Adams cut his protests short.
“The Duke and Duchess are leaving for Cat Island.”
Conroy was fully awake now and swinging out of his bunk, fighting back the nausea from a head still throbbing from lack of sleep. The beating and the affair of the snake had taken something out of him.
“What’s the time?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“When are they going?”
“Noon. They are going as guests on Serafini’s yacht.”
Conroy was fully awake now. His headache began to miraculously clear as he considered the implications of what Adams was saying.
“It’s a sudden departure. What about their official duties?”
“Officially, they have been invited to spend a few days at Serafini’s luxury villa at Devil’s Point while the renovations are being carried out to Government House. The story is that since the Duke and Duchess didn’t really like Sigrist’s house on Prospect Ridge, Sir Harry Oakes has offered them his own house until their official residence is refurbished. But while the move is being made, they will spend a few days on Cat Island. It seems quite a logical and plausible tale.”
Conroy whistled softly.
“Straight into Serafini’s parlour, eh? Who is going with the ducal party?”
“Drake, that’s the Duke’s bodyguard from his Canadian ranch, a valet and a lady’s maid.”
Conroy raised his eyebrows.
“No other members of his household at all? What about his ADC and private detective?”
Adams shook his head.
“Serafini’s yacht will be escorted by a Royal Navy warship, though.”
“It still looks very suspicious. A full weekend without the Duke’s comptroller, ADC or personal detective…sounds as if protocol has been thrown out of the window.”
“What are you thinking, Conroy?” Adams asked.
Conroy stared at him for a moment and then said: “I think this is it. Windsor will be taken out from Cat Island sometime during the next few days.” He hesitated and then asked. “Did all Serafini’s party go with him?”
Adams gave him a long glance before replying.
“You mean, did the girl go? Yeah, she went. Also that Cuban woman, Magda Montego and the Sorianos.”
Conroy bit his lip.
“I think we’ll have to take a little trip. How long does it take to get to Cat Island?”
“We could be there by this afternoon,” Adams smiled and, without waiting for further orders, turned aft calling for Jessie.
Cat Island lay roughly 130 miles ESE of Nassau. It was a strangely contoured L-shaped isle with an elongated stem, barely a mile wide in places, stretching a distance of 45 miles from north to south. Devil’s Point, where Serafini had his villa and estate, was at the extreme end of the foot of the island which stretched ten miles from heel to toe.
The island where Jessie came from, Eleuthera, was just to the north with the small islet of Little San Salvador in between. Surprisingly, Jessie knew very little about Cat Island when Conroy asked her.
“Never had much cause to go there. There’s only a few villages on the island.”
“Devil’s Point is a moderately high cliff,” explained Adams. “That’s fairly unusual among these coral islands. Serafini’s villa is perched on top.”
“Where would he moor his yacht then?”
“Port Howe would be the nearest safe anchorage. There are strong currents along Tartar Bank which runs past the point.”
“We’ll put in there then.”
“Serafini would know if we land there,” Jessie pointed out. “It’s a small island.”
“Then there must be some other anchorage we can put into without going into Port Howe.”
“We’ll see what we can find,” Adams said.
“What’s the water like off this Devil’s Point? I mean the depth?”
Adams frowned.
“It’s shallow but there’s enough draught for a yacht like the Eleuthera to put in close to shore there.”
“What about ocean-going vessels, though? It’s my guess that the Nazis will attempt to take the Duke off directly from Serafini’s villa.”
Adams shook his head. “As I said, Serafini’s Lupo di Mare can’t safely put in at Devil’s Point. Cat Island faces the Atlantic on its eastern coast. But Devil’s Point is on the south coast, south-west, and the Tartar Bank is pretty shallow. Any big ship would have to anchor some way out and a shallow-bottomed craft would have to ferry any passengers out to it.”
“Well, that’s something,” Conroy said. “There might be a fair chance of spotting any big ship.”
