The Windsor Protocol Page 12

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  Oberfuhrer Walter Schellenberg’s face was flushed in annoyance as he stood before the desk of Reichsminster Joachim Von Ribbentrop in the plush office of the Foreign Ministry building on the Wilhelmstrasse.

  “I am in charge of the Reich’s counter-espionage, Herr Reichsminister, and I still maintain that 1 should have been notified that Olbricht had replaced me in this matter of the Windsors.”

  Von Ribbentrop’s pale-faced expression was not pleasant as he returned the angry gaze of the young SS officer.

  “Operation Konigtum has nothing to do with you,” he replied sharply. “Your failure in the matter of Operation Willi forced the Fuhrer and I to consider alternative measures, Schellenberg; measures that you are not privy to.”

  Schellenberg bit his lip, controlling his natural hot temper before responding.

  “And yet I come to learn of this new operation from one of our agents in London.”

  He threw down a piece of flimsy paper on the desk before the Foreign Affairs Minister. Von Ribbentrop picked it up and glanced at it. His eyes widened perceptibly and his bloodless lips thinned slightly.

  “How could this agent know such information?” he demanded with scepticism.

  It was Schellenberg’s turn to smile. It was a sour, derisive smile.

  “Our intelligence organisation is not just a bunch of amateurs. We have many informants in prominent positions in English security organisations,” he replied. “What this agent says can be accepted without question.”

  “I have only your word for that.”

  “And whether you accept it or not, Herr Reichsminister, is your own affair. All I can say, is that our agent is highly placed. We can be sure that the English know that Rudi Olbricht is in the Bahamas and that he is in contact with the Windsors and is attempting to bring them back to Germany; they also know his name and have passed it on to their agents there. Olbricht must be warned to proceed with caution.”

  Von Ribbentrop stared hesitantly at the slip of paper. Then he shrugged and handed it back to Schellenberg.

  “Gruppenfuhrer Jost of Department Six D is coordinating the operation from Berlin. Take this to him and have him communicate its contents to Olbricht by a secure channel.”

  Schellenberg started promptly towards the door without any formality.

  “Herr Oberfuhrer!”

  He hesitated at the sharpness in Von Ribbentrop’s voice and turned back.

  “Let Jost add to his message to Olbricht that Olbricht should know time is of the essence. Operation Konigtum must succeed…at all costs.”

  Schellenberg nodded tersely and turned again.

  “Herr Oberfuhrer!”

  The SS glanced back once more to the Reichsminister. Von Ribbentrop raised his right hand with exaggerated punctiliousness. “Heil Hitler!”

  Schellenberg’s mouth tightened.

  “Heil Hitler!” he muttered the response with annoyance before escaping from the room.

  CHAPTER XII

  Thursday, August 22, 1940

  Conroy was awakened the next day by the sound of animated voices. He lay in his bunk for a few moments before identifying Jessie’s voice in dialogue with Harry Adams.

  He swung out of the bunk and poked his head through into the saloon.

  Jessie and Harry were sitting with a pot of freshly made coffee between them.

  “Hi Jess,” Conroy smothered a yawn. “Pour me one and tell me your news.”

  “She did better than we hoped for,” Adams said approvingly.

  Jessie smiled quickly and nodded, pouring a cup of coffee for Conroy.

  Conroy reached for the pack of Chesterfields, which lay on the table, and lit one up.

  “I went to see my aunt at Lyford Cay, as you know,” Jessie began. “I found out my cousin actually works at Government House.”

  Conroy whistled softly.

  “That’s a lucky break,” interposed Adams.

  “Go ahead, Jess,” invited Conroy.

  “Well, she was told to be ready at the beginning of August, when they were expecting the Duke and Duchess to arrive. It seems that when the news came through here of the appointment, everyone started to celebrate. They didn’t arrive until August 15 on board a Canadian ship, Lady Somers. Apparently, they had spent nearly a week in Bermuda. The gossip is that the Duke was particularly enthusiastic to come here…”

  “Go on,” Conroy prompted when she paused.

