The Windsor Protocol Read online

  “You didn’t recognise the iguana.”

  “Oh, that.” She was unable to disguise a tone of relief in her voice. “Well, you’re right, Sherlock. I’ve only been out here a few days.”

  “On vacation?”

  She was about to reply when she glanced up and her eyes widened slightly. Was there still a look of apprehension in them? If there was it was momentary; gone before he could identify it. It took him a moment to realise that she was not looking at him.

  A tall, broad shouldered man was purposefully making his way through the tables towards them. He had a lean, sharp-boned face and deep blue eyes. A lot of his blond hair fell across his forehead in a way that irritated tidy men but attracted most women.

  “Hi, Lise. Sorry I’m late. Are you ready to go?”

  The girl put down her drink. She appeared momentarily confused.

  “Yes…that is, this is…oh dear, I forgotten your name? Mister…er, Carson?”

  Conroy turned to meet the inquisitively cold gaze of the newcomer.

  “Oscar Carson,” he supplied.

  The other made no effort to stretch out his hand. He simply nodded. There was a pause. It was the girl who intervened.

  “This is Roger Albright.”

  She looked and sounded a little embarrassed at the newcomer’s surly manner.

  “Come on, Lise,” said Albright, turning away without any further exchange with Conroy. “We are late.” The girl glanced apologetically at Conroy.

  “Thanks for rescuing me back there,” she said, as she gathered up her things.

  Conroy rose as she got up to leave.

  “Maybe we’ll see each other again…?” he began.

  “Maybe,” she replied but then was gone before he could make any further suggestion.

  He stood watching her hurrying after the broad shouldered man as he led the way out of the bar. He paused before a white Lincoln Zephyr, parked outside, and ushered the girl into it. As she slid into the front passenger seat she threw a glance back into the bar, saw Conroy watching her and flashed him a brief smile. Then she was gone.

  Conroy sat back with a deep sigh.

  There was something about the girl which reminded him of Rebecca. He frowned. What mannerism or feature did the girl have in common with Rebecca? Physically, there could be no greater contrast. Rebecca had been short, no more than five feet one inch, while Lise Fennell was about five feet six inches. Rebecca had not been exactly plump but certainly fleshy whereas this girl was slim. And as for the colouring, well…The alluring dark Semitic appearance of Rebecca was nothing like the blonde, shapely Nordic attraction of Lise Fennell.

  Why was he suddenly comparing Lise Fennell and Rebecca? For years he had tried to put Rebecca out of his mind, suppress all thoughts of her to alleviate the loss and emptiness of his life. Why was she coming back to haunt him at this particular time?

  There was no comparison, anyway…lest it be the nervous gaiety which had been a part of Rebecca’s makeup and which he had detected in Lise Fennell.

  “Excuse me, old boy.”

  He came out of his reverie to see a perspiring, fat man standing at his table. The man was dressed in a sweat-stained white suit and a panama hat. He was mopping a rotund face with a large linen handkerchief. For a wild moment, Conroy thought he was gazing at the movie actor Sydney Greenstreet.

  “I saw you having a word with Mister Albright,” the pudgy middle-aged man went on as soon as he saw he had Conroy’s attention. “Do you know him well?”

  Conroy was puzzled.

  “What do you want?” he asked shortly.

  “I actually want the address of his hotel,” the fat man sounded rather taken aback by Conroy’s directness.

  “Can’t help. I don’t know the man.”

  “But…the fat man’s face almost puckered, as if he were about to break into tears.

  “I was only just introduced to him,” Conroy explained, relenting a little. “I don’t know him beyond his name.”

  “Oh dear.”

  The fat man dropped into the chair opposite Conroy and signalled the barman.

  “A beer, Sammy.”

  “Coming right up, Mister Jordan.”

  The fat man gazed closely at Conroy.

  “You’re a stranger in Nassau, aren’t you, my dear sir?”

  It was a statement rather than a question and when Conroy did not respond the fat man went on hurriedly.