Adams chuckled sourly.
“And if we do? What do you expect us to do…chuck rocks at it?”
Conroy did not reply, his mind elsewhere.
Jessie shot a glance at Adams and the big man shrugged and concentrated on the wheel.
The girl returned to the engine room.
Adams relied on the engines to traverse the Exuma Sound, passing the dots and pimples of the Exuma Cays, which stretched north to south for a hundred miles. The weather was fine and the sea exceptionally still and calm. The Eleuthera, still in her disguise as the Savanna- la- Mar moved at a good speed southward. Conroy eventually observed a point of land to their starboard quarter. At the same time Adams swung the wheel, so that the bows came round due east.
“That’s Eastend Point, the southern tip of Eleuthera, where Jess was born,” called Adams. “We’ll come through the passage between that and Little San Salvador and then we’ll come in on the northern tip of Cat Island and move down the east coast.”
“You’re the skipper,” replied Conroy. “What’s that island over there?”
He had seen a long black strip with mounds like hills low down on the horizon immediately before them.
“Island?”
As Adams turned his eyes narrowed as he saw what Conroy was pointing to. Then he reached for his Zeiss binoculars and focussed. Conroy saw his mouth become suddenly pinched. Without a word he cut the engines and moved into the saloon. Conroy could hear him fiddling with the radio.
Jessie emerged from the engine room and looked round with a frown.
“What’s up?”
Conroy responded with a puzzled shrug.
“I just asked what that…”
He turned to the low, dark shape which he thought was an island and gaped in astonishment to find its shape had changed; then, even as he stared at it, its shape rose and fell as if it were some dark living creature.
Jessie, too, had seen it and was staring at it with anxiety on her features.
“A storm front,” she said softly.
Adams was back in the cockpit and swinging the wheel to bring the ship around 180 degrees and heading westerly, pushing the throttles forward as if to coax every ounce of power out of the engines.
“We have a tropical cyclone moving west by south-west. At the moment it is in the tropical storm stage but it could develop. I am going to run for shelter through Wide Opening and put in at Hawksbill Cay. If that thing develops then we won’t be able to outrun it further than that.”
Conroy looked startled.
“Develops? Develops into what?”
“A hurricane, mister. That’s what.”
Conroy stared back at the billowing clouds to the east. They seemed to be racing for the yacht at an incredible rate.
“I should have paid more attention to the radio this morning,” snorted Adams in disgust. “1 just didn’t think.”
Jessie had started moving about the yacht, tying down objects here and there.
Conroy looked on helplessly.
“What can I do?”
“Not much, unless you want to go below’ and make sure everything that is loose in the cabins is carefully stowed away, especially in the galley. We might get tossed about some. Jessie will lash down everything topside.”
“How dangerous is this?” pressed Conroy, as he hesitated at the companionway.
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“As a tropical storm? We can ride her out. But if that is developing into a hurricane then your guess is as good as mine. We could be facing winds of over seventy-five miles an hour and it could spread over a distance of five hundred miles. Some of these hurricanes have an eye, an almost calm area, about twenty miles in diameter and they can last up to thirty days.”
“And if it is a hurricane, can reach we land and shelter?”
“Even that is still no guarantee of safety. Sometimes sheltering on a coast is even worse for ships. They can be tossed right up out of the water. High winds, coastal flooding and torrential rain can cause enormous damage. Now, get lashing! We haven’t much time before she hits us.”
Conroy had noticed that the air had grown suddenly colder and the wind was high and uttering a soft groaning. Black storm clouds were racing westward across the sky, blotting out the deep blue of the canopy. How quickly things were changing from the bright, warm summer’s day!
When he returned to the deck, conditions had worsened further. He had difficulty standing. The boat was rocking as if riding a helter-skelter, the wind-whipped seas were broken and moving hither and thither in confused motions, heavy and threatening. They swept down on the yacht backed by the shrieking violence of the wind, seeming to slide their powerful waves under the vessel.