  “My cousin says that Government House was not in a good state of repair. The paint was peeling off the walls, the rooms were smelling and musty and there were spiders all over the place. The wives of the rich white folks had been trying to disguise the condition by filling the rooms with sweet-scented tropical flowers.

  “My cousin, along with the other servants, were lined up to greet the couple when they arrived. She says that when the Duchess was being shown around the house she kept murmuring: ‘It’s absolutely lovely.’ Then the moment the officials were gone, she turned to the Duke and called the place ‘a dump’ and told him that they could not possibly live there. My cousin said that the Duke promptly agreed. He telegraphed Lord Lloyd at the Colonial Office in London asking to be allowed to retire to his ranch in Canada for the rest of the summer.”

  “How did your cousin know that?” Conroy’s eyes widened slightly.

  “She’s a maid. She was cleaning the Duchess’ room when the Duke came in waving Lord Lloyd’s reply which had made him angry. Lord Lloyd told him to stay put. They were going on about it when the Duchess suddenly realised that my cousin was in the room and told her to leave.”

  Conroy bit his lip. If there was a Nazi plot to kidnap the Duke from the islands, to which the Duke was an approving party, why would he ask to leave to go to Canada?

  “What’s the staff like at Government House?”

  “There’s the coloured cleaning and catering staff.”

  “But who is really close to the Duke and Duchess?”

  Jessie put her head to one side and frowned, as if trying to remember a list.

  “The man in charge of running things is a Major Phillips. Gray Phillips. He’s in his mid-fifties. He is the controller of the household…”

  Conroy smiled. “Comptroller,” he corrected softly.

  “Then there is the Duke’s ADC. His name is Captain Wood and he is married to an attractive Hungarian woman. There is talk that a new equerry is due on the island soon, a Captain Drury. The Duke has a personal valet, a Scotsman. He’s more friendly to the coloured servants than the others and has had some long chats with my cousin. His name is Alastair Fletcher. They call him Piper Fletcher of the Scots Guards. He would be a good source of information, unknowingly, of course.”

  “Anyone else? Any members of their staff who were brought from Europe?”

  “The Duchess has brought two maids with her, Evelyn Fyrth and Isabelle Pons. In fact, they say that the Duchess is very unhappy about one of her maids. In the flight from France into Spain, her personal maid, someone called Jeanne-Marguerite Moulichon, was separated with a lot of the Duchess’s personal luggage, linen, silver and china, and the like. The British Consul in Spain has been holding her and the luggage up and refusing to let her travel here.”

  Conroy nodded slowly.

  “Is that all?”

  “Oh no. There’s also a London policeman. Detective Sergeant Harold Holder of the Special Branch. He’s the Duke’s personal detective. And there is a Canadian called Drake who appears to be the Duke’s private bodyguard.”

  “A Canadian?”

  “Yeah. Apparently he used to work on the Duke’s ranch in Canada and only joined the Duke’s staff in Bermuda. He arrived from Canada just in time to sail here on the Lady Somers.”

  “You’ve done pretty well, Jess,” smiled Conroy with satisfaction. “Will your cousin keep us informed about what goes on in Government House?”

  “Well, apparently the coloured staff have been warned that the Duke and Duchess will be leaving Government
House soon.”

  Conroy’s eyebrows shot up.

  “What?”

  She nodded, unperturbed at his reaction.

  “They’ve been told that work on refurbishing Government House is going to start soon and the staff will not be wanted for a while.”

  “But where are the Duke and Duchess going to live?” Adams demanded.

  “Or will they still be in Nassau at all?” mused Conroy. “Things might be moving faster than we expected, that’s all. Is there anything else, Jess?”

  “There was something else which my cousin picked up,” Jess went on. “I don’t think it’s very important, just interesting gossip.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked Conroy.

