Page 20 of Midnight on the Scottish Shore

20

Scapa Flow Friday, October 10, 1941

Rain pelted Lachlan’s cap and greatcoat and blurred the sight of the wee island of Lamb Holm across the rain-pocked waters of Kirk Sound.

“How goes the construction?” Lt.-Cdr. Bennett Blake asked the resident superintending civil engineer for the Churchill Barriers.

Mr. Adamson hunched deeper into the raised collar of his overcoat. “Far too slowly. We’re entering a phase of construction requiring more workers, but we have an acute labor shortage. And we can’t work in such weather.”

A gust of wind blew rain into Lachlan’s face, and he blinked it away. Such weather would only worsen in the coming months.

Mr. Adamson nodded across the channel. “We’re quarrying rock from Lamb Holm and dumping it in the sound to build the foundation. It’s slow work, hard work, suited only for able-bodied men.”

Lachlan folded in his wet lips. “Most able-bodied men are in the Forces or in reserved professions. Those who refuse to join the Forces—can we trust them in a restricted area?”

“One of the many problems we have with our labor force.” Mr. Adamson gestured to tall steel towers on each side of the sound. “These cableways help. We brought in five of them. Our company used them in the construction of a diversion dam in Iraq and a bridge in Scotland.”

“Aye.” Cables strung between the towers. At the base of the tower on Lamb Holm sat a large skip, which could be filled with rock and electrically hoisted up the tower and over the sound, where the rock would be dumped where needed. “Excellent design.”

“It works well,” Mr. Adamson said. “We only need more muscle to fill them and man them.”

The current continued to flow swiftly through Kirk Sound, the same channel the German U-boat had used two years earlier to enter Scapa Flow and sink the Royal Oak . Had enough rock been dumped to impede another attempt? Defenses were tighter and more blockships had been sunk, but was it enough?

Commander Blake shook Mr. Adamson’s hand. “Thank you. The Admiralty appreciates your efforts.”

Lachlan and Blake headed for the new pier at nearby St. Mary’s, where they boarded a drifter bound for Lyness.

A force 5 easterly wind pushed the vessel west toward the naval base.

Commander Blake leaned his tall, slender form against the cabin. “The Admiralty may have a solution to the labor shortage, but I don’t like it.”

“Aye?” The vibrations of the drifter’s motor massaged Lachlan’s back.

“We have rather a large collection of Italian prisoners of war from the campaigns in Libya and East Africa. The Admiralty wishes to employ them as labor for the Churchill Barriers.”

“Prisoners of war?” Lachlan shook his head hard, and droplets spun off his cap visor. “British subjects cannae come to the Orkneys without a permit. How could we allow enemy soldiers?”

“As I said, I don’t like it.” Blake wiped his thin nose with his handkerchief. “There are other problems with the proposal. The Geneva Conventions forbid the use of prisoner labor on defenses.”

Lachlan raised a grim smile. “My thanks to Geneva.”

“Don’t be too smug. The Admiralty is determined.”

“We’d allow the enemy right in?” The wind blew Lachlan’s sigh back into his mouth.

Just as they’d placed a confirmed enemy agent in another restricted area.

No one at Dunnet Head knew Cilla was a spy, other than Yardley, the lightkeepers, and the Wrens.

And no one at Scapa, not even Commander Blake, knew Lachlan was passing information to that spy.

His gut clenched. Whenever he tried to make peace with his MI5 work, something like this reminded him exactly what he was doing.

Blake tugged his cap lower on his forehead. “According to the forecast, weather conditions may improve enough in the morning for you to visit Dunnet Head.”

“Aye.” Guilt jabbed him in the gut again. Lately, he’d anticipated those visits far more than was wise.

“I must say, I appreciate that you haven’t allowed the assignment to interfere with your duties here. Your work has been ... satisfactory.”

The highest—the only—compliment Lachlan had received at Scapa. “Thank you, sir.”

The drifter crossed the waters of Scapa Flow, protected by the ring of islands, yet still tipped white by the driving wind.

At the anchorage near the island of Hoy, a dozen dark shapes hunkered in the rain, recently arrived from Archangelsk in the Soviet Union.

Convoy QP-1 included the seven British and Dutch cargo ships returning from the Dervish convoy, plus seven Soviet freighters loaded with precious timber.

They’d sailed through rough Arctic waters, out of range of RAF fighter cover—but in range of German bombers and warships and U-boats harbored in Nazi-occupied Norway.

Convoy QP-1, like Dervish, had arrived undetected by the Germans. Unmolested.

However, Cilla hadn’t notified the Abwehr of either convoy.

Lachlan grimaced and strode to the bow of the drifter. The Arctic convoys were vital. German troops were sweeping across Russia, capturing key cities and entire Soviet armies. The deliveries of tanks and weapons and aircraft would help—but only if the convoys arrived safely.

And the Home Fleet, including the Antelope , was escorting those convoys.

The bow struck a wave, and spray doused Lachlan’s face.

