The Logan File

by Philip McCutchan

  “How?” Hedge asked helplessly, his mouth sagging open.

  The Foreign Minister shrugged. “By telling us of the British plans, the Western Alliance plans, if Logan’s scheme is not circumvented. You must see that your British interests are the same in basis as our Russian interest. Does this not make sense?”

  “Well — yes. Yes, it does, I suppose.” There might well be truth in that. If he, Hedge, could actually prevent a war then he would be honoured on his return to Whitehall. He might perhaps prevent a war by in effect spiking the West’s guns — if the Soviet was ready for war, then presumably Mrs Heffer would see that she had lost the element of surprise and that war would be suicidal as well as electorally unsound; she would certainly be very much aware of the election soon to come. Hedge began to see salvation: if he had known Mrs Heffer’s plans in detail he really believed he would have blurted them all out. Elation vanished: the fact remained that he didn’t know them.

  However, he might be able to bluff things out. For a while at least. Until the wretched Logan was caught, anyway, which should be for long enough. After that, he was sure to be released. The Russians had changed a great deal recently.

  “Well, Hedge?”

  Hedge mopped at his face again. “If I may have a little time … to co-ordinate my thoughts, you know. This is no light matter for me, you must surely understand that.”

  The Foreign Minister nodded. “Yes. We are an understanding people. Since I believe now that you will co-operate when you have thought, you will be permitted to leave us. For thought.”

  “In custody?”

  “In custody, of course.”

  Hedge scarcely dared ask the question, so fearful was he of the wrong answer. “The comfortable custody?”

  “Yes, the comfortable custody. For the time being. I think you will understand.” The Foreign Minister got to his feet. The others rose as well and all filed out of the chamber behind their leader. The gaunt man, emerging now from his shadows, remained behind. So did the armed guards who had escorted Hedge into the room earlier and who had remained behind his chair throughout the interview. The gaunt man made a signal and the men fell in, one at each side of Hedge. The gaunt man gave him a prod in the back and he got on the move between his escort. He was led along a number of corridors and up two flights of stairs. The building was a very splendid one, still redolent of the days of the czars. Hedge found something reassuring in that, even though those old days were long gone. It was all so very civilised; nothing barbaric at all. He would probably make out all right.

  But what was he going to tell the Foreign Minister?

  He would need to think very quickly indeed. The point had been made that time was running out fast.

  13

  Shard ditched the car on the outskirts of East Berlin. He’d been lucky; no police checks. But he wasn’t going to push his luck too far, certainly not to the extent of making any attempt to drive through into the Western sector of the city.

  How, then, to get in?

  He mingled with the crowds, trudging through the snow that fell still and added to the gloom. By this time he was desperately hungry; he had kept thirst more or less at bay by filling his mouth with snow; but he dared not risk going into a café for a meal.

  He trudged on towards the crossing into West Berlin, shouldering through the crowds. After a long walk he found himself coming up to Unter den Linden. Passing by a shop, Shard caught sight of his own reflection in the plate glass. Scruffy from his journeyings and from the dirt of the railway track, unshaven, haggard from lack of food, he looked like anyone else in the eastern zone. Nothing about him to stand out, nothing to attract any special attention. Just one of many that morning, walking in Unter den Linden. One of the depressed army of the poor, of which there were still many.

  He moved away from the main thoroughfare, making for the meaner streets that lay behind the façade. Into the working areas, where in the courtyards at the back lorries were delivering such merchandise as was available.

  There was more than the one way for a person without papers to get through the emasculated entries into West Berlin.

  *

  Throughout Britain the reservoirs were being dragged in a desperate attempt to locate and remove Logan’s lethal bags. Men also searched and probed with poles and nets from power boats. It was mainly a police operation with the advice and assistance of the various water authorities; but the army and navy were there too. Divers from Fort Blockhouse, the diving school and submarine depot at Gosport in Hampshire. Royal Marines from Eastney and Devonport, wearing commando gear and looking ready for anything. Infantry units turned into probers for plastic bags.

  Nothing was found.

