Page 16 of Midnight on the Scottish Shore

16

Mainland, Orkney Islands Thursday, July 17, 1941

Wind ruffled the green grasses and purple heather and Lachlan’s hair. Before him on the narrow isthmus between two lochs, three dozen neolithic stones knifed up from the ground in a perfect circle, marred only by tank tracks from a military exercise in June.

Beside him, Arthur shielded his eyes from the evening sun. “It’s rather like Stonehenge. I never knew this was here.”

“The Ring of Brodgar,” Lachlan said. “I told you this was a land of beauties.”

Arthur’s smile skewed to the side. “Speaking of beauties, we should bring the ladies here for a picnic.”

A groan formed in Lachlan’s chest, but he tamped it down as he led Arthur down the slope to the road. “You should delay plans until your latest victim meets me tomorrow night.”

“Victim? You have so little faith in me. This time Irene and I have chosen the perfect woman for you.”

“Have you?” Lachlan picked up his bicycle from its resting place on the heather, mounted it, and began pedaling.

With a rustle of bicycle tires on dry pavement, Arthur pulled even with Lachlan. “Jean is quiet and loves to read, and Irene had to threaten to steal her ration book to convince her to dine with us. As I said, she’s perfect for you.”

How could Arthur know the perfect sort of woman for him when Lachlan didn’t know himself? Vivacious women were bored by him, but quiet women expected him to talk.

He pedaled harder, passing ancient burial mounds. Two Arctic terns chased each other across the loch to his right, wheeling over the fishing boats and insulting each other.

Lachlan could still hear Cilla’s laughter at the antics of the seabirds. Still see the sparkle in her eyes as she teased him. Still feel the rush of synergy as they built on each other’s ideas.

If she weren’t a spy, he might enjoy her company.

But she was indeed a spy, and her endearing nature only made her more dangerous.

Yet she’d sounded genuinely concerned about the labor shortage—and thrilled that it indicated a British strength.

Lachlan cycled into the purple shadow of a cloud. What had Yardley said about the long game of Double Cross? MI5 fed the Germans a steady diet of true information to build their trust in the agent. Then later, MI5 could slip poison into the feed and deceive them.

Was Cilla using sincerity for the same purpose? To build trust in her—so she could betray them?

Lachlan huffed out a breath, which tangled in the wind. As long as he and the MI5 officers kept a close eye on her, resisted her charms, and carried their revolvers in her presence, they would be fine.

“You’re in a great hurry.” Arthur’s voice floated from far behind.

Lachlan sent him a chagrined smile over his shoulder and slowed his pace. “Sorry, mate.”

“A hurry for this?” Arthur waved ahead.

“Aye.” On a slight rise in a field stood three huts and a concrete searchlight position.

Over a hundred military sites lay scattered around the Orkney Islands—gun batteries, airfields, radio direction finding stations, and searchlights. Although the sites could communicate with the main base at Lyness, many were isolated and remote.

Taking advantage of the long summer days, Lachlan was visiting the sites in the evenings after he finished the day’s duties. His visits provided exercise, fresh air, natural beauty, and a balm to his pricked conscience.

A soldier hunched his way out from one of the huts and stretched tall, a giant of a man.

Lachlan raised a hand in greeting and hopped off his bicycle. “Good evening. I’m Lieutenant Mackenzie from the Orkneys and Shetlands Command. This is Lieutenant Goodwin.”

“Good evening, sirs!” The giant saluted. “Boys, we have company.”

Lachlan returned salutes as two other soldiers came out of the hut, straightening their brown battle dress uniforms and trailing the scent of frying fish. “Since our command oversees defense, I’m visiting the men at the various positions, making sure your needs are met.”

“Yes, sir. They are.” A baby-faced soldier pointed to a cream-colored farmhouse in the distance. “The farmer and his wife treat us like sons.”

“They brought us a lovely salmon.” The giant’s face lit up. “Do you want some? Sirs?”

“No, thank you.” As much as Lachlan loved salmon, he wouldn’t take their food. “Do you have enough supplies? Enough fuel for your generator?”

“Yes, sir.” The baby-faced soldier gestured to the searchlight. “We’re ready for inspection.”

“I hope,” the third man muttered.

“This is not an inspection, not even an official visit. I know you’re isolated, and I wanted to check on your welfare.”

“Our welfare?” The giant glanced to baby-face as if he were the leader. “Honestly, sir? We’re bored.”

“Parker ...” The third man made a face and rubbed the dark stubble on his chin.

“He asked about our welfare, Ford.” Parker waved a heavy arm at Lachlan.

“I did.” Lachlan leaned his bicycle against the hut and gazed around the flat, open land. “Are you bored because you’re isolated?”

Baby-face shrugged his rounded shoulders. “A bit. We each get into Stromness or Kirkwall every few weeks though.”

