The Logan File

by Philip McCutchan

  Snow was falling thickly and it was very cold.

  *

  “Logan.”

  “Schreuder. I am Schreuder. But of course you knew that. Logan suited my purpose all those years ago.”

  “When you were in England,” Shard said. “Acting for the Germans.”

  “Yes. For my own country. For Hitler.”

  “Are you still for Hitler?”

  “Yes.” The voice was strong now, filled with a kind of passion, a deep loyalty to a dead murderer. “My loyalties have never changed, neither have my beliefs. I’m not like some others who fear their fate too much.”

  Shard said nothing. With Logan/Schreuder he was sheltering in a barn, or not exactly a barn he believed — more like one of the outlying buildings, storehouses for animal feedstuffs, that dotted some of the North Yorkshire dales, a long way from any other buildings. Back behind the house that had caught fire, he’d had some luck. Brosak’s mistake in opening fire had rebounded in Shard’s favour; the shots had been heard and a posse of armed police had come round from the front, shining large torches. Brosak had turned and run; the police, giving chase, hadn’t seen Shard and Logan, still flattened to the ground. Shard hadn’t seen what happened subsequently to Brosak and his thugs; but as soon as it was safe to do so he had struck out into the countryside, more or less carrying Logan, and had found their shelter.

  Logan, who seemed better, the apparently imminent heart attack not having materialised, spoke again. “We can’t stay here long, you know. They’ll —”

  “Agreed.” It was a long way yet to the dawn; they would move out soon, taking advantage of the darkness. But where to? Shard asked, “You want to get back to West Germany, Schreuder?”

  “Of course. And you?”

  Shard laughed. “Likewise! Do you know the terrain round here?”

  “A little, but many years ago. Before the partition, you see. There will have been many changes, obviously.”

  Shard nodded. He said, “Before we move out, there are some questions.”

  “I am sure there are, my friend. But why ask them now? Wouldn’t it be better to concentrate on getting out of this vile country?” Suddenly he gave a quiet laugh. “Or do you fear that I shall die before you have another opportunity? If so, I shall set your mind at rest. I shall not die. And I shall not answer any questions. For your part, you are depending on me to get you out. So there will be no violence.” Logan laughed again. “But this much I’ll tell you, Mr Shard: matters are moving to a climax now, all is ready. And there are certain people in your country, people in high places, who will ensure that — let us say, certain things will be done when they know that I am still in the land of the living.”

  Shard said no more. Logan’s voice had been filled with hate; hate for the British, for the East Germans, for all who were opposed to the concept of Adolf Hitler. For the sake of that dead monster Logan was, as Shard knew, prepared to see the world plunged again into war. A moment later Logan confirmed this.

  He said, “If you British don’t act while Russia is caught by her own difficulties, then your country will die. That is very certain. And I believe this is known in Whitehall.” The rabies, of course. Shard asked, “How do you go about giving the word, Logan — Schreuder? Currently, you’re not in any position to communicate?”

  Logan was fully confident. He was not alone, he said; and, always with half an eye on possible abduction or capture, he had left instructions where they would be carried out to the letter.

  *

  In the north of England a police mobile, driving down from Middleton-in-Teesdale to Brough along the B6276, observed a helicopter flying low from east to west over the big reservoir at Grassholme. The helicopter carried the markings of the Army Air Corps and the constables in the mobile thought nothing of it. Neither did they remark upon a car stopped on the road that crossed the reservoir, or upon a man who had got out of the car and was standing contemplating the water. It was nothing out of the ordinary; the mobile went on and of course no report was made. Like all police forces nationwide, the constables were well aware of the rabies threat and they were still keeping an eye open for dog compounds and the like, if with somewhat decreasing vigilance. And they knew that to get rabies you needed to be bitten by infected teeth. Rabies had no connection with helicopters or reservoirs or solitary men getting out of cars …

  Farther south in Bedfordshire, a man with a canvas bag slung over his shoulder also got out of a car and walked towards a reservoir. He too was observed by a passing mobile; but he was only a fisherman. What was there to look at twice?

