Page 41 of Midnight on the Scottish Shore

41

Dunnet Head Thursday, April 30, 1942

A light breeze played with Cilla’s skirt as Commander Yardley unlocked the door to the concrete hut on the lighthouse grounds.

In her mind, Cilla recited the lock’s combination, a combination she’d observed when they’d stored the German explosives inside and then the British limpet mines. A combination she’d secretly used late last night.

Lachlan stood nearby in his navy-blue uniform, solid and steady as always. The type of explosives the Germans sent needed to be placed inside the blockship to avoid detection by passersby—a dangerous operation Lachlan said he could not manage alone.

Instead, MI5 obtained limpet mines used by British special operatives. Acting alone, Lachlan could magnetically attach the mines to the blockship below the waterline, out of sight. The Germans wouldn’t know which type of device had been used—only that an explosion had occurred.

Yardley and Lieutenant Dobbs, an MI5 explosives expert, entered the concrete hut.

“Mackenzie, how many limpet mines will you need?” Yardley asked.

“Two and a half pounds of explosive in each, aye? Three should be plenty.”

Lieutenant Dobbs, a slender man wearing Army battledress, carried out a wooden crate. “We brought eight, so let’s send you with four. We want to give the Germans a jolly good show.”

“Eight?” Yardley called from inside. “We have only seven here.”

Because Cilla had hidden one in a suitcase under her bed. She raised her eyebrows as if surprised. “How odd. Do you think someone broke in—”

“Impossible.” Yardley stepped out of the hut, brushing off his hands. “This location is secure, and we’re the only ones who know the mines are here.”

A frown turned down the ends of Dobbs’s mustache. “I’m certain we brought eight.”

Cilla needed to distract them, so she raised a hesitant smile. “Perhaps you can sort this out later. You may want to begin training Lieutenant Mackenzie. Remember, he needs to return to Scapa Flow before sunset.”

“Aye, that’s when the booms close.” Lachlan let out a low grumble. “The sooner I return, the better. Commander Blake was very displeased when you summoned me today. And when you summon me again tomorrow ... I dinnae like it. I should supervise the explosion at Scapa.”

“It’s necessary.” Yardley crossed his arms. “You’ll plant the mines by daylight and set them to explode late at night to reduce the danger to vessels or civilians—and to be observed by our German guests. Whilst waiting, you’ll have supper at Lyness and—”

“But I’d return to the blockship.” Deep lines etched Lachlan’s forehead. “I’d never leave an explosion untended. If anyone were to wander into the area—”

“That’s why I’ll be there, disguised as a fisherman. I’ll secure the area.” Dobbs unpacked the mine, a great iron insect with six magnets for feet.

Yet light enough to carry in a suitcase, and Cilla shuffled her feet in the tufts of heather.

Yardley pulled a manual from the crate. “The risk of arrest would be too high if you were there. The timing on the fuses is not entirely precise. The mines may explode simultaneously or over a half-hour period, even an hour. After the first explosion, the base will sound an alert.”

“But I want to take responsibility,” Lachlan said.

“You will, but not from inside a cell. MI5 insisted. Besides, I want you here to protect Cilla.”

Lachlan turned his gaze to her, and his forehead smoothed.

She gave him a smile as if to say, “I’d feel better if you were here.” For the past week, she’d assumed a sunny disposition to assure everyone she was at peace with MI5’s plan. In truth, she was at peace with her own plan. A strange and sad peace.

“Very good. Shall we start training?” Lachlan unbuttoned his jacket.

Cilla held out her hand for the garment. “May I?”

“Thank you, lass.” He unbuttoned his cuffs, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and squatted by the limpet mine.

Dobbs unscrewed the long head of the insect. “Have you read the manual?”

“Aye.”

“This is the time-delay fuse.” Dobbs unscrewed a cap at the end. “You’ll insert the acetone ampule here. When the ampule is punctured, the acetone will slowly dissolve a celluloid washer at the end of the fuse. The dissolution will release a spring, which will activate the firing pin. The mine will detonate.”

Cilla edged to the side to see around Lachlan’s distractingly broad shoulders.

“After you insert the ampule, screw the end cap back in place.” Dobbs did so, but without an ampule. “You can store it this way for a while. To set the time-delay fuse, remove this safety pin in the end cap and turn the actuating screw to pierce the ampule.” He twisted a key-like device.

“Aye.” Lachlan squatted with his elbows on his knees, and the breeze and the sunshine played with his red hair.

Cilla forced her attention back to Dobbs. Everything depended on this.

Dobbs opened a small rectangular box, revealing a rainbow of little glass balls. “Here are the ampules. Each color provides a different length of time for the delay, from hours to days. It varies by temperature, so check the chart in the box long before you begin your operation.”

“Aye, I’ll check the weather too.”

Dobbs patted the insect’s iron back. “This bracket is for the rod you’ll use to attach the mine below the waterline.”

This part didn’t concern Cilla. She stroked the smooth wool of Lachlan’s jacket and inhaled deeply, trying to draw up the scent of him as she drank in the sight of him.

The bulk of his shoulders and arms stretching his white shirt. The brilliant gleam of his hair. The curve of his cheek and chin. The intense concentration in his brown eyes.

Crippling pain squeezed her chest. She’d never see him again.

He loved her too. She’d felt it in his protective words and embrace. But as of tomorrow night, he’d no longer love her. She’d make sure of it.

Her vision blurred. She blinked away the moisture and prayed her actions wouldn’t set him back, not after he’d finally forgiven Neil. Mercy suited him.

