The Logan File

by Philip McCutchan

  “Yes. We —”

  “You’ve come to my assistance?”

  “Yes, we —”

  “I call that very decent of you. You simply don’t know how very relieved and grateful I am.”

  “Yes. You will come with us, please.”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you. Somewhere more comfortable until the train comes in.”

  There was no response to that; but the men smiled and one of them took his arm. The grip was not entirely friendly, Hedge felt. Alarm stirred; outside the railway station a police car waited. Hedge was steered towards this and thrust into the back. The two men got in, one on either side of him. The car was driven away fast. It entered the courtyard of the police HQ from which he had so thankfully been discharged that morning. He had asked en route, fearful of the answer, if he was going to be taken to Berlin by road.

  “Nein,” the plain-clothes spokesman had said.

  *

  Now there was alarm throughout the country. The Prime Minister, knowing very well that the threat could not remain hidden, had spoken once again on TV to the people, giving them the facts of the botulin. (Straight from the shoulder and in personal appearance, she had said in Cabinet, not trusting the press to get it right. However, she intended saying nothing about the alternative, which was Logan’s ridiculous wish for a strike against the Soviet Union.)

  In Cabinet everyone had had his or her say. There were those who believed that Logan would win, that war would become inevitable, however horrendous a prospect that might be.

  “Not if we catch Logan,” Mrs Heffer said firmly. “Logan’s the key figure. And we have men in the field who may well be on his track even now. Roly?”

  Rowland Mayes, Foreign Secretary, looked up, sleeked his hair down with one hand. “Yes, Prime Minister?”

  “Is there any word of progress, Roly?”

  “I’m afraid not, Prime Minister. Nothing’s been heard from our men in Germany. Except, as you know, that Hedge is in East German hands.”

  “Not very propitious, Roly.”

  “No, Prime Minister.” The Foreign Secretary furrowed his brow in a nervous frown. “Prime Minister … this botulin. I was wondering what’s come through from the Communicable Diseases people in —”

  “Nothing that’s of much help.” Mrs Heffer looked annoyed. “Have you a suggestion, Roly?”

  “Well, I thought — the Guy’s Hospital Poison Unit may have some ideas.”

  Mrs Heffer sighed. “Botulism isn’t a poison, Roly. It’s a disease. The two things are quite different.”

  “Yes, but —”

  “It’s not your department, Roly. Foreign Affairs are. So is finding Logan. Finding him in time.”

  “Yes, Prime Minister.” Rowland Mayes subsided, looking hurt. Mrs Heffer had had a decided edge to her voice in that last exchange and he was only doing his best to help in a terrible situation. And Mrs Heffer seemed to be putting all her faith — if the worst came to the worst and Logan went into action — in the distribution of salt and the boiling of water. Which, he had to admit, was possibly all she could do.

  *

  “Boiling water, I ask you!” Mrs Micklem spoke disparagingly. “How do you boil a bath, for heaven’s sake?”

  “By turning up the heat control, mother.”

  “I doubt if that would be enough. I’ve read about botulin. In some magazine or other, an article by a doctor. And you can get water in your mouth when bathing, you know that.” She added, “What about Stevie?”

  Beth let out a long breath. “I don’t know, mother. I really don’t. Let’s just be content that the government’s doing all it can. There’s nothing we can do about it anyway. Except perhaps don’t bath until it’s all over. Not even wash.”

  Mrs Micklem made a face. But she said, “Well, Mrs Heffer’s a wonderful lady. If anyone can get us through this, she will, I don’t deny.” She paused. “But I’m ever so worried about little Stevie. You know, Beth, his father ought to be here now, it’s his duty.”

  “Simon has other duties, mother.”

  “Yes, well, all right, he has. But nothing’s been heard of him since he left, has it?”

  Beth stared. “What’s that supposed to mean, mother?”

