The Windsor Protocol

by Peter MacAlan

  “Oh? Where will they live in while that is happening?” encouraged Conroy.

  “Oh that’s already arranged. They’ll stay in Freddy Sigrist’s house, which is nearby on Prospect Ridge. That’s vacant at the moment.”

  “Sigrist?”

  “He’s an aircraft designer.”

  Conroy had already made the connection to where he had heard the name. Among Sigrist’s designs was that of the new fighter aircraft which the RAF were now using — the Hurricane.

  “Is he living on the island?”

  Mrs Kedgeworth shook her head.

  “Not at the moment, but I believe Sir Oscar, that’s Sir Oscar Daly, our Chief Justice, was able to get his permission by telegraph.”

  “I see…”

  It was then that the thought struck Conroy as clear as crystal. He knew why Roger Albright’s name seemed familiar to him. Rudi Olbricht. Was it as simple as that? Rudi Olbricht who, so London said, was in charge of smuggling the Duke and Duchess out of the Bahamas. He could pass himself off as an American. But surely he would not have kept to a name so close to his own? Why not? Many agents did. It was a rule of espionage that one kept as close to the truth as possible. Less chance of forgetting something important when playing a role.

  Albright — Olbricht.

  It couldn’t really be that simple, could it?

  He put down his glass and looked round. He was unable to catch sight of the blond American.

  He make another mumbled apology to Mrs Kedgeworth and moved off to find Jordan.

  “Mister Albright? No, I think he left a while ago. No, I didn’t exactly find out which hotel he was at. He must be staying in one of the smaller ones. But I did discover that his mail is forwarded to the Yacht Club offices and he picks it up daily from there.”

  Conroy bit his lip in frustration. Well, there was Serafini’s party the day after tomorrow. If he could not get an official invitation then he would have to find some other way of wangling himself on board the Lupo di Mare as a guest.

  He left the smoke-filled, hot, stuffy atmosphere of the dance room and paused in the cool air of the foyer to adjust himself to the change of temperature.

  It was the sound of someone speaking in German which startled him. It was so unexpected in that place and at that time. Someone was talking on a telephone behind a curtained-off area to one side of the foyer. Perhaps Conroy, coming from war-besieged England, was more sensitive to the sounds of the “enemy” language than others, for there were several people in the foyer, in groups here and there, chatting, drinking, resting from the cacophony of the dance hall. They seemed unperturbed by the distinct tones of German issuing from behind the baize curtain.

  Curious, Conroy lowered himself in a chair nearby and pulled out a cigarette, tuning his ear intently. His German was fluent and while the man who was speaking had an atrocious non-German accent he had little difficulty picking up what was being said.

  “Yes, yes…everything is in order, everything is correct. The cargo is ready to be picked up whenever you wish. An inspection? No, no objection. Make it in the afternoon; yes, tomorrow afternoon. Mangrove Cay. You know my wharf?”

  There was a click as the speaker hung up.

  From behind the curtained partition, separating the public ‘phone from the foyer, emerged the stocky red-haired Irish-American, Sarsfield P. Leen. He went quickly across the foyer, not noticing Conroy who immediately rose and followed him out into the night.

  Sarsfield P. Leen!

  Several thoughts went through Conroy’s mind at that moment.

  He hesitated on top of the steps of the Yacht Club, staring into the shadows beyond. There was a bright full moon which lit the area almost as if it were daylight. He saw Leen’s figure moving through the parking lot. He was about to start down after the man when he saw Leen halt. There was another figure in the shadows. He saw a match flare as a cigarette was lit. The two figures seemed to huddle in conversation for a moment. Then they parted.

  The figure which had accosted Leen was coming towards the entrance.

  Conroy pretended that he was just exiting.

  He had no difficulty recognising the person who had just stopped and spoken to Sarsfield P. Leen.

  It was the man who had been introduced to him as Roger Albright.

