as well as the other places I’ve mentioned.”

  Mrs Heffer gave him a searching and sardonic look. Bats might spread the disease if what the Home Secretary had said was true; but the theory didn’t hold water. Not bats on their own. How was Logan, when he considered the time had come, to inform the bat population that they were to start urinating? A dog compound was a different matter; a sudden release of foaming mouths would certainly do the trick.

  But there were apparently no compounds.

  Impasse again. The Prime Minister, who had summoned certain ministers including the Home Secretary to Chequers, gave them a Christmas whisky and sent them packing. There were family matters to attend to now.

  *

  Logan had been a prisoner although there had been no special guard on him; physically he was too far gone to attempt an escape. Shard listened with interest to an exposition of what had happened in the last few days. It seemed that Logan/Schreuder the convinced Nazi had been cut out from the Federal Republic when word of his anti-Soviet plan had leaked, as most secrets do eventually in this age of moles and scant loyalty. The men who had nabbed him, the men now under Brosak’s guns in this room, the men who had attempted a double-cross on Brosak, had been Nazis as convincedly as Brosak and Logan himself. But their loyalties had undergone a sudden change. They were now, as Brosak accused them, in the pay of the Soviets. To this they had no answer. They stood silent before the guns, their eyes moving this way and that, waiting their moment to try to turn the tables.

  Shard felt remarkably superfluous. Why had he been brought here? Presumably, just because he’d turned up in the Rinteln laboratory at an awkward and inopportune moment. It would be more productive, perhaps, to turn his mind towards what Brosak intended to do with him. There had been that talk of an interrogation; that had not yet come. Another productive line would be to consider how he could best make a getaway before it did come.

  Currently, that looked difficult.

  Meanwhile, Brosak was interrogating the renegades.

  And they were not answering.

  Brosak wanted to know just how much had been revealed to the Soviet authorities. The response was a series of shrugs; they didn’t know.

  “I shall perhaps stir your memories,” Brosak said. He lifted his gun. It was a revolver and after producing it earlier he had fitted a silencer onto it. He now thumbed back the firing pin and held it ready cocked. “You will speak quickly,” he said, “or I shall smash the knee of you, Klaus.”

  Klaus was identifiable to Shard by the sudden flicker in the eyes: Klaus was the tall man who had answered the door. He licked at his lips. He darted glances right and left but didn’t speak. Didn’t dare to, was Shard’s estimate, because of what his mates might do to him
if he did.

  Brosak’s voice was quietly threatening. “Come now, Klaus. We have been good friends and comrades in the past. We share many good memories of the old days of the Reich. Even if your loyalties have changed, this does not erase the happy memories. I do not wish to destroy your knees, Klaus, to make you a cripple for the rest of your days. But be very sure that this I will do if you do not talk.”

  Klaus licked again at his lips. There was a shake in his hands, Shard noticed. He probably knew that Brosak was a man of his word. But he said, “We are all old now. There are not many years left. I did not wish to die with so much on my conscience.”

  “The threat to peace,” Brosak stated. “This is —”

  “War in 1939 solved no problems. It made our situation desperate, and now that there has been peace for more than forty years things have so much improved. I decided I did not wish to destroy this.”

  “Not even in the name of the Führer, Klaus?”

  The atmosphere in the room was extraordinary; Shard was aware, as he waited for Klaus to answer Brosak’s question, of some emanation of an evil past, of a resurgence of days best left buried.

  Klaus, trembling, said, “The Führer is dead, Wolfgang. You cannot bring him back to life. Your schemes and Schreuder’s, they can only end in failure. And in so many deaths.”

  Brosak said, still quietly, “So you decided to run, and take your treachery to Moscow.”

  Klaus did not reply. He stood mute, shaking like a leaf, waiting for what was to happen.

  Brosak said, his voice rising now, “Heil Hitler!” Then he squeezed the trigger of the silenced revolver. There was a muffled explosion, sudden contraction of the air, and a stench of gunsmoke, followed by a scream of agony from Klaus. The tall man fell like a suddenly cut-down tree, and blood spurted. Fragmented bones protruded from blasted flesh. The knee had turned into a red and gaping hole.

  Brosak was unmoved. He re-cocked his revolver. The guns of the other men were ready also. Brosak said, “Now who is going to tell me what I want to know?” He turned his head a little, towards the semi-derelict old man in the chair before the fire. “You, Schreuder. You will not have changed your loyalties, I know.”