Page 15 of Midnight on the Scottish Shore

15

Dunnet Head Saturday, July 12, 1941

A month imprisoned in a tower like Rapunzel—was it making Cilla eccentric? On a piece of paper on the worktable in the lightroom, she arranged her growing collection of flowers and feathers.

The feathers ranged from stark white to stark black, with shades of gray and brown in between. And the flowers enchanted in pinks and purples and whites.

All collected on her walks around the lighthouse grounds. Imogene and Gwen never joined her but watched from a distance. In her boredom, Cilla had begun noticing tiny flowers brightening the greenery and feathers shed by the seabirds that populated the cliffs.

The eight o’clock BBC news report droned to a close from the little wireless set Cilla had found downstairs in the lighthouse and brought upstairs. Next in the programming, a woman gave the daily Kitchen Front talk on using rations wisely.

“Good morning, ma’am,” Cilla said to her invisible companion. Better than talking to herself. Wasn’t it bad enough that she was collecting flowers and feathers? And enjoying it?

Cilla fingered the curls tickling her neck. Perhaps she should grow out her hair and escape her tower before it was too late.

Footsteps clomped up the stairs, and Cilla swept the paper with her collection into a basket.

Lieutenant Mackenzie entered the lightroom, circled the Fresnel lens, and stopped with his gaze glued on Cilla. “Where’s Commander Yardley?”

“I’m very well, thank you. And you? Lovely day, yes?” With a bright smile, Cilla gestured to the clear blue skies.

Mackenzie closed his eyes and dipped his chin. “Good morning.”

His mother would be proud of how he finally remembered his manners. But he did have a point. “Where is the commander? I thought he picked you up at the pier.”

“Only the first day. I walk home, leave my bag, and ride my bicycle here.” He mashed his lips together as if she’d tricked him into revealing the secret of radiolocation.

Not long after Cilla arrived at Dunnet Head, the BBC had announced the use of radio waves in winning the Battle of Britain. After that, Imogene had begun providing Cilla reports of enemy aircraft detected by the Admiralty Experimental Station, using radiolocation, no doubt. Cilla’s source was meant to be a Wren at the station whom Cilla had befriended. Almost true.

At the window, the lieutenant gazed down at the cliffs. The sunlight made his hair glint like gold and copper and bronze all mixed together.

Cilla joined him at a non-threatening distance. Along the cliffs, seabirds wheeled and raced and argued, their raucous calls muffled by the glass.

“Are those puffins?” Cilla pointed to a cluster of black-and-white birds with orange beaks.

“Aye. Summer is nesting season.”

“All these birds nest on the cliffs—these sheer cliffs. It’s astounding. I wish I knew their names. They’re beautiful. Do you know what that one is called? The dark brown one with the white spectacles?”

“A guillemot.”

“Guillemot. Thank you.” Cilla avoided looking the lieutenant in the eye and scaring him away. “Have you lived here all your life?”

“Since I was a lad of five. Except when I was away at school.”

“Where was that?”

“Dartmouth. Then Edinburgh.” The man’s R s rolled like music.

“Oh, look at those two.” Cilla pointed to two tussling white terns. “Fighting over a fish. Don’t they know the sea is teeming with fish?”

The corner of Mackenzie’s mouth rose. Was he smiling?

Then he met her gaze and scowled.

For heaven’s sake. How could he have come from such nice parents? Of course, his parents didn’t know she was a double agent.

A heavy weight pushed against her chest, but she pushed back against it. “The view is beautiful, but I wish I could see inland as well. See the village. That day in town, I only saw the church.”

In the background, the BBC theater organ played.

Mackenzie cleared his throat. “You havnae attended church again.”

Cilla set her hand on her hip and gave him a teasing smile. “Isn’t that what you wanted?” He’d looked terrified and furious when his parents greeted her.

The lieutenant’s square jaw shifted side to side as he watched the birds below.

That day at church, Cilla had felt an unnerving tug—attracted by something she couldn’t name, yet repelled by something else she also couldn’t name.

