Page 35 of Midnight on the Scottish Shore

35

Thurso Friday, April 3, 1942

On a bench at the Thurso Railway Station, Cilla smoothed the red ribbon bookmark between the pages of her book to make sure her “scarlet thread” was displayed.

“Pardon me. Do you have a light?”

Cilla’s breath caught, but that was her code phrase, not the new Abwehr agent’s.

A dapper fair-haired man in his forties smiled down at her and tipped his homburg.

“I’m afraid I don’t smoke,” Cilla said.

“That’s quite all right.” He reached inside his overcoat and tucked a cigarette into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “I must confess I asked only to determine whether your eyes are as gorgeous up close as they are from a distance. Indeed, they are.”

Cilla gave the man a tight smile. She’d always taken flattery in the fun intended, but in comparison to the intriguing contours of Lachlan’s character, flattery felt ... flat.

The man frowned in a concerned manner. “You’ve been sitting here quite some time. Are you—”

“My husband’s train must have been delayed.” She peered down the tracks.

“You don’t wear a wedding ring. I checked.”

A quick scan confirmed her suspicions. “And you do wear a ring. I checked.”

The man stuffed his left hand in his overcoat pocket and marched off.

Cilla caught the eye of the MI5 officer leaning against the wall about thirty feet away, and she gave him the slightest shake of her head. No, not the man the Abwehr had code-named Jericho.

The previous Saturday night, Kraus had sent the location and time of the new German agent’s arrival—after midnight on the night of 2 April. After Sunday dinner at the Mackenzies, she had met again with Lachlan and Yardley to make plans.

Steam rose in the distance, and a locomotive chuffed toward Thurso Railway Station, the northernmost station in Britain.

Men and women came through the door from the ticketing area, rose from benches in the shelter, and gathered on the platform.

Cilla followed them. The shelter covered the end of the line and had shielded her from the day’s wind and showers, but now she needed to be seen.

She shifted the book in her arm so the red ribbon could flutter its signal, and she fingered the red ribbon tied in a bow around her hair.

In the Bible, Rahab had draped a scarlet thread down the walls of Jericho to remind the Hebrew army how she’d welcomed their spies. Cilla and Yardley had adopted the scarlet thread as the way their fictional Free Caledonia subagents would signal their welcome of German spies.

Incredibly ironic, given how the Germans treated the Hebrews. Which was part of the appeal.

Last night, as Imogene waited in the staff car, Cilla and Yardley and Philo had lain in another damp freezing field, all dressed as Scottish civilians so as not to alarm Jericho. A Luftwaffe plane had droned overhead, and two parachutes fluttered down in high winds.

One parachute landed a quarter mile away, and they’d recovered a canister of German explosives and detonators and timing devices.

The other parachute had drifted into the night, and they hadn’t found it. Or Jericho. Or his wireless set. Or his pistol.

If he missed the rendezvous at the drop site, Jericho was to have met her at the railway station in the morning. As a public place where people came and went and waited, the station was ideal for a clandestine meeting.

The train pulled up to the platform, and black smoke billowed toward the clouds. Cilla scanned the windows as if looking for a loved one, and she clutched her book high on her chest.

Jericho wouldn’t be on the train, but he might be lingering nearby and hoping to blend in with the bustle of passengers.

How many trains had she met today?

All day she’d waited. In vain.

Doors opened, and dozens stepped out onto the platform, mainly sailors in blue carrying kit bags, bound for Scapa Flow, yawning and grumbling and grinning and jostling.

Cilla stepped back to let them pass.

A sailor brushed past her, apologized, looked her in the eye, grinned, and issued a longer apology.

She smiled and glanced away as if searching for a family member among the passengers.

Jericho was to approach her with a scarlet ribbon tied to the handle of his suitcase, and he was to ask if she knew when the next train left for Aberdeen. Cilla was to reply that she didn’t know the schedule, but did he have a light?

Pulling a cigarette from her pocket would signal the MI5 officer. He would identify himself as an off-duty policeman, state he’d noticed their foreign accents, and ask to see their papers.

Cilla’s would pass muster, but Jericho’s wouldn’t. He would be arrested.