  “Oh, nothing.” Mrs Micklem shrugged. “Read into it what you like, dear. I never said a thing —”

  “Perhaps not, but you were making some kind of suggestion and I wish you wouldn’t because I don’t damn well like it, mother, when Simon’s away —”

  “Hoity-toity! We do get upset over nothing, don’t we? You’re much too quick to react, my girl; anything I say gets taken down in evidence and will be used against me when Simon gets back. Too much of the policeman is rubbing off on you, if you ask me!”

  Beth gave it up; there was nothing to be gained from arguing with her mother. She turned away, tears pricking at her eyes, and went up to Stephen’s room. The little boy was asleep, clutching a teddy that Simon had bought for him soon after he was born. She looked down at him: so like Simon … if anything should ever happen to Simon … but she knew she mustn’t think along those lines, she must be ever optimistic and hopeful or, as a policeman’s wife, she would go mad with worry. She was very worried now: it was easy enough to put two and two together. Simon’s sudden departure just before Christmas, the total silence from him — the total silence from his immediate boss, Hedge — and now the Prime Ministerial broadcast after all the rumours and the press speculation about a threat to do with rabies. Now it wasn’t rabies, it was botulin. And absolutely official too.

  Beth saw a clear link between all of that and Simon. The Christmas decorations in Stephen’s room, the holly, the ivy, the paper chains and the coloured glass baubles and so on, looked pathetic.

  12

  It was a long day in the truck. The snow continued to fall. There was plenty of time for thought after Logan had spoken of botulin. There would be no point in Shard abandoning his orders to bring Logan out to the West, no point in going against Hedge in the greater interest of preventing the lethal contamination of Britain’s water supplies — it would be easy enough to leave the truck and hand Logan over to the East Germans, but that would not help Britain. The East German government would naturally react against Logan’s threat of war, but that would not stop the botulin. Logan would certainly not assist in that.

  In the meantime Logan was saying nothing further. He didn’t seem in a fit state to. He had already said he was going to die; Shard believed him. And just as dusk was coming down over the thickly lying snow and distantly lights were coming on, Shard realised that Logan was dead.

  There were no tears to be shed over that.

  But the quarry now was Brosak. And God alone could say where Brosak might be.

  At full dark Shard left the comparative shelter of the railway truck and headed towards the lights, not knowing precisely where he was but knowing that it was vital he should reach West Germany and alert security that Brosak had to be located before any distribution of botulin could begin.

  *

  After a terrible journey in a very uncomfortable, clapped-out aeroplane, Hedge reached Moscow.

  A long black car, very sinister-looking, met him and his East German escort at the airport and he was driven very fast through the appalling snow to the Kremlin. At least the Kremlin was not the Lubyanka prison and this gave Hedge some hope. After all, he was a highly-placed civil servant, a pillar of the Foreign Office if you cared to put it that way, and no doubt he was being taken to meet someone of level importance on the other side.

  He was.

  He was taken along what seemed miles of corridors, even outdoing the British Foreign Office, and deposited in a big chamber with an immensely high ceiling, gilded and painted in the most beautiful colours which he was much too terrified to appreciate. There were big windows, currently with heavy velvet curtains drawn across; the chamber was lit by a number of crystal chandeliers fitted with electric light bulbs in the shape of candles. There was a long, high
ly-polished mahogany table and at this table sat six men, two of them in plain clothes, four of them in uniform, the uniform of the Soviet Army. Far to one side, in deep shadow, lurked a seventh man, another wearer of plain clothes. Hedge recognised one of the plain-clothes wearers seated at the table — the Russian Foreign Minister, T M Voss, himself. And one of the generals in uniform was the Russian Commander-in-Chief, General Shcherbitsky. Hedge licked nervously at his lips. No-one spoke, but they all looked at him intently, which he didn’t like. He knew what they were going to say when they did speak; and he was right.

  “You are Hedge.”

  “Yes.”

  “Of the British Foreign Office.”

  “Yes. And I really —”

  “Who illegally entered East Germany.”

  “Yes. No. Not illegally. By mis —”

  “We know all about the sugar-beet lorry.” The speaker was T M Voss; and suddenly, like the switching on of a light, he smiled. “An unpleasant experience for you,” he said.

  “Yes, it was, very. I was quite shaken to find myself — where I did.”

