The Windsor Protocol

by Peter MacAlan

  “No,” agreed Dunnett. “Hitler and Ribbentrop would not trust military intelligence to carry out such a delicate operation. They would give it to their Nazi elite. It will be run by the Sicherheitdienst.”

  Dalton asked for an explanation.

  “The SD or SS Security Service. They are part of the RSHA,” explained Dunnett. “That is the Reichs-sicherheitshauptamt — Reich Central Security Department.”

  Dalton motioned Dunnett to continue. It was Conroy, however, who interposed.

  “In the matter of time, sir, they would have quite a march on us. They might even be in the Bahamas now and the plan already in operation.”

  “There is that possibility,” conceded Dunnett. “You will have to get out there as fast as you can.”

  “How? Getting a neutral ship, or even going with a British convoy would involve a journey of ten days at best but more likely a fortnight to three weeks.”

  “You will go by aircraft,” interrupted Dalton.

  “But flights by transatlantic flying boats were cancelled last autumn,” Conroy frowned. “No military aircraft has the transatlantic range.”

  “It’s all been arranged,” Dalton assured him quietly. “If you report to my secretary at Berkeley Square House at noon today, you will receive the necessary travel documents and instructions. You will depart immediately afterwards from Hendon.”

  “A set of travel documents have been made out bearing in mind that you also have an Irish passport with a Gaelicised name,” added Dunnett. “We thought that it would attract less attention once you are in Canada and the USA to travel on a neutral Irish passport.”

  Conroy agreed with the logic.

  “Why do you have a Free State passport, by the way?” interposed Skenfrith abruptly. “In view of what you have told us about your Irish connection, I would not have thought you would have carried such a passport?”

  “In this business it helps, sir,” retorted Conroy. “I was entitled to the passport and the more genuine documentation one has…” He ended with a gesture.

  “You should be in the Bahamas in three days,” Dunnett chimed in, irritated by Skenfrith’s continued needling questioning of Conroy over his Irish associations. However, he dimly seemed to recall that Skenfrith’s brother had been killed in the “Troubles” while serving as an officer in the Essex Regiment in County Cork in 1920. He supposed that it had a bearing on Skenfrith’s prejudice. Conroy said nothing for a moment.

  “Very well. I take it that this is my operation — my sole responsibility? I also assume that I am to make no contact with Government House in the Bahamas? No contact with the security services surrounding the Duke?”

  “Absolutely not,” snapped Dalton. “We have no idea of the reliability of anyone in the Duke’s immediate circle.”

  “His Royal Highness must not be warned in any way that he is under surveillance,” added Dunnett. “If you are in any desperate situation then you may contact Section D’s Nassau Station who will back you up if you need it. Colonel White is head of station. He is a first class man and has our absolute trust. I’ll give you his wireless contact signal to memorise shortly. But on no account is White to know what your mission is nor will he be informed that you are in the Bahamas unless it becomes necessary.”

  “And what is Lord Skenfrith’s role in this?” Conroy suddenly asked.

  The languid figure of Skenfrith stirred. His long face broke into a crooked grin.

  “I am merely here as a liaison officer to keep His Majesty informed of events. Apart from that 1 have no role in this matter at all.”

  Conroy turned back to Dunnett.

  “Is our Nassau Station contact the only support that I will have in the area?”

  “No,” the Colonel replied. “The last leg of your air journey will land you in Miami. In Miami you will join an operative named Harry Adams. He will also provide your transport to the Bahamas. Adams is a Bermudan…” he paused and then added in a half-embarrassed fashion: “Do you have any objection to working with a black?”

  Conroy responded to the unexpected question with a tired smile.

  “Does this man, Adams, have any objection to working with me? I’ve lived too long to have any racial prejudice, colonel.”

  Dunnett cleared his throat, slightly chagrined.