Unless he ran. Or pulled his pistol.

Cilla shuddered and stepped aside to allow an elderly couple to pass. If Jericho hadn’t been killed or gravely injured upon landing—or swept out to sea—he was out there somewhere, armed and able to communicate with Germany.

The platform emptied.

What if Jericho had already come—and left without contacting her? What if something had made him suspect her? Certainly the Abwehr would have given him orders to assassinate her.

Her hands shook, and her ribbon bookmark wavered.

The MI5 officer followed the passengers through the door to the ticketing area in his usual pattern of movement.

If only Lachlan were there in the officer’s place. Not only would he fight for her, but he’d calm her down as he always did when she was upset.

A tiny sad smile rose. Just as she calmed him down when he was upset.

But Lachlan wasn’t there, and the station felt alarmingly large and open, and she felt alarmingly small and alone and conspicuous.

The minister’s Scottish brogue murmured in her mind. “Jesus is your truest friend.”

On the previous Good Friday, Cilla had rowed her rubber boat on the large and open sea, feeling small and alone for the first time she could remember. She’d rejected the impulse to pray.

Now Good Friday had arrived again. Standing in the railway station, Cilla closed her eyes. Jesus, I need a friend. I need ... you.

Her eyes opened slowly. She was no less small or conspicuous or vulnerable. But she wasn’t alone. She never had been. She simply hadn’t acknowledged it.

Air filled her lungs, and she glanced at her wristwatch—five thirty. Time to leave so she could send her scheduled wireless message to Hauptmann Kraus at seven.

Cilla passed through the ticketing area, without a glance at the MI5 officer. Keeping her ribbon bookmark fluttering in front of her, she strolled up Princes Street as blackbirds scolded her from their nests high in the trees above.

Eyeing every man along the way, Cilla passed the Pentland Hotel and St. Peter’s and St. Andrew’s Church and the colorful gardens in Sir John’s Square.

Commander Yardley’s staff car was parked on the far side of the Claymore and Heath. Cilla would have to skip her usual Friday evening with the men of Free Caledonia. She climbed into the car, and Yardley drove away.

Cilla laid her book in her lap. “No sign of Jericho.”

Yardley muttered a curse. “I’ve rung all the hospitals and police stations and morgues in the area. No one has seen anyone who might be our man.”

With a groan, Cilla rested her temple against the car window. “He’s out there. Why didn’t he come to the station?”

“I’m praying he was swept out to sea.”

Cilla grimaced. She couldn’t pray that.

“Do you have a notepad?” Yardley gestured to Cilla’s handbag. “Start composing your message. Make it short. You won’t have much time to encipher it.”

“Yes, sir.” Cilla pulled out her notepad and wrote her message.

She read it to Yardley. “Last night recovered canister with excellent contents. No Jericho last night or at station today. I’m worried about him. Please send further instructions.”

Yardley edited out the word please —but retained “I’m worried about him.”

Cilla capped her pen. She was indeed worried about Jericho, but not in the way Kraus would interpret it.

****

Scapa Flow Saturday, April 4, 1942

The boom defense vessel bobbed on waves high from stiff winds, but Lachlan and Arthur stood at attention in the morning mist.

The battleship USS Washington passed before them through the parting in the antisubmarine nets in Hoxa Sound, following the heavy cruisers Wichita and Tuscaloosa . In the distance, the carrier USS Wasp and several destroyers waited to enter the harbor.

Hundreds of sailors in blue manned the battleship’s rails. The Washington ’s colors had been lowered to half-mast—someone must have died, and Lachlan frowned as he and Arthur saluted.

For months, even before the US had declared war on Germany, American warships had been escorting British convoys. But to have them come to British waters, whilst America faced horrific losses in the Pacific and off her own East Coast, prompted a swell of gratitude. “I’m glad to see them.”

“I am too,” Arthur said. “I’ve heard the Yankee ships have ice cream.”

Lachlan laughed. “Aye, and they’ll have heard our ships have port and rum.”

Arthur lowered his salute. “Throwing our tea into the harbor was abomination enough. But to throw out rum and port as well? Dry ships are sheer lunacy.”