  “Which was where you wished to go.”

  “No, no,” Hedge corrected with truth. “I had no intention of entering East Germany, it was a case of force majeure, the sugar-beet lorry, you know —”

  “Yes. I think we have finished with the sugar-beet lorry, Hedge. There are other and more important things we wished to know from you.”

  “I see. Er … what things?”

  “Matters of which we know you will be aware — I stress, know you will be aware.” T M Voss leaned forward across the polished table; it was so highly polished that it showed T M Voss twice, once in the flesh and again in reflection, which seemed to increase the tension that his office engendered in Hedge, even though the Foreign Minister was smiling still and appeared quite friendly.

  T M Voss said, “I shall not beat about the bush. The matter is most urgent. There is talk of war. Of this, you must of course be aware.”

  “Really? I had no idea.”

  “Come now, Hedge. You are not a fool. Our intelligence agencies, the men and women who run them, they are not fools either. I say again, we have positive information that your country is contemplating a pre-emptive strike, without warning, against the Soviets. I can tell you that we are quite, quite ready … your country cannot hope to achieve anything — and certainly cannot hope for the element of surprise.” T M Voss turned to the Commander-in-Chief. “Is this not so, General?”

  “It is so,” General Shcherbitsky confirmed. “The infantry divisions, the artillery, the Air Force, the big missiles. They await the word only.”

  “And all this is because of a Nazi, a West German named Logan. And it is because of this that you, Hedge, entered East Germany. We ask you now to tell us the truth, Hedge, so that war may be averted.” T M Voss added after a pause, “There is not left much time. Tell us, please. We are all friends now. You will be acting for your own country of Great Britain as much as for us. You will be acting for all humanity. If the missiles fly …” T M Voss lifted his shoulders. “I do not need to tell you how terrible it will be if that happens.”

  “No, no. Very terrible — tragic. But really, I don’t know anything about all this.”

  T M Voss’ smile became broader. “Come now, Hedge, there is no time for verbal play, for stupid denials that will not be believed. You will talk. If you do not … well, I would not advise silence.” He glanced sideways. So did Hedge, following the glance. He saw the man in the shadows, thin, a gaunt face, a rat-trap mouth turning down at the corners, hard eyes, a man who seemed to have the very stench of the Lubyanka about his person, a man who did not have in any way the aura of glasnost or perestroika about him.

  Hedge opened his mouth but no words came. He really didn’t know anything that would be of help to the Russians.

  Expectantly, they all waited. T M Voss and General Shcherbitsky began to show impatience. The face of the man in the shadows grew gaunter.

  *

  Shard had taken a big risk: from outside a sleazy block of flats he had removed a car, a two-stroke Skoda, very anonymous. It was old and clapped-out, not of any value; but it started confidently and he made his getaway. With luck, not too much police time if any would be spared in searching for a banger, but he could still be stopped and questioned. His heart in his mouth whenever he saw a policeman, he drove north-east towards Berlin. Brosak he believed would have got out of East Germany as fast as possible; and without any leads to go on Shard saw Berlin as the best bet, the most likely place for Brosak to make for. Not Rinteln: Brosak wouldn’t be taking the risk of going back on his tracks at this stage.

  Finding him was Number One priority. But Shard knew the odds were stacked against him. All he could do, he believed, was to do what had often been successful in the past, the ploy of the dick who had no other way to go: make himself into the magnet that would attract the man he wanted. Spread it around … Brosak wouldn’t want him on the loose. And if he, Brosak, believed Logan/Schreuder was still alive and with him, that would be an extra magnet.

  Driving as fast as the Skoda would make it, which was little enough, watching out for any trouble, Shard hoped the police wouldn’t get around to checking that railway wagon too soon. He hadn’t been able to dispose of Logan’s body, not without risking attracting attention. But it really would be just as well if Brosak didn’t know Logan was dead. Not yet.