He didn’t wipe it away, only closed his eyes and prayed he was doing the right thing.

****

Dunnet Head Saturday, October 11, 1941

In the lightroom, Cilla stood by the window with a smile far brighter than the day. The weather had improved, but crossing Pentland Firth had exacerbated the tumult in Lachlan’s stomach.

“I apologize for the chill. I’m thankful your mother knit me this jumper.” Cilla stroked the sleeve.

If only Mother had chosen yarn in dull brown or gray, not a brilliant greenish blue to match Cilla’s eyes.

“Your mother’s so kind,” she said.

An ordinary man would compliment her on the color or how the chill brought a becoming shade of pink to her cheeks, but the correct words evaporated. “She’s happy to have someone new to knit woolies for.”

Cilla gave him a playful smile reminiscent of dinners on the Sabbath Day.

Lachlan spun to the window. Far below, waves of blue and green and white crashed against the cliffs.

Sabbath Day dinners were an illusion. Saturday mornings were reality, when he helped decide which British secrets to send to Nazi Germany.

His stomach frothed like the seas below. He’d barely slept all night.

“Good morning.” Commander Yardley entered the lightroom with a giant smile. “What do you have for me this morning, Mackenzie?”

Standing by Yardley’s side, Lachlan opened his portfolio and traced one finger over last night’s entry. He was required to report it, but he had to grind out the words. “Convoy QP-1 arrived yesterday without loss. I’ll check Cilla’s log to see if she observed the arrival.”

“Even if she did, she won’t report it. Without loss, you say? Have you heard whether the Germans spotted them?”

“Apparently not.” Lachlan’s jaw shifted side to side. “But for how long?”

“Pardon?”

“How long will the convoys go unmolested if we inform Hitler directly?”

Yardley’s brows lowered. “We’ve already discussed this. The Admiralty must approve all such messages, and they’ll be sent by post so they arrive too late for the Germans to attack.”

Lachlan couldn’t stand still. He slapped his portfolio shut and strode around the Fresnel lens. In times of peace, paraffin oil burnt in bright flame in the center of the rotating lens, and the rings of prismatic lenses focused the light into an intense beam.

War extinguished the beam, depriving both foe and friends.

“Commander, you compared Double Cross to a chess game. Those ships, those sailors are not pawns.”

Yardley peered around the lens with a gaze as hard as the glass. “We are aware of that, Mackenzie. Please do not ascribe sinister motives to our work.”

On the far side of the table, Cilla stretched her eyes wide, alarmed.

Lachlan had overstepped his bounds, and he dipped his chin. “I apologize, sir.”

Yardley turned to face Cilla at the table. “I bring good news from London. MI5 approved your new source.”

“Oh, good.” Her voice came out soft though, and her gaze slid to Lachlan.

“Source?” He moved closer so he could see Yardley’s face.

“She’s fictional,” Cilla said. “A secretary for a—a salvage company.”

“Salvage?”

Yardley nodded. “So Cilla can report information she hears from your father.”

No anger came, only a sinking sense of disbelief.

“I knew you’d disapprove—with good reason.” Cilla chewed on her lower lip. “That’s why I thought up this source. I named her Maggie.”

How could they involve his father in this mess? “I—”

“Don’t get outraged.” Yardley gave him a firm look. “We’ll give the salvage company a fictional name, and this Maggie will report only on things a secretary would know—numbers of ships salvaged, tonnage of scrap, prices.”

Cilla widened her eyes. “See, it sounds useful, but it won’t tell the Germans anything.”

“Correct,” Yardley said. “They won’t know when or how or where the ships were lost. It appears to answer Kraus’s questions, but it doesn’t.”

Lachlan closed his eyes and rubbed his temple with his fingers. Such information wouldn’t aid the Germans or harm his family. Would it?

“Lachlan?” Cilla said. “I’ll only do this if you approve.”

She only called him Lachlan at Creag na Mara, where calling him “Lieutenant” didn’t sound right. He opened his eyes and raised a wry smile. “I’d rather you involved my brother than my father.”

Cilla grinned and clasped her hands together. “Maggie has a boyfriend named Fergus, who belongs to Free Caledonia.”

Yardley held up one hand. “I didn’t propose this to the Twenty Committee.”

“Fergus still exists if we want to use Neil’s information—without actually involving the Mackenzies.”

Lachlan studied the delight on her bonny face. She’d concocted a clever plan, whilst considering others.

Cilla bounced in her seat. “I thought of the perfect Abwehr code name for Maggie—Rahab. In the Bible, Rahab gave aid to the Hebrew spies. That was in a sermon recently, remember, Lachlan? Oh, that week it was too windy for you to come.”

“Aye.” He could barely keep up with her rapid thoughts, and he sat in his chair.

“We may want to pursue the Free Caledonia story later.” A new gleam entered Yardley’s eyes. “MI5 has made a bold decision—to allow our double agents to commit sabotage.”

“Sabotage?” Lachlan spat out the repulsive word.

