The Windsor Protocol

by Peter MacAlan

  Adams stared at him a moment and then chuckled sourly.

  “Constitutional law. I wanted to return to the islands and become a hot shot lawyer to help my people. So I returned to the islands. Imagine! A black lawyer fighting Bay Street? That’s what made me buy a boat and put out to sea. At least the sea is colour blind.”

  “Except that it doesn’t quite come together with you working for British intelligence.”

  “What’s this, a history of my life?”

  “I’m just interested.”

  “Well, maybe one of these days I’ll tell you. Meantime, we’d better get on with the job in hand. Just remember that this is a world removed from the cosy circle of London’s social life. You’ll be surrounded by gangsters, con-men, hustlers, chancers and self-made millionaires who weren’t particular as to how they made those millions.”

  Conroy knew that it would be futile to press Adams further about his background. He grinned wryly.

  “I haven’t exactly spent all my life in cosy social circles in London. I can handle it.”

  “What do you plan to do first?”

  “I’m a tourist, aren’t I? English businessman with some money. I’ll go ashore as a tourist, ask to see the sights and, naturally, I’ll want to see where the new Royal Governor-General and his American-born lady live and hope to catch a glimpse of them.”

  “Okay,” agreed Adams. “I’ll look up a few of my contacts and see what the local gossip has to say. We’ll meet back here this evening. Any problems, or if we miss each other, leave a message in the gun compartment. Okay?”

  “Fine by me,” affirmed Conroy.

  There was a line of caleches above the quays on East Bay Street. They were two wheeled vehicles with folding hoods, and drawn by a single horse, which served not only as taxis but as a means of showing tourists the sights of Nassau. The prices were competitive but Conroy did not opt for the cheapest fare. Instead he chose a friendly-mannered driver who sped him along the Nassau harbour front, immediately going into a routine of pointing out the sights which he thought his passenger would want enlightenment on.

  The first thing Conroy realised, away from the gentle cooling breezes of the sea. was that Nassau was an intensely hot and humid place. Already he could feel the sweat soaking his shirt. The heat was both enveloping and almost stifling.

  The Nassau harbour channel ran parallel to the roadway between New Providence and the small island which Adams had called Hog Island. This was the largest of several islands and cays off the north shore. There seemed to be a lot of building on Hog Island and Conroy remarked on it to his loquacious driver.

  “Yes sir. But it ain’t gonna be called Hog Island no more. No sir. Paradise Island is the name now.”

  “What’s going on there?”

  “Hog Island is owned by Mister Gren, sir. Gotta big house there called “Shangri La”. He’s a big millionaire, sir. Plans to make Hog Island, Paradise Island, that is, sir, a luxury resort. That’s what all the building is about.”

  “Oh? Who is this Mister Gren?”

  “Owner of the Bank of the Bahamas, sir. They do say that he is actually a Swedish gentleman.”

  Conroy made a mental note to check out the man’s background.

  The drive continued on down Bay Street. After all he had heard about the “Bay Street Boys”, Conroy gazed at the colonial thoroughfare with some respect, taking in the offices and stores which were built like something out of a New Orleans film set. The driver continued to point out places of interest along the shoreline of the narrow water passage between the New Providence mainland and the long, narrow stretch of the newly named Paradise Island.

  There was a series of quays where some ocean-going vessels were moored, including a Royal Navy corvette and a sloop. Corvettes and sloops were usually used for convoy duty. But Conroy learned that the ships were on regular station in the Caribbean. They were small and lightly armed but a deterrent against submarines. The driver turned the carriage inland at the quays to point out the parliament building with the post office and police headquarters nestled behind it. He turned again and Conroy found Government House being pointed out to him.

  “That’s where the new Governor, the Duke” [the man pronounced the word as dook] “that’s where the Duke lives now,” smiled the driver.

  Conroy cast more than a passing examination at Government House, standing overlooking the harbour like a rambling Southern plantation house, with spacious verandas, jalousied windows and surrounded by palm trees.

