“It concerns Operation Konigtum…”
“Which, as you pointed out, was no longer a matter for my concern,” Schellenberg smiled blandly.
Von Ribbentrop bit his lip in annoyance.
“Nevertheless, I brought to the attention of the Fuhrer the fact that you had an agent highly placed within the English administration. Can the agent be contacted without endangering his or her security?”
Schellenberg frowned.
“If necessary,” he replied stiffly.
“The matter of Operation Konigtum becomes more important as each day passes. Time and again, Churchill has rejected the Fuhrer’s peace overtures. As part of the plan to depose Churchill and the present Royal Family, who support the war, and to secure Windsor back on the English throne, we need to know whether there are enough people placed within Government circles to make dissension a viable factor in creating confusion when our invasion goes ahead. The Fuhrer believes that if Churchill and his clique can be isolated, the English people would be more than willing to accept Windsor again with perhaps Lord Halifax as the new prime minister. The Fuhrer is certain that Halifax would be willing to negotiate a peace.”
Schellenberg pursed his lips.
“Yet it was Halifax who officially rejected the Fuhrer’s peace offers.”
Von Ribbentrop grunted dismissively.
“He was merely a mouthpiece; forced to do what Churchill told him.”
Schellenberg was reluctant.
“Our contact is no gossip-gatherer, Herr Reichsminister,” he replied bluntly. “I would be loathe to use the agent unless it is a matter of extreme necessity. The agent is connected in the highest circles. The highest.”
Von Ribbentrop looked annoyed.
“If this is so, then the agent must be informed of our intentions and told to be ready when the time comes to use every means to help us reinstate Windsor.”
The young SS general sighed deeply.
“That can be passed on, of course. I would prefer that the less done to compromise the agent the better.”
“The Fuhrer and I would disagree,” snapped Von
Ribbentrop. “It is essential that Operation Konigtum succeed and in a matter of the next few days. The success of Operation Seelöwe depends on it. I am now ordering you, with the Fuhrer’s full authority, to hand over your contact to Gruppenfuhrer Jost.”
Schellenberg hesitated, weighing up the waste of a good agent, and then shrugged.
“Very well, Herr Reichsminister,” he submitted. He saluted and turned from the room.
In the foyer of the Foreign Ministry building, a small group of people were crowded round a radio set. The nasal tones of the Minister for Propaganda, Paul Josef Goebbels, were echoing in the foyer.
“It is because we are winning the war that this war crime against the city of Berlin has taken place. The criminals of the RAF can scarcely move in daylight. That is the reason they sneak out at night to drop their high explosives indiscriminately on innocent civilians, on residential areas, on hospitals and on schools. Because they know they cannot win the war honourably in military ways, they resort to trying to terrorise our population. Well, we will answer their terrorist campaign. We, in turn, will bomb their cities and obliterate them. They shall pay for the bombing of Berlin one hundred, no…one thousandfold!”
Schellenberg let out his breath with a deep sigh. He left the Foreign Ministry building to cross down the Wilhelmstrasse to his own offices with a tired, pessimistic smile. At the Hohenzollern Palace, Heydrich was apparently leaving his office accompanied by the shorter bespectacled figure of Heinrich Himmler. They both squeezed into the back of the green Mercedes convertible and its driver, with a protesting squeal of burning rubber, sent it rocketing along the Wilhelmstrasse towards the Reichskanzlei. Schellenberg did not envy them their forthcoming audience with the Fuhrer.
CHAPTER XVIII
Monday, August 26, 1940
The two men were dark, swarthy individuals. Conroy thought he recognised them as members of Serafim’s security guards.
His eyes narrowed.
“What do you want?” he demanded.
They made no reply but from the cover of another vehicle behind them a third man emerged. Conroy recognised him instantly. Even in the dark he could make out the white pants and gaudy Hawaiian shirt. It was the tall muscular black with the staring eyes. His two white companions moved aside to let him come forward close to Conroy.
Conroy’s mind registered the fact that he had seen the man a couple of times before. Once he had almost unconsciously observed him hanging around outside the Bar Montagu when he had first met Lise Fennell. Then he had seen him when he was watching people arrive at Serafini’s yacht earlier this evening. The tall man was chuckling softly to himself as if he and he alone had access to some humorous insight to the situation.
Conroy found his shirt front grabbed in one large hand.
There was something disturbing about the man’s humourless chuckle.
“We’ve got a message for you, mister.”
Before Conroy could do anything, a balled fist hit him squarely in the solar plexus. He doubled up in agony, the breath leaving his body. He did not feel anything after the third blow. He knew that he must have been laying on the ground for some time not feeling the rain of kicks and punches being aimed at him.
Dimly he heard a voice whispering close to his ear.
“Mister Serafini don’t like it that you should be friendly with his friends, get it? He don’t like it that you should embarrass him by gate-crashing his party for the English dook. You leave Mr Serafini’s lady friend alone, see?”
He felt another sharp pain registering somewhere on his torso.
His last conscious thought was of an agitated American voice.
“Come on, Sneque. You don’t have to kill him.”
