The Windsor Protocol Page 7

  “I’m looking for Harry Adams,” Conroy replied evenly.

  “Harry ain’t here. Who did you say you were?” The girl was still suspicious and defensive.

  “I didn’t. But I am a friend from England. When will he be back?”

  The girl’s lips compressed. She shrugged diffidently. “No telling, mister.”

  “Can I wait for him, Miss…?”

  The girl shrugged again, not volunteering her name. It was obvious that her anxiety and suspicion would prevent any exchange of information. There were several seconds of silence as they stood examining each other, the girl trying to make up her mind about him. Finally she volunteered: “Harry might be at Paco’s Bar on the south quay. You could look for him there.”

  Conroy hesitated and then smiled briefly.

  “All right. May I leave my case here?”

  The girl nodded. She moved back up into the cockpit as Conroy climbed on deck and stood watching him while he picked up his suitcase and put it to one side. “Where’s this bar?” he asked.

  She waved a slim brown arm in the direction of the shore.

  “Can’t miss it. Just walk along that way.”

  Paco’s Bar turned about to be at least a quarter of a mile along the waterfront. The barman shook his head when he asked for Harry Adams. He called out the name to the half-a-dozen customers lounging at the tables but no one identified themselves as Adams.

  Conroy sighed and ordered a cold beer. He waited for a while, wondering if Adams would show up. When no new customers arrived who answered to the name, Conroy decided to return to the Eleuthera. Something caused him not to call out as he went on board. He could make out a soft murmur of voices. He made his way quietly to the cockpit and saw that his case had vanished from the place where he had left it. He now moved cautiously, pausing when he heard low voices in the saloon. He bent down and peered in through the open hatch.

  The girl was there. And by her side was a tall, burly, dark-skinned man. He was in his early forties and wore an open neck white, military style shirt of the type naval officers wore in the tropics. He had white drill shorts. On the back of his black, curly hair, a yachting cap was set at a rakish angle. His clothes did not disguise his well-muscled figure.

  Conroy’s lips compressed in anger.

  The girl and her companion had his case open on the table before them and were sifting through his belongings with great care.

  “Find anything?” he snapped, from the top of the companion-way.

  The girl gave a startled gasp, her mouth forming a perfect “o”, while the man swung round, fists momentarily clenching as if prepared for attack.

  Conroy nonchalantly eased himself into the saloon, leaning back against the companion-way.

  “Well now,” he said quietly, “you’d better tell me who you are and what you are doing?”

  The man returned his gaze carefully before he shrugged. Conroy found himself gazing into the most curious light grey eyes which seemed incongruous against the texture of his skin. The face was handsome, a broad, intelligent forehead and well-shaped features. The soft brown of the skin could have placed him as a Mediterranean except for the tightly curled, black hair. Conroy guessed that a smile sat more easily on the man’s good-looking features than the scowl of suspicion he now wore.

  “I’m Harry Adams, mister. Who are you?”

  “Conroy. I thought you might have been expecting me.”

  Adams’ face did not change expression. It was obvious that he and the girl had already checked his identity from the contents of his suitcase.

  “What’s your relationship to Mister Holmes?”

  “I’m a Baker Street irregular.”

  A slow grin of resignation spread over the man’s face and he relaxed with a wry expression.

  “It’s a damned silly password, Conroy, but I guess you’re on the square. London told me to expect you.”

  “Are you in touch with London?” He glanced towards the radio transmitter in the corner. He knew it was powerful but he didn’t think it had that range or capability. Adams must have read his mind for he smiled.

  “We tune in to Nassau Station every third day at noon and they send out our instructions,” he explained.

  Harry Adams gestured apologetically to the suitcase.

  “Sorry about this. But we just wanted to make sure that you are who you say you are. There’s a lot of opposition about these days. Especially in this area. A lot of young thugs from the Bund, the American Nazi movement.”

  Conroy glanced curiously at the girl. She stood silently, her eyes downcast now. Adams saw the question in his eyes.

