The Logan File

by Philip McCutchan

  The Home Secretary temporised, unwilling to commit himself just yet. He said, “A closer and more positive look, I think. The animals could turn out to be merely sheepdogs, collies, perfectly healthy, and the man a shepherd.”

  There were no reports from other areas. The rabid animals had obviously been very well hidden away. If they existed at all. It might be wishful thinking but the Cabinet comforted itself by putting it on record that they believed the threat to be nothing more than bluff.

  Yet the nagging worry was there. From that time on, none of them would approach a dog without terrible fear. And pussy, too, would find his or her nose out of joint. Cats indeed were especially dangerous. But their biggest worry was rats. The winter had until now been mild, with little rain, and it had followed a period of summer drought and intense heat. Rats had proliferated and had become predatory and fierce in their search for food. And mice, of course, were everywhere. Also, dogs had fleas.

  But of course it hadn’t happened yet.

  *

  Checks had been put on all the official establishments that worked under government licence on research into rabies: the Centre for Applied Microbiology at Porton Down near Salisbury; the Public Health Service Laboratory in Colindale in north London; the Central Veterinary Laboratory in Weybridge; and an Essex-based pharmaceutical firm.

  All were satisfied that they had not been penetrated or their work compromised in any way. Nothing had been stolen. All this was by way of routine enquiry: there had in fact been no suggestion in any of Logan’s documents that any British source had been used.

  And all the establishments were sceptical of Logan’s claims. However, they did admit the possibility, the faint possibility because science was always coming up with something new, that a discovery could have been made by ill-disposed persons. Similar indications came in later from establishments on the Continent — France, Germany, Scandinavia, Spain, Italy, Austria — after the Prime Minister had spoken personally on the telephone to the various heads of government overseas. The American President was also contacted; and during the early evening of what was to become known as Day One, an urgent message came in from Washington to the effect that a noted veterinary researcher of unimpeachable reputation had reported having stumbled accidentally on a strain of rabies that could produce the results claimed by Logan. He had found no antidote.

  Now the threat had to be taken for real.

  Later still that evening, a Cabinet minister who had been present at that morning’s meeting committed suicide. He had taken a massive overdose of sleeping pills after having drunk half a bottle of whisky, single malt at that, and had gone into a coma. He had died in hospital. His widow told the police that he had received a telephone call and had immediately left the house without telling her who the caller had been.

  She said, “There was a big car, a Volvo, outside — a little way down the road. I watched my husband, you see. He spoke to someone in the car and then came back. He looked … very shaken. I didn’t ask any questions. You don’t, you know. You mustn’t pry.”

  She was asked the colour of the car.

  “Black,” she said. No, she hadn’t got the number, the car was too far away. The number, the assistant under-secretary at the Foreign Office reflected when the report reached him, would almost certainly not have been F 39 UCK. They wouldn’t have risked that little joke twice. But he believed there could have been a connection with what had happened to Hedge. Shaking his head ruefully, the assistant undersecretary took up his telephone and spoke to a certain rather shadowy department of state. Suicides had reasons. Suicides of ministers of the crown after receiving suspect telephone calls leading them to hasty visits to black Volvos may well have been caused by something rather nasty. It was, as he said to the man he had called, none of his direct business but the deceased minister’s background might bear investigation. Further investigation, that was: obviously, he would have passed the security checks in the past. But you never knew.

  *

  Rinteln was a sleepy town, very clean like all German towns, none of the filth and debris chucked about by the unsalubrious British while on holiday. It lay across the banks of the River Weser — the River Weser deep and wide where, at Hamelin not so far away, the Pied Piper had lured the children from their homes. Shard’s driver pointed out the British Military Hospital on the outskirts of the town. From the air, he said, the buildings could be seen to have been constructed in the shape of a swastika, emblem of Nazi Germany — the place had been built as a German military hospital before the war. Now the ownership had changed. Shard, as if by way of conversation, had got the army driver, a corporal of the Royal Corps of Transport attached to the hospital, onto medical subjects and had asked if rabies was a particular problem to the army, such as would obviously not be the case in the British Isles with its quarantine laws and its protective seas.

  “I’m no medic,” the corporal answered. “But there’ve been several cases that I know of. In fact a mate of mine … he got bitten and didn’t report it soon enough. Wasn’t quite a bite really, just a sort of graze. The medics reckoned it was the dog’s saliva, got an entry. Poor bloke was dead a couple of weeks later.”

  Shard nodded thoughtfully. “Who deals with rabies cases, do you know?”

  “It’d be the medical consultant, Lieutenant-Colonel Shelton. Normally, that is. But he’s off on Christmas leave. Major Bruce, he’s standing in.” The corporal glanced sideways. “Got a special interest in rabies, have you, sir?”

  Shard gave a non-committal shrug. “Just general interest, that’s all. The EEC’s always talking about opening up the frontiers. I just hope they don’t open them up to rabies.”

  Major Bruce might be worth bearing in mind. There was a possibility that he might know of Wolfgang Brosak, scientist with a laboratory in Rinteln. Of course, there was nothing so far positively to connect Brosak with rabies, but at this stage of the game anything might prove useful.