Cilla fiddled with a button at the neck of her jumper. “I could never do that.”

“The Abwehr has ordered some of our agents to do so. They may give you similar orders.”

“Wait a minute.” Lachlan shoved back his chair and sprang to his feet again. “Commander, you promised my work would bring no harm.”

Yardley released an impatient sigh. “We’d destroy facilities of minor account only. The press would believe it was true sabotage and report accordingly. The articles would reach Germany via Lisbon, and our agents would be validated in German eyes.”

Lachlan flung his hand toward Scapa Flow and banged a triangular pane of glass. “You plan to commit sabotage at Scapa Flow? Everyone will think the enemy did it. My command is responsible for security, and we’ll be blamed. I willnae—”

“Not at Scapa.” Yardley raised both hands in a calming motion. “Cilla has no access.”

Lachlan refused to be calmed. “Aye, so you’ll commit sabotage at Dunnet Head? It’s vital for defense. Or in town? I have family here—friends. I willnae.”

“Nothing vital will be harmed.”

Lachlan raked both hands into his hair and slammed his eyes shut. “I cannae do this anymore. I’m lying to my commander. I’m passing secrets directly to the enemy.”

“Indirectly,” Yardley said.

Lachlan speared the officer with his gaze. “I am not innocent. I know where the information is going. I’m no better than a spy myself. And sabotage? I cannae. I refuse.”

“Have you forgotten, Mackenzie?” Yardley crossed his arms in a casual manner. “You cannot quit. You know what that would mean.”

Lachlan’s hands and his heart drifted down. “Aye. My naval career would be ruined.”

“Quite.”

Conviction rose from the ruins. “I’d rather have black marks on my record than on my conscience.”

“Very noble, but we’ll bring in someone else to do this work,” Yardley said with a sardonic smile. “You would sacrifice your career for nothing.”

“Stop doing this to him.” With a scrape of chair legs, Cilla stood. She glared—not at Lachlan, but at Yardley.

“Pardon?” Yardley said.

Her face warped. “Stop forcing him to violate his conscience.”

Lachlan gaped at her. She was defending him?

“That’s why I’m here—in Scotland.” Cilla pressed her hand to her chest, and her voice rose, high and shaky. “Because the Nazis told me to do things I couldn’t—to cheer when they persecuted the Jews and beat my friend to death. I couldn’t. I couldn’t. I took the only way out—I didn’t think it out well, did I?—but it was the only escape I could see. But Lachlan? What escape does he have? It isn’t fair. He’s only in this mess because of me. Why should he be punished for my foolishness?”

Yardley let out a scoffing sound. “He’s hardly being punished.”

“I refuse to participate anymore.” Cilla hefted her chin high. “If I quit, Lachlan’s released, yes?”

Another scoffing sound. “You definitely can’t quit.”

A strange, hopping, panicky feeling gripped Lachlan’s chest. “He’s right. They’ll execute—”

“No, they won’t.” She shook back her hair. “Not after four months of faithful service.”

“Is that true?” Lachlan asked Yardley.

Yardley mashed his lips together for an interminable moment. “We have a special prison.”

Lachlan’s gaze jumped to Cilla. “You’d willingly go to prison?”

She swiped at her eyes. “Would it be worse than this? Trapped in this lighthouse day after day?”

Over the past two months, she’d glowed with enjoyment over dinner on the Sabbath and had chatted about trips to Thurso. “Cilla ...”

“It wouldn’t be for long.” She wrapped her arms around her stomach. “The Allies are certain to win.”

“Yes.” A satisfied smile rose on Yardley’s face. “Then we’d send you back to the Netherlands. I imagine the Dutch government would try you for treason.”

“What?” Cilla blanched, and her lower lip quivered. “But I’m on the Allied side.”

“Are you?”

“My friends—my friends in the resistance will vouch for me.”

Dread squeezed Lachlan’s gut. “If they’re still alive,” he said under his breath.

“No.” Cilla pressed trembling hands to her mouth. “They will be. They have to live. They have to.”

Lachlan shook his head, over and over. “No, you cannae quit.”

“Didn’t you say your family would be in danger if the Abwehr suspected you of turning on them?” Yardley said. “I wouldn’t cross the Nazis if I were you.”

Cilla rocked back and forth. “Moeder, Vader, Hilde,” she muttered through her fingers.

Lachlan couldn’t let her do that. Couldn’t. “You said you’re committed to the Allied cause.”

“I am.” Hurt pulsed in the blue green of her eyes.

“How can you help in prison? You’re helping here.”

Yardley chuckled. “You admit it, then?”

Lachlan sighed, set his hands on his hips, and lowered his head. He refused to risk Cilla’s freedom—or the lives of those she loved. “You win, Commander. I willnae quit.”

But on Monday morning, Lachlan planned to tell Commander Blake he wanted to return to sea service. If the Admiralty ordered his transfer, MI5 could say nothing.

Cilla could continue her work. Without Lachlan.