The Logan File

by Philip McCutchan

  Hedge shook, tried to conceal the shake that racked his whole body. He said in a high voice, “This is all most irregular and again I demand — ask, I’m sorry — to see the British Ambassador. It’s my right. I’m an important person in Whitehall, you realise. My Prime Minister will react most strongly if I’m harmed.”

  “Pish.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your Prime Minister has not reacted at all.”

  The wind gushed from Hedge’s sails. He gasped, then said, “Well, that’s simply because she doesn’t know I’m here, isn’t it? If you haven’t reported —”

  “It is known that she knew you were in East German hands, in Dresden. She did not react.”

  “Oh.” Hedge felt quite desperate now. It was too bad; he was being left, disowned by Whitehall, by Mrs Heffer whom he had always so strongly supported, a fine woman with all the right ideas. Or so he had thought. Now anger began to rise. He knew, of course, had always known, that persons were at times disowned by their governments in the interest of diplomacy and, it had to be admitted, expediency. But he had never envisaged that such would apply to himself, highly-placed as he was in the Foreign Office. Lesser people perhaps; not him. He could scarcely believe it; but he was forced to. The gaunt man must have spoken the truth. If Mrs Heffer had authorised any intervention, he wouldn’t be where he was.

  The gaunt man cruelly underlined the point. “You have been abandoned by your female Prime Minister. You know, of course, the British saying.”

  “Oh. Do I?”

  “Yes. ‘The female of the species is more deadly than the male.’ Rudyard Kipling.”

  “Ah. You read Kipling?”

  “Yes.”

  “So does Mrs Heffer, you know.”

  “I did not know, Hedge. But do not let us discuss Rudyard Kipling now. Time is short. Look.”

  The gaunt man reached out and pressed a switch. The interrogation chamber was at once flooded with light. Hedge looked about in horror, his flesh creeping with his terrible fear. On one wall a whip was looped around a rusty nail, a whip with many most dreadful-looking leather thongs. There were real bloodstains on floor and wall, nothing imaginary about them this time. On a table were instruments of diabolical torture — thumb-screws, spikes for possible insertion under finger-nails and toe-nails. There was an instrument like a clamp, an iron horror with big curved claws and a large divided handle; Hedge had once seen something like it in a shop window in Launceston in Cornwall — that had been a device for castrating bulls.

  The gaunt man saw where his attention was so glassily fixed. “To crush,” he said helpfully.

  “Crush?”

  “The testicles. The pain, I understand, is extreme. And afterwards the voice is high.”

  Sweat poured down Hedge’s face and neck, soaking into his filthy collar. What barbarians he was faced with; it was really quite appalling, far removed from the British way of doing things, indeed from all decency. Why, they even kept a man dirty in order to take away his confidence and self-esteem — even in comfortable custody he hadn’t been accorded any clean linen. He closed his eyes against the other instruments of cruelty; he’d seen more than enough. He was aware of the man and woman behind him, the guards. He sensed that they wished torture to begin, that their mouths drooled with expectancy. The woman would probably wield the handle of the crusher.

  “Well?” This was the gaunt man. “You speak?”

  “I — I don’t know anything. I’ve already told you that.”

  “Yes. But speak nevertheless.”

  It sounded crazy, but Hedge knew that it wasn’t. If you spoke, you often released things that helped the questioner, even when you didn’t wish to release or help. That was the way things went. Secrets — or what the questioner wished to know — tended to come out. If you waffled, it would soon become apparent but it might not matter. Waffle for long enough, and the end result could come close to truth.

  Hedge said hoarsely, “You know just as much as I do. I really can’t help.”

  “Try, Hedge. Go over again what you know.”

  More sweat ran. Hedge said, “You know about Logan and his threat to Britain. There’s nothing I can add to that, there really isn’t. I’ve said so, to your Foreign Minister.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why go on pressing me like this?” A note of hysteria was creeping in now, Hedge beginning to lose control. From behind the beam — the overall lighting having now been switched off again — he fancied he could make out a smile of satisfaction. He thought again about Mrs Heffer and her perfidy. Bitch, he thought, she’s let me in for this …

  The gaunt man spoke again, though not in answer to Hedge’s question. He said, “There is something you perhaps do not know about Logan. Something in fact that you cannot know, since you have been in custody. You wish to know, Hedge?”

