Page 13 of Midnight on the Scottish Shore

13

Dunnet Head Saturday, June 14, 1941

Another dreary day. The lighthouse rose white against the dreary gray clouds in the dreary dampness as Cilla crossed the courtyard with the dreariest of companions.

“What are your plans on your day off, Imogene?” Gwen asked her fellow Wren.

“After the dance in Thurso tonight, I’m planning to sleep late and not do a solitary thing all day.”

“A dance?” Cilla spun to Imogene, and the wind slung her hair across her face. She brushed it back. “May I join you?”

Imogene’s pert little nose shriveled. “You are not invited.”

Cilla rubbed the back of her hand. When she was a child, how many times had her parents slapped her hand for grabbing forbidden items? She’d never been able to resist the Delft candlesticks. But if she had resisted, she’d never have known the cool smoothness or the intricate blue designs.

Imogene turned a pretty smile to Gwen. “And your plans?”

“After church, I’m writing letters.”

Cilla stopped a few feet from the lighthouse door. She’d never cared for church, but she did care to see people. “Church? May I join you?”

A tremor raced across Gwen’s brow. “I—I’d rather not.”

Imogene tapped the back of her colleague’s arm. “Don’t be such a mouse around her. You have a revolver and the authority to use it.”

Poor sweet Gwen, terrified of the woman she assumed to be an enemy spy, and Cilla gave her a soft smile. “Please. I’d love to attend church.”

“She said she’d rather not bring you.” Imogene smiled, but her eyes were icicle blue. “Once again, you are not invited.”

Cilla could create icicles too. “Commander Yardley said I had Sundays free, and I could—”

“Only if one of us accompanies you.” Imogene lifted one slender shoulder. “We’d rather not.”

Why, the little ...

But anger never changed minds, so Cilla merely strode to the lighthouse door.

Mr. Hall stepped outside in his blue lightkeeper’s uniform and white hat. He handed Cilla a piece of paper, gave her a concise report of the night’s lack of activity, and crossed the courtyard to his quarters.

After Cilla stepped inside, Imogene stood with her hand on the doorknob. “Say, Gwen, did you hear last night on the BBC that those two Nazi spies captured in Edinburgh were sentenced to death?” She gave Cilla a simpering smile. “Have a lovely day.”

The door slammed shut. The bolt clicked.

“Have a lovely day too,” Cilla muttered.

She climbed the spiral staircase. “Another lovely day in my lovely, lovely prison.”

In the lightroom at the top, she caught her breath and searched for loveliness, for comfort. Clouds scuttered across the sky in hues of gray. Slanting rain blurred the horizon to the west. The waters churned gray and white below.

And silence buzzed in her ears.

At least today’s meeting with Yardley and Mackenzie would break the tedium of washing windows and mopping floors and marking boats and planes in her log.

How long could she bear this? For ten days, she’d been confined to the same tower, to walks on the same square of greenery, to the same silence. To the same dreadful sameness.

The triangular iron window frames pressed in like prison bars. “I can’t do this,” she said to no one, always to no one.

Why had she come to Britain? In the Netherlands—even under Nazi rule—she could visit friends and family. She could hop on a tram or a bicycle and trek around the city—even to the country.

Gerrit’s voice rumbled in her memory. “Sometimes you have to find freedom inside the trap.”

“There is no freedom in this trap, Gerrit.” She shook her hand west, toward home. “None. You’re brilliant, but you’re wrong.”

This trap contained nothing but monotony. Mind-numbing, maddening monotony.

She clapped both hands to the back of her neck. “I’m already talking to myself.”

The door creaked open far downstairs, and male voices drifted up the staircase.

Cilla smoothed her hair, her thoughts, and the jacket of her red suit. This was the first time she’d had guests, although these guests didn’t promise to be good company.

Yardley had given the lieutenant a week to cool down before his first meeting with Cilla. Now she was determined to win him over.

The commander entered the lightroom first.

Cilla spread her arms and smile wide. “Welcome to my crystal cage.”

Yardley smirked. He didn’t like her, but she seemed to amuse him.

Mackenzie emerged, gave her the darkest of looks, and went to the window. His face transformed, lightened, the first pleasant expression she’d seen on that not-unpleasant face.

“Have you been up here before, Mackenzie?” Yardley asked.

“Aye.” His mouth softened, revealing a pale scar slashing across his upper lip. “The principal lightkeeper’s son was a friend of mine. It’s been a long time.”

Common ground could serve as a foundation for the unlikeliest of friendships, so Cilla released a happy sigh. “It’s a gorgeous view, even on a dreary day.”

That look returned, darker than ever. Did the man ever smile?

Yardley gestured to the tiny table he’d set up for her logbook and the two chairs she’d hauled upstairs. “Have a seat. It’s time for you two to work together.”

“I dinnae see why this is necessary.” Mackenzie tugged down the jacket of his dark blue naval officer’s uniform. “I could give you my report, and you could—”

“No. You’re both clever.” Yardley held out a chair for Cilla. “This case will run better if you work together.”

Cilla edged between the table and the Fresnel lens, took her seat, and held out her book with an expectant smile. “Would you like to see my log, Lieutenant?”

Standing beside Cilla, Yardley gestured to the empty chair. “Compare her log to your report.”