  “Ah, quite so. Quite so. Well, Adams is a first rate operative. American university educated. A bit of a beachcomber who owns a own powerful motor launch and knows the waters of the Caribbean like the back of his hand. He has been one of our agents in the Caribbean for ten years. But one thing, Conroy, only you are to know about the order you have seen in this office, and the hand which signed it. Only you are to know of the ultimate method to be used to prevent the Duke falling into Nazi hands.”

  “And that method,” Dalton emphasised yet again, “must only be employed if all other means fail.”

  Conroy smiled tightly.

  “I understand.”

  CHAPTER V

  Friday, August 16, 1940

  Four days after his briefing with Colonel Dunnett, Doctor Dalton and Lord Skenfrith, Jimmy Conroy was sprawled on a bar stool in an hotel on Key Biscayne overlooking the Miami waterfront. He sipped at an ice cold beer straight from the bottle, with sensual pleasure. He was still tired from the journey even though he had spent the last eight hours in a deep sleep. His ears continued to ring with the constant humming of aero engines for he had been flying the best part of the last three days. He had reached Miami late on Sunday evening and took a cab straight to the Key Biscayne hotel and slept until midday.

  It was difficult to adjust. Just a few days ago he had been in London. Now it seemed that he was a world away from that war-oppressed city.

  The journey had been a new and unique experience. It had been a seemingly endless odyssey of changing from one aircraft to another. He had left London at two o’clock in the afternoon of Friday, a few hours after he had quit the Baker Street headquarters of Section D. Having picked up his travel documents and instructions at Dalton’s office at the Ministry of Economic Warfare, a Humber Snipe saloon, with military markings and driven by a dowdy ATS, had sped him north to RAF Hendon where a frail, ungainly looking Lysander aircraft awaited him. Lysanders had been dubbed “flying coffins” in the service because of their distinctive shape.

  The rain clouds which had given the people such hope earlier than morning had dispersed.

  The sky was blue and clear when the aircraft had taken awkwardly to the air, after the pilot had blandly informed him that news had just come through of large enemy aircraft formations crossing the south and south-east coasts in what looked as though it would be the biggest bombing raid of the war. The pilot seemed to talk in public school Latin tags and referred to the forthcoming raid as the furor Teutonicus. Some 300 Luftwaffe aircraft of all shapes and sizes, Junkers, Heinkels, Dorniers and Messerschmidts, were heading for the south-eastern airfields of England. Conroy had glanced nervously out of the window at the vast expanse of blue, August sky. The thought crossed his mind that it would be ridiculous for him to be shot down before he had even started his mission. But there was no sign of any threatening aircraft.

  The Lysander swung north-westerly and was soon putting down on the edge of the airfield at Speke, outside Liverpool, which was used for both military and civil purposes.

  Conroy waved a casual farewell to the RAF pilot and made his way unobtrusively to the civilian air terminal building on the far side of the airfield and presented the British West Coast Services airline ticket with which he had been supplied. A harassed looking clerk checked it.

  “Do you have your National Identity Card, Mister Conroy?”

  Conroy passed over his newly supplied identity card which described his occupation as an agricultural supplies salesman.

  “Are you travelling to the Irish Free State for business or pleasure, sir?”

  “Business,” replied Conroy.

  The clerk gave no more than a cursory glance at the document.
Salesmen, especially in agricultural implements, were frequent travellers to Ireland. He stamped the ticket and handed it back.

  “Your flight will be called within the hour.”

  A large man with a nervous tic and a modulated south Dublin accent was standing at his shoulder, impatiently waiting to speak with the clerk.

  “Is there any danger of being attacked by German aircraft?” he suddenly asked anxiously. “The wireless says there is a large air raid now in progress around London and the midlands.”

  The clerk looked at the man without disguising the disapproval on his face.

  “I wouldn’t worry,” his tone was almost sarcastic. “You’ll be flying in an Aer Lingus De Haviland Dragon. As your country is neutral, the Germans shouldn’t shoot you down. If they do, you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that they committed an illegal act of war and that your family will be entitled to compensation.”