  This was reported at intervals to the various area control headquarters that had been set up around the country under the presiding authority of chief constables, men from various ministries, water bosses, generals and in one case a rear-admiral.

  The negative reports were filtered through to Downing Street where the Prime Minister was maintaining a personal round-the-clock vigil. Rowland Mayes had urged her to rest but she would have none of that.

  “I’m perfectly all right, Roly.”

  “You may need to —”

  “I said, I’m perfectly all right, Roly. It’s my duty to remain at my post. I expect others to, and I can’t make an exception for myself.”

  The Foreign Secretary gave in, subsiding into gloom. He believed Mrs Heffer was blaming him for the whole thing, seeing it as his responsibility to arrest Logan, and to get Hedge and Shard back. Shard anyway; the Prime Minister was still content to leave Hedge wherever he might be, which was presumably East Germany still — no-one had informed the FO differently, no-one had claimed Hedge. (By no-one the Foreign Secretary understood Moscow, the only other Power likely to be interested.) Mrs Heffer, earlier on, had enquired somewhat perfunctorily as to what lay in Hedge’s head that might be extracted by a potential enemy. The Foreign Secretary had replied truthfully: nothing whatsoever. The facts about Logan/Schreuder were not exactly secret by this time.

  They awaited news from the water fronts. Mrs Heffer paced the Cabinet Office, from which she was in constant touch, when required, with all the reservoirs and all the area headquarters. The telephones had not been silent: whenever Mrs Heffer had a brainwave she was on the line at once, propounding it. The area chiefs were of course polite and deferential each time, but there were audible sighs when the telephone was put down. Mrs Heffer didn’t really know very much about water, about reservoirs, about plastic bags or about the deployment to best advantage of the available manpower.

  Naturally enough there were false alarms: catches that caused excitement and were reported along the line before they had been properly checked out.

  Mrs Heffer became impatient and angry.

  “Old clothes in bags, things containing cartons from Macdonald’s … some unmentionable things … fishermen’s picnic lunches in cellophane. There’s a lot of sheer inefficiency around these days, Roly.”

  “Yes, Prime Minister.”

  “Why is it?”

  “I really don’t know, Prime Minister. Of course, all this … it’s most unusual.”

  “What is?”

  “Well — botulin, Prime Minister.”

  Mrs Heffer snorted. “Botulin may be. Doing a job properly is not. Or shouldn’t be. People in responsible positions are supposed to use their initiative. Not make silly reports.”

  “I agree, Prime Minister.”

  When two more such false alarms were reported, Mrs Heffer hooted angrily into the telephone. Her comments were made known at the headquarters nationwide and for a long time no reports at all came in, which made her very restless. Rowland Mayes took the brunt of her restlessness, and began to squirm in his seat. It was all so terribly unfair, he thought. He had always been a loyal Hefferite, admiring her very greatly indeed, but now he was having his doubts. She was something of a tartar and he had a sensitive mind. But of course he co
uld appreciate her dreadful anxieties. Tetchiness was perhaps natural enough. If only somebody would find Logan; why, all the police forces in the Western continent were looking for him! He must be somewhere, surely? But then finding Logan was not of itself enough: found, he had yet to be conceded to. Or else.

  Rowland Mayes, as Mrs Heffer went on with her nagging, gave a tactful cough and interrupted. Really, he’d had enough. He said deferentially, “Prime Minister, I think perhaps I’d better return to the FO.”

  “Why, Roly?”

  Not the truth, that would never do. “Well, Prime Minister … so as to keep more in touch —”

  “There is a telephone.”

  “Yes, there is, of course. But to have my finger actually on the —”

  “Rubbish, Roly, you wouldn’t make the very slightest difference. Your place, your duty, is here. This is a Foreign Office matter. Or very largely it is. Besides … I need you. You’re a comforting influence.”