  No time like the present. Shard said, “I’d like to make my number with the military. Drop me off here at the hospital, would you?”

  *

  There was a lengthy wait in reception. Shard had given his name only, no other details at all. Major Bruce was busy: he had a clinic after his ward round. Shard read the airmail editions of the London newspapers. There was nothing about the scare as reported by Hedge, nothing about Logan of course. And nothing about the suicide of a government minister, news of which had not as yet reached Shard either.

  When at last Major Bruce appeared, looking around him with raised eyebrows for his visitor, Shard made himself known. Major Bruce was a short, spare man with a brisk manner, wearing army uniform beneath a white coat. Shard had still given only his name, but Bruce, looking him up and down, said, “You look like a policeman.”

  Shard grinned. “A good diagnosis, doctor. May we have a word in private?”

  Major Bruce looked at his watch. “A quick one.”

  “I’m sorry to be a nuisance,” Shard said.

  “Oh, you’re not. I’ve time for a coffee break. Come along to my office.”

  Shard followed the doctor along a corridor and into a small room. Bruce waved him to a chair. He sat, and the major, taking up a telephone, asked for two coffees to be sent in. He then said, “Well, what’s this all about?”

  Shard produced his Foreign Office identification. Bruce studied the card. “Detective Chief Superintendent, attached FO. Well, well! Somebody here a suspected spy, or what?”

  “Not that,” Shard said. “I’m sorry, Major, but I’m not authorised to say any more than that —”

  The doctor waved a hand. “Oh, that’s all right, I understand. But I imagine you can tell me what you want of me in particular rather than the CO?”

  Shard said, “This is just an off-chance. I’m wondering if you happen to know a man, a scientist, named Wolfgang Brosak. He has a laboratory here in Rinteln —”

  “Correct — and yes, I do know him. I know him very well. I’ve h
ad him in for a consultation just recently. In the interest of saving a life … wouldn’t touch the little bugger with a barge-pole otherwise. What’s your interest in him?”

  Shard said, “Once again, I can’t be precise. But may I ask you one thing: in what connection did you call him in? I mean — what particular case?”

  “Hydrophobia,” Bruce answered shortly. “Rabies. Brosak’s an expert on rabies. That apart, he gives me the creeps. He’s an out-and-out Nazi. Makes no secret of his admiration of Hitler and all he stood for. Refers to him as his Führer, a real bloody heel-clicker. Loathes us British … but he’s a conceited sod and can’t resist giving advice. Besides which, he’s good at his job, very knowledgeable, very.” Bruce gave him a penetrating look. “Now, tell me if you will — where do I come in?”

  Shard said, “You’ve already told me I look like a policeman. Brosak could come to the same conclusion. Which means, I need cover. You see, I want words with him.”

  “I see. And our conversation’s to be regarded as confidential?”

  “Very much so, if you don’t mind, Major.”

  “Of course. Sealed lips. But what kind of cover can I give you that would pass muster? How’s your medical knowledge?”

  Shard smiled. “Non-existent, I’m afraid.”

  “H’m. In that case I can’t pass you off as a visiting consultant. So now let’s think.” Bruce frowned in thought. “How about a man from the D of H, come over to discuss rabies and —”

  “Rabies must not be mentioned, Major. Not on any account at all.”

  “This grows curiouser and curiouser! Never mind that, though. I’ll not pry. But I think the D of H is the best bet. Rats, don’t you know. I’ve been reading about a kind of rat plague currently in UK. Not just in the newspapers — we medics get an infernal amount of bumph to read from the ministry. You’ve come to talk about rats and how best to deal with an inundation. Brosak’s got a whole menagerie of rats, mainly for experimental purposes of course, but also because rats are another of his interests. Being a rat himself, you see.” Bruce grinned without humour.

  Shard said, “That seems as good as anything, I suppose.” He added, “As a matter of interest, how come Brosak’s admitted to a British military establishment, seeing that he’s such a convinced Nazi?”

  Bruce shrugged. “Germany’s the host country, my dear chap, and we’re not at war. Besides, this is a hospital, not the headquarters of BAOR. All sorts of weirdos gain admittance — you may have noticed!” Suddenly he grinned again. “Sorry, I didn’t really mean to be personal.”

  Shard said, “I’ve been called worse in my time, Major. And you’ve been a big help, bigger than you realise.”

  Bruce nodded. “When it all comes out, I’ll be in there for my OBE. Meanwhile, I’ll give you some documentation about rats.” He pulled a sheet of paper from a drawer and began writing. The coffee came, and was welcome.

  *

  Hedge, co-ordinating in the Consulate-General in West Berlin, took a telephone call from the assistant under-secretary of state after which he metaphorically bit his fingernails to the quicks. A suicide, and a black Volvo. Two and two had been put together. Had Hedge anything to add to his statement about the kidnap?

  “No, Under-Secretary. And I really must point out that there are a number of black Volvos in London —”

  “Yes, there are, I agree, Hedge. It may be nothing but coincidence.”

  “Yes,” Hedge said eagerly. “That’s it, coincidence, Undersecretary.”