  Again — no interest. Which was a pity as things were to turn out.

  *

  Hedge trudged through the appalling day, the terrible snow. At times it was like walking on ice. He was trying to find transport; anything would do — the bus, the train, even a taxi if the driver would take him all the way to Berlin. There was not a taxi to be seen, however; and at the bus station, when he found it more or less by accident — having enquired the way but not fully understanding the answer and the stupid German arm-waving — no buses seemed to be running; he didn’t know why and there was no-one around to ask. A public holiday, perhaps? But in the East they didn’t particularly celebrate Christmas. A strike? They didn’t, or they used not to, countenance strikes in the Eastern Bloc, which of course was a point in their favour. Or had been.

  Behind Hedge, at a safe distance, trudged two plain-clothes policemen. Like Hedge themselves, they were cold, soon tired, for Hedge’s way was long, and bloody-minded as to their current duty. Their quarry was scarcely behaving suspiciously; tiredly only. The Englishman’s gait suggested that he suffered badly from corns; or perhaps flat feet only.

  They became alert each time Hedge stopped to speak to somebody; but in the end came to the conclusion, the correct one, that he was merely asking the way. To somewhere. They cogitated; a rendezvous, or a way out of Dresden? Time perhaps would tell.

  Ahead of the two plain-clothes men, Hedge entered an eating establishment. The followers strolled to the other side of the street and watched, casually, from the pavement — watched by studying the reflection in the window of a shop that sold marital aids. The policemen stared at but did not see — for they were concentrating on the reflections of Hedge — an interesting assortment of gadgets. From inside, the shopkeeper, a stout man with a heavy moustache and liver-yellow eyes, watched the men. They were clearly police. Their eyes appeared to bore through his window display and see other things that it were better they should not see. The shopkeeper went away deeper into his premises and made sure that his pornographic literature was secure where it would not easily be found.

  Inside the café Hedge sat in a steamy atmosphere along with two workmen and a sluttish-looking woman in a dirty head-scarf.

  He ordered only coffee and a roll; the food in his cell had been atrocious, scarcely eatable in fact, but he was not really hungry: he was too worried, too upset altogether. He was not supposed to be in the field to this extent; he was the co-ordinator supposedly static in the Berlin Consulate-General. That he was here in Dresden was, he admitted to himself, his own fault. To a large extent anyway: that Berlin store and Father Christmas — and that wretched girl and her taxi — must share some of the blame. Also the sugar-beet lorry. But how was he convincingly to explain to the Permanent Under-Secretary that so many things had come together to frustrate him? He still believed that Father Christmas had been Logan. And now Father Christmas would be dispersed for another year, his season being over.

  The coffee and roll came: having consumed that he tendered British currency, his West German cash having all been expended on his taxi in Berlin. This the proprietor didn’t like. There was an argument; the German grew heated and abusive — he spoke no English, but all his meanings were crystal clear. Hedge said he was very sorry but the sterling currency was all he could manage. The fact of his Englishness was another source of anger to the Democratic German and there was a threat of
the police being called. Hedge didn’t understand half of all this and got to his feet with dignity, making for the exit. The proprietor followed, shouting, laying hands on Hedge as he emerged into the snow.

  Across the street, the two plain-clothes men swung round. They took in the gist of the loudly-conducted dispute; their eyes met. Without money, negotiable money, their quarry would be brought to a dead stop and nothing would be learned about him. They also heard the shouted threat of the police, and there would be little point in allowing the Englishman to be at this stage returned to the custody from whence he had come.

  They crossed the street. They spoke in English. “Your pardon, mein Herr. We happened to hear,” one of them said. “You will permit us to be of assistance, hein?”