  “My name is Jordan.”

  “So I heard the barman say,” replied Conroy, still suspicious of the man’s intentions.

  “I am social functions organiser at the Yacht Club,” Jordan explained as the barman set down the beer before him. “I was trying to catch Albright to give him his invitation. Tomorrow’s reception, you know.”

  “I don’t know,” Conroy said patiently. “I’ve just arrived in Nassau.”

  “Oh dear. The club’s private reception for the Duke and Duchess, my dear sir.”

  Conroy tried to hide his sudden interest but he softened his tone.

  “I’m sorry I don’t know where Albright is staying, Mister Jordan. As I say. I’ve only just arrived in Nassau. I don’t know anyone here. I’m touring the islands. You’ve probably seen my yacht, the Savanna-la-Mar.”

  “Ah. Yes. A splendid vessel, Mister…er…?”

  “Carson. Oscar Carson.”

  It did not take long for Conroy to commence building up his image as a wealthy businessman on vacation in the Caribbean. Jordan was a willing listener and obviously a complete social snob.

  “Why you must come to the reception tomorrow, Mister Carson,” he wheezed, enthusiastically. “Everyone who is anyone is attending. It’s an opportunity to meet the new Governor, His Royal Highness. You haven’t met him before, have you?”

  “No. But I don’t know anyone in Nassau who would invite me to such a private reception,” Conroy replied, dangling the bait.

  “Oh, that’s easily done, my dear sir.”

  The fat man took out a pasteboard and fountain pen, writing carefully on it before handing it across.

  “There is your invitation to the reception. Ask for me when you arrive and I’ll make sure that you are introduced you to some people you should know. Nassau is always looking for business investment from Europe, so if you are interested in business as well as a vacation we can certainly ensure you meet the right people.”

  Conroy smiled broadly. Getting an introduction into Nassau society was certainly easier than he had anticipated.

  “That’s very civil of you, Mister Jordan.”

  “Think nothing of it. I’ll see you tomorrow evening. In the meantime, I really must see if I can track down Mister Albright’s hotel. He’s on my invitation list, you see…”

  The fat man rose, even as he was speaking, and, with a wave of a pudgy hand, moved with astonishing sprightliness through the tables. Conroy gazed at the gold embossed printed invitation for a moment and then pocketed it, smiling in satisfaction.

  Then he found his mind turning back to Lise Fennell.

  His thoughts, for some inexplicable reason, were suddenly troubled and he sighed deeply.

  He went back to the yacht after lunch and found Harry Adams at the top of the gangway. He looked slightly agitated and was obviously preparing to go somewhere.

  “Where are you off to?” Conroy asked.

  “No place now that you’ve come back,” Adams replied.

  Conroy blinked bewilderedly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was tuning in to our noon radio check when Nassau Station put out a call for us to contact them.”

  Conroy frowned.

  “I thought contact with them was only supposed to be in an emergency?”

  Adams grimaced.

  “My instructions are to listen out for signals every three days. The code came through loud and clear and I was just about to go off to make contact when you showed up. But it’s best if you went.”

  “Went? Where to? What’s t
he contact point?” demanded Conroy.

  “Fong’s Deli on Murphyville Road. Do you know the pass code?”

  Conroy nodded.

  “I wonder what’s up? It must be important for Nassau Station to ask for direct contact.”

  “Well, we won’t know until we make contact.”

  “I just hope they are not compromising our cover here without a good reason, that’s all,” Conroy sighed.

  He turned and took a caleche from the row on the quay and ordered the driver to drop him at the corner of Shirley and Mackey streets. From there he walked up the hill to Murphyville and found the shop without difficulty.

  Conroy pushed open the door and entered the seedy looking delicatessen. The combination of the smell of fresh coffee intermingled with the aroma of salamis, cheeses and mixtures of spices, almost took his breath away.

  A bell jangled as the door closed behind him.

