Page 27 of Midnight on the Scottish Shore

27

Near Dunnet Sunday, January 11, 1942

Cilla lay in the damp boggy field, cold and miserable. Not even a full day had passed since the drama with the sunken fishing boat, but she had work to do. Kraus’s midnight transmission had confirmed that at two fifteen in the morning, the Luftwaffe would drop the supplies she’d requested.

An MI5 officer, an airman who had introduced himself as Philo, lay a few feet away, gazing through binoculars, and Imogene waited in Yardley’s staff car.

A half-moon illuminated the clear skies, and a chilly breeze fluttered the heather.

Cilla shivered. Cold again.

Jumping in the icy water had served as the slap in the face she deserved for her selfish ways. She didn’t deserve Yardley’s praise or his trust or the freedom he offered. For so long she’d thought she deserved all of it, and now she knew she didn’t.

She also didn’t deserve Lachlan’s kind words and kinder actions. When Yardley drove Lachlan home to change clothes, Lachlan had recommended postponing the meeting until afternoon and leaving Cilla at Creag na Mara, saying she needed maternal sympathy.

She did. Cilla had never missed her mother more, so Lachlan loaned her his.

At the sight of Mrs. Mackenzie, Cilla fell into a blubbering heap. Mrs. Mackenzie rushed Cilla upstairs into a hot bath, a warm dressing gown, and an even warmer embrace as she let Cilla sob into her shoulder and spill out all her shortcomings.

Mrs. Mackenzie told her, “‘Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.’” That’s what Cilla was doing, she said. Mourning her sins. Now that she’d lowered herself, poor in spirit, the Lord could lift her up and comfort her.

Cilla rubbed her chilly gloved hands together. Did Mrs. Mackenzie know her son had quoted the Beatitudes to her not long before?

A rumbling rose to the north. Aircraft engines? “Is that it?” she whispered to Philo.

He raised a hand to hush her. Silence was vital so as not to awaken the local farmers. If they called the police, Cilla’s cover—and her case—would be blown and she would be interned.

Which was why she’d whispered.

A dark shape emerged from the dark, a two-engine bomber—a Junkers 88, Cilla remembered from her aircraft recognition lessons.

Philo turned on his torch and flashed a signal in Morse code.

The bomber roared overhead, and a parachute drifted down, bright in the moonlight.

Cilla and Philo raced to the parachute. They had to recover it before anyone noticed.

She’d asked the Abwehr to send more secret ink crystals and batteries for her German wireless set, since such batteries couldn’t be obtained in Britain. Running low on either would end her case too.

A cylindrical canister dangled beneath the parachute as it descended. Kraus had also promised to send explosives and funds for Free Caledonia.

If the Abwehr kept its promise, Cilla would have to keep hers and commit sabotage.

She hit a depression in the boggy soil, and her ankle turned, but she suppressed her cry. Sabotage made her nervous, but not nearly as nervous as the thought of extraction and torture.

The canister thumped to the ground, and the parachute deflated. Philo rolled up the parachute, then grabbed one end of the canister as Cilla lifted the other.

They lumbered back to the darkened staff car as quickly as they could over the lumpy ground.

In the distance, Imogene opened the boot of the car, returned to the driver’s seat, and started the engine.

To the west, a popping sound rose. The German bomber was strafing—probably at the RAF field at Castletown near Dunnet Bay—and Philo cussed.

Cilla restrained her desire to shush the man as he’d shushed her, because she didn’t blame him. The Luftwaffe had violated Abwehr orders not to bomb or strafe, to avoid stirring up British defenses.

Cilla and Philo hefted the canister into the boot and slid into the car. Imogene drove away slowly, headlamps off.

“The bomber strafed,” Cilla said.

“RAF fighters will scramble.” Philo cussed again, then apologized to Imogene.

Not to Cilla.

At the main road, Imogene turned on the headlamps—shielded in compliance with the blackout.

Cilla composed the message she would send to Kraus at three o’clock in the morning, an emergency message for which he’d be standing by.

Mission successful and thank you for the supplies.

Then she’d express her outrage at the strafing. If the RAF shot down the Ju 88, the bomber’s crew might divulge their mission—and Cilla’s identity. If she were a real spy, she could be captured and killed. As a double agent, she would land in prison.

She slammed her eyes shut. Perhaps she deserved it.