One moment they were on top and the next they were sliding down the back of a gigantic wave with a violent movement which caused Conroy to feel spasms of nausea. They plunged dizzily down into a trough of boiling water and then unseen hands lifted the craft skywards again.
Adams was crouching at the wheel, hanging onto it like it was a lifeline. His muscles bunched around his neck, the legs were parted and he lent forward slightly.
“No one told me about this sort of hazard,” Conroy yelled. “I thought I was being sent to a tropical paradise. How many hurricanes do you get a year?”
“About three or four,” Adams flung back over his shoulder as he wrestled with the wheel. “They form in the North Atlantic, usually between July and October and spiral westwards before moving off north. The cold northern waters makes them decay rapidly. I’ve no idea where this one came from but according to the reports, it’s not developed into a hurricane yet. Just a tropical storm. But that’s bad enough. You’d better secure yourself with a lifeline!”
Jessie was already seated at the rear of the cockpit, she was waving to him and yelling but he could not make out what she was saying above the scream of the wind. Its volume had suddenly increased violently. He saw that she had belted herself onto the seat and was motioning him to sit by her side and do the same. He staggered across, blinded by the lashing salt water. The deck heaved and fell beneath him.
He leaned close to her ear and yelled:
“Is this the hurricane?”
She grimaced and shook her head.
“This is only a Force Eight wind.” she yelled back. “We can ride this out.”
Conroy stared in disbelief. He was no sailor. If this was not a hurricane then he shivered at the thought of just how powerful such a storm would be. There followed what seemed like hours of terrible darkness, of screaming winds and whipping spray which soaked their clothes. The seas surged and tossed at the vessel, like a powerful monster toying with an insect. Although the tossing water was still comparatively warm, Conroy found his teeth chattering, and his hands freezing as they clung for support.
Jessie sat next to him, her eyes dark, exhaustion registering on her face. Her expression was tinged with anxiety as she watched Adams clinging fiercely to the wheel, trying to turn the vessel to ensure she kept before the wind. If she turned sideways then all would be lost. The great waves would simply capsize her.
Time lost its meaning. Conroy felt sick with tiredness and the violent motion of the vessel. In spite of the movement, he became slowly numb with fatigue and actually dozed off.
It was the calm which made him suddenly snap out of his exhaustion.
It was as if the yacht and slipped through a door, so sudden and abrupt was the change.
Behind them he could see the black, threatening cumulonimbus, and see the tempestuous seas and hear the whining of the wind. But here the waters were more calm, grey and desolate but quieter. Ahead was a brighter sky, blue with high cloud globules, cirrocumulus cloud, which fishermen called a “mackerel sky”. A low haze spread across the horizon.
At the wheel, Adams was more relaxed, standing shaking in his soaking clothes.
“Are we out of it?” demanded Jess, untying herself from her seat and moving across to him.
He placed an arm around her shoulders and grinned down as she nestled against him.
“I think so. The front seems to be easing northwards, heading back towards Eleuthera and Abaco. We seemed to have caught it just on its extreme south-western spiral.”
Conroy untied himself and moved forward with an unsteady gait.
“Is it over?”
Adams answered him with a broad grin.
“You don’t look so hot, Conroy.”
“I’ve felt better,” he conceded.
“Well, take the wheel while I go below and check the radio. All being well, Jessie can break out the rum and we’ll have a hot cocoa with a tot. That’ll make us feel a whole lot better.”
When he returned from the radio he was smiling happily.
“As I thought. We just tipped the south-western sweep of the storm. It’s moving off to the north.”
“Not a hurricane?” demanded Conroy, impressed that such violence could not have been a full scale tempest.
“Sorry to disappoint you, no. Just a Force Eight tropical storm, which is bad enough. It swept down from the north between Eleuthera and Cat Island, reached the end of its arc and is now on its way back north.”