  “Well, she overheard the Duke letting off steam to Major Phillips about his brother, King George. She was dusting the library, next door to the study, and heard the Duke accuse the King of acting unconstitutionally.”

  She had Conroy’s full attention.

  “In what way, Jess?”

  “It was about the way the Colonial Office has apparently instructed everyone to call the Duchess Her Grace instead of Her Royal Highness. The Duke was saying that when a female commoner marries a Royal prince, she takes the prince’s title HRH from common law. He said that, in accordance with that law, a wife takes the status of her husband. I’m not sure whether I’m getting it right, because this is just what my cousin reported was said.”

  Conroy motioned her to continue.

  “The Duke went on to say that when his brother, as Duke of York, married Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, she automatically became a Royal Highness. The same rule has applied to every other female commoner marrying a royal prince. But King George refused to allow the Duchess of Windsor to share her husband’s royal rank. The Duke claims that the King acted out of weakness, influenced by his wife and his mother, Queen Mary. The Duke was getting red in the face and saying the action was illegal under the British constitution and that neither God nor the monarch could prevent or remove a title conferred under English common law.”

  Adams sniffed deprecatingly.

  “That’s not much help, Jess. Just a piece of gossip.”

  Conroy was silent. Knowing what was suspected about the Duke’s attitudes, the anger of the Duke towards his brother, sister-in-law and mother was important because it was a yardstick of the Duke’s frame of mind. Could he really have it in his mind to betray his family and his country out of anger at the way he and his wife had been treated?

  Conroy stubbed out his cigarette and swallowed the remainder of his coffee.

  “I need to start mixing with some society on this island,” he said decisively. “I want to mix with people who are likely to be meeting the Duke and Duchess on a social footing. I need to get close and start looking at likely Nazi intermediaries. How and where do I start?”

  Adams rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  “Where would a vacationer be liable to head for?” he mused. He paused and suddenly grinned. “Just across the headland here, the other side of Fort Montagu, is Montagu Beach. That’s where the rich, the high society of Nassau, hang out. It is a white’s only place. Just parade around the beach. And there is a bar on the beach called the Bar Montagu. Spend a little money in there, get into conversation and someone is bound to spot you and start introducing you around.”

  “Okay. Me for Montagu Beach, then. I suggest, Jess, that you go back and have another word with your cousin. Try to get her to find out more details about this move. Where are the Duke and Duchess going when they move out of Government House?”

  “Okay, Jimmy. I’ll do my best.”

  “And what do you want me to do?” demanded Adams. “Check the general gossip about new arrivals in the waterfront bars and find out what you can about the current movements of those suspects we talked over last night.”

  Conroy lay on his back, floating without effort in the buoyant, salty waters off Montagu Beach. He lay basking in the warmth of the morning sun, trying to relax, stopping his mind pounding as it turned over the problems of his task.

  He could see why Adams had suggested that he come to the beach in order to try to establish a contact with Nassau’s elite. The rich and idle of the Bahamas’ capital used the beach as a place to be seen at and to see others. There were little groups of them here and there under large parasols or gathered in the “Bar Montagu”, a bar which seemed to spill onto the beach and made of palms and bamboo, without walls but covered by a large thatched roof which shaded its swim-suited clientele as they sat sipping all manner of exotic drinks.

  Conroy had entered the bar briefly and sipped at a cold beer, trying to watch for an opening into which he could introduce himself. But people were too engrossed in their own small-talk for the moment. The only person who seemed friendly was the smiling black barman who didn’t appear to mind at all when the languid white customers shouted “boy!” It was obviously a “white’s only” bar and even on the stretch of white sand there were only Europeans to be seen. The beach exuded privilege and exclusiveness. He found it quite depressing.

  After a while he had gone for a swim in the warm waters and tried to decide what his next move should be but no solutions came to him. Finally, he gave up thinking and simply swam, relaxing for the first time in many years. He almost lost count of time.