  The Foreign Secretary gaped. Mrs Heffer had never, ever, softened before. He simply couldn’t understand it, but he smiled and blushed; he had been paid the most tremendous and signal compliment, a real tribute, and he was immensely pleased. He didn’t know what to say; and while he was thinking of something suitable and grateful, the telephone rang again and Mrs Heffer answered. A plastic-type bag had been found in the Siblyback reservoir in the West Country — in Cornwall, not far from Liskeard. Carefully opened and its contents analysed, it had been confirmed as containing botulin spores.

  “What action, Prime Minister —”

  “I shall ring the Palace first,” Mrs Heffer announced.

  *

  The room was indeed comfortable. A big bed, a four-poster with curtains … Hedge could imagine a princess of the Russian royal house having slept in it. That bed could have been witness to many things in its time. The promised desk was a really splendid roll-top bureau of some expensive wood inlaid with what looked like real gold. The carpet was Chinese, and thick, very easy on the feet. There was a big window with a view over the Kremlin walls and a square beyond, and many tall buildings with domes and cupolas bathed in sunlight that had at last broken through the snow. That sunlight gave a promise, a heartening promise of better things, of God having penetrated the steely core of atheism with His sunbeams. There were, admittedly, bars over the window on the outside, but Hedge allowed this as being perfectly natural since he might be thought of as a possible escapee and never mind the great distance to ground level … leaning close to the window, he saw a roof not far beneath, and other roofs adjacent. Yes, a perfectly proper precaution. In the circumstances.

  The chamber pot in a gilded cupboard beside the great bed was empty. Clean, too. The Russians were more civilised than the East Germans.

  There was an old-fashioned bell-pull, an affair of heavy velvet with a tassel. Hedge wondered what would happen if he pulled it: room service? With all the luxury around, it might well be. He didn’t pull it, but sat in a vast armchair before the flickering flames of a recently-lit coal fire. He cudgelled his brains for something to tell the Russian Foreign Minister out of his virtually non-existent store of relevant knowledge. ‘Comfortable custody’ was very comfortable indeed; he must not risk losing it for the other thing. But what in God’s name was he to say that would be appreciated as helpful to the wretched Russians? With luck, something would come. He must not lose heart. He was, after all, on the fringe of diplomacy. Like all diplomats, he should be able to dissemble a little. Suddenly, he thought of Shard. Shard, with his policeman’s mind, would call it waffle.

  Hedge eyed the bell-pull again. The Foreign Minister, or had it been the gaunt man with the evil face, had promised books. There were no books; Hedge believed that if he read something, depending of course on what it was, but something relevant, then ideas might come. Or they might not … he didn’t agitate the bell-pull. He wished to avoid being a nuisance. As it happened, a few minutes later the door was unlocked and a young woman stood there, looking at him guardedly.

  He had been promised a woman.

  This must be her. She addressed him in English. “Hedge.”

  “Yes. Er …” Hedge got to his feet.

  “I come in, please.”

  “Yes. Er …”

  She came in, shutting the door behind her. Also locking it; the key was deposited in accordance with tradition down her decolletage. Hedge swallowed; she was bony, very angular, with flattish hair — dank, Hedge would have called it if asked. She had a sour smell, rancid, like butter that had gone off, such as would have been rejected by Mrs Millington. Yet there was an attraction undoubtedly. Hedge swallowed again. “Er …”

  She seemed to understand his dilemma. She moved closer, baring her teeth, spreading the rancidity around like a cloak. She said, “I am here for your pleasure. You understand?”

  “Yes,” he said, clearing his throat. “I — I think I do, yes.” He felt a tremendous throbbing of his heart. He had been much disappointed by the wretched young woman from the taxi in Berlin — disappointed in retrospect, since his sudden projection into the back of the sugar-beet lorry had left him no time for his mental processes just then. Now, presumably, there would be no such interruptions.

  He licked his lips; they had gone very dry. He felt suddenly dried up all over.

  *

  Shard had found no lorry, no suitable lorry in which to stow away, during his prowl around the meaner streets behind the stores. After that he had walked on, closer to the Brandenburg Gate. Some way short of it the traffic was halted, waiting in a queue for entry. As Shard watched, a big car carrying CD plates came up from behind, nosing past the line of traffic: preferential treatment. The registration was West German. Taking a chance, Shard moved out into the roadway, in front of the big car, waving it down. The chauffeur spoke through his wound-down window. Shard ignored him, tapped on the glass of the rear compartment, where two men and a woman sat in conversation. The chauffeur got out and closed in behind, but the man nearest Shard reached out and lowered his window a little way. In German he asked what was going on.

