The Logan File

by Philip McCutchan

  *

  Word of the time of fruition had reached Whitehall later in the morning of the sudden call to Hedge from the assistant under-secretary propelling him out of his bed. It came in the form of a letter posted three days before in the small West German town of Rinteln not far from Minden where there was a British army garrison. The letter was accompanied by a sheaf of closely-typed documentation, apparently scientific stuff. It was addressed to the Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, with copies to the Home Office, the Department of Health, and the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food.

  The detail was formidable and intricate; the purport of it was frankly terrifying.

  A meeting of the Cabinet was called as a matter of urgency. Later, Hedge was sent for by God himself — the Permanent Under-Secretary, not his deputy.

  “Your man Shard, Hedge. Any results?”

  “Not as yet, Under-Secretary. It’s early days.”

  “I’m afraid we haven’t many days left. Where is Shard now?”

  “In West Germany, Under-Secretary, that’s all I know. Shard has carte blanche to act and move —”

  “Yes, yes.” The Under-Secretary of State was clearly a very worried man. “You have no other word of Logan, Hedge?”

  “I’m sorry to say not, Under-Secretary —”

  “We have. We have this.” He pushed a typed paper across his desk towards Hedge. “This is an extract, a summary of what’s been received from Logan — obviously, posted before his disappearance. Read it — and hold onto your hat.” Hedge read. The paper was short and precise, right to the point. Logan had with his scientific associates developed a vaccine of a violently vicious nature. This vaccine when injected into animals produced rabies. Not, according to Logan’s summary, ordinary rabies. The vaccine enormously cut the incubation period so that an animal coming into contact with an infected animal — or a human bitten by an infected animal — would develop the disease within a matter of days.

  Hedge, his mouth hanging open, looked up and was about to utter when the Under-Secretary cut in on him. “Read on, Hedge.”

  Hedge did so. He read that some thirty thousand animals, cats and dogs and rats mainly, plus some foxes and bats, had already been injected in well hidden compounds spread throughout Western Europe from the north of West Germany, down through France and Spain and into Italy. Also in the British Isles.

  Hedge looked up glassily. “Where on earth …”

  “So far as this country’s concerned, probably the remoter areas of the north. Also Wales perhaps. Of course, they’ll be looked for. All police forces on immediate alert. But when they’re found, what then? A vet’s nightmare, Hedge —”

  “It could be bluff, Under-Secretary.” Hedge put the document down with a shaking hand.

  “Yes, it could be, certainly. But we have to take it very seriously all the same until we know different. The Ministry’s veterinaries aren’t committing themselves yet. They know nothing whatever about this new strain. They, too, tend towards the bluff theory. They say the disease as at present known wouldn’t spread with anything remotely like the speed claimed in these papers — I understand it would normally take some months — but of course a new strain could make hay of that.” The Under-Secretary passed a hand over his face, looking harassed and uncertain. “We’ll know quite soon, possibly. Thirty thousand animals when released — which they’re going to be at some unspecified date — the situation could become desperate within a matter of weeks if what these papers say is true.”

  Hedge asked in perplexity, “Why is Logan doing this, Under-Secretary? Do we know? What does he expect to gain?”

  For answer the Under-Secretary passed across another document. This was Logan’s own original message, typed on a separate sheet of paper, brief and to the point like the summary of the rabies threat. Logan, it seemed, was out for a big killing and his demands were going to shake Whitehall rigid. Logan/Schreuder was still a convinced Nazi. Herr Hitler, the paper said, had been right in his aims. There was still a very large if elderly number of the Nazi old guard alive in both West and East Germany, men who had served their Führer in the Party hierarchy and in such honoured military arms as the Waffen SS, Germany’s elite. And the Soviet Union — and never mind glasnost which, Logan wrote, was an irrelevance that would one day pass — Russia was still the enemy that had to be eradicated. And now was the time. With glasnost and perestroika and the hand of peace being offered around the world by the Kremlin, with the Russian masses tasting freedom for the first time in their existence, with most of the satellite countries having rejected communism, Russia was softening up. The withdrawal of missiles, the lifting of the Iron Curtain … if the West should strike now, there would be much success. A sudden nuclear blow, the sending off of the Trident missiles from the submerged submarines and a simultaneous air and land strike by the combined forces of NATO would hit with devastating effect against a Union of Soviet Socialist Republics that was facing a high degree of disintegration already. The trouble still continuing in Armenia, the state of civil war in Azerbaijan, unrest in many other places, the people defying the Russian Army, defying high-ranking Party officials sent in from Moscow.