  Hedge was astonished. He stared at some notes in the hand of the plain-clothes man. “It’s awfully decent of you. But why —”

  “It is the wish of all Germans to increase and assist the tourism. That is of much importance to our country, the good relationship with all peoples. Please accept.” The money was thrust into Hedge’s not unwilling palm. His fingers closed over it, and he uttered thanks. The British Embassy would repay, he said, and did they want a receipt?

  No receipt was required. The café proprietor uttered noises and was paid. Hedge enquired the way to the railway station. He set off and the plain-clothes men walked at a distance behind. Since their personal usefulness was now at an end, the senior of them used a small radio and spoke to headquarters, giving the current known destination of the Englishman. Two fresh plain clothes men would pick up the suspect at the railway station.

  *

  By this time all the police forces of the Western continental nations were on the watch for Logan. Also for Detective Chief Superintendent Shard. In Whitehall there was much concern about what might have happened to Shard, now out of communication for a considerable period. Again a meeting of the Cabinet had been called. The position appeared to be stalemate. No Logan, no implementation of the threat, no sign of rabies either. The Home Secretary referred again to the earlier Cabinet minutes: the whole thing could be a bluff, though he was unable to make any suggestion as to why there should be a bluff. It all seemed totally without point.

  This time the Prime Minister disagreed, sensing ennui amongst the Cabinet members. There was surely substance; undoubtedly Shard had disappeared, undoubtedly Hedge was in Communist hands. Why — if there was no substance?

  “Let us recap, shall we?”

  There were nods. “Yes, Prime Minister.”

  “Very well. Logan proposes to wipe out us British by the use of this new and very rapid strain of rabies. This he will do unless we, with America, go into immediate action against the USSR. This sounds totally crazy — I think we’re all agreed on that, and all agreed that Logan is nothing short of a madman. But I ask you to remember that many times throughout history, madmen have succeeded in their enterprises against all sane likelihood.” Mrs Heffer thumped the table. “Although nothing further has been heard from Logan, I believe we must still take this threat seriously, as I’ve said all along. It is true what Logan has said: the Soviets are in a state of disarray, wide open to a concerted attack. The concept — while unthinkable of course — is not wholly impossible.”

  There were nods. The Defence Secretary asked, “Has there been any shift in the American position, Prime Minister?”

  There had not. There had been another transatlantic conversation, Prime Minister to President. The President had been adamant. Also angry and impatient.

  “For God’s sake! Do you seriously mean to suggest that we’re likely to agree to go into a pre-emptive strike on the say-so of a guy who clearly needs his goddamn head read?”

  “The rabies, George —”

  “Hasn’t happened.”

  “Yet, George. Yet.”

  “And won’t! It’s a load of baloney. If it did happen …”

  “Yes?”

  The President had seemed to retract. “No comment. I’m sorry, Charlotte, but you British, you’re over-reacting. The whole thing’s wacky.”

  “Suppose it was the US?” the Prime Minister said.

  “Well, if it was, then I guess we’d deal with it. Find the source, find the goddamn dogs — you know?”

  It was useless; Mrs Heffer had cut the call in a huff. When told of the American response, the Cabinet was collectively unsurprised. Nevertheless, the Defence Secretary reported that if lunacy did prevail, then he was as ready as was possible. War, in these times, could in fact be mounted very quickly. There was little need, despite what he had said earlier, to call up reserves or make large-scale troop movements. The RAF was always on an alert, always ready, as were the nuclear submarines on their deep, silent and secret patrols. The missiles could be sent off within seconds of a Prime Ministerial decision. All armed services were already, just as a normal precaution, on an amber alert.

  Mrs Heffer made a classic final comment: “Of course, it may never happen.” But she clearly didn’t believe that.