  “This is my first mate, Jessie. She helps run this scow. She’s a first class engineer.”

  The girl smiled shyly at Conroy and began to repack the items of clothing into his case with careful precision.

  “Sorry about this, mister.”

  Adams motioned Conroy to sit down and then sat opposite him.

  “Jessie works with me,” he explained, slightly defensively.

  “It’s all the same to me,” Conroy shrugged. “Do you know what this job is?”

  “Nothing beyond transporting you to the Bahamas and giving you whatever support you need,” replied Adams, turning to the girl who had finished repacking the case. “Stow that for’ard, Jess, and break out some beer. Now,” he turned back to Conroy, “what’s the job?”

  “Firstly, I need to get to Nassau on New Providence.

  I want as much information as possible about the place, especially about the crowd who gravitate around Government House.”

  “That’s no problem. And?”

  Conroy bit his lip hesitantly.

  “The rest I’ll tell you on a need to know basis.”

  Adams’ eyes narrowed slightly.

  “Not a trusting soul, are you?”

  “It has kept me alive this far. I draw my philosophy from the Classics, Adams. Bis peccare in bello non licet. Which means…”

  “In war one may not blunder twice,” interrupted Adams. He smiled, perhaps a little bitterly, at Conroy’s expression of surprise. “Yes, I went to school as well.” Adams pursed his lips in an mocking expression. “Okay. We’ll play it your way. If I wasn’t so innocent, I’d guess this has something to do with the new Governor. Everyone in this part of the world is talking about the arrival of the Duke and Duchess. Anyway, I’m told that you are boss of this affair. How do you want to play it? Do we sneak into Nassau and put you ashore at night or what?”

  “Do you have fishing gear aboard?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then we go in openly as tourists. Your boat is under hire to me for a fishing trip around the Bahamas. I am a businessman from London dealing in agricultural machinery with a little time and money on my hands.”

  “Do your documents support that?”

  Conroy nodded.

  “Fair enough. When do you want to start?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Belay the beer, Jess,” Adams sighed, rising from his seat. “We’d better collect the stores and catch the evening tide.”

  “Okay, Harry,” came the girl’s cheerful response.

  Adams added to Conroy: “We just have to collect some fresh vegetables which I’ve ordered and then we can get underway.”

  Conroy rose as well.

  “I’ll come and give you a hand.”

  Adams grinned derisively.

  “Damned right, you will. We’ll be running the ship three handed and while you are on board you can pull your weight with Jess and me. I suppose you’ve been on a yacht before?”

  Conroy grimaced.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll pull my weight, skipper. Until you get me where I want to go.”

  They all left the yacht together and began to stroll down the pier.

  “You have a nice vessel, skipper,” Conroy offered appreciatively.

  “One of the best,” Adams agreed. There was more than a tinge of pride in his voice.
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br />   “I can’t understand why a yacht is named after a Greek festival, though.”

  Adams glanced at him, clearly puzzled.

  “How’s that?”

  “Eleuthera — the festival held at Plataea to celebrate the Greek victory over the Persians in the fifth century BC. Except the spelling, correctly, would be T and ‘a’ on the end and not just ‘a’. Eleutheria.”

  “So you’re a Classical scholar, Conroy?” Adams seemed quietly amused. “Oxford or Cambridge?”

  “Cambridge. Yes, I did my degree in Classics,” admitted Conroy, complacently.

  “That a fact? Well, you tell him, Jess.”

  The girl pulled a comical facial expression.

  “Eleuthera is an island in the Bahamas. It is the island where I was born.”

  “That’s why the boat is called Eleuthera,” added Adams with light sarcasm.

  Conroy felt a little embarrassed.

  “I’ll stop jumping to conclusions in the future,” he sighed. “Anyway, the Eleuthera looks a fast boat. Does she handle well under full sail?”

  Adams’ expression was one of conceit. Conroy appreciated that the ship was his baby. He could understand that. He supposed it was similar to the feelings he had for his Aston Martin racer.