  “So —”

  “So, Hedge, the West is going to be coerced into support for Logan’s schemes. The West is going to be coerced into a sudden strike against Russia, without any formal declaration of war. A blitzkrieg. Like Adolf Hitler. And somebody like Adolf Hitler, no doubt, will rise again — possibly in a reunified Germany.”

  Hedge stared. “In the world as it now is … all the fading away of communism rendering all that sort of thing quite unnecessary even if … Logan must be crazy, Under-secretary!”

  “Stark, raving mad would be a more fitting description.”

  Hedge brought out a handkerchief and wiped at his cheeks.

  “Of course we won’t concede. But even if we did, the whole thing would be impossible without America. How would Logan propose to get round that, Under-Secretary?”

  There was a shrug. “Don’t ask me. He doesn’t go into that. There’s nothing about rabies being released in the USA — it would probably be impractical … unless a large amount of the vaccine could be imported through some South American state. We all know how easy it is to get drugs into the USA, cocaine and so on, from South America. So perhaps that’s yet to come — the threat to America. Or perhaps — conjecture again — perhaps Logan reasons that once Europe was involved, America would be forced to join in for her own protection. Just to make a thorough job of it.” The Under-Secretary leaned forward and jabbed a gold ballpoint towards Hedge. “Don’t forget, Hedge, there are a number of influential senators in Congress who’d like nothing better than to obliterate the Soviet Union even now, even after all the doves of peace. We have some similar lunatics here in Britain. They may be difficult to restrain — once the rabid animals are on the point of release!”

  *

  Hedge had gone on, before being dismissed from the presence, to ask if the Under-Secretary saw some connection between Logan’s threat and his being taken into East Germany.

  The answer to that had been yes. The men from Moscow would want Logan in person, if it was to be assumed that the threat had leaked to the Kremlin. And if it had, the Under-Secretary said, then no-one could predict what might happen.

  “But the threat would surely be blown in advance in that case, Under-Secretary?”

  “Well — yes, it would. But Russia might decide to strike first. Frankly, whatever the Russian leadership says in public, there’s not much real trust accorded the West in some Eastern quarters. And so many of our own politicians are unreliable, to use no stronger word.” Having come out with that, the Under-Secretary showed embarrassment. “That’s to go no further than this room, Hedge,” he said.

  “Why, of course, Under-Secretary, you may rely upon me to respect a confidence.” Hedge sounded unctuous; he did not know precisely what had made the Under-Secretary utter his comment, his indiscreet — f
or a civil servant — comment. But he did know Logan; he had had good cause to. And he didn’t doubt for one moment that others in high places, higher places than his own, had been suborned over past years by Logan. In present circumstances that could weigh. Heavily and dangerously. It occurred to Hedge — it had already occurred in fact — that his own kidnappers of recent date might be acting on behalf of those highly-placed persons, fearful now that Logan was known to be alive after all.

  As this thought struck Hedge, a related thought came into the mind of the Under-Secretary. “Those men, Hedge, the ones who seized you —”

  “Yes, Under-Secretary?”

  “It’s now even more important than ever that they don’t get their hands on Logan. I understood they tried to force you into delivering Logan to them?”

  “Yes, that is so, Under-Secretary, but of course I would never —”

  “Of course not, that goes without saying. But if Logan’s found you’ll have to be quick off the mark. Or Shard will.”

  “Yes, Under-Secretary.” Very quick indeed. If Logan was apprehended and not handed over, Hedge was due for the chop from the villains. He didn’t doubt their efficiency. And what about a freed Logan opening his mouth? At that dreadful moment an almost overwhelming desire came to Hedge, urging him to make a clean breast and get the past off his back once and for all. But the urge was not quite overwhelming enough; much danger lay that way as well.