  CHAPTER XIV

  Saturday, August 24, 1940

  Harry Adams stared at the jumble of buildings which constituted Mangrove Cay without enthusiasm. The Eleuthera was anchored off the Southern Bight of the island of Andros, a channel which, with several others, made the island more of a group of compact islands rather than a single entity. Mangrove Cay lay on the northern bank of the wide bay, an odd collection of ramshackle wooden and corrugated iron roofed shanties with a more prosperous looking villa perched above on the hillside looking down on the wharf and main warehouses.

  Adams sighed, lowered his Zeiss binoculars and turned to Conroy.

  “Are you pretty sure about Leen?”

  Conroy reached for the binoculars and shrugged.

  “I can’t say that I’m sure but Leen does seem a pretty good bet.”

  Adams grinned wryly.

  “I would place a bet on about one thousand citizens of the Bahamas as being likely Nazi agents, and that’s without even blinking.”

  “I told you about his conversation on the ‘phone and then that meeting with Albright.”

  “It still sounds pretty tenuous, Conroy. The conversation could be innocent and what makes you so sure Albright is this Nazi agent, Olbricht?”

  “I don’t believe in coincidence.”

  “No? My experience is that coincidence is far more common than most people give credit for.”

  Conroy lowered the glasses and looked at his watch. The sun was high in the sky and very hot.

  “Nearly two o’clock,” he grunted.

  “What do you expect to see?” asked Jessie, who was sunbathing on the for’ard deck. She had returned to the yacht early that morning, just in time to join them as they, on Conroy’s insistence, cast off for Andros to observe the meeting which Conroy had overheard being arranged by Leen in German.

  “No idea, Jess,” he confessed. “But someone should turn up at the wharf over there, the person to whom Leen was talking last night.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” said Adams. “If your supposition is true why would the Nazis come to Andros when their ‘cargo’ is over in Nassau?”

  “I didn’t say I had all the answers,” returned Conroy irritably.

  Jessie turned lazily on her side.

  “In case you guys haven’t noticed, there is a launch coming out from Leen’s wharf. I think your Mister Leen is coming to inspect us.”

  Conroy turned his head and saw a small motor launch making its way across the Bight.

  “All right. Leave it to me.”

  Adams shrugged and pretended to be busying himself with the fishing tackle that they had rigged on the stern deck.

  The motor launch edged nearer them almost surreptitiously. The man at the wheel was attempting to appear as if he were on his way somewhere else. The deception was obvious.

  “Ahoy! Are you in trouble?”

  The man cut his engine and let his vessel drift near. It was not Leen.

  Conroy went to stand by the rail.

  “No thanks,” he called back. “Just decided to pull in here for lunch and maybe some fishing.”

  There was a pause. Then the man shrugged, waved and his engines spluttered as he turned the craft away to circle back to the wharf.

  Adams grunted.

  “You don’t think that’s fooled him?”

  “Maybe not. But it’s interesting that they wanted to come across and have a look at us.”

  “You mean, guilty conscience?” Jessie chuckled. “It might be that they are just interested in boats that arrive on their front doorstep.” She turned and raised herself to a sitting position and yawned. Then her body stiffened slightly. “Hey, I think this must be the pe
rson that you are expecting, Jimmy.”

  Around the headland, into the mouth of the Bight a large yacht, under full sail, was tacking into the wind. Even as it rounded the point, they saw a couple of crewmen hauling down the canvas as the ship, a fifty footer, edged towards Leen’s wharf on Mangrove Cay.

  Adams watched her approvingly, with the critical eye of a professional sailor.

  “She’s well handled,” he conceded. “Eidgenosse,” he read the name on her bow. “Well, that’s German, at least.”

  “Swiss German,” corrected Conroy. “The Swiss Confederate. But it doesn’t mean a thing. She’s flying an American flag. I want to get up close and see what’s going on.”

  He frowned, pausing for thought.

  “Is there anything dangerous in these waters? Sharks or whatever? Can I swim across?”

  “What have you in mind?” Jessie asked.

  “I need to find out more about that ship and what Leen’s connection is. We can’t do that looking at it from here.”

  “You’ll be spotted for sure in broad daylight,” Adams pointed out. “The only thing to do is wait until it’s dark and then we’ll both swim across.”