  There was no need to ask the clerk where he stood on the question of Irish neutrality which had so vexed the British Government during these last few months.

  The clerk turned back to his papers.

  The large Dublin man muttered under his breath and moved off.

  “How come British West Coast Services are using Aer Lingus aircraft?” asked Conroy, intrigued. The clerk looked up, his tone changed a little and he became confidential.

  “The company has made an agreement with the Irish airline to maintain a regular international service between the Free State and Liverpool or Manchester as war conditions permit, sir. Sometimes we use our own aircraft and sometimes we use an Aer Lingus aircraft, depending on what’s in service.”

  Within the hour the passengers, about twenty in all, were crammed into the elderly De Haviland as it rose unsteadily above the Mersey and then turned due west towards the reddening western sky of early evening. Above the Wicklow mountains, there was a moment of excitement for the passengers as an equally elderly Gloster Gladiator fighter rose up and flew close to inspect them. But it carried the markings of the Irish Army Air Corps and, after examining them, it dived away, back to its base.

  The sky was darkening when the De Haviland circled low over the broad estuary of the Shannon and put down on the flat alluvial ground near Rineanna Point, on the northern shore of the great tidal river mouth, almost opposite the group of islands which served as the country’s major transatlantic flying boat terminal. Flying boats and smaller seaplanes could land in the sheltered channel between the mainland of Limerick and Foynes Island.

  As he left the aircraft to walk to the terminal building, Conroy noticed that Rineanna was also an Irish military airbase. He noticed a Supermarine Walrus amphibian with military markings making a landing close to shore. And there were many uniformed personnel on the airfield.

  The passport official and customs man was expansive as he checked Conroy’s papers.

  “Failte romhat! Welcome to the country, sir. Your first visit to Ireland?”

  Conroy shook his head truthfully.

  “How long are you staying?”

  “Overnight. I am in transit. I shall be travelling on the flying boat for Nova Scotia.”

  He handed over his transatlantic ticket for inspection. The official made some notations on his papers.

  “You’ll be needing your passport to travel on.”

  Conroy produced his British passport. The official merely checked that it was currently valid and handed it back.

  “Your aircraft is not due out until first thing in the morning. You should take the ferry to Foynes and stay overnight at the Dysert Hotel. It’s just down the road from the BOAC offices. O’Gorman, the owner there, will wake you up in time to get you to the BOAC terminal.”

  Conroy thanked the man.

  The official pursed his lips and shook his head sadly.

  “Not a good time to be crossing the Atlantic, I’m thinking.”

  “No, not a good time,” Conroy agreed politely.

  “What’s it like across there?”

  Conroy frowned for a moment.

  “Oh, in London, do you mean? The air raids? Pretty bad.”

  “Is that so?”

  The passport and travel papers were handed back. “And I have a cousin in Kilburn. That would be a bad place to be, I’m thinking.”

  Kilburn was nowhere near any military airfields. But Conroy was non-committal. “I supposed it would be.”

  He followed a little group of his fellow passengers to the small ferry which transported them across the Shannon to the town of Foynes and decided to go to the British Overseas Airways Corporation office first in order to clear the paperwork. BOAC had suspended all civilian air traffic on September 9, 1939, a few days after the outbreak of the war. But the company had been placed under British Government authority and its fleet of giant flying boats now carried mail, dispatches and officially approved passengers. Theoretically, Conroy mused, it was a strange situation. The Irish Free State was a neutral country, but the British Government were allowed to use one of its air bases to fly aircraft across the Atlantic which were being used for the promotion of belligerent purposes and not for civilian air traffic. It was one of those curious paradoxes in the difficult relationship between Westminster and the seventeen-year-old state which had once been claimed as England’s oldest colony.

  Conroy was aware that several other people, who had been on the flight from England, were crowding the office to check their flight papers. He glanced around to see if he could identify who they might be. Most of them seemed stereotype civil servants, anonymous Government officials. Of the others, he was unable to guess their true function in life; people from various governmental departments who simply had business in Canada or in the United States.