  Before being dismissed, Hedge faced another bombshell. Logan had at all costs to be found, the Under-Secretary said. “Shard on his own is not enough, Hedge, and I don’t want our part in this to be, shall I say, taken over by the Yard or anyone else. You must take personal charge. You must get out into the field yourself.” He smiled. “I’m sure you’ll welcome the change, won’t you?”

  *

  Shard had talked to the girl Gerda Schmidt into the small hours. She had not in fact seen her grandfather for some time and now she was blaming herself for her neglect of an old man, the more so as she had herself been the unwitting vehicle leading to his disappearance. She had never known that the grandfather she knew as Heinrich Schreuder was known also as Logan or that he had been a double agent acting in the German interest during the war. She did know about his Nazi connections, the men of the old guard who revered Adolf Hitler still. She did not herself, she said, subscribe to those views. She had no interest in politics and no party affiliations. She believed simply in peace.

  Before going back to her flat she told Shard something that interested him.

  She said, “I know one of grandfather’s friends, an old man who was a member of the Hitler Youth and then joined the Waffen SS and fought against the Russians.”

  “Yes, Fräulein?”

  “His name is Wolfgang Brosak. There is talk about him that I have heard. He is one who wishes to re-establish the German Reich as it was under Hitler, one who hates the Russians as does my grandfather for the defeat of the armies marching on Stalingrad and Moscow so many years ago. That is something they cannot ever forgive or forget, I think. It is all so stupid now.” She paused, her face troubled with the silliness of old men. “Herr Brosak lives in Lower Saxony, in Rinteln —”

  “He’s retired now?”

  “No, he is some years younger than grandfather — he is old, yes, but he is a scientist and he has a laboratory in which he works still.”

  Gerda gave him the address, saying that it was unlikely Herr Brosak would have any knowledge of her grandfather’s current whereabouts but he might be worth a visit on the off-chance.

  Worth a deviation? Shard decided not. Logan himself might be well on his way into the Soviet Union. The faster Shard got to Magdeburg now, the better.

  He had two hours’ sleep; then his telephone burred, bringing him awake on the instant. He was required urgently in the Consulate-General.

  When he got there, there had been a call from Hedge.

  5

  Hedge, shattered by the mere thought of going out into the field, had stammered and stuttered out his excuses to the Under-Secretary. He was no longer young; his field experience was not of recent date; he would be rusty. And so on and so on. He did not of course go into the real reasons: to go into the field would be infra dig for a man of his seniority; it would be very uncomfortable; and he did not wish to be too far from the hub of events since he had his position and his future to think about if those vile kidnappers should go into their promised action against him. Also, in the field the actual physical dangers were immense and at any moment one might get a shot in the back.

  But it was no use: the Under-Secretary was adamant. And the sooner Hedge got off his backside and his office chair, the better. Yes, the Foreign Secretary himself would be informed of Hedge’s self-sacrifice in the interest of his duty to his Monarch. If Hedge saved the day, then there would be a good deal of kudos in it, which Hedge interpreted as nothing less than a CBE. Stretching the imagination, he could even see a K somewhere along the line. That sugared the pill.

  He went home, home without benefit of Mrs Millington, and packed his essentials. Changes of underwear; socks, vests, pants, handkerchiefs … a flask of brandy, very good Champagne brandy to ward off chills and calm nerves. It was, after all, Christmas. Mrs Millington’s attempts at decoration were all around him. He felt nostalgic about them now, wishing he could remain with them instead of gallivanting around Germany or wherever.

  Christmas. Hedge thought vengefully that it was because of Christmas that the Under-Secretary of State was sending him into the field. There was no-one else available.

  He had no idea where to start. Shard was the field man, the one who knew where he was going. Shard was used to it. Hedge was well aware that things were very different now from when he had last been out on actual operations. The world moved so much faster now, and one was no longer dealing with gentlemen, persons who spoke one’s own language and who understood. Once, even one’s adversaries — even foreigners — had had savvy.

  Hedge decided to telephone Shard. If he was anywhere near a telephone.