  Hedge nodded.

  “Logan is dead,” the gaunt man said.

  15

  There had been some deaths. One, in Liskeard near the cleared Siblyback reservoir, was only peripherally connected with the threat. An elderly woman in a car, driving past the recreational area when the suspect bag was being brought ashore, had noticed a great fuss going on and had asked a policeman what it was all about. Apart from the fact of the bag’s discovery, it had all been on TV and radio, but the elderly woman had become much agitated and after driving away had had a heart attack. The car had gone into the reservoir. Up near Sheffield, at the Ladybower reservoir, it had been a great deal more serious. Mrs Heffer’s warnings by broadcast and police car had not been so swift as had the botulin. Before the pumping stations could be put out of action, before all the taps had been turned off, the botulin had arrived in the area served by Ladybower. A number of people had drunk the water or used it in other ways, and once the warnings had got through to them they immediately exhibited symptoms. The local doctors, and the casualty departments at the hospitals, became very busy.

  Mrs Heffer was of course informed. She was much upset and said so. “Those poor people. I take it everything is being done that can be done?”

  “Yes, Prime Minister.”

  “Good. Has this wretched disease been actually diagnosed?”

  “Not yet, Prime Minister. It will take time for —”

  “Yes, but we should surely assume they’ve got it, shouldn’t we?”

  “Yes —”

  “That,” Mrs Heffer said with a long-suffering sigh, “was what I meant by diagnosed.” She paused, frowned, leaned forward. “Tell me, Doctor, are those brave men at the sites wearing gumboots or are they not?”

  The Chief Medical Officer looked surprised. “I really don’t know, Prime Minister, but —”

  “Then find out, if you please. Personal protection is very important. And rubber gloves.”

  “Yes, Prime Minister, but botulin doesn’t enter the body through the feet.”

  “One simply can’t be too careful, can one?” Mrs Heffer said with finality.

  Later the reports of the confirmed diagnoses came in. Not long after that, in some cases — chiefly the elderly or the already sick — the deaths. Mrs Heffer’s salt cure did not seem to have worked.

  *

  In West Berlin that evening, Shard had had some initial luck, but the luck had turned sour on him. He had gone into a beer cellar on spec, still making himself obvious to anyone who might have reason to wish to contact him. He’d not had much hope, really. But that was just when luck had appeared to smile.

  The beer cellar, a smoky place, not well lit, had been crowded to capacity with both East and West Germans, the former distinguishable by their less than prosperous look — men and women, Shard guessed, who had come over from the Democratic Republic to enjoy the fleshpots of the West for a brief evening out. Pushing through the press of bodies towards the bar, Shard had trodden on someone’s toe when he had stepped backwards suddenly under pressure from a large bottom clad, despite the weather, in leather shorts.

  He tur
ned to apologise.

  He came face to face with a young woman: Gerda Schmidt; Logan/Schreuder’s grand-daughter who had given him the name and laboratory address of Wolfgang Brosak. And who had informed Brosak subsequently that he was on his way to Rinteln. That time, he had fallen into the trap. But now she was, once again, the one and only link he had with Brosak.

  She was looking at him fearfully, eyes narrowed, breathing fast, a hunted look on her face. But she might not be aware that Shard knew she had led him into that Rinteln trap. Just might not. He took hold of her arm.

  He said, “You and I have things to talk about, Fräulein Schmidt.” He looked around; there was a table being vacated in a dark corner not far away. He pushed the girl towards it, nabbed it just in time.

  *

  So Logan was dead. Or was said to be.

  Hedge was filled with elation, wanting desperately to believe what the gaunt man had said. With Logan dead, an enormous weight would be lifted from his shoulders and possibly the threat from those evil kidnappers in London would be negatived. Licking at dry lips he asked, “How do you know he’s dead?”

  “We know,” the gaunt man answered in a flat tone. “We know, which is enough for you, Hedge.”

