The Windsor Protocol

by Peter MacAlan

  He paused a moment and glanced about him. He found it bizarrely amusing to wonder whether any of the people milling about were, in fact, agents of the Abwehr. Only three weeks ago he had been strolling nonchalantly along the sun-baked pavement of the Tirpitz Ufer in Berlin, surreptitiously examining the grey ugly facade of No 74-76 and wondering if Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, the head of the Abwehr, was seated at his desk behind that forbidding frontage. What he could do in Berlin, an Abwehr agent could do in London. He gave a mental shake of his head and moved on.

  Conroy passed by the frontage of Marks and Spencer, the large department store, and turned into a side door of Michael House. An elderly, bespectacled caretaker was seated behind a wooden cupboard-like partition which had glass windows and an open hatch. Conroy showed a pass and his name and time of entry were duly logged.

  A creaking lift hauled him up above the ground floor where the innocent daily business of the big store was conducted. His destination was the top floor of Michael House which accommodated a set of nondescript offices which bore no name plate or other indication of their usage. To the unsuspecting observer they could have been simply part of the administration block of the department store below.

  In these offices sat strange, anonymous individuals in an assortment of dull and unremarkable civilian suits, rather like his own, surrounded by a variety of pretty secretaries. A sedentary hive of activity. Conroy wondered what the reaction of the shoppers below in the department store would be if they knew what work these anonymous individuals were engaged in.

  The activities at the nearby Norgeby House were as nothing compared to those at Michael House.

  Conroy alighted from the lift and found his way barred by a tough looking man, uncomfortably dressed in tweed jacket and grey flannels. In spite of his civilian attire, every inch proclaimed his obvious military calling in life. A stereotype regimental sergeant-major in uniform or out. Conroy inwardly grinned and displayed his pass once again. For a wild moment he thought the man was going to snap to attention and perform a Guards’ salute. The man restrained himself, however, and merely handed the pass back, carefully entering Conroy’s name and the time on a clip board.

  Passing through swing doors, Conroy made his way through a maze of corridors until he came to a numbered door. He knocked, paused a moment and entered.

  The office beyond was sparsely furnished but functional. An unsmiling middle-aged woman, seated behind a desk piled with folders, frowned at his entrance. She seemed to regard him with disapproval. Before he had time to identify himself, she was reaching for a telephone on her desk, at the same time checking a list and ticking an entry. Conroy said nothing, simply removing his hat and coat and hanging them on an ornate wooden pedestal hanger in the corner of the room.

  “Major Conroy is here, sir.” A pause. “Very well.”

  She replaced the receiver, still unsmiling, and nodded to a door on the far side of the office.

  “You may go in, major.”

  Conroy suddenly grinned broadly and could not resist giving the woman a conspiratorial wink, somewhat disconcerting her sour composure. Then he entered the office beyond.

  A tall, soldierly looking man with close cropped iron grey hair rose from his seat behind a desk as Conroy entered. Colonel Larry Dunnett was in charge of Section D(3), MI5. The D stood for “destruction” and the section had been created in March, 1938, when war with Germany seemed immediate and unavoidable. It had been organised by Colonel Laurence Grand to recruit special operatives who would wreak havoc behind enemy lines by acts of assassination and sabotage. Then the Munich Pact had been agreed which had carved up Czechoslovakia and allowed its later occupation by the Nazis. Chamberlain’s surrender to the demands of Hitler had been disguised as “peace in our time”. MI5 did not agree with the Prime Minister’s enthusiasm and Section D had not been disbanded but had continued to recruit and train personnel. A year later Britain was at war and Section D was ready to go to work. In June, 1940, Churchill had ordered its expansion. Section D(3) was now controlled by Lieutenant Colonel Larry Dunnett and specialised in work involving the security of prominent persons.

  “Come in, Jimmy,” Dunnett greeted. “How are you? Rested from your trip?”

  Conroy nodded cautiously.

  Dunnett turned to two other men who were sitting in a corner of the room.