He swam into blackness and when he came to he was still lying on the ground in the parking lot, stiff and cold.
He did not feel the pain until he tried to get to his feet, then he groaned; groaned aloud at the agony of the soreness of his body. Even so, some part of his mind seemed to be detached. It was as if he were an observer to his own anguish. He registered the fact that he had been beaten by professionals. Serafini’s bodyguard. They had made their point.
He stood holding on to the wall for a while. He could still hear the sounds of gaiety from the party and the throbbing music of the dance band. He began to walk, limping a little, to the edge of the parking lot to where there were lights on the waterfront roadway. Then he paused to look down at his tuxedo and saw red stains on his white jacket and shirt mingling together with the dirt from the parking lot.
His lips felt puffy.
He began to move slowly up the hill towards the Anglican cathedral at the top of the main road. There was no one about although a few cars were passing by.
He attempted to flag down a couple of what he thought were cabs but they passed swiftly by. Then he became aware of another vehicle which was moving slowly along near the sidewalk. Conroy blinked and saw the unmistakable “taxi” sign. He stumbled towards the road and waved his hands. It was a large, wheezy Buick.
“Where to, man?” asked the driver, leaning out and then catching sight of Conroy’s condition. “Hey, you okay, man?”
Conroy nodded and opened the door, sprawling across the back seat.
“Nassau Yacht Club,” he grunted.
The driver grinned broadly.
“Hell, man. They ain’t gonna let you in like that.”
Conroy’s face was grim.
“Get me to the Nassau Yacht Club quays and be damned quick about it.”
The driver assumed a hurt look.
“Yes, cap’n. Anything you say. You been robbed?”
The latter was expressed in anxious tones lest his passenger was unable to pay his fare.
Conroy made no reply.
It was not long before they reached the quayside and Conroy directed the cab to the Eleuthera
s mooring. The yacht was still disguised as the Savanna- la- Mar.
He fumbled for his wallet and thrust a note in the man’s hand.
“Keep it,” he grunted as the man began a tedious search of his pockets for change.
“Thanks, cap’n,” replied the driver with a grin of delight. “Need help getting aboard?”
Conroy shook his head and moved slowly down the gangplank.
Jessie came out of the cabin as he came aboard and stared at him in horror.
“Jesus! What happened to you?”
Conroy tried to grin but merely winced.
“I ran into a couple of gentlemen who suggested that Signor Serafini objected to my interest in him.”
“In him or in that girl you told me about?” asked Jessie wryly.
Conroy sighed.
“Same difference.”
He let her guide him into the saloon cabin and sit him down on a locker.
She gazed at his face and shook her head.
“One thing’s for sure. You ain’t gonna win no beauty contest at the moment.”
She moved to the cupboard and drew out a First Aid box. Then she took a bowl and some hot water from the galley and, using cotton wool, she attempted to bathe his face carefully. When she came to apply the iodine, Conroy grunted, trying to control the excruciating pain which shot through him.
“Professionals, eh?” Jessie was sympathetic.
“True. Where’s Harry?”
“He went up to see the switch-board operator at the Victoria Hotel and said that he would then do the rounds of the bars along Dowdswell Street before coming back. A lot of the crewmen visit the bars there. He thinks he might be able to pick up something useful.”
She regarded Conroy, head to one side.
“There,” she said, repacking the First Aid box. “You’ll be as good as new in a day or two.”
She returned the things to the cupboard.
“Drink?”
“Can you make me some tea?”
She went to the galley and began to make the tea. He lay back with his eyes closed, feeling his head throbbing.
“Jimmy,” the girl was handing him some aspirin, “it’s not a good time now, I know. I just wanted to say that Harry’s a good man.”
He stared at her a moment, not understanding what she was driving at.
“It’s just that he’s had a tough life here. A hard time fighting against prejudice.”
Conroy attempted a small smile.
“I don’t blame Harry for his attitudes, Jess. Just so long as we get the job done. Anyway, you must have grown up in the same environment. It doesn’t appear to have made you touchy or bitter.”
“We’re all different people,” she responded, returning to the galley to pour the tea.
“You’re a perceptive woman, Jess,” Conroy commented, swallowing the aspirin.
“Harry’s a good man,” she simply repeated. Then: “Anyway, apart from the fact that the human body can be bruised, what else did you find out tonight?”
“That the man called Roger Albright is tucked up nice and snug in a cabin on Serafini’s yacht. Nice and snug and quite dead. Don’t asked me who killed him or why. It doesn’t quite make sense if Albright was our Nazi agent and Serafini is the immediate contact with the Duke. Certainly, I would have thought that the Germans needed a contact man like Serafini here on the Bahamas. One that has money and can get connected with the Duke. Serafini has done just that. But if Albright was Olbricht then who killed him?”
“Serafini is a bad man, Jimmy. Did he kill Albright?”
“I don’t know. If Serafini is working for the Germans, then I can’t see any reason.”
“Maybe Serafini don’t need a reason. You don’t know how bad that man is.”
“You know?”
Jessie brought the tray of tea things into the saloon. Her face was serious.