  *

  The message left by Hedge had been to tell Shard to ring him back soonest possible at his home number. Using the security line, Shard did so.

  Hedge’s voice was uncertain. He sounded rattled, very badly rattled indeed. He told Shard that he was being sent out to co-ordinate the search for and apprehension of Logan.

  “I don’t know where to begin,” he said irritably.

  Shard felt inclined to say, for God’s sake stay in London.

  “What,” Hedge asked, “do you advise?”

  “Make your HQ here in the Consulate,” Shard said. “Then I’ll know where to contact you.”

  “Oh — yes, of course. You don’t think … anything more active?”

  “No, Hedge.”

  The sheer relief in Hedge’s voice was almost tangible. “You’re sure?”

  “I’m absolutely positive, Hedge. You’ll be far more use if you don’t move around.” Like a blue-arsed fly, Shard was tempted to add. He resisted the temptation and Hedge went on to say that he would be available at any time if Shard wished to consult him.

  “It’s great to know that, Hedge,” Shard said. “In the meantime, are there any further developments?”

  “I was coming to that,” Hedge said, and passed the word about the threatened release of the rabid animals.

  *

  Rabid animals, and a new vaccine, a new and very virulent strain of one of the world’s worst diseases. Gerda Schmidt had given Shard the name and address of a man who had known Schreuder, a man who was a convinced Nazi, a supporter of the notions of dead Adolf Hitler. A scientist, with a laboratory in Rinteln.

  That deviation was going to be worth his while after all.

  Shard made arrangements for a seat to be provided on the next flight out of Tempelhof for Hanover, back on his tracks. And a car to meet him at the airport. A British Army car for preference; he might need some unofficial military support.

  B
y 1030 hours that day he was being driven out of Hanover, south-west along the autobahn for the small town of Rinteln.

  *

  In the UK the alert was on now.

  All police forces had been notified and there was a nationwide search in progress for the animal compounds. The ground search was being aided by helicopters. As yet, nothing had been said publicly; the press was currently in ignorance of the facts. A meeting of the Cabinet, hastily called together, discussed the issues. No-one knew what to suggest, other than that the infected animals be found and destroyed without delay. There was demurrence from the Home Secretary as to destruction; there would be protests from the animal rights people.

  “We need to be extremely careful,” he warned.

  His point was taken. Wholesale destruction of cats and dogs would be a wicked scandal in the eyes of many people, not only the eyes of the animal rights activists. That was, unless the public was informed of the threat.

  The Home Secretary didn’t like that one, either. He was, he reminded the anxious faces, responsible for law and order. Law and order might break down if the public knew what it faced.

  “You can’t have it both ways, Walter,” the Prime Minister said, fluffing at her hair-do.

  They all agreed on that. One seldom disagreed with Mrs Heffer. But no-one put forward a solution. The PM pointed out that it might not be long before the other side, the Logan faction, released it all to the press anyway. While the Cabinet was deliberating, news came: from the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. Barts Hospital had reported a case of rabies admitted earlier that morning. The victim, a child of seven, was not expected to live. The culprit, a Rottweiler, had already been shot after biting the little girl six weeks or so before.

  After that news the mood of the Cabinet grew more sombre, even though the police did not connect the solitary case with the larger threat in any way. Before the meeting broke up, there was more news, this time from the Home Office — a report from Inverness of a helicopter sighting of what appeared to be an animal compound nestling in a remote glen in Sutherland. The helicopter had gone low and had hovered. There had been a lot of snow but a large number of dogs had been seen, running about in circles and barking ferociously, and the police spotter had believed he had seen some of them foaming at the mouth though he couldn’t be sure. What he was sure of had been a kilted figure drinking from a bottle, presumably whisky, and waving a fist at the helicopter. The Scottish Office was asking for instructions. This thereupon fell into the province of the Home Secretary, who faced an immediate dilemma. Did you send in men, with veterinary advice, to make a ground capture? Were you justified in asking the police to risk a fearful disease? Or did you attack with guns and nets and whatnot, or with gas canisters dropped from the air, and kill the dogs and possibly their guarding Scot?