Then Mrs. Mackenzie had greeted her with compassion warming her brown eyes, and her concern for Cilla’s loneliness had spiraled deep into her soul.

Seen. Understood.

Cilla craved being seen and understood, yet flinched from it. She hated when people felt sorry for her. Hated even more how it made her feel sorry for herself.

“You should come,” Mackenzie said in a rough voice.

“Pardon?”

“To church.” He kept watching the birds. “Dinnae let me keep you away.”

The tempo of the music changed as the BBC organist started a new composition. Cilla also needed to switch tempos. She grinned. “Why? Because I’m a wretched sinner?”

“We all are.”

“Not you, certainly.” Cilla leaned her shoulder against the window. “Don’t tell me you cursed once? How shocking. Come, tell me. I want to know more about the man who’s stolen my heart.”

He raised one burnished eyebrow. “Are you ever serious?”

“Are you ever not serious?”

“Not around spies.” He passed her and set his portfolio on the worktable.

She rolled her eyes at his broad back. Despite her teasing, the man had nothing to worry about. Serious sorts—like her cousin Gerrit—were good friends to have in a pinch, but not for a lark.

Commander Yardley entered the lightroom with his cap in hand.

“Oh, Commander,” Cilla said with a dramatic sigh. “Why did you have to arrive now? The lieutenant was so close to kissing me.”

Yardley chuckled. “Don’t let my presence hinder you, Mackenzie.”

“Somehow I’ll muster my self-control.” The Scotsman opened his portfolio. “That’s the mark of an officer and a gentleman.”

“Why, that was almost humorous, Lieutenant.” Cilla took her seat. “If you aren’t careful, I might find myself actually falling for you.”

“Fair warning. I’ll be more careful.” No humor lit Mackenzie’s brown eyes. “Your log?”

“Aye, aye, sir,” she said in a deep voice and spun her log around to face him.

With Yardley peering over Mackenzie’s shoulder, the men compared the log to their papers, muttered to each other, and made marks on her log.

When they finished, Yardley returned the log to her and pointed to the stars and arrows and cross-outs. Cilla opened her notepad, uncapped her pen, and composed the message she’d transmit by wireless at midnight.

She wrote, “10 Jul 0805 W 3 fishing boats. 1127 E 4 freighters 1 destroyer. 1835 NW 1 4-engine bomber, very high.” After she finished, Yardley would approve the final message, and she’d encipher it, including her security key.

“Yes.” Leaning over Mackenzie’s shoulder, Yardley poked at the portfolio. “That’s excellent chicken feed for Cilla’s next letter. Tell this to her as if telling your girlfriend.”

Knots formed on the lieutenant’s forehead. “I would never tell this to a girlfriend.”

“Pretend.”

“I never pretend.”

He didn’t even know how to pretend, the poor man. Cilla would have to help him. “Imagine I was your girlfriend, yes. But imagine I was a Wren in your command, privy to all the same information you are, so you wouldn’t be violating regulations.”

The knots smoothed, but he didn’t meet her eye. “Several of our boom defense vessels were out of commission last week, but they’re all back on duty. Security was never compromised.”

“Oh dear,” Cilla said as if she really were his Wren girlfriend. “That must have been worrying for you. Why were they out of commission?”

Two knots reappeared.

“Continue,” Yardley said.

A muscle twitched near Mackenzie’s nose. “One of the vessels had engine troubles, so we checked the whole fleet.”

“Tell her how you know this,” Yardley said. “It needs to sound realistic for her report.”

“My friend Arth—my friend. He serves with the Boom Defense Office.”

“I see.” Above the men’s heads, sunlight glinted off the Fresnel lens in every color imaginable. “This sounds important, as if I’d unearthed something telling about the readiness of the naval base. But it’s already been fixed, so it’s of no use to the Germans.”

“Chicken feed.” Yardley pointed lower on the page. “Tell her what you reported here about the civilian labor shortage in the Orkneys.”