  Nassau was a small, compact town, but totally unlike anything he had ever seen before. It was so different to any European town, even the European towns of the Mediterranean. Colonel Dunnett had been right to give him Adams as his back up. He wasn’t sure he liked Adams as a person. He sensed a troubled resentment in Adams’ quiet yet forceful personality. Yet the man had certainly demonstrated he was able to hold his own in difficult circumstances. He had acquitted himself well during the attack by the Bundists.

  That was the worrying thing; the concern uppermost in his mind. Had the attack been aimed at him, at his mission? Had O’Regan penetrated his cover? Or was it some extraordinary coincidence?

  His mind came back to Adams. A strange man. Not really open, not open like Jessie. She was an uncomplicated personality, in love with Adams, the yacht, her engines and the sea. She was playing this “cloak and dagger” game without really knowing what she was involved in. She was doing it because Adams was doing it. But she…she was a creature of the sun. He smiled to himself. He liked Jessie’s personality. But Adams…

  He wasn’t sure what made Adams tick and that made him uneasy.

  The tall, rugged Bermudan was well educated. He was clearly of mixed race. But then, he supposed, so were the vast majority of the inhabitants of the islands. It was Jessie who had, on the voyage out, mentioned Adams having a Scottish grandfather. That explained his light grey coloured eyes. Adams had received most of his education in the States and attended a New York university. Yet his main interest was sailing and the sea. Conroy was still intrigued as to how and why Adams came to be working for British intelligence.

  The driver was still talking, still showing him various places which he deemed a tourist ought to know about. To Conroy, Nassau appeared as a crowded, claustrophobic town. At least Adams was right to warn him. It looked as if it had been plucked out of history, from the zenith of the Victorian empire, for the differences in class between the whites and blacks was patently obvious. The signs of utter poverty among the black population was visible, even in the prosperous areas of Nassau where they congregated to beg in the streets, shoeless, males often with no more than a pair of dirty boxer shorts which were, more often than not, torn and ragged. It was something of a culture shock. Adams had been right.

  Although the frontage of Nassau had, apparently, been extensively cleaned for the royal arrival, with shop fronts repainted, away from the main streets the shanties were decaying. Here, away from the faint sea breezes, the heat was encompassing and muggy. People just sat about in the suffocating atmosphere. There was an air of hopelessness about the place.

  Conroy knew he was not going to like the place nor the people who lived there. But then, why should he?

  The Bahamas, he discovered from his garrulous driver, had been named by the Spanish — bajamar, the shallow seas. The islands constituted a coral archipelago some forty miles long. Infertile, the harsh porous limestone sustaining little agriculture. Even Columbus, who had “discovered” the Bahamas, making landfall on San Salvador in 1492, had no use for the arid islands and left them hurriedly to seek the more lush volcanic islands of the Caribbean. It was no wonder that all the islands became was a pirate stronghold, a hotbed of intrigue and organised crime. Not that the driver interpreted his local history in this way, but Conroy could read between the lines. What else was there to do for those lucky enough to possess money except to sunbathe on the countless miles of white, coral beaches, and bathe in the blue and green trop
ical seas?

  Conroy grinned to himself. No wonder Churchill had thought that the Duke and Duchess would be out of harm’s way in such a setting. What possible mischief could the Windsors get up to here in this far-flung colony of the empire?

  Well, if Adams was correct, there was still plenty of intrigue and mischief in these islands.

  CHAPTER XI

  Wednesday, August 21, 1940

  It was evening when Conroy found himself back at the Eleuthera’s moorings. Adams was already on board and preparing a meal. He was in the galley frying some eggs in a pan.

  “Heard of someone called Gren?” Conroy asked without preamble as he dropped exhausted into a seat in the saloon.

  Adams nodded through the galley door and tossed him a bottle of beer which Conroy caught deftly.

  “Sure. Axel Wenner-Gren? He is the third most powerful man in the Bahamas. He’s been under British intelligence surveillance for years.”

  “Well? Tell me about him.”