  “Yes, well … how do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

  “You do not know. You cannot know. All you have to do is to trust. Do you trust, Hedge?”

  “I suppose so,” Hedge answered gloomily. Really, the man could be the most consummate liar, most Russians were, indeed most foreigners were, they didn’t appear to see anything wrong in it.

  “So now you know that Logan is dead.”

  “Yes.”

  There was a pause. “Of this news you are glad.” It wasn’t a question; it was a statement. But, in a sense, Hedge answered it.

  He said, “I never knew him personally, of course. But of course, since he’s dead … it alters things.”

  “It alters things, yes. But I say this — Logan you knew personally. This we know. You ask how we know. I answer that while you were in comfortable custody we were in touch with certain persons in your Foreign Office in London —”

  “Spies?”

  “Not spies. Agents.”

  “Yes, I see.” Better not to make enemies at this stage: better not to argue. Uncomfortable custody loomed too close. “What did these agents have to say?”

  “That you were known to have had contacts with Logan/Schreuder many years ago. That you knew him personally.”

  “Ah. Well, yes — I’d forgotten, as a matter of fact.”

  “You had not forgotten, Hedge. Other persons of prominence in London also had personal contacts. Personal contacts are always suspect. You will agree?”

  There was something very nasty and suggestive in the gaunt man’s tone. Hedge said, “Perhaps you will tell me … what exactly you’re getting at? Talking like that about personal contact, you see?”

  “Not buggery.”

  “Not?”

  “Not. Although it may have taken place.”

  “It most certainly did not!”

  “Perhaps. But do not let us become embroiled in buggery. I speak of other things. Of bribery. Of favours given.” There was a pause from behind the bright light. “Not sexual favours. Logan, as I have said, is dead. From him you are now safe. So are the other London persons. That is why you are glad to hear that Logan is dead. Glad also will be the other London persons. You agree?”

  Slowly, knowing there was more behind this than met the eye, more than had yet met the ear, Hedge nodded.

  “Then I think you will see your way clear, Hedge. Logan is dead. Us, and our agents in your Foreign Office, are not dead. Do you understand?”

  Hedge felt sick, sick and desperate. He began to shake again. It was all so unfair. Out of the frying-pan … and it was all Mrs Heffer’s fault. If only she had rescued him, insisted in her customary blunt fashion that the Russians release him immediately. He felt absolutely no loyalty now, none whatsoever. The home authorities had asked for it. He would play ball with the Russians now. After all, Kim Philby had and look where that had got him (not London, certainly, but London would be dross to a dishonoured man, and would be likely to mean only Pentonville when things came out via Moscow).

  “All right, then,” he said with a touch of vengefulness. “I have a few things to say after all.”

  *

  In the beer cellar Shard asked probing questions. The girl’s unease increased when Shard revealed that he knew she had informed on him to Brosak. At first she denied it; then said she had been under pressure. That might or might not have been true. But Shard didn’t press: it was no longer important. She didn’t know, or said she didn’t know, that her grandfather was dead. Shard found no reason to doubt her. She showed shock, she showed emotion. Both feelings seemed to Shard quite genuine. She wanted to know the details; Shard told her honestly.

  “So,” she said, “you were the last person to see my grandfather alive?”

  He nodded. Her face was pale, more pinched than ever. He said, “I’m sorry. About your grandfather. Because he was your grandfather and you were fond of him.” He added, “Brosak was initially responsible for his death. I did my best for him. I didn’t want him to die.”

  “No. You had been looking for him, I know that, of course.”

  “He was wanted in England, Fräulein. Now there is someone else who is wanted.”

  “In England?”

  “Yes. Your grandfather’s old friend. Wolfgang Brosak.” He paused, searching her face. “Last time we met, I gathered you didn’t approve of all the raking up of old loyalties and old enmities. That might have been an act and probably was. But you sounded convincing … when you said you preferred to let Adolf Hitler remain dead —”

  “Yes,” she said. “I do not like all that, the senseless recreating of what is past.”

  “What is best forgotten. I believe you may have … done what you did — informing Brosak about me — out of a sense of loyalty to your grandfather. Rather that than simply to help Brosak.”