Mackenzie released a quiet grunt. “Sir, I included that in my report only because you ordered me to be thorough, but telling the Germans would be unwise.”

“I disagree. It only affects future development of defenses, not our current status.”

It didn’t sit right, and Cilla wrinkled her nose. “I agree with the lieutenant. The existence of a labor shortage makes Britain sound weak, as if all the men are in the Forces with none to spare.”

Mackenzie met her gaze, his eyebrows high and something new in his eyes—appreciation. “Aye.”

“But why is there a labor shortage in the Orkneys?” Yardley said.

Mackenzie gestured toward the dark band of land across the waters. “The population is too small for large projects. My family’s company had the same problem finding labor to salvage the scuttled German fleet.”

Cilla nodded. “It must be challenging to convince workers to come someplace so remote. Can you imagine a Londoner leaving the theaters and restaurants of the big city for this?”

“Aye. Even if they want to come, they need to obtain a pass. Very difficult.”

“How’s that?” Cilla asked. “Is it more difficult to obtain than the pass I needed to come to Caithness?”

“Aye. Only Orcadians and members of the Forces can travel freely to the Orkneys.” Mackenzie looked her full in the eye, no knots in his forehead, no red cheeks, no fire. “Everyone else needs to apply for a pass—in London—and wait several months. The screening is stringent.”

Cilla gasped and leaned forward. “Why, that’s wonderful. You have a labor shortage because security is so tight. Do you see?”

Slowly, Mackenzie’s jaw opened. Apparently, so did his mind. “Aye. No fifth columnists or saboteurs or separatists could obtain a pass.”

“The labor shortage is a sign of strength, not weakness.” Cilla unfurled her smile. “Shall we include it? May I?”

“Aye.” Mackenzie’s voice came out foggy.

Cilla scribbled her ideas onto the notepad. “This will also let the Germans know they dare not send spies to the Orkneys. They’d need to forge yet another pass, and sadly, I’ll be unable to find an example for them.”

“Write this up for your letter,” Yardley said. “We’ll post it Monday.”

“Yes, sir.” But Mackenzie’s words niggled in her brain. “Lieutenant, you mentioned separatists.”

“Aye.” The familiar frown appeared, the lower lip pushing up.

Cilla tapped her pen against her chin. “Kraus has been asking about Scottish separatists again. My original questionnaire mentioned them, but after that, he only asked about ships and planes and defenses. But now, ever since Germany invaded the Soviet Union, he’s more interested in the domestic situation—food prices and rationing—”

Yardley chuckled. “Because Kraus and the Krauts have realized they can never invade England. But they do hope to starve us into submission by sinking ships bound for our shores.”

“He’s asked many questions about the separatists in the past week or so. Do they exist here? Are they a problem?”

“They exist.” Yardley leaned back against the window. “MI5 considers them subversive and has ordered a few raids and arrests. But honestly, they’re on the fringe and have little influence.”

“Only on morale,” Mackenzie said with a rumble in his throat.

Was he sharing a true weakness in the British Isles? “That sounds like something to include in my messages, but I’d need more details.”

“I might be able to provide those.” The lieutenant’s lips ground into a line.

“Not necessary,” Yardley said. “MI5 has decided to direct German attention elsewhere. Also, Mackenzie, as a source for Cilla, you—as Samson—are a naval officer at Scapa. To add knowledge of Scottish nationalism stretches credibility.”

“Even if it’s true?” He frowned over his shoulder at the commander. “You read my file.”

Cilla stretched taller in her seat. How intriguing.

“Even if it’s true.” Yardley crossed his arms. “The Germans need to believe it’s true. It’s already remarkable that our little lightkeeper romanced a naval officer who knows so much about base security.”

“And such a handsome one at that.” She batted her eyelashes at him.

He only arched an eyebrow at her.

Cilla laughed. “Oh, just wait. Someday you’ll like me. Everyone does.”

Mackenzie neatened the papers in his portfolio. “Every rule has an exception. I am proud to be that exception.”