  “This is Major Conroy, gentlemen. He has only just returned from Europe. He’s one of our most senior operatives.”

  “I’m familiar with Conroy’s file,” one of the men spoke in a voice that was tinged with irritation.

  To Conroy, there was something immediately familiar about this man who remained seated alongside his bored-looking companion. Conroy dredged his memory and then smiled as recognition came.

  “Good morning, Minister.”

  Dr Dalton frowned.

  “So you know me, young man?” His voice was still querulous-sounding. In fact, Dalton had not been to bed the previous night and his eyes were deeply shadowed. It had not been easy to fulfil the specifications set out by the Prime Minister for this special operation.

  “I recognise you,” Conroy corrected softly. “I know that you are the Minister of Economic Warfare, and, therefore, I suppose, my ultimate superior in this department.”

  “Exactly right,” replied Dalton drily. “And you are James Ensor Conroy. Rank — major. General Service list. Aged thirty-five. Born at Kilcrea in County Cork.”

  “Kilcrea, County Cork, eh? Aren’t you Irish supposed to be neutral in this war?”

  It was the second man who spoke now. He had moved forward slightly in his chair. A tall, languid caricature of an English gentleman, although to Conroy’s discerning eye his carriage betrayed a military service. Conroy’s eyes narrowed. He was immediately impressed by the strength of the face. A long, pale face with broad, sloping forehead, with a thin nose, high bridge and arched nostrils. The features were sharply etched. The lips were thin and almost bloodless. He had the feeling that the man must hold some special office.

  Even so, he could not control a slight flush at his jibe about the neutrality of the Irish Free State. He wondered for a moment whether the man was being serious. If Dalton had read his file, then it was probable this man had done so as well.

  “I was five years old when my family left Kilcrea, sir,” he replied coldly. “That was ten years before the “Troubles” and the creation of the Irish Free State. My family were Anglo-Irish. My cousin is the current Lord Glandore. And I was brought up in Kent.”

  It was Dalton who waved a hand as if to pacify him.

  “You’ll have to forgive Lord Skenfrith’s sense of humour. Conroy. We’ve studied your record. English public school. Cambridge University. First class honours in, what was it…?”

  “Classics, sir,” supplied Conroy.

  “Exactly so. But you’ve been a bit of a maverick. Did some postgraduate work in Berlin. Two years at the Sorbonne in France. Spent some time in Spain. No problems in any of those three languages. Travelled here and there and wrote a book on the Cameroons…”

  “La Camargue, sir,” corrected Conroy with patience. “It’s an area in southern France…”

  “Yes, quite. Quite. You were recruited to intelligence in 1935 during another visit to Germany while you were writing your second book on Württemberg. In 1938 you were transferred to Grand’s section and during the last six weeks have been working under the direction of Colonel Dunnett here.”

  The man addressed as Lord Skenfrith intervened with an expression of boredom on his features.

  “And you continued to travel under the guise of being a writer?”

  “Well,” Conroy decided to be pedantic, “I have been writing pretty regularly for several newspapers, so it is not exactly a guise. I mean, I actually am a travel writer.” He paused and gazed at his inquisitor. “If you don’t mind, perhaps you will tell me what your position is? I know who Doctor Dalton is but…”

  Skenfrith seemed secretly amused.


  “Let us say that I am a personal aide and adviser to His Majesty on security matters involving the Royal family.”

  Dalton interrupted with a grunt, which could have been interpreted in several ways. He turned to Colonel Dunnett.

  “This is your briefing, Colonel. Let’s get on with it as time is of the essence.” This latter sentence was uttered with a meaningful glance at Skenfrith who sat back in his chair and crossed his long legs as though totally relaxed and not particularly interested in the proceedings. Only his blue eyes were sharply watchful from under the hooded lids.

  Dunnett reseated himself behind his desk and waved Conroy to take the unoccupied chair before it.