“I know some of the stories drifting round here.”
“Tell me,” invited Conroy.
“He came here round about 1930, Serafini was supposed to be one of the top bootleggers in the southern states. The FBI attempted to get him but he moved his base to the Bahamas. A lot of bootleggers did in those days and made fortunes. But Serafini has a really bad reputation. They say he has his hand in every racket from Miami up to Charleston. They say he’s into drug smuggling in a big way.”
“A nice man.”
“You’d better believe it.”
Conroy sighed deeply.
“Well, I can believe that Serafini might well be the German’s contact man. I’ve no trouble with that. It’s just that something else is worrying me.”
“How do you mean?”
“Lise Fennell.”
“I was wondering when you were going to get to that young lady.”
“I just can’t believe that she is the sort that would knowingly mix with a man like Serafini.”
“What sort’s that?”
Conroy heard the derision in Jessie’s voice.
“I can’t explain it. She’s just…”
“Sweet? Innocent? Demure?”
“Come on, Jess,” protested Conroy. “She’s not that exactly but…”
Jessie pouted in annoyance.
“Look, Jimmy, there is only one kind of girl who runs around with a person like Serafini and that kind of girl is not your sort. I’d keep your mind on the business in hand, okay? Now drink up your tea like a good boy and then get into your bunk. You’ve taken quite a beating tonight for this sweet, demure young lady.”
Conroy frowned down at his tea, then looked up with resignation.
“Maybe you’re right, Jess. Whatever you say.”
The next morning Conroy was feeling stiff and movement was painful and irksome.
Over breakfast Harry Adams reported that he had come up with no information at all on Roger Albright. It was agreed that Adams should contact Nassau Station and ask Colonel White whether the station had any information on Albright. For the time being, however, no mention about the death of Albright would be made.
Conroy had already decided that he would go to the Bar Montagu just in case Lise Fennell did turn up. Jessie, having nothing else to do, decided to visit her cousin again to see if there was any more information about the move from Government House.
Sammy the barman greeted him like an old and valued client. He made sympathetic noises when he saw Conroy’s face.
There was no one about yet either in the bar or on the beach and so Conroy decided to go for a swim to ease his aching limbs. The swim did him some good and he lay for a while on the sandy beach, letting the sea salt dry on his body. It was invigorating. Then, aware of the dangers of burning himself in the fierce morning sun, he towelled himself and went back to the bar. There were a few people there but no one he knew, and he ordered a cold beer from Sammy.
She came in just before mid-day, looking tired and drawn.
She hesitated at the entrance before coming across to sit at his table.
She examined his face with surprise and winced a little.
“What happened to you?” she asked.
He raised a cynical eyebrow. It hurt and he swore softly.
“Your boyfriend obviously thought I needed a more severe talking to in order to make me understand my attentions were not welcome.”
Her face whitened.
“My boyfriend?” she whispered.
“After I left you, Serafini sent a couple of his heavies to have a quiet word with me.”
She pursed her lips, eyes looking down at the table.
“I’m sorry. I thought I had persuaded ‘Fredo that everything was all right.”
He had expected her to deny again that Serafini was her boyfriend and he felt strangely disappointed and angry when she did not do so.
“He’s a bit of a tough man to play around with, isn’t he?”
Impulsively, the girl reached across the table and laid a slim cool hand on his arm.
“Carson,” she said slowly
, “I really think it better if you didn’t try to see me again. As you say, Serafini is a tough man to play around with.”
Conroy stared at the suddenly fathomless eyes of the girl.
“Is the price that you are paying really worth it just to further your career?” He didn’t mean his voice to sound so childishly petulant.
He half expected her to give way to anger again. But she did not. Instead, she raised a shoulder and let it fall in a gesture which could have meant indifference or just helplessness. It was a gesture that seemed to be one of her standard replies when at a loss for words.
“Drink, miss?”
Sammy came to hover at their table.
Conroy decided to answer the question.
“Thanks, Sammy. We’ll have whisky, with lots and lots of ice.”
The barman returned to his bar.
“Do you think badly of me, Carson?”
There was almost a pleading note in her voice, a childlike appeal not to be condemned.
“Does it matter?” When she did not reply he went on bitterly, “Why should I think anything?”
Sammy returned with the drinks. She waited until he left. Then she replied: “Because you demonstrated last night that you liked me and wanted to help me.”
He had no response to the girl’s suddenly candour.
“In any other time and place, Carson,” she went on softly, “I would have been pleased to meet you. Pleased to go out and have a good time with you. But not just now. Not this time nor place.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You carry on with your vacation. Find some nice girl and spend a lot of money on her, okay?”
Conroy leaned across the table.
“Lise, I am not playing games. You know that Serafini is a mobster. He doesn’t play games either. He’s a dangerous man.”
The girl gazed compassionately at Conroy for a moment. It seemed that she was on the verge of telling him something. Then her expression hardened.
“I know how people gossip and what the newspapers claim. I’m not interested.”
Conroy felt an uncontrollable urge to reach across the table and shake some sense into her stubborn form.
The Windsor Protocol Page 19