  In a state of nerves for one reason and another, the members dispersed back to their ministries. In some of their hearts, Logan was still very much a time-bomb. There had not yet been a full investigation of the suicide of one of their colleagues, but when that did happen some very dirty washing could be revealed. Of course, it was always possible to engineer a cover-up if the matter remained internal, but while Logan lived it would not remain internal. In some of the ministerial breasts there lurked a deep and so-far hidden thought: back in the thirties, Adolf Hitler had been appeased. Perhaps now it would be as well to appease Logan …

  *

  Shard was not prepared to move in the full light of day. The East German police would be much too vigilant and the geriatric Logan would stand out a mile. Also, his disappearance would most probably be known to Moscow; and the KGB would be baying however discreetly at the heels of the East German authorities. A failure to find and apprehend Logan would lead to some very harsh recriminations.

  The day following the overnight trek eastwards from the barn-like building was endured in a long-abandoned railway siding where there stood a truck that looked as though it hadn’t been used for many years. It stood rusted and silent and empty amid the snow. Shard approached it with extreme caution and never mind the fact that the whole surrounding area appeared deserted and abandoned. There were small, mean houses nearby, now with all windows heavily boarded over, once probably the homes of railwaymen. Logan, who was looking unwell again, had wanted to try to enter one of the houses but Shard had refused. Signs of a break-in would attract attention if any police patrols came around. The truck would provide all the shelter they could afford currently. They clambered aboard, entering through a sliding door that stood half open. Shard assisted Logan through, and the old man, breathing heavily, sank to the filthy, rotted floorboards, moaning to himself now. For most of the journey towards the Western sector he had talked, a continuous outpouring of hatred for what had been the Allied Powers in the war, castigating the leaders of old, Churchill and Roosevelt and de Gaulle, for not having done the sensible thing, which would have been to throw in their lot with the Führer and the Third Reich, a combination of enormous strength that would have ruled the world. There would have been eternal peace world-wide; over-ridingly, the Soviets would have been forever impotent, the great land mass ruled from Berlin, London and Washington. The West, Logan kept on saying, had missed its great opportunity and now he was handing it back to them.

  “By way of threat,” Shard said harshly. Logan was, he’d found, a loathsome man, acid, sadistic in his outlook — the man had gloried in what Hitler had done to the Jews — swayed by his Nazi past to a point of irretrievable insanity. If it hadn’t been for Hedge, Shard would have considered handing Logan over to the East Germans, who would quickly have dealt with any threat. But Hedge was under that threat from his London kidnappers … and whatever Hedge had done in the past, Shard’s loyalty would not allow him to go back on his word,
to say nothing of his duty as instructed, to bring Logan back to the West.

  Logan began coughing again, as he had back in the burning house. It was a racking sound; the journey through the snow had been bad. Logan’s face had a nasty flush, but as Shard watched, the flush faded and was replaced by a grey pallor. Shard did what he could; it wasn’t much. He removed his own jacket and rolled it up, placing it beneath the old man’s head. That head was square, Prussian. A bitter wind swept in through the door. The door was heavily rusted and Shard had been unable to close it further and it remained half open. Snow came in on the wind. Shard had dragged Logan to one end of the truck, in the lee of the sides, but if the snow and the wind direction continued there was going to be drifting inside the truck.

  He would not move out until nightfall. It was going to be a long day. Logan fell into a kind of sleep, a very disturbed one. His limbs moved restlessly and he jabbered away to himself, something rooted in the great days of the ’thirties when Adolf Hitler’s star had been in the ascendant. When at last the rambling stopped, Logan lifted his head and focused on Shard. “What day is it?” he asked.

  Shard told him.

  “And the time?”

  “1030 hours,” Shard said. “Why do you ask, Logan?”

  Logan laughed; the sound was more like a cackle. “I wanted to know how much longer was left.”

  Shard said nothing, waiting for Logan. Logan went on, “I am going to die, do you know that?”

  “I thought you said —”

  “I know what I said. But I feel it now. I begin to see my Führer … more clearly. And I have to tell you now … when I die, my life’s work will not die with me. There are those who are pledged to carry it on.”

  “Brosak?”

  “Yes. Brosak will …” The voice faded, once again Logan closed his eyes. Shard reminded him that he had wanted to know the time and date so that he would know how much time was left.