Due to Neil’s example, Lachlan never imbibed, but Arthur had a point.

The battleship passed, and Lachlan bent his knees as the ship’s great wake rolled under their vessel.

Across Hoxa Sound to the east, the island of South Ronaldsay lay flat and green under the leaden sky. Out of Lachlan’s sight but not out of his mind, the four Churchill Barriers were slowly growing beneath the waves. Someday they would connect South Ronaldsay to Burray to Glimps Holm to Lamb Holm to mainland Orkney—and one of the barriers would soon break through the waters at low tide.

Only months before, the Italian prisoners of war had aimed guns at British soldiers, some motivated by fascist fanaticism and some caught up in a war for which they cared nothing. Now at Scapa Flow, they’d proven able workers.

Only months before, Lachlan would have given them fair and humane treatment, but nothing more. Now compassion and mercy moved him when he dealt with these men, brought to an inhospitable climate on enemy shores.

An American destroyer passed, and Lachlan and Arthur saluted again.

“Your command is ready for our guests?” Arthur asked.

“Aye.” Scapa Flow’s defenses had never been stronger. A new Chain Home Low RDF station had become operational in the Orkneys, and squadrons of Royal Navy Swordfish and Skuas and RAF Spitfires and Hurricanes patrolled the area.

Lachlan’s stomach muscles contracted. Yet he himself would soon cause a security breach—and a controversy—at the base. His reputation would be shattered. His favor with Blake, grudgingly given, would be ripped away.

Lachlan eyed the man by his side. Would he lose Arthur’s friendship as well?

He would enjoy it as long as it lasted. “How go the wedding plans?”

The corner of Arthur’s mouth puckered. “My parents may not be able to obtain passes to Orkney in time.”

“I know Irene has her heart set on marrying in her home church, but remember Dunnet Parish Church is available and my parents have offered Creag na Mara for the reception.”

“And we thank you.” Then Arthur whipped a grin Lachlan’s way. “When is your wedding date?”

“My—” Lachlan choked on the word. “Pardon?”

A laugh wrinkled the skin around Arthur’s eyes. “It’s clear to everyone but you. You’re both mad for each other.”

With a groan, Lachlan clasped his hands at the small of his back, returning to attention. “No, you’re mad.”

Arthur let out a scoffing noise. “Cilla uttered not one word about her man in the Netherlands, and you two flirted all evening.”

“You’re mistaken.”

“I am not. And when the ladies shared a room at your home, Cilla all but admitted to Irene that she’s sweet on you.”

Lachlan’s shoulders tensed, and he clasped his hands even harder. “‘All but admitted’? That means she didnae admit it.”

“It also means she didn’t deny it.”

Heat flooded Lachlan’s cheeks, and his gut swayed worse than the vessel on the passing wake. It couldn’t be true. They hadn’t flirted—only engaged in their customary teasing. Any interest Arthur and Irene detected on Cilla’s part would have been her usual high spirits.

She couldn’t fall for him. It was bad enough he was falling for her. But romance could never be allowed, and he wouldn’t wish unrequited love on his worst enemy, much less on Cilla.

Arthur still aimed a foolish grin at Lachlan.

Aye, foolish, and Lachlan gave his friend a skeptical look. “People in love are forever imagining others to be as big of fools as they are.”

“Ah, come join us. It’s grand.”

Lachlan shrugged him off. The giant aircraft carrier drew near, and he straightened his posture.

He didn’t need to add worries for Cilla’s heart to the pile of worries he had for her today. Those concerns, shoved to the back corner of his mind, now slithered out to the forefront.

By now, Jericho was to be in MI5 custody.

Was he?

Lachlan raised another salute as the Wasp passed through the sound with dozens of aircraft lashed to the deck, their wings folded like butterflies at rest.

Due to the arrival of the American task force, Lachlan’s usual Saturday morning trip to Dunnet Head had been delayed until the afternoon. Even then, Blake resented Yardley’s orders superseding his own. Blake needed Lachlan at Scapa Flow.

But Lachlan needed to be at Dunnet Head. Not until he arrived at the lighthouse would he learn whether the spy had been captured.

Whether Cilla was safe.