  Shard said, “Logan. Or Schreuder. I think you know who I mean.” Logan was big news now, Logan and his threat.

  “You are not Logan?”

  Briefly, Shard grinned. “Not old enough.” The chauffeur, standing behind him, was ready for trouble. “Detective Chief Superintendent Shard of the British Foreign Office. I have to get through to my embassy soonest possible. I’d be glad of any assistance. I have no documentation.”

  There was a conversation that Shard couldn’t catch. Then the diplomat opened the door. “Get in,” he said. “If you are an impostor, you will be dealt with.”

  The chauffeur was nodded back to his seat and Shard got in. He thanked the diplomat. “I’m no impostor, believe me. But I realise I don’t look the part of a British copper. What will the reaction at the cross-over point be?”

  The diplomat spoke to the chauffeur through a rubber tube. The car started up, moved on for the entry. “There will be no trouble,” he said.

  He was right; there was no trouble. The CD plates saw to that. The car was waved through and the guard saluted. Minutes later Shard was into the Western Sector. The car dropped him at the Consulate-General. He was accompanied into the building by the man who had done the talking; there was a wait before he was questioned by an official and passed. The German diplomat went away. Shard asked for the security line to Whitehall. On the way to it he asked about Hedge. In East German hands, he was told, so far as was known.

  *

  Rowland Mayes was still with the Prime Minister when the call came through from the Foreign Office. “Shard’s reported back, Prime Minister,” he said when the call was cut.

  “Let us be thankful for that, Roly. Is there anything else — has Shard found anything out?”

  “Logan is dead, Prime —”

  “Dead? Good heavens, Roly, where does that leave us? Do we assume the threat’s past, that —”

  “No, Prim
e Minister, I’m afraid not. Another man comes into the picture. A man named Wolfgang Brosak. An old colleague of Logan’s, an equally convinced and committed Nazi.”

  Mrs Heffer tapped a pencil sharply on her blotting-pad. “And?”

  “And Brosak takes over from Logan. Lock, stock and barrel.”

  “The threat remains, the botulin?”

  “I’m afraid so, Prime Minister, yes. And of course the alternative, the result of failure to concede.”

  “And this Brosak? Where is he? Has Shard got him, Roly?”

  “No, Prime Minister. He’s searching for him. That’s all we know at this moment.”

  “Find out all that’s known about this Brosak, Foreign Secretary, at once.”

  “Yes, Prime Minister, that’s being done already.” Rowland Mayes tried to conceal an involuntary sigh. The omens were poor: when Mrs Heffer was angry with him she always addressed him as Foreign Secretary. Fury made her formal. And once again she was casting the blame on him, her handy whipping boy.

  *

  The young woman had left. Before doing so, somewhat angrily, she had opened a bag she had been carrying on entry and which she had deposited on the top of the bureau.

  “As also promised,” she said, “the book.”

  “Book?”

  “Book, yes. With the compliments of Comrade Voss.” She laid the book down. It was a biography of Kim Philby. “Enjoy it, please.”

  She left the room, locking Hedge in once again. He sat down with a thump in the comfortable chair, his mind rioting around in circles. He had rejected the young woman’s advances, not because he wanted to — quite the reverse — but because he had suddenly realised he was inadequate, not to put too fine a point on it, and also because he believed it might be dangerous and could lead to compromise and more threats of a personal nature this time. Photographs were still on his mind; the Russian outlook was tricky in the extreme, really diabolical, and it was perfectly possible that cameras were concealed in the woodwork or somewhere and that would never do. In the Foreign Office it was essential to have clean hands. Hedge, having remained clean now, comforted himself with the reflection that it was no doubt because of his worry over cameras and compromise that had led to his being inadequate …