Four slow steps, and Mackenzie lowered himself to sitting. A moderately tall man. Well built. Strong jaw. And appallingly serious. Just as well, because he hated her.

Mackenzie pulled her logbook closer with one finger, as if it were contaminated, and he opened a leather portfolio and held it up out of her view.

For a few minutes, his brown-eyed gaze flicked between her book and his. In the dull gray light, his hair looked more brown than red. Every hair in place.

Finally he closed his portfolio. “She’s kept a detailed log, but she’s misidentified many types of ships. I’ll correct those.”

“You will not,” Yardley said.

Mackenzie’s lower lip pushed up. “I thought you wanted to send the Germans accurate reports of ship movements.”

“Accurate as she would observe them.” Yardley tapped the table in front of Cilla. “If she calls a destroyer a cruiser, it’s the fault of her Abwehr training. Too perfect a report would be suspect.”

Cilla rested her chin in her hand. “My Abwehr training was limited and flawed, especially about English customs. If I were actually on the German side, I would have given them tips to improve. I did not.”

Neither man reacted. Mackenzie tapped her log with one thick finger. “This information isn’t too dangerous. Numbers of incoming and outgoing ships, and from this vantage point, she can observe only the western end of Pentland Firth.”

Yardley nodded. “I’ll run your timetables of expected ship movements past MI5’s Admiralty liaison for approval. Cilla will send wireless transmissions every Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday night, according to her Abwehr orders. When we’re preparing her messages, I’ll compare her log to the approved list. Only those entries will be transmitted.”

Tension released in Cilla’s neck. The Admiralty wouldn’t allow her messages to endanger British ships or lives. She had to cling to that.

Mackenzie sat back in his chair, as if he’d had the same concerns, the same relief. “She cannae detect the ships’ destinations, thank goodness.”

A grunt, and Yardley’s mouth thinned. “That’s your role, remember? You’ll report on convoy destinations, base de fenses and conditions—information she cannot observe or know in any way except through you. You and Cilla will craft more detailed messages for her to send by post in secret ink. Your information, approved by MI5 and the Admiralty, in her words.”

Cilla drummed her fingers on her cheek. “How can I explain to Hauptmann Kraus how I know such things?”

“Indeed.” Yardley turned that smirk of his to Mackenzie. “Every fact she sends needs to come from a legitimate, believable source—a real or fictional person who supplies her with that information in a natural way.”

Oh, she could have fun with the dour lieutenant after all. She grinned. “That’s obvious. Lieutenant Mackenzie will become my lover.”

“What?” The word spluttered from his mouth. “Lov—absolutely not.”

“All very chaste.” A solution to another problem wheeled into her mind. “I’ll say we met at church. Which reminds me, Commander—would you please ask the Wrens to invite me to attend church with them? They refuse to take me anywhere, and I haven’t left Dunnet Head since we arrived. You wouldn’t want to keep me from church, would you?” She turned a little pout up to him.

Yardley’s mouth contracted as if he’d tasted something sour. “I’ll speak to them, remind them of their duties.”

“Thank you.” To see humanity again, Cilla would gladly endure a dozen sermons.

Mackenzie cleared his throat, and his brown eyes smoldered. “She’s changing the subject. I refuse to be associated with her in such a manner, chaste or not.”

Cilla pressed her hand to her chest and released the most despondent sigh she could muster. “Don’t you find me the least bit attractive? I’ve been told I’m no great beauty but that my engaging personality more than compensates.”

Amusement frolicked on Yardley’s lips. “You never have to lay a hand on her, Mackenzie.”

She repeated her sigh. “Will my disappointment never end?”

“The romance would be fictional,” Yardley said. “So her stories ring true and so Kraus believes she could actually have heard that information.”

“As if I were Samson to her Delilah?” Deep red stained Mackenzie’s cheeks. “As if I’d spill naval secrets all for a bonny face? I’d never.”

“Oh!” Cilla clapped her hands together. “You think I’m bonny. Hope remains.”

Yardley held up one hand to silence her. “We wouldn’t use your name or even your position. We’d use a code name.”

“Samson.” Cilla struggled to strain the laughter from her voice.

“Excellent.” But Yardley patted the air in front of her in his vain attempt to shut her mouth. “This fictional naval officer, code-named Samson, is not like you at all, Mackenzie. He does know everything in your reports. But unlike you, he’s indiscreet and besotted.”

“I hope you do become besotted one day.” Cilla batted her eyelashes at the Scotsman. “Because the moment I first beheld you, I fell madly in love.”

He met her gaze, and the red faded away. One lazy blink, and he lifted his gaze to Yardley. “As I said, she’s an accomplished liar.”

Cilla suppressed a squeal of delight. Perhaps a human being lay inside that rigid exterior after all.

“Your heart has no cause for concern, Mackenzie,” Yardley said. “As I’m certain you know, a romantic involvement with an enemy agent would violate all regulations.”

“Not even tempting,” Mackenzie said with a growl in his voice. “I remind you, Commander, I’m performing my duties as ordered but under protest.”

“And I remind you, Mackenzie”—Yardley jabbed one finger at the lieutenant—“you were issued a revolver. If you ever have good reason to believe she’s betraying Britain, you are authorized to use it.”

A cold wave crashed over Cilla and doused all delight.