  “But what if the Eidgenosse doesn’t remain there until nightfall?”

  “Then there’s nothing else to be done.”

  Conroy was reluctant to admit Adam’s logic. There was no way of getting across the bay to Leen’s wharf without being seen.

  “All right. We’ll wait until dusk and hope they do as well.”

  The Eidgenosse was still tied up to the wharf as night fell with its sub-tropical suddenness. One moment it was bright, although the sun was low on the horizon, and the next, came the darkness. Conroy and Adams, clad in swimming shorts, gently lowered themselves over the stern of the Eleuthera, leaving Jessie on board, and began to swim slowly across the Bight. Adams had warned Conroy that the currents were strong in the channel which separated Andros into its constituent parts. He could feel the waters pushing and tugging at him as he swam and he had to exert a powerful stroke to maintain headway. By the time he had reached the far bank, where the wooden jetty was, he was fairly exhausted.

  Adams swam in under the shelter of the jetty a short distance from where the Eidgenosse was moored and motioned that they should rest a while.

  There were lights aboard the Eidgenosse and the sound of voices, a indistinct against the blare of dance music being played on a gramophone.

  Conroy bent his head close to Adams.

  “Wait here. I am going to find out if 1 can overhear anything.”

  Conroy moved carefully, so as to make the minimum sound in the water. He paddled slowly along the side of the yacht towards the stern. The voices became more distinctive but the conversation was of little interest. It was in English. Two American crewmen were talking about the weather conditions for returning to Florida that night. At least Conroy now knew where the Eidgenosse was heading to.

  Returning to Adams, he decided to head for the buildings on the wharf. Adams seemed resigned to let Conroy have his way and accepted his suggestion that he wait where he was. Conroy swam to a step ladder which reached up to the top of the quay and climbed it. There seemed no one about and he hauled himself on the wooden platform and slipped quietly across into the shadows of the buildings. They were warehouses and in darkness.

  Although the doors were not locked, he could not see what was in their cavernous blackness because he could not afford to strike a light even if he had the means to do so.

  In one of the warehouses he entered, however, he heard a noise. A soft rustling noise in the dark which made him press back against the door. Someone was in the building and that someone was close by. The rustling sound could only be within a few feet of where he stood with pounding heart. There was no possibility that his entrance had not been seen. Why did the person remain silent and not challenge him?

  “Okay,” he called softly. “Who’s there?”

  There was no reply except another rustle.

  A curious feeling pricked at his scalp. The answering noise was very close and yet there was no response to his words. He edged the door open, hoping for some light from the outside to show who was standing there in the darkness.

  He was about to retreat from the warehouse when a sudden flash of light, from some distance away, snapped on and for a few moments bathed the entrance way in its glow.

  Conroy had a glimpse of rows of cages and things in the cages which rustled and squawked. Small beady eyes stared at him. They were tall creatures, from three to five feet in height with long necks, reddish in colour with webbed feet and a curious bent down bill fringed with hair. One of the creatures, which had been in a cage close to the door, tried to flap great wings but was unable to do so because of the tightness of its enclosure.

  There was a sudden cacophony of noise which subsided as the light went out as abruptly as it was switched on.

  Conroy had never seen a flamingo before and it took him several moments to realise that was what these creatures must be. Of course, Adams had said that Leen bred flamingos. This was apparently some cargo waiting to be shipped.

  Now he brought his mind back to the source of the light and he slipped back out of the warehouse and round the side of the building into the shadows.

  Above the wharf and its buildings there was a rise of ground on which was situated the villa which he had seen from the boat. The moon was weak but it cast a faint light in the blackness and he was able to see a path consisting of a series of steps leading to it. He supposed that this was Leen’s home. The light had been the stabbing ray from the door of the villa as it had opened and then shut.

  Two men were descending the steps to the wharf where he was.

  Their voices came clearly.

  They were speaking in German. He could pick out Leen’s atrocious accent.

  “Ten pairs are a good number, Herr Doctor Kunsler.”

  “That is so, Herr Leen. Sure. But demand is growing. More and more zoos are being set up in the States. I need another ten pairs, at least. Flamingos are easy to place.”