  *

  Having, really, nothing to say, Hedge kept quiet. He could, he supposed, have told the men about the rabies, but they appeared to know that already. They also knew about the Nazi, Logan. Hedge had nothing to add. He could, if they turned really unpleasant, tell them about his own kidnap in London; that would at least show willing and it might distract their attention. Or they might not be in the least interested. Anyway, he would keep that in reserve, some sort of card up his sleeve, a turner away of wrath.

  Meanwhile, silence.

  The silence lasted quite a long time. Six pairs of eyes from the front, another pair from the side, bored into Hedge. He became more and more uneasy. They were all like lie-detectors. His mind flitted over many things, once having thought of lie-detectors that mirrored all that went through the victim’s mind. Mrs Millington and Mrs Reilly-Jacobs whose name had been mendaciously used by those evil kidnappers; Father Christmas in the West Berlin store; the girl and the taxi and the sugar-beet lorry. He thought of Shard (where, oh where was Shard, who was supposed to be his right-hand man, his saviour in moments of difficulty?) He thought of the Head of Security and the assistant under-secretary.

  They would be relying upon him, of course. He was facing his ultimate test for Britain. It was a time for stiff upper lips. He tried to steel himself, making a big effort.

  He maintained his silence. If he came out of this, that would be sure to stand in his favour, the stout heart that had not given way in the face of threat.

  The threat came soon after Hedge had had that thought.

  Patience was wearing thin, but the threat was politely put, the velvet glove still on the iron fist, part of perestroika. It was the gaunt man on Hedge’s left who spoke, after a meaningful sideways glance from the Foreign Minister.

  “Hedge.”

  Hedge started, then turned. “Yes?”

  “Until you speak, Hedge, you will be held in custody. There are two custodies.”

  “Really? I see. Two custodies.”

  “Two custodies. One, so very nice. Good food and wine. Vodka and Scotch also. A comfortable room with chair, desk and bed. Also a fire — the weather is cold.”

  “Yes. Yes, it is, very. Seasonal, of course.”

  “Seasonal?”

  “Christmas time.”

  “Yes. There will also be a woman if you wish.”

  “Ah.”

  “Or a young man if that is what you prefer.”

  “Good heavens, no!” Hedge was suddenly much more alarmed. Was that what they intended — compromising photographs,
and a threat that prints would be sent to Whitehall, to Mrs Heffer who would be absolutely scandalised? Once again he said, “No. Most certainly not!”

  The gaunt man shrugged. “In that case a woman. Also books to read. You understand, Hedge?”

  “Yes, I understand. I — I’m grateful.”

  “Then there is the other custody.”

  “I see.”

  “Unless you speak of the things we wish to know. The other custody is unpleasant and there will be no contact with the world outside.” Outside the Lubyanka, Hedge was aware the gaunt man meant. It was Dresden all over again, but worse.

  Hedge said what he should have said at the beginning, the moment he had arrived inside the Kremlin’s terrible walls, made no less terrible by perestroika. “I wish to see the British Ambassador,” he said. “I must regularise my position, you see.” He had no wish to annoy the faces set before him by being arrogant and demanding at this stage.

  “Not possible.” This was the Foreign Minister, T M Voss. “I am sorry.”

  “But it’s my right as a British citizen!”

  “All rights abrogated,” the Foreign Minister said with finality, “until questions have been answered.”

  “You mean I’m being held prisoner against my will? That’s —”

  “No, no,” the Foreign Minister said almost amiably. “You are complying with our requests, that is all. Now, Hedge.” He sat forward, leaning his elbows on the long table and staring hard at Hedge. “Which of the two custodies is it to be? You will speak in the end, come what may. Why not speak now, and speak in comfort, and remain in comfort until we in the Soviet Union know for certain which way the Western cat will jump?”

  *

  It had been a most terrible dilemma. Hedge had brought out his handkerchief, which was a dirty one since he had been accorded no laundry facilities once he had inadvertently left the security of West Berlin, a long time ago now. With the dirty handkerchief he had mopped at his face which had broken out into globules of sweat that ran stickily down into his collar, dirty like the handkerchief. It was, the Foreign Minister said, his simple duty to speak. No-one wished for war; he, Hedge, might be able to prevent it.