  “He made a vast fortune by founding the Electrolux firm. He is a major partner in the Bank of the Bahamas and also in the Banco de Continental in Mexico which is run on Nazi and Mafia money. They use it to launder money through South America. His Swedish company, Bofors, manufactures munitions for the Nazis and he has a ball bearing company which will sell to any side for money. He favours the Nazis and has been known to deal in arms to anyone who will buy in Latin America. American intelligence believes Wenner-Gren to be behind arms sales to Nazi-controlled elements when there was a real threat that they would seize control of the Panama Canal.”

  Conroy pursed his lips.

  “A powerful, man but he doesn’t sound a nice character.”

  Adams watched Conroy sipping his beer straight from the bottle and smiled.

  “You’re becoming Americanized, Conroy.”

  “I’m becoming thirsty,” Conroy assured him. “But getting back to Wenner-Gren, how do you know so much about him?”

  “You can’t work in intelligence in this part of the world without knowing about Wenner-Gren. Is he on your list of suspects?”

  “Well, he sounds a likely candidate.”

  “That’s an understatement, Conroy. He is known to use his companies to protect Krupp’s interests in Sweden. You know, he has large land holdings in the Bahamas. He bought Howard Hughes’ yacht. Southern Cross, the largest ocean-going yacht afloat and he uses the Bahamas as his base. He constantly changes the registry of the vessel to avoid seizure on the high seas. He travels all over the world in it.”

  “And he really is a pro-Nazi?”

  “I’d say he was not only pro-Nazi but a Nazi agent. He knows Goring and has stayed with him at his castle in Nuremberg. Last year he acted as an emissary between the Nazis and Chamberlain. He has also met with Mussolini and is involved in business deals with the Fascist Government of Italy. We think he has some connections with the Mafia families in the States. More recently he has been to Japan and even had an audience with the Emperor. But what is probably most worrying from the British viewpoint is the fact that Gren has also been to the White House and had discussions with President Roosevelt on foreign policy matters. Our files show that Gren has a sublime faith that the world will eventually be dominated by three nations — Japan would govern Asia, Germany will govern Europe and the US will dominated the entire American continent, north and south.”

  Conroy exhaled slowly.

  “Definitely, a pleasant fellow. It sounds as though the approach to the Duke might well come through him.”

  Adams shook his head.

  “I’d agree if it weren’t for the fact that Gren is out of town at the moment. He’s cruising on the Southern Cross somewhere. The last we heard is that the US had refused Gren permission to enter the USA in Alaska. It could well be that he is hot-footing it back to the Bahamas now he knows that the Duke has arrived. But, if the Nazis plan to spirit the Duke back to Europe then I think that they will use someone else, someone who won’t attract as much attention as he does.”

  There was some good logic in Adams’ observation.

  “You said Axel Wenner-Gren was the third most powerful man in the Bahamas,” Conroy said reflectively. “Who are the other two?”

  Adams drew out a packet of Chesterfields and lit one.

  “Well now, there’s Harry Christie, the boss of the Bay Street Boys. He is also one of the most aggressive members of the House of Assembly. He made his money as a rum-runner during the days of Prohibition. Then became the top real estate dealer in the islands. He’s a big spender and an erratic financial manager. He usually leaves the financial side of the business to his brother, Frank. Nevertheless, he is also a partner in the Banco Continental in Mexico, along with Wenner-Gren and Harry Oakes.”

  “Harry Oakes?” Conroy frowned. “That’s a familiar name.”

  “Yeah. He’s the big chief here. Sir Harry Oakes. Uncrowned king of the Bahamas and more money than he could ever spend. He is a New Englander by birth but left the States to seek his fortune as a penniless gold prospector in Canada. With just a pick, shovel and back pack he discovered the world’s second largest goldmine. He’s so rich that he doesn’t even have to ask how much he’s got. Mind you, it took him fifteen years of pan-handling to discover it.

  “Oakes owns about a third of New Providence, he built the airport here, constructed the golf course and owns a hotel. Came here in 1933. He’s still what is known as a rough diamond. His language is that of the Klondike goldfields.”