  “But difficult to breed.”

  “Well, well. I’ll take the ten pairs we have loaded. But please ring me as soon as you can supply the others. Are you sure you cannot sell me the ones in the warehouse?”

  “They are already sold, Herr Doctor.”

  Conroy bit his lip with disappointment.

  The conversation was innocent enough. He pressed back into the shadows as Leen and the man addressed as Herr Doctor Kunsler stood on the quayside by the gangplank to the Eidgenosse.

  “She’s a beautiful ship, Herr Doctor.” Leen was obviously admiring the lines of the doctor’s yacht in spite of the darkness.

  “Not bad. Ironically, I bought her from a German who decided he wanted to leave America and hurry home to fight for the Fatherland.”

  “Ironically?”

  “Can you imagine one of the herrenvolk being forced to sell his prize toy to a poor Jewish boy from the Sudetenland? Oh yes, I know what it is to be poor, Herr Leen. Our people there were so poor that the German-speakers would call us Luftmenschen, the people who live on air. Oh yes, yes, Herr Leen…I know Jews aren’t supposed to be poor but the Jews of our area were. We children had one pair of shoes among all of us and we lived on potatoes in winter and a few other vegetables in summer. Only on the Shabbath did we have a little gefillte fish or, if we were very 5ucky, some meat. We were the poorest of the poor.”

  “But you’ve done well for yourself since then?”

  “Certainly. But only after I managed to move to Switzerland where I adopted the name Kunsler. Nothing Semitic about that. A change from Schlomovitch, eh? I took my doctorate at Geneva and the poor little Jewish boy Taba Schlomovitch became the respected doctor of zoology, Helmuth Kunsler. That’s why I say it is ironic that one of the herrenvolk had to sell me his beautiful boat.” A memory was stirring in Conroy’s mind. Hadn’t Adams told him about a Swiss national living at Caravel Beach
on Grand Bahama? A Swiss named Helmuth Kunsler?

  “Well, you have done well,” repeated Leen.

  “And why not? I can’t pretend not to get immense satisfaction when the herrenvolk have to sell their prize possessions to people like me.”

  “I understand, Herr Doctor.”

  “Well, until our next trade.”

  “Are you sailing now?”

  “My crew know these waters, even in the darkness,” came the doctor’s tone of assurance. “But we’ll use our engines this time.”

  Conroy saw him turn with a wave of his hand and walk up the gangplank. Immediately there came the sound of voices and movement on the deck. He heard the engines of the boat start and within a few moments it was edging out into the darkness of the bay.

  Leen paused a moment and then turned back towards his villa.

  Conroy waited a few more moments before slipping across the quayside and down the steps to where Adams was still patiently waiting, treading water, with one hand on the rung of the ladder.

  “I heard them speaking in German,” he hissed. “What were they saying?”

  “Talking about flamingos and ships,” replied Conroy disgustedly. “Let’s get back. I’ll tell you about it when we are back aboard.”

  He felt annoyed as he followed Adams back across the water towards the dim outline of the Eleuthera. It was disappointing to discover that Leen’s German contact was simply an elderly Jewish emigrant making his living out of reselling Leen’s flamingos to zoos. He had been so sure that he had been on the right track, so damned sure!

  The short, rotund figure of Prime Minister Winston Churchill was silhouetted against the night sky at the fire-watcher’s station on the top of Admiralty Arch. A pair of night glasses were held firmly to his eyes and a steel helmet was tilted at a jaunty angle on his head. Members of his staff gathered around him nervously; concerned for the safety of the pugnacious leader who had insisted on climbing up to the top of the building, in the middle of an air raid, to view the flames arising from the capital’s East End while enemy aircraft were still engaged overhead. His skin was a livid colour even in the flickering red light of the distant flames which cast their eerie glow across the city. His mouth was clenched grimly around an unlit cigar, the jaw thrust out aggressively. Nearby, a searchlight probed the sky like some brilliant finger, and its movements were accompanied by the whine of the Bofors gun mechanism which continuously followed the piercing light.