  “Yeah, except we hardly run her with the sails. She has two three-hundred horse power Kestrel engines which gets her about pretty quickly. Jessie runs those. They respond to her. She’s a magician with engines…especially marine engines.”

  The girl laughed deprecatingly, a low, musical chuckle.

  “My daddy was an engineer on the big ships until he set down in Hatchet Bay and met my mother. He could repair anything mechanical, especially boats. I grew up able to tell a crook-shank from a sprocket before 1 could read.”

  “Jess can fix almost anything, even with a Force Ten blowing,” confirmed Adams, happily.

  Conroy was somewhat envious of the sense of relaxed partnership that exuded from the two of them.

  “Baker Street told me that you were Bermudan, Adams,” he ventured.

  “That’s a fact,” the girl interposed quickly. “Harry was born and raised in Hamilton. The waters and islands around here are his backyard, mister. He knows every square yard.”

  Adams smiled at her with sheepish pleasure.

  “Jess is a bit enthusiastic,” he said apologetically. Adams seemed to be a man of contradictions. To Conroy, he seemed cynical and with a bitterness which he tried hard to conceal but which now and again achieved the upper hand. But he seemed to bask in the girl’s admiration, reduced to a gentle boyish giant. One thing was clear, however, Adams was a highly intelligent man.

  “Well, you tell him, Harry,” protested the girl. “Harry won the Cruising Club of America’s power boat race from Newport, Rhode Island, to Bermuda, twice and came second in a third year. There’s no one who knows these waters or can handle a boat like Harry.”

  “Jess, you’re biased, kid,” Adams protested.

  “Sounds as though you’re pretty good with boats, skipper,” Conroy commented.

  “You need to be experienced in these waters, Conroy,” Adams replied, pausing and half turning to throw out a hand towards the long, low level of blue sea. “Pretty calm, isn’t it? Within five minutes a devil storm could blow up and you are in the middle of a Force Nine or Ten. This is one of the worst seas in the world. More ships have disappeared off this coast than about anywhere else I know.”

  “You make it sound pretty treacherous, skipper.”

  “It is, mister. Believe you me, it is.”

  They turned and walked on to the store at the end of the quayside. There were a number of boxes of fresh vegetables ready which Adams had apparently ordered that morning, and the store clerk provided them with a pushcart to transport them back up to the moorings after Adams had made a transaction in cash.

  Conroy was still feeling pretty tired from his long journey, in spite of his sleep in the hotel, and the late afternoon sun was still fairly hot. It seemed to him that he had been deposited in some unreal world. It was so different to either the pre-war Europe which he knew or the last year of strife-torn Europe which had shaped his views. He felt warm, relaxed and comfortable. It was like being on vacation. It seemed so strange being here after the last few weeks in Germany and France; even balanced against his last few days’ respite in London. He felt as if he were moving through a strange dream. And yet, he was all too aware of the drama behind the tense briefing which he had received just a few days ago in London. He could still visualise the signature on the single sheet of paper with its few ominous phrases. He could see it now: “Reference — Windsor Protocol”. A protocol was an original note or minute of an instrument of policy. But such an instrument…he felt himself shivering as he recalled the wording.

  “What the hell…?”

  The exclamation from Adams jerked him back into the current reality.

  They had been trundling the cart of stores back up the pierhead towards the Eleuthera.

  Adams had released his hold on the cart and was now rushing forward towards his yacht.

  Conroy’s eyes narrowed and focussed on a dark figure disappearing over the far side of the yacht from the pier. He hesitated a second and then he was at Adams’ heels. They scrambled up the gang plank just as an outboard motor burst into life. From the shadow of the starboard side of the Eleuthera a sleek motor boat curved away, the sea creaming beneath its bows. Two men, no more than dark shadows, hunched in it.

  Adams came to a halt, his fists clenched impotently. It was obvious that there was no hope of catching the intruders.