  “I know you are only three days back from your trip to Europe, Jimmy, and I appreciate it was not exactly a pleasant one. You were due to have some leave, I believe?”

  “Two weeks were promised. I was about to go down to Cornwall for some fishing when your secretary called me.

  Dunnett toyed with some papers on his desk, as if embarrassed. He was silent for a moment.

  “I suppose that you are going to tell me that my leave is cancelled,” prompted Conroy, with an attempt at pulling a humorous grimace.

  Dunnett shrugged and gave an answering smile.

  “In short, Jimmy, we want you to go on a little trip to the Bahamas.”

  Conroy blinked in surprise.

  “The Bahamas are not exactly a theatre of war…are they?” he observed. “Am I getting some leave after all?”

  Dunnett shook his head.

  “Not yet, Jimmy.” He pulled a file across his desk and began to glance through it. “Leave is the last thing from our minds.”

  “Then it sounds like a courier job. That’s hardly my style, sir.” There was a tone of protest in Conroy’s voice.

  Dunnett sighed. “I know what you are going to say — you are a trained saboteur, fluent in German, French and passable in Spanish. In fact, you have a flair for languages. It says so on your file. You know how to derail a train, blow up a gasometer, and take out a bridge. You have been trained how to take human life with the minimum of mess and effort. And so you are now going to ask me, what possible use can you be in the Bahamas, a nice, quiet Caribbean backwater, when you are needed in the European theatre of operations? Is that it?”

  Conroy shrugged indifferently as he sat back in his chair.

  “I suppose I was thinking alone those lines, sir.”

  Colonel Dunnett ignored the audible sigh of impatience from the Minister.

  “It’s quite simple, Jimmy. You are the best trained man we have for a job which has just been given to us. But first I want to ask you a serious question. How do you feel about the monarchy?

  Conroy’s eyes widened slightly in surprise.

  “As an institution? Or are you being specific?” he countered.

  “How do you feel about present monarchy in Britain?” It was Lord Skenfrith who interrupted, leaning forward in his chair.

  Conroy glanced at him across his shoulder, then turned back to Dunnett, who half inclined his head as if agreeing with the question. Conroy spread his hands.

  “To someone of my background, monarchy is something we never question.”

  “I thought monarchy was precisely what most Irish people did question,” Skenfrith’s voice was almost sneering. “I thought you southern Irish were all republicans. A few years ago, De Valera took advantage of the Abdication to introduction a new Irish constitution to delete all references to the monarchy and the office of Governor-General.”

  Conroy cast him a glance of annoyance.

  “I have pointed out, sir, my family were Anglo-Irish; we owed our estates and titles to the British monarchy. Most of our families were Loyalists during the ‘Troubles’. Anyway, my cousin sits in the House of Lords and as I have been brought up here I consider myself English.”

  He paused, cursing inwardly at his emotional reaction but Lord Skenfrith was grinning at the retort he had provoked.

  “So you would consider yourself a supporter of the monarchy?” pressed Dalton.

  “It’s our system of expressing national sovereignty, I suppose,” Conroy answered. “It unites all shades of patriotic opinion in loyalty to the country, standing above individual party politics. I suppose it represents the core of our traditions and lends dignity to our nationhood. Yes, I do believe in monarchy. Sorry, I can’t really express myself lucidly on the subject. It’s not a thing that one thinks much about. Monarchy is just the system we live under. God, King and Country.”

  “I think you’ve expressed yourself well enough, young man,” Dalton said approvingly.

  “But would you call yourself a constitutionalist?” pressed Dunnett.

  “Never thought much about it, sir. But…yes. Yes, I suppose I would. We all have to obey the constitution, even the monarchy. Wasn’t that what the overthrow of James II was all about? The Bill of Rights and all that?”

  “So, if a member or members of our Royal family were acting against the interests and constitution of this country and this necessitated their…their elimination…how would you feel?”

  Conroy suddenly felt his facial muscles tighten. He realised that Dunnett and his companions were not playing some philosophical game with him. They were serious. He paused and considered, glancing quickly at Dalton and Skenfrith before turning his gaze back to his immediate superior. It was time to be direct.