  Eventually he waded out of the sea and made his way across the soft white crushed coral sands to where he had left his clothes.

  The scream stopped him in his tracks.

  A little way beyond his pile of clothes, further along the sands by the shade of some rocks, a girl lay sunbathing. There was no one else around in this area of the beach. While she lay semi-prone her whole body was one of tension. Her well-shaped, long sun-tanned limbs were taut. She had half-raised herself, balancing on one elbow. A faint breeze was ruffling her ash-blonde hair.

  Conroy took a few paces towards her.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  The girl did not turn towards him but remained motionless.

  “Please,” her voice was tight, fear edged it. It was almost a sob. “Please help me.”

  Frowning, Conroy moved towards her.

  He paused when he saw the great lizard-like creature, over four feet in length, just a foot or two away from the sunbather, its pink mouth was open and hissing angrily, the pink contrasting against its bright green reptilian body with its crest of spines running from its neck to sharp tail.

  “It’s all right,” Conroy said, glancing around and picking up a couple of small rocks, “it’s only a common iguana.”

  He had seen some of these large lizards on Joulter Cay and, impressed by their size and ferocious looking primeval appearance, had asked Harry Adams about them.

  “Don’t worry,” Adams had replied. “They’re harmless enough. They’re quite common in tropical America.

  They are usually tree dwelling, living by streams. You do get a marine version but they are only found on the Galapagos.”

  Armed with this information, Conroy said quietly: “When I throw a stone at it, roll away and come in this direction.”

  He threw his stone and yelled: “Now!” The girl responded with a swiftness which surprised him, rolling over, scrambling to her feet and running so quickly towards him that their bodies collided and he nearly fell backwards. They hung together, almost in an embrace. Then the girl, with an embarrassed expression, pushed herself gently away and peered back.

  The great lizard had turned and was moving rapidly off with a dignified waddling motion of its oversized body.

  Conroy grinned.

  “There, you see?”

  The girl took a deep breath. He realised that she was very attractive. Deep green-grey eyes complemented the ash-blonde hair and was enhanced by the deep, olive sun-tan of her face and body. Conroy put her age in the mid to late twenties. Her face wore that indescribable expression of innocence and wonder which seemed at odds with the maturity of her physical being and sexual poise.


  “I’ve never seen one of those things before. What the hell are they?”

  She had a soft, unobtrusive American accent.

  “An iguana. But they aren’t harmful, so I’m told.”

  She raised an eyebrow laconically.

  “You’re told!” she observed with emphasis. “Don’t you know for sure?”

  Conroy grinned.

  “Oh, I trust the person who told me.”

  She suddenly returned his smile. A smile without guile, immediate and warm.

  “Guess I feel pretty much a fool,” she said ruefully. “I just didn’t expect to encounter anything like that on the beach.”

  “Maybe you were too near the rocks and those trees. It probably regarded it as its territory.”

  “Well, thanks, mister…”

  “Oscar Carson,” he volunteered, sticking out his hand. She took it in a firm, open clasp.

  “I am Lise Fennell.”

  “Let me buy you a drink after that nasty shock,” he offered.

  She hesitated a moment and then nodded.

  “Let me pick up my things,” she said, moving towards the spot where her towel and bag were lying. “I guess I’ll stick nearer the water next time.”

  Conroy also picked up his belongings and together they strolled across the sand into the Bar Montagu and sat at a table in the shade. Conroy ordered drinks.

  “You’re an American,” he opened, as they sipped the drinks.

  “That’s very clever, my dear Holmes,” she puckered her face in mischievous expression. “And you are English.”

  “Well, my accent is easy enough to spot,” Conroy replied with an answering grin. “But I can tell a lot more about you.”

  For an odd moment he thought he saw a sudden panic in her eyes, gone before he could be sure, and then she said quietly, almost in soft challenge.

  “Such as?”

  “Such as you can’t have been on these islands long.” She frowned.

  “And how do you make that out?”