  She was looking at him closely; no-one seemed interested in them; the drinkers moved past their table without a second glance. Singing started, nothing neo-Nazi. They were all just happy that East and West were together, that the end had come for hostility with the shattering a year or so before of the Berlin Wall. Gerda Schmidt asked, “Why is Brosak so much wanted in England, Herr Shard?”

  There was no reason why he shouldn’t tell her the facts now. The German press — he had been told this in the Consulate-General — had reported what was likely to happen in the British Isles, largely copying the reports that had filled the London newspapers. Gerda Schmidt would have read the papers; but she quite likely didn’t know that Wolfgang Brosak was behind all that.

  He said quietly, “You’ll have read about the botulin.”

  She nodded. “Yes. So?”

  “So it’s all down to Brosak. And your grandfather. Now your grandfather’s dead, you see, Brosak has taken over. Brosak’s the brains, Brosak’s the scientist. And I’ve every reason to believe he can kill everyone in Britain if he puts his mind to it. Which he’s going to do … any time now.”

  The girl sat in silence. Her face was paler than ever and Shard detected a shake in her fingers. Unless she was a good actress, she had been shaken by what she had heard. She said after a while, “Wolfgang Brosak. I know where he is. But tell me this, Herr Shard: the threat of the botulin. There is an ‘unless’, is there not?”

  “Yes. Unless the British government mounts a strike against the Soviet Union, Brosak releases his botulin. It’s vital for world peace that he’s taken before either of those things happen.”

  She shook her head in what looked like wonder. She said, “You told me you believed Brosak would do — what he has threatened. Do you believe your country will respond with war?”

  Shard lifted his hands palms upward. “I pray to God not. On the other hand …”

  “On the other hand,
there will be much death in Britain.”

  “That’s right. Also, there’s yet another hand.”

  “How, another hand?”

  He gave a hard, grim laugh. “Not how, but who. Mrs Heffer.”

  She seemed to understand. She stood up. She said, “Come. I will show you where Wolfgang Brosak is.”

  He thanked her; they left the beer cellar, going out into the bitterness of the snow, lying largely in slush but with more falling as though it would never stop. For certain reasons Shard was never to find out for sure whether or not Gerda Schmidt was a good actress, or whose side she was really on.

  *

  The orders had been finalised from Defence Ministry. Strike aircraft with missiles loaded had taken off from certain bases in Cumbria and Northumberland and Yorkshire. Also in Scotland. They awaited the final order, the order that could come only from the Prime Minister. The nuclear submarines with their stocks of intercontinental ballistic missiles were equally ready, deep in their sea stations from where they could strike right into the heart of the Soviet Union. Mrs Heffer had had a monumental row by telephone with the Supreme Commander of NATO, accusing him of being an American, an accusation that she had quickly altered to a typical American.

  “That’s what I am, ma’am. That’s what I aim to stay. There will be no goddamn troop or armour movement in my command. Not unless it’s authorised by my President. If you wish to go mad, ma’am, then you’ll have to go mad via your navy and air force. You can count the USA out this time.”

  Mrs Heffer had slammed down the telephone. Very well, she thought, if it does come to the pinch, we’re ready. If we have to, we’ll go it alone. In that moment she felt very Churchillian, very much the lone bulldog in a Union Jack jacket. Her heart swelling with emotion she left what she now regarded as her command HQ and went to her bedroom. Here she knelt by the side of the double bed and clasped her hands in prayer. God would of course defend the right but He had to be asked decently first; also perhaps briefed by the woman on the spot, He being not exactly on the spot and not, perhaps, seeing things in entirely the way she saw them, which was natural enough. So she told God about the botulin, and the suffering that would come; she told Him about the stupid recalcitrance of the Americans who didn’t want to get involved. She told Him her views of the Russians, that really the world would be a safer place … she baulked at actually adding the words ‘without them’ since that might be seen as presumptuous, it being, after all, God’s world rather than hers. She told Him about Logan, now dead, and the fact that his death had not removed the terrible threat. She didn’t mention Hedge or Shard, she having forgotten their names.