  “On the other hand, there could be a link. I’m having that possibility explored.”

  “I see, Under-Secretary. Er … may I ask by whom?”

  A grunt of irritation came along the line from Whitehall. “Do you need to ask, Hedge?”

  That was all. The call was cut. Hedge was terrified. Of course he had had no need to ask his question; it was just that he had hoped against hope … the people to whom the assistant under-secretary had referred so obliquely didn’t court the light of day. They were ferrets with evil minds, so-and-sos whose sole object in life was to burrow about in people’s private lives and expose them to criticism and worse. Far worse. And if they were now to investigate a ministerial suicide, then all manner of things could come out. Hedge believed in fact that the black Volvo was no coincidence at all. And those wretched men who had kidnapped him and uttered threats very probably had something on the dead minister as well. He could so easily have been another victim of Logan’s wiles and bribery. In the past no doubt, but those evil ferrets made the past their business. Logan, alive again, was lethal. He had to be found.

  No, he hadn’t. Found, he would talk. The two dreadful stools loomed again. Logan really had to die. Hedge shied from the thought, for he was no man of action. But if someone else killed Logan —

  Who?

  Shard. But it was highly doubtful if Shard would do that off his own bat. And certainly he, Hedge, couldn’t order him to. Or even ask him to. Damn Shard’s wretched conscience, damn his integrity! There were times when you simply couldn’t afford too many of the niceties.

  But if only Shard would at least get in touch, then something might perhaps be worked out.

  Hedge sat and trembled. It was all most unfortunate, so inconsiderate of that minister to commit suicide. Not the thing at Christmas. After a while Hedge found he could sit no longer in the office provided for him as co-ordinator of the Logan hunt. It was too nerve-racking, waiting for nemesis. If Shard rang it would be a pity to miss him but Hedge decided to risk that rather than go quietly mad with the strain of waiting and doing nothing. Hedge also found it very wearing trying to look busy. He felt like a pool of nothingness in the midst of bustle. He missed his comfortable London routine. Here in the Consulate-General his position in the hierarchy was a shade uncertain.

  He left his office, telling his allotted secretary that he had an appointment and would return in an hour’s time. He went out into the street. He wandered along the Kurfurstendam, among the crowds. West Berlin had a festive air; after all, Germany was the home of Father Christmas, sleighs and reindeer, Christmas trees and all that. If Queen Victoria hadn’t married good Prince Albert, the British would probably never have had Christmas at all as they had come to know it.

  Hedge went into a large store: he ought to buy something to take back for Mrs Millington for Christmas, though he believed it would in fact be well after the holiday before he got back into his congenial Whitehall billet. He spoke in English to a shop assistant, seeking her advice as to headscarves — Mrs Millington was addicted to such, hideous things. So doing he was approached by a small boy, pugnacious but tearful.

  “You’re a Brit,” the boy said nasally, staring at Hedge hard.

  The boy was obviously American. “British,” Hedge said. “Most certainly I am. You don’t think I’m a — well, never mind that. Why do you ask?”

  “I’ve lost mom,” the boy said, his lower lip trembling. “And I guess I don’t speak German. My dad’s a soldier,” he added helpfully.

  “Really. Well, I don’t see how I can help. Why not go —”

  “My dad’s a general.”

  Hedge gave a start. A general, even an American one, was a general. He enquired the boy’s name; it was that of the supremo of NATO. Hedge said, “Oh, dear. But in that case he won’t be hard to find, I imagine.” Later, he would have a good deal to say about security or the lack of it. The supremo’s family should not be at large without a plain-clothes escort. West Berlin held all manner of desperadoes, terrorists and such, including the ubiquitous IRA. It was his bounden duty to act as escort himself, protect young life, young brass life, at least until mom was located. The child’s mother might be anywhere; the store was the biggest in all Berlin, putting Harrods to shame sizewise. The best thing to do would be to take the wretched boy to the Consulate-General and contact NATO HQ in order to off-load him.

  Importantly, Hedge said, “Come with me.”

  “Where to?”

  “So
mewhere safe. Where I can contact your father.”

  Suddenly the boy, obviously sensibly brought up, looked suspicious. “Say,” he said, “you’re not a nutter, are you?”

  Hedge bridled and went a deeper shade of red. “Well! What cheek! What a thing to say! I must say I’m very surprised at a general’s son saying such a very nasty thing.”

  “Well, gee, I guess I’m sorry. But I’ve been warned —”

  “Then why approach me, a total stranger, in the first place?” Hedge snapped.

  The boy didn’t answer that directly. He said, “Take me to Santa Claus —”

  “Father Christmas.”

  “Okay, Father Christmas. Mom was going to. She might be there.”

  Hedge let out a breath of exasperation. Father Christmas was not much in his line. He was half inclined to deposit the child in the care of the store manager or someone, but so many people couldn’t be trusted these days and the store people were Germans and the father was the supremo and he himself was a highly-placed civil servant. Noblesse oblige in a sense, or anyway the upper classes helping one another out. If the Americans had an upper class. “Oh, very well,” he said.