“Mostly we’re bored because we got nothing to do. Can’t remember the last time we turned on Big Betty here.” Parker pointed with this thumb to the 36-inch searchlight in its concrete box. “Only planes we see are during the day, and the day lasts forever in the summer this far north.”

Lachlan nodded. A searchlight only aided defense at night, illuminating aircraft for fighters or antiaircraft guns to shoot down. By day, German aircraft conducted reconnaissance, attacked shipping, and occasionally strafed targets on land. But the Luftwaffe hadn’t sent a nighttime bombing raid to Scapa Flow in over a year.

Regardless, a disheartened crew was little better than none. “You might not think you’re doing anything important, but you are. We never know when the Luftwaffe will attack. And if they suspect our guard is down, they will attack. Simply being here, being vigilant, being ready—you perform a vital service. I thank you.”

“Thank you, sir.” Parker stood even taller, and he whacked Ford in the arm. “See, I told you they haven’t forgotten us.”

Ford gave Lachlan a sheepish look. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“No need to apologize. I would come to the same conclusion in your position.” Lachlan exchanged smiles and salutes, and he mounted his bicycle again. He’d ask Blake if the Army could rotate searchlight crews between remote locations and ones closer to town. And he’d ask if this crew could attend the show by the beloved singer Gracie Fields when she visited the Orkneys next week.

Arthur stood straddling his bicycle about ten feet away. “You can chat when necessary, I see.”

“Aye, and you can be silent when necessary.”

“I’m only here to see the sights, and watching Lachlan Mackenzie improve morale is the most astonishing sight of all.”

Lachlan raised one eyebrow at his friend as he passed. “We’re on our way to the gunnery range at Yesnaby, but first, Skara Brae.”

“The Stone Age village?”

“Nothing else like it in Britain.”

The road crossed green farmland devoid of trees, and Arthur pedaled with his face tilted to the sky. “I say, you’re the only chap I know who is on duty even when off duty. Commander Blake must be impressed.”

Blake had told Lachlan his visits were quite unnecessary. How could men complain when they served in safety? Shouldn’t they be thankful they weren’t in combat?

Lachlan disagreed. When he’d served at sea, he’d been in great danger, but every man on board had a vital sense of his worth.

Arthur huffed. “From your expression, I see Blake is not impressed. Stop trying to earn his favor. Simply do your duty.”

“This—this is not for Blake. This is for Parker and Ford and all the others. For our defense.” Small white clouds scuttled across the sky. “If the Luftwaffe returns and these men fail because of low morale, our defenses fail.”

“I wouldn’t worry. The Germans care only about conquering Russia.”

The road wound down to a wee loch and ran alongside it. “You’ve heard we’re thinking about sending convoys to Russia.”

“I have.”

Those convoys would assemble in Scotland or Iceland and pass north of Norway to Russia’s Arctic ports. “The Germans cannae allow those convoys through. Scapa Flow and the North Sea and the Arctic will be a crucial battlefield. Our fleet and our aircraft at Scapa will be covering the convoys.”

“You have a point.”

That point pricked Lachlan’s conscience—no, stabbed. The Germans would know more about the convoys than they should—because Lachlan would tell them. Despite Yardley’s assurances that nothing vital would reach enemy ears, Lachlan still felt as if he were the spy.

Beside the path, the waters of the loch lapped at brown marsh grasses. If Lachlan refused to work with MI5, another officer would take his place. At least Lachlan was willing to argue with Yardley about what to reveal.

Even though he knew what information the enemy would receive, he couldn’t warn Blake or anyone else at Scapa.

Once he’d been tempted to ask his command to alter the shipping timetable, just to be safe. But if he’d done so, Cilla’s intelligence would have been invalidated. The Germans would have lost faith in her, and she would have become useless to MI5.

The stabbing twisted in his chest, but he twisted back, relieving the pain. He was here to protect the naval base, and that was what he did. Strengthening defenses, ensuring the men were vigilant.

At the end of the loch, Lachlan turned onto a side path. The rolling crash of surf met his ear as the Atlantic chewed at the island, chewed out a bay like a horseshoe.

Along that bay, almost at the water’s edge, stood Skara Brae.

Lachlan and Arthur pushed their bicycles on a path around a cluster of wee houses dug down into earthen mounds, each house lined with flagstone walls and hearths and shelves.

“Thousands of years old,” Arthur murmured.

“Aye. Buried for millennia and uncovered by a storm.” No one knew why the villagers had abandoned Skara Brae. Perhaps they’d died in a plague or in battle, or perhaps they’d moved to another area and built more modern homes.

Lachlan wouldn’t have left unless forced to. Green grasses and white sea campion flowers waved on the mounds, and gray stones stacked in sturdy walls—sturdy enough to stand for thousands of years.

Walls such as those provided warmth and protection. Within those walls, the people of Skara Brae would have felt free.

He inhaled sea air, scented with ancient earth and stone. His job was to build walls of defense such as these—thick and firm. So the British people could remain free.