For a moment, caught up in the fun of working together, she’d forgotten the old rules of life no longer applied.

****

Dits and dahs tapped on Cilla’s eardrum as she held one earpiece of the headphones to her ear.

Sitting close beside her, Gwen Reese listened through the other earpiece and watched every slash of Cilla’s pen to make sure she transcribed Hauptmann Kraus’s message accurately.

In the top apartment in the lighthouse tower, Imogene St. Clair sat in an armchair, watching Cilla, her revolver holster visible beneath her navy-blue uniform jacket.

Above them in the lightroom, Terrance Hall stood watch, ready to sound the foghorn or to turn on the beam if requested by the Admiralty.

Kraus’s message stretched long. Even if someone in Britain had a crystal tuned to the right frequency, they’d find the message enciphered. And even if they deciphered it and realized it was from the Abwehr, they wouldn’t know to whom it was being sent.

At last, Kraus signed off, and Cilla wrote down the last letter of his message. In the morning, she’d decipher it.

Gwen checked her wristwatch. “Thirty seconds until midnight.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Cilla unplugged her headphones from the receiver and plugged her Morse key into the base of the transmitter. She stroked the smooth brown Bakelite of the contraption the Germans called “mouse” and positioned her finger on the half-moon-shaped button protruding from the front.

“Ten seconds.”

Cilla set her notepad where both she and Gwen could see it. At midnight sharp, Cilla would transmit as quickly as possible. If she were a real spy, she’d have to worry about MI5 tracking her down by detecting her transmissions. Speed would be of the essence.

As commander of the Admiralty station at Dunnet Head, Yardley arranged a change of shifts at midnight. At those times, no one monitored the station’s wireless, so he wouldn’t have to answer awkward questions in case they intercepted her messages.

“Three, two, one.”

Cilla tapped the black half-moon button over and over. She had to be quick, yes, but more importantly, she had to be accurate. Skipping or adding or changing a letter earned her a lengthy review as Yardley tried to discern whether she’d erred—or deceived. Three reviews, and Cilla never wanted another one.

Gwen was too good and too smart to let mistakes pass.

Cilla’s lip hurt. She was biting it. Getting tense. But tension caused errors.

She huffed out a breath and kept tapping.

Almost done, and she’d transmitted her security key early in the message. With a flourish, she tapped the final three letters.

Cilla sat back and grinned at Gwen. “All done.”

“Good.” The girl averted her soft brown eyes. She no longer jumped whenever Cilla moved, but that hardly seemed worth celebrating.

“How many mistakes?” Imogene gave Cilla a cool appraising look.

“None.”

“None in a fortnight,” Cilla said with a satisfied smile. Certainly that deserved some praise. In training in Hamburg, Cilla had never transmitted with such accuracy—and she’d received overflowing accolades.

Imogene’s gaze sharpened and snapped to Gwen. “Don’t let your guard down.”

“I won’t.” Gwen unplugged the crystal from Cilla’s wireless set, inactivating it. The Wrens locked up the crystals so Cilla couldn’t transmit clandestinely.

Pain pressed on Cilla’s chest. They would never like her. Never trust her. Nor would Yardley or Mackenzie.

Yet Kraus liked her. Genuinely liked her.

Cilla gripped her hands together. Why did she work so hard for people who hated her?

Her aquamarine ring shifted in her grip, and she twisted it around her finger. A gift from Moeder and Vader on her sixteenth birthday, and grief welled in her throat.

She missed them. Missed Hilde and Gerrit and all her friends, people who liked her.

People living under Nazi rule.

The Germans had liked Cilla because she lied about agreeing with their beliefs. They only liked those who agreed with them, like Arno and Hilde.

Gerrit opposed them, and the Nazis would kill him if they discovered what he was doing. Just as they’d killed Dirk.

With one finger, Cilla pressed the aquamarine until it warmed to her touch.

Better to work for those who stood for everything good and right. Even if they hated her.