  His papers were dealt with by one of the clerks. There were no questions when he presented his diplomatic passport endorsed by the Ministry of Economic Warfare.

  “The flight will be leaving at oh-seven hundred hours, sir,” the clerk said, handing back the papers. “Be here at one hour before take-off. That’s at six o’clock in the morning.”

  Conroy smiled an acknowledgment as he scooped up the papers. The clerk was obviously used to people who were unsure of the military method of recording time.

  “Where are you staying, sir?” the clerk suddenly asked as an afterthought.

  “I was recommended to the Dysert Hotel.”

  “Ah,” the man smiled knowingly. “The officials at Rineanna no doubt suggested that? Well, if you stay at the Dysert be careful what you say to a man called O’Regan, if you get my drift, sir.” The clerk winked conspiratorially. “He is staying there listed as a commercial traveller. Expansive. Talkative type.”

  “I see. Thanks. Do you recommend anywhere else?”

  “Everywhere seems booked at this time. No, the Dysert’s all right. It is just that we think O’Regan takes too much interest in our passengers when they stay there.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” grinned Conroy.

  “You’ll find the Dysert just down the road.”

  Conroy acknowledged the clerk’s directions with a wave of his hand.

  The Dysert Hotel was one of those small family hotels which appeared like someone’s house that, only as an afterthought, had been turned into lodgings for travellers. O’Gorman, a tall, elderly man with a hook nose and black eyebrows in spite of his white mane of hair, was leaning against the lobby desk with a foul-smelling pipe in his mouth. He eased himself upright as Conroy entered.

  “I’d like a room for the night,” Conroy said without preamble.

  O’Gorman nodded, easing his pipe to one side of his mouth, and pushed a worn leather-covered ledger across the top of the desk.

  “Just sign in, sir. You’ll be for the transatlantic flight tomorrow, I’m thinking?”

  Conroy made an affirmative sound as he bent to sign the register.

  “We have a few of your fellow passengers staying here, but they are across at Clancy’s Bar.”

  “I wouldn’t min
d a meal,” Conroy suddenly realised that he had scarcely eaten that day. “Can I get that at Clancy’s Bar or here?”

  “If it’s simple fare you’re wanting then we can do a fine meal here,” replied O’Gorman.

  “Anything is all right with me,” confirmed Conroy.

  “Well now, if you’d like to go to your room for a wash, sir, by the time you come down,” he pointed to a side room off the lobby which was obviously the dining room, “there will be a steak waiting on the table.”

  Conroy suddenly felt his mouth water. He had not tasted a good steak for ages.

  “Good Irish beef,” added O’Gorman temptingly.

  “You’ve persuaded me,” Conroy said. “I’ll take it rare.”

  “Is there any other way to eat it?” replied O’Gorman.

  Half-an-hour later Conroy was finishing the remnants of his rare steak which Mrs O’Gorman, a ruddy faced, well-built woman with an apparently perpetual smile, served to him, plus a large dish of potato and cabbage which could have fed a dozen people.

  He was sitting back, sipping a cup of very strong tea — he would have preferred coffee but that was asking for the moon — when the door of the dining room opened noisily and a heavily built, dark-haired man, seemed to squeeze in. His girth appeared to throw the room into shadow.

  “God bless all here,” he declaimed. He had a slight wheeze as he spoke.

  As Conroy was the only person in the room. He nodded a greeting to the man.

  The newcomer was in his forties. He wore a look of permanent amusement on his round features as if he found everything in life a matter of the greatest merriment. His eyes, light blue in spite of the blackness of the hair, were twinkling.

  “A fine night, eh?” he observed, sprawling into a chair nearby.

  O’Gorman came in carrying a tray on which there was a large tumbler filled with an amber liquid.

  The man grinned at Conroy as he took it.

  “Will you join me in the wine of the country?”

  O’Gorman glanced quizzically at Conroy.

  “A dram of whiskey, sir? A drop of Powers now?”