“Well, I’ll go below and get that cocoa on the heat, but after I’ve checked the engines. They’ve had a rough ride, too,” Jessie said. “Then I guess we should get out of these wet things.”
“I wonder how the storm affects us?” mused Conroy, his mind suddenly back to the task. “Do you think the Lupo di Mare sailed with the Duke and Duchess?”
Adams glanced at his watch.
“Not if they heard the storm warning. If they are keeping a radio watch, and you did say that they have a permanent operator, they would have had the storm warning. And, of course, the warship was to escort them, so they would be warned. They probably won’t put out until after it has passed.”
“So we could still be on Cat Island well before them?”
Adams nodded affirmatively.
“We are now only about sixty miles from Cat Island,” he said, glancing around as if to get his bearings. “That’s Hawksbill Cay over to the north-west. We’ll bring her around and head back now that the storm is passing to the north. We could be there this evening.”
“No way.”
They turned at the sound of Jessie’s voice. She was just emerging from the engine room with an unhappy expression.
“We’ll need to put into the nearest cay and pump her out.”
Adams swore softly.
“What is wrong?” Conroy demanded, not understanding.
“The storm has water-logged the engine-room,” Jessie said flatly. “If it rises another six inches then we wouldn’t have a serviceable engine. We’d have to put in somewhere to dry and clean her.”
Adams gestured in resignation.
“How long are we going to be delayed?” asked Conroy.
“Maybe six hours. Maybe more,” replied Jessie.
“Then let’s hope Serafini has also been delayed by the storm,” he replied.
CHAPTER XXI
Wednesday, August 28, 1940
Oberfuhrer Walter Schellenberg glanced up in annoyance as someone burst into his office without the courtesy of knocking. He was about to make an angry retort at the intrusion but instead rose reluctantly to his feet as his superior, Gruppenfuhrer Heinz Jost entered. The senior officer tossed a bulky package on the de
sk.
“Drop whatever you’re doing, Schellenberg, and report to the headquarters of the Sixteenth Army at Roubaix. These papers will give you details. Read them on the way.”
Schellenberg drew his brows together.
“Roubaix, that’s in northern France.”
“Near Lille, on the Belgian border,” agreed Jost without humour.
“Is this to do with Operation Konigtum?”
Jost stared at him blankly.
“I thought the Reichsminister had told you that it no longer concerned you?”
“Yes. But then he seemed to have changed his mind and asked me to put one of my London agents in contact with your headquarters, which I did.”
“Exactly so. But there your connection with the operation ended. There is no need to trouble yourself further about it. Everything is now under control. This matter at
Roubaix is of more importance. It concerns Operation Seelöwe. We have to give this utmost priority.”
Jost withdrew as abruptly as he had entered, leaving Schellenberg feeling irritated. He picked up the packet of papers and open it, at the same time calling for his aide to have his Mercedes brought to the main doors of No 8 Prinz Albrechtstrasse. The papers related to a briefing of intelligence officers on matters of counterespionage problems which might arise during the invasion of southern England. It was nothing that a more junior intelligence officer could not handle. Schellenberg had the distinct impression that he was being removed from any further participation in Operation Konigtum.
He sighed deeply. Well, what happened to Windsor was no longer his problem and that suited him well. He could do with a pleasant few weeks in France. It would be nice to visit the cafes and night clubs of Lille. To hell with Von Ribbentrop and his crazy schemes anyway!
It was late the following morning when Adams nudged the Eleuthera into a small sheltered cove on Cat Island, whose white crescent coral beach and surrounding palms reminded Conroy of his boyhood vision of the sort of place Robinson Crusoe would have inhabited. Trees, a variety of pine, grew close to the water’s edge surrounded by low shrubs. There were signs of animal life as a small rodent-like creature, Jessie identified it as an agouti, trotted along the beach after a large leaping frog. To one side of the cove, a river, hardly wider than a good-sized stream, trickled into the lapping waves.
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