  There seemed to be no one in the shop. Then an elderly Chinese man, looking like the double of Warner Oland, from one of the Fu Manchu movies, came forward. He wore a black silk suit, looking more like pyjamas than the practicable dress of a store keeper. His eyes seemed half closed behind steel rimmed glasses. Yet Conroy had a feeling that they missed nothing.

  “What can I do for you, sir?” he asked, the voice made almost threatening by its sibilant tone.

  “I am looking for some tea,” Conroy said.

  The old man gestured to the shelves.

  “Of tea, we have plenty of choice.”

  “I want a special brand. I believe it is packaged in Baker Street, London.”

  The old man’s features did not alter.

  “We have several types, then. Is it a Red Label you would wish for?”

  “I was hoping that you might have a White Label,” Conroy replied.

  The old man nodded slowly.

  “Ah, ting hao. I have some out back. If you would come through, sir.”

  Conway followed the man into a store room, moving between piles of boxes and packages.

  “Ch’ing tso. Wait here, sir, and take a seat,” the old man instructed, and disappeared through a further door. A moment later a tall, trim-looking man in a tropical suit and grey moustache entered. He paused to examine Conroy with a critical expression.

  Conroy broke the silence first.

  “Colonel White. I presume?”

  The man did not return his smile. He was not overly friendly.

  “I was asked to break cover with you, Conroy, by Baker Street in London. Otherwise, I would have willingly left you to your own devices.”

  Conroy perched himself on a stack of nearby boxes. It was obvious that White was annoyed to find an unknown operative in his territory.

  “Personally,” White went on, “I take great exception, as head of station, to operatives being placed in my area without my knowledge as to who and what they are doing. However, Baker Street’s orders are unequivocal.”

  All Conroy needed was a self-important superior interfering with his mission.

  “Wasn’t it Renan who said that the man who obeys is nearly always better than the man who commands, sir?”

  White’s eyes narrowed. He was certain that Conroy was making fun of him but unsure how. He cleared his voice with a gruff cough.

  “I have simply been asked to pass this information on to you. London has identified your opposite number as an SS Brigadefuhrer named Rudi Olbricht. Olbricht can, apparently, pass himself off as an American. That is all.”

  Conroy sat for a moment, mulling the information over. The information was immediately of little use. Nevertheless, it was of psychological importance that he knew the name of the German agent who was organising the Duke’s removal from the islands. The name actually sounded familiar but he couldn’t place where he had come across it before.

  White stood stiffly watching Conroy. There was curiosity in his eyes. But years of military discipline caused him to restrain himself.

  When Conroy said nothing he coughed dryly.

  “I have also been told that I am to give you full backing when and if you require it and without question.”

  Conroy rose.

  “Thanks, Colonel. I appreciate that.”

  “You’ll let me know, then?” pressed the Colonel.

  “Yes. I’ll let you know.”

  “I wouldn’t want your operation to interfere with any of my normal station efforts.”

  Conroy grinned broadly at the man’s desperate attempt to be informed of his operation.

  “I can assure you, Colonel, that I’ll try not to tread on your toes. Two things you could do, next time you contact Baker Street. One, warn them of a German agent operating in Foynes, Ireland. His name is O’Regan and he seems to work out of the Dysert Hotel, pumping passengers on the trans-Atlantic run.”

  White made a mental noted and nodded.

  “And the second thing?”

  “Tell Baker Street that I have encountered resistance from opposition members. They have been eliminated. I have yet to discover whether I have been compromised or whether the encounter was coincidental.”

  White’s eyes widened. Conroy saw the questions swarming into his mind. But he cut short any further dialogue by a courteous nod as he turned away.

  Conroy had the feeling, as he moved back through the aromatic delicatessen shop, that he had left behind a very irritated servant of the Crown.

  CHAPTER XIII

  Friday, August 23, 1940

  The “private reception” seemed to have a guest list running into several hundreds. The Yacht Club building was surrounded with high security consisting of police constables, invariably blacks, dressed in spotless white jackets and pith helmets, blue trousers with a broad red stripe on each side. They were omnipresent. Here and there Conroy saw white senior officers. He had to produce his invitation and identification three times before he made it into the foyer the building.