  “How did he wind up as Sir Harry?” demanded Conroy.

  “A couple of donations to St George’s Hospital in London and the baronetcy was his,” grinned Adams cynically.

  “Christie sounds a better possibility. Why would Oakes throw in his lot with the Nazis?”

  Adams chuckled softly.

  “I tell you, Conroy, everyone is a suspect on this godforsaken reef. That is everyone who has any degree of wealth and power. They share the same moral scruples as their pirate ancestors who used to wreck trading vessels which passed through the islands or attack Spanish and Portuguese ships.”

  Again Conroy could hear the tinge of bitterness in Adams’ voice.

  “Then who else is a possible suspect?”

  Adams scratched the back of his head.

  “There is another former prominent bootlegger here. A guy reputed to be a Mafia boss named Serafini. Alfredo Serafini. He has a lot of money. Owns one of the out islands, or part of it at least. Lives in a big villa there. Cat Island is the place. But he is just a mobster. Made his money smuggling booze and is currently suspected of drug smuggling. No known political connections.”

  “You mean that he would work for whoever paid him the most money?”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “And? Who else?”

  “You want me to run through a whole list? Well, I’ll tell you another likely suspect; there is a Swiss doctor of zoology who lives over on Grand Bahama at Caravel Beach. A Doctor Helmuth Kunsler. He’s been here since the year after the Nazis came to power. Takes a keen interest in everything that goes on, belongs to all the right clubs and societies and never seems to lack for money. Although there is talk that he collects animals and sells them to zoos, it could be that he has been planted here.”

  “If he’s Swiss, why do you think him a likely suspect?”

  “Because Kunsler is Swiss German and because he just seems too good for reality,” replied Adams. “In my book, he’s just a little too clean. Anyway, there are plenty more suspects, if you want them. There is a gentleman called Sarsfield P. Leen, a sort of professional Irishman.”

  “Sarsfield P. Leen?” Conroy’s face broke into a grin of amusement.

  “Name mean anything to you?”

  “No, except that I’ll lay a bet with you that he’s an Irish-American.”

  Adams frowned.

  “Got it in one, Conroy. How did you tell?”

  Conroy motioned him to go on.

  “He has
money, plenty of it. Claims to have made it in construction. Very anti-English. He strikes one as the type of Anglophobic Irish-American who is so against England that whoever is against England are his friends no matter what they stand for. He would be prepared to see the whole world go down into the abyss just to satisfy his feelings with respect to England. He’s about as mad as the Hatter in ‘Alice’.”

  Conroy raised an eyebrow.

  “Then what the hell is he doing living in the Bahamas, a British colony?”

  “Good point. He runs a business on Andros, that’s the biggest island in land mass but not very well populated.”

  “What sort of business?”

  “He breeds flamingos at Mangrove Cay and exports them all over the world.”

  Conroy was surprised.

  “You mean there is money in that?”

  “He always has plenty. Came to the islands in ‘thirty-seven and started his business. Then there is…”

  Conroy held up his hand with a groan.

  “Okay, okay. I should have taken your word for it in the first place…everyone is a suspect here.”

  Adams looked at him with sympathy.

  “Even in a small place like this, finding Nazi agents will be like looking for a needle in a haystack. Not because there are too few suspects but because you have to find the right suspect in a host of them.”

  Conroy drew Adams’ packet of Chesterfields across, took one out and lit it.

  “It would have to be someone who has some connection with Government House; someone who could have access to the Duke and Duchess and put them in a position whereby they could be spirited out of the islands without people being aware for a while that they were being kidnapped.”

  Adams’ mouth quirked.

  “Then your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Well, I suppose the next step is for Mister Oscar Carson to get himself invited into Government House circles and see who is getting a little too friendly with the new Governor-General.”

  “Well, that’s something that only you can do,” smiled Adams with that soft tone of suppressed bitterness again. “I’m afraid Jess and I would not be persona grata at Government House or any society place on these islands.”