  Conroy came up behind him and paused, watching the small boat vanishing behind the distant headland.

  “Who were they?” he asked.

  “Some jerk was on board. He must have heard us returning and leapt for the motor-boat they had moored alongside. Now what the hell is that about?”

  Adams turned away. Jessie had come aboard and was staring down at the stern hatchway into the engine room. It was open. Silently, she clambered down inside.

  Then Conroy heard her swear. He was momentarily shocked by the vehemence and colour of the language. It contradicted the demure picture he had created of the girl.

  He went over with Adams to peer down into the engine room.

  Jessie raised her face to them and held out something which she had picked up from the deck near the engine.

  It was an open bag of sugar.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Monday, August 19 — Tuesday, August 20, 1940

  “What is it?” demanded Conroy, not quite understanding the meaning of the open pack of sugar which Jessie was holding up for their inspection.

  “It’s the easiest way to sabotage an engine, just drop sugar into the petrol,” replied the girl.

  Adams exhaled in a low, controlled fashion.

  “Were you followed here, Conroy?”

  Conroy shook his head but all his previous anxieties and suspicions about O’Regan began to run riot in his mind.

  “I don’t see how I could be.” Almost at once he realised that he was being defensive.

  “That’s not what I asked,” snapped Adams testily.

  “Then not as far as I am aware,” replied Conroy, reacting with stubborn irritability at Adams’ brusque manner. “There is absolutely no one who could know who I am or what my mission is.”

  As he spoke, however, he found himself trying to fathom the meaning of O’Regan’s ‘phone call once again and the curious feeling of being watched during his trip from New York to Miami. But it was impossible; absolutely impossible that the opposition could know or suspect anything about him.

  “How bad is it, Jess?” Adams was asking.

  The girl was gazing thoughtfully at the engines.

  “I won’t know until I have checked out the engines thoroughly. Give me a couple of hours on each engine. It may be that they didn’t have time to do anything before we came back. Even so, I’ll have to flush out the
tanks to make sure and strip down the feed lines.”

  “Four hours?” Adams pursed his lips in annoyance.

  “Minimum,” affirmed the girl.

  “Then you best get started.” Adams turned back to Conroy. “Maybe, if my yacht is going to be sabotaged, you’d better give me a few more details about your mission, Conroy.”

  Conroy fought with the instructions which Dunnett had given him.

  “I guess I owe you that, skipper,” he finally agreed reluctantly.

  “Good. Fill me in as we bring the stores aboard.”

  Conroy glanced to where Jessie was busying herself with the engines.

  “Shouldn’t we help?”

  Adams shook his head.

  “Jess will let us know soon enough if she wants help. I told you that she is a first class mechanic. Come on. Let’s get the stores aboard.”

  Conroy decided to be frugal with the truth. There was too much at stake in this operation to tell the whole truth unless it was absolutely necessary. Conroy did not think it was absolutely necessary…yet. He simply told Adams that there was a suspected German plot to kidnap the newly appointed Governor of the Bahamas and that it was his job to prevent such a plot being carried out. He didn’t embellish it further. Adams was not entirely convinced by the story.

  “Are you saying that the whole purpose of this trip is to cruise around the Bahamas in case a German U-Boat pops up?” he asked sarcastically.

  They were now sitting in the saloon having a drink after the task of stacking the stores.

  “Not exactly,” Conroy admitted. “But that’s what it boils down to. The Germans tried to get hold of the Duke in Spain and again in Portugal. Our job is to keep nearby just in case and to nose around for anything suspicious.” Adams sniffed in disapproval.

  “Well, it seems like a damned fool task to me. Surely someone in his own household, his bodyguard or the soldiers at Government House, would be better placed if there is a serious threat?”

  Conroy shook his head.

  “It might be that one of them is an agent,” he pointed out, “or sympathetic to the Germans’ purpose. That is why I have been sent along. We don’t want to involve the personnel in Government House unless absolutely unavoidable.”