With no good choice before her, she’d selected the least horrible of choices.

A week earlier, in Kraus’s final message before departing Hamburg by U-boat, he’d sent the coordinates for the rendezvous. As Cilla had expected, he’d rejected her proposal to remain in Scotland if he observed the sabotage. She needed training, he insisted, and if she was loyal to Germany, she’d make the rendezvous. If she didn’t, he’d send a wireless message to Hamburg. Orders would be sent to the Netherlands, and her parents and Hilde would be arrested, sent to a concentration camp, and shot upon arrival.

Cilla hugged Lachlan’s jacket to her stomach. Saving both her family and her own life was impossible. She had to sacrifice one or the other, and she couldn’t bear to condemn her family to death.

But one path had opened in the mire, a way she might be able to at least save Double Cross and everyone she cared about in Scotland.

After deciphering Kraus’s message late at night, alone, Cilla had transcribed a new version of the message with altered coordinates. She’d eliminated the threat to her family and changed Kraus’s words to read, “If we observe the sabotage, you may indeed remain where you are. If not, you are to meet us the following night at the same time and the same coordinates.”

Then she’d burned the true transcription.

Her fake message had sparked hope and purpose in Lachlan and Yardley.

Kneeling in the heather, her fierce Scot unleashed the fullness of his smile at her. “Dinnae fash yourself, lass. We’ll give Kraus a grand show.”

Cilla poured all her love and admiration for him into her own smile.

Tomorrow she’d break his heart.

****

Scapa Flow Friday, May 1, 1942

Under a cool and clear sky, Lachlan inserted a red ampule into the fourth of the limpet mines lined up in the wooden dinghy.

His brow tingled, and he wiped away a bit of sweat. Working with Mackenzie Salvage had taught him a dreadful respect for explosives.

One last look at his watch and a thermometer and the chart in the ampule box. If he wanted the mines to explode around 2200 hours, he needed to activate them now.

His dinghy floated between the bulk of the partially sunken blockship and the uninhabited island of Glimps Holm. In the distance, men worked on the Churchill Barrier crossing Weddell Sound.

So far, no one had approached him. If anyone inquired about his work, he was to state that he was blowing up a blockship for the Orkneys and Shetlands Command and to tell them to direct further inquiries to Lt.-Cdr. Bennett Blake.

That would purchase sufficient time to finish the job and flee to Dunnet Head.

He had to finish the job. Cilla’s case and her life depended on a terrific explosion.

Lachlan ran his tongue around the dryness of his mouth, ground out a fervent prayer, removed the safety pins, and turned each of the actuating screws.

Silence greeted him, as promised, and he released a pent-up breath.

He rowed close to the upturned bow of the blockship, slid the rod into the bracket of the first mine, and maneuvered it into the water and near to the ship.

A magnetic pull. A muffled clang.

Lachlan jiggled the rod free and rowed closer to amidships. Thank goodness he enjoyed salvage work, because after the war no one would hire him except his own father. Tonight, the blockship and his reputation would be destroyed simultaneously.

The second mine sprang to the ship’s hull, and Lachlan rowed aft. Lately, for the first time ever, he looked forward to working with Neil. Their strengths would bring different and complementary assets to the company.

Lachlan lowered the third mine into the water. It attached too high, with part of the mine above the waterline.

He groaned, but the strong magnets would make removal difficult—and he had no time to spare.

Blake would be appropriately furious when Lachlan confessed tomorrow. A demotion would follow. MI5 would force the Admiralty to keep Lachlan at Scapa Flow, but Blake would despise and distrust him from then on.

“It’s worth it.” The fourth mine clanged to the hull. “For Cilla.”

Lachlan rowed around the blockship to face the blue expanse of Scapa Flow. His usual fast motorboat puttered toward him, and Lachlan waved the crew closer.

At least most of the US task force had sailed from Scapa on Tuesday to help escort Arctic convoys. His personal reputation would be tarred and feathered, but he didn’t want to stain the reputation of the Royal Navy in front of their guests.

Lachlan pulled the oars into the dinghy and packed his remaining materials into a crate. All their hopes rested on the explosion.

MI5’s plan still felt flimsy as did Kraus’s promise to allow Cilla to remain in Scotland if the sabotage succeeded. Why would the Germans spend so much time and risk a valuable U-boat simply to observe an explosion?

They would make such a dangerous journey for one reason only—to extract Cilla. Yardley assured him they’d arrest Kraus upon landing, and he seemed almost giddy at the prospect of capturing an Abwehr handler.

But Lachlan would carry his revolver tonight.

The motorboat pulled up to Lachlan and cut the engine.

The coxswain dropped a line and a rope ladder into the dinghy. “How did it go, sir?”

“Very well.” Lachlan tied the line to the eye at the dinghy’s bow for towing. He’d told the crew about blowing up the blockship to maintain his story that he thought he was acting with Blake’s approval—if not his direct orders.

Lachlan handed the crate up to the coxswain. “Remember what I told you. Dinnae tell your mates about this and dinnae come near this location tonight.”

“No, sir.” The coxswain laughed. “The boys would line the shores for a look-see.”

“Aye. I dinnae want anyone hurt.” He climbed the ladder into the motorboat.

In the sound, a wee rowboat drifted several hundred feet from the blockship. The fisherman wore a bright red cap—Lieutenant Dobbs, come to observe and protect.

It should have been Lachlan’s job, but he had a more important job tonight.

Protecting Cilla.