  “Do you mean, what would be my attitude if a member of the Royal family was selling this country out to the Nazis? And doing this against the wishes of the Government, parliament and people?”

  “Exactly so,” confirmed Dunnett unemotionally. Conroy pursed his lips for a moment or two.

  “And by ‘elimination’ you mean…assassination?” Dunnett’s expression remained serious and unchanged. “Elimination is a politician’s word, Jimmy. Yes, I do mean assassination.”

  Conroy thought for a while, studying the implications of what he might be asked to do. The punch-line was that he was probably being asked to assassinate a member of the Royal family. He gazed, one to another, at their faces as they watched him struggling to make up his mind. Their expressions were curious, somewhat anxious. He had a fleeting impression of wolves gathered round their prey, watching for its dying gasp. He finally shrugged.

  “If the actions of the individual were placing the country in peril then no one, not even a member of the Royal family, has the right to proceed with impunity.” He sought a memory for a moment, something learned while studying Classics at Cambridge. “I think George Buchanan argued the case in a Latin text in the sixteenth century, which was used by the Parliamentary faction against the excesses of Charles I.”

  Skenfrith grinned sourly. “You are well read. De Jure Regni Apud Scotos. But the book has been banned several times since its publication. It was burnt by the public executioner at Oxford in 1683.”

  “Yes. But when James was overthrown for abusing his office as King six years later, the Parliament took notice of it again as they had during the Civil War. Monarchs cannot abuse their office with impunity. I am not saying that I would not like the task which you have suggested, nor that I would find it easy, but if I were given explicit instructions to do so, then I would carry them out. But I would need to see some legal basis for such a mission.”

  Dunnett gave a small gesture of impatience.

  “You know that can’t be, Jimmy. This thing can’t be approved of by law. As a Classics scholar, you should know the phrase inter arma silent leges?”

  “Indeed, in war laws are silent, sir. But I need to know that I am being ordered to do this thing by a responsible authority.” He half turned towards Dalton. “That order would have to come from a rather high authority, with due respect to you, Minister. Higher even than any Government minister.”

  “Are you indicating that even my authority would not be good enough for you, young man?” snapped Dalton. “Let me remind you that this department is directly responsible to my ministry
.”

  “I think that only the reigning monarch would have the authority to give such an instruction, with respect sir,” replied Conroy. “I am presuming that the person under consideration is not His Majesty?”

  Lord Skenfrith let out a bark of laughter which died away when Dunnett raised his eyes to gaze over Conroy’s shoulder to where Dalton and he were seated. Nothing was said but Conroy, watching the expression in Dunnett’s eyes, saw a silent agreement pass between them.

  The Colonel hesitated only a moment and then rose, went to his office safe, opened it and took out a folder. He returned to his desk and placed the folder before Conroy, turning the cover to reveal its contents. In it was a single typed sheet of paper with a embossed crest. Under the typing was a simple signature. Conroy raised his eyebrows, staring at the sheet for a moment, reading its contents twice before returning his gaze to Dunnett.

  “Satisfied?” asked the Colonel.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then let’s have some tea sent in and I’ll explain what we know about this business so far,” he said, closing the folder and replacing it in his safe.

  An hour later Conroy was sitting back in his chair, his face controlled and unemotional.

  “To sum up then, sir, my task is to establish myself in the Bahamas, attempt to discover the details of the Nazi plot to bring the Duke back to Germany and then to prevent, at all costs, such a plan being carried out.”

  “The crucial phrase there, young man, is ‘at all costs’,” Dr Dalton intervened. He had not spoken for some time. “But you must consider elimination as a last resort.

  A last resort. If it does become necessary, that paper which Dunnett has shown you is our justification and exoneration.”

  “Do we have any idea about who the opposition are, Colonel? I shouldn’t think that the Nazis would entrust this mission to the Abwehr.”