  Beyond the foyer was the main hall where a small band was playing popular American dance music. Couples swayed across the floor. Groups of people stood here and there or were seated at tables around the dance floor.

  Conroy hesitated at the door. As he did so, the little fat man, Jordan, came hurrying across.

  “Glad you could come, my dear sir.”

  Conroy took his flaccid hand momentarily.

  “Thanks for the invitation.”

  “Now, if I remember, you said you didn’t know anyone at all?”

  Conroy confirmed this with a shake of his head.

  “Well, well…let me introduce you to someone.”

  Jordan turned for a moment, eyes narrowing, as he surveyed the crowd and then, with a grunt of satisfaction, piloted Conroy across the floor towards a group of people who were standing to one side watching the dancing.

  “Mrs Kedgeworth!” Jordan hailed a woman of ample proportions, who should have had better sense than to wear the low cut evening gown that she was sporting. Her bosom was bedecked with jewellery which sparkled against the lights of the room. “Mrs Kedgeworth, I want you to meet Oscar Carson. He’s from England and just arrived here for a vacation. Mister Carson, this is Mrs Kedgeworth. She knows everyone who is anyone. She’ll take care of you.”

  Jordan vanished as suddenly as he appeared, leaving Conroy being examined quizzically by the round-faced lady. Looking at her, Conroy had the impression that the imposing, ample proportioned matron must have just stepped from the stage where she had been cast in the role of Brünnhilde, in Wagner’s Der Ring Des Nibelungen. All she lacked to complete the image was a shield, spear and a horned helmet.

  “From the old country, Mr…er…Carson?” Even her voice resonated in an operatic way. It certainly carried over the sound of the band. “Delighted to meet you. When did you arrive?”

  “Oh, a few days ago. I was in the States and the West Indies on behalf of my company and decided to prolong my trip by hiring a yacht in Jamaica and touring the islands. I’m thinking of retiring and buying a property here one of these
days.”

  It was a good gambit. He saw Mrs Kedgeworth’s polite look of interest intensify.

  “Really?” Conroy had increased in stature. Money obviously spoke in this community. “And what is your company?”

  Conroy gestured modestly.

  “Oh, just a small import and export company. Agricultural machinery.”

  “You must tell me all about it,” beamed the lady, “but let me introduce you to a few people first…”

  The evening suddenly became a long stream of introductions. Conroy made mental notes of the guests who interested him. Some of the names were familiar from the briefing Adams had already given him.

  He found himself being introduced to Harry Christie, a swarthy and muscular character with curious green eyes. Conroy found himself visualising Christie in pirate costume. It seemed to suit him. He fitted the role of a sinister character right enough. Conroy found himself believing that the man could well be involved with the Nazis. Money was the only topic of interest in Christie’s life and he would probably do anything for it.

  Conroy was swept on through the sea of faces by the intrepid Mrs Kedgeworth. There seemed no one she did not know personally.

  He was saved from another introduction by a stir in the room. The band ceased playing. People began to crane their head towards the door.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, His Royal Highness and Her Grace…”

  The guests pressed forward towards the slight figure in a general’s uniform of tropical whites and the slightly taller figure of the Duchess in a light, almost sky-blue gown. Presentations were being made by the Duke’s ADC, a careworn looking man in an army captain’s uniform. Jordan was helping the captain identify those being presented to the Duke and Duchess. To Conroy the ducal pair seemed exhausted but their faces were polite masks as they acknowledged the greetings.

  He wondered what the ex-King was thinking.

  Could he really be planning to betray his family and his country?

  He suddenly realised that he was being propelled forward with Mrs Kedgeworth to the end of the line. Then Jordan was whispering something into the ear of the Duke’s ADC, and Conroy was finding the Duke’s limp, moist hand shaking his. He bowed formally.